The music stopped abruptly as they entered the tunnel and all they could hear now was the echoey lapping of the water as the little boat cut through the dark waters. Our intrepid foxcub had to reef the sail and break out the oars.
It was dark. Very dark. And cold. Very cold.
The foxcub knew it was time to play the melody once again and, as its familiar lilting notes echoed around the walls, he began to hear a new sound, distant and barely audible initially but gradually becoming more distinct.
A fluttering, whooshing sound which grew ever more urgent as it raced towards them from the far darkness.
The air seemed suddenly filled with a blur of swift fluttering shapes and behind the all-encompassing noise of leathery wings, our foxcub, at the very edge of his hearing, could make out the melody of his tune, being delicately and beautifully intoned back to him by hundreds of tiny bat voices.