by Tor Seidler
As Bill staggered away, dazed, the twins stepped up and made their paws into fists. But strapping as they were for their age, they weren’t fullgrown yet. What’s more, they’d heard the name Bagley Brown spoken with awe all their short lives. So when Bagley told them to look after their brother Bill, they immediately obeyed him.
By now Zeke was ready for another round. He’d never been so furious in his life. “You’ve had it, Bagley Brown,” he snarled.
“What’s this all about, Zeke?” Bagley asked. “What do you want from me?”
“That,” Zeke said, pointing at the invitation on the ground.
“Is that all?” Bagley picked it up. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Zeke blinked in surprise. “You mean I can have it?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Bagley hadn’t really wanted to go to the tea dance anyway. It didn’t seem right to lead Wendy on, considering his feelings for the striped fish. Besides, if he decided he wanted to go, he wouldn’t need an invitation. His name made him welcome anywhere, anytime.
“She’s nice, that Wendy—and very pretty,” he said, handing the invitation to the amazed Zeke. “You two would make a great couple.”
For about the first time in his life Zeke was speechless. It took him fully half a minute to find his voice.
“Gosh, Bagley, you’re aces,” he said at last. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you—and I mean anything— you just holler. Okay?”
“Can you get me some gills and some fins?”
“What?”
“Just a joke. You guys want to come over for an egg? You could wash off that scrape on your snout, Ben.”
Ben made a sour face. He was mad at himself for whimpering. But Zeke said, “Great,” and as soon as Bill recovered from his dizziness, they all trooped off to Bagley’s den by the brook.
THE TEA DANCE
It got warmer and warmer as the week went by, and Sunday felt less like spring than a lazy summer day. But the heat didn’t make Wendy lazy. She kept bouncing from her nook in the Blackishes’ den to her aunt and uncle’s, to ask her aunt how she looked. She changed her fur style again and again, and switched the feather from one ear to the other and then back.
“I think you should calm down, dear,” Mrs. Blackish advised her. “It’s just a tea dance.”
“But I’ve never been to a tea dance before.”
“It won’t be that different from the cotillion, dear. Only not so many weasels. And you really shouldn’t get your hopes up about Bagley Brown.” On their way home from the cotillion Wendy had explained to her aunt and uncle what had become of the extra invitation from the Tantails.
“I’m sure he’ll come, Aunt. He said he’d be glad to.”
“But I don’t remember ever seeing him at a dance before. He’s almost . . . well, he’s almost antisocial.”
“Let’s wait and see, shall we?” said Mr. Blackish. He’d praised Wendy’s judgment in giving the invitation to Bagley instead of Zeke. “He might make an exception for Wendy. That would be quite a catch, I must say—Bagley Brown Jr.”
Wendy couldn’t help smiling at the idea. “Hadn’t we better go, Uncle? I’m sure it’s four by now.”
“Wellbred weasels never arrive on time,” Mr. Blackish told her.
So Wendy had to control her nerves for another half hour. And once they started for the pines, she kept getting ahead of her aunt and uncle and had to bite her tongue not to pester them to hurry up. But at last they arrived.
They certainly weren’t early. Dozens of weasels were already gathered on the sundappled pine needles. But not one of them had an eye patch.
“I suppose Bagley Brown would be really late, Uncle?” Wendy said hopefully.
“Naturally,” Mr. Blackish replied. “Come along, I’ll introduce you to our hosts.”
The Tantails, a childless, middleaged couple, made a great fuss over Wendy. After a while Mrs. Tantail took Wendy aside to hear all about her trip from the North Fork. In the middle of her story. Zeke Whitebelly sauntered up to them.
“Zeke!” Wendy exclaimed.
“Hiya, Wendy,” Zeke said. “Great weather for a tea dance, huh, Mrs. Tantail?”
Mrs. Tantail looked a bit blank. “Do I, er . . .”
“Zeke Whitebelly,” Zeke said, producing an invitation.
“Oh. How—how kind of you to come.”
“Thanks,” Zeke said. “How you been, Wendy?”
“Fine,” Wendy said. Surprised as she was, she found herself rather pleased to see the handsome weasel. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since the cotillion.
“The birds are really cranked up today,” he remarked. “I could get the dancing going, if you want, Mrs. Tantail.”
“Um, well, if you feel like dancing . . .”
“I mean, you do dance at these tea dances, don’t you, ma’am?”
“Well, I suppose, if one feels like dancing . . .”
“Great! How about it, Wendy?”
Wendy looked around. There was still no sign of Bagley Brown. And the birds really were singing up a storm. “Well, I guess,” she said.
“Catch you later, Mrs. T,” Zeke said, taking Wendy by the paw. As he led her away, he said softly, “Good to see you again, Wendy.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Zeke. I’m glad they sent you an invitation after all.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, they didn’t.”
“How’d you get it, then?”
“Bagley Brown gave it to me.”
Wendy stopped abruptly. “What?”
“Bagley Brown gave it to me.”
As this news sank in, Wendy trembled with mortification. She’d presented Bagley with the invitation, and he’d just turned around and given it away! Of course, you had to make allowances for celebrities, but it was still the most insulting thing that had ever happened to her. She clearly hadn’t made the slightest impression on the great weasel’s son.
Even seeing her tremble, Zeke wasn’t sorry for telling her the truth. He wasn’t clear on what her feelings for Bagley were, but whatever they were, he wanted her to get over them as soon as possible.
“Great tune,” he said, tapping a hind paw to the music. “Feel like shaking it up?”
Wendy turned away without another word and went over to her aunt and uncle.
“Didn’t expect to see that Whitebelly here,” Mr. Blackish remarked. “Glad to see you’re holding out for Bagley Brown, Wendy.”
This only made her feel worse.
“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Blackish said. “You look a little squirrely.”
“It’s just . . . I don’t think Bagley Brown’s coming,” she said.
“You never know,” said Mr. Blackish. “Give him time.”
In a minute Zeke ventured over to them.
“Good to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Blackish,” he said. “You don’t feel like dancing, Wendy?”
Wendy shook her head. Greatlooking as Zeke was, she felt far too miserable and angry to dance. Zeke sighed and walked a few feet away.
Not far off, Mary Lou Silverface was standing with her parents, swaying to the beat. Zeke couldn’t help noticing she was giving him the eye. Then, as the birds struck up an irresistible rhythm, every muscle in his body began to twitch. Mary Lou gave him an encouraging smile.
But she wasn’t the partner he really wanted, so before asking her, he drifted over to the Blackishes one last time.
“Come on, Wendy,” he coaxed. “Just one dance?”
“Well,” said Wendy, who’d been watching Mary Lou out of the corner of her eye. “Maybe one.”
She let Zeke lead her out onto the needles but refused to smile and tried to dance with as little zest as possible. Before long, however, the most annoying thing happened. Her body started jiggling and vibrating to the bird songs as if it had a life of its own. As other young weasels joined them on the dance floor, she tried to keep a severe look on her face, but after three or four songs, the corners of h
er mouth turned up in spite of themselves. Even if Zeke didn’t have an eye patch or a famous name, he was unquestionably the handsomest weasel and the finest dancer there. She felt proud to be his partner. Best of all, she sensed that he felt proud to be hers.
“I’ll show you a great new twirl,” he said, grabbing her paw.
The new twirl made her head spin, but it wasn’t really an unpleasant feeling. As she whirled round and round, she could tell that other weasels were gathering to watch, but they were all a blur. Everything became such a lovely blur that, even if Bagley Brown had arrived under the pines, she wouldn’t have noticed.
THE PATCH
Bagley didn’t arrive under the pines. In fact, he wasn’t even in the Wainscott woods. He was at the end of the hollow log, keeping watch over the pond.
He’d already been there quite a long time—so long that the half dozen bugs tucked in his cheek were getting soggy. He’d come every day since his tussle with the Whitebellys, and every day the striped fish had accepted his offering from the spiderweb in her usual way. This Sunday seemed the same as other days. It was sunny and warm, the two swans were paddling around, there were plenty of bugs out, the swallows were swooping, a solitary gull was hovering overhead. But the fish weren’t feeding. There hadn’t been a sign of his striped friend.
Every day now the sun was staying up later. But it finally set, and a dark red stain spread over the pink glow in the west. The swans swam off into some tall green reeds. The lone gull flapped away over Bagley’s head, towards the road. Bagley stayed put. He hated traveling after dark but hated even more the idea of leaving without a glimpse of his beloved fish. What if something terrible had happened to her? Human beings were known to fish the pond in rowboats or canoes. What if she was sizzling on one of their grills at this very moment, her lovely green and silver scales turning black?
He heard a deep croak nearby and poked his head out the end of the log. Off to the left, a halfmoon had risen just over the dunes, turning the dune grass silver. To the right, a bullfrog was perched on a rock with his throat all puffed out.
“Hullo,” the bullfrog said in a pleasant bass voice. “Fine evening.”
“Mm,” Bagley said—though he didn’t sound as if he meant it.
“Too fine for being all on your own,” the bullfrog sympathized.
“True enough.”
“No Bridge,” the frog said.
“Excuse me?”
“No Bridge.”
“There’s a bridge over there, I believe—just around the crook in the pond.”
“No, no. I meant no Bridget. I use her nickname because, well, I’m kind of fond of her. She’s so pretty—for a fish.”
Bagley stared. “Is that her name?”
“Bridget. Yes.”
“How’d you know?”
“I asked her.”
“No, I mean, how’d you know about . . . me?”
“I’ve seen you here before. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Bagley Brown,” he said, figuring it wouldn’t mean anything to a bullfrog. “And you?”
“My friends call me Paddy,” the bullfrog said. “Where you from?”
“The Wainscott woods. By the brook.”
“I’ve been up around there. Nice and buggy, late in the day.” The bullfrog cocked his head out at the pond. “Ah. Things seem to be looking up—at least for you.”
And there she was, the lovely striped fish—Bridget—making her usual pass in front of the log. The setting of the sun had cooled things off, but a warm gush of relief ran through Bagley. She was safe and sound!
He took a deep breath and spat the bugs out with all his might. The fish plucked at them in her dainty way, then made her usual parting pass, her scales glimmering more beautifully than ever by moonlight.
Bagley bid the frog good night and turned to leave. But a sound in the water made him look back. Bridget had poked her head out of the pond.
“Thank you,” she said in a bubbly voice.
“Why—it was nothing,” Bagley said, stammering a bit. He was inexperienced at talking to fish—or, for that matter, at talking to someone he’d dreamed about.
“No, it was something,” Bridget gently corrected him.
“Only a couple more bugs than usual. For your Sunday dinner.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t have had any dinner at all without them. Hi there, Paddy.”
“Hiya, Bridge,” Paddy said. “Seen any pretty frogs cruising around?”
“To tell you the truth, I wasn’t on the lookout.” She turned back to Bagley. “I hope this isn’t a rude question . . . but are you a marten or a weasel?”
“A weasel.”
By wiggling her tail and her underfins at the same time, Bridget could keep her head out of the pond, which let her see the weasel without water distortion. He intrigued her. Terrified as she’d been the first time she saw him—that day early in the spring when he blurted out “Good afternoon”—she’d also been curious, since the greeting seemed to be aimed her way. Why should a beast like that be talking to her? So the next day at the same hour she’d passed the hollow log again. And there the creature was, crouched in the end of it, just as before. She was pretty sure he wasn’t a muskrat or a squirrel, and she was also pretty sure that he was staring at her. But he had only one eye to stare with! She’d never encountered a oneeyed animal before. Frogs, eels, perch, turtles, herons: they all had two. Even tadpoles had two. Even crabs—though of course theirs stuck out in the homeliest way imaginable. And while flounders had no eyes on one side, they had two scrunched together on the other.
When she checked the log again the next day, the creature spat something at her, and she dove straight to the bottom, horrified and insulted. But peering back up from the depths, she saw that what he’d spat was bugs. They’d landed too far from the end of the log for him to take a swipe at her. The bugs looked plump, too. Most striped bass—this was the sort of fish she was—ate insects only as a last resort, but she’d always had a weakness for them. In fact, she considered them such a delicacy she sometimes went so far as to throw herself all the way out of the water just to get one. Clearly, if she didn’t grab these soon, another fish would, or else some frog. Food was scarce in the pond this year.
She floated up and ate his bugs. They were fresh and juicy, a meal in themselves. After that, she coasted by the log every day at dusk. He was always there, waiting with his luscious insects. She did a bit of research and narrowed him down to a marten or a weasel—though both were said to have two eyes. Word naturally got around about him. And yet, when other fish drifted hopefully by the log, they didn’t get any bugs. It was as if he wanted only her to have them. Nothing so peculiar had ever happened to her before, and sometimes, suspended near the bottom of the pond in the darkest hour of night, she would wake up for a moment and wonder where the odd creature was, what he thought about.
And tonight, at last, she’d dared to speak to him.
“Why wouldn’t you have had any dinner today without my bugs?” he asked.
“Because most of the insects have gone home,” she said, surprised that a furry beast could sound so civilized. “Besides, it’s getting too dark to see them.”
“But earlier.”
“Earlier, the osprey was out,” Paddy said.
“The osprey?”
“You didn’t see him?” said Bridget.
“Was that an osprey?” Bagley said in a hushed voice, remembering the lone gull hanging over the pond.
His mother had told him about ospreys. They were to fish what hawks were to weasels. They plummeted out of the sky, dove straight into the water, and came up with their catch.
“Chances are, he won’t stay around here long,” Bridget said.
It was tiring to keep her head up, but after slipping down to fill her gills with water and take a short rest, she poked her head back into the moonlight.
“May I ask you a personal question?” she said.
“Anything you lik
e,” said Paddy. “I’m an open book.”
“No, I meant—”
“Me?” Bagley said. “Certainly.”
“I just wondered,” she said. “Weasels have two eyes, don’t they?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Your other one’s behind that patch?”
“Well . . . yes and no.”
“Yes and no?”
Bagley hesitated. He never discussed his patch. In fact, he usually avoided so much as thinking about his left eye—though by coincidence the talk of the osprey had just put it into his mind. But somehow he couldn’t hedge with the fish. Any interest she showed in him, even if it was only in his patch, was something to be cherished. “Yes, it’s where my other eye goes,” he told her. “But no, it’s not there.”
“You mean you lost it?”
“Unfortunately. A childhood accident.”
“Oh, dear! A hook?”
“A hook?”
“Fish are always worrying about hooks,” Paddy explained.
“Ah,” said Bagley. “No, not a hook.”
“A beak?” Bridget wondered.
“No, not a beak. Not quite.”
“I’m being nosy,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“No, not at all! It’s just . . . it’s just kind of a long story.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“Well, it’s really more about my father than me,” Bagley said, and he smiled wryly, for this was true about everything in his life. “When I was half grown, a terrible hurricane hit Wainscott, and afterwards my father had to reconstruct a tunnel.”
“Reconstruct a tunnel,” Bridget said. “That sounds important.”
“Never knew you weasels liked to dig,” Paddy commented.
“We don’t,” Bagley said. “My father enlisted moles for that. He thumped the ground to guide them from above.”
“Is that right?” said the bullfrog. “I’m something of a thumper myself.” In demonstration he gave his rock a couple of solid thumps with one of his big webbed feet. Then he let out a fine croak.