The Woodlander

by Kirk Watson

  John peeked down at his delivery card and was pleased to see there were no collections due today. With any luck, he should be finished working within the hour. The sun was shining and the birds were singing—it was going to be a good day. He longed to get home to finish the latest novel his father had given him (a swashbuckling pirate story), so he didn’t really need the fine weather, but he closed his eyes and basked in the sun just the same. Stealing a glance at his subscriber card, he took the first newspaper from his basket and flung it over the hedges surrounding the sycamore tree at 1 Orchard Lane.

  “Ow!” came a cry from behind the hedges.

  John skidded to a stop, struck by a sudden panic. He thought about riding off, but just for a moment. He quietly set his bicycle down and crept towards the hedges. He had to stand on his tippy-toes to peer over the tall bushes. In the yard was a small flower garden, and sitting amidst the lilacs, rubbing her head, was a young squirrel.

  She was about John’s age, with fur the color of caramel (except for her tail, which was as dark as chocolate). She had large, almond-shaped eyes, as blue as Langley River, and cheeks that puffed out as if her mouth were stuffed with sunflower seeds. She wore white gardening gloves—probably her mother’s, since they came all the way up to her elbow—and a white sundress.

  John was immediately smitten. “Are you all right, miss?”

  The little squirrel looked up, startled by the paperboy peeking over the hedges. She stood indignantly, picked her hat up from the ground, and placed it primly on her head. After securing the ribbon under her chin, she took a moment to compose herself, then turned to John and calmly asked, “And who might you be?”

  John removed his cap. “My name is John. John Grey.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “And pray tell, Mr. Grey, why are you peeking over my hedges? Are you spying on me?”

  “No, I thought I heard someone cry out. Are you okay?”

  Her practiced composure quivered for a moment, then completely cracked. She threw her paws in the air. “No, I’m not okay! Some idiot just hit me in the head with a newspaper, and I fell into the mulch. Look at my dress. It’s ruined!” She seemed to forget John was even there as she frantically rubbed her paws against the stains. She soon gave up, throwing her hat to the ground and stomping on it. When she looked back up, she noticed John was still watching her and quickly became embarrassed. Collecting herself, she smoothed her dress and stood up straight in a dignified manner. “I mean, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m… delivering newspapers?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You! You’re the one who threw the newspaper at me!”

  “I didn’t throw it at you,” John protested. “It was an accident. I’m really sorry.”

  She shook a tiny, gloved fist at him. “Sorry? Oh, you’ll be sorry, all right. Do you have any idea who my father is?”

  “No,” John said, looking around nervously. “Should I?”

  “He’s only the best lawyer in Langley. When I tell him what you did to me, he’ll have you fired and sue you for everything you’ve got!”

  John gulped. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the beautiful, angry squirrel throwing a tantrum in the lilacs.

  “No, please don’t!” he said, swallowing hard. “I… I need this job, and I haven’t got all that much to begin with.”

  “Oh,” she said, suddenly taken aback. For a moment, she regarded the scared little squirrel peeking over her hedges with compassion, but just for a moment. She quickly mustered her dander back up and placed her gloved paws on her hips. “Well, you must have something you can give me. I demand compensation for my suffering!”

  John thought for a moment. He looked back at his beloved bicycle lying on the street behind him, remembering the long months he had saved for it. Trembling, he turned back to the little girl. “All… all I have is my… my bicycle. But you can have it… if you want.”

  The little girl approached the hedges tentatively until she was standing directly across from him. She stood on her tippy-toes and peeked over. There on the ground lay John’s rusty old bicycle. Her face softened when she saw its sad condition, its rusty frame and torn-up seat. She immediately regretted being so cross with the young paperboy. She looked at him sheepishly, noticing for the first time the ratty condition of his clothes, his grubby face, his disheveled fur. She dropped her eyes in shame.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” she said, “I don’t know why I said that.”

  John tried to speak, but all that came out was a squeak. He looked like he was going to be sick.

  “Hey, are you okay?” she asked, a look of concern on her face.

  John was visibly shaking. He appeared to be hyperventilating as he gasped for air. The little girl removed her gardening gloves and reached a paw over the hedge, smoothing the fur on his head.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “Breathe.”

  John took a deep breath, and the scent of lilacs washed over him.

  “That’s it,” she said, “just breathe.”

  After several more deep breaths, his shaking slowly subsided.

  “Better?” she asked.

  Her touch seemed to drain him of the ability to speak. He nodded at her with his mouth agape, transfixed by her blue eyes. He looked back at his bicycle, then back at her.

  “That’s okay,” she said, “you can keep the bicycle. Just try to be more careful next time, okay?”

  John nodded again.

  “Sharon!” came a call from the sycamore tree at 1 Orchard Lane. “Come inside; your breakfast is ready!”

  “That’s my stepmom,” the little girl said, “I have to go.”

  John nodded again, his mouth still open.

  She smiled at him, her puffy cheeks dimpling. “See you later!”

  John watched as she skipped across the yard, stopping to retrieve her hat from the garden and running the rest of the way, holding it to her head. Just before entering the backdoor, she turned to wave goodbye, and then she was gone. John slumped to the ground with his back to the hedge.

  Her name is Sharon…

  Chapter 3

  UNHINGED

  In certain cultures, there exists a popular nursery rhyme involving an egg who fell from a wall. Why the egg was sitting on the wall in the first place is never explained, nor the mysterious circumstances leading to the egg’s untimely demise. Upon hearing of the tragedy, the king summoned his best men to the scene, but try as they might, they could neither piece together the broken egg nor the events surrounding his tragic scrambling. Was the egg the victim of foul play, or did he jump? Perhaps it does not matter, for the point of the story is clear: once broken, some things cannot be fixed.

  A crashing sound woke John in his office. He peeled his scrambled head from his desk and blinked.

  What the hell was that?

  For a moment, he thought he had knocked the bottle of acorn spirits from his desk, but there it remained, still intact. He sat and listened, coughing quietly at the dryness in his throat. His tongue felt as if he had swallowed his tail.

  It sounded like it came from downstairs. Maybe the wind blew the shutters open?

  He looked out the office window, squinting his bloodshot eyes at the rising sun. It looked like a calm, windless morning. He walked across the room and placed his ear against the door.

  It was probably just the neighborhood kids playing pinecone again. How many times do I have to tell them to stay out of my yard? Wait, what was—

  The door came crashing in, knocking John on his tail. In the doorway stood the same black squirrel from the night before. He appeared even larger inside the cramped confines of the office, and to John’s dismay, even angrier. The giant squirrel’s shoulders heaved with each breath as he glowered down at John, pointing a clawed finger in his face. “Where is it?”

  John rubbed his throbbing head and scowled. “Where is what? The doorbell?” It crossed John’s mind he might still be a little drunk.

/>   The black squirrel grabbed him by the collar, lifting him off his feet until they were eye to eye. “Don’t get smart with me. You know what you stole. Now, where is it?”

  John gasped for air. “Have you tried retracing your steps?”

  The black squirrel delivered a backhand to John’s cheek, knocking him to the ground. As the taste of blood filled John’s mouth, his mind raced to think what the intruder could be looking for, but he could barely recall the events of the previous night.

  “Enough games,” the black squirrel said. “Do you want to die?”

  John wiped the blood from his mouth. “Where were you a few hours ago?”

  The black squirrel hesitated, giving John a confused look, then reached down and lifted him by the neck until his feet were well off the ground. “Last chance.”

  John struggled to speak. “I… can’t…”

  “What did you say?” the black squirrel asked, leaning in closer.

  “I… can’t… breathe.”

  The black squirrel loosened his grip, allowing John to suck in a gulp of air.

  “Whatever you’re looking for,” John gasped, “I’m sure you’ll find it in the last place you look. Why don’t you start there?”

  The black squirrel growled, his hot breath steaming John’s glasses. “I don’t think you appreciate the gravity of the situation.”

  John scowled back, his feet kicking in the air. “On the contrary… I find gravity… quite attractive.”

  The black squirrel narrowed his eyes. “Let’s find out.”

  His fist caught John in the midsection, sending him sprawling backwards over his desk. Papers scattered through the air as John fell hard on the other side. As he clamored back to his feet, his paw landed on the handle of the desk drawer. He remembered the gun that lay inside.

  He peered over the desktop and gave the black squirrel a slight smile. “Oh, yes, of course. The thing. How silly of me. Now I remember where I put it.”

  John reached inside the desk drawer, never taking his eyes off the intruder, and felt the burled grip of the pistol in his paw. He pulled the revolver from the drawer and pointed it at the black squirrel. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  The black squirrel’s eyes widened, but just for a moment. “You don’t have the guts.”

  John cocked the hammer back. “Oh, there’ll be guts aplenty if you don’t take a step back.”

  The black squirrel snarled, taking a step forward instead. John squeezed the trigger and the black powder ignited with a sharp crack. It wasn’t as loud as John had imagined, but the intruder’s head snapped back just the same.

  I’ve killed him! John thought.

  The black squirrel staggered back with his paw to his head, but the bullet had just grazed his ear. He brought his paw down and looked at the blood, which just seemed to make him angrier. Growling, he took another step forward. Once again, John leveled the gun. He was surprised at the steadiness of his paw.

  I suppose the trick is to aim it at someone else’s head.

  The black squirrel must have been equally impressed; he came to a halt and straightened up, his head nearly touching the ceiling. He glared at John with a barely restrained fury.

  John sat on the edge of his desk. “That’s better. Now, why don’t you tell me what it is you’re looking for—”

  Before John could finish, the black squirrel spun and disappeared out the office door. John was astonished at how quickly so large a squirrel could move. Moments later, he heard the sound of breaking glass from down the hall.

  He kept the gun trained on the empty doorway, listening but not daring to move. All he could hear was the sound of his own heart beating; his pounding head kept the backbeat.

  It could be a trick, he thought, but I can’t stay here all day.

  He removed the spent percussion cap from the revolver and examined the chambers.

  Five more shots left.

  Holding the pistol in front of him, he approached the door, then poked his head into the hallway. No one was there.

  He walked down the hallway and entered the kitchen. The window was shattered, a trace of blood left on its sill. Sticking his head out the window, he looked around, but the stranger was gone.

  Bastard must have scurried off…

  The window was quite high in the tree, but that was no problem for a squirrel. Still, John wondered how such a large squirrel could move so fast. As he stared out the broken window, a knock on his front door startled him.

  “John?”

  The call came from downstairs. He recognized the raspy voice of his neighbor, the widow Mrs. Nubblin.

  “John, are you all right?”

  That nosy busybody must have heard the shot and come to investigate.

  He ran down the stairs to his living room. He found his front door was sitting crooked on its hinges, as if it had been crudely shoved shut.

  That bastard kicked my door in!

  Mrs. Nubblin knocked again. “Hello? John?”

  “Coming!” John said. He reached for the doorknob before realizing the gun was still in his paw. Glancing around, he spotted his coat hanging on the coat rack and quickly stuffed the gun into a pocket. With some effort, he pried the busted door open.

  Mrs. Nubblin stood in the doorway with a concerned look on her face, her wire-rimmed bifocals perched on the end of her nose. “Oh, thank goodness you’re all right, John! I heard an awful noise and thought something dreadful might have happened.”

  “Oh, yes,” John said, “sorry about that, Mrs. Nubblin. I was just fixing this door here. I didn’t realize how loud the hammering would be.”

  Mrs. Nubblin looked at him skeptically. “That didn’t sound like any hammer I’ve ever heard.”

  “Well, I’m not very good at it yet. I’ll try to keep it down next time.” He began to close the door, but Mrs. Nubblin stuck her foot in.

  “You know who was good with a hammer? My husband Harry. Shame he’s not with us anymore. He would have had this door fixed for you in a jiffy.”

  “Yes, that is a shame. Well, it’s been good talking to you, Mrs. Nubblin—”

  “You’re not vey handy yourself, are you, John? I guess being a writer, you don’t get to work with your paws too often. Other than to write, of course. It would be a shame if you were to smash a thumb with that hammer. You know, I could get my nephew Jacob to fix this door for you. He’s wonderfully gifted. He takes after his Uncle Harry.”

  John sighed. “Yes, that’s very kind of you, Mrs. Nubblin, but I’d really like to fix it myself. Now, if you’d excuse me—”

  “You shouldn’t spend so much time alone, John. I worry about you. I mean, now that you’re single—”

  John gave her an icy look. “I’m not single, Mrs. Nubblin.”

  Mrs. Nubblin pursed her lips in pity. “Yes, dear, you are. I know it’s hard to accept, but you have to move on. I tell you what—I could invite my niece over. She’s about your age, and a wonderful cook.”

  John rolled his eyes. “Maybe some other time, Mrs. Nubblin. I really need to get back to work—”

  “I could bring a pie. Do you like pie, John?” She patted him on the belly. “I can tell you do.”

  John looked down at his stomach and blushed. He had put on a few extra pounds over the last six months. “Well, yes, but I’ve been meaning to cut down.”

  “Oh, nonsense. No girl likes a skinny squirrel. I could bring apple, or cherry, or pumpkin, or strawberry. Or maybe you’d prefer a cake? What kind of cake do you like, John? Chocolate, vanilla, carrot—”

  “Yes, yes. They’re all lovely, I’m sure. Goodbye, Mrs. Nubblin.”

  He closed the door on the old squirrel, feeling a twinge of guilt as she finished rattling off her list of baked goods. Once he was sure she was gone, he returned to the coat rack.

  The smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air. The pawnshop owner who had sold him the revolver didn’t seem to be the most reputable fellow, but he also hadn’t required John to
fill out any paperwork. Despite the pawnbroker’s assurances, John had wondered if the gun would even fire. It was an older cap-and-ball model, the sort you filled with powder and tapped the bullet into the chamber. The newer models used cartridges and were much easier to reload, but also much more expensive. True to his frugal ways (and never thinking he’d need to reload the thing), John had settled for the cheaper model. He hadn’t even bothered to buy extra bullets.

  As he pulled the revolver from his coat pocket, a card fell out and fluttered to the ground. He suddenly remembered the previous night outside the molehill bar. He retrieved the card for the second time.

  The Broken Bough Inn

  Langley Grove, Woodland

  John scratched his head.

  This must be what that bastard was looking for. But what could be so important about this card that he’d break into my home?

  He flipped the card over.

  Transporter

  Wednesday, Midnight

  John had to think for a moment to remember what day it was.

  That’s tonight.

  He sat on the couch, holding the card in one paw and the gun in the other.

  At least you know the pistol works. But who was that black monstrosity? One thing’s for sure—if this card is so important to him, he’ll be back for it. Maybe I could just give it back? Promise him I’ll forget the whole thing?

  He knew it was wishful thinking. He doubted it was the card that the black squirrel wanted, but rather what was written on it. And although John didn’t understand the card’s significance, he had already read it.

  There’s only one way he can be sure I’ll forget, but I don’t think I would care for that solution.

  He briefly considered contacting the police, but then realized he would have to explain the unregistered gun. He wasn’t sure what the penalty for illegal possession of a firearm was, but he had no intention of finding out. After all the unflattering exposés he had written for the Post regarding the local police department, he was sure there was more than one constable who’d love nothing more than to throw the book at him. They would probably have a party right there in the station, maybe get John Grey’s mug shot on the front page for a change.