by Kirk Watson
“Yes, quite right, Haldör,” Skallagaan said. “Unnatural. You see, Mr. Grey, we are simply restoring nature’s balance. Haakönen were meant to hunt, and you, dear chap, were meant to be hunted. If you could just step outside yourself for a moment, I’m sure you’d see the sense of it.”
If I could step outside for a moment, you’d never see me again, John thought. “It only makes sense in your twisted minds,” he said. “You’ll never get away with this!”
“Oh, but we already have, Mr. Grey,” Skallagaan said. “For many, many years. Why, since before you were born, I should imagine. Perhaps you’re familiar with the Treaty of Highcastle? It was named after this very mountain, following a terrible struggle with the Woodlanders. The Hundred Year War, you might call it.”
“I’ve heard of it,” John replied.
“Yes, but did you know the war actually lasted much longer? For centuries the haakönen and the groundlings fought, but it all came to an end in this very hall. Here is where our forefathers signed the Treaty of Highcastle and put an end to that terrible war. But that was long ago. Not many of your kind seem to remember. Perhaps that’s the luxury of victory: to forget all that was lost. But we haakönen have not been afforded such a luxury. We will always remember that day.”
“But the war is over,” John said. “What right do you have to attack us now?”
“True, the war is over. But in the interim, our numbers have dwindled. You see, farming might sustain life, but hunting is what gives a haakönen his reason to live. Without the hunt, many of our kind have departed Highcastle. Some migrated to the wilds of the North, where the birds of prey still rule the sky. But Highcastle is our home, our birthright. We shall not be driven away— least of all by rodents! And so we remaining haakönen carry on the old traditions. We hunt. Prey has become scarce in these mountains, yet there is plenty in Woodland. But if we were to return there—well, I’m afraid it would end badly for us. What with your craven weapons.”
“You mean firearms?” John asked.
“A coward’s weapon,” Geirleif said.
The silver haakönen Haldör cleared his throat. “An honorable hunter kills up close and personal. You should be able to look your prey in the eye before taking a life. If you cannot, you have no business killing.”
“Well spoken, Haldör,” Skallagaan said. “But it’s difficult to get up close and personal in Woodland these days—there are too many guns. So you see, we haakönen have upheld the Treaty of Highcastle and stayed out of your realm. But if we cannot go to Woodland, we can still bring Woodland to us. Nothing in the treaty forbade that. And for the right price, you can buy anything in the civilized world—or anybody.”
“Or five nobodies,” Geirleif said. The other haakönen fought to stifle their laughter.
John shook his head in disbelief. “You have no right! We’re not property; we’re people!”
Geirleif sneered. “Aww… that’s cute. The little rodent thinks he’s people. You’re animals, groundling: a source of food, pets at best.”
“No, you’re wrong. We have friends, family. Someone will come looking for us.”
“Looking for you? Why would anyone bother to come looking for you?” Geirleif looked at Lisa and Violet. “For a couple of strumpets?”
Violet growled and stepped towards the haakönen with a fork in her paw, but Lisa held her back.
Geirleif ignored her and set his sights on Billy. “Or a junkie?”
Billy hung his head in shame.
The black haakönen focused his eyes on Rollie. “Or a degenerate gambler?”
Rollie spit up the ale he had been drinking. “Now, wait just one—”
Geirleif turned to John. “And I don’t know who you are, Mr. Grey, but I’m sure you’re some sort of loser as well. You can be sure no one’s looking for any of you. Who would care if such a sorry lot went missing? You’re the dregs of Woodland society.”
“Geirleif!” Magdeleija exclaimed. “Where are your manners?” She sighed. “But I’m afraid my brother is right. You see, we only bring in those Woodlanders who won’t be missed. Every population has its, shall we say, less desirable citizens. No offense, I hope.”
Rollie bit into a fresh peach. “Huh? Oh, none taken.” Lisa elbowed him in the stomach.
“Thank you, Mr. Malloy,” Magdeleija said. “I’m sure you can understand we haakönen wouldn’t want to bring any undue attention to ourselves.”
“And spoil all our fun,” Geirleif said.
Magdeleija nodded. “We find discretion is the best policy in these sensitive times.”
John suddenly regretted his withdrawal from the world over the last six months. He had hardly left the house except to go to the bar. His friends had come calling, but he had sent them all away. Even his boss, Mr. Finn. Eventually, they all stopped coming around. They wouldn’t even notice he was missing—not for some time, anyway. The haakönen were right—no one would come looking for him. And even if they did, they would only find the fragment of a suicide note he had left behind in his typewriter:
By the time you read this, I’ll already be dead.
The statement was looking more prophetic by the minute. As the futility of his situation set in, a great anger welled up inside him. “You bastards!”
He picked up an apple from the table and hurled it at Skallagaan, just missing the haakönen’s head. He picked up another apple and cocked his arm, but Ray stepped behind him and struck him on the back of the head. John fell to the ground, struggling to maintain consciousness.
“And scene!” Geirleif said.
“Hoo-hoo! I told you I love squirrel season!” Alvíss said. “It’s the best dinner theater of the year!”
The other haakönen laughed uproariously.
“Ernie, please show our guests to their quarters,” Skallagaan said. “They must be exhausted, and they have a big day ahead of them.”
“Yes, my lord,” Ernie said with a bow. “Everyone up. Follow me.”
The other squirrels stood and followed Ernie through the side door. Ray slung John over his shoulder and carried him out of the dining hall. As they were leaving, Geirleif remarked, “Hey, Skallagaan, how’d you like them apples?” The other haakönen groaned.
Ernie led the squirrels down a long, sloping corridor. They emerged in a musty dungeon with hay-strewn floors. A single torch burned in its sconce, revealing a row of wooden doors with barred windows.
The ermine escorted the captives into separate cells, locking the doors behind them. Ray carried John into his cell and laid him down on the hard mattress.
“That was a foolish thing to do,” Ray said, “throwing apples at a haakönen. What were you thinking?”
“You’re right,” John said, rubbing his head. “I should’ve gone with the pineapple.” He looked up at the black squirrel. “Why are you doing this, Ray? To your own kind?”
Ray looked away and said nothing. After a moment, he stood and left John alone in the cell, locking the door behind him. He looked back through the barred window. “Rest, Mr. Grey. You’ll need your strength.” He turned and followed the ermine out of the dungeon.
John lay back on the mattress and closed his eyes. He could hear someone sobbing in a nearby cell.
Is that Billy? Surely it’s not Rollie…
“John? John, are you okay?” Violet whispered from the next cell over. John was glad she wasn’t the one crying.
“Yes, I’m fine,” John replied. “It was a lucky punch.”
“Lucky, my tail,” a strange voice said from across the room.
“Who’s there?” John asked.
“My name is Hugh.”
“Are you a prisoner here?”
“Yes, same as you. I’ve been here for years. I’m originally from Gloceister.”
“We’re from Langley. My name is—”
“No offense,” Hugh interrupted, “but I prefer not to know your name. It’s best not to get too attached to newcomers. I’ve already lost too many friends; I
can’t afford to lose any more.”
“You mean in the hunt?”
“That’s right. You just missed mouse season. There were six of us. Now it’s just me.”
“And the others?” Lisa asked.
“It’s best not to think about it.”
“Did they hurt you?” Violet asked.
“I’m afraid my leg’s in a bad way, miss. I just hope it heals enough to walk again. Otherwise…” Hugh’s voice trailed off.
“Otherwise what?” Rollie asked.
“It’s best not to think about it.”
“What’d they do to your leg?” Lisa asked. “Was it Ray?”
“No, it was that haakönen Geirleif. Ray doesn’t hunt with the haakönen, though he did break my jaw once. You don’t want to mess with that brute.”
“Why would he do that?” Lisa asked. “Break your jaw, I mean.”
“I stole a knife from the galley. I was going to jam it into one of those birds’ necks when I got a chance. They probably would have killed me, but at least I might have taken one of them with me. But before I even got close, Ray saw the knife and knocked me out cold, breaking my jaw in the process.”
He probably saved your life, John thought. “You’ve survived this long, Hugh. Can you give us any advice? I mean, for when we get out there.”
Hugh remained silent for a moment, then simply said, “Run.”
John lay back down on the mattress and held his pounding head. An hour passed, and the sobbing from the other cell stopped.
It must have been Billy, John decided. The poor kid’s been sick this entire trip. And to have all this heaped on top of it…
“Pssst,” Violet whispered from the adjoining cell. “John, are you still awake?”
John sat up. “Yes, Violet, but you should try to get some sleep.”
“I’m too scared to sleep.”
“I know you are. We’re all scared, but try to think of something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, something that made you happy.”
Violet remained silent for a long moment. “I can’t remember what it’s like to be happy.”
John knew it was probably true. She had already been through so much on this horrific trip, and surely more he didn’t even know about. He felt guilty for his own recent depression.
How could you have wasted these last six months feeling sorry for yourself when you’ve had such a good life? At least you knew happiness. This little girl’s never had anything. Pull yourself together!
“Well, what about your sister?” John asked. “Haven’t you two had some good times together?”
Violet took a moment to answer. “Lisa used to sing to me until I fell asleep. That made me happy.”
“There you go. Try to think of that.”
“I’ll try. What about you, John?”
“What about me?”
“What are you going to think about? I mean, what made you happy?”
John struggled to answer, twisting the wedding band on his finger.
“Violet,” Lisa said, “let John get some sleep.”
Violet lowered her voice. “Do you still think we’ll be all right, John?”
John tried to think of something comforting to say. “We’ll be fine, Violet. You’ll see.” He hoped he sounded convincing.
“Okay. Good night, John. Remember, squirrels always land on their feet.”
Do they? John found it difficult to believe as he lay down in the cold, dark cell. Squirrels always land on their feet… I wonder if mice say the same thing? I should ask Hugh how that worked out for him.
From Lisa’s cell came the quiet refrain of a familiar lullaby. John listened as she sang to her little sister; it was the most angelic sound he had ever heard. He rolled over on his side, determined to fight back his own tears. Twisting his wedding band, he contemplated the question Violet had posed to him.
What made me happy? That’s easy: Sharon. Only Sharon.
Darkness overtook him, and he fell into a troubled sleep.
Chapter 11
SCHOOL TIES
College student John Grey hunkered over his typewriter in the University Daily offices, determined to finish his report before the midnight press deadline. He banged out the last few sentences and, with a flourish, ripped the sheet of paper from the typewriter. He glanced up at the clock.
Ten minutes to spare, he thought with a smile, gathering the papers on his desk.
His officemate, a plump beaver named Oliver, sat at the adjacent desk, staring out the third-story window. He was another writer for the Daily, and had also been John’s roommate for the last three years.
“You better have a look at this, John,” Oliver said. “It looks pretty bad.”
“Oh, how bad can it be?” John asked. He sauntered over and clapped his friend on the back before peering over his shoulder. “Oh my…”
On the street below, hundreds of students had gathered into an unruly mob, their faces lit by candles as they marched in front of the University Daily building. From his perch on the third floor, John couldn’t make out the slogans they were chanting, but many of the protestors carried signs on pickets that made their purpose clear; the hand-painted messages were both colorful in appearance as well as language.
Oliver squinted through his thick glasses. “‘Luck the Daily’? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I don’t think it says ‘luck,’” John said.
Oliver adjusted his glasses. “Well, that’s just rude!”
John smiled at him. “Yeah, they do look pretty riled up. Oh well, what can you do? I’d better be off. See you later.”
Oliver spun around in his chair. “You’re not going out there, are you?”
John collected his coat and grabbed the report from his desk. “You bet, as soon as I drop this story off with the editors.”
“John, it’s a mob out there. They’ll rip you to shreds.”
“Oh, it’s just a bunch of rich kids looking for their latest cause. They’ll probably gather at the coffee shop afterwards to see who can be the most righteously indignant. Besides, we didn’t even write that piece they’re so angry about.”
“You don’t think they have a point? About the article, I mean.”
“Maybe, but you can tell you’ve led a privileged life when you have to seek out problems like these kids. In my experience, real problems find you, not the other way around. Just watch, by next week they’ll be protesting something else. They’re harmless, Oliver. You want to see a real mob, you should visit my old neighborhood some time.”
Oliver came from a well-to-do family that had made its fortune in the lumber industry, but he knew John hadn’t been afforded such a comfortable upbringing. Though John rarely spoke about his past, Oliver had managed to divine a detail or two. For instance, from the few times John’s father had come to visit, it was clear Mr. Grey was not a wealthy, well-educated squirrel. But it was equally obvious the pride he had in his son, and John didn’t seem at all embarrassed by his father’s shabby appearance, enthusiastically introducing him to any and everyone they encountered in the dormitory. Oliver had been intrigued by John’s humble childhood, though John thought he often over-romanticized the struggles of the lower class, as he did now.
“Have you ever been in a riot?” Oliver asked.
“Oh, sure,” John said, fastening the buttons of his coat. “But just the once.”
“What was it like?”
“It was the single most terrifying night of my life. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I was just a little squirrel at the time, but I can still remember it like it was yesterday. It was on a bone-chilling night, much like tonight. One of the nastiest, most foul-mouthed crowds you can imagine had gathered, and there I stood, right in the middle of the angry mob as they closed in around me.” John stared out the window and shuddered.
Oliver leaned forward in his chair, rapt. “W
as this back in the ghetto? On the rough-and-tumble streets?”
“No, at the bingo hall. I was working concessions on a Tuesday night and we ran out of cigarettes. Oh, you’ve never seen an angrier pack of little old ladies. The blue fur was really flying that night!”
Oliver laughed and shook his head. “Get out of here, you ass.”
John grinned as he donned his cap. “See you at home, buddy.”
He dropped his report off with the editors just before midnight, drawing the usual chorus of groans as he danced into their offices waving the report over his head, then headed downstairs to the main entrance of the University Daily. He cracked the door open and took a peek outside.
The crowd seemed even larger from the first floor. They were mostly women, and their chants now clear in the crisp evening air:
The Daily’s wrong on women’s rights,
We won’t go without a fight!
And the more cringe-inducing:
If we can’t vote then
We’ll kick ‘em in the scrotum!
Of course, John knew why the women were protesting. Earlier that day, the Daily had printed two opinion pieces submitted by students. The first had argued against women’s suffrage, bluntly stating that the female gender was too susceptible to emotion to be allowed to vote, an argument that had caused John to wince while reading it. On the next page, the second piece had argued the exact opposite position, that the right for women to vote was long overdue. But judging from the mob outside, it seemed not many had managed to turn to the second page.
Although John hadn’t written the offending letter, he doubted the chanting protestors would particularly care. He popped up the collar of his coat and pulled his cap down low over his eyes, then discretely slipped out the door, hoping to disappear into the crowd. He raised a fist in solidarity as he tried to blend in with the flow of protestors, keeping his head down. He had only made it a few steps when someone cried out, “There’s one of them!”
Panicked, John picked up the pace, weaving in and out of the protestors. He could see open campus and freedom in front of him. He broke into a run. Out of nowhere, he was struck on the back of the head. His cap went flying, and he fell to his knees. Sitting up, he rubbed the back of his head. When he withdrew his paw, it was covered in a sticky, red substance. For a moment he thought he was bleeding, but upon further examination, he spotted seeds in the sticky liquid.