Ignoring his boss’s mutterings and gutterings, Squirrel turned to the worm Malmali. “Sir, I can’t spend more than three gufflings. That’s all I can afford. I just want something simple that’ll still fit in at Smitten’s wed . . .” He could not finish his sentence because he was too busy ducking to avoid the beret Bacchu had just chucked at him.
When he stood up again, Squirrel felt the worm’s X-ray-like eyes measure every part of him—from his acorn-shaped head to the S branded into his forearm to his bushy red tail. Squirrel’s legs began to sweat. Then, abruptly, Malmali nodded and swept out of the room, his cape trailing on the floor behind him. The meeting was over.
“What happened?” Squirrel asked, looking back at a scowling Bacchu. “He didn’t say a word.”
“Malmali never speaks, you bumpkin!” said Bacchu, his voice as sour as old cream. “That lunatic of a worm actually agreed to outfit you for a measly three gufflings. But why he decided to help such a cheap, uncivilized rodent, I will never understand!”
Bacchu was so annoyed with Squirrel for not spending five gufflings on a Malmali tunic that he refused to tell Squirrel how to complete his outfit and what gift to give Smitten and Cheska. All Bacchu said was, “Since you have such a mind in that egg-head of yours, figure it out yourself.”
Well, this was exactly what Squirrel did—which is why, on the evening of Smitten and Cheska’s wedding, Squirrel was skipping toward the rosewood jetty, carrying a big wooden crate, and wearing an umbrella-like straw hat on top of his new tunic and his ivory collar.
Squirrel recognized the jetty for Smitten and Cheska’s wedding by the puffs of pink smoke bursting from the planks. He scurried over and saw the famous comedians, the Funny Frogs, entertaining the crowd. Excited, Squirrel hopped onto the jetty. Immediately many guests turned and stared at him.
“Hey, catch a load of Cowboy Red! He’s stealing our laughs,” croaked one Funny Frog, pointing a webbed finger at Squirrel.
The frog had a point. Since Squirrel had gotten onto the jetty, the comedy troupe was only getting half a laugh from the crowd.
Squirrel felt his cheeks crisp to a deep maroon, when somebody purred, “Dahling, you look sennnsational!”
He turned to find Lady Blouse shimmering in a silver fish-scale dress, which made her look like a slinky mermaid. She was smiling her delightful lopsided smile.
Touching his tunic, she said, “It’s the new Malmali blue, his latest work. I like! And the hat—inspired! Though, perhaps, not everyone is ready for Malmali topped with straw quite yet,” she said, glancing at a little kitten who was pointing at Squirrel’s straw hat and giggling.
“Should I take the hat off, Lady Blouse?” whispered Squirrel, lifting the hat off his head, and putting it back on. “Off. On. Which looks better, m’lady?”
“Take it off for now. You can put it back on when we’re at the wedding. But, dahling, that wooden crate is a bit of a pimple on your outfit. Do hide it when we get there.”
“I will. I’ll put it in the gift pile. It’s my present for Smitten and Cheska. I’m giving them a case of Pretty Piths,” said Squirrel, taking off his hat and tucking it into his tunic.
At that moment, a canoe glided up to them and a crow with a dented beak hopped out.
“Ladies and gen’men, I’m your usher this evenin’. I’ll be ferryin’ you through this ’ere mangrove till we get to the weddin’ site. All ’board,” announced the crow, helping the guests onto the raft one at a time. When he turned to help Squirrel, he stopped.
“Careful. It’s ’ard for small animals to get on. If I ain’t mistaken, you’re a squirrel, aye?” As the crow helped Squirrel on, a hungry glint flitted into the bird’s eyes.
“Yes, I am. Thank you,” said Squirrel, scrambling onto the boat. He turned away from the creepy crow, back to the so-much-nicer Lady Blouse. She was wearing a puzzled expression on her pretty face.
“Pretty Piths? What in the world are Pretty Piths, dahling?”
“Magical mangoes. When you eat the flesh of the fruit, you become more beautiful: Your fur glows, your eyes twinkle, your smell sweetens. And that’s just the half of it. If you crack open the pith of the mango, a drop of juice oozes out. Drinking this juice makes everything around you lovely. Like you’re living your favorite dream.”
“How wonderful! What a splendid present for a newly married couple,” said Lady Blouse. “Where in Cats’ Kingdom did you find these Pretty Piths, Squirrel? I’ve never even heard of them.”
“I have the recipe for them in an old book in my tree cottage in Wickory Wood . . . I’ve made them once before . . . ,” Squirrel was saying, till he got utterly distracted by his surroundings.
The canoe was slicing through a floating forest that seemed to have been sprinkled with apple-green fairy dust. Gummy bubbles slid from leaf to leaf, popping with silly smacks; roots swayed in the water like long, hairy jellyfish; a woody lullaby hummed in the thick, warm air.
Just as Squirrel was slipping into this fairy-tale-like dream, the tangle of trees parted. A bright clearing was bobbing on the mangrove.
“Dahling, are you listening? Or has all my purring bored you already?” teased Lady Blouse as the boat pulled up beside a platform and the usher jumped out.
“Sorry, Lady Blouse. I just got, uhm, sidetracked.”
“This mangrove is enchanting, isn’t it? But back to what I was saying: You think you could make me some Pretty Piths sometime? I should quite enjoy them, I think,” she said as the dented-beaked crow helped her slink onto the platform.
“Anything for you, m’lady,” said Squirrel, letting the crow help him ashore. Clambering out of the raft, Squirrel wondered if it was possible for even a Pretty Pith to make Lady Blouse prettier than she already was. The image was so striking that even after he was off the boat, Squirrel did not notice that the crow was still holding his paw in a knuckle-crushing grip.
“Usher, what’re you doing?” asked Lady Blouse, pulling Squirrel free.
“Sorry ma’am, I jus’ wanted to make sure ’e got off the raft safe. It can be hard for ’em smaller animals,” said the crow as Lady Blouse laced her arm through Squirrel’s and led him toward the celebration.
A Sip of Mischief
Lady Blouse and Squirrel strolled down a walkway covered with butter-colored magnolias. The fleecy blossoms tickled Squirrel’s heels, and a chuckle bubbled out of his mouth.
“Dahling, what’s so funny?”
“The petals on the floor . . . they’re tickling me,” said Squirrel.
“Wait!” called Lady Blouse, staring at Squirrel’s feet. “Squirrel, where’re your shoes?”
“Shoes?” The smile slipped right off Squirrel’s face. “I didn’t think of shoes . . .”
He felt like jumping straight into the water and paddling back to Bimmau. He was just about to turn around when Lady Blouse said, “Never mind, dahling. Don’t go worrying your little red head about shoes. I didn’t even notice you weren’t wearing any until you actually said so. Trust me—no one will be able to tell!”
“But . . . I look foolish,” said Squirrel, staring at his naked, calloused feet, furious with himself for not thinking of shoes.
“Dahling, no one looks foolish in Malmali,” purred Lady Blouse, stroking his tunic. “Now let us not speak of silly things like shoes. Go put your crate down there. Excellent. And now escort me to a seat, won’t you? Lord Blouse is traveling again and I don’t fancy being seen alone.”
“Of course, m’lady,” said Squirrel, dumping his crate and rushing back to Lady Blouse.
As he tucked his arm in hers, he forgot all about shoes. His eardrums hummed with a soft bum-di-bum-bum; he saw a row of goldfish in bowler hats popping water-jazz beats with their lips. Baboons in suits sprayed him with jasmine mist, and a troupe of golden-purple butterflies swished above, looking like a banner of double-paneled silk. Squirrel glanced at Lady Blouse and sighed; he felt like the hero of a romantic midsummer musical.
They saw the tables,
and Lady Blouse picked one topped with a bright pond-apple lantern. Two tall fountains babbled next to it. Squirrel watched as Lady Blouse shimmied up to the fountains, swept her arms out, and spun. Her paws grazed the tops of the gushing liquid.
“What are those? Why are the fountains gold and fizzy?” asked Squirrel.
Lady Blouse brought a soaked finger to her mouth, licked it, and smacked her pink lips. “As I thought . . . Shell Champagne.”
Squirrel began to choke, as though a big, bronze guffling were stuck in his throat. A bottle of Shell Champagne cost more than he made in a moon cycle; these two tall, frothy fountains were probably worth more than everything in his tree cottage.
“You okay, Squirrel?” asked Lady Blouse. He managed to nod.
“Good. I think I shall sit here.” She pointed to a seat and Squirrel hurried over and pulled a chair out for her. He was just settling down beside her when his nostrils caught a whiff of something. His stomach gurgled.
“Excellent! They’ve put out some food already,” he said. Sure enough, pitchers of churning cream and sculptures of sugarcane and cheese dotted the room. He watched as guests broke off bits of the statues for a quick nibble. He was about to get up and do the same when two doves carrying a tray floated up to him.
“What are these?” Squirrel asked, looking at the macaroni-like brown swirls.
“Brittle butter snails, sir,” cooed one of the doves. “Would you like one?”
“Sure would,” piped Squirrel, popping one of the slippery shells in his mouth. His jaw splintered the shell into billions of sharp, salty crumbs that crackled on his tongue. As he chewed, he felt something squishy and chewy, which tasted of butter and mint.
“Hmmm . . . That just made me feel hungrier,” said Squirrel, gulping the snail down.
“Dahling, that’s what it’s supposed to do,” said Lady Blouse with a wink.
“Right, of course!” mumbled Squirrel, looking away before he said anything even stupider in front of Lady Blouse.
To his left, he saw a dance floor carpeted with skins of velvety peaches. Millions of fireflies twinkled above the waltzing guests, like a chandelier strung straight from the night sky. To his right, a giant lily with five ribbonlike petals formed a tent that quivered in the breeze.
Squirrel had just decided that this wedding was the most spectacular event he would ever attend when something caught his attention. In the corner, next to a golden spring, was a crumpled ball of orange fur and black silk. A broken ice-crystal cup and a few daisies lay next to it.
Excusing himself from Lady Blouse, Squirrel dashed over to the orange-black mess and prodded the mass of fur with his foot. It let out a long groan.
“A sslower ssor you, misss,” slurred the orange heap, rolling over.
Squirrel knew he should not laugh. He hugged himself to control his chuckles. Finally he managed to say, “Brosher, sir, let me help you up.”
“You don’t want a sslower?” said Brosher as Squirrel tried to uncurl the cat and straighten out his black silk jacket. But Brosher was too heavy for Squirrel’s narrow shoulders. Squirrel was trying to sling Brosher on his back when the cat suddenly became lighter. Someone else had grabbed Brosher from under the arms.
Within moments Brosher was standing, with one floppy arm around Squirrel, and his other arm around a young dog wearing a white tuxedo with a red butterfly bow tie.
“Thanks,” said Squirrel to the dog.
“No worries! Last I saw, Brosher was standing on the dance floor giving daisies to every pretty girl, saying, ‘A flower for you, miss?’ He must’ve got bored ’cos he seems to have guzzled a pig’s weight of Shell Champagne from the spring. Poor fella,” said the dog as they lowered Brosher into a chair. “I’m Des, by the way,” he added, extending a paw to Squirrel.
“Nice to meet you, Des. I’m Squirrel.”
“Squirrel? Well, that’s an original name, isn’t it?” said Des with a grin.
“Tell me about it,” said Squirrel, who had always wished he could have had a proper name. “So, is Des short for something?”
“ ’Tis my nickname. My sister named me. You see these patches?” Des pointed to a dark brown ring on his left eye and to another oval on his right ear. “When I was born, she screamed, ‘There’s patches on him.’ ’Course she could barely speak, so it came out as ‘Despatches.’ And my mean parents thought it’d be funny to name me that—Despatches,” he said, shaking his head.
“You don’t like your name either?” asked Squirrel, glad to have something in common with this dog.
“I hate it. Despatches? It makes me sound like a two-hundred-season-old sailor with sardine breath, doesn’t it? Sometimes I could just kill Cheska for coming up with it.”
“Cheska?” asked Squirrel, confused. Then it clicked. “You’re Cheska’s brother?”
“Yup, that’s me. And who’re you? You look familiar . . .”
“I’m Bacchu Banoose’s slave—the PetPost Squirrel. I deliver the mail in Bimmau.”
“Oh! Of course! I didn’t recognize you without the uniform. You wear that a lot, huh?”
Squirrel nodded. “Every day since I can remember. That’s who I am. I’m the PetPost slave.”
“But, how’d you end up a slave, Squirrel? There are barely any slaves left.”
“I’m the last slave in Bimmau,” said Squirrel, trying to ignore the itching of the S branded into his arm. “My parents . . . ,” he started, when he heard a soft humming.
“Wait . . . are those the nightingales?” asked Des.
Squirrel nodded, glad to be interrupted.
“That’s the wedding march. Which means I’m supposed to be up there. How do I look?” Des asked, tweaking his bow tie.
“Like a bride’s brother,” said Squirrel, grinning at his new friend.
“Excellent! I’ll come find you when I’m done. Go get a seat and watch me strut down the aisle. I’m escorting Lexy. At the Wagamutt we call her Leggy Lex,” said Des, his brown eyes twinkling before he bounded to the tent.
As he watched Des’s tail wag happily, Squirrel decided to head to the tent himself. He scanned the room for Lady Blouse, but when he could not see her anywhere, he strapped his straw hat onto his head and followed Des into the massive Lily Tent.
Candles, candles, and more candles lit the space. Vines crept up the sides of the tent, with bunches of grapes hanging within easy reach of the guests. Olfisse, the Pedipurr’s security cat, had an entire bunch of grapes on her lap and was munching them noisily. Today she did not look grumpy at all. Squirrel chose the seat next to her and settled down just as the nightingales’ song became quick and loud.
On cue in walked Smitten, wearing a tuxedo and looking as dapper as ever. He got onto the stage, bowed to his guests, and stood tall, waiting for Cheska.
He had to wait for a bit. A kitten crawled down the aisle first, throwing fistfuls of fluttering ladybugs into the air. Then came the groomsmen, with pretty bridesmaids on their arms. Des was the last. When he swaggered down the aisle with a very leggy she-dog, a couple of young dogs in the audience actually whistled—winning many dirty looks from the Pedipurr cats.
But when the nightingales’ song became as soft as a cloud, everyone grew quiet. It was Cheska’s turn.
Wearing a flowy orange petal dress that made her fur look like honey, Cheska drifted down the aisle. Her curls bounced in tune with the music. Smiling, she walked toward Smitten. She stepped onto the stage and the ceremony began.
Hand in hand, Smitten and Cheska sang the Wedded Vow together.
My hand in yours, my love pure
I wish to wed, I am sure
To you I pledge, to share life true
I wish for joy, for me and you
With this crown, I take and give
My heart, my soul, as I live
Smitten and Cheska each held up a wreath of baby’s breath flowerbuds and placed it on each other’s heads. They smiled at each other—they were married.
Squirre
l watched mesmerized as Smitten and Cheska finished the wedding ritual by feeding each other caramel rocks and sharing a goblet of the sacred Walnut Wedded Wine. Then they turned to their guests and said, “Friends, thank you for coming. Dinner is now served.”
Instantly the sound of wings filled the air. Pigeons carrying trays, bowls, logs, and ladles flew in and laid the feast around the dance floor.
Squirrel grinned. He had been so excited about this dinner that he had starved himself since dawn. Tonight he would taste everything, go for seconds, and maybe even go back for thirds. He hurried over, grabbed a shell plate, and started heaping dollops of every dish on it. When his plate was the heaviest it could possibly be, he sat down at the nearest table and tucked into his meal.
In moments he had picked the dishes he liked best: fried chilly cocoons and caramelized lizard’s gizzard. But his favorite was the creamy bark-nut soufflé, which melted on his tongue like a cotton ball of flavor. Squirrel was on his way to help himself to one—who was he kidding—two more soufflés, when Des grabbed his shoulder.
“Squirrel, I almost didn’t recognize you with that hat on! Anyway, come with me. I have a surprise.”
Squirrel followed Des to a corner. Des whispered, “Check it out. I stole some of the Walnut Wedded Wine. It’s both spiced and spiked. You want some?”
Squirrel paused. “We can’t drink this, can we? I thought you could only drink it at your own wedding! It’s not allowed . . .” But as he looked from the glowing amber liquid to the glowing golden excitement in Des’s eyes, he felt something he had never felt before—the thrill of doing something forbidden. “I’ve never had Wedded Wine before.”
“It’s fantastic. And this bottle’s the best there is—Smitten’s doin’, of course. Just try some. I’ll get you a glass ’fore we get caught,” said Des. “I can’t wait to see your face when you taste this stuff.”
The Tale of a No-Name Squirrel Page 3