The Tale of a No-Name Squirrel

by Radhika R. Dhariwal

“This is the best wedding I’ll ever go to. And it’s my first one,” said Squirrel, his mind a tangle of nerves.

  “Makes sense. I’m thirteen and the only weddings I’ve been to are my sisters’. But I managed to sneak some Wedded Wine at each one of them,” said Des.

  “I’m thirteen too,” Squirrel said. “How many sisters do you have?”

  “Three: Aubry, Brioche, and Cheska. That’s them over there, all gabbing in the corner. They’re always whispering to each other—very annoying,” said Des, pointing to three she-dogs talking to one another. Cheska was radiant, but anyone could see that the other two sisters were equally pretty.

  “I’ve never seen dogs who look like you guys,” said Squirrel. Des and his three sisters looked very similar. They all had fur the color of liquid toffee and gentle features. The only difference was that Des’s nose was upturned and his face was flatter and patchy.

  “That’s ’cos we’re Puggles,” piped Des, picking two wine glasses off the counter. “Dad’s a Pug and Mom’s a Beagle. They met at the Wagamutt and ’twas love at first sight. They love telling that story,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I guess whose family ain’t weird, huh? What’re your folks like?” asked Des, pouring the Wedded Wine into the glasses and handing one to Squirrel.

  As he took the glass, Squirrel tipped the brim of his hat down so that Des could not see the dampness in his eyes. “My parents aren’t around anymore. They died when I was three.”

  “I’m so sorry, Squirrel,” said Des, putting his paw on Squirrel’s shoulder. After a long pause, the dog asked, “Do you remember them?”

  Squirrel blinked hard so his eyes would stop stinging. “Not their faces—just their smells. And their voices, I guess. I wish it wasn’t all so . . . foggy.” With a gulp he continued, “They were PetPost slaves too. We lived in the tree cottage we rent from Priggle’s Bank. I still live there. One night my mom was cooking and the oil lamp in the kitchen fell. The floor caught fire. My dad jumped into the kitchen to save her, but . . .”

  Squirrel stopped, choking.

  “Where were you?” breathed Des, his brown eyes warm with sympathy.

  “In the kitchen with them. They threw me out the window just before the roof fell,” Squirrel whispered.

  After a long moment, Des said, “Squirrel, I’m so sorry . . .”

  Squirrel shrugged. “I try not to think about it.”

  “That’s the best thing to do. So here’s to not thinking,” said Des solemnly, clinking his glass against Squirrel’s.

  Squirrel looked at the Wedded Wine and then chugged the whole glass down, trying to drown his thoughts in the forbidden sweetness of the liquid.

  He waited for the sinful wine to warm his belly. But something went horribly wrong. Pain cleaved Squirrel’s brain. A scorching current surged through his skull—his eardrums ripped, his eyes went blank. His muscles stiffened and he crashed to the floor like a bowling pin.

  Then, out of nowhere, a woman’s voice rang clearly in Squirrel’s head. The voice sang slowly, carving every word into his mind.

  You’re wed, my son, now you’ll see

  All you were and what you could be:

  Under soil, above a tree

  You’re tightly bound, yet wholly free

  Find, my son, a gift from me

  A puzzle as a recipe

  Solve it, and start your journey

  That leads to long-lost Brittle’s Key

  But you must prove you’re worthy

  To use this weapon most mighty

  So find and sip liquids three

  The first one lies with the Queen Bee

  It is called Marbled Honey

  Go find, my son, your destiny

  The song ended, but Squirrel kept gripping the hat strapped to his searing-hot skull. Slowly he forced his eyes open and looked up. Des was standing over him, gaping at him like a dumbstruck donkey.

  “Squirrel, wh-what happened?” asked Des, pulling Squirrel up. “You okay?”

  But before Squirrel could answer, a sudden chill pressed against him. The words became icicles in his mouth. He looked at Des, and saw the sky around the dog go dark, as though a bulb had blown. Squirrel saw the dance floor go black. Then, the tent. Then, the tables—until the whole wedding swilled in darkness.

  A stream of smoke punched Squirrel in the face. And everything was drowned by a terrifying, thumping beat.

  Foes and Friends

  It was as though the earth had cracked open and was spitting up its insides.

  Flecks of soot stung Squirrel’s eyes, and his nostrils were punched by the stench of rot. He staggered over to the outline of what he thought was Des and choked, “Wh-what’s goin’ on?”

  Des did not speak; he just pointed to the smoky sky.

  Through the haze Squirrel saw crows—at least a dozen of them, cloaked in black, circling the wedding. One at a time, they swooped down, filling the night with their demented cackles.

  With growing dread, Squirrel watched as the crows began to smash everything they could with their bladelike wings. He watched them lob rock grenades at guests. He watched as they fired slingshot pellets blindly into the crowd, the whole while laughing their glass-shattering laughter. Their cold, crazy cackles stung fear into his veins.

  Squirrel felt Des grab his shoulder. Through a row of glasses he saw guests shriek and scatter like marbles. Some ducked under chairs. Others flung themselves into the water. Escape was the only thing on everyone’s mind.

  Squirrel realized he had to hide. But before he could do anything, he heard a sharp yelp. He turned and saw Des wincing in pain. The dog was clutching a blot of red on his sleeve.

  Squirrel rushed over to his new friend, and almost tripped on the stray pellet that had punctured Des’s shoulder.

  “Des, you’re hurt!”

  Though his lips were pale and pursed, Des shook his head. “I think it looks worse than it is,” he said as the dyelike blood soaked through his white tux.

  “You’re losing too much blood,” said Squirrel. “We need a bandage.” On pure instinct he grabbed Des and pushed him to the closest counter. As a dense cloud of smoke passed over them, he pulled Des under the counter so they were both hidden under the tablecloth.

  Squirrel blinked in the darkness. His chest grew tight and his head spun. But, somehow, he managed to swallow his fear of small, narrow spaces.

  Ripping a long swab from his new Malmali tunic, he wrapped it tightly around Des’s wound. The lush fabric soaked up the blood. In moments Des stopped bleeding.

  As the cacophony grew louder, Des said, “My family! It’s my sister’s wedding. What if they’re after her?” His voice was pulled with tension.

  Squirrel was about to say something, but then he heard an odd, low rustle. From somewhere—somewhere very close—a strange voice said, “They’re not after your sister.”

  “Who’s there?” said Des, trembling. He whispered to Squirrel, “Mate, d’you hear that?”

  As a grenade exploded, a deep voice said again, “They’re not after your sister.”

  Squirrel felt the words prick his ears. Alarm chilled his cheeks—the voice was definitely speaking to them. He reached for Des and steadied himself. “Wh-who are you?” he said, as bravely as he could.

  “A friend. I can help you get out of here.”

  “Let’s make a run for it,” said Des hoarsely, pulling Squirrel toward the tablecloth.

  “You’re surrounded. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back,” whispered the voice, before dissolving into a soft swoosh.

  Three heartbeats later, two more voices pierced the tablecloth.

  “We ain’t on a hit tonight. No killings,” said one loud, metallic voice.

  “I don’t undershtand. We jusht bring ’im in? No torshture, no blood?” asked a second scratchy voice.

  “We bring ’im in as he is. Alive. That’s the order. Got it?” said the metal voice.

  A few scratchy grunts followed. “Yesh, bosh.”

&nb
sp; “Good. Now stop mumblin’, fool. Just find ’im!”

  Squirrel heard heavy footsteps followed by the flapping of wings. When he was sure that the scratchy voice had flown off, he whispered, “Whad’ya think’s going on? Who’re they looking for?”

  “You, Squirrel.” It was the deep voice from before.

  “Me? What’re you talkin’ about?” mumbled Squirrel.

  “Shhhh!” whispered the voice—a voice Squirrel could tell was definitely female. “I’ll get you out. Follow me. But be completely quiet.” Her words were so soft they could have been crafted from a gentle breeze. “I’m coming in.”

  There was a swish of fabric, a flash of light, and a crisp crackle. A blue flame flickered into life on the tip of a long, black feather. Holding this feather was a crow—a big crow, with a face full of angles and beads for eyes.

  Squirrel grabbed Des and was about to dash out when he heard the scratchy voice again. “I tell ya, I’ve shearched everywhere. There ain’t no red Squirrel here.”

  Squirrel’s flesh squirmed and his toes went dead. Black panic filled his lungs.

  “Checked under the tables?” said a new voice, so high-pitched that Squirrel heard the glasses on the tabletop shake a little.

  “No, Misshy. You do it.”

  “Me? You’re the one that’s searchin’ this part. You do it!”

  “Not gonna. Where’sh Zulf? Make her do it,” said Scratchy.

  A frog’s leap away, under the tablecloth, Squirrel went so pale he could have passed off as a wax candle. Luckily, Screechy and Scratchy were too busy cursing each other to look under the table, and eventually their arguing voices drifted away.

  Under the table, the crow with the blue flame tightened Squirrel’s straw hat on his head and motioned to him and Des to follow her.

  Squirrel watched the crow pierce the tablecloth with her beak, press an eye to the hole, and wait. She waited till an earsplitting crack shook the floor. At that very moment, the crow sliced the tablecloth and slipped out, pulling Squirrel and Des with her.

  The area around them was deserted. The firing was coming from the entrance of the wedding, where the cloaked birds were snatching guests, searching them, and chucking them aside. They were looking for someone. Squirrel gulped. They were looking for him.

  To the tent, mouthed the crow, pointing to the giant white lily in which Smitten and Cheska had gotten married.

  The tent itself could not have looked more different than it had earlier. It was empty. Candles had scorched the white ribbon petals. Smashed grapes littered the floor. Seats were smattered with dark red streaks that could have been either grape juice or blood.

  Jumping over a mess of wood, Squirrel followed the crow to the farthest corner of the tent, along with Des. They ducked behind the last petal so they were completely hidden. Around them the green sea splashed and sprayed angrily.

  Looking at Des, the crow said, “Dog, you can swim from here to that bush. They won’t find you there.”

  “What d’ya mean? Where’re you going?” said Des.

  “Shhh! Keep your voice down,” whispered the crow. “I’m getting Squirrel out of here.”

  “Huh? Where?” said Squirrel, desperately looking for any other way off the platform.

  “You think we’re as dumb as ding-dongs? You’re not taking Squirrel without me!” said Des, squaring himself.

  “Suit yourself. Though, I warn you, it’ll get dangerous,” said the crow, narrowing her small, beady eyes.

  “I’m not leaving Squirrel,” repeated Des.

  The crow’s jaw tightened, but she nodded. Slicing a long strip from the petal tent, she tied the middle portion of the strip to her talons, and threw one end to Squirrel and the other to Des. Squirrel tugged on the petal. It was surprisingly strong.

  “Tie these around your waists tightly. They must hold your weight as we fly. Quickly.”

  “We’re flying?” gasped Des.

  “Of course we’re flying,” said the crow, looking around shiftily. “But don’t let the blood from your wound drip. They can spot blood from miles in the air.” And having imparted that worrying information, the crow took flight with Des and Squirrel trailing behind her.

  The crow glided into a thicket of trees. She did not slow down; she did not look back. Six times Squirrel had to clamp his eyelids shut for fear of smacking into a tree or getting tangled in a hanging branch, but each time the crow plunged or swerved at the very last moment. Just as Squirrel was beginning to trust the crow’s flying skills, he found himself heading straight for a painfully solid wall made of tree trunks. He was about to yell when the crow stopped midair and pointed to a small opening at the base of the wall.

  “It’s clear,” said the crow. “Jump in. Through that hole. Quickly.”

  Jumping was the last thing Squirrel wanted to do, but he had no choice. With shaking paws he untied himself, took a deep breath, and let go of his petal harness. He tumbled through the mess of leaves, through the hole, and landed, with a thump, on his bony bottom.

  “Ouch,” moaned Squirrel as he picked himself up and looked around. He was standing in a square room, bare except for a bed, a desk, and a stove. One small window let in the swampy, green light.

  Squirrel jumped as Des landed next to him. A moment later, the crow flew into the room, went to the wooden stove, filled a coconut shell with water, and put it to boil. She was mumbling something that sounded like, “Would have realized I’m not there.”

  “Who are you?” said Des, looking squarely at the crow.

  The crow looked from Des to Squirrel. “I’ll explain everything to you in time. But first we need to bandage that up.” She removed a cotton pod from the desk, burst it open, and tossed it into the boiling water.

  “I’ll bandage it up at home. We have to leave. I’ve got to tell my family I’m all right . . .”

  “If you leave here now, you won’t make it out of this mangrove alive. I tried to tell you to leave when you could. Now you must trust me,” said the crow matter-of-factly. Then, softening a little, she said, “But I may have a way for you to contact your family. You’re a Verza, aren’t you? You live on the Prowl Promenade?”

  “How d’ya know that?” asked Des, his coffee-colored eyes brewing with suspicion.

  “I’m a crow. I watch everything and everyone I have to,” she said as she brought over the sterilized cotton pad.

  “What? You’ve been spying on . . . OOOOUUUUCHH!” The crow had just taped the cotton on Des’s bleeding arm. “Watch it!” Des yelled, but the crow ignored him. Instead she threw open the window and whistled a melody that sounded like rustling leaves. A muddy, thick-lipped fish with two tusklike teeth swam up to the window.

  “Whaddup, Zulf?”

  “I need a favor. Tell the Verzas their son is fine and that he’ll be in touch with them soon. Tell only them. No one else.”

  “Sure, Zulf,” grunted the fish before diving into the green water and swimming off.

  “Who’s that?” asked Des.

  “An associate of mine,” said the crow, turning around.

  Squirrel, who was sitting on the tiniest corner of the bed, felt the crow fix her eyes on him. Though he was shivering, he looked straight at the crow and asked, “Who were they?”

  The crow sighed. “Kowas.”

  “Kowas? Who are Kowas?” asked Squirrel.

  “I know Kowas! They’re crows who kidnap, sometimes even kill. All for cash. They’re real cruel. Apparently they’ve got more guns than the Gander Cops,” said Des, the words tumbling from his lips.

  “But . . . why’re they after me?” asked Squirrel.

  The crow’s eyebrows furrowed tightly. When she spoke, her voice was tense. “The Kowas have been hired to bring you in. The client wants something you own.”

  “What could they possibly want of mine? I am nobody. I have nothing.”

  “D’ya own anything valuable, mate? Something others may want?” Des asked.

  Squirrel pictured his most e
xpensive belonging—his now-ripped Malmali tunic. The Kowas could not possibly want a piece of cloth. “Nothing. There has to be some mistake,” he insisted. “They’ve got it wrong.”

  Azulfa shook her head. “It’s definitely you. They are looking for someone from the PetPost. Someone who wears a button with the PetPost emblem on it. Now tell me, is there anyone else like that?”

  Squirrel scratched his head. Bacchu came to mind, but Squirrel knew that the fancy mongoose would never wear anything that associated him with the PetPost Mail.

  The truth was that the only creatures who had ever worn the PetPost uniforms were his mother, his father, and he himself. Bacchu did not have any other slaves. He did not even have any other employees, as most free creatures found him too difficult to work with. And, since his mother and father had died ten seasons ago, the only creature who wore the PetPost emblem was Squirrel himself.

  “Maybe you are right,” said Squirrel, still not believing the words coming out of his mouth. “But why’d they attack me at a wedding? I don’t get it!”

  “They were told to attack just before the guests began to leave. And Kowas always do as they are told. The boss makes sure of that. The motto is ‘Kill by Law.’ ”

  As the crow spoke, Des stepped away from her. “How do you know all this? No one knows details about the Kowas.”

  The crow crossed the room. “Because I’m a Kowa too.”

  “Mate, we’re outta here,” said Des, shoving Squirrel toward the only exit and darting after him. But the crow was too quick. Slipping in front of them, she unfurled her wings—much like a dark magician unfurls his cloak—and blocked all possible escape for Squirrel and Des.

  “You cannot leave,” she thundered. The room quivered with the treble in her voice.

  “It’s me you want,” said Squirrel, pushing Des behind him. “Let Des go.”

  “I would let both of you go if I could. But I can’t,” she said, folding her wings back to her sides. “It’s not safe for you out there. You must trust me.”

  “You’re insane! You’re a murderer!” yelled Des, pulling a tuft of fur on his head.

  “I’ll explain everything in time. But, for now, know that I’m here to help. Trust me.”