The Tale of a No-Name Squirrel

by Radhika R. Dhariwal

  “You’re members of the Wagamutt?” asked Azulfa stiffly. Squirrel could tell she was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to join the conversation.

  “Yes, and it’s the best,” said Akbar. “No dress code, no drama. Works for me.” He pointed to the sleeveless T-shirt and shorts he was wearing.

  “You can see that my husband doesn’t believe in dressing up much,” said Aubry, blowing him a kiss.

  A sudden noise ripped through the room, and every pair of eyes darted to Des.

  “Oops!” he said, not the least bit embarrassed at having let out a whopper of a burp.

  “Son, do try to mind your manners,” said Mello. Then, turning to Squirrel, she said, “I’ll prepare the guest rooms for you and Azulfa, my dear.”

  “Don’t bother, Mom. We’re leaving at dusk. We’re only here to find something,” said Des. “We can’t tell you what it’s about, but Mom, can you take out Great-Grandpa’s Raison D'Être?”

  Squirrel flipped through the leaves of the big, old book. Flip, flip, crackle, crackle. His eyes read words he had never seen or heard before: Buzzling, Cabbledion, Cactus Meat, Cadmuncie.

  “It’s arranged alphabetically,” said Des.

  “Well spotted, Des,” said Squirrel, flipping forward.

  “Well spotted, indeed! That’s me,” said Des, grinning as he pointed to the spot on his ear.

  Squirrel laughed. Des had a knack for cracking jokes at the weirdest of times. In fact, Squirrel was so busy laughing that he did not realize that he had already reached the letter S. Sciosys, Scriptex, Seaweed, Seclasion, Sedi-lily. “Wait! Seclasion! It’s here! It’s a word!”

  “Where? What does it say?”

  “Des, don’t splutter like a dog stuck in a pound cake! Let Squirrel read,” said Azulfa.

  “Fine, fine,” said Des. “Squirrel, read on, mate.”

  This was it. The meaning of seclasion.

  Squirrel cleared his throat and began to read.

  Seclasion is the most advanced way to keep secrets. During seclasion, a memory is “zipped” into the folds of an individual’s brain and the memory remains hidden there until it is “unzipped.”

  Squirrel paused before reading on, more slowly this time.

  To “unzip” and recall the memory, the individual must come in contact with a specific trigger. The best triggers are liquids. When the secret-keeper drinks a liquid trigger, the liquid diffuses into the blood and trickles to the brain. As soon as the trigger hits the zipped brain fold, it tears open the hidden memory, releasing it. The process of “unzipping” is oft accompanied by brain cramps, spasms, and sharp pain.

  Squirrel nodded as he read. He had experienced the pain firsthand.

  Seclasion is the best way to keep a secret, as the secret-keeper is not even aware of it. The major risk with seclasion is that the memory may not be uncovered and may get lost forever.

  Squirrel let these words swirl in the dusty library. When neither Azulfa nor Des said anything, he read on.

  Complex memories can be stored as seclasion ladders. In this, multiple memories are zipped onto one another and each requires its own trigger. In seclasion ladders each memory can only be unzipped if the previous one has been released. Seclasion ladders are used to provide one clue at a time.

  Highly experimental seclasion research suggests that the science can zip up more than just memories.

  Squirrel went silent. His tongue felt as numb as a beached whale.

  Azulfa spoke first. “Your mother led us to the word seclasion for a reason, Squirrel. I think, somewhere in that head of yours, you have hidden memories you need to crack open.”

  “In my head?” said Squirrel, gaping. He held his temples and began to shake them. “There is a memory jiggling inside my head?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve got one of those ladder-ma-jiggies bobbin’ around somewhere up there,” said Des, looking at Squirrel with eyes wide open.

  “A seclasion ladder? Why would you say that?” asked Squirrel.

  “Mate, didn’t the song you heard at the wedding say somethin’ about you drinkin’ three liquids?” asked Des. “Think about it. This whole thing started when you drank the Wedded Wine. It’s a liquid—it must’ve triggered a memory. And, when you drink three more liquids, they’ll trigger three different memories in your head.” Des scratched his head. “You just need to drink them in order.”

  Squirrel thought back to the words he had heard at the wedding. His mind stretched and curled like an acrobat, trying to understand the meaning of the words. Even though something did not feel right, he decided to ignore the nagging in his gut and focus on his mother’s message.

  While the first part of the verse was still a mystery, he had cracked the second part: he had found and solved the “puzzle as a recipe,” and now he suspected that he had a seclasion ladder “zipped” up in his brain somewhere.

  His mind wandered to the words in the next part of the verse. Journey; long-lost Brittle’s Key; weapon most mighty. So far, this meant absolutely nothing to him. He frowned with concentration and began to say the last part of the verse aloud. “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 frown on his face faded. Now, this was better, clearer. He had to find and drink three liquids, but at least his mother had told him exactly where the first liquid was.

  “I guess I know exactly what the first drink is. It’s Marbled Honey and it’s with the Queen Bee.”

  “But how’re we going to find the Queen Bee, Squirrel?” asked Des.

  “The Queen of Bees will be in Mellifera—the Walled City of Bees. But it is very far. It’ll take us two moons to get there,” Azulfa chipped in.

  “Two moons? What’ll I tell my boss? I’ve never missed a single day of work in my life,” said Squirrel, looking down at his PetPost uniform. He knew that if he skipped work, he would be a deserter slave. He could lose what little he did have—his wages, his house, his life.

  As his mind and heart pushed against each other, Squirrel found himself thinking of the message from the wedding again. “This journey supposedly is for me to find three liquids. And, at the end of the journey . . . is a mighty weapon—Brittle’s Key.”

  Des scratched his ear. “The question then is, mate, what in the pluck-a-duck world is Brittle’s Key? And, is it really worth all the hassle?”

  “Why the glum looks? Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Squirrel jumped. Smitten had entered the library and walked over to them. Squirrel was wondering what to say when Des blurted, “Smitten, have you ever heard of Brittle’s Key?”

  “Nope, unless, of course, it has something to do with Brittle’s Map,” answered Smitten.

  “What’s Brittle’s Map?” asked Squirrel.

  “It’ll be in the Raison D'Être. Here, let’s look it up,” said Smitten, taking the leathery book and flipping through the pages. “That’s odd . . .” He showed the others the page. A small subscript said: A special map. For further details look in the Original Raison D’Être.

  Squirrel grimaced. This hunt was becoming harder than forcing a wild goose to lay a golden egg. “Do we know where the Original Raison D'Être is?”

  “At the Den at the Pedipurr,” said Smitten. “It’s a restricted section. Only a Lord or a Lady’s Clawcrest can access the Den.”

  “What’s a Clawcrest?” asked Des, looking confused.

  “A key that opens all the doors at the Pedipurr—like the ‘Members Only’ door. This is mine,” said Smitten, tugging at a blue claw-shaped pendant he was wearing.

  “So we need a Lord or Lady’s Clawcrest,” said Squirrel. A plan began to take shape in his mind.

  “You reckon a Lord or Lady’ll let us in?” said Des.

  “I doubt it. They’re very possessive about the Den. I don’t even think Uncle Dyer would,” said Smitten, frowning.

  “What do we do, then? We need to find out what Britt
le’s Map is,” said Des. “We need to figure out if it’s worth the hassle.”

  “I’ve an idea,” said Squirrel. “Smitten, sir, did you by any chance manage to get your wedding presents after the wedding?”

  The Pedipurr Revisited

  You failed.” The two chilling words echoed in the dark space. The figure speaking adjusted her black, hooded robe so that no part of her body was visible.

  “All you had to do was snatch one weak, little squirrel. I told you where he would be. And still, that was too much for you to handle?” she said, twisting her words with disdain. Her eyes were fixed on a crow with a dented beak, standing in front of the Kowas.

  “We did as ya ordered, Madame; we ’ttacked just as the guests were about to start leavin’. We ’ad our eyes on him. ’E got ’way in all the smoke and the firing,” said Dented Beak.

  Another voice, a grating, scratchy voice, chimed in uninvited. “I told the bunch of yoush that the shmoke wash a dumb idea. I told ya . . .” He fell silent as the hooded lady turned her head toward him.

  When she spoke this time, her words were as smooth as butter. “The smoke was a dumb idea, was it?”

  “Yesh, ’courshe! We losht ’im, didn’t we?” replied Scratchy, his voice brimming with confidence. “A real shtupid idiot musht’ve come up with it,” he finished, obviously happy to slander his boss, Dented Beak.

  “A stupid idiot?” said the hooded figure, her voice prickly.

  “Yesh, ma’am,” said Scratchy.

  “The ‘shtupid’ person who insisted on using smoke was me.” As she spoke, she got out of her seat and strode up to Scratchy. Before the crow could move, she put her paws on his neck and began to squeeze it.

  The crow’s eyes popped out of his skull and his eyeballs rolled up. With a thud, he fell backward and lay there—a heap of dirty black feathers on the stone floor.

  “He’s not dead. But I promise you idiots this: when your friend wakes up, he won’t be quite as quick to speak his empty mind again,” said the hooded lady. “As for the rest of you, while you work for me, failure is not an option.” She removed a long, thin leather whip with a fanged tip and lashed it around.

  Whippsht. Whippsht. Whippsht.

  The sound of leather as it sliced the flesh off the Kowas’ backs rang through the cave. “Now, fix your mistake. You go back and plan, scheme, kill . . . whatever it is you do. But find that squirrel for me. Follow him. Find out his every move.”

  Dented Beak cleared his throat. “But . . . but . . . Madame, the orders were to bring him in . . .”

  “Shut up! If I tell you to follow him, then you follow him. Who gives the orders, you or me?” she yelled, swiveling her whip in his face. “Do as I say, or you will have to answer to the Colonel himself. And, trust me, you beakbrains do not want to do that.”

  Tring-a-ling-a-ling, tring-a-ling-a-ling.

  In the gathering dusk, the Grand Hall in the Pedipurr wobbled as though the walls were made of raspberry custard. Squirrel heard a scraping, a chattering, and a flurry of paws pattering on the floor. The evening classes at the Pedipurr had just ended, and the students were about to rush out.

  “Quickly, you two, go hide behind the two busts on that side, by the Lion’s Library,” said Smitten.

  Squirrel darted off, a crate very similar to the one he had taken to Smitten’s wedding somehow balanced on his shoulders. Though no one ever paid him much attention, he certainly did not want to be seen today. After all, he was being hunted by the Kowas. He had to remain invisible.

  As he ducked behind the bust of a big marble lion, Squirrel was glad for two things. First, he was glad that Azulfa had decided to run some errands instead of coming with them to the Pedipurr. After the attack at the wedding, a big black crow like her would have stuck out like a suckling pig in a vegetable patch. Second, he was very glad that Smitten was with them.

  When Squirrel had shared his idea with Des, Azulfa, and Smitten, the cat had insisted on helping them. “You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to, Squirrel,” he had said, “but I am going with you to the Pedipurr. I meant what I said earlier—I will help you in any way that I can.” And now that he was at the Pedipurr, Squirrel was very glad that Smitten was a man of his word.

  Just then, a row of Pedipurr school kittens marched into the hall, humming what sounded like their latest lesson: “Polished Pussycats Purr; Only Muddy Mousers Meow.”

  Squirrel peeped from behind the bust. He always enjoyed watching the Pedipurr kittens with their crisp purple uniforms and their glossy fur. As they bickered with one another, Squirrel began to recite their names and addresses under his breath, a little game the mailman Squirrel liked to play with himself to sharpen his memory. He was doing very well—until he was completely stumped by one kitten.

  The kitten had fur the color of caramel and a nose like a marshmallow—soft and round. Her black hair could have been strands of wavy licorice, and she kept licking her pink plumlike lips.

  Squirrel’s chest went warm and fizzy, like a hot bubble bath.

  The kitten was not traditionally pretty, like Cheska. Nor did she have the striking beauty of Lady Blouse. Yet, Squirrel could have stared at her all day—and he would have—if Smitten had not come up behind him and said, “Come. She’s waiting for us in the Library.”

  Ignoring Smitten, Squirrel asked as casually as he could, “Who’s that kitten? The new one?”

  Smitten smiled. “Marchyse Bonbete. She’s fetching, for sure, but I’ve heard she’s bad news.”

  “How could she be bad news?” sighed Squirrel, not realizing he was speaking out loud.

  Des grinned and began to sing, “Squirrel’s-got-a-kitty-crush, kitty-crush, kitty-crush. Squirrel’s-got-a-kitty-crush, and-I’d-better-get-one-too . . .”

  Squirrel felt the blood rush to his cheeks, and he wished he could dissolve into the lion bust next to him. Thankfully, Smitten interrupted Des’s teasing.

  “Come on, you two! She’ll leave and then we’ll have no way into the Den.” As he spoke, Smitten opened the door to the Lion’s Library and entered, dragging Des along with him.

  As planned, Squirrel waited before picking up his crate and walking over to the Library door. As he waited, he stole one long look at Marchyse Bonbete. Then he glanced at the S branded on his arm, frowned, and ducked into the Lion’s Library.

  The Lion’s Library was a lofty, circular room that always smelled like the crispest of autumns. Stacks of leafy books stood in semicircles and split in the middle to make room for a white stone table. Lady Blouse sat at the table, tapping the tabletop with her sharp, manicured claws.

  Squirrel glanced at Smitten and Des, who were waiting in the bend of a shelf, pretending to browse some books. Readjusting his crate, Squirrel walked toward Lady Blouse.

  “Dahling, I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up,” said Lady Blouse, getting up from her seat and kissing the air around Squirrel’s cheeks.

  “I could never let you down, m’lady,” said Squirrel with a grin that he did not have to force. “Here they are! Six Pretty Piths. All for you.”

  “Excellent, dahling! I can’t wait to try these. It’ll make me prettier,” she said.

  Squirrel looked at the sleek black cat. She wore a yellow silk dress that brought out the flecks of gold in her eyes. This time he could not stop himself from saying, “How could you possibly get any prettier, Lady Blouse?”

  “What a charmer you are, Squirrel! But, as my mama, Countess Quattrine, used to say, ‘A kitty can never ever be too pretty,’ ” said Lady Blouse, taking the crate from Squirrel. “Now, let’s see if these Pretty Piths work.”

  Squirrel watched in wonder as Lady Blouse lifted her dress above her right leg and removed an ornate bone knife from a garter. With a surprisingly fluid flick, she sliced the wooden crate clean open. She reached inside and picked up a wrinkly yellow mango and cradled it. Slowly, lovingly, she brought the mango to her lips and sunk her sharp teeth into its soft, sweet fles
h.

  Squirrel watched the juice trickle down Lady Blouse’s pink lips as she bit two big chunks of pulp off the mango. And then, just as she was about to take one more bite, her lids dropped shut, her body went as limp as a sock, and she fell forward, flat on the marble table.

  A moment later, the beautiful Lady Blouse was snoring like a flugelhorn.

  Des ran out of his hiding place, with Smitten behind him. “It worked!”

  “I feel awful, but there was no other way to get into the Den. Dipping the Pretty Piths in Skullcap Tea was genius, Squirrel,” said Smitten.

  “I’d never even heard of Skullcap Tea. How’d you know it’d put her to sleep?” asked Des.

  “It’s in my mom’s recipe book. I’ve been drinking this tea forever to help me fall asleep,” said Squirrel.

  “I’m gonna get the recipe from you,” said Des, grinning. “Imagine what I can do with Skullcap Tea. If I slip this tea into my parents’ evening whisker-y, then I can spend each sunset at the Wagamutt playing Dodge Bull or Truth or Bear . . .”

  “Des, perhaps you should hatch your schemes after we get what we need,” said Smitten. “We need to find Lady Blouse’s Clawcrest. I wonder if she wears it around her neck.” Gently Smitten lifted Lady Blouse’s head off the table, checking for a Clawcrest around her neck. But it was bare. Des opened her piranha-skin purse and shook his head. No Clawcrest.

  “She has the Clawcrest with her. She must’ve used it to enter the Pedipurr,” mumbled Smitten. “But where could it be? We’re running out of time.”

  Squirrel had a tickle of an inkling he knew where it was. His heart pumped as he lifted the right side of Lady Blouse’s dress and checked the garter in which she had kept the bone knife. Sure enough, tucked into it was a claw-shaped black-ivory nugget. Carefully he removed it and gave it to a shocked Smitten.

  “How d’ya know ’twas there?” asked Des, his eyes forming two big Os.