The Tale of a No-Name Squirrel

by Radhika R. Dhariwal

  “I saw her take out the knife to open the crate. Just thought that maybe she put her Clawcrest there too,” said Squirrel, trying to sound nonchalant, though his heart still hammered. “But we must move. Let’s go find the Raison D'Être.”

  Into the Den

  Smitten pressed his head against the stack of books at the very back of the library. His pointed ears perked up in concentration.

  “Sounds empty,” he said, knocking on the frame. “With a whisker of luck, we’ll get in and out undiscovered. We just have to be very quiet.”

  Squirrel tiptoed around Smitten. If he got caught trying to break into the Den, the Pedipurr cats would flog him to a pulp. So he waited, as mum as a mummy—until he saw Smitten lean against the book stack. It began to topple over like a massive domino.

  Squirrel’s heart sank as the shelf fell belly-up, threatening to rattle the entire library. The stack, however, did not crash to the floor. Instead it swung all the way across the floor silently, and opened onto the mouth of a stone staircase.

  A knot of nerves tightened in Squirrel’s body as he followed Smitten onto the narrow staircase lit with feather torches. He shut his eyes; his lungs grew heavy; his chest itched with the familiar pangs of claustrophobia. “Is this the only way to the Den?”

  “It is,” said Smitten as he walked sideways down the stairs. “At least your shoulders are thinner than ours, Squirrel. Otherwise, you’d have to walk like us.”

  “Seriously, mate. It’s making me as dizzy as a lizard chasing its own tail,” said Des, bumping into the wall as the stairs curved.

  Squirrel mumbled, focusing on the uneven steps before him. He could not wait to get down.

  Unfortunately, the situation did not get much better when Squirrel got off the last step. The landing at the bottom was barely big enough for him, Des, and Smitten together, and Squirrel found his head locked in the nook of Smitten’s armpit. He wiggled himself out only to have his face squashed against the mouth of a stone tiger carved into the wall.

  “What now?” gasped Squirrel, trying to fill his lungs with air.

  “Here.” Smitten pointed to the tiger’s eye. Squinting, Squirrel realized that the black pupil of the carved tiger was actually a scooped-out hole.

  There was a flurry of movement as Smitten jammed Lady Blouse’s Clawcrest into the hole and turned it. A loud thud shook the walls; the tiger’s mouth swung open; and Squirrel felt himself go wheeling forward till he lay as flat as a pancake on something soft and lush and warm.

  Squirrel was in a large room carpeted with golden deer hide, which looked even more golden in the light of a dozen oil lamps. Glossy sandalwood panels clad the walls and curved into a gentle arc on the ceiling, filling the room with the smell of spring and spices and spruce all at once.

  Squirrel breathed in and pushed himself off the floor. To his left, he saw a row of silk couches and coral tables. To his right, he saw three chambers, each curtained by a cascade of shimmery peacock feathers. And, in the center, he saw a towering wooden cabinet, planted in the earth like a giant tree trunk. The cabinet was filled with books; Smitten was standing in front of it.

  “Squirrel, over here,” said the cat as he opened the cabinet. He blew the dust off the rows of books, scanning the titles till he pulled out a book that looked larger than Squirrel’s rib cage. He began to turn the long, grasshopper-wing pages delicately. He stopped.

  “It’s here,” he whispered.

  “Where?” said Squirrel and Des together, pouncing on the book. Each pulled it toward himself, almost ripping the page in two.

  “Easy, boys! Together, shall we?” said Smitten. He adjusted the book, and together the three of them peered at the old page.

  Brittle’s Map is a string of words more powerful than a thousand swords. It speaks of slaves and of how they came to be: of how they were stripped of a name and bound, so they could not act free. The gist of the Map of Brittle is that a slave is the lowest critter; he is property to be traded and sold to the highest bidder.

  Slaves do not have the “Right to a Name”—they cannot be their own person, lay claim to their home, or have their own fame. If a creature does not have this right, he is forced to work for a master so he can sleep at night. For only a master will pay a no-name a cent, and that is the only way a slave can make rent. And if a slave goes bad and deserts his master, he will lose everything all the faster. For without a name a creature is nothing—he is just beholden to whoever is his king.

  But the Code of the Jungle states that the bonds of slavery can be broken if the words in Brittle’s Map are spoken. The one who reads Brittle’s Map has a power true: he can free any slave, and he can force anyone to become one too. Brittle’s Map tells how to find anyone’s name, and how to take it away just the same.

  Squirrel flipped the page. His body trembled like a bay leaf in a pot of boiling water.

  So, if the map is used by those colder of heart, slavery could reign in every part. To preserve freedom and what is true, Brittle’s Map has been split in two. The first is the map carved in marble pure, warmed by sun and wet by shore. The second is a coded key, hidden where none can ever see. The key makes the map make sense and it becomes readable hence.

  The clues to the key are seclasioned in one mind so that the key only he can find. But first he must prove his heart and mind are strong and that he will do no wrong. And a word of warning I will give for he who wants to surely live. The thing he should always know is that the key is sought by many a foe. The easiest way to protect the key is to leave it rest and let it be. For if he does not unlock Brittle’s Key, the secret of the map will die with him and me.

  Squirrel scrunched his forehead. Since sunrise, he had learned more than he had over the entire thirteen seasons of his life. He had learned about seclasion. He had learned about the Map of Brittle. He had learned about a key to the map. And now he had learned he could possibly get his freedom . . .

  “There is a powerful map that can make me . . . make me . . . a free creature? It can give me a name?” He looked at Smitten, blinking in confusion.

  Fragments of thought spun in his head, like the dancing lights in a disco ball. “But Brittle’s Map is lost. And the clues to the key have been hidden . . . in my mind? In my head?”

  “It seems so,” said Smitten, his eyes blinking seriously. He put a paw on Squirrel’s shoulder. “Squirrel, you have a decision to make. Do you want to take the risk and find the key? Or would you rather forget all about it, and go back to your life?”

  Squirrel thought for a moment. His life was fine, he supposed. He was a slave, but he earned wages and had a roof over his head. A cozy, comfortable roof. He could just forget about the map and the key and do what he was supposed to do—serve Bacchu for the rest of his life. “I’m not sure. It sounds like finding Brittle’s Map may be like walking the plank and not knowing if you’re jumping into a sea full of sharks or goldfish.” He decided not to mention the other doubt that had been nagging him like a splinter in his paw.

  Des jumped up. “But, if you don’t find the key, it’s going to be lost forever. The map will be lost forever!”

  “But . . . but if I go to find the key, I’ll be a deserter. I would have deserted my boss. How will I pay rent? How will I live?” said Squirrel, aware that his voice had gone up three decibels.

  Des scratched his chin. “Mate, I reckon whoever left you the clues thought you’d be able to find the key. And if you do find the key and the map, you don’t need to pay rent anymore. You can claim your right to a name and live in your cottage—as a free creature.”

  “But I only have clues to Brittle’s Key—not Brittle’s Map,” said Squirrel. “I’ll lose everything if I don’t find the map. I’ll be homeless.”

  As Squirrel spoke, he thought of his cozy tree cottage in which he had lived his entire life. Then he thought of Bacchu. He thought of Bacchu stealing his Mud Milkshake. He thought of Bacchu throwing his beret at him in Malmali’s studio. He thought of all the time
s Bacchu had called him a mind-numbingly stupid rodent, or a red pimple, or a waste of fur . . .

  Something began to tick in Squirrel’s tummy—a quick tick, an urgent tick. It grew stronger and stronger until his entire body began to shake.

  “The thing is, though . . . I want to be free,” whispered Squirrel. He gulped and his voice grew louder. “I don’t want to be a slave. I’ve never wanted to be a slave. I never had a choice. Now I do. I’ll use whatever wages I’ve saved. I’ll find a place to stay. I’ll figure it out. Somehow . . .”

  “Mate, don’t worry about that. You can always stay with me till we figure it out,” said Des. “With Cheska gone, we’ll have plenty of space. I’m sure Mom and Dad won’t mind. They miss their daughters and would be happy for some company.”

  Des put his arm around Squirrel, and Squirrel felt his narrow shoulders grow wider. Maybe, just maybe, he could do this.

  “That’s true, but there is something else,” said Smitten, lowering his voice and frowning. “What if the Kowas know that you’re the one with access to the key? What if that’s why they’re after you? If they find the key, who knows what they’ll do. They could make everyone their slaves. Imagine. It would be . . . chaos.” He wrung his tail. “Squirrel, the only way to stop them is to find the key first.”

  Squirrel looked down. Somewhere, deep in his rib cage, something small had begun to flutter. He could find a long-lost key. He could stop a band of villains from getting to it first. He could find his own name. And, maybe, maybe he could be a bit more than just the PetPost slave.

  He looked up at his two friends. “I’m going to go try to find the key. And then, I’ll find the Map of Brittle.”

  Des whooped and hugged Squirrel, and then did a cartwheel that ended up with him flat on the floor, his legs twisted outward in a wonky W. The dog did not seem to care. He continued to grin like a crazy clown and began to sing, “We’re gonna find Brittle’s Key. First we’re off to the Queen Bee, to beg her for some Marbled Honey, and then . . .”

  “And then, we shall see,” said Smitten, ushering them out of the Den. “Now we need to get out of here. If we get caught, the only place we’re going to is Dimbuck Prison.”

  They darted back to the main library, careful to cover their tracks. Thankfully, Lady Blouse was still snoring.

  Squirrel went up to Lady Blouse. He was just lifting her skirt to replace the Clawcrest when he heard footsteps coming toward him. Shoving the Clawcrest into her garter, he dashed over to Smitten and Des’s hiding spot. He peeked to see who it was; it was Baron Dyer, Smitten’s uncle.

  Squirrel and his friends did not wait to see more. As quickly as they could, they crept out of the Lion’s Library and left the Pedipurr. Once outside, they broke into a sprint, running all the way to the Verza house.

  Squirrel was running so blindly that he ran smack into something black, and tough, and bristly.

  “Ouch!” yelled Squirrel, rubbing his eyes. As his vision adjusted to the late evening light, he realized that he had run straight into Azulfa, who was also just returning from her errand.

  “Whoops! Sorry, Zulf,” said Squirrel, his legs turning to putty. Azulfa had never looked so incredibly angry.

  “You’re as blind as a blond bat, Squirrel,” she began, wincing as she rubbed her body.

  “Sorry. But it could not have hurt that much! Now listen to our news,” burst Squirrel, launching into the full story of what they had learned. He told her about Brittle’s Key. He told her that they had to leave for the bee city of Mellifera immediately. He even told her that Smitten knew the shortest way to get there, since he had gotten the wax paper for his wedding invitation from Mellifera itself. He told her everything—except for the fact that they had almost let themselves get caught by Smitten’s uncle. After all, why anger the crow further? Especially when she seemed to be in a spectacularly bad mood.

  “Lady Blouse, wake up. Lady Blouse. Natasha, Natasha! Wake up.” The sound of her first name uttered in that husky voice did the trick. She awoke and looked straight up at the sculpted face of Baron Dyer. She checked her reflection in the silvery mirrors of his striking eyes.

  The Pretty Pith had worked. Somehow she had become more beautiful: The slight signs of her forty seasons were gone, her eyes shone like green chandeliers, her cheeks were tight and silky, her body young and supple. And, best of all, for the first time ever, Baron Dyer was looking at her with a trace of admiration. His perfect lips curled into a smile.

  Lady Blouse caught her breath. She had longed to see that look on his face since she knew the difference between male and female.

  “Oh! I must’ve dozed off. Thank you for waking me,” said Lady Blouse, tousling her fur. She leaned forward, letting the light strike her in all the right places.

  “At your service,” said Baron Dyer, bowing deeply. “Is your husband traveling again?” He twirled his cane casually, but his eyes sparkled with interest.

  “He is,” she replied, her body tense, her heart throbbing.

  “His loss is my gain,” said Baron Dyer with a smile, his white teeth glittering like delicious sugar cubes. “Would you accompany me down to the Den, Natasha? Maybe we can have a smoke or something?”

  Lady Blouse took the muscular arm he offered. He looked down at her and she lowered her lashes. If Pretty Piths could make this cat notice her, she would make Squirrel make her one for every single day of her life.

  They climbed down the narrow stairs that Smitten, Des, and Squirrel had used only moments before. Lady Blouse felt dizzy as Baron Dyer’s tall frame leaned over her in the darkness. She wondered what he wanted. Her body tingled with the thought of what would happen on the other side of the stone door.

  When they reached the cramped little landing with the carved tiger, she slowly hiked up her dress, so that he would be able to catch a long look at her garter and her legs. It worked.

  Baron Dyer leaned over and whispered in her ear, and she began to tremble. As she pulled out her Clawcrest, she was too excited by the Baron’s breath on her neck to notice that her Clawcrest was in a completely different position from when she had placed it there.

  The Walled City

  They bid a quick farewell to Smitten, Cheska, and the rest of the Verza clan, and then took off.

  They flew to Mellifera. Azulfa insisted on carrying Squirrel and Des, but by the second sunrise, her body seemed broken. Her black feathers were streaked with white, her wings drooped, and the muscles of her back were as stiff as stone.

  Squirrel was wondering how much longer Azulfa could go on when he felt the crow lurch and plunge downward—tumbling toward a gushing river.

  “YAAAAOOOO,” Squirrel squealed as they crash landed on the riverbank.

  Des, on the other hand, seemed least bothered. He got to his feet; his nose twitched like a rabbit’s, and he rubbed his belly. “D’you smell that?” he asked, inhaling deeply. “It smells sweet and syrupy! Like . . . like . . . honey!” He stuck his tongue out to taste the air.

  “This way,” said Des, running straight. “Follow me.”

  Squirrel took off behind Des, but as his feet hit the dry red soil, he was surprised how difficult it was to run on it. The soil was grainy and rough—very different from the moist, brown earth in Bimmau.

  Squirrel was so busy trying to avoid the rough clumps of mud that he banged his head straight into something—something hard, strong, and full of holes. It was a wall, and it was glowing like warm amber.

  Rubbing his head, Squirrel hoped neither Des nor Azulfa had seen him squash his already funny-shaped head even further. Luckily, they were both too busy examining the wall itself to notice him.

  “The wall’s made of six-sided bricks. Perfect hexagons,” said Azulfa, pointing to rows of hexagonal cells sitting precisely on one another. She grabbed the wall and tried to shake the lattice. It did not move. “Hexagons make any wall very strong.”

  Meanwhile, Des was peering into the hollow cells. A flame danced on a wick in each waxy nook. �
��A little candle is carved into each cell. That’s how it’s glowing like marmalade.”

  “Great, but how d’we get to the other side of the wall?” said Squirrel, trying to push the wall with his back. He did not have time for walls, or hexagons, or candles. He just wanted to find the Marbled Honey, rip the clue from his brain, and go on to his next drink.

  Hoping the hexagonal bricks would give way somehow, Squirrel banged his body into the wall again and again. But the wall stood there, sturdy as steel.

  “Squirrel,” whispered Azulfa, grabbing him. “Stop! Stop doing that!”

  The urgency in Azulfa’s voice made Squirrel stop. But before he could realize what was going on, a cool shadow fell across his face.

  Squirrel looked up.

  Six tall, muscular bees with square jaws and wide, strapping shoulders towered over him. They wore metal helmets and silver mesh tunics and carried shields. Sharp, spearlike weapons hung from their belts.

  “What izz your buzinezz in Mellifera?” asked the first bee, stepping forward.

  Squirrel choked—out of both fear and surprise. Though he could have sworn the big, scary bee was a male, the voice that spoke was soft and sweet.

  He took a closer look. Each of the soldiers had a screen of long hair under her helmet and hints of curves under her armor. They were all female.

  “We need to meet your Queen,” said Azulfa, flying up behind Squirrel and squaring her wings. “We must get some Marbled Honey from her.”

  The bee looked at Azulfa with her round, unblinking eyes. Then she looked at Squirrel and, finally, her eyes settled on Des. She looked at the dog for a long moment and then softened. “Wait here pleazze.”

  With the other five soldiers following her, she stomped over to the side and began to speak in a soft, buzzing language. The whole while the bee kept her eyes on Des—who seemed to be getting mighty uncomfortable.

  As the bee marched back, Squirrel could not stop staring at her legs. They were carved of pure muscle. He gulped; he did not want to get on the wrong side of this Amazon of a bee.