The Tale of a No-Name Squirrel

by Radhika R. Dhariwal

  Even though the Colonel’s eyes were also covered, the Madame could feel the hot fury in his stare. Her fur bristled and her tail twitched like a grasshopper.

  “Madame, I got my information from the best source—someone who is with Squirrel. I told you where to find him. I told you when to find him. So how did you and your pathetic birds let him escape?”

  “Colonel . . . I . . . I . . .”

  “Madame, I’m not interested in excuses,” he hissed. “Can you do what I hired you to do or not? Can you find out where he is going next?”

  “Yes, sire,” she said, bowing so low that her wet nose touched the floor.

  “Good. And, Madame, I have someone else on the job too. So if I hear one more yarn-brained excuse, you’ll be sorry. Understood?” he said, filing his claws against each other.

  “Yes, sire.” With a choked sob, the Madame crawled out of the cave.

  “There’s nothing here!” exclaimed Des, his neck wilting in dismay.

  Squirrel’s throat trembled with frustration. They had flown all day, without stopping, without eating, without speaking. The violent sun had scorched their fur; cruel air pockets had somersaulted them through the sky, tossing their empty stomachs into their throats; the thin air had made their eyes feel like dry rocks. And why had they gone through it all? For nothing.

  Squirrel watched Azulfa. She was perched on the edge of a barren hilltop and was swinging her shoulders to get her blood flowing to the tips of her wings. Her beak was pursed and her bushy eyebrows were narrow with pain. Ordinarily, Squirrel would have felt sorry for the tired, old crow. But not now. Right now he was happy she was suffering.

  Azulfa must have felt the chill in Squirrel’s gaze, for she turned around, her beady black eyes spearing Squirrel’s cool blue ones. Quickly Squirrel looked away, his heart pounding. He had just realized how unsafe it was for him and Des to be stuck on an empty hilltop with a muscular ex-Kowa, who probably wanted to wear his head for a crown and his fur for a coat.

  “I don’t see any tea estates here!” groaned Des, kicking at the parched yellow earth.

  “Maybe we misread the map. Or maybe Azulfa flew too far ahead,” Squirrel said, happy to blame the crow. He squinted into the dusk, wondering where to go next.

  “We’re in the right place,” said Azulfa, the treble in her voice shaking the loose rock on which they stood.

  “How do you know that?” asked Des, massaging his mouth and cheeks. He had not chewed a morsel of food all day, and his jawbone seemed to ache from disuse.

  “Look at that tunnel over there,” said Azulfa, pointing to the valley at the base of the hill on their right. A passage had been punctured through the sandstone hillock.

  “There is a carriageway!” cried Squirrel as he saw two tracks snaking from the valley to the tunnel. A sign of civilization at last!

  “Let’s go,” cried Des, jogging toward the valley. Squirrel was at his heels, bounding clumsily down the rocky hill.

  “STOP!” yelled Azulfa.

  “Why?” asked Des impatiently.

  “Don’t tread so heavily. The rock is weak; your steps could easily cause a landslide. Look,” she said, banging on the stone. As she banged, the hill groaned and shook.

  Massive chunks of orange rock and rubble came pelting toward Squirrel and Des. Just before they were pulverized to a bloody mince, Azulfa lifted them off the ground and careened wildly through the air toward the tunnel in the valley.

  Squirrel’s heart spun with confusion. What was Azulfa playing at? First she had warned them against the landslide. Then she had started the avalanche that almost minced them to nothingness. And, finally, she had swooped in and saved them. He could simply not figure her out: If she wanted him dead, why did she keep saving him?

  They entered the dim tunnel. And there, in the darkness, Squirrel saw the whole ugly truth.

  Azulfa wanted the key to Brittle’s Map for herself. Since the clues to find the key were clipped to his brain, she needed him alive. But . . .

  Squirrel gulped. As soon as Azulfa got Brittle’s Key, she would dispose of him faster than a dirty diaper.

  “Now, this looks more like it,” said Des, his ears perking up.

  Squirrel stopped thinking about Azulfa long enough to look around him. He stood in a valley of rolling green hills combed into neat, terraced rows; plant saplings were pruned to precision; and a grid of canals made the soil dark and moist. A big birchwood sign had “Darling Tea Hills” carved into it.

  “My navigation must be better than you thought. Perhaps you should trust me more, Squirrel,” said Azulfa, a steely glint in her eyes.

  Squirrel avoided the bait. “Well done, Zulf,” he said, forcing a smile. This was not the time to dwell on Azulfa and her motives. She would not hurt him while she still needed him; so, for now, he was safe. Instead he needed to find the next trigger. He looked around at the dark, moist earth. He had to be close.

  “Squirrel, what are we looking for again? What exactly did the memory say?” asked Azulfa.

  Squirrel considered ignoring her, but decided to answer. The truth was that he was not sure what to do next and he could use Azulfa’s help.

  “It said: Nestled in the hills of heart; Lies your own journey’s second part; Pluck ten leaves from richest soil; Mix in water, and bring to boil.”

  “We need leaves from the richest soil?” asked Azulfa, a frown pinching her brow.

  “It appears so,” said Squirrel. Darn, even she was finding this tricky.

  “Well, let’s find someone who lives in Darling,” said Azulfa. “We can ask them where the soil is the richest.”

  “Yes. And we can also ask them where to find some grub,” said Des. “You remember how the bees kept saying community comes first? Well, I think my motto is food comes first.” And, with a chuckle, Des led the way to find his next meal.

  On the other side of the hill they met their first residents of Darling Tea Hills. Four field mice were chatting as they trimmed a hedge. They wore colorful patched clothes, smeared with soil. Oversize grass baskets were strapped to their backs.

  “Oye, oye! Hello there!” said Des, trotting over to them. With a smile, he extended his paw to the man mouse closest to him.

  The mouse did not take his hand. Instead he stared at Des, his jaw dropping. Awkwardly Des turned and offered his empty hand to the other mice. But all of them simply stared at him through their slanted slivers of eyes.

  Finally the first male took Des’s paw and shook it timidly. Des seemed surprised. Squirrel realized why—the mouse’s palm was covered in pebblelike calluses.

  “How you do?” asked the mouse, speaking slowly, enunciating each word.

  “Very well, thank you,” said Des. “I’m Des, and this is Azulfa and Squirrel.”

  Squirrel smiled at them. Though they did not look old, their faces were covered in the supple wrinkles caused by long labor in the sun. They were short—a head shorter than Squirrel. Yet he was sure that one punch from any of them would leave him flat on the earth, eating dirt. Their wiry bodies looked as tough as nails.

  “I Khoy, and this Luleen, Sonny, and Vida,” said the mouse, pointing to the other mice beside him.

  As Squirrel shook hands with the mice, their brown faces cracked into wedged smiles, showing off large white incisors. They gripped his red hand with such happy vigor that Squirrel felt his knuckles bruise.

  “What you do in Darling Tea Hills?” asked Khoy eagerly. “You are first visitors I ever see.”

  “We are in search of a particular leaf that grows here,” said Squirrel.

  “You search tea?” asked Khoy. “I tea tender; I know much about tea crop. I help you . . .” And then he added quickly, “If it please you, only.”

  “That would be great! Could you tell us where the soil is the richest?” asked Squirrel. His lungs swelled with hope.

  “But all soil rich here. We have six hills in Darling. All same quality,” Khoy answered, shaking his head.

  “B
ut some soil must be the most fertile?” Squirrel insisted, his hope deflating like an air mattress.

  Khoy looked at his three mice friends. They all looked away. Luleen stared at a leaf in her hand. Vida pretended to scratch her brown arm. Sonny flicked some wet dirt off his pants. It was obvious: none of them wanted to disappoint Squirrel by confirming Khoy’s news.

  “I sorry, but it all the same . . . all very good soil. That why we have tea plantation here,” repeated Khoy, struggling to find the best words he could.

  Squirrel frowned. He could not possibly pluck leaves from every area in this ridge and boil them with water. He had to be missing something.

  “All right, well, we’ll figure it out. Now, is there anywhere we can go and get some food?” asked Des. His stomach churned so loudly that the four field mice took a hurried step back.

  “Yes, food. I take you to Prospect Point?” said Khoy with relief. He was obviously happy to oblige his guests.

  “Yes, you take us,” said Des with a grin.

  “Good. We take train,” Khoy informed them. “Look, here it come now.”

  Squirrel looked down the carriageway. He could not help the “oh” that fell from his mouth when he saw the train heaving toward them.

  It was nothing more than a six-wheeled open-air cart, pulled by two field mice. The rickety box-on-wheels rattled down the road till it stopped with a jerk a few feet from them.

  The mice who were tugging the cart along stared at Squirrel, Des, and Azulfa.

  “No scared. These nice folk. I take them to Prospect Point,” Khoy told the train conductors. As he spoke, Khoy thrust his hind legs out and leaped into the old, wooden cart. He then helped Des and Azulfa aboard. Khoy was turning around to help Squirrel when Squirrel decided he would try to jump into the cart too.

  Copying Khoy, Squirrel pushed his legs and leaped, feeling himself lift off the ground. The wind made his cheeks flap as he went hurtling through the air straight into the train. He was about to fall on Khoy, but the mouse ducked just in time.

  “That was fun!” wheezed Squirrel.

  “Yes, you a good jumper,” said Khoy with a wide grin. “You stay in Darling. You help us for our crop.”

  “You never know. I might have to,” said Squirrel with a smile. Though it was a joke, Squirrel could not help thinking that if he did not find his name and get his freedom, and if he had to return to Bimmau as the PetPost slave, he might actually be better off hiding in the remote tea hills of Darling than facing the well-known vengeance of Bacchu Banoose.

  Khoy giggled. “Yes! Darling very nice. Now, everyone grip side.”

  Squirrel obeyed. It was good that he did—as the uneven stone wheels began to spin and the cart rattled down the path, Squirrel’s body began to jiggle violently.

  “I . . . feel . . . like . . . I’m . . . being . . . electrocuted,” said Des, his voice quaking with the motion of the carriage.

  “You’ve obviously never been electrocuted, have you?” said Azulfa.

  “And you have?” retorted Des jokingly. But the crow’s grave eyes smashed the laughter out of his face.

  They fell silent, letting the loud rumble of the cart scratch their eardrums. Sighing, creaking, gasping, the train inched up the hill, passing acres of rolling tea plantations.

  “Look at how many mice are working in the fields,” said Squirrel in awe. Even in the late twilight, hundreds of mice were patting, pruning, and picking the tea crop.

  “Yes, and look how shocked they are to see us!” said Des, waving at the workers.

  “Oh no! They are actually encouraging you,” scowled Azulfa.

  Sure enough, the workers were waving back at Des excitedly, some using both their hands. They broke into thrilled applause as Des began to juggle three scrunched-up Raisin D’Etty wrappers. When a huddle of children ran up to the train, Des leaned over to give them brushing high fives, as though he were some sort of a celebrity.

  “The children enjoy you,” said Khoy with a merry chuckle that only seemed to deepen the scowl on Azulfa’s face.

  Squirrel smiled at Des’s theatrics, but he himself was too preoccupied to join in. He stared at the clay and the crop, trying to make sense of the land. Unfortunately, his untrained city eyes did not understand soil in the slightest.

  “You interested in tea crop, Mr. Redtail?” asked Khoy.

  “Ummm, yes,” stammered Squirrel, who had never been called either Mister or Redtail before. “I was just wondering about the leaves: they all look exactly the same.”

  “Yes. All the same,” said Khoy, bobbing his head. “We have only one plant, but we make four types of teas.”

  “How does that work?” asked Des, who stopped playing celebrity long enough to join the conversation.

  “In spring, we pluck first batch of tea leaves. It called first flush, and this tea is . . . how do you say . . . airy. In summer, we pick second flush. This tea full of flavor and is gold color. In autumn, there is autumn flush. This smell nice and light.”

  “And during rain, we have between flush tea. It dark and strong. It poorest quality. Should be called toilet flush.” He beamed, evidently pleased with his joke.

  “I never knew that tea could be described like that,” Squirrel was saying when Des yelled, “YAAAAY! I can smell something. I’m pretty sure food is close by.”

  “Yes, we almost at Prospect Point,” affirmed Khoy. “We close to highest point in Darling now.”

  Squirrel looked around. He could not believe how high the train had brought them.

  Rattle, rattle, bang, bang. With a final shiver, the train stopped.

  “Train cannot go up there, Mr. Redtail,” said Khoy, pointing to the top of the hill.

  “What’s up there?” asked Squirrel. The apex of the clay hill looked like it had been squashed flat by a powerful thumb.

  “Rule of Rodentia. It is where our Micetros meet. It is our parliament, Mr. Redtail.”

  “Who are Micetros?” asked Squirrel merrily. He was still tickled by this new nickname.

  “The Micetros are our leaders. We choose thirteen best mice in Darling. They become Micetros,” answered Khoy. “They sit at Rule of Rodentia every day—from first ray to last ray of sun. The Micetros decide how to govern Darling.”

  “My uncle Tupten is Micetro,” continued Khoy, puffing up with obvious pride. “He sits in Rule of Rodentia too. Now we go past it to Prospect Point. Follow me,” he said, skipping up the steepest part of the hill. Des, excited about food, ran off behind Khoy, and Azulfa unfurled her wings and flew above them.

  Squirrel looked from his tired legs to the steep hill and groaned. He would have done anything to have wings right now.

  Sometimes Warm, Sometimes Cold

  Carved out of the hill, Prospect Point bustled with activity. Some mice loitered about on weathered stone chairs, chatting. Others sat on low black stools, quaffing down pints of twig ale and acorn wine.

  Squirrel reached up to touch a misty cotton puff of a low-hanging cloud. It dissolved in the cool wetness of his palm. He saw the mice look at him curiously and giggle. Apparently, the news that three foreigners had come to Darling had reached the top of the hill before they had.

  Khoy looked at them shyly. “You like Darling Tea Hills?”

  “Love it! I’m a little color-blind, but I gotta say that the scenery is absolutely fantastic,” said Des.

  Squirrel nodded. The misty periwinkle sky, the plush green slopes, and the rippling leaves made Darling look like the backdrop of a sweet dream.

  Khoy beamed with his big, rectangular teeth. “We sit here, yes? We get good view, then,” he said, pointing to a nearby table that looked like it was made of something black and compressed, like coal.

  “Sounds good,” said Squirrel. He plopped down and put his legs up on the high table, relishing the stretch down his hamstrings. He was very happy to be seated, and even happier at the idea of a hot, hearty meal.

  “Anyone else feeling a little chilly?” asked Des, whose fur was
standing at attention.

  “It get cold at night here. You wait, I go get ale and some quilts,” said Khoy, bounding out of his seat.

  “What a nice guy,” said Des, straining his eyes trying to peek at the food on everyone’s plates. “I can’t see much. It’s getting dark.”

  “Yes, I’ve been wondering about that,” said Azulfa quietly, staring at the sky. The sleepy sun was slipping into the valley, hijacking the last rays of light.

  Garrrrarrrrr.

  “Oops,” said Des with a sheepish smile. His hungry stomach was making a ruckus.

  Right on cue, the waitress materialized at their table. She was a young field mouse with a twig pen in her hand. She was trembling with excitement. “Hello. I bring you order?” she asked, shaking as she spoke to them.

  “Huh?” asked Des, puzzled.

  “I think she wants us to order,” said Squirrel, nudging Des. Turning to the little, nervous field mouse, he smiled. “What are you serving today?”

  The waitress looked flustered. Stammering, she said, “Today . . . today . . . we have . . . have cheeses, nuts, worms, fruits, berries, butters . . .”

  At that moment Khoy returned with three woolen quilts and four mugs.

  “Why don’t we just let Khoy order for us,” suggested Squirrel.

  “I happy to order for you,” said the mouse, plonking a full glass of frothy brown ale in front of each of them before speaking to the waitress in a squeaky foreign language. As he spoke, he gestured animatedly, using his teeth and hands.

  “I ordered,” said Khoy. “Now you wear blanket to keep warm and drink pinecone ale.” He helped each of them cocoon themselves in the quilts.

  “Where’s your blanket?” asked Squirrel, who had noticed that Khoy’s large rectangular teeth were chattering a little.

  “I no need. I be fine. I go without coat in winter, too.”

  “Well, that very brave of you,” said Des seriously, rubbing his shoulders. “I cold. When I hungry, I always get cold.”