The Tale of a No-Name Squirrel

by Radhika R. Dhariwal

  “Where you wanna go?”

  Squirrel turned around so quickly that his knees almost buckled. That was not Des’s voice.

  His eyes darted everywhere, searching for the speaker. But the only person in sight was a very confused-looking Des.

  “Who was that?” asked Des.

  “I thought it was coming from that direction. But there’s no one there,” said Squirrel.

  “You don’t think . . . Nah . . . Impossible,” started Des.

  “What?” said Squirrel.

  “You don’t think . . .” Des flushed. “You don’t think that was the voice of a ghost, do you?”

  Squirrel stared at Des. It couldn’t be a ghost! Could it?

  “Isn’t the Desert of Blood Kings famous for ghosts?” said Des, his eyes darting around like a pinball. “We both heard the voice, and there’s no one here except for you, me, and the desert.” Des gestured wildly at the sand around him.

  “I don’t know. I guess the Desert of Blood Kings is known to be haunted. . . . It’s possible it was a ghost,” said Squirrel, not liking the words coming out of his mouth.

  “Oh! Gimme a break, you ’yperactive ninnies!” pelted a strange voice, catching Des so off guard that he yelped and jumped toward Squirrel.

  “I ain’t a g’ost!” said the voice, scudding like a boomerang through the hot, grainy air.

  “Please show yourself,” said Squirrel, pulling the last of his courage from somewhere under his gall bladder.

  Sure enough, two gnarled black horns and a shadowy face appeared on the top of the tallest sand dune.

  “What now?” murmured Des as a muscular copper deer appeared on top of the hillock.

  The deer grunted and trotted down the dune. The deer’s left cheek was covered in scars, and his eyes were as hard as stones. He looked much more like a fox than a deer—a fox with a set of sharp, scary horns.

  “Umm . . . hello,” said Squirrel, who was sweating as though he were in a sauna.

  “So you lost or ’umthin’? Where d’ya two gerbils think you’re goin’?” asked the fox-deer, with a leer so deep it seemed to be hewn into his face.

  “We’re looking for red sand,” said Des, too busy keeping his eyes on the deer’s squiggly horns to beat around the dunes.

  “Red sand? So the sun’s boiled your brains, ’as it? Red sand . . . rubbish!”

  “Rubbish?” gulped Des.

  “Ya not familiar with rubbish, pipsqueaks? Ya know . . . garbage? Trash? A pile of ferret feces! There ain’t nothing as red sand!” said the deer.

  Squirrel and Des just stared at each other. It was hard to tell who looked more disappointed. Finally Squirrel said, “We need to find a town in this desert.”

  “An’ why should I ’elp two buffoons who’ve gone ’n managed to lose ’emselves in the Desert of Blood Kings?”

  “We have money,” said Des.

  “Money?” The deer stopped with a sudden jerk. His cheeks tightened, and the leer slid straight off his face.

  Squirrel smiled. Apparently, Des had guessed the magic word. “Yes. We can pay you,” Squirrel said with a casual shrug.

  “How much?” asked the deer, his beady black eyes narrowing.

  “Ten gromms,” said Squirrel.

  “Gromms, huh? So ya’re from Bimmau?”

  Squirrel nodded. “Do we have a deal?”

  The deer seemed to consider the offer. Then he lowered his head so that his sharp horns were just inches from Squirrel’s face. Squirrel was sure that the deer could slice him and Des to shreds in four easy movements. “Twenty gromms, nothing less!”

  “Ummm . . . that’s a bit much, isn’t—”

  “Take it or leave it,” snorted the deer, his eyes thinning to slits.

  “Oye! That’s highway robbery!” said Des, but Squirrel just blinked. He didn’t want to be bullied by the deer, but they needed his help.

  “I’ll give you the money if you can get us to where we need to be,” Squirrel said.

  “And where’s that, gerbil?”

  “And you stop calling us gerbils,” added Des.

  The deer looked at Des and sneered again, but this time Des stuck out his own chest and gave the deer a curt nod. After a long battle of looks, the deer turned to Squirrel and muttered, “Fine, now where d’ya need to go?”

  “We’re not sure. We need to go somewhere with red sand . . .”

  “I already told ya, you deaf dodo, there ain’t no red sand here!”

  “Hey, how ’bout no more name calling at all, huh?” chimed Des, his paws clenching.

  “Let’s try to be civil,” said Squirrel, looking from the deer to the dog. “I was saying, we need to go somewhere with red sand that is haunted by ghosts of kings. Can you help us?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re goin’ g’ost hunting!” said the deer, but his expression was not quite as scornful as it had been earlier.

  Squirrel ignored the tingle in his tail and said, “Is there any place that could fit that description? Is there any town in these parts with kingly ghosts and red sand?”

  The deer spoke slowly, as though calculating the gromm value of each word. “My town’s the only one with a ’istory of kings. Some idiots ’ave claimed that they’ve seen g’osts there.”

  Squirrel ruffled the fur on his arms, trying to be patient. “Any other towns have ghosts?”

  “Other towns ’ave g’osts, sure. But mine’s the only one where there are g’osts of kings,” said the deer. “But, for the tenth time, the sand ain’t red.”

  “Is it maybe a bit orange?” asked Des hopefully.

  “It’s the same color as my bottom. Plain, pure gold,” grunted the deer, turning around and sticking his backside in Des’s face.

  “All right, all right! We may as well go there and check it out, what do you say, Des? How far are we from your town?” asked Squirrel.

  “Close enough. I’ll take ya. You payin’ me now or w’at?” asked the deer.

  “We’ll pay you when we get there,” said Des, jumping in.

  “All right, dog.”

  “The name’s Des. And this is Squirrel.”

  “Good for you,” said the deer. Then he grunted, “I’m Snear of Gandgoon.”

  “Gandgoon . . . is that the town we’re heading to?”

  “Yes, now ’urry up. I don’t ’ave all day,” said Snear, trotting off with Des and Squirrel trying to keep up with him.

  They walked in thick dry silence until Snear asked, “But whaddya need in this town?”

  “We’re not looking for anything; we’re looking for someone,” said Squirrel, staring straight ahead.

  “Who?”

  Snear’s curiosity made Squirrel a bit uneasy, but he answered anyway. “A friend of my mother’s. Just want to pay my respects,” said Squirrel, trying to be as vague as possible.

  “Ah! Ya’ve come all the way to the Desert of Blood Kings searchin’ for a friend? Just to pay your respects? Lemme tell ya one thing, you’ll find no friends ’ere!”

  “Whaddya mean?” asked Des.

  “This ain’t no nice land of friendship and butterflies. It’s harsh. We live for ourselves. We steal. We play. We gamble. A friend’s a friend one day and an enemy the next—that’s our way . . . And that’s the way of anyone who ’as been in the desert for a while.”

  His laugh was coarse, and hard, and jabbing, and it made Squirrel’s fur bristle.

  Then the deer said, “If there’s one thing to know ’bout the Desert of Blood Kings, it’s that nothin’—absolutely nothin’—is as clear as it seems.”

  Though Snear was decidedly nasty, Squirrel was glad for his help. Even before the sun had begun to set, Snear had led them past the dunes to an endless plate of flat sand. “It looks like a golden pancake,” Squirrel said.

  “This is the Basin of Bodies. It surrounds Gandgoon.”

  “The Basin of Bodies? Why’s it called that?” choked Des, his tail twitching nervously.

  “ ’Ere, on this very san
d, the bloodiest battle in known ’istory took place,” whispered Snear, scooping a fistful of sand in his palm. “Ages ago, Gandgoon was ruled by the King of Gazelles, King Bereste. Everyone who lived ’ere was royalty. Under Bereste’s rule the city grew. Gandgoon was full of silk and sacks of spices. They say that the city smelled of cardamom.”

  “Sounds yummy,” said Des with a wistful smile as he rubbed his tummy.

  “Gandgoon got richer and more merchants came to the city, but Bereste’s only son, Prince Bari, got mighty mad. ’E was sick of the noise the traders made in ’is city. So, one morning, ’e summoned all the merchants to the town square and dunked the traders’ faces in yellow turmeric powder. After ’e had ’umiliated them, ’e kicked them out of the city and told them never to return.”

  “ ’Course, when King Bereste found out, ’e was furious with Bari and ’e apologized to the people of the city on behalf of ’is son. But the damage was done.”

  “How so?” asked Squirrel.

  “Bari didn’t realize that one of the traders ’e had ’umiliated was the cousin of the Mud Warrior Jackal. When the Jackal found out, ’e was as angry as a pot of boilin’ oil. ’E wanted to teach all of Gandgoon a lesson. So ’e and ’is army attacked. They killed every creature on the battlefield. Then they pillaged the town and looted everything.”

  “What about the women?” Squirrel asked.

  “The womenfolk killed themselves in grief. Just like that, in one sunset, the whole of Gandgoon was wiped out. Finished. And this place—the Basin of Bodies—is where the battle took place. This entire patch of land was a pile o’ corpses. The sand was all bloody . . .”

  “The sand was bloody?” asked Des.

  “Didn’t I just say that?” snapped Snear.

  “But if the sand was soaked with blood, it must’ve . . . been red, right . . . ?” said Des, his voice trembling.

  “What kind of moronic question is that? ’Course it was red!” said the deer. “Now ’urry up!”

  But Des did not budge; he just stood rooted in the flat sand. “Red sand,” he whispered hoarsely to Squirrel. “Red sand! Red, bloody sand! It fits. The town must be Gandgoon!” Des grinned so widely that his smile almost challenged the big, bright, late-afternoon sun. “And it’s the only place that has seen the ghosts of kings wandering around. It must be this place.”

  Squirrel scratched his furry chin. “I hope you’re right, Des. I really do. I guess we’ll know soon enough. If Gandgoon speaks of gold, we’ll know we’re in the right place. That’s the next line of the memory.”

  “Did someone say gold?” Snear stood a leg’s length from them, his ears pricked to attention.

  “No, Squirrel said he could use something cold . . . you know, to drink . . . ,” said Des quickly.

  “Hmm . . . well, come along, whiners,” said Snear, turning around and trotting off.

  “STOP CALLING US NAMES!” bellowed Des.

  “Yea, well, don’t ’old ya breath. Anyway, we’re almost there, so you wanna pay me now?” said Snear, licking his dark, scabby lips.

  “Is that all you can think of? Money?” said Des.

  “In case you didn’t know, money’s useful, you turnip. Plus, it’s Blackstubbs season.” And before either of them could ask what exactly Blackstubbs was, Snear pointed to the distance and said, “Well, it doesn’t matter. There it is. There’s Gandgoon!”

  A Tricky City

  Squirrel cursed under his breath. It looked as though someone had punctured the sky, and was pouring oily darkness onto an entire city. Everything was dim, and gray, and black.

  Though Squirrel’s body clenched with warning, he followed Snear toward the dark city. He looked over to check on Des. The dog was jogging right beside him.

  The sight of his friend’s face, wrinkled with worry and determination, gave Squirrel a burst of courage. With a deep breath he plunged straight forward, into the blackness of Gandgoon.

  Moments later, Squirrel found himself in a mess of dark alleys. He shivered as the shadows that looked like gigantic bats flung themselves at him. His throat constricted as the musty smell of old cloth and older sweat fell on him. He pinched his nose and stepped forward, letting the pulsing darkness of Gandgoon gobble him up.

  Snear was waiting for them in front of the alley, his tail whipping from side to side.

  Whippppsht. Whippppsht.

  The sound of the tail slicing through the air made the S branded on Squirrel’s arm prickle. He thought of his boss, Bacchu. Of the whip that he had threatened Squirrel with many a time, but never actually used. Now that Squirrel had done the unthinkable and deserted Bacchu, he did not think he would be so lucky. If he returned to Bimmau a no-name slave, he was certain Bacchu would not hesitate to lash him properly a few times.

  That is, if he managed to return to Bimmau alive.

  “There you are. I thought you were trying to gimme the slip,” said Snear, bringing Squirrel back to the hot, dry, dark present.

  “I wish,” mumbled Des, shrinking into a pit of shadow.

  “Don’t ’ell me you pair of papayas are scared, are you?” said Snear with a deep smirk.

  “Of this? Bah,” said Squirrel, lying as loudly as he could. He did not need Snear to know he was so scared that he could have wet his only pair of pants. “Now, let’s see what your Gandgoon is all about.”

  “Oh bleedin’ bladders!” said Des as they ducked behind a smoky wall.

  They might as well have walked into a nightmare. Dark tents hung everywhere, like hulking bodies of ghosts. Worse, they were packed with terribly unpleasant things: angry skulls, scowling deer heads, cards made of graying bone, and whips that looked like snakes. Customers pushed each other out of the way, clacking, yelling, and haggling. The air smelled of old mildew.

  “ ’Kay, we’re here. Cough up the thirty gromms,” said Snear, pushing a desert cat out of his way.

  “Nice try. But it was twenty gromms,” said Des. “We agreed on twenty, and that’s what you’ll get.” As Des spoke, Squirrel pulled him out of the way of a charging bull with mad red eyes.

  “I could’ve bet my bottom that it was thirty . . . ,” said Snear.

  “It was twenty,” said Squirrel firmly, giving Snear four mud patties, each worth five gromms, from his pouch. “Here, take it . . .”

  But the deer did not move. He just stared at Squirrel’s money pouch as though it were a newborn unicorn. Finally the deer reached out his hoof and Squirrel dropped the money into it.

  “You know, Squirrel, if you ’ave cash, you could front me some. I’ll play some Blackstubbs for you. I’ll double it and you keep ’alf the profits. What say you? Easiest gold you’ll ever make.” Snear’s voice was now sickly sweet. His eyes did not leave Squirrel’s pouch once.

  “No, thanks,” said Squirrel, quickly tucking his pouch away.

  “Think. You don’t ’ave to do a thing,” said Snear, stepping out of a shadow and lowering his voice. “Just sit and watch. In fact, why don’t you just give me that pouch of yours and I’ll go to the tables. You go enjoy Gandgoon. Find your mother’s friend. By nightfall your pouch will be twice as heavy.”

  “Snear, I’m not giving you even so much as half a gromm more,” said Squirrel, who just wanted to get his memory and get out of this sinister city. “Not unless you tell me where I can find the woman I’m looking for.”

  “ ’Ow much?” said Snear, his black lips throbbing with excitement.

  “Mate, this may be a bad idea,” whispered Des to Squirrel. “I mean . . .”

  “I know, Des. But who else will we ask?” whispered Squirrel. As Des’s shoulders drooped, Squirrel turned back to Snear. “Ten gromms. For one answer.”

  As he spoke, Squirrel watched Snear’s scarred face twist into the oddest expression imaginable. The flesh of his cheeks began to lump together, his eyes squinted, and his forehead stretched like a Japanese fan. It was as though the muscles of his face were being yanked in all directions by invisible wires. Squirrel had to st
ifle a gasp as he realized that this was Snear’s version of a smile.

  “Agreed,” said Snear.

  “We are looking for a tall, wise woman who fits this description: Back to back she hunts for game; Her spring is rare, and has much fame.” He crossed his paws, hoping the deer would give them an answer.

  Snear listened, scratching his head. His lips twitched, but he said nothing.

  “You have to answer us to get paid,” said Des, hopping like a jitterbug from one leg to another.

  Snear shook his horns and grunted, “I know who you’re looking for. She sits right there, in that blue tent. But I would not go to meet her if I were you.”

  “Why not?” asked Squirrel. “What you playing at now, Snear?”

  “Don’t believe me? Read the sign for yourself,” said Snear.

  Sure enough, outside the tent, a big black sign read:

  The price to enter here

  Is higher than you may think

  I take every cent in your pocket

  But give you Gandgoon’s best drink

  And once you drink this splendid thing

  No matter what you’ve seen or read

  You will be so entirely happy

  That you will lose your head

  Squirrel rubbed his eyes. This lady had “Gandgoon’s best drink.” This was it!

  They were just about to dart into the tent when Snear yanked Des back. “Where you going? You owe me ten gromms, you pus-filled poodle.”

  “Here, here! Take your ten gromms,” said Squirrel, handing Snear the cash. He was almost one foot into the tent when Des pulled him back.

  “Not so quick, mate,” said Des. “Read the sign. It says she will take every cent in your pocket. Shouldn’t we think this through a bit?”

  Squirrel thought his friend was suffering from heat stroke. “What’s there to think about, Des?” He did not bother keeping the hysteria out of his voice. “Think of what we’ve been through. What do a few gufflings matter now?” He tried to break free of the dog’s paw, but Des’s grip was steady.