“Listen. It’s just . . .” Des lowered his voice so that only Squirrel could hear him. “Maybe it makes sense for us to hide your pouch out here somewhere. Let’s just take my pouch inside. That way we lose less money.”
Squirrel stopped struggling. Perhaps Des had a point. They could try making do with one pouch. He looked around. No one was near them. Even Snear had turned away and was trotting off into the hodge-podge of darkness. The extra ten gromms had given him quite a spring in his step.
“Okay, let’s bury my pouch right here,” said Squirrel. He shoved his pouch into the sand and covered it quickly with a heap of dust. Des had just marked the spot with the last Raisin D’Etty wrapper from his pocket when Squirrel’s patience dried up.
“Done! Now in we go!” Squirrel pulled Des into the tent. He was ready to get away from the still-scorching evening sun. He was ready to meet this woman. He was ready for the last drink.
Kneeling on the floor was a gazelle sharpening a sickle. Blades of every shape and size—pocket daggers, spears, double-edged knives—lay spread out around her like a peacock’s tail. A sign that read HUNTING EQUIPMENT was propped beside her.
Squirrel took a small step toward the lady. She had a pair of swordlike horns sharper than any of the blades on the floor, yet her face was delicate. Her hide looked old, yet her body was knotted with muscles.
“Sorry to bother you, miss, but we’ve come all the way to Gandgoon looking for you. We need a portion of your special drink.”
The gazelle looked up at him. Her eyes were a baby pink—the color of a baby rose, of a baby’s cheeks. She lifted herself off the floor and leaped over her arrangement of blades. She smiled. “I’m Wipsara. And pray tell, what are your names?”
“I’m Squirrel, and this is Des,” said Squirrel, inhaling deeply. The tent smelled wonderfully different from the rest of Gandgoon—of dewy flowers and vanilla. He let the smell seep into his lungs, his stomach, his entire being. It filled his senses like a warm lullaby.
“The drink I have is Cactus Meat. I’ll give you some, but I need my fee first.” She lifted her hoof, which had been hollowed out. Presumably to collect money.
Squirrel’s feet began to sink into the sand. “Sure,” he said, gesturing to Des. He was too intoxicated by the smell and her eyes to say anything more than that.
“I’m assuming you each want to purchase one?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” said Des, emptying his wallet into her hoof. He then waited as Wipsara patted him down to make sure he had not hidden any change anywhere on his being.
“Okay, what about your payment?” asked Wipsara, turning to Squirrel.
“Uhmm . . . I have no money,” said Squirrel as Wipsara patted him down as well.
“Then only one of you gets the Cactus Meat. Who will it be?” asked Wipsara, flicking her sickle between Squirrel and Des.
Des cleared his throat. “Squirrel,” he said. His stomach rumbled so loudly it could have been rolling thunder. Poor, hungry Des.
Crick. Crick. Crick.
Squirrel turned toward Wipsara. She had picked up a cactus stem and was shaving the thorns off it with a skill that would have made the fiercest of panthers proud. She lifted the naked, plump, oval stem and sliced it open. She then handed it to Squirrel, her pink eyes twinkling.
Squirrel did not wait for a fraction of a moment. Thrusting his paw into the stem, he scooped out a palm-full of clear, succulent meat and sucked the gel-like paste down. It was cool and thick and salty and bitter. It was ointment to his insides.
He shoveled another fistful of the meat into his mouth. When he could not scoop out any more, he put his lips to the stem and squeezed the empty, fleshy cactus into his mouth, trying to catch every last dribble of the gel.
As he licked his lips, a current ran through Squirrel’s being. But it wasn’t the painful current he had expected. Instead he felt like he was melting—into a puddle of warm plum cider. His eyes grew droopy and his mind began to swirl. He felt his lungs fill with the smell of vanilla, and petals, and fresh mist.
Squirrel let his eyes fall on Wipsara, who was now looking back at him, smiling and blinking. He saw a flash of silver sparkle somewhere around her. It was like magic. Another flash and Squirrel realized it was her sickle, which she was flicking from one hand to the other. He smiled broadly as she sauntered toward him.
She stood a butterfly’s length away from Squirrel, her eyes glowing like pink pearls. Then she whispered, “Now you must pay me my real price.”
In slow motion, Squirrel watched Wipsara’s smile turn into a hungry growl. Her baby-pink eyes turned the color of a hungry tiger’s gums.
He watched as her supple body went tight. He watched as she raised her sickle above his head, poised to lob it off in one clean swoop. And all Squirrel could do was stand there. Planted like a pumpkin. Smiling stupidly. Waiting for Wipsara to bring her sickle down on him.
Then it all happened. A billow of dust. A flash of silver. A sharp yelp. A burst of blood. And, then, a familiar scream. “Mate! Run!”
Squirrel’s brain sparked to life. Somehow his head was still on his shoulders. He did not know how, or why, or what had happened. The only thing he could trust was Des screaming, “Run!”
So he did. He ran from Wipsara. He ran from the spring of her hind legs. He ran from her blood-pink eyes. And, most importantly, he ran from her sickle.
Desolate and Desperate!
Though he knew he shouldn’t, Squirrel paused for a moment, stopping to look at where he had buried his money pouch. His Raisin D’Etty wrapper was still there. His pouch was not.
“It’s gone,” he said, noticing hoof marks that looked a lot like Snear’s in the sand.
“Now’s not the time, Squirrel!” shouted Des, pulling Squirrel along. “Just keep running.”
Only when they got to a noisy market did Des stop. Squirrel turned to Des. “What happened in there?”
“Your eyes went glassy,” said Des, huffing for breath. “Then I saw . . . oof . . . her swing that sickle toward your head . . . whoof . . . and I knew she was going to attack us.”
“But what saved me? How come I’m not . . . dead?” gulped Squirrel.
“I grabbed a spear from the floor and threw it at her. I got her in the shoulder. Just in time too,” said Des, still panting. “It was the Cactus Meat. As soon as you ate it, your eyes turned to rubber. Thank the dogs above I didn’t eat it.”
Squirrel’s heart pounded. He had almost let himself be decapitated by Wipsara. He breathed in, trying to focus on what was going on around him.
A small desert lizard was creeping up the stall on their right. As soon as the shopkeeper, a stout goat, was distracted by some customers, the lizard snuck his long tail into a box on the counter and flicked a silver jewelry case off it. It fell straight into his sinewy arms. He clicked his tongue happily and crept away.
Des, who was watching the scene as well, shook his head. “It’s an evil town, mate. A town of thieves.”
Squirrel nodded and reached into his empty pocket. “I almost got killed. We got robbed. We have no money. And we’re stuck in a desert. How did this happen?” Big, fat drops of frustration threatened to drip down his cheeks.
“I don’t know . . . ,” said Des, plonking his bum on the sand. He buried his face in his hands. His stomach churned loudly.
They sat there, squirrel and dog—desolate and desperate—in the middle of the desert, watching the inky night set in. A big python slithered past them, but they were too tired to notice. They heard a coyote screaming “Cold towels for sale!” but they could not buy any. They watched a herd of goats playing an intense game of Blackstubbs, but they had no money to gamble. They smelled the salty, smoky smell of crisping bacon, but they could not afford any.
They sat in numbing silence. Until Des broke it. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her.” His voice drooped with false hope.
Squirrel could not get himself to speak. His mind was too busy kneading the words of the l
ast clue, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. Arid land, kingly ghosts, red sand, a town that speaks of gold. Gandgoon fit the description. But he had not found the tall, wise woman. Maybe she was not around anymore . . .
Des interrupted his thoughts again.
“Squirrel, maybe we should get some water. After all, we may have a long journey ahead of us. We’ve come all the way here. . . . We might as well try to get some water.”
Squirrel frowned. “The water will probably cost us more than both of our livers put together. And we don’t have a gromm on us.”
“But if we don’t drink some water, there won’t be a journey, mate. We’ll become two dried-up prunes. We really need water.” Des jumped up and grabbed the first creature who passed them. It was a stork wearing a tattered turban.
“Sir, may I ask you a question?”
“Quick, dog. Quick. I got bidness that needs attendin’,” said the stork.
“Can I get a drink of water here somewhere? Without paying any money?” he asked.
The stork frowned. “ ’Ow much sugarcane you been chewin’, dog? Everyone who comes to Gandgoon knows you can find water for free only at the Oasis Spring.”
“So we can just go there and get the water?” said Squirrel, his cheeks stretching with hope for the very first time.
“No!” said the stork, looking at Squirrel as though he were a mute muppet. “You gotta convince the guardian of the spring to let you have some. And she be old and she be nutty. You have to play her for water. Only if you beat her will she let you have a sip.”
Squirrel did not care. His throat was as dry as burnt toast. He needed water. He would do anything right now to see this nutty old woman with the spring.
Suddenly Squirrel’s eyes brightened. “SPRING!” he cried. “Her spring is rare, and has much fame! Her spring! We thought her spring meant someone’s walk. But what if it’s talking about the spring of the oasis?”
Des curled his paw around his ear and stared at Squirrel. “Mate, aren’t we just grasping at straws?”
“Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?” said Squirrel, desperate to cling to this idea. “And the woman is old, too. We should go there at the break of dawn.”
“But Squirrel, we don’t know if the lady who guards the oasis is tall. Or wise. Plus how is she possibly hunting for game if she’s guarding the oasis?” said Des.
Squirrel paused, looking his friend straight in the eye. “I know I may be wrong. But Des, what else do we possibly do?”
“They’re in Gandgoon, sir,” said the Madame.
“You are sure about this, Madame?”
The Madame tilted her chin up. “My source has confirmed it.”
“What is he possibly doing there?” said the Colonel, pressing his fingers together.
“Sire, I don’t know why you fail to recognize that the PetPost Squirrel’s skull is nothing more than a bucket of melted dung. He probably forgot what he was doing and went to make a quick buck in Gandgoon. I really think you’re handling this all wrong! If you know what you’re looking for, why can’t we just go ransack his tree cottage and get what you need?”
The Colonel was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was the chilliest whisper. “Madame, do you presume to insult my intentions? Or my intelligence?”
His words hit her like ice picks, crumbling her sheet of confidence. “Sire, I was just saying that maybe you could tell me what you need. I could fetch it for you.”
“Madame, I will say this once. NEVER question me. Or my methods. Do you understand, you fat, gray beanbag?”
“Yes . . . yes, sire.”
“Now get out of here.”
As the Madame left the cave, her face burned. Today, she decided, she would not go straight home. Instead she squeezed herself and her belly into a dark hollow just outside the cave so that she was perfectly hidden. She waited.
The Colonel had called her fat and gray. He knew who she was.
She frowned; she was not safe anymore. She had to discover who the Colonel was, what he was after, and what he could possibly want with the PetPost Squirrel.
Just as Madame Sox was planning how to follow the Colonel home, she heard a familiar voice. She pressed her ear against the wall.
“We know he’s in Gandgoon. Shouldn’t we just catch him there?” said the voice.
“We could. But he might not have found it yet.” This was the Colonel.
“Even then, we might as well capture him. We can make him find it,” said the mystery voice. “Imagine if we find the Key of Brittle. We can break Bimmau—we can make it what it’s supposed to be.”
“We shall. As soon as we get our paws on Brittle’s Key, we can use it to take back all of Bimmau; everyone else will serve us—the way it used to be. We will be the masters, like we ought to be. And we can make anyone we want our slave. Brittle’s Map will force anyone and everyone to obey us. The first one I’ll enslave is that Sox. She is annoying, sure, but she does her bidding with singular determination. She’d make a good slave.”
“But, Colonel, you’re sure Squirrel will find the key?”
“I think he will. But, if I know anything about the Keepers of the Key, like old Mr. Falguny, it is this: They would have disguised the key as something else. In fact, Squirrel may not even know that he has it. That is where our chief advantage lies,” said the Colonel.
“How sublimely tricky! But, I confess, I cannot help wondering how on earth that little red creature was left such an incredibly important thing?”
Mrs. Sox, hidden in the corner, with her flat face sweating with worry, wondered the exact same thing.
Making Family
Squirrel wandered down a sandy lane that glowed like a silver ribbon in the dark morning. Though he had not slept at all and had made it through the night without a sip of water, he was more alert than ever.
As they walked toward the oasis, the dark blue skin of night peeled off the sky. Cotton balls of clouds clotted the horizon, broken with orange scars. The sun rolled into the sky. In the light, Squirrel saw a big dune. Shimmery white ripples of reflected water danced across the sandy surface. His throat gurgled.
“Now, that’s more like it,” woofed Des happily. “Water! Yes, Squirrel, I think that today might be a much better day than yesterday.”
Squirrel smiled. Today, he hoped, would be a better day indeed.
Squirrel hiccupped with excitement. He was standing next to the oasis, outside a tall white tent, waiting to meet the guardian of the spring. The sound of the water, slurping happily, tickled his ears. He was about to enter when a voice boomed from inside.
“Xerice, please! I need a barrel of water!”
A lady spoke. “Good sir, how long have you known me?”
Squirrel hiccupped harder as he saw a long shadow creep up the tent wall; the shadow began to bob up and down like a giant air puppet.
The loud voice yelled back, “Too long!”
“Have I ever given water to anyone without losing at Making Family first?” asked the lady.
The loud voice harrumphed. “No.”
“Do you think I would choose this glorious sunny morning to change that?”
The other voice went silent, but Squirrel could hear a series of wheezes and mumbles from inside the tent. Finally the loud voice said, “You know what, Xerice? Sometimes I think your heart is almost as blistered as your hide. I’m leaving now, but I’ll be back before the day is over!”
“Would you believe that I’m happy to hear it?” said the so-called Xerice, her voice shaking with chuckles. As she laughed, the tent flared open and a desert goat with a red beard stomped out, digging his hooves into the sand. Looking at Squirrel and Des, the goat said, “Try your luck, but know this—Xerice loses only if she wants to. And, with the way she’s been recently, you’re better off stuffing a straw into this darned sand and sucking for water than winning a drop from her.” And with that dry advice, the goat stalked off, muttering and shaking his heavy head.
“Gee, thanks for the encouragement,” said Des, yanking the curtain open. They entered the tent.
Squirrel’s jaw dropped.
He was staring at a giant trunk topped with what looked like an oversize rugby ball. The ball was moving.
It took Squirrel a moment to realize that the ball was actually a face: a face with a snout, little black eyes, a pair of burnt-purple lips that kept chewing something, and teeth worse than a crumbling limestone wall. Squirrel dragged his eyes down the curved trunk: it was a long, sun-mottled neck that looked like it had been lopped off and planted straight into the sand.
Squirrel almost screamed—until he saw four long legs tucked under a sturdy, double-humped yellow boulder. A twisted ropelike tail lay beside it.
Des made sense of the sight before Squirrel. “You’re a camel!” he said, clapping.
“And that makes you happy?” asked Xerice the camel, raising a thin eyebrow.
“Of course! Camels are tall! Are you very old as well?” yammered Des.
“Do I look young to you, little boy?” Xerice said, looking straight at Des.
Squirrel looked at the mesh of wrinkles around the camel’s eyes and knew this lady must be the oldest being in Gandgoon. “Sorry ’bout my friend, Ms. Xerice. It’s just that we’re looking for a lady who is tall, old, and wise. Do you think you may be her?” asked Squirrel, holding his breath.
Xerice’s black eyes pranced with wisps of light. “Do you expect a wise woman to admit that she is indeed wise?”
Squirrel thought about the question. “A real wise woman would not call herself wise. She would not boast.”
Des whispered, “Squirrel, I think that was the most long-winded way of her letting us know that she may be the old, tall, wise woman we’re looking for. Couldn’t she just have said yes?”
If Xerice heard Des, she did not show it. She just stared at them, blinking patiently.
The Tale of a No-Name Squirrel Page 16