“Now write U, Squirrel,” said Des. “Remember, the vowels are the same.”
Squirrel nodded and wrote U.
The last letter was Z. Squirrel found Z in the table, saw that T was below it, and scribbled T down.
“Woof-my-waggity-tail. It’s working,” yelped Des. “Look, the first word is B-U-T . . . But. Come on, mate, keep going!”
Squirrel felt his own tail begin to wag like Des’s. He moved on to the next word, and then the next, working slowly, carefully. He felt Des breathing next to him, puffing out gusts of excited, warm air.
When he was done, Squirrel dropped his feather and breathed in so deeply he thought his lungs would pop. Then he began to read the words he had just translated.
But now, my son, for the tricky part,
the trap I mentioned before
A choice that is so difficult it will rock you to your core
Look again and read the three rows made of spheres
They are three names shining true—
the first young and two old, held dear
The first strip is your name, your mother’s second, and your father’s is the third
The first name will give you two gifts, gifts like a bird
You will discover your natural power,
a power that I disarmed
For if you had always been who you are, you would have been harmed
You now know the names of yourself, your mom and dad
And you probably want to tell everyone you know the name you always had
For it can give you freedom and everything you ever wanted
Slavery will no longer be in your stars,
you will no longer
be haunted
But the trap is that these three names are Brittle’s Key
And if you tell it, it will fall into the evil hands that be
To protect you, I hid your identity from even you till now
But you have proved you are ready for the challenges ahead—so, my son, take a bow.
Into the World of Dreams
Squirrel stared at Des. Des stared back. It felt as though a live wire was sparking somewhere in the room and they did not know what to do about it. Finally Squirrel said something he had thought he would never be able to say.
“Des, I have a name.”
Des gaped at Squirrel, his eyes going as googly as spinning cricket balls. “And you know the names of your parents! I can’t believe it! Brittle’s Key is the consonants in your name, your mom’s name, and your dad’s name!”
Squirrel kept shaking his head. “I don’t know what to do.” His insides felt completely full and incredibly empty at the same time. He felt himself quiver like the page in his hands. “I know the names of my parents. I know my own name.”
Squirrel felt something course through his nerves. It was excitement; it was fear; it was a sense of purpose. “I found my name. Which means I don’t need to be a slave anymore.”
“Read the first row of the golden spheres of the puzzle,” said Des gently. “That is your name, Squirrel.”
Squirrel shut his eyes, trying to calm himself. When he opened his eyes, he let them wander over the thirteen letters that made up his first and last name.
He opened his mouth and said the two words. “DOMINO RYFCLAP.”
As he said the words, Squirrel felt his brain rip apart, as though someone had sliced it in half. He screamed with pain. The pain shot down his body—from his brain to his ears to his neck, down his sides, to his legs. He shook as hot tears tore down his cheeks. He looked down.
What he saw made his heart stop beating as surely as if an arrow had struck it.
His sides—from his armpits to his legs—had sliced open. And, from these gashes, unfurling slowly, were tender, pink, baby wings.
“Wha-wha-what are those?” cried Des.
Squirrel looked at Des in shock. The pain had gone.
He tried to move the pink fold of muscle on his left. It twitched. He did the same with the right wing. It flapped, and streaks of blood flew off it.
“Des . . . Des . . . I think . . .” But before Squirrel could finish his sentence, he felt his eyelids shut and his head spin. The last thing he heard as he drifted into a semicoma state was Des screaming with excitement.
“Wings! Those are wings! Mate, you’re a flying squirrel!
Squirrel wanted to smile, but his body could not move from shock. He knew that when he woke up, he and Des would have a lot to talk about. But, for now, he let the cool floor soothe his sides, and let his wings carry him into the world of dreams.
To Tell or Not
Squirrel was having a hard time preparing his lunch. He tried to grab the jar of pickled slugs with his right paw, but his left wing swung out and knocked the stone pan off the stove. Then, when he managed to pick the pan up, his other wing flung the bowl of hazelnuts in lemon juice off the counter and sent the slippery nuts scampering across the floor like beetles.
“I quit,” announced Squirrel to the empty kitchen. He marched over to the fruit bowl. With wings and arms stiff like a robot’s, Squirrel managed to clasp a pomegranate. Hungrily he sank his front teeth into the fruit and began to slurp up the juicy pearl-and-pink seeds.
Just then, Squirrel heard his front door shake and Des’s voice yell, “Oye, mate! Wakey wakey.”
Squirrel grinned. He took the stairs two at a time and skipped across his living room. Before opening the door, he unfurled his wings all the way—just for effect.
“Yowzzaaa,” said Des as the door swung open. “Squirrel, those things look awesome . . . creepy but awesome.”
Squirrel began to laugh. “I know what you mean. They’re still all raw and fleshy, but I bet they’ll look cool in a moon cycle. And Des”—Squirrel paused and cocked a smile—“The name’s Domino. Domino Ryfclap.”
“ ’Course it is! Domino! You’re Domino—the Flying Squirrel,” said Des, hopping in and pointing to him as though Domino were a magnificent magician.
“I am Domino Ryfclap, the Flying Squirrel,” said Domino, his heart fluttering with glee. He took a bow, twirled his wings, and then plopped onto his spongy sofa. He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead and looked at Des.
Des sat beside him. “Mate, you’ve got pomegranate all over your teeth. Your face looks like a splattered fruit bowl.”
“Who cares,” said Domino, fanning his wings.
Des grinned. “You love them, don’t ya?”
“Wouldn’t you? They make me look . . . like a starfish—but cooler. Like a red surfer starfish who can fly!” babbled Domino, trying to jump up and show off. Unfortunately, the weight of his new wings got the better of him and he fell back down like a clumsy frog. He looked at Des sheepishly. “But, I guess, they do take a little getting used to.”
“You’re acting more like a frog who can fly,” chuckled Des, jokingly slapping Domino on the back. “But, mate, I had a question. Have you decided what to do about your name?”
“What do you mean?” asked Domino.
“I mean, are you going to tell people your name and your parents’ names? Are you going to claim your freedom?”
Domino felt the needles of excitement in his muscles become needles of worry. “I don’t know, Des. I mean, if I don’t tell people who I am, what my name is, that I have parents, I go back to being nothing more than the PetPost slave. I want to be Domino Ryfclap.” He bit his tongue. “I want that identity.”
He felt a gentle paw on his shoulder. “ ’Course you do, mate. It’s okay if you want to be Domino Ryfclap. And even if you want to tell people your mother’s and father’s names, I don’t think there is any harm. I mean, the chance of someone figuring out that the consonants in your name, then your mother’s, and then your father’s, form Brittle’s Key is about as likely as finding a polar bear tap dancing on the sun.”
Domino smiled gratefully at Des. He did not want to hide this new life of his from anyone. He wanted to fly to the top of his tree house and shout it o
ut to all of Bimmau. He wanted to sing it to every animal. He wanted to whisper it to every flower.
But as the excitement swelled inside Domino the Squirrel, a small tendril of doubt crept into his heart. It was a pesky doubt—small but very annoying. “But, Des, if I tell people all three names, I’m putting Brittle’s Key out in the open, aren’t I?”
Des looked at Domino, his eyes full of sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Squirrel—I mean, Domino—but yes. If you tell people, you’re not protecting the key as well as you could.”
For some reason, Des’s words shot straight to Domino’s heart. But, instead of wounding him, they flooded him with a new type of blood—the thick, warm blood of courage. “Des, you’re right. I don’t know if I am an official Keeper of the Key, but I know I must do everything I can to protect it. Like my mother. That’s what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to make sure that it does not get into the wrong hands—like Baron Dyer’s. If he gets his paws on it, then he’ll make anyone he wants a slave. And being a slave is not a fate I would wish on anybody.”
Domino got up and began to pace around, his body trembling with electricity. “I will not let that happen. But”—he stopped and looked straight at Des—“I cannot go back to being who I was.”
“So what will you do, Squi . . . Domino?”
“I’m going to tell everyone my name is Domino Ryfclap. But I’ll keep my parents’ names hidden. And I’m going to quit the PetPost. I’m going to go tell Mr. Banoose that I have found my name and according to the Code of the Jungle, I am now free. I’m not going to be the PetPost slave anymore. I’m going to create a new identity for myself.” He gulped as the words left his tongue. “I have enough money in the bank to keep me fed until I figure out what to do with myself.”
A slow smile lit up Des’s eyes. “Now that you have a name, you could get a job. A real job. Not a slave job.”
“Exactly,” said Domino, looking at the book jacket with the puzzle and Brittle’s Key on it. He picked it up, letting the squares, the letters, the numbers, the gibberish—all imprint themselves on his mind.
Then, without knowing he would, he tore the jacket flap. He tore it once. Twice. Three times. He looked at it. It was small enough. With a jerk, he shoved the pieces of Brittle’s Key in his mouth and chewed it twice. He swallowed.
He turned to Des, who looked like he had just been speared with a unicorn horn. Domino smiled. “I will free myself, but I’ll keep Brittle’s Key hidden. I will honor my mother’s life. I will honor Azulfa’s life. And that, my friend, is good enough for me.”
The PetPost Slave’s Last Journey
Bacchu Banoose’s eyelids began to quiver. His thick jaw swelled up. His face turned green.
“What do you mean, ‘I am free’?” was all he could utter.
“Mr. Banoose, I have found my name, the name that was left to me. The Code of the Jungle—”
“I know what the Code of the Jungle says, Squirrel,” snapped Bacchu.
“Sir, actually, it’s Domino. Not Squirrel anymore,” said Domino.
“Domino,” mocked Bacchu, pulling a face. “Domino. What a stupid name. And you think that anyone else will employ you? You think you’ll suddenly change your life, Squirrel? You think you’ve won the lottery, don’t you? Let me tell you, you had it good with me. At least you had something to do.”
“Sir, don’t worry about me. And if you become just a little bit more, uh . . . more accommodating, I’m sure we can find someone to take my place at the PetPost. Not a slave, but a proper employee . . .”
“You think I need your help, you self-important pus boil?” spat Bacchu. “I don’t need you. You needed me. At least I looked after you. You were the PetPost Squirrel. Now what will you be? You’ll be absolutely nothing!”
“Maybe,” said Domino with a small smile. “But I’ll take that chance. Anyway, thank you for everything, sir.”
“I’d say it back if I thought you were worth it,” said Bacchu, a nasty scowl on his face. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t want those hideous wings around me anyway. You are seriously gross. Now clear out. My groomer is on his way. And I can’t deal with you any longer.”
“Gladly, sir,” said Domino.
“And Squirrel, don’t come crawling back to me. Or flapping back. Or whatever it is you do nowadays.”
“I won’t, Mr. Banoose. I promise,” said Domino, walking out of the room in which he had spent so much of his life.
As he left his ex-boss’s house, Domino realized that he was no longer the PetPost Squirrel. He was not sure what he should do. He was not sure what he could do. But he did know what he would do. He would protect Brittle’s Key. He would make sure no one, not the Baron, not a Kowa, not any creature, would get hold of it. He would keep the PetPost secret.
But it was no longer the PetPost secret, was it? It was the secret his mother had left to him. It was his, Domino Ryfclap’s, secret.
As he walked away, a free creature, Domino began to hum. And skip. And flap his funny-looking wings.
He smiled for his past. He grinned for his present. And he laughed out loud at the pretty promise of his future.
Epilogue
Starting Over
Oye, watch it,” squealed Des, diving into the closest bramble to avoid the out-of-control whizzing fur ball coming toward him. “Domino, you’re like a blind, red bat.”
Domino crashed beside Des. “Sorry. Figured I’d try to use these things,” he said, flapping his wings. “Looks like I got a lot of practicing to do.” Domino got up and plucked the twigs from his fur. He looked around. Behind Des stood Smitten, clapping eagerly.
“Bravo, Squirrel!” said Smitten.
“Domino,” said Squirrel, grinning. “I’m going by Domino now.”
Smitten slapped his forehead. “Oh right! Des told me you found a letter from your mother with your name in it. How great is that!”
“To think if you had found that letter earlier, you could have had a name all along. How unfortunate . . . ,” said another tauntingly familiar voice.
Domino peered behind Smitten. It was Mrs. Sox.
Domino cleared his throat. “Right, but better now than later, Mrs. Sox. Anyway, Des, what’s going on with you?” He wanted to desperately get away from Mrs. Sox’s suspicious yellow eyes.
“Well, that’s what we came here to tell you, mate. I’m starting at the Pedipurr when the first leaf falls. Isn’t that great? I wasn’t sure at first, but I saw some of those kittens and woof woof . . .”
But Domino had stopped listening. His heart fell to the balls of his heels and began to pulse with pain. Des would go to the Pedipurr. He would make new friends. He would learn new things. And soon Domino, the Flying Squirrel, would become some long-forgotten friend.
Domino knew his face had fallen, but he was too bummed to pull it back up. “That’s great, Des,” he muttered, without looking up. “I’m so excited for you.”
“But, Domino, you’re not listening to me!” screamed Des. “You’re going to the Pedipurr too!”
Domino shook his head sadly. “Des, remember Lady Blouse just offered earlier to tease me. To string me along. I can’t go. I need a sponsor. And who’ll sponsor me?”
“I will.”
Domino wiggled his little red ears. He was hearing things. He must get his ears checked out. Maybe it was all the flying . . .
“Well, Domino, say something!” said Des, beaming like a snowman on vacation.
“Huh?”
“Mrs. Sox has offered to sponsor you to the Pedipurr,” explained Smitten. “Remember, third-generation Pedipurr members are allowed to sponsor one creature each? So Mrs. Sox has offered to sponsor you.”
“Bu-bu-but . . . why?” Domino was so flabbergasted that he could think of nothing else to say.
Mrs. Sox snorted. “Oh, don’t get all sentimental, Squirrel. I just figured why not. I’m allowed to sponsor someone. It may as well be you. You have a name now, so you could go to school. Plus I figured the Pedipurr cou
ld teach you to be smarter. Golliwog knows you need it after the lunacy I just saw!” She tapped her fat feet. When no one spoke, she said, “So, Squirrel, do you want the spot or not?”
Domino felt his neck nod.
He heard himself say yes.
He felt Des’s paws around his shoulders.
He felt his friend jump up and down.
He heard Smitten laugh.
As his shock melted away, Domino let the happiness of this moment slurp him up. He grinned so widely his jaw hurt. This was the single best moment of his life.
He looked at Mrs. Sox. “How can I ever repay you, Madame?”
The cat looked straight at Domino, her lower lip curling into a fat, flat smile. “Don’t you worry, Squirrel. We’ll find a way.” And with that, she turned and walked off.
In his moment of sheer bliss, Domino the Flying Squirrel, Keeper of Brittle’s Key, did not notice the sly plan fermenting in Mrs. Sox’s cheddar-yellow eyes. If he had, he would have wondered . . .
Radhika R. Dhariwal grew up in India, Australia, South Africa, Hungary, the Philippines, and the United States. She currently lives between Dubai and Delhi. She loves bread in all its golden, glorious forms, and has an undeniable soft spot for very badly behaved beagles. She is an alumnus of Brown University and New York University. THE TALE OF A NO-NAME SQUIRREL is her first novel.
Simon & Schuster
Books for Young Readers
Simon & Schuster • New York
Visit us at
simonandschuster.com/kids
authors.simonandschuster.com/Radhika-R-Dhariwal
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