by Dan Bar-el
For anyone who has ever done something kind for someone else, just because
—D. B.
For my dad, who always stressed the importance of adventure, especially with good friends
—K. P.
THE INTRODUCTION
IF YOU HEAD NORTH, true north, to the truly north part of north, where icebergs shiver, where thermometers lose confidence, and where snowflakes prefer to avoid, and then once you reach that north, you go just a little bit further north, that’s where you’ll find Duane the polar bear and his friends.
It is a world apart, but it’s familiar all the same.
Should Duane, upon meeting you, offer a Snow Delight, do not hesitate in accepting, as they really are quite delicious. And while you’re slurping away, if C.C. suddenly asks you where you’ve come from, it’s not because she is nosy; she is simply gathering scientific data. Should you feel a tickling at your left ear, followed by a tickling at your right elbow, turn around as quick as you can and you may just catch Magic before she scampers off, giggling. If Handsome pays a visit, a hasty hair combing is highly recommended. Should Major Puff drop by, it’s best to avoid all gull-related conversation, and if Twitch has accompanied him, then prepare yourself for yet more nibbles and possibly some cardio-hopping afterward. And should you notice a quiet creature grazing nearby, well, that’s just Boo’s way of saying hello.
Some of you may have already visited Duane, as I understand that he snuck in a personal invitation at the end of the previous book. But for those of you who have limited time, due to banjo lessons or croquet practice, or because your parents really do need looking after, then this second story I’m about to tell will tide you over until you are ready.
1. DUANE AWAKES, FINDS HIMSELF AMONG FRIENDS, AND THEN FINDS SOMEONE LESS FRIENDLY
ONE DELIGHTFULLY BITTER, COLD morning, Duane woke up from a long, long, very long nap. He stretched what needed stretching. He scratched what needed scratching. He yawned for a full minute and a half. With the claws of his front paw, he brushed his white polar bear fur until he felt that he looked presentable. Then he ventured out of his cave.
“Hello, Duane,” said the half dozen individuals already gathered. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Duane smiled sleepily. The bright sunshine caused his eyes to narrow, but even still, he could see that everyone who mattered to him was there.
“Hello, C.C.,” he said to his friend, a snowy owl.
“What’s up, Magic?” he asked his friend, an arctic fox.
“Morning, Major Puff,” he said while saluting his friend, a puffin.
“Lovely to see you, Twitch,” he said to his friend, an arctic hare.
“Salutations, Handsome,” he said to his friend, a musk ox.
“Hi, Boo,” he whispered to his skittish friend, a caribou.
Certain that no one had been left out, Duane opened his big, powerful arms as wide as they could spread. “Group hug, everyone!” he declared. And then he pulled all his friends in close, except for C.C., who flew up in the air because, as she’s always maintained, she is not a touchy-feely kind of owl.
“So what did I miss?” Duane asked.
“What did you miss?” said Magic incredulously. “What did you miss? What didn’t you miss, would be the easier question, Duane.” Magic has a tendency to overexcite. The others shuffled their feet or groomed themselves absentmindedly until her point was made and conversation could continue. “You’ve slept through most of the winter. There have been blizzards and iceberg breakings and strange creature sightings and at least a billion other things. I mean, really!”
Duane nodded apologetically, which is Magic’s favorite response. Then he said, “In that case, let’s begin with what I didn’t miss, since the list would surely be smaller.”
“You didn’t miss the comet, which, according to my calculations, will be flying above us in two weeks. Two weeks!” squealed C.C. with a shudder of delight before gaining control of herself.
“Fortunately for you, you haven’t missed my gripping solo reenactment of the Great Puffin War of Eighteen-Something-Or-Other,” declared Major Puff proudly. “Will there be marching, you ask? Oh, yes, there will be plenty of marching!” At which Major Puff proceeded to demonstrate by marching around the group with feet raised high.
“And you didn’t miss my upcoming birthday, thank goodness,” said Handsome, “because etiquette would then require that I give you cold harsh glares of disappointment. Such expressions never look good on me, and all that face-tightening just adds wrinkles.”
“You didn’t miss my first attempt at public singing,” whispered Boo.
“What was that?” asked Duane, but Boo just shook her head self-consciously and hid behind Handsome.
Before any plans for the day could be suggested by his friends, a breeze carried the sweet smell of wild berries up to Duane’s nose, which he inhaled to his great delight. His stomach, now stirred and fully awake, wasted no time in growling a plan of action that Duane obediently relayed to the others. “I think a post-nap snack is what’s necessary. We could all visit the berry bushes on the way to the Fabulous Beach for a picnic.”
Duane’s friends know there is no point in arguing with Duane’s stomach, and there are worse things to do than spend a day at the beach in one another’s company. With little fuss, they made their way down the hillside toward the ocean’s edge.
“Might we stop briefly at my abode so I can take along my brush?” asked Handsome. “I find the salt air tangles my hair, leaving it a matted mess.”
“Ooh, and if we pop by me and the Major’s place,” said Twitch, “I’ll bring along some meringue cookies I whipped up this morning. And some carrot cake and a selection of tarts.”
“Then that’s what we shall do,” agreed Duane.
“But Duane,” moaned Magic, while flopping on the ground and sighing very dramatically, “then we will never get there!”
“We will. I’m absolutely sure of it.” He gave Magic a smile for encouragement. “Major Puff, would you do us the honor?”
“Understood,” said the puffin, who rushed toward the front of the group. “Follow me, lads! Left, right, left, right, and so on!”
Duane lingered back, allowing everyone to proceed before him. He took a moment to acknowledge his fortunate circumstances. To think that he’d come to the Very, Very Far North from somewhere else and was able to make himself a home that was cozy, and friends who meant the world to him. Duane sighed, and without a doubt, it was a happy sigh. The day was proving itself to be a very pleasant one, requiring little effort on Duane’s part to keep it so. In a short while, he would be eating sweet nibbles and warming his belly under a springtime sun.
But just as he was about to join his friends, a most disagreeable rush of noise overwhelmed him. Clanging and booming and bonging and rumbling, the cacophony was so loud and violent, it shook the ground beneath his paws.
Oh my, thought Duane.
Was it an earthquake? An avalanche? These were questions best left for a less chaotic interlude. At that moment, Duane could only manage to reach up and cover his ears as the din continued to assault him from all sides. He wanted to run away and find safety, but he couldn’t. His legs were wobbly, unresponsive; they wouldn’t move forward no matter how much he willed them to. Duane was terrified.
Meanwhile, his friends were moving farther and farther away. Soon they would be gone, out of sight and out of hearing range. Oddly enough, they seemed unaffected by the deafening noise. Could they not hear it? Why was it not throwing them off-balance like it was doing to him? These, too, were questions best left for later. Right now, Duane needed their help. He yelled for them to come b
ack, or at least he tried to, because while his legs might have been unsteady, his voice was just plain stuck. It made no sense. His jaw was wide open, his intentions were urgent, yet nothing came out of his mouth but a silent scream.
Now, before you get too swept up in the unsettling, even scary situation I’ve just described, I will take this moment to tell you that nothing in this story so far is real. Duane hadn’t really greeted his friends or planned a picnic or suddenly found himself helplessly in the grasp of an overpowering ruckus. That is because Duane was still in his cozy cave, lying on his soft mattress, having a terrible, terrible nightmare. I apologize. I should have been more forthcoming about this fact. It’s just that in my opinion, no story is ever improved by telling a reader that it has all been a dream. Yet in this case, it’s unavoidable. Duane was asleep, albeit fitfully, and even if his nightmare scream was soundless, his real scream—the one that finally woke him up—was very, very loud, as you will soon learn.
“AH!”
Duane sat up in an instant. His face was flushed, and his body was trembling. Those of you who have had bad dreams may recognize Duane’s confusion as he took in his surroundings, found his bearings, and realized that he was no longer in the dream but back in his cave, alone.
“Oh my,” he whispered aloud.
But although he was awake, the noise had not ceased.
Bong! Clang! Clang! Bong! Clang!
The source of Duane’s nightmare was apparently coming from the grandfather clock tucked in the corner. How unexpected, thought Duane. For as long as he had had the old timepiece, it had offered nothing in the way of conversation but a steady, calm, and reasonably quiet tick-tock. Now, for some unexplained reason, it had decided to add pealing and tolling to the mix, and was doing such, I should add, with reckless abandon.
Clang! Dong! Bong! Bong!
This was most strange. The grandfather clock no longer had hands on its face to tell general time, and therefore had forgone its duty to announce any specific time. Since relocating the clock from the Shipwreck many, many months ago, Duane felt he had come to understand the language of tick-talking, so from his point of view, the clock must surely be upset about something important and needed to make it abundantly clear.
“There, there,” Duane said to it gently as he walked over. “What seems to be the problem?”
To his surprise, and to yours, too, I should imagine, the grandfather clock spoke back. Amid all the clangs and bongs, an angry voice from within yelled, “Where is it?”
Duane took this in stride. He figured that if he was able to understand clock language, it stood to reason that given enough time, the clock would learn to speak his. “Where is what?” Duane asked.
Bong! Clang! Clang! “Argh! Come on, where did it go?”
Duane leaned in closer. “Perhaps if you describe what you’re looking for, I can help you.”
“Arrrgh!” growled the clock, seemingly ignoring Duane’s generous offer.
But was it the clock speaking? Now that Duane was closer, he could hear other sounds besides the clanging and the yelling. He could hear scurrying and scraping as well. Intrigued, Duane used his claws to pry open the long, thin panel on the clock’s belly. What he saw inside the grandfather clock, among the weights and chains, the pendulum and other metal doodads noisily flying about, was a small, furry creature who appeared to be in the middle of a big, furious tantrum.
2. A MOST UNPLEASANT ENCOUNTER
WHEN I LAST LEFT off, Duane had come face to face with an uninvited visitor who was causing noise and havoc inside the grandfather clock Duane kept in the corner of his cave. Did I mention it was a Monday? It was a Monday. All stories involving overly loud characters begin on a Monday.
“Arrgh! Gum-dollop-puckered-bibble-sputtin-malapropy thing! Where are you?”
Said creature was tubular in shape, with short, stubby legs and a thin tail half the size of his body. Wiry black whiskers framed his snout, his ears were small and round, and his eyes were black and beady, and not in a good way. What I have just described is known commonly as a stoat or an ermine, or what I will now refer to as a weasel. The fact that he would distinguish himself further by saying he was a short-tailed weasel, when his tail is obviously fairly long, only begins to demonstrate just how badly this creature knows himself. In any case, whatever he was, Duane had never laid eyes on one before.
“What are you looking at?” the weasel demanded as soon as he realized he’d been discovered.
“I suppose I am looking at you,” replied Duane honestly.
“Well, cut it out! Mind your own business! And shut the door!”
Obediently, and delicately, Duane did so.
Bong! Clang! “Argh!” Clang! The clamor within the clock continued as Duane stood beside it, taking in what had just happened. Despite the rude awakening and the rude behavior he had just encountered, he did not respond in anger. I think it is fair to say that Duane was not prone to those darker and sometimes crueler feelings. Instinctually, he would not assume someone else to harbor those feelings either, so he was always willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps it is just his way of expressing himself, Duane thought. Then he pried open the grandfather clock’s front panel once more.
“You again?” growled the weasel. “What part of ‘shut the door’ didn’t you understand?”
“None of it,” replied Duane sincerely. “I understood all three words. But I do have two questions. Will this search of yours be going on for much longer? And second, is there a name that you go by? My name is Duane. If you don’t have a name, I am very good at giving them. In fact, all my—”
“If there is any name-calling to be done, I’ll be the one doing it, Duane!” interrupted the weasel. And he said Duane’s name with such contempt, it was as if he were spitting out some foul-tasting medicine. “But to answer your questions: One, when I’m finished! Two, None of your business! Now, shut the door!”
Obediently, and delicately, Duane did so again.
Clearly, this was not how Duane expected his day to start out. And technically, it was now daytime. From outside the mouth of his cave, dawn was breaking. An intense sunbeam cut through the bruised purple clouds, made a beeline into Duane’s home, and bathed him in golden light. As if taking his cue from the sun, it suddenly dawned on Duane that the visitor might simply be grumpy because he hadn’t had breakfast. Duane’s stomach often behaved the same way when it was empty. Ready to extend an invitation, he pried open the grandfather clock’s front panel a third time.
“Argh!” shouted the weasel after getting hit straight-on with a blinding spotlight of sunshine. “That’s it! I’m outta here!” The weasel jumped off of the grandfather clock and pushed Duane aside, or at least tried unsuccessfully to push him—there was a substantial size difference between the two.
“Before you go,” said Duane, “I wanted to ask you if—”
“More questions?” screamed the weasel. “You really are a few flakes short of a blizzard, aren’t you?”
Duane wasn’t sure what the visitor meant by that, but his instincts were now strongly suggesting that whatever it meant was probably not very nice. Duane also reconsidered if a breakfast invitation was such a good idea after all. He chose a different question instead. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I have to ask—have you lived in the clock all the time I’ve had it?”
This question amused the weasel. His anger subsided, or rather, he replaced it with a tone that was snide. First he laughed in a most unpleasant way, with all the joy and lightness squeezed out of it. “Oh, is that what you think, Duane?” He then moved right up to Duane and stood on his hind legs, with his thin little chest puffed out. “You think I spend my days holed up in this silly contraption? Is that what you think, Duaney-Duane (poke, poke)?”
Duane gasped. The visitor had addressed him just like Magic sometimes did, complete with the poke to his belly, albeit this time to his knee, on account of, again, the weasel being so much smaller. But whenever Ma
gic poked him, Duane knew it was done playfully. When the weasel did it, he felt mistreated. Uncomfortable feelings bubbled up inside the gentle polar bear that he’d never experienced before.
For my part, I’m sorry to add that the weasel will be making more appearances in the book from time to time. However, on the plus side, he will be leaving this scene shortly, but not before spreading more of his… well, whatever the opposite of charm is.
“It’s all la-di-da with you, isn’t it, Duane? I bet you think you have a happy, wonderful life.”
Duane couldn’t disagree. He’d felt quite fortunate that he’d found the Very, Very Far North and all the friends he’d made since. Just thinking about it made him feel blissful enough to sigh contentedly.
But seeing that satisfied smile on Duane’s face made the weasel angry again. His face grew flushed. “Well, too bad for you, because it ain’t gonna last! It ain’t how the world works!”
“What do you mean?” asked Duane, genuinely concerned. “How does the world work?”
With Duane hanging on to his words with rapt attention, the weasel’s personality warmed slightly, because he now had the kind of spotlight he really desired. “Well, Duane, let me tell you a story. Imagine the ocean ice in the springtime,” he began confidently. “One moment you’re strolling on it together with your friends, nothing but sunshine and giggles. But then cracks start to form, and the ice begins to break, and the next thing you know, you’re all on your separate floes, floating farther and farther apart. That’s how the world works.”
“But couldn’t I just swim over to my friends?” asked Duane.
“Ha! You think they want you on their little ice raft, taking up precious space and eating half their food?”
“Oh, wait, do we have food in this story? In that case, I would plan ahead and bring more food along with me to share before the ice cracked.”
“No! That’s not the point!” the visitor shouted.
