by Josh Lieb
Patrick said, “You don’t live in this city very long without learning how to bribe a doorman.” Then he said to Joey, “Want me to carry you?”
“No,” said Joey, “I can make it.” As scary as climbing a rope that high would be, Joey figured it would probably be even scarier to do so while being carried by someone else.
The rope was longer than Joey had thought. Probably about thirty or forty feet . . . which seemed more like three hundred feet to someone the size of a rat. But the climbing was easy, and Joey’s little paws gripped the rope like it was made of chewed bubble gum. Being a rat had its advantages.
Waiting at the top of the hole was a very old gray squirrel, very skinny, with bare patches in his fur. “Is this Squirrelin?” asked Uncle Patrick. Sir Parsifur shook his head and giggled and pointed toward a narrow tunnel that led to the tree’s interior. They started to walk down the tunnel, but the old squirrel cleared his throat. “Oh, right,” said Uncle Patrick, who dug into his fur and pulled out the last pepperoni rind he had left from the pizza parlor. “Sorry, it’s all I’ve got.” The doorman scowled, but he took the pepperoni.
The tunnel was low and dark. Joey could smell acorns at the end of it . . . and something else. Something spicy, but also dirty, and earthy, like a pepper that had been buried in mud.
He came out of the tunnel and found himself in a circular room, with a ceiling so high that he couldn’t even see the top of it. Is the whole tree hollow? Stacked against the round walls— again, higher than his eyes could see—were acorns. Acorns upon acorns upon acorns. “There must be millions. . . .” said Joey.
“Enough to start a forest,” said Uncle Patrick.
Joey’s stomach rumbled. He remembered how good the acorn back at the village had tasted. That seems like a year ago, he thought.
The room was lit by a pale green, -agical flame that floated in the middle of the air. As Joey’s eyes adjusted to the light, he could see that there were a few other things besides acorns here. Mostly junk, littering the floor on the far side of the room: a ball of kite string, a pile of dirty rubber bands, some Styrofoam peanuts, and a pink wax doll shaped like a squirrel. The doll was little, about Joey’s size, and it looked even smaller because it was shaped like a starving squirrel. Joey could count the ribs carved into its sides. The toy maker hadn’t even bothered to put any fur on it. It was altogether the strangest little toy Joey had ever seen.
Which was why it was especially strange when he saw it breathe.
“Squirrelin, old fellow,” said Parsifur, walking up to the pink thing, “you look wonderful.”
“NO VISITORS,” wheezed Squirrelin—for that is who the pink thing was. Joey couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d seen a rock start talking, or a cow jump over the moon.
“We’re not exactly visitors, Your Pinkness,” continued Parsifur, undeterred. “Call us ‘emissaries’ from the court of King Uther. I’m Sir Parsifur—you might remember I helped you fight off that possum invasion several summers ago. . . .”
Squirrelin breathed out with a hiss, as if to acknowledge that he remembered.
“Over there is stately, plump Brutilda. . . . Those odd fellows next to her are Joey and Patrick—they can be explained later. . . . and Sleeping Beauty, on Brutilda’s back, is none other than Princess Yislene, heir to the throne of Ravalon.”
The ancient squirrel cocked an eye at Yislene without bothering to move his body. “This much I already know,” he said. When he spoke, it sounded like the smallest whisper possible, but it somehow filled the whole room.
“Oh,” said Parsifur. “Well, we come with news. I regret to inform you that your old friend and apprentice, Gondorff the Gray—”
“Is dead,” hissed Squirrelin. “You think to inform me? I assure you, Sir Wisecrack, there is precious little occurring outside this tree that Squirrelin the Squagician doesn’t already know about.”
“Then you know you have Under-Realmers roaming your park.”
“Of course I do,” growled Squirrelin. “They are here by my invitation. My plans for the wild ones are no concern of yours.”
“So you know they attacked us,” said Parsifur.
“That’s what wild ones do,” said the squirrel. “I know you survived.”
“And you know why we’re here,” said Brutilda.
Squirrelin nodded, almost imperceptibly. “A realm is under siege.” He turned an eye toward Joey. “And a High-Realmer boy wishes to regain his true form.”
Joey swallowed. “You can . . . you can change me back?” He was almost scared to hear the answer.
Again, the squirrel nodded. “Come closer, boy.”
Joey shuffled close to the aged squirrel. From a foot away Squirrelin was terrifying, but from an inch away he was almost unbearable. This close up, the squirrel was undeniably alive. Little black pinpricks dotted his entire body, where his fur used to be. His skin wasn’t pink, it was clear . . . and paper thin. Joey could see tiny purple blood vessels branching out and pulsing just under the skin. And a tiny heart, just a little farther under the surface, beating . . . “Show it to me,” hissed the squirrel.
Joey was confused. Show what to him?
“Hurry, hurry,” said the squirrel scornfully. When Joey still didn’t move, Squirrelin made an exasperated sound and said, “Ratscalibur, dunceling.”
So Joey pulled out Ratscalibur and held it up to the ancient wizard’s beady eyes. Squirrelin sniffed the sword like he was smelling a flower, and smiled. “So, it’s true. Fascinating. I haven’t seen this weapon since young Axel visited me during the War of the Seven Fleas. The handle wasn’t broken then, of course.” Before Joey could move away, Squirrelin stuck his soft pink nose into Joey’s fur and inhaled deeply . . . so deeply that his cheeks blew up a little bit, like a man blowing a trumpet.
Joey was a little freaked out, but when Squirrelin let his breath out, he seemed satisfied. “Yes, there is heroism here. Fascinating, fascinating . . .” He cast an eye on Uncle Patrick, who stood protectively behind Joey. “In that one, too. But of a much more common sort . . .”
“So, it’s true,” said Brutilda. “He’s the hero we’ve been waiting for. The prophecy . . . it’s a true prophecy, and not just a nursery rhyme.”
Squirrelin looked at Brutilda like she was an idiot. “Anything you say often enough becomes a true prophecy. That’s how prophecy works.”
Joey was stunned. He really was a hero? Then why was changing back and going home the only thing he wanted to do? No, not yet—he had to know that his friends would be safe. Too many questions were whirling around in his mind. “So,” he asked the squirrel, “you know all about Gondorff . . . and the BlackClaws . . . and Salaman, right?”
Squirrelin smiled and nodded. Joey continued, “Then, please, tell us what we should do?”
Squirrelin stared at Joey with flat black eyes. “Give me time, young one. I must think.”
“Please,” said Joey, “I don’t mean to rush you, but Salaman gave the kingdom a deadline of midnight tonight. After that, he’ll send in the BlackClaws.” Brutilda grunted. “And I . . . I need this to be over so I can turn back into myself. So I can go home.” He heard a note of desperation in his voice. “My mom . . . my mom is all alone.”
“If I say you must wait, you must wait.”
“But . . .”
Squirrelin’s eyes somehow turned blacker, like they could suck all the light from the room—and out of Joey. Parsifur stepped forward, between Joey and the Squagician. “Of course, if you think waiting is best, it’s best.”
Brutilda cleared her throat. “While you consider our options, might I ask that you use some tiny part of your power to heal us, O Squagician? We are sorely in need.”
Squirrelin didn’t move. But he made a noise in the back of his throat that didn’t sound like “Yes.”
“We hate to trouble you, wizened one,�
� said Parsifur. “But we’re in awfully poor condition. Just a little healing spell is all we ask.” Squirrelin swiveled his eyes at Parsifur again, but this time the knight didn’t give up. “Perhaps . . .” he said, “perhaps you could do it in memory of your beloved friend Gondorff.”
Squirrelin made the noise in the back of his throat again—but this time he wasn’t saying no. “Ah, poor Gondorff. It’s the least I can do, I suppose. . . .” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath until his cheeks inflated again. But this time, he didn’t stop there. He kept inhaling, long after anyone else would have stopped. After his cheeks blew up, the air spread to the top of his head, then his neck, then . . . his entire waxy skin inflated like a pink puffer fish, or a paper balloon. He was now as round as an ostrich egg—but Joey could see his squirrel-shaped skeleton floating inside. It was like looking at an X-ray. Just when Joey thought the old squirrel would pop! like a chewing-gum bubble, Squirrelin let out all his breath with a sudden hiss. And that’s when Joey realized that he didn’t hurt anymore.
Joey looked around. All his friends were standing straighter. Their cuts and scars and scrapes were gone. Yislene was yawning and opening her eyes. “Squagic,” said Uncle Patrick, staring at the spearhead that had fallen from his suddenly healed side, “is powerful stuff.”
Not quite powerful enough, thought Joey. He’d just noticed that his tail hadn’t grown back.
“Our cats could use some healing, too,” said Parsifur. “They’re in your stables, in worse shape than we were.”
“For Gondorff,” said Joey quickly, before the squirrel could say no.
Squirrelin gave Joey a sharp look, but he blew himself up again, and when he let his breath out, Joey knew that Chequers and the other cats were feeling as good as he did.
“Now leave me,” said the wizard. “I really must think. Nutkin will show you to a place where you can rest.” The old doorman stepped out of the shadows and gestured toward another tunnel.
“May we have something to eat?” said Patrick. “We’re half-starved—”
“Eat?” said Squirrelin. It sounded like a rattlesnake rattling. “Eat?”
“Bad idea,” Parsifur whispered.
“I have no food to share.” The pink thing’s heart was suddenly beating a mile a minute through its skin.
“But—” said Patrick, gesturing to the acorns that lined the walls.
“That is my winter store. Would you ask me to starve when the Northwind blows, and the snow falls on the park like white death?”
Uncle Patrick looked like he wanted to say something else, but Parsifur whispered, “That really isn’t a question you want to answer.” So Uncle Patrick just smiled and bowed to Squirrelin (who was turning an alarming shade of purple), then turned to the old doorman and cried out, “Nutkin, lead the way!”
“ASKING A SQUIRREL to share food,” said Parsifur, “is not a technique likely to end in much success.”
“I know that now,” said Uncle Patrick.
“Asking a Squagician to share food,” continued the white rat, as if Patrick hadn’t said anything, “that is a technique likely to end with your brains leaking out of your ears whilst you levitate above an active volcano.”
“Yeah, I get it—”
“Asking Squirrelin to share food—”
“Will you shut up?”
So Parsifur shut up . . . but he kept right on giggling: hee-hee-hee.
The room they were waiting in was small and dark. The floor was covered with rubber bands and Styrofoam peanuts. “What’s with all the junk on the floor?” Joey said.
“Squirrel furniture,” Brutilda sniffed. “They don’t care what they sleep on, as long as it’s free.”
“Squirrelin seems to be in good spirits,” said Yislene, who was fully awake now.
“Really?” said Patrick. “He seemed kind of psycho to me.”
“Oh, he’s always like that,” said Parsifur. “Trust me, I’ve seen him when he was really grumpy. No, he seems better and stronger than I’d dared hope. He may be able to help us after all. . . .”
“But will he help us?” asked Joey. “He seemed really reluctant to do that healing spell.”
“Oh, squirrels never do anything the first time you ask,” said Yislene.
“Be careful when they do,” said Parsifur.
Yislene nodded. “The best news, I think, is that he’s confirmed what I’ve known all along.” She looked at Joey and smiled.
That made Joey uncomfortable. “Just because a squirrel says someone’s a hero, doesn’t mean he’s a hero.”
“Squirrelin would know,” said Yislene.
Joey bristled. “Shouldn’t I know?”
Brutilda scoffed. “Forgive me if I trust Squirrelin’s judgment over yours. . . .”
“Yeah, but—”
Uncle Patrick put his arm around Joey’s shoulders. “Seems strange to me, too, honcho . . . but this whole situation’s more than a little strange. Besides, why shouldn’t you be a hero?” He squeezed Joey tight. “You’re kind of the best guy I know.”
That made Joey feel a little better.
Yislene scrunched up her face and rubbed her belly. “He could’ve spared us one acorn.”
“Now, Princess, you know better than that,” said Brutilda.
“My mind knows better. My stomach doesn’t.” Yislene frowned and rubbed her belly again. Joey felt bad for her. Personally, he’d never been hungrier in his life, and he hadn’t just woken up from a Ragic-induced nap. He couldn’t imagine how hungry Yislene must feel.
“Let us hope we won’t have to wait here long,” said Parsifur.
Yislene put on a brave smile. “Yes, I’m sure I can last a little while longer.”
Something about the way she smiled made Joey feel worse for her than ever. “I’ll get you something to eat, Princess,” he said, before he could stop himself.
The princess smiled, but this time for real. “Oh, Joey, are you sure?”
Joey couldn’t back out now. Besides, if he was supposed to be a hero, he might as well start acting like one. “I’m sure. I can smell food hidden all over this tree.” Uncle Patrick had a worried look on his face, but before he could say anything, Joey said, “I’ll be fast. Squirrelin will never find out. I promise.”
Uncle Patrick still looked unconvinced, and Parsifur said, “If you’re caught, Squirrelin will be furious. It could jeopardize our whole mission.”
“I won’t get caught,” said Joey. “And anyway, we can’t let the princess suffer.”
Uncle Patrick and Parsifur looked at each other and nodded. “No, we can’t do that,” said Patrick. “But be careful.”
“I will,” said Joey.
The princess looked worried now. “Joey, I take it back. I’m not hungry. I command you to stay here—”
“Too late,” said Joey, feeling almost heroic. He sniffed the air . . . and his nose instantly told him where to go. “There’s a storeroom full of all kinds of food just down the hallway a little bit. I’ll be right back.”
The princess smiled at him again, and Joey hurried out of the room, wondering if it was possible for him to blush through his fur.
The tunnel was empty, except for more “squirrel furniture” strewn here and there. Apparently, Squirrelin didn’t have a lot of servants or family living with him. Maybe only Nutkin—and he seemed almost as old and crazy as the Squagician himself. There was no light in the tunnel—Squirrelin probably didn’t want to waste the Squagic—so Joey was entirely reliant on his nose.
He passed one room that was full of something that smelled foul, even to him. Out of curiosity, he overcame his distaste and stuck his nose in the door for a better sniff. Bird droppings. The room was full of a mountain of bird droppings. Disgusting. Squirrels really would collect anything.
The next room he passed smelled a lot better,
but not like food. He looked in and saw huge piles of paper clips, bottle caps, handkerchiefs, shoelaces, and other “treasures” from the park outside.
The next room was the one he was looking for. It was big, nearly as big as Squirrelin’s acorn throne room, only this room didn’t just hold acorns. There were half-eaten Twinkies and dog biscuits and hambones, olive pits and popcorn kernels and watermelon seeds, potato chips and licorice whips and fish heads, all mushed together into a sea of supreme deliciousness. My goodness, Squirrelin is rich, thought Joey. And greedy. It suddenly struck him how ridiculous it was that the Squagician wouldn’t even spare one acorn. Joey felt like diving into the food and eating until he burst. But he was on a mission for the princess. His stomach would have to wait.
He saw a pizza crust about halfway up the pile and, remembering Yislene’s fondness for such things, climbed up to get it (allowing himself to nibble a corn chip as he did so). He was just grabbing the crust when he saw something at the very top of another nearby peak in the pile. Ooh, that looks yummy. He leaped over to the other pile, scrambled up to the top, and sure enough . . . it was a jelly bean. A green jelly bean.
It seemed right to Joey that he should get to eat a green jelly bean here, after almost dying trying to get one back at the village. He picked up the jelly bean and stared at it like it was a huge diamond, entranced by its beauty. He was so hungry that everything about it seemed perfect: even the little flecks of mayonnaise on its bottom . . . the teeth marks where a human had bitten into it before spitting it out . . . the faint claw marks, scratched across its surface . . .
. . . like a rat had tried to grab it, only to be pulled away from it at the last second.
Joey wasn’t hungry anymore. But he was very sure of one thing.
This was the same jelly bean.
