“I mean, I’d rather not turn into a hamster on the full moon, but there are worse things,” said Grey. “Like if somebody’s got silver weapons.”
“What’s wrong with silver?” asked Wilbur.
“I’m a were-hamster,” said Grey. “I have a very bad allergy to silver.”
“Like hay fever?”
“Like it causes me to die.”
“Yeah,” said Grey. “Were-hamsters call silver moon-drinker metal. It’s like it pulls the moonlight right out of you. I fall down in a faint.”
“That’s not so bad . . .”
“Also it burns. Like acid.”
“. . . not great,” said Wilbur.
“I don’t mind being a were-hamster otherwise,” said Grey. “I mean, I can’t really be killed except with silver.”
“Ooh, neat!” said Harriet. “I was invincible once. I kinda miss that.” She considered. “I don’t suppose I could get you to bite me?”
“Harriet!” said Wilbur, horrified.
“What?”
“You can’t get turned into a were-weasel!”
“I’m pretty sure I can, if we time it right. It’s the full moon now, so one good chomp ought to—”
“What would your parents say!?” said Wilbur, waving his arms in the air.
Wilbur put his head in his hands.
“Honestly, I’m not seeing a downside to being a were-weasel,” said Harriet. “I’d have an amazing bite!”
“We really, really gotta have a talk about all this biting,” said Wilbur.
“Oh c’mon, Wilbur. If I were a were-weasel, I wouldn’t bite random strangers.”
“It’s that bit that worries me,” said Wilbur, sighing. “Can you wait just a bit? Until we deal with this?”
“Fiiiine . . .” said Harriet, as if not turning into a monster on the full moon was a serious imposition. She turned back to Grey. “Now, why did you send me a note?”
Grey groaned and rubbed his paw over his face. “It’s complicated,” he said. “But my pack needs help.”
“Yeah, I got that,” said Harriet. “But why me, specifically?”
The were-weasel raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t it obvious?”
CHAPTER 8
Flattery will get you nowhere,” said Harriet, although she was secretly rather pleased. “But why do you need help?”
Grey shook his head. “Maybe we should sit down for a few minutes. It’s a long story.”
Harriet sheathed her sword. If this was a trap, it was a bizarrely convoluted one. The quail had mostly lost their fear of Grey, but they still eyed the weasel-wolf pack in the woods warily.
“I wouldn’t have sent a note at all,” said Grey, sitting on a fallen log. “I’d have waited until moonrise and talked to you like this.”
Harriet suddenly remembered how Red had said not to trust anything the big one said. She must have meant Grey.
This was a problem, because Harriet already liked Grey much more than she had liked Red.
She reminded herself that while Grey was quite a likable weasel-wolf, he was also a weasel-wolf, and thus a vicious predator who ate people. (The fact that he had tried to eat her once didn’t bother her. In Harriet’s world, trying to kill and eat people was practically like a hearty handshake.)
She reminded herself that were-weasels were notoriously dangerous and bloodthirsty.
She reminded herself that Red had come to her for help.
But there was no getting around the fact that neither she nor Mumfrey had liked Red. Harriet might question her own judge of character, but Mumfrey’s was extremely sound.
“Why didn’t you want me to go in that house?” she said. “And why did you say ‘You’re alive!’ like it was a surprise?”
“Maybe I should start at the beginning,” said Grey.
“That would be best,” said Wilbur gratefully.
“It all began a few months ago,” said Grey. “We started hearing rumors about packs farther east vanishing.”
“Vanishing?” said Wilbur.
“The Howl?” asked Harriet.
“Oh. Yes. The packs all howl on the first day of the new moon. The moon vanishes once a month, you know, during the dark of the moon, and when it comes back, we all howl to greet it.”
He rubbed his nose. “We can all hear the packs next to us howling, so we know that they’re okay. Except that one Howl, a pack wasn’t there anymore. And when someone went to investigate, there were a lot of bad smells, but no weasels.”
“That sounds bad,” said Wilbur.
“No one could figure it out. So they sent word for me. I’m . . . uh . . . well, the other weasel-wolves know me.” He ducked his head, looking faintly embarrassed. “A bit like you, Princess Harriet. I solve problems.”
“I do try to ask questions first,” said Grey. “I mean, you’d hate to bite the wrong people.”
“Naturally,” said Harriet. Wilbur rolled his eyes.
“Anyway,” said Grey, “I went to investigate. There were some very weird smells, but no solid clues.” He rubbed his nose again, as if it hurt. “Then the next pack began to report seeing someone in the woods.”
“What sort of someone?” asked Harriet, by now quite interested.
Grey ran a hand through his fur. “A little girl,” he said. “Dressed all in red. A hamster, like you—and me, during the full moon.”
“Red!” said Harriet.
“Red?” said Wilbur doubtfully. “But she’s a little girl. How dangerous can she be?”
“She would just appear and stare at them,” Grey continued. “And keep staring. They’d turn around, thinking they were completely alone, and there she’d be.”
Harriet thought about being alone somewhere and then discovering a small girl in red was staring at you. That did seem pretty creepy. Harmless people didn’t just show up and stare at you.
And Red had certainly had a strangely penetrating stare, as if she was trying to hypnotize someone.
“Did they try talking to her?” asked Wilbur.
Grey gave him a look. “How exactly were they supposed to do that? We’re weasel-wolves. We don’t speak Rodent. I mean, I do, because I’m a were-hamster, but most of them don’t.”
“Oh. Yeah, okay, that would be a problem . . .”
“One or two of them tried to eat her,” said Grey, as if it were perfectly normal to try to eat people.
“That wasn’t very nice,” said Wilbur.
Grey looked blank. “Weasels gotta eat. And she was in their territory. What more did they want, a signed invitation?”
“Don’t get hung up on irrelevant details, Wilbur,” said Harriet. “What happened when they tried to eat her?”
Grey shook his head. “They said something happened. They didn’t know what. Two of them attacked her. One says that the last thing he saw was her staring at him, and then he woke up an hour later. His packmate was gone. So was the little girl.”
Wilbur rubbed the back of his neck and frowned.
“It gets worse,” said Grey grimly. “The pack that I talked to? A week later all of them disappeared.”
“Whoa.”
“My pack is the next one in line. And now she’s shown up here,” said Grey. “In that house on wheels.”
“What about the grandmother?” asked Wilbur.
Grey shook his head. “No one’s ever seen her. Just the strange little girl going in and out of the house.”
“So you think she’s responsible for the vanishings?” said Wilbur. “Red, I mean, not her grandmother. Well, maybe her grandmother too . . .”
Harriet gritted her teeth. She felt compelled to be fair. She hadn’t liked Red very much, but Red was one of her subjects. And because she hadn’t liked her, she knew that she had to try extra hard to be fair, because it would be so much
easier for Harriet to believe something bad about her.
“I mean, it’s very weird, but it doesn’t prove anything.”
“She’s got a giant cage on wheels next to her house!”
Harriet had to admit that this was very suspicious indeed. “Do you think she’s keeping were-weasels in it?”
Grey frowned. “There aren’t any now,” he admitted. “But why would you lug a giant cage around with you?”
That was an excellent question. Harriet put her head in her hands.
“Don’t trust her,” said Grey. “That’s all.”
“Red warned me not to trust you, either!”
“I don’t think we’re going to sort this out with smells,” said Wilbur gently.
Grey shook himself. “Look,” he said. “I’m the toughest weasel-wolf in these woods.”
He didn’t say this as if he was bragging. He just said it as if it was true. It reminded Wilbur of the way that Harriet said she was the best warrior on the professional jousting circuit. The sky was blue, water was wet, Grey was the toughest weasel-wolf in the woods.
“But,” Grey continued, “I don’t want to risk my pack’s lives on the chance that I’m not tough enough. That’s why I sent you the note, Princess. That’s why I’m talking to you now. I need your help figuring out who this little girl is and where my people are vanishing to.”
Harriet clutched her head. “I don’t know who to trust! I don’t think you’re lying. But if I’m wrong, it’s a little girl and her grandmother that are in trouble, not just Wilbur and me!”
The fur on Grey’s back stood up in spikes as if he were angry. But then it slowly smoothed back down again, and the were-hamster sighed.
“I understand,” he said. “I have to be careful risking my pack too.”
He stood up. “I’d decide who to trust soon, Princess,” he said. “Because more weasel-wolves may start vanishing, and if they do, I’m going to save them. Regardless of what—or who—stands in my way.”
Harriet tried to think of something to say to that, but Grey melted away into the woods and one by one, the glowing eyes of the weasel-wolves vanished as they followed.
CHAPTER 9
Harriet and Wilbur spent the hours until dawn arguing about what they should do next.
Harriet distrusted weasel-wolves in general, and were-weasel-wolves, presumably, were like weasel-wolves, only more so. But at the same time, she had liked Grey quite a lot, and she hadn’t liked Red. So she found herself arguing both sides of the case, and as soon as Wilbur started to agree with her, she changed sides.
“Then we should trust Grey, because he said she kept showing up and staring at weasel-wolves.”
“But Red told us not to trust anything he said!”
“Then don’t trust her,” said Wilbur.
“But she was acting really bizarre!”
“I thought she was nice. You’re just suspicious of nice people.”
“That’s not true. I’m not suspicious of you.”
Wilbur paused. This was almost a compliment. He savored it for a few seconds. “So don’t trust Red, then.”
“But Grey wants to eat her grandmother!”
Wilbur put his face in his hands. “I’m going to go to sleep,” he said. “You’re obviously capable of having this argument without my help.”
“But—”
He curled up next to Hyacinth and pulled part of her wing over himself as a blanket.
Harriet attempted to argue with a tree for a while. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying.
By morning, she was no closer to a decision. Obviously she should trust the little girl and her helpless grandmother over the were-hamster that ate people. Obviously.
And yet . . . and yet . . .
“Yeah, we don’t know anybody like that . . .” muttered Wilbur.
“I heard that!” said Harriet. She couldn’t really be offended, though—“dangerous,” “tricky,” and “nearly unkillable” were pretty nice things for someone to call you. “It’s different. I mean, I don’t eat people.”
“Except the one time you almost—”
“We have been over that, Wilbur! If you sleep in a casserole dish, bad things are going to happen to you! No jury in the world would convict me!”
Mumfrey and Hyacinth exchanged meaningful looks.
“Are you afraid that you won’t be able to fight off a were-weasel?” asked Wilbur.
“How are you going to hold your sword, then, if you’ve got your hands behind your back?”
“I will hold it in my teeth.”
“Well,” said Wilbur, after a few alarming minutes picturing Harriet holding a sword in her teeth. “I guess all we can do is go talk to Red’s grandmother.”
CHAPTER 10
It was a short, uneventful trip to the clearing. No one was in evidence.
Harriet and Wilbur stood outside the wagon. The door was painted a cheerful blue.
“This is all so normal,” whispered Wilbur.
“I know. Creepy, isn’t it?” Harriet raised her fist and banged on the door.
“Who’s there?” asked an old woman’s voice.
“Princess Harriet! Open in the name of—well, me!”
“They don’t usually ask ‘who’s there?’ you know? They say ‘Go away!’ or ‘We didn’t do it!’ or ‘There are no monsters in here!’”
“People actually say there are no monsters in here?”
“Yeah. Especially the monsters. And they never open the door.”
The door opened.
The little girl in red looked at them. “Did you deal with the big weasel-wolf?”
“You mean Grey?”
“I mean the stinky awful weasel-wolf who eats people!” She stamped her foot again.
“Uh . . . I . . . talked to him . . .” said Harriet. “Why didn’t you tell me he was a were-hamster? And we really need to have a word about this foot- stamping thing.”
“You can’t believe him!” said Red, going for another foot stamp. “He wants to eat my grandmother! And then I won’t have anybody!”
“See, when you do that with the foot, people just stop taking you seriously. It’s hard enough to get people to listen when you’re under the age of—”
“Grey? It didn’t seem like I needed to. He’s just worried about . . .”
“Then go away!” shouted Red, and slammed the door.
“. . . his pack,” finished Harriet, looking at the door.
She could hear voices inside the wagon, too low to make out the words. The quail shifted restlessly, qwerking to themselves.
“Well, now what?” she said.
“Maybe we could get them together with a mediator?” said Wilbur.
“Maybe I could bash everyone over the head and throw them in a room and they can’t leave until they’ve sorted this out.”
Wilbur rubbed his forehead. Harriet had some very straightforward ideas about conflict resolution.
The wagon door opened.
Harriet looked at Wilbur. Wilbur looked at Harriet.
“This bit might be a trap,” whispered Wilbur behind his hand.
“Gee, ya think?”
Nevertheless, Harriet stepped into the house.
The wagon was a single room, dominated by a large bed. It was dark and stiflingly hot inside. The only light came from the fireplace. Harriet felt her fur grow damp with sweat.
The little girl stepped aside. Harriet could see a lump in the blankets in the bed, where someone was lying.
“Come a little closer, my dear,” said the person in the bed. She wore a white lace cap tied up under her chin and spoke with an old woman’s voice, but Harriet didn’t need Grey’s sense of smell to know something strange was going on.
“You must be Grandmother,” said Harriet.
“Oh yes. Please, come closer. I don’t hear so well at my age . . .”
“How odd,” said Harriet, taking a single step forward. “When you have such big ears.” They were large and triangular and stuck up from either side of her cap.
“And what large hairy paws you have,” said Wilbur worriedly. Grandmother’s paws were enormous and knobbly and covered in gray fur.
“It’s a skin condition,” said Grandmother. “And it’s a bit rude of you to comment. I’m very sensitive about it.” She put her paws under the blanket.
“Sorry,” said Wilbur. “I just . . . uh . . . sorry.”
“It’s all right, my dear,” said Grandmother, smiling.
“My, what big teeth you have . . .” muttered Harriet.
“Oh come on!” shouted Harriet. “I don’t mind having monsters lie to me, but anybody could tell you’re a weasel-wolf!”
She grabbed the blanket on the bed and yanked it off. “Hey!” yelled Grandmother.
Underneath the blanket, Grandmother had a shaggy pelt. A long gray tail came out from under her nightgown.
“I’m not a weasel-wolf!” shouted the nightgown-clad weasel. “I’m a hamster! Weasel-wolves are horrible, nasty, awful monsters!”
Harriet scratched the back of her neck. “Ah . . . hmm. Okay, I can see there’s some kind of really awkward psychology at work here, and normally I’d let Wilbur get to the bottom of it—tactfully—”
“It’s what I do.”
“—but weasel-wolves are vanishing and your granddaughter is wandering around in the woods staring at them—”
“Am not!” said Red.
Little Red Rodent Hood Page 3
