The Trouble with Weasels Read online

  I’m convinced hiding is a matter of will. You have to believe with every fiber of your soul that you’re invisible, and you will be invisible. (It’s also possible that the kids I was playing with that day were just messing with me. Very possible.)

  Well, as we all found places to hide, I was willing myself invisible harder than I ever had in my life. I had zero interest in becoming a toasted troll sandwich.

  I ducked into a hollow at the base of a tree and saw Chester and Kevin dive behind a patch of thorny bushes. Then I don’t think I took a breath for the next five minutes.

  I was just starting to think we’d made it out alive when I heard the loud snap of a twig a few feet away.

  “Zarf?”

  The voice was kind of familiar, but I thought my best bet was to continue cowering.

  Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Have you lost every marble in your head?”

  I slowly opened one eye and felt immediate relief flood through my body. It was Ms. Locks, and I had never been so happy to see a lunch lady in my life.

  My relief had taken about two seconds to turn into irritation. “What are you doing out here strolling around in a witch’s hat??”

  “Um, excuse me?” Goldie wasn’t one to take any guff. “I’m not the one eating people’s weekend cottages, you little weirdo!” Then she swept me up in a bear hug.

  At this point, Kevin and Chester came crawling out of the bushes, plucking sharp thorns out of their clothes and hair. Goldie turned to them.

  “And what are you halfwits doing out here? I know this one here is on the run from the law, but what’s your excuse?”

  “Never mind. Let’s get you inside and cleaned up. Those snagglethorn scrapes’ll get nasty in no time.” She shooed us all ahead of her and into her tiny candy house.

  As we walked back to her house, I blabbered on and on about how thankful I was for her slipping me the key in jail. She just kind of waved me away and said it was “No biggie.”

  When we were all gathered around the table, she started pulling Tupperware containers out and setting them before us.

  “It’s a good thing I showed up when I did or you little jackals would’ve gnawed this place down to the foundation.”

  Kevin, still shaking a bit, asked the question on all of our minds.

  “Hmm?” Ms. Locks was still bustling around the kitchen.

  “Are you—and do pardon me for asking—but are you by any chance the witch that tried to eat Hansel and Gretel?”

  Ms. Locks stopped, staring blankly at Kevin. A glob of cinnamon porridge fell to the table from the wooden bowl she was holding. Then she barked out one of her loudest Goldie laughs, shaking the Snickers Bar rafters and startling us all.

  “Oh, goodness no,” she said, and had to sit down from laughing too hard. She regained her composure and wiped a tear away with the corner of her apron. “Is that why you little grunts were so scared? That’s a hoot.”

  Kevin let out a huge sigh, leaning back in his chair.

  Chester spoke through a mouth full of mashed potatoes. “Well, you were wearing a witch’s hat. That’s kind of weird.”

  She chuckled. “I just wear that old thing in the woods ’cause of the tree ferrets. I got tired of them bouncing acorns off of my head. Now they roll right off.

  “I bought this place from the original owner a few years back, and found the hat. Now, that woman was a piece of work. Mean, cranky old witch. But after the Hansel and Gretel business, she moved down to Cabo and opened a tiki bar, I think.”

  She sat back and took in the room. “This is my weekend getaway! I got lucky and bought it for a song.”

  She gave us a sideways wink. “You try buying a second house on a lunch lady salary.”

  Chester spoke up again as he reached for the yams. “Well . . . the kids at school think you converted to witchdom or something.”

  A sneaky grin slid across Goldie’s face. “Oh, I like that . . . Let’s let the twerps keep right on thinking that.”

  Goldie put us up for the evening in some sleeping bags under the kitchen table.

  We woke the next morning to an amazing breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon (Kevin passed), porridge biscuits, sautéed smooshrooms, and enormous chilled glasses of flumpfruit juice.

  When we were so stuffed we could hardly waddle, Goldie walked us out.

  “This goes against every fiber of my being, letting you idiots go on like this. But I can see there’s no stopping you.”

  I gave her a quick hug. “Thanks, Goldie. And you’ll check on the Knoble Knight?”

  “I’m headed there now. So don’t you worry about him.”

  As the three of us headed off into the woods, Goldie called out to us one more time.

  · 26 ·

  ONWARD HO

  Most of that day went by without any craziness. At one point, we found a crusty, wrinkled-up Snuffweasel handkerchief, which convinced us we were on the right path. (Snuffweasels are known to have terrible allergies.)

  We were washing our faces in a small pond that afternoon when we ran into a family with a home in the area. After some discussion amongst themselves, they invited us to their home for a light dinner and a place to sleep.

  The dinner and their home were pretty nice, with the small exception of their youngest son, who had a bad habit of crying out “WOLF!” at the top of his lungs every twenty or thirty minutes. For obvious reasons, this did not sit well with Kevin.

  The boy’s parents assured us that it was just some sort of involuntary tic, but it really took a toll on poor Kevin’s nerves. We’d no sooner get Kevin’s heart rate back to normal than that kid would let rip with another “WOLF!”

  It wasn’t until after dinner that the family told me they’d feel more comfortable if I were to sleep outside—being a troll and all. I wish I could say I was horribly offended, but you have to understand that I’d been up against this kind of thing my entire life. And I was just too tired to make a big deal out of it. So, when Kevin and Chester were given fluffy sleeping bags by the fire, I was shown out back to a rusty wheelbarrow with a bag of beans for a pillow. Chester and Kevin protested and said they’d sleep outside with me, but I insisted they sleep by the fire. At least two of us would get a good night’s sleep.

  But it turns out there was no restful sleep for any of us. The boy continued to scream “WOLF!” in his sleep every hour or so, sending Kevin through the roof. By the time Chester got him calmed back down, it would happen again. When we got on our way the next morning, I think

  Kevin was in worse shape than if he’d slept outside with me.

  Later that afternoon, we were carefully making our way through a particularly nasty thicket of purple and orange snagglethorn bushes when my phone began to ring.

  We all stopped and I dug my phone out of my pocket (suffering a few nasty scratches in the process). It was a number I didn’t recognize.

  At first I didn’t think there was anyone there. I was about to hang up when I heard some shuffling around and a muffled voice.

  “Hello?” Now I could make out a couple of voices, though I couldn’t understand them.

  Then the line cleared up and I heard a familiar voice complaining.

  “. . . once and for all that I need a new brand of tights. These keep creeping up my backside! I simply cannot take the wedgies anymore.”

  I turned to Chester and Kevin, delighted.

  “It’s Roquefort! He must have butt-dialed us!”

  I did, and we all stood grinning like idiots listening to Lord Fumblepants as his phone rustled around in his pocket.

  “Not to mention this pair is all snagged and torn from that thicket of snagglethorn bushes we passed through a bit ago.”

  Chester plucked a tiny piece of royal purple
fabric from the bush in front of him and held it up for us to see.

  One of the ogre bodyguards was talking, but we couldn’t make out what he was saying. There was some more fumphering about, and then we heard a blood-curdling growl come through the phone.

  I clearly heard one of the ogres yell “RUN!!!” Another voice yelled out what sounded like “BEARS!!!” though it was pretty muffled. There were more growls and the frantic shuffling of fabric against Roquefort’s phone. Someone screamed and the phone abruptly went dead.

  The three of us were shocked into silence for a moment.

  “Did he say bears??” I was hoping I hadn’t heard that right.

  Chester started shaking his head. “No. No. I’m pretty sure he said ‘pears.’ ”

  “Why would he scream ‘pears’?” Kevin asked as we both turned to Chester. “And what kind of pears growl like that?”

  Kevin’s face had gone pale. “No. It was bears.”

  We all stared blankly at each other for a moment before Chester spoke up.

  “Well!” He clapped his hands together. “Easy come, easy go, I always say. Maybe the king can make another prince.”

  “A nice one this time,” Kevin mumbled, looking at the ground.

  “Guys . . .” I closed my eyes and sighed, rubbing my face with my paws. “They still have a chance.”

  Chester looked dumbfounded. “Wha . . . ? Seriously? You want to help them? Roquefort threw you in prison, Zarf! He was gonna leave you there to rot!”

  “Right,” I said. “And if I never saw him again, it’d be too soon. But I can’t just stand here and let him and his ogres get their awful little bones picked clean by bears. OR pears.”

  Kevin piped up, sounding near panic. “Your gramps didn’t say a thing about the Littlepig Way. I’m full-blooded Littlepig, and it’s about time for me to go ‘wee wee wee wee’ all the way home.”

  “C’mon guys.” I almost couldn’t believe the words I was saying. Was I really talking about risking our lives for these dopes?

  “As much as it pains me to say it, if we don’t help them out . . . we’re no better than they are.”

  That got the guys thinking.

  “Okay.” Chester looked really torn. “I see your point, but I’m not very happy about it.”

  We both looked at Kevin, questioning.

  So we started fighting our way through the bushes again.

  “I’m telling you,” Chester yelled between huffing and puffing, “it’s gonna be pears!”

  · 27 ·

  THE BEAR FACTS

  We heard another growl up ahead of us and followed the sound, leaving the wagon and scrambling through the thick woods with as many weapons as we could carry.

  We had stopped to see if we could hear any more growling when a faint groan came from our left. We dashed over to find one of Roquefort’s ogre henchmen (Buddy, I’m pretty sure) lying flat on his back next to a tiny creek.

  We propped him up against the trunk of a fir tree. He had a knot the size of a stumptoad forming on his forehead.

  “Har-har.” He felt his forehead gingerly. “We were ambushed. Scrummel Bears. Mean ones.”

  With that Kevin and I gave Chester a “See?” look. He shrugged and looked away.

  Let me say this. Scrummel Bears may be small, but what they lack in height, they make up in sheer meanness and stupidity. Awful things.

  “They took King Roquefort and the other guard.” The ogre looked down, ashamed. “I tried to stop ’em.”

  Kevin spoke up. “Well, don’t feel too bad. It looks like one of them got you pretty good.”

  Buddy seemed to slump down even further. “No. I kind of spazzed out. Ran around a bit.”

  We were all silent for a moment, letting that sink in.

  “Do you have a phone?” he mumbled. “I tried to text Prince . . . I mean King Roquefort, but I can’t get reception.”

  “Really? Who’s your provider?” Chester asked him.

  “Grimm, unfortunately.”

  Kevin threw his hands up in disgust. “SEE? Grimm is the worst! I told you guys.”

  I pulled out my phone—full bars!—and started to hand it to the injured ogre.

  “Can you do it?” he said. “My head is pounding like a . . . like a . . . like a pound cake.” Which made no sense, but the poor guy HAD just face-planted into a tree.

  While I texted, Kevin and Chester explained about the butt-dialing and hearing the attack.

  The following is a transcript of the text conversation that took place between Acting-King Roquefort and me:

  The four of us took off, following the almost empty creek bed. Buddy (let’s just agree from here out that this was Buddy—I’d have asked him, but at this point it would have been really awkward) was a little shaky on his feet at first, but he kept up. Before long we spotted a gigantic flumpfruit tree, and just beyond it was the honey bog.

  I’d never actually seen a honey bog, but I’d heard enough to know they were incredibly dangerous—and tasty. Bog honey is some of the thickest, stickiest honey in the world, and it can make a disgusting flaxseed biscuit taste like heaven. But stumbling into a honey bog makes a struggle with quicksand seem like slipping out of a warm bath. Seriously. Honey bogs scoff at quicksand.

  We ran up to the edge of the bog, careful not to dip even a toe into the goo.

  There was a dead tree lying across the bog, and several feet out, a cage was hooked on one of the branches. It looked like the cage the Swampfrogs had been in at the joust. Inside the cage, whining and cursing like a sticky foul-mouthed baby, was Roquefort—half submerged. There was also some sort of fancy antique chair in there with him, which made no sense to me.

  “Get me out of here! It’s a delectable trap!!”

  Just to the side of the cage, there was a tiny little Scrummel bear claw sticking out of the honey. It wasn’t moving. Next to it was the tip of a bear’s backside. The Scrummel Bears had not fared well.

  Then I spotted the other ogre, or I should say I spotted the very tip of his nose and lips, sticking out of the honey closer to shore. It was a struggle, but he got out a muffled cry for help.

  Buddy started to make his way out onto the dead tree. But his weight was too much, and the tree rolled, forcing Roquefort farther into the sticky mess. Roquefort squealed.

  This whole Belford Way thing was proving to be a giant pain.

  I made it halfway out on the tree before it rolled again.

  I swayed, flailed my arms, and swung my hips like I’d invented some new, stupid-looking dance—but I fell in anyway. I sank in slowly, but the parts that went in were stuck. Really stuck.

  Being the brain trust that I am, I reached my hand down to pull a foot out—and that hand got stuck. It was like playing Twister in Super Glue.

  My friends sprang into action. It was like watching TV on fast forward. Suddenly Chester was up the flumpfruit tree and yanking out the longest vines he could find. Kevin tied one of the vines around his waist and crawled out onto the log, pulling the other vines behind him—with Chester holding the log as still as he could.

  Kev dropped the first vine over the mouth of the submerged ogre, who clamped it between his teeth, and then Buddy began pulling with everything he had.

  Roquefort saw this and went nuts. “WHA . . . ?? The ogre’s DISPOSABLE!! I’m your KING!!”

  Kevin stayed focused on his task, and I had a moment to wonder: Could this possibly be my scaredy-pig friend coming to my rescue? Then, as he tossed me a vine, I realized it was all because I was in danger—he hadn’t thought twice—and a lump the size of a Lava Dragon lodged itself in my panicked throat. Then I was being pulled to shore as well.

  Next, Kevin tied a vine to the rungs of Roquefort’s cage, sat back, and kicked the cage
free. The force of his kick rolled the tree again, and Kevin flipped. My heart sank as he landed face-first in the honey, with a sound like a pumpkin landing in pudding.

  Chester pulled as hard as he could at Kevin’s vine. There was a loud sucking sound as Kev was pulled backward, and his honey-covered face slid free.

  “OH! OH, IT’S SO TERRIBLY STICKY!” he gasped.

  Then I just held on as hard as I could while Chester and Buddy dragged us all (slowly) out of the mire.

  As soon as Kevin was pulled clear of the bog, I rolled over and threw a sticky arm around him. “Thank you, Kevin.” We were all gasping for air. “You saved my life.” I was getting misty-eyed with emotion. “That was so awesome.”

  Kevin sat up. “It’s okay, Zarf. I . . . Wow. I really did it, huh?”

  “You sure did, Kev. That was amazing. You totally risked your life for all of us!”

  That was when Kevin started to shake. “I sure did . . . Risk my life, I mean . . . I . . .” He started breathing harder, and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead as it all sank in.

  Kev’s eyes were suddenly bugging out of his head, and he started sucking in air in big whooping gulps. “I COULD HAVE DIED!! DEAD DIED!!! HOLY MOLY, I COULD HAVE SMOTHERED IN SWEET, SWEET GOOEY—” And then he abruptly passed out.

  Ten minutes later, after Kevin regained consciousness and his wits, we all sludged our way from the edge of the honey bog to the nearby creek, looking like syrupy, leaf-covered swamp monsters. Every fly in the kingdom seemed to have found us as well.