Braver, Page 7

  Though it felt nice to rest, Lola was eager to be on her way. Bob and Stanley seemed equally eager, for they picked up their pace, their long tails dragging on the ground, collecting dirt, and leaving a furrow behind them. Melvin, however, held his tail aloft. “Melvin,” Lola said, walking alongside him.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you hear that sound last night? In the swamp?”

  “What sound?”

  “Like someone was moving through the water.”

  He thought for a moment. “It could have been a fish, or a bullfrog. Or…” He reached out and patted Lola’s shoulder. “There’s nothing following us, if that’s what you’re thinking. If it had been another one of those devils, we wouldn’t be here, walking together.” Lola nodded, for that seemed true enough. But she couldn’t shake off the weird feeling she’d had last night. She glanced over her shoulder.

  Now that they were back on a path, it was easy for Lola to keep up with her rat companions. Being larger, she could outpace them with little effort. They’d been so nice to guide her through the swamp. Would it be rude if she ran ahead? She desperately wanted to get to the Royal Road. Her legs twitched, urging her to run. Urging her to gallop. “Melvin, now that we’re out of the swamp, I think I might—” She stopped in her tracks. “Did you hear that?”

  Melvin stopped walking and tilted his head to listen. The sound was faint and coming from behind an outcropping of rocks.

  “Someone’s crying,” Lola said.

  “I think you’re right,” Melvin said. “Hey, Bob! Stanley!” The two were well up the path.

  “Wait!” Lola hollered at them.

  Bob turned his head slightly, but kept his pace. “We wait for food and nothing else.”

  Then he and Stanley began singing another garbage-themed song. They marched around a bend in the path and disappeared from view.

  Melvin shook his head. “They only care about their stomachs.”

  The crying continued, soft little sobs, reminding Lola of how she’d felt when she’d been alone in her burrow. The sound practically broke her heart. No one should feel that sad. She pushed aside branches, heading into a thicket that stood between the path and the rockery. The small shrubbery proved no trouble for Melvin. Lola, however, found herself having to turn aside several times as the branches grew too thick or too pokey. The first thing they found was a basket lying on the ground, its lid off and its contents spilled about. “Are those … apples?” Melvin asked. He picked one up. “They are. I haven’t seen a ripe apple in ages. We usually just get the cores, or rotting skins.” He sank his teeth into the red skin. “Oh, it’s delicious. Try one.”

  Lola loved apples, and it did look tempting, but the mysterious someone was still crying. “I’ll try it later,” she told him. He grabbed three and put them into his bucket. They kept walking. Soon they came upon another basket; this one had also spilled its contents. “How strange,” Melvin said. “First a basket of apples in a place where apples don’t grow, and now a basket of pears, which don’t grow here either.” He dropped four into his bucket.

  Lola bristled with curiosity, cocking her head as she tried to get a read on the sound. The crying was still muffled, but closer. They hurried around a large rock and found another basket, but this one’s lid was secure. The crying leaked out between the woven reeds. Melvin grabbed his shovel and held it in both hands, a serious look on his face. “Just in case it’s a trick and I need to whack it on the head,” he whispered. Lola was surprised by this, for Melvin didn’t seem like a critter who would whack anything on the head.

  “Trick?”

  He mouthed the word snake.

  Lola had never heard of a poisonous tiger snake living that far north, but anything seemed possible after these last few days. She nodded at Melvin; he tightened his grip and nodded back. Then she grabbed the edges of the lid and pulled it free.

  The first thing they saw was a beak, which was open so wide they could see down the bird’s gullet. With the lid removed, the crying increased in volume, prompting Lola to pull her ears down. Melvin relaxed his arms and let the shovel drop. Then he and Lola took a step closer and peered inside.

  The bird sat with his head flung back. His belly was white but his face was blue, as were his feet and flippers. His back, however, was covered in downy gray feathers. A few had been shed and were caught on the breeze, rising into the air along with a strong, fishy scent.

  “It’s a penguin,” Lola said in surprise. “A fairy penguin.”

  “And he’s a baby,” Melvin said as he plucked one of the downy feathers from the air.

  The penguin’s beak snapped shut. He scrambled to his feet and glowered at them. “Not a baby!” His voice was astonishingly loud.

  Melvin held back a smile. “Oh dear, I’m very sorry I called you a baby. What would you rather be called?”

  The penguin sniffled and looked at Melvin with tear-filled eyes. “B-B-Blue.”

  “Well, hello, Blue. It’s very nice to meet you.” Melvin bowed formally. “I’m Melvin and this is Lola. You’re a long way from Penguin Bay. What are you doing up here?”

  The penguin chick wiped his tears with one of his flippers. “L-L-Lost!” he bellowed. He threw his head back and started crying again.

  “There, there,” Lola said, crouching beside the basket. “We’re here and we’ll help you. Please stop crying.”

  “I-I-I want my Mum!”

  Lola wanted the exact same thing, but she didn’t want to scare the little fella with her terrible story. “Would you like to get out of that basket?” She carefully tipped the basket so Blue could waddle out. Once he was on the ground, Lola and Melvin got a better look. He was a plump little bird, his rounded belly barely hidden beneath his still-downy feathers and general fluffiness. He hopped around a lot as they stood there, some of his feathers falling out as he did.

  “How did you get here?” Melvin asked.

  “Up.” He pointed at the sky.

  “Up?” Lola frowned at Melvin. “I thought penguins couldn’t fly.”

  “They can’t,” Melvin confirmed.

  “I fly! I fly!”

  Melvin raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling us that you flew all the way here from Penguin Bay?”

  “I fly, I fly, I fly!” Blue began to stomp around in a circle. As he stomped, a few more downy feathers were set free. “I fly, I fly!”

  Melvin whispered to Lola from the corner of his mouth, “I’m no psychologist, but I’d say that he’s got a bit of an anger-management problem.”

  Or maybe he’s scared to be all alone in the wilderness, Lola thought. Either way, he was definitely a funny critter. “Why were you in that basket?” Lola asked.

  Blue stopped stomping and looked up at Lola with an expression of bewilderment, as if she should know exactly what he’d been doing. “I sleep.”

  “You climbed inside to sleep, then someone closed the lid?” she guessed.

  He shrugged. Then he threw his head back and cried, “Hungry!” Lola wondered if his mother and father wore earmuffs around him.

  “Do you want to eat some worms?” she asked, grabbing the tin from her backpack. How fortunate that Josie had given this to her.

  “No!” Blue started stomping in a circle again. Lola was a bit surprised by his reaction. Most of the birds she knew in the Northern Forest loved worms. She’d seen the chicks in their nests with their beaks open, begging for food. One worm always seemed to do the trick. Blue chanted, “Hungry, hungry, hungry!”

  “Well, this is most unpleasant,” Melvin said dryly, looking over his shoulder as if he almost missed Bob and Stanley.

  “Hungry, hungry, hungry, hungry, hungry!”

  “You sure you don’t want a worm?” Lola asked.

  “Hungry, hungry, hungry, hungry, hungry, hungry, HUNGRY!”

  Melvin scowled. “Maybe his parents left him here on purpose.”

  “We’ve got to feed him,” Lola said. “You grab him and I’ll put a worm into his mouth.�
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  Melvin did just that, wrapping his arms around Blue to hold him still. The penguin opened his beak to complain and that’s when Lola dropped a worm in. Melvin let go.

  “Yuck!” Blue cried, spitting it out. He started hopping up and down. “HUNGRY!”

  “What do you want to eat?” Lola asked.

  “Fish!”

  Melvin went cross-eyed for a moment as he plucked a downy feather off his nose. Then he sighed and said, “Guess we’re going fishing.”

  Lola and Melvin helped Blue waddle through the thicket to the river’s edge. Bob and Stanley were long gone. Had they reached the Royal Road by now? Lola was itching to get going. She stared down the path.

  Melvin followed her gaze. “Lola, you don’t have to stay here. I can help Blue. You go ahead and find your family. I can seek my fortune later.”

  It was a very kind offer, and for a moment, Lola considered accepting it. But Melvin had stayed behind because Lola had insisted on finding out who was crying. It didn’t seem fair to abandon him with a temperamental baby penguin. And the penguin was too large for Melvin to carry. It would take forever for the two of them to get anywhere. Lola, being much stockier, would have no trouble carrying him. “I’m hungry, too,” she said. “Let’s eat and then we can make up for our lost time.”

  Blue stood at the river’s edge, staring at the water, a pout spread across his face. “Why doesn’t he dive in?” Melvin asked.

  “He’s too young,” Lola explained. “Those downy feathers have to be replaced with waterproof feathers. Until that time, he won’t be able to swim.”

  “How do you know so much about penguins?” Melvin asked.

  “There’s a story about them in my book.”

  “I see.” Melvin rubbed his chin. “I guess we’ll have to go fishing for him.” He pulled a hook and line from his bucket and strung them through the handle of his shovel. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing with fishing gear,” he said. Lola nodded. “Unlike my compatriots, I prefer fresh seafood to rotting seafood.” He held out his paw. “Worm?”

  Lola opened the tin and handed over a plump red worm. She winced as Melvin skewered it with the hook. The worm continued wriggling. With the makeshift rod complete, Melvin climbed atop a rock and cast the string daintily into an eddy. Lola grabbed one of the apples and sat down to watch the process. As she chewed, she thought about Bale Blackwater, who’d dove to catch his fish. Too bad he wasn’t here to help.

  “Hungry!” Blue yelled.

  “I’m doing my best,” Melvin said.

  “Fish!”

  Melvin sighed with exasperation. “My dear little friend, I suggest you stop yelling. If you scare the fish, you won’t have anything to eat.”

  Blue seemed to understand because his beak snapped shut. But his impatience showed as he smacked his webbed feet together.

  Lola offered a piece of apple to the penguin but he refused. So she chewed and watched while Melvin jiggled the shovel. A few minutes later, the line went taut. Blue scrambled to his feet and waddled to the water’s edge. Melvin pulled the line. A silver fish appeared. Blue bounced up and down. “Fishy!”

  Melvin carefully removed it from the hook. “Shall I clean it and fillet it for you? I have a knife in my—”

  Blue grabbed the fish with his flipper and swallowed it whole.

  “Well, that’s an option, too,” Melvin said.

  “More!” Blue demanded.

  Lola couldn’t help but laugh at the penguin’s enthusiasm. Even though he didn’t seem to know the words please or thank you and didn’t seem capable of speaking quietly, he was a funny, fluffy little fella. But she was beginning to understand why some wombats preferred the quiet.

  Melvin proceeded to catch a dozen more fish, casting his hook until the worm tin was empty. Blue sat contentedly, calmer now, his legs splayed, his belly round and full. “It’s good manners to pat your belly after you eat a meal,” Lola told him. She demonstrated, for the apple and the remaining water-ribbon root had satisfied her. Blue patted and burped a fishy burp. Then he gazed curiously at his rescuers as if noticing them for the first time.

  “Not penguins,” he said.

  “I’m a wombat and Melvin is a swamp water rat.”

  Blue seemed to absorb the information, scratching his head with his flipper. Then, in the way youngsters tend to do, he changed the topic.

  “Home.” Tears flooded his eyes.

  Lola looked at Melvin. They stepped away from Blue so they could talk in private. “I don’t know where Penguin Bay is,” she admitted.

  “It’s quite a detour.” They examined her map. The Royal Road forked, with the southwest branch leading to Dore and the southern branch leading to Penguin Bay. Taking Blue home meant going off course. Lola needed to see her uncle as soon as possible. “Maybe we can find someone else to take him home,” she said.

  “It’s possible we’ll find someone in the Mouse Farmlands,” Melvin said. Lola refolded the map, then looked to the sky. It was late afternoon. They needed to get going.

  “I’ll have to carry him.” Lola opened her backpack. In order to make room for the penguin, she’d have to move a few items. “Would you carry these for me?” She handed the map to Melvin. Then she pulled out The Tales of Tassie Island. She didn’t want the penguin to get it all fishy. “This is very important to me. Will you take good care of it?”

  “Of course,” Melvin said. He pointed to the piece of crumpled paper. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a…” Lola paused. How wise would it be to tell someone she’d just met about her secret message? If it was meant to be shared then it wouldn’t be called a secret. She tucked it into the side pouch on her pack. “It’s nothing.”

  Melvin’s eyes widened. “Ooh, do tell.”

  “It’s something I’d rather not talk about right now.” Melvin seemed to understand, for he asked no more questions. But his gaze remained glued to the side pouch.

  “Sleepy!” Blue’s outburst startled them both, especially as he slumped himself against Lola’s leg.

  “You can take a nap in here,” Lola told him, tapping his shoulder to keep him awake. She arranged her cloak to make a soft nest. Then she picked Blue up and set him in the backpack. His head stuck out. Melvin helped get the pack onto Lola’s back, then put Lola’s belongings in his bucket and grabbed his shovel. Finally, they set out again. At first Lola wondered why the path smelled so fishy. Then she realized that the scent was traveling with her. Penguins were definitely fragrant. Fortunately, she didn’t have to worry about Blue yelling in her ears because it only took a few minutes for her steps to rock him to sleep.

  Despite the fact that Melvin seemed like a nice rat, and that he had been very kind and helpful, Lola was glad she hadn’t shared her secret message. Her question about what it meant would have to wait until she was in her uncle’s presence. And then she’d ask another big question—why had Bale Blackwater told her that a bloodthirsty brute had sent the message?

  A strange sensation crept up her spine. She looked over her shoulder. The path behind was empty. And the only thing she could smell was penguin breath.

  10

  THE MISSING MESSAGE

  Another night was falling over the Fairwater River. The trio stopped walking just as the moon began to rise and take precedence over the sun, its own light soon to illuminate the world. For supper, Lola found an abundance of grasses and ate the remaining apples and pears that Melvin had collected earlier. Melvin caught a giant crayfish, which he and Blue shared, along with a dozen small river fish. Blue dropped each fish into his beak before noisily gulping it down. Melvin, being fastidiously mannered, carefully shelled the crayfish onto a plate, then ate the tender flesh with a fork. He never went anywhere without his plate and proper utensils. Blue seemed unsure what to do with his half of the crayfish, tapping at the hard shell with his beak. Melvin took pity on him and passed him the already unshelled half, beginning the process anew.

  “It’s peacefu
l here,” Melvin said as he looked out over the river.

  Lola’s fur wavered like the grasslands as a cool breeze passed by. A pair of stars twinkled.

  Lola sighed. “My mum and dad would love this place. Wombats are keen on peace and quiet.”

  Blue burped, then grinned dopily in satisfaction, sending the scent of undigested seafood throughout the campsite.

  “Blue,” Lola said. “Remember what I taught you to do?” He nodded, then patted his round belly to show he was full. “Good job. Now it’s time for bed.” She expected some sort of tantrum about not wanting to go to sleep, but the little penguin yawned and his eyes drooped.

  Having carried Blue in her backpack for most of the day, Lola was beyond exhausted. She desperately wanted to feel the warmth and closeness of a burrow. While Melvin went about his nightly grooming routine, which included a swamp-mud facial mask and a swamp-mud conditioning spritz, Lola began to dig. She made a shallow burrow and just as she finished removing the last few pawfuls of dirt, Blue squirmed his way inside. She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to sleep alone.

  She bid good night to Melvin, who’d set up his sleeping bag beneath the star-filled sky, and then she crawled into the burrow. Blue cuddled up against her. Poor little fella, she thought. When he started to sniffle for his parents, she said, “Want me to read you a bedtime story?” He squirmed eagerly. Despite his fishy scent, he was warm and fluffy, and it felt nice to cuddle with someone, for she was also deeply missing her family and home. She took out The Tales of Tassie Island and considered the choices. “The Tale of the Long Waddle” was her favorite story, but the wombats’ exodus from their homeland to the Northern Forest contained scary scenes and she didn’t want to get Blue all riled up. She also liked “The Ugly Hatchling,” but it might make him sad to read about a mommy bird sitting on her eggs. And because the goal was to get Blue to fall asleep, she decided to read him the most boring part of the book—the table of contents. “Chapter One, ‘The Sleepy Volcano.’ Chapter Two, ‘The Golden City by the Bay.’ Chapter Three…”