Foo Foo
A Parable
by
Patrick Riot
Digital Edition ISBN 978-1-4658-2772-2
Copyright 2011 Patrick Riot
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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For those two Good Fairies, Rebecca and Maggie.
Table of Contents
For Milton, that day had started just like every other. He woke up at the usual time, stretched his night-tightened arms and legs, made his nest, and wandered into the kitchen to see what he could find for breakfast. He still had a couple of blueberries in the larder, and the small chunk of cheese that he'd been nibbling on for three days now. There was also the pile of seeds that he'd been collecting. He always stocked early for the winter. It saved on last-minute foraging, when every mouse was out there, scrambling around, trying to find that last bit of food of the season to put away.
What Milton really wanted was some coffee.
Once, he had found a half-cup of coffee sitting on a rock along the forest path, left there by a negligent hiker, and it had smelled and tasted so delicious that he had to take it home. Milton had spent the better part of a day heaving and tugging at the cup, bringing it back to his burrow, and he was so careful that not a drop was lost. That was last fall, though, and Milton hadn't had coffee since that short, blissful week. He'd managed to get so much done! He would heat up a thimble-full, and that would last him all day, but now the coffee was gone, and Milton's mornings were miserable once more. He selected a blueberry, filled his thimble with dew, and sat down to enjoy his morning meal.
The sounds of a commotion at the entrance to Milton's burrow made his whiskers twitch.
“A visitor,” he said to himself. “Who could be coming by for a visit this early in the morning?”
Milton wasn't worried by the commotion. A predator hadn't been seen in their part of the forest since Red, the cruel old tom-cat that ran the farmyard next to the forest with an iron paw, had died of old age eleven months ago. Since, Red had almost faded from living memory, and had elevated to a sort of mythological monster status among the mice. Young mice were admonished that if they weren't good, then Red the Cat would pounce on them in the dark.
“Milton!” It was Buttons, a small brown field mouse that Milton knew from the other side of the forest path. His voice had a quality of excitement that Milton could hardly believe because Buttons was usually so cool, calm and collected.
Buttons burst through the tunnel opening and collapsed against Milton, who guided him gently to the floor. He was trying to gasp for air and squeak at once, so Milton rushed to get his guest a thimble of dew to help him calm down.
“Squeaks!” Gasp. “Dozens!” Gasp. “Heads!” Gasp. “Innocent!”
“Slow down, Buttons,” Milton said, and gave his friend the water. Buttons' paws shook as he drank, but the act of drinking seemed to calm the rodent down a little. “Now, tell me what's going on.”
“Squeaks have been attacked!” Buttons finally managed to get out. “Dozens of innocent mice are dead, their skulls crushed... Milton, it's terrible! Terrible!”
Milton was shocked. Nothing like this had ever happened within the borders of the Squeak Republic, for that was the name which they had given their peaceful and prosperous land.
“Is there a new predator in the forest?” he asked nervously.
Buttons shook his head and groaned as he set the thimble of water aside. “No, they weren't eaten, Milton. I saw one of the victims with my own eyes. His... His head had been caved in and he had just been tossed aside the forest path! Then I came across another and another...”
“Oh Good Fairy, protect us,” Milton said. “Do you know who has been killed?”
“I don't know, Milton, I couldn't look at them. Their heads... Pools of blood... Oh it was horrible!”
Who could have done this? Milton asked himself. It was the most shocking thing that had happened within his lifetime.
“We've got to find out what is going on,” Milton said. “Let's head over to the community can and listen to what the anchor-mouse is saying about these attacks.”
The community can was located in a wide forest clearing underneath a grand oak tree. It was an old tin can that the mice had half-buried to serve as a community gathering place. Inside the can sat an anchor-mouse, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, providing news about the forest to anyone who wished to hear it. Usually, the news consisted purely of fluff pieces, such as how to remodel your burrow using nothing but a shoestring, or gossip stories about barnyard rats who had managed to obtain some grain alcohol. Most mice barely paid attention. But today, it was different.
Milton and Buttons arrived to find a crowd of other field mice already gathered near the can. Apparently, word of the attack had spread quickly among not only the mice, but many of the other forest animals as well. Milton tried to find other mice that he knew but the crowd was so large that it was difficult to discern one mouse from another. He did, however, recognize some of the larger animals that called the Squeak Republic home. Milton saw that Jacques the Frog had made an appearance. A chorus of crickets sat on top of the can, listening to the newscast. Eric the Turtle was slowly making his way toward the back of the crowd. Harry, an old hare that had come to Squeak in order to retire, sat at the edge of the clearing beside a doe whose name Milton couldn't remember.
Milton made his way over to the old hare.
“Hello, Mr. Harry,” he said to the rabbit.
“Hello, Mr. Milton. This is a tragic day for the Squeaks. I'm terribly sorry for your loss,” the old rabbit said.
“Thank you for your condolences, Mr. Harry. It is indeed quite a sad day. Dozens killed in an attack against our home soil… That’s never happened before, after all.”
“Have you finished with your histories?” Harry asked. Milton had been working on a series of mouse histories on the subject of Wolf War Two for five months now, and he had interviewed many of the longer-lived animals, including Harry, over a series of carrot dinners. He wanted to get eyewitness accounts of those dark, dark times.
“Almost,” Milton said. “Keep your eyes open, today, Mr. Harry, because grand history is unfolding before our very eyes. I might need to interview you, later.”