by Justin Ocelot
Bardiff, overcome by the intoxicating scent of so many flowers, hugged tight his bag, jumped into the air, and let himself tumble down the slope, happily paying the price of a few bruises for the experience. He came to rest at the edge of a forest of sunflowers in bloom and lay there, gazing upward, as the shadows of those broad shifting leaves caressed him.
Yes, he had a very important mission to complete. But that wasn’t going to stop him from having a little fun. He was a mole and had spent his entire (not very long) life underground in dark, wet, echoing, endless, and not very interesting tunnels. Now, for the first time, he was free of all that.
Hopping to his feet, he ventured in among the thick trunks of the heliotropes. Grasshoppers and ladybugs looked down on him from above. “Isn’t it marvelous!” he called. “We have nothing, absolutely nothing, like this in Burrowdeep.”
Beyond the sunflowers he came to a rocky slope. As he climbed, his moleish feet assessed the character of the earth, allowing him to steer clear of loose soil susceptible to sudden shifts and landslides. At the top, he came out on a windswept bluff and saw two mice tromping along a narrow path, carrying sacks over their shoulders.
Bardiff’s heart fell a notch or two. These must be the post mice he was looking for. His mission was nearly complete. He had hoped it would go on a little longer and involve at least a few setbacks and surprises.
“Haloo! Wait up!” he called out, hurrying to catch up with them.
“Hi there!” said the smaller of the mice. “Are you a mole? We don’t get many moles around here. What’s your name? I’m Fiana Postmouse. Have you a letter to send? It must be awfully important for you to venture out of Burrowdeep.”
“Um,” said Bardiff, who was out of breath and uncertain where to begin.
“Don’t talk to him,” said the older and larger of the pair. “Moles aren’t allowed to send letters. They’re the enemy.”
“The enemy!” cried Fiana. “How thrilling! Shall we tie him up and torture him until he confesses his nefarious plot? I’ve never tortured anyone before, but I’m sure I’d be good at it.”
“Um,” said Bardiff again, still out of breath and even more uncertain what he should say.
“He’s definitely dangerous,” Fiana went on. “Look at that evil grimace and those beady, calculating eyes. Do you suppose he aims to steal our letters? I bet he does!”
The older mouse had taken the lead. She now gave Bardiff a withering glare over her shoulder.
But he wasn’t about to back down. Struggling to keep pace, he said, “I’m not the enemy. Burrowdeep may not have honored all our treaty obligations, but we’ve never attacked mouse or vole. We are still loyal to the king in Lindenfree. In fact, it is to him I must send my missive.”
“The king! A likely story! I don’t believe it for a minute. Do you believe him, sister? I don’t! Why, he doesn’t even know the king passed away ten seasons ago and his daughter now rules in Lindenfree. He’s a spy, clearly, and a poor one at that. I’m certain he means to slay us with the dagger he’s got hidden in his boot.”
“I’m not wearing boots.”
“Liar!”
“See for yourself.”
“I bet he doesn’t even have a letter!”
At this Bardiff undid the button on his bag and proudly held up the envelope, affixed with the seal of Burrowdeep. “See! Official and everything!”
The older mouse turned and looked at the document. “Clearly a fake,” she said.
By this time they had arrived at a patch of five or six thistles rising up like towers at the edge of the bluff. As the mice began to clamber up the prickly stalks, Bardiff bowed his head in silent mourning for King Odric. News always came late to Burrowdeep, if it came at all, and they had not heard of his passing. When he looked up again, he saw a marvelous sight. The two mice were attaching their letters, one by one, to tufts of thistledown, using ribbons of various colors. Bardiff watched as they sailed out over the countryside.
After a while, he found a good spot to sit and watch the show. In all his days underground he had never seen anything half as marvelous as this.
Eventually, the two mice, done with their task, came to sit next to him. “My name is Runa,” said the older one. “I guess you might be all right after all.”
“Thanks,” said Bardiff.
“Does this mean we don’t get to torture him?” asked Fiana, disappointed.
“Oh, I think he can do that all on his own. We don’t send letters to the palace anymore, Mr. Mole. The enemy controls all the winds between here and Lindenfree. If you really want to give that letter to the queen, you’ll have to carry it yourself.”
Bardiff heaved a bitter sigh. “Carry it through the Owlingwald? That’s not a job for me. Someone else will have to be chosen. Someone good with swords and spears. I’m afraid my little adventure is at an end.”
He got to his feet, thanked the two mice for their kindness, including not subjecting him to terrible tortures, and headed back glumly the way he’d come. But just as he arrived at the edge of the bluff and was about to descend, a small note hove into view above him, carried aloft on a seed of thistledown. He waited as it dropped to the ground, then picked it up and read the following:
To: Any Mole of Adventurous Heart
There is a safe path through the Owlingwald. We have a map.
Bardiff stood there a long time, staring at the scrap. Could he, a mole of no special skill or ability, really make such a journey? Well, he had been told to deliver a letter. How could he give up with the task uncompleted?
Back he sped, toward the thistles, and the mice, and the map. His adventure wasn’t over. In fact, it was just beginning.
* * *
About the Author
Justin Ocelot is an arboreal writer and artist with a tawny coat and pointed ears. He’s currently focusing on short stories. More info at his website: justinocelot.com.