Sean Cullen - The Prince of Neither Here Nor There

“Brendan, I didn’t hear anything.” Brendan looked into his friend’s face and saw only worry there, the same worry that had been on his parents’ faces last night and at breakfast this morning. He decided to change the subject.

“Never mind.” Brendan waved Dmitri away. “I’m fine. Just a little tired, I guess.” Dmitri didn’t look convinced.

“C’mon,” Brendan said. “We’re gonna be late.” He took a final look at the now-silent rock and strode up the street.

Dmitri had to hurry to catch up with Brendan. The scowl on Brendan’s face pre-empted any attempt at conversation. Dmitri was worried. He’d never seen his friend behave this way before.

Brendan was scowling to cover up his bewilderment. He was sure he’d heard someone speaking to him and was terrified he was losing his mind. What made it worse was the fact that the world just seemed so noisy all of a sudden. The birds seemed louder. Every car driving past sounded like a freight train. The leaves in the trees rattled in the wind and the sound was so acute that he felt they were speaking. If only he could listen to them more closely, he might catch a word or two of their conversation. He clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to clap his hands over his ears.

They reached the park and started along the path that would carry them diagonally across the green to the school. The wind was gusting strongly, plucking at his jacket and keening in his ears.

“Winter is coming.” The wind’s whistling resolved into a haunting voice. Brendan stopped so suddenly that Dmitri ran into him. The wind spoke again. “Smell the snow. The devouring winter comes.”

Brendan whirled and grabbed Dmitri. “What did you say?”

Dmitri stared into Brendan’s eyes, inches from his own. “I… I… didn’t say anything.”

“Are you trying to freak me out?” Brendan’s eyes were wide and wild, white showing all around the pupil. “I heard someone speaking. I heard a voice. How are you doing this?”

Dmitri didn’t know what to say. He stepped back in confusion. Brendan saw how frightened his friend was, and with a great effort, he reined in his own terror. “I’m sorry, D. I didn’t mean to scare you… I… I don’t know what’s going on. I’m just feeling really weird. I can’t explain it.”

“It’s okay. I understand.” Dmitri smiled to reassure Brendan, but his eyes said that he clearly wasn’t comfortable.

“Why don’t you go on ahead,” Brendan suggested. “I need a minute to myself. To clear my head.”

“Are you sure? You don’t seem well.”

“Yeah, yeah. I just need a minute. I’m tired, that’s all.”

Dmitri didn’t need much convincing. “All right. I’ll see you in homeroom.” He quickly set off across the park but not without a worried backward glance.

Brendan sank down onto a park bench. He’d lied when he said he’d felt tired. Quite the opposite, he felt completely wired. His nerves were jangling, he felt more acutely aware of everything around him. He could sense each blade of grass reaching for the weak rays of the sun. He felt their yearning, their despair as they seemed to know that autumn was ending and they were doomed to die.

What is happening to me? Am I losing my mind? He felt close to tears.

“Food? Food? Food?” sang a chorus of tiny voices. They were high and silly sounding like when he swallowed helium out of a balloon or when his dad sped up recordings of his voice to make him laugh.

Brendan looked around in confusion. There was no one nearby. “Hello?”

“Food? Food? Food?” the voices repeated, more insistent this time.

Brendan looked down and gasped.

A gang of chubby grey squirrels had gathered around the bench. Not unusual, for they congregated whenever a person stood still, hoping for scraps of bread or potato chips. Their beady black eyes fixed Brendan with fevered intensity.

Suddenly, their tiny mouths opened in unison. “Food? Food? Food?”

Brendan practically choked, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. “You… you’re talking!”

The squirrels scampered closer, forming a ring around Brendan’s trainers. “Food? Food? Food?” The little voices were annoyed now. Tiny paws stretched out in entreaty. It was such a human gesture that Brendan answered, “I don’t have anything.”

One of the squirrels suddenly reached up a paw and seemed to pull its head off. Brendan gasped. It wasn’t a head. It was a hat. Standing amid the squirrels was a small man with big black eyes and a twitching nose. He was dressed in a suit of grey fur, roughly stitched together. In his hand was a minute 45 silver object, a forked stick made out of metal with a cord strung between the tips of the two tines. It was a tiny slingshot! The little man sneered at Brendan.

“What’s the deal, buddy? You gonna give us some bread or what?” The voice was high and squeaky.

Brendan swallowed, gasping for air. “I… I…”

“C’mon, you selfish jerk. I can smell that tuna sandwich in your knapsack. Fork it over.”

Brendan lurched to his feet. “This can’t be happening,” he choked.

An old woman who was walking along the path stopped short at Brendan’s outburst. “Are you all right?” she asked.

Brendan stared at her, then back at the little man, still standing amid the pack of rodents. Wild-eyed, he looked back at the old woman. “Don’t you see him?”

“See who?” She looked down at the little coven of squirrels. “The squirrels?”

Brendan whipped his head around to glare at the little man, who smiled sardonically up at him.

“The little man! Right there! He’s right there!” Brendan’s voice rose toward hysteria. The old woman suddenly decided that she had better places to be. She backed up a few steps and then turned to hurry back the way she had come.

“Are you gonna give us something or what?” the tiny voice demanded.

Brendan shook his head, moving away from the pack of squirrels. “You can’t be real. You can’t be real!” He tripped over the corner of the bench and fell backward, dropping his knapsack.

“C’mon, lads!” the tiny man cried. The squirrels swarmed forward, their little paws scrabbling at the flaps of the pack, worming their way inside.

“Hey, that’s mine!”

The tiny man leapt easily onto the bench. He moved like the squirrels, in quick darting leaps. “Back off, biggun! It’s ours now!”

Brendan made a grab for his bag but a sudden pain stung his ear. “Ow!”

The tiny man was reloading his slingshot, grinning. His mouth was filled with sharp rows of teeth. “Go ahead, punk! Try that again! Lord Chitter will sting you a second time!”

That was the final straw. Brendan screamed and turned tail. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He ran as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. He ran…

Straight into a tree.

He saw stars… with angry squirrels dancing among them… then blackness.

^44 Do not take your cat’s advice in business dealings. I speak from experience. My cat was my investment manager for three years. I now own over seventy thousand squeaky mice and an acre of swamp in Siberia.

^45 By minute (pronounced my-nyoot), I don’t mean a minute (pronounced mi-nit) made up of sixty seconds. I mean minute (pronounced my-nyoot), which is another word for very small. I suppose a minute (pronounced mi-nit) is a small part of an hour, one might say. A Minute (pronounced mi-nit) Man was a nickname for American soldiers in the Revolutionary War. But they were not minute (pronounced my-nyoot) but capable of being ready in a minute (pronounced mi-nit). A very important difference. Tiny soldiers would certainly have been defeated in short (pardon the pun) order.