The Indigo King - James A. Owen [12]
“How did you know we were here to begin with?” asked John. “What brought you looking for us?”
“We wuz told that on this particular Saturday, Scowler Charles would be in trouble an’ needin’ our help. We’ve been waiting for this day f’r as long as I can remember.”
“That’s all well and good,” said Jack, “but he isn’t here. We’re awfully glad to see you, though.”
The badger waved over one of the others, who pulled out a book that they both began examining with great fervor.
“That binding looks very familiar,” said Jack. “What is that book, anyway?”
“Th’ Little Whatsit,” answered the smaller badger. “It’s our guidebook of everything that’s anything.”
“Sort of like the Great Whatsit back on Paralon?” asked John.
“No,” said the first badger, “exactly the Great Whatsit. Just portable-like, so we have what we need to know when we needs it. Um, what year is this, anyway?”
“It’s 1931,” replied John.
“It’s the right date,” the badger said. “Maybe we’re in th’ wrong place! Oh dear, oh dear!”
All of the badgers’ eyes widened in shock, and the bigger ones started smacking themselves in the heads with their paws.
“But, Father—,” said the little one.
“Not now,” the first badger said, shushing him.
“Here now,” said John. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve failed,” said the first badger. “We’ve failed the great Scowler Charles!”
“I assure you,” Jack said soothingly, “Charles is fine. He’s nowhere near here. But our friend Hugo is in trouble, and you are, ah, exactly what we needed.”
“Really?” the badger said hopefully. He saluted again, and the others followed suit. “The Royal Animal Rescue Squad, at y’r service.”
“Thanks,” said John. “Say, none of you would happen to be related to our friend Tummeler, would you?”
The first badger nodded enthusiastically. “I is indeed! I am the son of Tummeler, and this,” he added, pulling the smaller badger with the book alongside him, “is the son of the son of Tummeler.”
“Well met!” said Jack. “And how are you properly addressed?”
“Charles Montgolfier Hargreaves-Heald,” said the badger, “but everyone calls me Uncas.”
“And you?” John asked, looking at the other, slightly smaller animal. “What’s your name?”
“Uh, Fred,” said the badger.
“Fred?” said John.
Uncas shrugged. “Badgers named Charles Mongolfier Hargreaves-Heald name their children Fred.”
“Why not follow the tale completely and call him Chingachgook?” asked Jack.
The badgers wrinkled their snouts in distaste. “That’s a very strange name,” said Uncas. “Why would I call him that?”
“Didn’t you get your name from the Cooper story?”
“The who what?” said Uncas, shaking his head. “I was once in a play called The Last of th’ Phoenicians,” the badger explained proudly. “It was written by my father. He gots th’ name from there, an’ it stuck t’ me.”
“My mistake,” said Jack.
* * *
“What can we do for you, Master Scowlers?” asked Uncas.
John and Jack explained what had happened with the Grail book, and the evening stroll, and the door in the wood, and Hugo’s disappearance. All the while they were speaking, the badgers listened with great attentiveness.
“Well,” said Uncas when they had finished, “we really had expected to be rescuin’ Scowler Charles, but seein’ as we’re already here, an your friend Hobo—”
“Hugo,” John corrected.
“Right, Hugo,” said Uncas. “Since he’s in trouble, we’ll see what we can do.”
The badgers swarmed around their vehicle—which Fred explained was called the Howling Improbable—apparently preparing for whatever it was that a Royal Animal Rescue Squad did, while John and Jack watched in patient amusement.
“Do you think Charles is aware of the hero worship being spread around the animal community in the Archipelago?” asked Jack.
“Probably,” said John, “but if he isn’t, I’m not going to be the one who tells him.”
Jack gestured at the badger called Fred, who approached the men with a mixture of shyness and awe. “Yes, Master Scowlers?”
“Tell us about your book,” said John, crouching down to meet Fred’s eyes. “This ‘Little Whatsit.’”
“The prince, Stephen,” said Fred. “It was his