“Oh-oh,” I said.
“Indeed,” she replied.
I considered the inhuman remains of the three and the very human remains of the fourth.
“Who?” I asked.
“Owen himself. Someone stuffed him into one of his baskets and torched it.”
“A brilliant idea,” I said, “even if it was plagiarized.”
“Go ahead and mock,” said a voice from overhead. “He wasn’t your master.”
“Sorry, Cheeter,” I said. “But I can’t come up with a lot of sympathy for a man who tried to poison me.”
“He had his crochets,” the squirrel admitted, “but he also had the best oak tree in town. An enormous number of acorns were ruined last night.”
“Did you see who got him?”
“No. I was across town, visiting Nightwind.”
“What will you do now?”
“Bury more nuts. It’s going to be a long winter, and an outdoor one.”
“You could join MacCab and Morris,” Graymalk observed.
“No. I think I’ll follow Quicklime’s example and call it quits. The Game is getting very dangerous.”
“Do you know whether whoever did it took Owen’s golden sickle?” I asked.
“It’s not around out here,” he said. “It could still be inside, though.”
“You have a way in and out, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Had he a special place he kept it?”
“Yes.”
“Would you go inside and check and tell us whether it’s still there?”
“Why should I?”
“There might be something you’d like from us one day, a few scraps, the chasing away of a predator. . . .”
“I’d rather have something right now,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He leaped, but instead of falling he seemed to drift down to land beside us.
“I didn’t know you were a flying squirrel,” Graymalk said.
“I’m not,” he replied. “That’s a part of it, though.”
“I don’t understand,” she told him.
“I was a pretty dumb nut-chaser until Owen found me,” he said. “Most squirrels are. We know what we have to do to stay in business, but that’s about it. Not like you guys. He made me smarter. He gave me special things I can do, too, like that glide. But I lost something for it. I want to trade all this in and go back to being what I was, a happy nut-chaser who doesn’t care about opening and closing.”
“What all’s involved?” I asked.
“I gave up something for all this, and I want it back.”
“What?”
“Look down at the ground around me. What do you see?”
“Nothing special,” Graymalk said.
“My shadow’s gone. He took it. And he can’t give it back now, because he’s dead.”
“It’s a pretty cloudy day,” Graymalk said. “It’s hard to tell. . . .”
“Believe me. I ought to know.”
“I do,” I said. “It’d be a silly thing to go on about this way, otherwise. But what’s so important about a shadow? Who cares? What good is it to you up there, anyway, jumping around in trees where you can’t even see it most of the time?”
“There’s more to it than that,” he “explained. “It’s attached to other things that go away with it. I can’t feel things the way that I used to. I used to just know things, where the best nuts were, what the weather was going to be like, where the ladies were when the time came, how the seasons were changing. Now I think about it, and I can figure all these things out and can make plans to take advantage of them, something I could never have done before. But I’ve lost all those little feelings that came with the kind of knowing that comes without thinking. And I’ve thought about it a lot. I miss them. I’d rather go back to them than think and soar the way I do. You understand about magic. Not too many people do. I’ll check on the sickle if you’ll break Owen’s shadow-spell for me.”
I glanced at Graymalk, who shook her head.
“I’ve never heard of that spell,” she said.
“Cheeter, there are all kinds of magical systems,” I said. “They’re just shapes into which the power is poured. We can’t know them all. I’ve no idea what Owen did to your shadow or your, intuition, I guess, and the feelings that go with it. Unless we had some idea where it is and how to go about returning it and restoring it to you, I’m afraid we can’t be of help.”