Larceny and Limburger

By Abigail Cleek

Phezznibbet tucked his tail away from the edge of the bell tower. The market below rang with the clamor of eager merchants and haggling buyers―plenty of noise already without the ineludible racket of Big People spotting a Xintixa. Between those cheering for some exploit and others screeching in confusion at the sight of him, they’d shatter his long-awaited solitude in an instant.

Safely hidden, Phezz gave a contented sigh. Time to take things easy. What with river pirates, chicken thieves, and that gang of carriage bandits on the Mountain Road, it’d been weeks since his last quiet moment. Always another helpless Big Person in need of assistance.

Phezz raised his cheese pouch to his nose and took a deep breath of provolone, whiskers twitching with delight―

A scream filled his ears and he dropped his prize.

It wasn’t a “leave me alone, obnoxious little brother” kind of scream, or even “what is that creature eating cheese in the bell tower.” Phezz knew those from a mile away. This was the kind immediately followed by “stop, thief!” His keen eyes quickly spotted the girl clutching her collar and the bandit darting through the crowd, a glint of gold in his hand.

Pickpockets weren’t his responsibility, but Phezz had never abandoned a damsel in distress. He darted from the alcove and skidded down the shingles, dropping to four legs to dash after the thief.

Someone shrieked below. Now that was decidedly the “am I crazy or is a giant red squirrel running on the church roof” variety. Phezz ignored the unspoken insult―the nerve, to call him a squirrel―and focused on the ragged crook below. A few hands grasped feebly at the thief, but he slipped through with ease.

Phezz flew from the church eaves and scampered up the slope of the neighboring shop. The bandit skidded round a corner, and Phezz whirled in pursuit. Something flew from his pocket―probably the chunk of gouda he’d been saving for after the provolone. No time to confirm. Another few turns and the thief would be out of the market and home free―at least, free from Big Person pursuit.

Another corner and into an alley. The thief slowed, glancing over his shoulder. Left, right, everywhere but up.

They never looked up.

Phezz dropped on him. A knife at his throat before the villain could react.

Take that, kleptomaniac.

The thief grunted, body rigid. The locket clattered on the cobbles. “Wh-What are you? Don’t hurt me, please!” His voice trembled. Gutless, like they all were when their crimes finally caught up to them.

Phezz pressed the antler knife closer. “You stole from a helpless girl. I don’t tolerate that.”

“It was wrong, I’m sorry! Just take the necklace and let me go!”

“Hmm.” Phezz twitched his whiskers. He didn’t want to hurt the guy, criminal or not, but he’d found the more thoroughly he scared a hooligan, the less frequently he had to chase him down a second time. “I will, this once. But don’t let me catch you again.” He dropped to the ground, and that was when he saw he’d been tricked.

Half a dozen thugs melted out of the shadows, dirty faces twisted in nasty grins. A simple street gang, hardly more than kids… and Limburger, they’d somehow trapped him.

“So it’s true,” the biggest punk breathed. “The furry lawman who thinks he can meddle in everyone else’s matters.”

Phezz snorted. “When it’s delinquents robbing lasses in the market square, yes, I meddle.” Six to one, not his favorite odds, but hardly the worst. He had never meant to get involved in the infamous potato brigand incident either, and somehow he’d survived the day as Potato Hero instead of Potato Martyr. But still…

“Drop the knife.”

Then again, sometimes compliance was the way to stay alive. The kid grabbed the antler blade from the street and stuffed the necklace in his pocket.

Phezz glared at him. He’d spent three days carving that knife.

The gang boss laughed. “They made up the pirate story, didn’t they? Some champion you are. You couldn’t hurt a kitten.”

Phezz hung his head, whiskers drooping. Their raucous laughter rattled the street…

Until Phezz lunged.

Big People were always surprised by how high he could jump. He grabbed the knife in a flash, then scampered between the legs of the next thief, up the nearest gutter pipe, and onto the roof.

He paused on the peak of the house. “Maybe next time you should bring a kitten.”

He darted down the far side, chuckling at the cry of rage as the thief checked his pockets and found a lump of cheese instead of a locket.

Phezz hated to lose a good piece of Asiago nearly as much as he hated leaving the gang to disappear and find a new victim. But he’d needed an empty pocket to safely stow the necklace, and there was little he could do against a crowd of Big People.

He found the girl in a side street just off the market square, hands over puffy eyes. Poor thing.

He dropped to the street and padded to her, clearing his throat before he got too close.

She looked up and her eyes widened, but she didn’t scream. “What are you?”

Phezz drew the necklace from his pocket. “This is yours?”

She gasped, then nodded.

Phezz held out the locket, and she reached out slowly, brown eyes big.

“Thank you,” she breathed, flipping the locket open. A smiling woman on one side and kindly man on the other. She traced the faces, blinking hard.

Phezz swallowed. Poor thing; she must be all alone.

Down the street, the bell tower soared invitingly.

He reached into his pocket. Sometimes, peace and solitude weren’t the most important things. “Hungry?”

She sniffed.

Phezz handed her a piece of Limburger and took a seat beside her.

She could surely use the company… and maybe he could, too.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Abigail Cleek was introduced to Tolkien and Lewis at five years old, and she still thanks her dad for the love of reading stories that soon became a passion for telling them. Now she studies storycraft as a student at The Author Conservatory. When she’s not writing, you can find her playing Rachmaninov on the piano, picking tomatoes in the garden, or walking through the walnut orchards of rural California.