By Pamela Love

“Oh, ho! What have we here? Off to war, squirrel?” King Oswain chuckled. The monarch, clad in a purple velvet tunic, elaborately embroidered breeches, and boots of the finest leather, slowed his stallion to a walk on the sunlight-dappled forest path. As he circled the red-furred creature, his half-dozen companions followed his example.

Surrounded, the whatever-it-was halted. This sour-faced creature certainly resembled a rodent of the forest canopy, magnificently fuzzy tail and all, though he was about the size of a young human boy. And yet, he was garbed rather like a foot soldier in a battered helmet, leather vest, and well-worn sash of knives.

“I be no squirrel. I be Terrizzel Oakbranch. I be Xintixa.” He kept turning his head, tracking each rider’s movements.

The king’s eyebrows rose. “It speaks! That is a better joke than some of yours, Gumbert.”

The royal jester, garbed in motley yellow and red, swung down from his twitchy-eared mule. With his thumbs, he pulled down the corners of his mouth, feigning hurt at this challenge to his skill at merrymaking. “Why, ’tis no soldier here, sire. Your Majesty surely knows that only men are fit for battle.” He saluted his ruler.

Gumbert squinted past Terrizel’s tail, a breeze riffling its lengthy hair. “Clearly, this beast is a tailor. Behold his sewing basket.” He elbowed the Xintixa’s tail aside, revealing a bow and quiver strapped to Terrizzel’s back. “See, a handful of pins!” He held up the arrows, then let them spill through his fingers onto the forest floor, to a chorus of laughter.

Terrizzel bent to scoop up his arrows, but the jester kicked them away.

“What of the knives he wears across his chest?” asked the king, pointing. “Surely that must make him a squirrel-at-arms, at the very least.”

“These?” Gumbert yanked the band of blades over Terrizzel so that they dangled over his head. “Scissors, sire. And every one snapped in half. For shame, squirrel! You should learn how to better care for your tools.” The jester wagged a finger at Terrizzel, who balled his paws into fists.

The king slapped his thigh and roared at the sight, as did his men. “And—and that bow?” King Oswain gasped between guffaws.

“Sire, how can you think this twig and string a bow? It’s plain to be seen that this tailor has crafted a hat.” The jester clapped it onto his own head at a rakish angle atop his cap and bells, which jingled as he twisted this way and that, evading the furious Terrizzel’s attempts to retrieve it. “What does Your Majesty think of the stylish gentleman before you? Think ye that I am fit to appear at your next royal ball? No doubt the ladies of your court will be vying for my favor.”

At last, the king managed to school his face into the solemn expression he wore when sitting in judgment. “Despite all you say, you must admit that his helmet is one of a noble warrior, Gumbert. Mayhap he stands before us expecting to be knighted.”

Terrizzel’s eyes narrowed. He chittered something under his breath.

“What, this thimble sitting atop his noggin?” Gumbert rapped it with his knuckles. “Likely he has such a large one because he fears to prick himself with those oversized pins he carries.”

“Aye, I must grant you are right, wise Gumbert. We have met the tailor of the trees,” declared the king. “Have we not, men?”

Their cheers rang out.

“He be no tailor!” The piercing shout echoed through the treetops.

“Phezznibbet?” shouted Terrizzel, looking upward. The king and his men did likewise, drawing their swords. Oswain’s heart beat a trifle more quickly when addressed by one concealed in the greenery. We have Terrizzel so outnumbered that he cannot fight back, yet his mysterious friend does have us at something of a disadvan—

Was that a bowstring’s twang?

A split second later, an arrow, with a cord attached, raced through the hilt of the king’s sword, just missing his fingers, and lodged in the soil. King Oswain’s stallion reared, terrified.

The monarch dropped his sword as he fought to control his horse. His men likewise tried to steady their own mounts. Gumbert’s mule galloped off, braying with alarm. Struck a glancing blow by one of its iron-shod hooves, the jester tumbled into a muddy ditch.

Meanwhile, Terrizzel sprang onto the cord and scrambled upward at a marvelous speed. He disappeared into the foliage high overhead mere moments later.

When the chaos ended, King Oswain’s lips thinned as he stared at Gumbert. The jester gulped. “It appears that you were in error, jester. That passerby we were mocking was no tailor. He was merely a tailor’s apprentice. The one above was the true tailor of the trees.”

The monarch picked up his blade, sliding it along the cord which was still anchored by the arrow to the ground. “Only a master tailor could thread a needle like that.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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