John followed the man across two streets, then finally saw him enter a large establishment.   It looked newer than the others, having only half a ton of mud spattered on its walls.  As the man passed through the open doors, John stopped short and looked around for somewhere to hide and wait.   This time, however, there were no good places, and he was left with just a blank, rough-stone wall.  Far across the street sat a dusty clay pot.   There was just enough room between it and the wall to conceal someone about seven inches tall, but could he make it without being seen?

He looked both ways down the street.   Two buildings down, a man snoozed on a bench.   Other than that, it was clear, so he ran to the pot and ducked into the quiet, dark aperture just in time to escape the notice of a passing human, who was humming softly to himself as he strode along.   John was shocked; where had he come from?

Oh, well, he hadn't been caught.   John stared across at the entranceway, leaning first against the wall, then against the pot, and finally hunching down in the sticky mud.   He was already covered in it, anyway.

Now he stared at the door impatiently.   No one was coming or going.   Several minutes passed, and the man still did not reappear.   This was boring!

John sighed, letting his thoughts wander.   Yes, sooner or later he'd find someone willing to teach him.  Once he learned how to be a better spy, then he could do it for real.   He really shouldn't give up; not yet.   A couple misadventures--well, all right, a few--didn't mean he was completely inept.   Just ... kind of inept.   More like unlucky.  And this man could be his chance, right?   If not his teacher, then perhaps a guide, to lead John to some other spies.   For surely they all had to get together sometime... didn't they?   That's what they did in the stories.

John sighed and glanced up at the sun, which was sinking behind the buildings above him.   The afternoon was starting to wear away, so where was his quarry?   It had to be an hour since the man went in.   John scratched his head, thinking.   Had he escaped out a back door?

John stared at the open doorway, trying to discern if there were a back door.   He couldn't tell.

John inspected the rest of the building curiously, shifting his weight from one tired leg to the other.   He'd never seen a structure like this before.   The entire thing seemed to be made of hardened red-brown clay, like the pot where he hid.   The walls must have been about ten human feet tall.   There were several windows, all without glass, and that wide, gaping door.

John saw a small group of men enter, laughing raucously and pushing each other.  They didn't see him, and that raised his confidence.   Finally he threw his hands in the air, realizing he was getting nowhere.   What the man doing in there?   Had he escaped?  Or had he been caught... or maybe hurt by another spy?   Suddenly John decided he'd better check on him, and jumped to his feet.  He'd go in, and see what the man was up to!

That wasn't an easy as it sounded.   John glanced once up the abandoned street, then down. It was empty, except for an old woman bent over a basket far away.   He stood there for a few minutes, thinking about the best way to cross.   Should be sneak?   Should he run?

Then suddenly he realized he was wasting time.   So he risked being sighted and dashed forward.   There was no more time to think about it; he had to take action.

He almost slid into the wall beside the door, surprised by a patch of mud, but he threw out his arms and stopped himself just in time.  Well, that hadn't been very spy-like at all.  He regained his bearings and peered cautiously around, making sure no one was behind him.   Then he peeked into the room, his face pressed tightly against the warm, grainy wall.   There was thick smoke inside, and also a strange tang in the air.   For a moment he thought about it, then realized it must be beer, or something like it.   John wrinkled his nose.   It stank!

He let his eyes adjust to the dim light.   Finally he made out rows and rows of wooden legs, some belonging to tables, others to chairs set around them.   Men and women sat on some of these, and one boisterous group claimed the center of the room around a shallow firepit.   The fitful light from that fell upon the noisy scene, illuminating men and women who lounged around, drinking out of mugs, yawning, and shouting at one other.  John snorted skeptically, looking around again.  Was everyone in this place crazy?

He sighted his quarry sitting at a table near the back, far to his right.  The man was facing the door, hunched over the table, looking tired.   Laid out before him was what appeared to be lunch, complete with gnawed bones and the universal mug.   As John watched, his quarry shifted his gaze from the noisy fire-scene to the door, yawning.   To John's horror, the man appeared to stare directly at him!

John jerked back outside, his heart pounding.  Certainly the man hadn't seen him!   He must have just been staring at the door, not at him in particular.   After all, he was pretty small, and unnoticeable by most humans... right?   John slowly relaxed, realizing he was right.   Unnoticeable? Well, how about nonexistent!   Most humans would sooner step on him than realize he wanted their attention.   John shook head with a sigh.  Well, at least it helped him when following spies.   He paused for a moment, gathering his courage, then peered in again.

Yes, now the man was staring blankly into his mug, as if wishing it weren't so empty.   John chuckled, rubbing his hands together.   Now was his chance to get closer.   He leaned his walking stick against the door-frame and snuck cautiously around the corner, into the stuffy room.  He was careful to keep out of the glare along the wall, where the windows cast a thin rim of light upon the floor.   He ducked quickly into the deep shadow underneath a chair to the right of the door, peering about nervously.   He was pretty sure none of the humans had seen him, although there were two dozen or more present to do so.

He glanced around and eased out of hiding-place, creeping along the front wall, keeping stealthily to the chairs.   No one saw him.   He wasn't so bad at this, after all.   He chuckled softly, realizing that most of them were probably too sleepy to see themselves, much less a tiny spy.   Then he froze as the human snoozing above him in the chair stirred.

Once the man was quiet John snuck forward again, only to leap under an abandoned chair at the soonest opportunity.   Actually, this was good spy-practice, he thought.   Very good.   It was lucky that the room was crowded with such excellent chairs and tables.

"Hey, you!" came a shout.   John jumped, pressing himself tightly against the floor.   Would the shadow hide him?   He peeked out to realize one of the men by the fire-pit, the biggest and most raucous, had shouted.   Besides that, he couldn't see anything but a large woman in a soiled apron, who blocked the left side of his view.   He didn't want to lift his head to get a better look.

"In the corner!" continued the man, and John relaxed.   The man wasn't yelling at him.

The man John was trailing looked up, though.

"Yeah, you!" confirmed the voice.   "You're from outta town, ain't you?"

John breathed a sigh of relief, while all other conversation in the room suddenly ceased.  The entire building became preternaturally quiet.

The black-bearded man John was following shrugged noncommittally, turning back to his meal.

"You know," added the first man, "we don't like foreigners much around here."

The pudgy woman finally moved, and John saw the huge man by the fire drag himself with some effort to his feet.   He swaggered unevenly toward his brown-tunicked target.   The new man wore a stained leather shirt belted loosely in the middle and pants of a lighter shade of brown--less stained than the shirt but very wrinkled.

"They don't like foreigners anywhere," replied the man coolly, speaking for the first time.  He thoughtfully munched some bread, eyeing the other man.   His voice didn't hold any accent that John could tell, and he wondered how the large man could know where his target was from.

"Oh, a smart-mouth," exclaimed one of the large man's friends, also pulling himself up and strutting unsteadily to the table.   "We don't take kindly to them, either."

"Sounds like you don't take kindly to anyone."   The man leaned back in his chair, unconcerned.   "How can you tell I'm from out of town?"   He tossed his bread-crust to the table-top.

"You're sweating."   The first man grinned evilly.

"So?  You're sweating too."

"You're sweating more."

"Maybe I'm hot."   The brown-tunicked man leaned forward, setting all four chair-legs on the ground.

"Hot?" the man grunted.   "You look like you're from up north.   Northerners especially don't belong around here."   The big man's hands went idly to his belt, where a sword-scabbard hung.

"Really?   Tell me, who do you like?"

Instead of answering, the large man lunged at John's target with an ungainly fist.   The chair clattered over as the man jumped away, easily avoiding the strike.   The large man tripped over the chair and sprawled on the floor--John couldn't help chuckling a little at that.

"Oh, you like to fight.   Well, at least you like something."   John's target nodded once and put up his fists, but the man's friends drew their weapons instead.   Just as they stepped toward John's target, a third party joined the impending fray by thrusting his sword up from the side to deflect theirs.

The newcomer was a large man, dressed in crimson with gold chains about his neck.  He wore black boots, and carried about him an aura of command.  The effect of his arrival upon the two ruffians was amazing; they backed away, looking almost fearful.

"Enough of that," the newcomer spoke in a deep voice.  "Gregont, if you don't mind, my friend and I would like to have a private discussion."

The large man and his sidekick vaporized, to John's amazement, and the crimson-dressed man turned his back on them to help John's target straighten the overturned chair.  Then he sat down beside the frowning foreigner.  They nodded at one another solemnly, glanced once more at the men who were now back by their fire, and began to confer together in low voices so that John could no longer hear what they were saying.

John shifted his weight, ducking reflexively as someone sat down on the chair he was using for refuge.  Keeping an eye on the room, he snuck toward the next chair to his right.  He had to get down there to the two men, to find out what was going on!

John made it to the right-hand wall safely, then glanced up at the two men talking at the back of the room.   He saw the crimson one hand the brown-tunicked one a leather case, and wondered what was inside.  He had to get over there!

As he watched the two men settle down for lunch, John realized he had some time.   Besides, he asked himself, what exactly will you do when you get there?   So John decided to explore the corner a bit, while the men finished their lunch.   He looked around, sniffing the stale air, and took a couple steps down the next wall.  There were no windows over here, and the smell of the place tended to build up.  John had a vision of the river overflowing its banks and running through here, washing away the smell and filth--ruffians included.

There were more tables over here, and two men sat at the closest one, conversing.   A third was hunched over a table to John's left, his back to John.   His face wasn't visible, but from the rise and fall of his green hood, he appeared to be napping.

John stared at the mug on that table, his curiosity aroused again.   What was it that stank in those cups?   If he climbed up, he'd be able to see--plus, he sighted an uneaten roll next to the plate.   Suddenly his stomach growled.   He could get under that chair, crawl up on the table, and maybe get a bite of that roll--and get sighted by every human in the place.

John sighed, shaking his head disconsolately.  If he were a little bit larger, or a little bit stronger, he might have been able to ask for some rolls.   He was supposedly an adult, but, well--he was tiny.   He thought about that for awhile.  An adult.  Or was he?   He sat down on the floor, troubled, keeping an eye on the room.   The two men he was watching kept on eating and talking.   John felt another rumble of hunger, and realized that it was past time for dinner.

Was he really an adult?   John frowned.   He'd passed the Council's test, but suddenly it didn't seem so.   Surely at least he was a spy . . . Well, maybe one day he would be. . . .

John abruptly broke off.   Of course he'd be a spy!   What was he here for, but to get training?

John jumped to his feet and resumed edging toward the two dining men.   He needed to see what was in that case!   If he could prove these two were spies, he could ensure his training.   They'd be impressed by his skills, no doubt.   He could offer to help them.   An apprentice, he could be an apprentice!

About halfway down the right-hand wall, John ran out of chairs.   No more were set against the wall for sixty paces--well, perhaps ten human feet--and it would be a long dash for him.   Time to make a break for his target's table.   It was just a few feet away, after all.

John clenched his muscles and looked around.   All the humans were preoccupied in their own business.   No one was looking.   He sprinted toward where the two men sat, hoping no one would notice.   They had almost finished their lunch, now, and were ready to leave.   One of them was getting up.   He needed to get over there now, before they were gone!

Suddenly he heard a hiss, somewhat like a snake's but much louder and throatier.   The floor thumped under him, rhythmically, and the sound was getting closer.   His peripheral vision caught the sight of a dark brown, swiftly-moving blur.

John reached the nearest table, five human-feet from his target's, and decided to take evasive action.   He ducked behind one leg, which was just wide enough to hide him, and swung around to meet his pursuer face-to-face.

Or face-to-whisker! he amended in a panic, as he caught sight of the biggest, meanest, ugliest-looking cat he had ever seen.   Its whiskers were long and white, and drooped in a permanent scowl all the way to the ground.   Huge fangs jutted out of a half-opened mouth as the thing lunged toward his face.

He gave a yelp and ducked behind the table-leg again.   Where had that striped hunter come from?   He looked around accusingly, trying to find the one who had sicced this animal on him, but most of the humans showed little interest.

"MRREOW!!" proclaimed the huge feline, springing awkwardly around the table-leg with its dagger-like claws unsheathed.   John squeaked in terror and ran the other way, back toward the wall.

"Look!" cried a voice from nearby.   "Buttercup's got something."

Buttercup!  John couldn't believe his ears.  The monster's name was a flower!  He glanced over his shoulder; the cat was in hot pursuit.

"Hey, Mary!" the same voice called, as John continued to flee.  "Buttercup's got that mouse you've been griping about!"

"Good," came a distant woman's voice.  "Save me some worry."

John snorted, even as he ran.  A mouse?  Were these humans blind?  --Well, he reconsidered, he was brown with mud, and kind of small.   But that didn't make him mousy. . . more like a rat, maybe.

He dove for the shelter of a chair against the wall, hearing the cat close behind him.

John ducked between the legs and kept on running, hoping the heavy chair would slow down the cumbersome cat.  Hearing a wooden crash, he surmised that it had.  He looked backwards, but as he did something tripped him up and he fell flat on his stomach.

"No!" he screamed, as he felt the cat catch up.  A shadow fell over him, and he heard its hoarse breathing loud in his ear.

"MRREOW!!"  The sound almost deafened John, so loud and ferocious was it.  Stupid cat!

"Shut up!" he shouted.  He crawled forward with the speed of true desperation, managing somehow to get his feet underneath him and stand.  He looked forward to find himself trapped in the front corner, concealed from onlookers by tables and chairs.  He swivelled to see the cat crouching inches away, a nasty gleam in its eye.

"MRREOW!! MRREOW!!"

"Get lost!"   John dodged the feline's next lunge, noticing with only slightly-reduced panic that the animal was about a foot higher and ton more massive than he.  But it was fat, and not very fast.  He might have a chance, if he moved quickly.

John dodged forward and to the side, trying to get around the animal's body.

"MRREOW!!"   The cat turned with astonishing speed, belying John's earlier conclusion.  The animal struck at him with four dagger-claws.

Luckily John was looking over his shoulder, and he managed--just barely--to escape the claws.  He took two steps to the side to regain his balance, almost tripped over the cat's swinging tail, and found his back pressed against the wall.  He was cornered.

No, he reconsidered, shifting his balance.   The wall would guard his back--he hoped.   The animal could not attack him from the rear.   John reached for the smooth sword-hilt on his right, drawing the blade with a satisfying ssshing!.   He faced down the cat.

"Look, Butter-flop," he growled in warning, shaking his sword.  "You leave me alone, or else.   Go back to your mouse-hunting.  I'm not a mouse."

"MRREOW!"

John winced at the thunderous noise, then slashed warningly at the animal's whiskers.

"I mean it.  Go away."  John forced himself to remain calm, hoping he could scare it off.   He didn't know if his sword could make an impression on something that big.  He'd only stabbed crickets and one lizard before.

"MRREOW!"

John swiped again at the long, drooping whiskers, and the cat backed away to reconnoiter.

"Go away, bad kitty!"   John kept his sword at the ready, glaring angrily.

The cat answered with a deep, throaty growl that rose and fell eerily in pitch.

"Grrr!" responded John, as loudly as he could.   He couldn't let the cat see his fear.   It would eat him.   He glanced down at his blade, and saw that it wasn't shaking.   John felt a rush of pride at that.   He might be practically wetting his pants, but at least his blade was steady.   Just like in the books.

Suddenly he saw his target and the man in crimson heading for the door.  They were leaving, and John knew he had to follow them.   But if he moved, he knew the cat would attack.

The cat growled again, its tail twitching savagely back and forth.

"GRRR!!" he shouted, lunging forward and trying to force it back.

"MRREOW!" exclaimed the cat in disbelief, scurrying backwards.  No mouse had ever attacked it before!

"Go away, kitty!  Butter-flop!  Mouse-Mangler!"  John slashed at the cat's face, trying to get past it to the front wall, where he could run safely toward the door.  There was a small gap through which he might be able to run, but the cat was watching.  "Get away!   Bad Buttercup!"   He rolled his eyes, wondering again how anyone had come up with a name like that. As he started to edge down the wall, the cat blocked the way.

"MRREOW!"

John poked his sword at the animal's nose, and to his satisfaction it sunk deeply in.

"MRREEOOW!!!" screamed the cat, jerking back.  It streaked toward the safety of the nearest table, where it crouched, gazing balefully out.  Its pink tongue danced over one paw, which subsequently swiped the bleeding nose.

John grabbed his chance and dashed forward, trying to make it to the door before the two men were totally out of sight.  As he ran, he kept one eye on the monster under the table.

Seeing his retreat, the cat leaped forward and tore toward him again.  Obviously it liked to chase more than fight.

John turned and poked at it again.  The cat instantly halted, although John missed.  It sat there surveying him, tail twitching in annoyance, doing more paw-licking and nose-touching.  John saw that it never took those smoldering green eyes off him.

John knew then that he could not simply run forward, so he tried a different tactic. He backed slowly toward a table, where he saw the green-hooded man still sleeping next to his mug and discarded roll.   John glanced up; he had to get off the floor.

"I'm warning you, cat," he growled, as he continued to back away.  "Don't you attack me."

The cat paced toward him, its dark green eyes intent.  It didn't know where this new mouse had gotten claws, but it was going to find out.

John looked up again, and the green-hooded man was directly above him.  His stout wooden chair formed a ceiling about a body-length and a half over John's head. A lone strip of cloth hung down from above, apparently part of the man's clothing.  Its tip hung only inches above John's head.  The ragged edge made John think a knife might have caused it--or perhaps just a clumsy misstep.

John took hold of the strap, staring ominously at the cat, and began to climb.  He had to pause, to put his sword away so he could use both his hands.  The cat did not move.  Even though John used both feet and arms to propel himself upward, it was still difficult.  He hadn't realized climbing was so hard!   He paused halfway up and looked down at the cat.  It was waiting for him to fall, not sitting but creeping unobtrusively toward the swaying strip of cloth.

John resumed his climb, panting somewhat.  He needed to get out of here!  He hoped he could still find his target after all of this.

The sleeping man above him stirred, and John hoped anxiously he didn't wake.  It would be rather awkward to be carried away on a strip of cloth attached to someone's shirt, while he was supposed to be watching someone.

The man did not wake and John made it to the shirt itself, which he carefully grabbed onto and climbed with as little movement as possible, so as not to disturb the man.  The green material felt rough in his hands, and the constant rubbing began to make them sore.

John clambered onto the table-top and crept across its surface, making sure no humans were watching.  All seemed to be absorbed in their own meals or drinks, and had forgotten about Buttercup and its hapless prey.

That reminded John of the cat.  He peered over the edge, and to his relief could not see it.   It must have gone away at last.

John sat back, taking a deep breath of relief.  Thank goodness!  But as he turned around, he caught a glimpse of dark brown fur.  Oh, no!

John jumped aside almost too late to avoid the swinging claws.   He gasped in terror, fumbling for his sword-hilt.

Fool! he scolded himself, backing away across the table-top, still trying to draw his weapon.  It was somehow caught in his clothing and he couldn't get it out.  The cat must have slunk under the table and jumped up on a chair!  How obvious!

John gave up on his sword and ran behind the green-hooded man's chest-high mug.  As he neared it, he held his nose and glanced inside; the mug was half-full of a dark-brown liquid.

"MRREOW!" announced the cat from across the table, and some humans glanced up toward where it perched, ready to pounce, its tail lashing fiercely back and forth.

"What's that Buttercup's got?" asked one man, elbowing his neighbor.  They both stared at John.  "That's no mouse!"

The green-hooded man stirred, and his eyes opened a crack.  John knew he had been sighted.

"MRREOW!!" repeated the cat, leaping for him.

John shoved the mug forward with all his strength, and it tipped over.  Brown liquid splashed out, drenching the cat.  The animal froze, its eyes growing wide as if it couldn't believe what had just occurred.

"MRREOW!!" howled the cat, while the humans laughed.  "MRREOW!! MRREOW!!"  John hoped it would retreat, but to his dismay it snarled and jumped right for him.

Distracted as it was, its claws missed him entirely.  But the cat's main weight landed on top of him instead, and John could barely breathe.

"Help!" he cried, as he felt the cat's weight crushing him.  He tried to punch and kick, but couldn't move.  He jerked his head back, trying to get the fur out of his face.   He sneezed.

The cat growled loudly, the sound coming from right above him, within the thick, dirty fur.  The cat got up, greatly relieving John, and paced slowly around in a circle, preparing for another pounce.  It preferred to do that, John realized--toy with its prey.   Pounce, catch, and let go, pounce, catch, and let go.  It was an awfully cute game.

John was not amused.  He scowled, jerking once more at his sword while trying to stand.

As the cat crouched and prepared to leap again, John's sword finally came free in his hand.  He lowered it into a defensive position, concentrating.  The cat quivered, uncoiled like a bent sapling released, and flew through the air toward him.  John lunged out of the way, taking a single swipe at the animal's luxurious whiskers as it rushed past.

"GRREOW!" exclaimed the cat, as it careened off to one side.  It was shaking its head vigorously.  What had happened to its wonderful whiskers? One whole side was missing!  The confused and disgruntled feline turned and vaulted from the table, limping quickly off to another room to nurse its wounds.

John laughed at the white stubble on the cat's face.  He looked around, then stared up in victory at the drowsy, green-hooded man.  "Hey, you! Human! Would you let me down?"  He felt his spirits lifted, even recharged, by this great triumph.  See what his spy training had helped him do?  Now he had to find his quarry, so he could finish his training!

The man gave him a strange look, obviously very confused, then glanced at his sword.

"Come on."   John put away his weapon, giving a triumphant grin.

Apparently the man had no idea what to say.   Instead, he carefully grasped John's pack and lowered him to the ground.

"Thanks!" called John, as he ran toward the exit.   Behind him, men and women stared open-mouthed, unable to understand what they had seen.   Silly people!

And Butterflop was nowhere to be found.

(c)1988-2002 W.D. Isdell - All Rights Reserved.
Reproduction without prior written permission is expressly prohibited.