Waffle Batter and the Songs of Migratory Birds

THERE WAS NO longer any doubt. Day was dawning. And when the sun rose, it was as if it was curious to see what was going on in this little big city. So it peeked up over the horizon and saw that something was happening in the rear courtyard in the middle of the snow-covered Royal Park that surrounded the palace. So the sun climbed higher into the sky to see. And from there it shone right onto a teeny tiny freckled face—wouldn’t you know it? He was standing in the Royal Palace’s rear courtyard, and next to him was a pale, greenish, grimacing face. Soldiers were arranged around them, and right in front of them stood an enormous shiny machine that the sun—if it hadn’t known better—would have thought was an enormous behemoth of a waffle iron. And the sun hummed along to the song rising from the palace’s rear courtyard on this morning: “Honeydew—You are the melon, I dream of you . . .”

NILLY FELT THE warmth on his face from the sun’s rays, which had just peeked over the edge of the stone wall.

“Seems like spring is coming early this year,” he said, closing his eyes.

“Yeah. It would just be so typical if this summer turned out to be a really nice one, too,” Gregory sniffled, yanking at the handcuffs that held his arms behind his back.

Nilly felt a wave of heat hit his face. “Ah, the sunshine feels so good,” he said, without opening his eyes.

“That heat isn’t coming from the sun,” Gregory said softly.

Nilly opened his eyes. And from where he stood, on a chair, he was looking straight down into the black mouth of the waffle iron, which had just been opened. It sizzled with glistening grease flowing between the enormous steel teeth.

“Don’t be scared,” a voice behind them said. They turned. Yodolf Staler had camouflaged himself as Hallvard Tenorsen and was wearing a green uniform and a cap with a visor that had a red band around it. “There are international rules for the treatment of prisoners of war. And in them it says that waffle irons can only be used for cooking waffles. And I—Yodolf Staler—am a man who follows rules. Which is why you will not be just tossed into the waffle iron any old which way . . .”

A sigh of relief could be heard coming from the soldiers. And a tremulous voice that whispered, “Thank God. . . .”

“Who said that?” Yodolf growled, spinning around. The soldiers leaped to attention, staring straight ahead without moving so much as a nose hair.

“Is there someone here who wishes to object?” screamed Yodolf.

No response.

“What was that?” Yodolf bellowed.

The soldiers glanced at each other uncertainly, and a couple of them tentatively shook their heads. And then a few more. And finally they were all shaking their heads so eagerly that you could hear the brushing sound of hundreds of crew cuts rubbing against the insides of hundreds of uniform collars.

Yodolf eyed his soldiers with suspicion before turning back to Nilly and Gregory. “Where was I?”

“We’re not going to be made into waffles . . . ,” Nilly said, concentrating on not losing his balance on the flimsy, unstable chair.

“I didn’t say that,” Yodolf said. “I said that you wouldn’t be tossed into the waffle iron any old which way, since the rules say that waffle irons can only be used for making waffles. So . . . Göran!”

A soldier behind Yodolf stepped forward. He was holding a fire hose. And Göran had been a little sloppy with his camouflage, because Nilly could see his hairy baboon hands sticking out of his soldier’s uniform. Nilly followed the hose with his eyes, back to where it disappeared into a tent that was standing in one corner of the courtyard and serving as a field kitchen.

“So we’ll make you into waffles first,” Yodolf said. “Proceed, Göran!”

And in a soldierlike fashion, Göran turned on the fire hose, which immediately started spraying something thick and yellow. The cascade hit Gregory so hard that he jumped back two steps.

When Gregory was covered in the yellow, dripping fluid, it was Nilly’s turn. Nilly closed his eyes and stuck out his tongue when the liquid hit him. It tasted like waffle batter.

“Now you’ll taste even better,” Yodolf laughed. “Could I get two volunteer soldiers to toss them into the waffle iron?”

Göran responded, “Yes, yes! Pain! I want—”

“Not you, Göran. One of the human soldiers.” Yodolf stared at the soldiers. But none of them moved. It was so quiet that the only thing that could be heard was the music: “Honeydew—Knowing that breakfast will be with you . . .”

“Okay,” Yodolf said. “Then you and I will do it, Göran. Turn and face the waffle iron, prisoners.”

Nilly turned, blinking waffle batter out of his eyes. Then a songbird landed in a tree above the red-hot, smoking waffle iron and started singing. I guess it came home a little too early, Nilly thought, looking around at all the snow. But it was sitting there in the top of the pear tree, singing about spring coming a little early, and combining with Agnes’s voice.

“I hope they eat me with strawberry jam and whipped cream,” Nilly whispered. “What do you want them to put on you? Maple syrup?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gregory said. “Only a few days ago I wouldn’t have thought it was so bad, being cooked and eaten. My life was so sad anyway. But now that I know that Mrs. Strobe is out there, and maybe thinking about me, and maybe worrying about me . . .”

“Yeah,” Nilly sighed, hearing Göran’s footsteps approaching over the gravel. And it was like his fear about what was going to happen sharpened his senses, because he could hear more. The hum of a distant engine. And far away, a third song mixing with Agnes’s and the bird’s. Then he felt Göran’s eager breath on the back of his neck and the baboon claws against his back, and he felt himself being shoved forward toward the edge of the chair. Nilly closed his eyes and thought his last thought: that he hoped Lisa would be okay. He prepared himself.

“Wait!” Yodolf cried. “Take off their handcuffs.”

“But . . .”

“If we’re chewing them and we bite into the handcuffs, we might break a molar and then we’d have to go to the dentist and you know how I hate the dentist.”

And as Nilly heard Göran fishing through his pockets for the keys to the handcuffs, swearing the whole time, he also heard the sound of the engine growing stronger. And the same went for the third song.

“Ah, there it is,” Göran said, and Nilly heard the key turn first in his handcuffs and then in Gregory’s. Then he heard Yodolf’s wicked laughter.

“And now, darn it, now they’ll be some filthy britches.”