Squirrely Squirrely

Hock lived on the outskirts of a small village on the outskirts of a small town just outside the city where Bridger Middle School stands today. This was many years ago, sometime between the Neolithic age and the Google age, back in the days when there was no such thing as bullying. In fact, in Hock’s time, there was not even a word for bullying. If you were to say to someone, “She’s bullying me!” that someone would look back at you with absolute confusion. “Boolingmi? What is this boolingmi?”

On the other hand, you would never think to say “She’s bullying me,” because in addition to there not being a word for bullying, there was also no need for such a word.

Name-calling had not yet been popularized, and so it was quite confusing to Hock when, one Monday morning, as he squatted before what he believed to be a thunderegg, he was startled to hear Crag’s voice above him, shouting in a tone that one might use when one’s mule suddenly stops mid-gully: “Toad!”

“Clay,” Hock corrected, looking up from his squat, for the thunderegg had turned out to be nothing more than a clump of clay.

“Toad!” Crag insisted. “Toady! Toady! Toady!”

Again Hock attempted to correct his friend, lifting the clump to offer Crag a better view. “No, see? It is only clay.”

This added information did not seem to settle the matter, and in fact it only served to multiply and intensify Crag’s shouting. “Toadytoadytoadytoadytoady!”

It seemed, from what Hock could gather, that Crag was not referring to the clump at all, but rather to Hock himself.

Had the word been said in a kinder way, Hock might have considered it a compliment, might have even thanked Crag for his praise, for he did love toads, and he could now see that in his squattiness, he made a rather fine one. However, that is not how the word entered Hock’s ears, nor how it plummeted down into his stomach, where it sat like a heavy stone atop his morning hash. Crag said toad as if it were the worst possible thing one could be.

For the rest of the day, Hock carried that stone around inside him. He carried it through archery class and weaving instruction, through his afternoon abacus lesson and wagoneer practice. He carried that stone inside him all the way down the path that took him back home at the end of his school day—which, unfortunately, was the very same path that took Crag home at the end of his school day.

As Hock plodded along, bent forward under the weight of his heavy pack, he heard behind him the unmistakable voice of Crag. This time he did not shout toad, as Hock might have expected, but mule. “Mule!” Crag shouted. “Muley! Muley! Muley!”

Hock, who felt a certain fondness for mules, looked all around, but despite Crag’s insistent shouting, could not locate the animal anywhere. Turning to Crag for a clue as to where he might find this mule of which he spoke, he found Crag’s finger pointing not into the surrounding trees, nor off into the meadow at the end of the path, but directly at Hock himself.

“Mule!” Crag shouted again—and again—following Hock’s quickening steps down the path. “Muleymuleymuleymuleymuley!”

Once more, Hock found himself confused by Crag’s words, for like a toad, a mule was not a terrible thing to be. Mules were quite useful. A mule could carry one’s heavy pack home from school. A mule could carry a sack of goods to market. A mule could pull an entire wagon to town. His family should be so lucky to have a mule!

Safe at last inside his house, the homey aroma of cabbage simmering on the stove, poor Hock again felt that awful weight deep in the pit of his stomach, and it gave him the very worst kind of feelings about himself—feelings that were new, and so he had no idea how to rid himself of them.

He tried spitting, but this brought no relief. He tried punching his fist into the soft place at his middle where he felt most uncomfortable, but this was only helpful in that he now had an aching stomach to distract him from the other, more mysterious feeling.

His misery lasted through the night, through his largely untouched helping of mutton hash the next morning, and all the way down the long path to school.

After all that poor Hock had been through the day before, it was truly unfortunate that he should take a tumble immediately upon his arrival, and especially unfortunate that the tumble should take place directly in front of the stump upon which Crag sat fastening the buckle on his shoe.

“Ruckelball!” Crag shouted. (Ruckelball was a popular sport at the time, involving the rolling of boulders down a grassy slope.) “Ruckelbally! Ruckelbally!” And this was perhaps most confusing of all, because there was not one person Hock knew of, Crag included, who did not enjoy a lively game of Ruckelball. Crag was, in fact, a very good Ruckelball player—much better than Hock—and so again, had it not been for Crag’s tone, Hock might have felt he were being paid the highest of compliments. As with the words that came before, however, this new word lodged itself deep inside of Hock—a heavy stone that, by day’s end, would be joined by several others: saddlebaggy, shovely, marmaladey, candlesticky.

That evening, with so many stones weighing heavily upon his stomach, and believing in his heart that there could not possibly be a cure for such a condition as his, Hock informed his mother that he was, in fact, a toad mule ruckelball saddlebag shovel marmalade candlestick.

“A toad mule ruckelball saddlebag shovel marmalade candlestick?” Looking upon her dear boy with his handsome black curls and sad dark eyes, Hock’s mother found this quite preposterous—though she had no explanation for why Crag would insist on such nonsense, for “Who ever heard of someone calling someone else by other words in order to make that person feel bad?”

Though his mother’s words were quite true, and they did bring some comfort, they also created in Hock a strong desire to do just that—to call someone else by other words in order to make that person feel bad. And the person Hock had in mind, of course, was Crag.

That night in bed, he tried out different words, calling up to his ceiling:

Goat!

Plow!

Bucket!

Crow!

He tried each word again, and again, and though he could find good reason for each, he did not feel that he had yet found the perfect word for Crag. Perhaps, he thought, he should practice on someone a bit easier. There was a boy in his class who liked to collect the acorns that fell from the trees. He could call him squirrel. Yes, tomorrow he would pass one of his stones on to the boy who collected acorns!

If he could think of another word to call him, perhaps he could give him two of his stones—or maybe he would give him just the one, and save the others for someone else—the girl in his school whose skin was a lighter shade of brown than everyone else’s. He would call her sheep—or bread! He would call her both! Sheep bread!

“Squirrel, squirrel, squirrelysquirrelysquirrely,” Hock rehearsed all the way to school the next morning. “Sheep bread sheep bread sheep bread,” he chanted, not even seeing the thunderegg, indeed a real one this time, that lay directly in his path. He did not pay his usual visit to the old fir tree to breathe in its deep earthy sap, or delight in the crystally glisten of its frosty moss. He did not hear the birds whistling their good mornings, and so did not whistle his own hello back. Nor, as he walked those last few paces of path, did he notice Crag—not until he heard the rustling of grasses and looked up to see Crag’s thick winter coat of fur—fur of the same deep brown as the curls on his head—moving through the field surrounding the school.

This time, though, Crag was not moving toward Hock but away from him, toward something else—someone else—a boy, crouched beneath the tallest oak tree, the one that grew up directly beside the school. Yes, Hock could see that Crag, with his shoulders lifted and hands fisted, his flared nostrils blowing puffs of steam into the chill air, was about to charge at squirrely squirrely! And in that moment, Hock could see—yes, he could see quite clearly now—

“Bull!” That’s what Crag was. Not a goat or a plow, not a bucket or a crow. “Bull!”

This time it was Crag who looked all around, concern filling his eyes at the possibility of a charging bull.

“Bully!” Hock shouted once more, arm outstretched, finger pointing not to Crag’s right, not to his left, but directly at his middle, at Crag himself.

It was clear from the scrunch of Crag’s brows, the drop of his jaw, that he found this confusing. Bulls, after all, were not bad things—some would even say that there was no more powerful beast than the mighty bull. However, that is not how the word entered Crag’s ears. Hock had said bull as if it were the most terrible thing one could be.

And in fact, the more Hock shouted “bully!”—the more Hock shouted “bullybullybullybully!”—the less bull-like Crag appeared (and, in fact, the more bull-like Hock seemed to grow). Stone after stone after stone, the miserable feeling piled up inside our poor Crag, until he could do nothing but stand there, a boulder, watching as Hock and the boy who collected acorns said their good mornings and headed into school.