One Flew Over the Cookie Jar

Flash Fiction #24

“Last night, I dreamt I was flying again.”

“What do you suppose it means, Mr Rabbit?” said Mr Beaver.

“I don’t know. I fly and fly and still am late, always late. And when I wake, I feel like I have run and run, finding myself in the same spot, wishing I had wings.”

“It’s only a dream. I am sure there’s nothing to it,” said Mr Beaver.

“But the same dream. For weeks.”

“Hmm, hmm. Some dreams are more persistent than others,” Mr Beaver stroked his whiskers.

Mrs Beaver came into the room, served them tea, then sat down with a deep sigh next to the fireplace and took a slow sip from her delicate cup, its flower pattern dancing in the orange hue of the flames.

“I say, rabbits dreaming of wings, unheard of. Dangerous, that is, might give folks the wrong idea. Flying rabbits.” She shook her head and took another sip. “Dangerous. Yes, yes.”

“Humbug. Dreams are dreams. What danger can they pose?” Mr Beaver slurped his tea. “Dreaming never hurt anyone.”

“Ever since that girl came and spread her nonsense, nothing has been the same,” said Mrs Beaver.

“Now, now, my dear. She was just a little girl,” Mr Beaver reached for a cookie on the silver plate on the table.

“Little girl? A giant little girl disappearing into thin air. Witchcraft, I say. I hope she stays gone – cookie?” Mrs Beaver took the plate before Mr Beaver could grab one and offered some to their guest.

Mr Rabbit declined politely, and with a frown, Mrs Beaver placed the plate onto the cupboard out of reach of her slobbering husband.

“No, no. Dreams are dreams until they aren’t. You better get to the bottom of this before it’s too late,” Mrs Beaver continued, looking over the rim of her cup, her spectacles low on her nose, whiskers twitching, her eyes fixed on Mr Rabbit. “If the Queen hears of this…” she added.

“Oh dear, oh dear, she mustn’t!” Mr Rabbit’s face twisted, paw raised to his throat.

“And she won’t, my dear friend. Why don’t you go see Mr Bird? He might know what to make of this,” said Mr Beaver.

“I’m afraid I can’t. I’m supposed to be looking for her. The Queen wants her found and sentenced, or sentenced first – found afterwards. You know how she gets…” Mr Rabbit’s shadow adopted a thinking pose at this dilemma while he fidgeted with his waistcoat, unsure what to say or do next, watching the shadow of a paw reaching for a cookie and another slapping it away.

Mr Beaver let out a yelp followed by a grumble.

“Not a moment’s peace we’ve had since. For months, Her Majesty’s guards turned every nook and cranny inside out without so much as a trace of that wicked witch of a girl. And who brought her here? Of course, you have nightmares. I’m not surprised. Your dreams haunt you, as does your guilt. You may very well need wings before this is over,” said Mrs Beaver.

“But…but I didn’t…” protested Mr Rabbit.

“Oh, we know, my friend. We do – we know you didn’t mean to bring her here, but you know how folks can be, especially in times like these,” Mr Beaver replied, his wife nodding gravely at his every word.

“Oh dear, oh dear. What am I to do?”

“Find her, although I say, mighty unlikely that you do. That little witch could be anywhere and nowhere. Besides, everyone knows a witch won’t be found unless she wants to be found – sure, you don’t want a cookie? Homemade, these are.” Mrs Beaver held the plate out again, staring at Mr Rabbit with big black eyes.

“Uh, thank you, I…I’m not particularly partial to coo—”

“Take one,” she commanded.

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am.” Mr Rabbit’s paw shook as he took the cookie, his eyes drawn to her enormous shiny teeth, so white, so sharp.

“Go on, eat,” her face so close to his he could feel her breath as sweet as cookie dough.

Mr Rabbit nibbled the cookie. “Mmmh, very de-delicious,” he said.

Mr Beaver reached, again trying in vain to obtain a piece of that sweet, sweet, forbidden pastry as the plate disappeared into the kitchen. With a sigh, he fell back into his armchair, nodded in defeat and polished his monocle with his handkerchief.

“Now look, Mr Rabbit, dear friend, we’d love to help, but this is all rather unusual, strange business, with the girl disappearing and all, poor Hatter imprisoned, in chains, in the dungeon—”

“Terrible, terrible affair,” Mr Rabbit interjected. “I hear they force him to drink coffee.”

“Oh yes, the horror. Incessantly, all day long. With milk and sugar, lots of sugar. The screams are… indescribable, too much. Poor guards, I don’t know how they can endure it,” Mr Beaver shuddered.

“But he doesn’t know anything, for certain he would have told them all by now?”

“As certain as there’s a hat on his head.”

“Madness. I must stop this. I must find her.” Mr Rabbit finished his cookie, chewing and crunching fervently. “Hmm, these taste unlike any tea biscuits I’ve ever had.”

“Oh yes, indeed. Mrs Beaver’s special secret recipe.”

“Special? Secret?”

“Yes, yes. Crunchy Antlers. Fantastic bite, good for your teeth.”

“Antlers? Funny, I dreamt of antlers, too. Wingsandantlers…” Mr Rabbit’s words slurred into one another.

“I’m sorry, old friend, but we must think of our young ones… if the Queen finds out… you understand…”

“Off horse, I stand under, heads, I see, queen bites are nasty.”

Mr Rabbit’s head bobbed, his shoulders shook, the seams of his waistcoat popped. First one, then two, then all the way down, and from his back sprang two grand feathered wings.

Mr Beaver whimpered, cowering behind his armchair. Mrs Beaver stood in the doorway, mouth wide open as dark horns sprouted from Mr Rabbit’s head, growing and growing, taller and taller, into magnificent antlers befitting a majestic deer.

She whispered, “Wolpertinger.”

Ready for the continuation?

Wicked Worple and the Forget-Me-Nots