Shapes in the Fog

[Fildering Dillwithers]

Adventure is a peculiar experience. It grips the heart of a young creature, galvanizing actions normally confined to fleeting dreams into something more. Something greater. Something all at once exciting, bewildering . . . and, at times, something truly terrifying.

Fildering Eustatius Crummeloe Brackenwold Dillwithers swore he felt all three as he stood on the deck of what had once been nothing more than a dream to him, and thought of nothing more than how truly lucky he was to be here. Here, aboard the greatest ship ever to fly the flag of Lord Stormstripe's Waverunners. His heart fluttered as he thought about it. Beneath his footpaws, the mighty Zephyr tacked west-by-south, silver-white shrouds bellying out to their full extent under a sunrise painted in gold, auburn, and pastel blue. Indomitable!

Thoughts of marching on the drill ground five days before, dusty and exhausted, were for the most part forgotten as the ship, with him onboard its sturdy oaken decks, ventured forth over the Western Ocean. The vast, welcoming horizon spread out before him, stretching into the great beyond. What adventure! What thrill!

He smiled. Already, he was making new acquaintances, including a young hare who went by the name "Scully". He'd met the fellow a few days ago; although timid to socialize with the hard, outgoing soldiers at first, Scully had struck him as a promising creature. The young one just needed a little push.

Good egg, that Scully. Shows spirit, for bloomin' once. Can't be said for a lot o' chaps onboard. Still . . .

Something just hadn't seemed right about Scully, though. He wasn't his usual self, and Fildering couldn't help but notice that the younger hare's mind seemed elsewhere.

The north wind was pleasant this morning, and as it ruffled his fur, Fildering's thoughts drifted away from Scully to Crue Sarish, whose chamber he now guarded, and then to the exchange he'd overheard between that same ship's healer and the hedgehog, Robert Rosequill. An exchange about a thief.

Everybeast was talking about it. Ever since Crue had voiced her concerns to Colonel Swiftpaw, who in turn had voiced the same concerns to the crew, there had been talk and rumor from stem to stern as to who the culprit might be.

Some said it was a kleptomaniac woodlander, perhaps one of the many obvious gluttons aboard. More than likely.

Some said it was a stowaway, perhaps a small weasel or rat that could slip about, moving undetected. Unlikely, but possible.

More delusional beasts said it was a ghost of some vermin from Atlas's past who, having a bone to pick with the Zephyr's crew and master, had come to curse the ship in some horrible and rather inventive ways. Fildering chuckled at that one. Ridiculous.

Whatever the truth, one thing was certain to the young corporal: thievery was rampant on deck.

Thievery. And what better creature to find the source of this thievery than Fildering himself?

Who, indeed? This's your chance t' speak to the great Atlas Stormstripe, wot! If anything's to get His Nubs's attention, it'll be the chance to put an end to all this thievin' nonsense! An' if there's anybeast to do th' job, it's Filderin' E. C. B. Dillwithers, Honorary Lance Corp'ral o' th' Galbraith Guard, by jove! Up an' at 'em, bucko!

Now . . . meeting Lord Atlas. The idea had clawed at his indecisive brain for days now. Well, y' can't keep puttin' it off like this, ol' boy. It's now or flippin' never!

He flinched, indecisive.
Come on, stiff upper lip, ol' boy! No use lollygaggin' around all season . . . march! He felt a slight tingle run up his spine. May as well . . . nothing else to do on this ship but sit 'round watching th' blinkin' horizon. That, or listen to the soldiers boast about all the feasts they'd put paid to "back in the day". Back in the day, indeed. Most beasts aboard had seen far too many seasons; veterans, telling tall tales to keep the young, excitable recruits in high spirits.

No, that wasn't for him. Only one thing for it, then: go to Lord Stormstripe. Pledge himself to put an end to this thieving. This rebellion. This . . . this insubordinate mutiny.

When he put it that way . . . it sounded downright exciting. Was that a tingle of adventure he felt just then?

Rehearsing the lines he had mulled over in his mind since boarding the Zephyr three days before, he turned from the railing and tramped off, a new resolve in his mind and a spring in his step.

"Better sooner than never, wot!" he declared aloud, getting several strange looks from more than one crewmember. Guarding Crue Sarish's chamber had given him something extra on which to plead his case to Atlas, though: leverage!

Feeling more courageous than he had felt in a long time, the young hare's pace quickened to a gallop as he sped across the fore deck, down the fore ladder, and across the main deck toward Lord Stormstripe's command quarters.

Behind him, Miss Sarish's chambers lay unguarded; in his haste, guard duties were blissfully forgotten.


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Outside the door to the Captain's Quarters, an officer was standing guard with a rapt, attentive expression on his weatherbeaten face. The wind whipped at his thick mustachios, which in turn billowed comically.

As Fildering dashed for the door, the hare officer stepped neatly in his way.
"Stand by, there, soldier. Nobeast is permitted entry to Lord Atlas's chambers without h'explicit permission. State y'business, or be off wi' ye!"

Fildering came to a halt, saluting sharply. "Fildering Dillwithers, sah! Pertinent business with Lord Stormstripe, sah! Concerns the  state o' affairs aboard this ship, sah!"

"Hmm. Did 'e send for ye, Mister Dallyfethers?"

The young corporal slumped his shoulders. Dallyfethers. How hard can it be to get a chap's name right?

Fildering sighed inwardly. There would most certainly be no luck with this one. "Er . . . negative, sah."

"Then h'I doubt 'e wants t'bother wi' ye! 'Is Nubs 'as got more h'import'nt business to h'attend to, h'I should bally well think, wot! Anythin' else to report, young h'rip?"

Dejected, Fildering turned to leave with a heavy heart. This was to have been his big moment. "N-no . . . sah."

The seasoned officer's solemn mouth split open into a youthful smile. "Well, then, h'I should think a young, resourceful chap such as y'self could come up with an h'idea on 'is own, wot? Mayhap an idea so crackin' good that 'e just might earn an audience with Lord Stormstripe, wouldn't y'think . . . ?"

Fildering spun around. "Wot?"

"Aye. A clever young h'rip just might."

"Y-y'mean it?"

The veteran winked. "I mean it. Go make y'self useful, Mister Dillwithers."

"Y-yes sah! Right away!" Fildering beamed, stumbling off down the steps. He punched the air with his fist as he ran off to muster his fr?res d'armes, Twilbee and Qwirry, from the mess room.

Finally, a chance to prove his worth. Finally, he was getting somewhere. He was going to meet Lord Atlas. At last! "Yahoo!" he declared; there were no odd looks from the crew this time around. They must've been getting used to it.


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The sun reached its zenith over the Western Ocean as the tired crew continued making their inventory of the ship's stock.

Crates, barrels, and the odd sack of ground barley or wheat lay here and there, every one of them combed over with the discerning eyes of the ship's officers. A salty sea otter paused in the middle of re-packing a footlocker, breathing in deeply and wiping a tattooed forearm across his brow. "Stove me planks, cullies, if'n it don't look t'be a right ole drencher comin' in Northwa's."

"Where away?" a squirrel said, looking up from his own handiwork.

The otter didn't reply, merely nodding in the direction of the distant horizon, which was now brooding with dark stormclouds. Brief lightning flashed, bringing with it the booming report of thunder.

The squirrel cringed slightly. "Let's get all these crates below before it hits, aye?"

"Hoho, bless yore cockles, mate. 'Tis only an ocean deluge, hahaharr! Don't want t'get yore paws wet, bucko?"

The otter's enthusiasm for pounding rain and thunder looked to be unsettling for this squirrel, who nervously edged away with the excuse of retrieving some sort of tonic from the medical bay.

"Now, just a minute, mate. Where away be ye a-headin' off to so sudden? Matey?" The otter turned, sighing, and hefted another sack of grain. "Lubber," he muttered, accompanying his words with a knowing smirk.

"Scuse me, soldier. Name an' rank, if y'please?"

The otter jumped. Fildering Dillwithers was standing behind him.

"Boggle me ship's bells, hoho! I'm Drandy Roaringale, an' bless yore 'eart; I ain't no soldier!"

"We were ordered to search the ship for a thief, or thieves; whichever it bally well is."

"Oh aye? Wot kin an ole otter do ye for, maties?"

Fildering winked at Drandy. He liked this otter. "Thought a seasoned shipsbeast like y'self might know of a place w'might find one, wot?"

"Hahaharr, thankee, mate, but if I knowed wheres t' find one, I warn't be still a-slavin' away at these 'ere crates! I'd say a small creature could 'ide out somewheres in the 'old that we ain't checked yet, though. That's jes' a guess, mate."

"Hmm, well, much obliged t'you, anyway. Heh, nice carvin', wot." The hare noticed the curious depiction on the crate as he passed toward the deck stairs.

"Ain't it! Me'n Wirren noticed it earlier tidday; dunno 'oo drawed it."

Though, what's a fat old squirrel doin' fightin' a badger hunchback? Fildering mused as he headed for the Mess Hall. Qwirry and Twilbee were bound to be there.


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The sun was making its descent into the horizon and thunder rumbled in the distance as Fildering returned to main deck, his two Galbraith Guard companions in tow. Joviality was at a notable low as the squad marched silently toward the hold entry passage. Drandy Roaringale was just finishing the last crate of the evening when the trio passed.

Fildering paused at the gangway entrance, turning to the old seadog. "Wish us luck, old sport?"

The otter nodded grimly, and with that, the squad plunged into the darkened passage. Paws tightened on sword hilts. The three hares peered around with suspicious eyes as they stepped carefully, slowly down the gang stairway.

Reaching the end of the gang passage, the hares came to another stop. Fildering poked his head into the hold corridor ahead. The first thing to assault his senses was the smell. It was dank and musty, and bore a hint of something else. Something Fildering couldn't quite put a paw on.

"Say, chaps. What is that?" he questioned, his voice a mere whisper.

"Hmm, can't say I know, sah. Blinkin' nasty, if y'ask me," muttered Twilbee, his nose twitching.

"Aye. Smells awful," agreed Qwirry. The hare's eyes narrowed.

"Alright, chaps, lips zipped an' blades at the ready. This's the only place a thief could hide without bein' seen," Fildering whispered. "Fan out. You two check the pantry. I'll check further down in the ballast decks."

The others nodded and headed slowly for the pantry and galley compartments.

Alone at last, Fildering took a cursory glance around the deepest, darkest confines of the ship.

The crates. The sacks. The smell . . . pungent, musky. He had seen a ferret once. Dead. It was the closest thing he could compare this to. As Qwirry had said, nasty.

The smell.

What was that? He took a deep breath and his instinctual, fine-tuned sense of smell kicked in. Yes. That was it!

Weasel? No. Rat.

So, the rumors were true. To think, one o' the very scum we're after, aboard this very flippin' ship!

His heart began to race, his paws twitched, and his ears became keenly aware of every sound. His paw clutched tightly around the handle of his dussack, tensing in anticipation.

The hare's eyes picked up movement to the north, directly ahead down the corridor.

He tensed. Who could that be? He crept closer, peering through the gloom.

Scully? The hare from the mess hall? Most likely slipping out of here after a bit of scoffing on the sly . . .
He lowered his blade and crept up. "Scully, is that you?"

The other hare turned, eyes wide. "Filds! Oh, you scared me there."

Fildering let out a deep sigh. So, that's all it was.

"Jove, am I glad to see you. Somechap's been stealin' things, an' we were sent t' find out who. Seen anythin'...suspicious?"

"Er, well, no, not that I know of. Why?"

Fildering's eyes narrowed. Scully was definitely not his usual self. "Hmm. D'you mind helpin' me give the old place a look around, then . . . wot?"

"Ehem, er, have you checked the pantry yet? What about the Galley?" Scully evaded carefully.

"I've already got two lads on the pantry. All we've got left to sweep is this hold. Besides, somethin's not right down here. Smells...strange. Rather like a rat, actually."

That was when the rat jumped him, a long dagger blade of some sort glinting in her one paw and the other paw on his neck. His paw shot out and caught hold of the dagger paw, the other catching hold of the rat's free paw; he struggled, trying to release her desperate chokehold on his throat.

The two went down in a tussle, both grappling with a will. He found himself easily overpowering the slippery attacker, and gave a dry chuckle as he tried to get a grip on her arm as she thrashed. "Oh, no ye don't!"

But she did. The rat quickly wriggled out of his grip and scrabbled back, panting.

Fildering launched himself at the rat, who presently threw herself to the side with a startled squeak. "Stand down, y'piratey fiend! I'm taking you in, by gerry!"

The rat acted quickly. Scrambling to her nimble paws, she darted out past the hare and into the corridor. Fildering saw her look back over her shoulder as she launched into a charge for the exit, which in turn led directly up the passage and out toward the main deck. Fildering dashed after her, breathing heavily. Try as he may, the rat was too fast for him.

Ye cats, she's going to make it! Faster, old boy! he mentally roared at himself. She was through the hold gangway now.

Her escape would have been surprisingly simple had there not been two hares walking down the corridor, heading right toward her with careless oblivion in the Stygian darkness.

"Gah, I say there; some rotter's tripped me up, Qwirry old boy!"

"It's the bally old foebeast, Twilly old thing! Give 'em bracken an' beetroot, wot! Eulalia!"

The rat went down in a tangled mess of bodies before she could stop her mad dash. Fildering saw his opportunity and took it. As the target attempted to extricate her tail from under the arm of a hare and her right foot from under a hare's muzzle, she found herself looking precariously down the sharp end of a dussack. Fildering Dillwithers stood over his capture, eyes narrowed as he leveled the sword with the rat's face. "Twilbee. Qwirry. Place this vermin under arrest. We've caught ourselves a spy, by jingo jerry."

Fildering saw the rat's eyes shift. The stowaway must've seen the combative aspect of the metaphorical "game" was up, because she quickly took a different tact: "Oh please, sir, don't turn me in! I've got a husband an' ten kids to look after! They won't know what to do with their lives wi'out no mum to guide 'em!"

"That very bloomin' well may be, but I'm taking you in, by jove! Offisah's orders an' all that, wot wot! Don't worry, it'll just be a few months in the brig or some unpleasant deckwashin' duties, donchaknow! Your eleventynine kids can make do without a thief for a mum for a season, by the left. Now, march!"

"Wait, stop! Stop! Atlas is crazy, he'll ki-" Scully attempted to block the path of the soldiers, but was merely shoved aside by the older, bigger hares. He followed along behind them still, however, shouting frantically.

Amid the protests of both vermin and pirate aspirant, Fildering and his squad trooped up the flight of stairs through the stores corridor, and out onto the main deck. They headed straight for Atlas's quarters, with their new prisoner neatly in tow, and a bedraggled young hare running after them, yelling at the top of his lungs.


They didn't need to travel far, however. The badger was on his way across the deck at that very moment, heading for the forecastle cabins. At the commotion, Fildering saw Lord Stormstripe's head turn sharply; saw the single dark eye. Dead ahead.


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A light sprinkle of rainwater spattered the deck of the mighty Zephyr as Lord Atlas Stormstripe of the Western Coasts and Waverunner Fleet looked down at the rat. His officers grouped around, watching him intently. Passing crewmembers stopped in their tracks, other duties forgotten as they hung silently about; there would be no missing this. Fildering caught the familiar faces of Sarish and Robert in the small crowd.

Fildering felt his throat tighten as Atlas stared at the rat through his one cold, furious eye. A pitiful creature. Surely Atlas would have mercy. But Atlas had no pity, nor the time to bother with vermin pirate filth. He spoke with an icy, merciless edge to his voice that raised the fur on Fildering's back."You found the thieving pirate spy. Good work . . ." To Fildering, the badger seemed to be fighting inwardly a moment. Against some unseen darkness that threatened to blur the entire scope of the massive badger's vision. Fildering saw the red tinge coming to the badger's eye and shivered.

"Bring me my sword, Colonel."

"She's hardly a pirate, sah...she's nothing more than a youth!" said Frederick, hesitating.

Fildering gasped. "Sah, I must protest. I didn't think anything like this wou-"

And there was Scully, unable to stop himself from speaking with the rest of them; his voice was at a high-pitched crescendo now. "In the name of the red flags of Barranca, with the true king of the seas as my witness, you will surely pay for this!!"

"Silence!" The badger's voice was a low growl now. Ignoring the protests, he repeated his demand to the Colonel: "Bring me my sword."

Frederick hastened to obey this time. Scully had to be restrained by the fatherly Robert.

Fildering lowered his head apologetically. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Where was the Atlas of his dream? Where were the honorable, just hares of the Long Patrol he had so often envisioned as a young leveret? Where was the "grand moment" he had so often foreseen?

"My mind is made up," Atlas said flatly, breaking Fildering's reverie. "Step aside, Dillwithers."

There was a certain fire in the badger's one eye as he spoke.

Fildering tensed a moment, indecisive. Something in the badger's tone told him that remaining where he stood was not an available option.

The young hare stepped aside, shaken.

The rat thief shrunk back on the deck. "Don't, please..."

Accepting the huge battle blade, Atlas took a step forward.

Fildering watched with horror as the stowaway curled into a protective ball, arms crossed desperately over her face.

The badger raised the sword over his head, his single good eye now clouded red with the Bloodwrath. Most crewbeasts shut their eyes in disgust and horror. Robert covered Scully's eyes with a sheltering paw, and Sarish was watching with a distant expression. Robert looked at Fildering. The look was enough.

Fildering turned away, disgusted with himself. With the world. He stumbled to the deckrail, feeling ready to lose his supper over the side. The rush of adrenaline and euphoria at capturing Plink had evaporated, replaced by nothing but cruel guilt. His eyes were leaden as he gazed out over the sea that wasn't interesting anymore. The rain was coming down in torrents now. He half considered throwing himself overboard. Glory. Fame. Status with a badger he could hardly look at now. What were they worth? His dreams had been nothing more than shapes in the fog. Shapes in the fog...

Fildering's heart nearly skipped a beat. A shape in the fog. But it was there when he looked again, as real as the pine of the deckrail beneath his paws.
A ship!

Thinking fast for a quick distraction to Atlas's blood fury, the hare rushed to the ship's bell and rang it hard, throwing back his head at the same time and shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Sails awa'! Dead ahead! Dead ahead!"