The weasel snarled. His eyes were wild, his fur unwashed and tangled, and his clothes, once a perhaps military uniform, were torn and dirty. He reeked of alcohol, and a deeply upsetting look crawled on his face.
An empty feeling mulled in Joakim’s stomach. “I’m so, so terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to blame you, sir,” he said.
“Sir? Sir! You will not call me a ‘sir’, you!” the weasel said. “I know the likes of you. All nice and caring, but in reality? In reality! You look down on me. Think you’re better than me! Curse you, you damned!”
The weasel took a step towards him. The pup began to cry. The weasel let out a yell and hit the brick wall. Blood dripped down from his bruised knuckles. Maria rushed in between them her paws raised in fists. The look in the weasel’s eyes darkened. His teeth were bared.
A light and playful whistle and a sound of clapping froze the escalation of the fight.
“Wow, what a big fellow you are!” someone said from the direction of the clapping. “The strength, the form, the spirit… I bet folk listen when you speak.”
By the wall next to them, a slender fellow sat on a trash bin swinging his legs back and forth while whistling a merry tune like a mischievous pup. His clothes looked like they were borrowed from a scarecrow, and the numerous patches on his moss-coloured jacket marked where life had taken a toll on him. His collars were raised high and his green, wide-brimmed hat shaded his features leaving only his slit nose and long whiskers visible. He was a hare, it seemed.
“What’s…what’s you looking at? What you want?” the weasel said.
“Me?” the stranger said. “I’m curious why someone like you would act like this. That’s the uniform of Vilstrand’s militia you are wearing, is it not? I bet you used to be something different before they Cleansed the city. Someone who worked for the common good, no doubt. Listen, I get you. They took away your home, and then dumped you here to die. It isn’t fair, but you could still be doing all kinds of deeds with your talents. When a big fella like you sees folk misbehaving, you could surely talk them out of it. See someone trashing the streets? Make them stop. Someone drank too much and is harassing others? You could help them reconsider. You could be the hero this city needs, just like you were before, so why are you here bullying rabbits instead?”
The weasel cast a burning glare at the hare. “I ain’t nobody’s fool.”
“Is that a no? You won’t work to make the city better? Such a shame. A wasted talent.”
The weasel stared at the stranger with a look promising blood. “You calling me wasted? Wanna fight? Is that it?”
The hare sighed. “I had to try at least. Listen, before you start anything, riddle me this: I haven’t been whistling for a while now, but you keep hearing it. Why? And why is it suddenly so cold? And these thickening shadows, they are not normal either, are they? What’s happening? Does it make sense to you? Because if it doesn’t, then you are grossly unprepared to fight me. Consider your next move well.”
The weasel and the rabbits eyed around them nervously. A constant whistling, slow and playful, skated through the air without the hare making a single sound himself. As if obeying the song’s orders, shadows crept closer and a piercing cold enveloped Joakim’s toes and nose. The ground glistened white as ice particles formed and covered the trampled slush. Frost and razed spikes of hardened ice climbed up the walls and a ferocious wind forced them to huddle up in desperate need to conserve heat.
The weasel was quick to make up his mind. “Magic,” he said through clattering teeth like it was a curse. “You are one of the judges. Screw you! I don’t give a crap about your lil’ rabbits. Stay out of my way!” he said, and disappeared behind a shadowy corner with violent haste.
