himself again, and the early moments had seemed to keep that promise. But for a while, now, the barge seemed to him to be rocking a great deal; above all, he could feel the stirrings of nausea, and that did not bode well.
“Do you feel sick, too?” he whispered to Paulus.
“No,” replied the elf, astonished.
Then, with consternation:
“You don’t feel mist-sick, I hope?”
“Feel what?” asked Petrus, alarmed.
Paulus looked at him with trepidation.
“Mist-sick. Travel-sick. Did you drink the tea at the way station? Normally, you shouldn’t feel like this.”
“No, I didn’t drink it,” said Petrus, now frankly worried. “I wasn’t in the mood to sit drinking tea.”
“What’s going on?” asked Marcus, coming closer, “Why are you whispering like conspirators?”
“He didn’t drink his tea,” said Paulus wearily. “He wasn’t in the mood.”
Marcus looked at Petrus.
“I cannot believe it,” he said, finally.
And, divided between exasperation and pity:
“How do you feel?”
“Horrible,” said Petrus, who didn’t know which tormented him more, nausea, or the prospect it could get worse.
To make things worse indeed, a few hours earlier, on leaving his pine forests, now more beloved than ever, he had stuffed himself with herb pâté (something he adored) and some of those sweet little red berries that can be found at the edge of the Southern Marches (and which he was mad about). Subsequently he had felt terribly sleepy, which had made the last leg of the journey quite difficult. Now there could no longer be any question of sleeping, because the pâté, the berries, and a few older remains of cranberry compote were fighting for the honor of coming out first, while Petrus, looking all around him in horror, saw nowhere that he might reasonably dispose of them.
“You’re not about to throw up now, are you?” whispered Marcus in a hiss of irritation.
“Do you honestly think,” gasped Petrus, “that I have any choice in the matter?”
His fur had taken on an interesting greenish tinge.
“Not in the barge, please,” said Paulus.
“Above all, not in the mist,” said Marcus.
He sighed with pity and weariness.
“Take off your clothes,” he said, “and do what you have to do in them.”
“My clothes?” said Petrus indignantly.
“Stay a squirrel or a horse, whichever you prefer, but take off your clothes and be as quiet as possible,” answered Marcus.
Petrus wanted to answer back, but he seemed to suddenly think better of it, and his companions understood that the dreaded moment had arrived. Once he’d changed into a man, he turned modestly to one side and removed his clothes, baring his pretty little round white buttocks, which were sprinkled with freckles. Then he changed into a squirrel. What is about to follow will remain forever in the annals of the mists, for no one had ever seen such a thing and, above all, heard such a thing. Vomiting is very rare among elves, for they do not indulge in excesses harmful to the smooth workings of the organism, and so the event was shocking in and of itself. But you must know that of all the animals, squirrels get it over with most indelicately. Consequently the other three elves turned away with horror the moment they heard the first rumblings of release.
“What’s going on?” asked the boatman, while Petrus was apocalyptically spewing his guts out.
“He’s mist-sick,” answered Paulus.
“I’m sorry,” hiccupped Petrus between two bursts of pâté.
The boatman and the two deer looked at him, stunned.
“Didn’t he have tea at the way station?” asked the boatman.
No one answered. For a moment, they could see that the boatman was piecing a series of concordant clues together and, gazing at the finished picture, finally understood that he was dealing with a madman. Just then, Petrus let out a final spasm and the boatman laughed so hard it caused the entire barge to shudder, bursting the deer’s eardrums. His laughter gradually subsided and then, looking at the pale squirrel clutching his clothes close to him, he said:
“Well, dear friend, I have no doubt that an interesting destiny awaits you.”
And we know he was right about that. At present, however, the voyage had become a nightmare, and Petrus’s stomach, emptier than it had been in decades, was now regurgitating nothing more than a little bitter bile and the shame of having soiled his clothes.
“I won’t kill you,” Marcus said, “that would be letting you off too lightly.”
But Petrus shot him such a pathetic look that he softened his tone somewhat.
“I hope this has taught you a lesson,” he sighed, in the end.