Free The Mopwater Files by John R. Erickson

record. It simply looks bad for a tree to be wearing my bodyguard. Come, Hank the Rabbit.”
    I followed her across the creek and to the bluffs. There, she disappeared into a hole and I followed. I crawled through the darkness for ten feet or so, until it opened up into a kind of underground room.
    She stood beside a flat-topped rock in the middle, with tree roots hanging around her head. She was looking down at the flat-topped rock and . . . I didn’t know what she was doing. Muttering, I suppose.
    â€œGo left. Go right. Stand up. Sit down.” She glanced up at me and smiled. “My troop of performing fleas. Would you like to say hello to them?”
    â€œUh . . . not really. Fleas and I don’t get along. That is, we’ll get along fine as long as they stay over there.”
    She clapped her wings together and turned her eyes on me. “Well, we are safe from marauding coyotes, and ’twas foolish of you to enter my cave, oh Rabbity Hank, because I just might not allow you to leave. But before I don’t allow you to leave, tell me why you came.”
    â€œWell, Madame, I have a small problem.”
    â€œOh good. A small problem is only half as large as a large one, so we needn’t bother with it.”
    â€œOkay, I’ve got a large problem.”
    â€œOh dear.” She blinked her big moon eyes. “What have you done?”
    I started at the beginning and told her the whole story about the grasshopper, the root stimulator, the mopwater, and the fight I’d picked with Billy’s pet gorilla.
    â€œSee, I talked my way into a fight with one of the biggest, meanest dogs in Texas, and I don’t know how to get out of it.”
    â€œYes, it’s coming clear. If you don’t fight, you’re a coward. If you do fight, you’re a hamburger.”
    â€œRight, and I was hoping that you might be able to teach me some fighting tricks—you know, like karate or judo.”
    She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Karate or judo, kersplotting menudo, we’re plotting but you know—the answer is no.” Her eyes drifted down to me. “I know many things about many things, little things about big things, and big things about little things. But I know no things about . . . fighting. In my line of work, we don’t fight. We use our minds.”
    â€œYeah, I saw you using your mind on those cannibals and it almost got you eaten.”
    â€œBut I didn’t need to use my mind. You used yours. One mind is enough, yours or mine, and I don’t mind that it wasn’t mine. The result was the same.”
    â€œWe got lucky, Madame. That was pure-dee dumb blind-hog luck, and I’d just as soon have something more substantial when I go into battle with Rufus.”
    â€œRufus. An interesting name. Does he say roof-roof?”
    â€œThat’s probably the nicest thing he says.”
    â€œHmmm.” She raised a wing and began stroking some of the tree roots above her. “Rufus. Root stimulator. I am stimulating the roots on the roof of my cave. May I think about this?”
    â€œSure. Go ahead.”
    â€œYes, we have the entire summer, don’t we?”
    â€œWell, I . . . to be honest, Madame, I really . . .”
    â€œHush. Silence.”
    She closed her eyes and went into a thinking spell. I could only hope that it was a good one.

Chapter Twelve: Caution: Scary Ending

    A s the minutes dragged by, I began to suspect that Madame Moonshine wasn’t thinking about my problem; she had totally checked out and gone to sleep. I got a clue from the fact that she snored.
    â€œMadame? Madame Moonshine? I don’t want to rush you, but I’m operating on a deadline. Madame, wake up.”
    Her eyes popped open. She stared at me and blinked. “You are in my cave.”
    â€œYes ma’am, I realize that.”
    â€œWere you invited? And where is Timothy?”
    â€œYes, I was invited, and the last time we