Serial Killers – July Short Story

Small, a beetle, a barely acknowledged and seldom thought of friend of Rabbit, remembered the early morning’s events with a glow of excitement. His pleasure was dimmed somewhat by the recollection that this particular amusement was over, for good, but never mind, he thought, I can find another hobby. He finished  his breakfast, a succulent morsel which once had been another very small friend-and-relation, unfurled his beautiful wings and took flight in search of more fun.

The denizens of The Hundred Acre Wood had gathered in a clearing to comfort one another; furry paws patted, stroked and brushed away tears of grief. Rabbit, ears at respectful half-mast, asked if anyone had noticed anything unusual  in the Forest. Pooh, suddenly remembering his earlier encounter, extracted himself from the embrace of a damp Piglet and stepped forward.

“Erm”, said Pooh, helpfully.

“Did you see something, Pooh?”, Rabbit prompted.

“Well, I got up and ate my breakfast; only half a pot of honey, but then I was still hungry so I ate the other half. Kanga says it’s the most important meal of the day, but every meal is important, to me that is. Anyway, after that I went to ask Owl about the bees disappearing but his sign said BACKSON, so I went for a walk and made up an Outdoor Hum along the way, which turned into a Song. Would you like me to …

“NO!”, screeched Rabbit. “Sorry, Pooh, but can you just get to the important bit.”

Pooh frowned in deep concentration, immediately felt a bit peckish, but soldiered on.

“A strange man ran past me and tripped over a tree root. I tried to help, but he told me to stay back. He was on the run, he said, so then I thought it was one of them joggers, all hot and bothered and bad tempered, just like …”

At this point, Pooh’s face crumpled and his ample tummy quivered with emotion. Friends-and-relations huddled together in silent empathy.

There was a short interval while Pooh composed himself and ate a dab of leftover breakfast honey which had attached itself to his chest fur.

“Did he say anything else, Pooh?”, enquired Owl.

“Oh, there you are, Owl! I was going to ask you about …”

“Not now, Pooh”, said Owl gently. “Our dear friend has been cruelly slain. Anything, anything at all that you can remember may help us find the killer.

“Yes, sorry, Owl”, growled Pooh, “I wish Christopher Robin was back, he’s good at mysteries. Remember when …” A stern look from Owl brought Pooh back to the business at hand.

“He was rather unkind and sort of scary. I offered him a stick to help him get up and he started shouting at me. He said I was a Bear of Little Brain, a Rube, a Hayseed, an unworthy partner for Fava Beans.” Pooh panted a little in outrage. “I didn’t know what most of it meant, but it was HORRIBULL!

A dim bulb lit in Pooh’s head. “His name!  He said his name was Hannibull!”

“Wasn’t that the chap who kept Heffalumps?”, ventured Piglet. Nobody answered.  Piglet squirmed in embarrassment and turned a brighter shade of pink.

“Very rude and quite uncalled for, Pooh”, muttered Rabbit, stifling a snigger. “Do you remember anything else?”

“Not really”, said Pooh. “He got up, ran along the path a little way and disappeared”.

It was nearly lunch time, so all the animals went home, after agreeing to meet at the clearing in the morning.

Christopher Robin arrived home after dark; too late to drop in on his old friend, Eeyore, who lived quite close to the house. Eeyore had been complaining again and Christopher had bought him a lovely present to cheer him up and, hopefully, solve his problem.

At ten o’clock, the procession of animals made its way to the Gloomy Place. Some carried tributes to their fallen friend: colourful feathers, woven grasses and pretty stones. Pooh had considered a small offering of honey, but then remembered about the bees. When they reached the gate there was a stunned silence, followed by hysterical shrieks and squeaks. A number of Rabbit’s friends-and-relations fainted dead away.

Eeyore, peacefully munching on a thistle, raised his head to find out what all the commotion was about.

“Hello, everyone”, said Christopher Robin. “Poor old Eeyore had a bit of an accident, got spooked by an insect and ran into the fence. I found him early this morning, lying in the corner on his back, with his legs in the air and his chest all ripped open. Good as new now though”. Christopher Robin held up his mother’s sewing kit. Eeyore trotted up beside him, sporting his new, insect-repelling  niqab and looking unusually cheerful.

Life went on as usual in The Hundred Acre Wood.

Small was flying through the Forest  when he heard a strange scrabbling noise.  Curious, he circled over the source and discovered a demented Hannibal Lecter caught in the maw of the Heffalump Trap.  Small, keeper of dark secrets and friend to no-one, had found a new hobby.