The Sprites' Secret

Barnaby trudged along, his whiskers drooping like wilted dandelions. Pip, perched on a branch just above his head, chirped a never-ending stream of commentary. “Honestly, Barnaby, you’d think a badger of your… *stature*… would have a better sense of direction. Though, mind you, it’s not as if I haven’t seen bigger holes in the ground than the one where your bush used to be. Quite the spectacle, that was. All that digging and… well, *absence*.”

Barnaby grunted, a sound that could curdle milk. He was trying very hard not to think about the absence. He was trying very hard not to think about the plump, juicy berries that were supposed to be there, ripening in the warm spring sun. Instead, he was thinking about Pip’s incessant, high-pitched voice drilling into his brain like a tiny, feathered woodpecker. “Are you quite sure, Pip?” he mumbled, kicking a loose pebble. “Are you absolutely, positively, undeniably certain that it was *sprites*?”

Pip puffed out her chest, a tiny ball of indignant fluff. “Certain? My dear Barnaby, I *saw* them! Or rather, I saw the shimmering dust they left behind, like a thousand tiny rainbows had sneezed. And then I heard them, giggling like spilled water. And the bush! It was gone, Barnaby, simply *vanished*! Poof! Like a bad mushroom soup. They were carrying it, you see, on a platform woven from moonlight and spiderwebs. Quite inefficient, if you ask me. Though, I suppose, for sprites, efficiency isn’t exactly their strong suit. They’re more about… sparkle and tw