Bismark crouched under his cape.
Even the fox seemed alarmed. Though her stance remained tall and brave, the hair on her back stood on end, like a long row of blades.
With vigilant eyes, she scanned the trees above. A curtain of drifting clouds obscured the moon, and the night’s light shifted from a clear, deep blue to an ominous gray. She drew in her breath. “It appears the Brigade might be needed sooner than we had thought.”
Dawn, Bismark, and Tobin listened closely, paws cupped to their ears. For a moment, all they could hear was the soft rush of the nearby river and the familiar buzzes and chirps of the night. Suddenly, there was another pained, desperate cry, followed by a scuffle, a thump, and a long, muffled wail. Then all fell silent. Eerily silent.
Dawn’s ears remained pricked in attention. She scanned the land. Fixing her gaze on a tall nearby acacia, the fox straightened her spine. “Bismark,” she said, “could you climb to the top of this tree? We should be able to see what’s going on from up there.”
“Ma cherie,” he replied, puffing his chest. “Does a spring rain cleanse the soul? Does a dove’s song fill the heart? Does the beautiful fox before me ignite every fiber of my being?”
Dawn waited.
“In a flash!” said the sugar glider.
Seconds later, Bismark stood on one of the tree’s highest branches. He gazed at the river below. “Great Scott, I am handsome!” he said, marveling at his reflection.
Spotting a low-hanging limb, Dawn leapt off the ground, hoping she, too, could see more from a higher perch. At first she saw nothing unusual, just the froth of the river’s current and the soft flicker of moonlight on the waves. But then she spotted a long, dark mass, blundering downstream toward them. “What is that?” she wondered.
Quickly, Tobin clambered up the tree’s bark and settled, breathless, next to the fox.
“What do you see, ma cherie?” asked Bismark.
Dawn extended her neck. “I’m not sure.”
Tobin looked at his friend with wide, hopeful eyes. “Is it only a log?” he asked.
Dawn nodded. “Perhaps.” She sat back on her haunches, a little less tense.
“Perhaps is good enough for moi!” said the sugar glider. “You worry too much, my lovely Dawn. The forest is full of screeches and howls. It is the music of the night. No problemo here!”
“Um… excuse me,” started Tobin, self-consciously shifting his weight. “But it seems like we might have a… um… ‘problemo,’ indeed!” The pangolin raised his brows in concern and motioned back toward the river.
The dark mass floated past beneath the tree, revealing itself to be an ordinary log—small leafless branches and coarse bark. However, clinging to the log’s hollowed end was the distinct silhouette of a small, furry creature and the flash of its two terror-filled eyes.
“That animal is in trouble,” Dawn whispered.
“Yes,” Tobin nodded. The current had picked up now, and the creature was frantically splashing downstream.
“Well then,” said Bismark, “I shall bid you adieu!”
“Excuse me?” said Tobin, tilting his chin toward his friend.
“Since I am the bravest soul of us all,” said the sugar glider, “I shall gallantly remain in this tree—in its precarious limbs, at its most perilous pinnacle—while the two of you resolve that, um, teensy trouble down below.” He cleared his throat and stood tall. “Faretheewell!”
“Oh,” said the pangolin, sighing deeply in disappointment. “I suppose I thought a brigade did things together.”
Dawn kept her eyes fixed on the river below, but her voice was clear and strong: “That’s right, Tobin. We are a brigade. We will work as a team.” She shot Bismark a commanding look. “Now, we must hurry! The river current is swift.” She leapt to the ground and raced toward the riverbank.
“We’re coming!” cried Tobin, scrambling headfirst down the tree.
“Indeed!” called the sugar glider. “We are right behind you, my dame!” Bismark stepped to the edge of the branch and directed himself toward Dawn’s fluffy, white tail. He sighed. “The things I will do for this lady fox!” Bismark blew a kiss into the wind, spread his winglike flaps, and launched himself after his friends.
As the river picked up in speed, so did the Brigade. Dawn stayed in the lead, matching the current’s pace. Bismark shadowed them from the treetops above, gliding from branch to branch. And Tobin trundled behind Dawn, trying his best to keep up.
“Oomph!” The pangolin winced as he stumbled over a pointy rock. Taking a seat on the long, damp grass, Tobin examined his tender foot and inspected his scales for nicks. “Oh dear,” he muttered, noticing one on his leg. But then he noticed something moving in the aldrovanda bush just a tail’s length away.
Tobin quietly rose to his feet and squinted into the brush.
“Hello?” he called, nervously coiling his tail. “Is somebody there?”
The pangolin padded closer and peered into the feathery leaves. There, tucked behind a cluster of deep scarlet blooms, he saw a quivering mound of fur and two terrified eyes.
“Oh,” said Tobin, lowering his scaly head. “Hello.”
Slowly, a fuzzy brown nose poked out of the brush. It wriggled twice and then retreated back into safety.
Suspecting the nose needed time to adjust, Tobin waited.
Sure enough, moments later, the nose reappeared. This time, a tentative paw followed. Little by little, one limb at a time, a stout, furry wombat emerged from the foliage, drenched and dripping with river water.
At once, the pangolin recognized those eyes—they were the same ones he had seen looking up from the log in terror. “Are you all right?” he asked, cocking his head.
But the wombat could not seem to reply. Despite the warmth of the night, her body trembled, from her round, fluffy cheeks to her short, stubby tail.
The pangolin scanned his surroundings for signs of Bismark or Dawn, but all he could see was the black of the night and the reflection of stars on the water. Not quite sure what to do, Tobin decided to simply introduce himself.
“My name is Tobin,” he said, his voice soft and sincere.
Finally, the wombat spoke. “My name is Cora,” she whispered. But still, she continued to shake, and her eyes remained frightened and wide.
Tobin cupped his scaled chin in his paw, searching for the right thing to say.
“When I’m afraid,” he began, taking a seat on the ground, “I spray a smell from my scent glands. It can be rather unpleasant.” Tobin bent his head in embarrassment. “And sometimes,” he added, “I do it by accident, when there’s nothing scary at all.”
Cora nodded. “When I’m