(Previously: Chapter 1)
“What could that be, glinting in the pile of leaves over there”, asked the sharp-eyed Tabby Tim, who was the only one of the three who never wore spectacles (except sometimes when reading by the fire, but only when it had burned a bit too low).
“What an excitable youngster you are”, remarked Boris Beaver, peering in the direction Tabby Tim had pointed. “I do believe there is something in that pile. Harry, could you hazard a guess as to what type of object it might be?”
Harry, the last to see the glint, was also the most curious of the bunch. It reminded him of one of his stories, when Randall the Raccoon had found an enchanted arrow notched in the root of an ash tree. “I do declare, Tabby Tim”, he slowly said, “That this is the sharpest observation you’ve made since you spotted that dangerously frayed rope on the Oakmore Ferry. Well done.” And with those words, he bent and picked up the glinting object.
It was a quill, although he wasn’t sure what bird has feathers of quite that reddish-brown shade. It reminded him of sap-covered maple leaves on an autumn day, with the sun shining at just the right angle through the forest leaves overhead. It would, he thought, make an excellent addition to the beautiful items on his shelf. He stuck the quill through his dusty brown fishing hat (the point was still sharp), to make sure he wouldn’t forget it on the way back.
As the three friends turned to go home, the quill was soon forgotten. Their discussion instead turned to the new beaver family that lived by the Nor'western cliffs. Boris Beaver, ever the recluse, wasn’t sure how he felt about a new family in the neighborhood (although, he said, he welcomed the chance to have a real long chat about the art of dam construction - having inherited his own dam from his father, he had made many improvements to it over the years but had never built a new one whole cloth, as the new family were said to be starting now). Tabby Tim, always excited about anything new, was wondering what toys to make for their children. They were perhaps too young for wooden swords, but he thought a rattle might be more suitable.
Harry, alone out of the three, was off in his own thoughts. His whiskers twitched as he imagined a new story about a heroic raccoon detective. He knew how the mystery would start - Robbie the raccoon detective would discover that his cousin Randall (the hero of many of Harry’s other stories) had had his bow stolen. But how would Robbie solve the crime? Harry’s glance fell on the beautiful reddish-brown quill he had picked up in the forest. He walked over to it, picking it up and turning it around in his hands as he thought about Robbie the detective. Yes, he thought, a handy quill with which to write down the details of the case, track down incongruities was just what Robbie needed to (metaphorically) pierce the mystery of the missing bow. Harry put down the strange quill on the shelf, picked up the trusty mundane one he’d used to start the story (he had always had an inexplicable aversion to switching quills in the middle of writing a story), and quickly wrote the conclusion of the mystery. Now that he had the idea that tied the story together, the writing was smooth and effortless, and he quickly wrote a conclusion he was happy with.
Pleased with having written his most exciting story in ages, Harry went to bed satisfied. He blew out the lamp before rolling himself up in his blanket, replacing the warm lamplight in his bedroom with the colder, fainter light of distant stars shining through the leaves. Then he closed his curtain, and even that was replaced by darkness. He wondered, as he fell asleep, if it would be an interesting change to write his next story with the reddish-brown new quill.
