Brownbeard followed Hazel outside. On a lagoon
right behind the sand castle rocked the For Sale.
“Hey! You moved my ship!”
“Well, yeah! We’ve got work to do on it.”
“You didn’t ask,” complained Brownbeard.
“Do want me to move it back?” asked Hazel.
“No,” said Brownbeard.
“Then what are you complaining about?”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon. Let’s go on board.”
Brownbeard and Hazel walked up onto the deck.
There, two strange little men were working hard.
One was scrubbing the deck. The other was
stitching closed rips in a sail.
“Take a break you two,” ordered Hazel, “and
come meet your new captain.”
The two strange little men stopped what they
were doing and walked up to Brownbeard and
Hazel. Brownbeard did not know what to make of
these two. They were very bizarre in their
appearance. Very. One was rough looking,
unshaven, with dark skin and a big nose. The other
was equally rough looking, nearly hairless, with
green skin, wearing a big cap atop his head that
looked like a sock. Neither wore any shoes. Both
were incredibly ugly, scary even in appearance.
Each was no taller than Brownbeard’s belt buckle.
“Brownbeard, I’d like you to meet Schmoor and
Wilbert,” said Hazel.
“How do you do?” asked Brownbeard.
The hairy one said, “Fine, thank-you. And how
do you do?” as he bowed. The one with green
skin wearing a sock for a cap just bowed.
“I’m good,” said Brownbeard, to the hairy one’s
question.
“This is Wilbert,” said Hazel, putting a hand on
the hairy little man. “He is a troll. You’ve
probably heard about his type. How they live
under bridges and eat goats or other passersby
who might happen over their bridge.”
“Yech!” said Wilbert. “Not for me.”
“Wilbert’s retired from that life. His sensibilities
are more refined than your average troll,” Hazel
informed Brownbeard.
“Have you ever lived under a bridge?” Wilbert
asked Brownbeard.
“Me? Live under a bridge? No, certainly not!”
Brownbeard said.
“And who’d want to? It’s cold and damp under a
bridge,” Wilbert informed Brownbeard. “You can’
t keep anything dry. You can’t throw a proper
dinner party. You can’t grow tomatoes. Me, I want
a nice, comfortable home. Master-on-the-main. A
place to garden. A nice, big kitchen. Yada-yada-
yada.”
“Wilbert makes a mean peanut butter and orange
marmalade quiche,” Hazel said.
Brownbeard did not get the peas, nuts and butter
based cuisine that was prevalent in this place, and
was hoping to avoid having to try it.
“Mmmmm. Sounds wonderful,” he said, just
trying to be polite.
“Oh, it is,” said Hazel. “We’ll have it some night
soon. Do you think, Wilbert?”
“You got it, Hazel,” said Wilbert.
“And this is Schmoor,” said Hazel, turning to the
little green fellow with the sock on his head. “He’s
a car key gremlin. But the problem is, he’s not big
on car keys. He much prefers socks. He’s been
staying with me while he tries to figure out what to
do. He’s a bit confused right now.”
Schmoor shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“Hello,” said Brownbeard.
Schmoor just kept smiling.
“He doesn’t talk,” said Wilbert.
“Oh. Have you taken a vow of silence?” asked
Brownbeard.
“No, he had a bad sock accident,” said Wilbert.
“Full load of athletic socks, large capacity drier—
he got greedy. When you love socks the way
Schmoor does, it was probably bound to happen.”
“Yes,” agreed Hazel, shaking her head.
Brownbeard thought he saw a tear form at the
corner of Schmoor’s eye. He decided not to ask
any more questions about this, as it seemed a
sensitive subject.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you two,”
Brownbeard reiterated.
“Where’s Kumquat?” asked Hazel.
“How should we know?” asked Wilbert.
Schmoor shrugged.
“She’s impossible to keep up with,” said Wilbert.
“Kumquat?” asked Brownbeard.
“Yes,” said Hazel.
Schmoor thumped Wilbert on the shoulder.
“Hey! What’d you do that for?” asked Wilbert.
Schmoor pointed to the plank leading from the
For Sale back to the shore. Brownbeard turned
and saw nothing.
“There you are,” said Hazel.
Brownbeard looked to see to whom Hazel was
talking.
Hazel stooped to pick up a large, tiger-striped
cat, holding a chipmunk in its jaws.
“Good ‘ol Kumquat,” said Wilbert. “Wattya got
there? Not another pet I hope.”
Brownbeard thought he saw Kumquat the cat
glare at Wilbert.
“There, there, Kumquat. Don’t get so defensive.
What do you have there?” asked Hazel.
Kumquat jumped from Hazel’s arms and raced
below the deck, chipmunk in tow—or jaw.
“Kumquat!” yelled Hazel chasing the cat. “How
dare you be so rude! Come meet your new
captain!”
“Yeah!” agreed Wilbert. “Why the theatrics? I
don’t care if you’ve got yourself another rat!”
Wilbert and Schmoor raced after Hazel, down
below deck. Brownbeard followed. He found them
in a room of the For Sale that he did not remember
seeing before. Strange. Kumquat was standing on
her hind legs, latching shut the gate to a large pen
with her front paws.
“For your information darling, it’s a chipmunk,
not a rat,” hissed Kumquat.
Wilbert shrugged. “Okay! Chipmunk—rat—
gerbil—whatever. Are you going to let her keep it
Hazel?” he asked.
“Well, it’s not my decision,” stated Hazel, “as I
am not the captain of this ship. That’s for
Brownbeard to say.”
Everyone turned to look at Brownbeard.
Brownbeard saw Kumquat looking very
expectantly at him. Actually, everyone looked
expectantly at him. Brownbeard looked at Hazel.
How could Hazel put him on the spot like this?
“Ummm, keep it?” asked Brownbeard.
“Yes, keep it,” said Kumquat. “May I keep it?”
“Keep the chipmunk?” asked Brownbeard.
Kumquat looked at Hazel questioningly and then
back to Brownbeard. “Yes, keep the chipmunk,”
Kumquat stated with a twinge of exasperation in
her cattish voice.
“Keep it? Keep it? Keep—what do you mean by
keep?” asked Brownbeard.
“What?” asked Kumquat. “What do you think I
mean?”
“Well, I think you mean to ask, ‘May I eat the
chipmunk?’ because that’s what a cat would do
with a chipmunk,” answered Brownbeard.
Kumquat looked horrified. “Eeewwww!
Grooosssss! I’ve never heard of anything so
disgusting in my life,” howled Kumquat. “Hazel!
Where did you find this monster? Oh, my! I think I’
m going to throw up!”
“Not on board the ship!” yelled Wilbert. “Some
people have been working all day cleaning and
scrubbing.”
Schmoor nodded his head in agreement.
“Kumquat,” said Hazel in a soothing voice.
“That is what many—no make that most—that is
what most cats do you know? They eat
chipmunks, and squirrels, and the like.”
“Animals!” yelled a horrified Kumquat.
“Barbarians! Ghouls!”
“So, can she keep it?” Wilbert asked
Brownbeard.
“So, when you say keep it, you mean keep it.
Literally,” said Brownbeard.
“My word! I think he’s got it!” yelled Wilbert,
slapping Schmoor on the back.
“Yes, Kumquat means to keep this chipmunk,”
said Hazel to Brownbeard.
“Well, I don’t see the harm in letting her keep
such a small, seemingly harmless creature aboard
the For Sale,” said Brownbeard.
“Captain, Sir! With all due respect,” began
Wilbert, “Don’t you think she has enough such
pets already? We must put a stop to this madness
at some point. Why, I’m not sure the For Sale isn’t
already too loaded down to fly. I’d hate to have to
abort the mission because a measly little
squirrel—”
“Chipmunk!” shouted Kumquat.
“Yes, of course. Chipmunk,” apologized
Wilbert. “I’d hate to have to abort the journey
because a measly little chipmunk added that just
too much bit of weight that could crash the ship.”
“Well, I don’t really see how one little
chipmunk—”
“It’s not just one little chipmunk, Captain! Sorry
for interrupting, but look! Just look at all of the
other rodents she’s keeping. Where is this going to
stop?”
Brownbeard looked at where Wilbert gestured.
He observed for the first time that this room was
full of many cages, and that in each cage was a
small animal of some type. Squirrels, chipmunks,
ferrets, weasels, skunks, parakeets, cockatiels,
and so forth. It was indeed a miniature zoo that
Kumquat had collected for herself.
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Brownbeard. “I didn’t see
those.”
“How will we feed all of these beasts while we’
re in the middle of nowhere? And you do know
what these varmints will do after they eat, don’t
you?” asked Wilbert.
“Yes, yes, quite,” replied Brownbeard. “I get
your point.”
“They’ll be no trouble,” said Kumquat. Then, as
an afterthought, she added, “Captain”—a word
Brownbeard thought she spit out as though it were
a fur ball—“I’ll feed them from my own share.
They’ll take nothing from anyone else’s comfort. I’
ll care for them completely.”
Brownbeard looked to Hazel for help. Hazel just
smiled sweetly, seeming to enjoy his predicament.
“She likes testing me,” thought Brownbeard.
Pacing back and forth, Brownbeard finally said,
“All right Kumquat. You may keep this new pet.”
“Aw, floopatagootey!” spat Wilbert.
“Ah! Watch your language please,” said Hazel.
Kumquat smiled a smile of triumph.
“But you must care for all of your animals as
you say you will. Should your pets become in any
way a nuisance or burden to our voyages, then we
will have to be rid of them at whatever stop we
may make.”
“Of course—Captain,” said Kumquat.
“Good, now that that’s settled, how soon until we
are ready to go?” asked Hazel.
“We’re nearly done with our chores,” said
Wilbert, a bit glum over the favorable decision for
Kumquat. “Supplies are fully stocked. We’ve just
to re-check the condition of the lines and sails.
There is a bit of wood that needs to be replaced
here and there.”
“Really?” asked Brownbeard.
“All the renovations and additions you asked for
are complete,” continued Wilbert.
“Renovations and additions?” asked Brownbeard
looking at Hazel.
“Yes, I took the liberty of making some minor
adjustments to the old gal,” replied Hazel. “If
were going to be the leanest, meanest pirating
operation this side of the Seven Zillion Seas, then
it has to be done.”
“Quite right,” agreed Brownbeard, not sure he
liked what he was hearing. He looked again at the
room he was in with the cages full of Kumquat’s
pets. How did Hazel add an entirely new room to
the For Sale?
“So, can we sail by tomorrow?” asked Hazel.
“We can sail tonight,” replied Wilbert.
Schmoor nodded in agreement.
“That is, we can sail tonight if Kumquat is
ready,” said Wilbert. “Which would be truly
amazing considering how much time she’s spent
outside bird-watching and painting lovely
watercolor landscapes.”
“I have been more than ready for quite some
time you—you—troll!” hissed Kumquat.
“Enough you two!” shouted Hazel. “Brownbeard,
you must do something about this ridiculous
bickering!” pleaded Hazel, her lovely green eyes
almost tearing.
“Me? Hazel—I’ve just met—ah—okay,”
stammered Brownbeard, his heart skipping a beat
as he gazed upon this beautiful woman looking so
sad that her cat and troll were not getting along.
He turned to look at the miscreants. “Okay, you
two. Stop the bickering right now! This behavior is
quite reprehensible. Let’s have some teamwork.
Okay?”
Kumquat and Wilbert just looked down at the
ground.
“Excuse me! I asked ‘Okay?’ and I expect a
proper response!” said Brownbeard.
“Okay, Captain!” said the two in unison.
“All right then,” said Brownbeard. “Now, let’s
get to work and finish doing what needs to be
done. If you’re done with your work, lend
someone else a hand with their chores.”
“Yes, Captain,” said everyone, except for
Schmoor, who just grunted and shook his head in
the affirmative with a big, toothy smile emerging
from behind his large, droopy nose. With that,
everyone left the room and went to work, readying
the For Sale for her first trip as a full time,
professionally staffed pirate vessel.
right behind the sand castle rocked the For Sale.
“Hey! You moved my ship!”
“Well, yeah! We’ve got work to do on it.”
“You didn’t ask,” complained Brownbeard.
“Do want me to move it back?” asked Hazel.
“No,” said Brownbeard.
“Then what are you complaining about?”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon. Let’s go on board.”
Brownbeard and Hazel walked up onto the deck.
There, two strange little men were working hard.
One was scrubbing the deck. The other was
stitching closed rips in a sail.
“Take a break you two,” ordered Hazel, “and
come meet your new captain.”
The two strange little men stopped what they
were doing and walked up to Brownbeard and
Hazel. Brownbeard did not know what to make of
these two. They were very bizarre in their
appearance. Very. One was rough looking,
unshaven, with dark skin and a big nose. The other
was equally rough looking, nearly hairless, with
green skin, wearing a big cap atop his head that
looked like a sock. Neither wore any shoes. Both
were incredibly ugly, scary even in appearance.
Each was no taller than Brownbeard’s belt buckle.
“Brownbeard, I’d like you to meet Schmoor and
Wilbert,” said Hazel.
“How do you do?” asked Brownbeard.
The hairy one said, “Fine, thank-you. And how
do you do?” as he bowed. The one with green
skin wearing a sock for a cap just bowed.
“I’m good,” said Brownbeard, to the hairy one’s
question.
“This is Wilbert,” said Hazel, putting a hand on
the hairy little man. “He is a troll. You’ve
probably heard about his type. How they live
under bridges and eat goats or other passersby
who might happen over their bridge.”
“Yech!” said Wilbert. “Not for me.”
“Wilbert’s retired from that life. His sensibilities
are more refined than your average troll,” Hazel
informed Brownbeard.
“Have you ever lived under a bridge?” Wilbert
asked Brownbeard.
“Me? Live under a bridge? No, certainly not!”
Brownbeard said.
“And who’d want to? It’s cold and damp under a
bridge,” Wilbert informed Brownbeard. “You can’
t keep anything dry. You can’t throw a proper
dinner party. You can’t grow tomatoes. Me, I want
a nice, comfortable home. Master-on-the-main. A
place to garden. A nice, big kitchen. Yada-yada-
yada.”
“Wilbert makes a mean peanut butter and orange
marmalade quiche,” Hazel said.
Brownbeard did not get the peas, nuts and butter
based cuisine that was prevalent in this place, and
was hoping to avoid having to try it.
“Mmmmm. Sounds wonderful,” he said, just
trying to be polite.
“Oh, it is,” said Hazel. “We’ll have it some night
soon. Do you think, Wilbert?”
“You got it, Hazel,” said Wilbert.
“And this is Schmoor,” said Hazel, turning to the
little green fellow with the sock on his head. “He’s
a car key gremlin. But the problem is, he’s not big
on car keys. He much prefers socks. He’s been
staying with me while he tries to figure out what to
do. He’s a bit confused right now.”
Schmoor shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“Hello,” said Brownbeard.
Schmoor just kept smiling.
“He doesn’t talk,” said Wilbert.
“Oh. Have you taken a vow of silence?” asked
Brownbeard.
“No, he had a bad sock accident,” said Wilbert.
“Full load of athletic socks, large capacity drier—
he got greedy. When you love socks the way
Schmoor does, it was probably bound to happen.”
“Yes,” agreed Hazel, shaking her head.
Brownbeard thought he saw a tear form at the
corner of Schmoor’s eye. He decided not to ask
any more questions about this, as it seemed a
sensitive subject.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you two,”
Brownbeard reiterated.
“Where’s Kumquat?” asked Hazel.
“How should we know?” asked Wilbert.
Schmoor shrugged.
“She’s impossible to keep up with,” said Wilbert.
“Kumquat?” asked Brownbeard.
“Yes,” said Hazel.
Schmoor thumped Wilbert on the shoulder.
“Hey! What’d you do that for?” asked Wilbert.
Schmoor pointed to the plank leading from the
For Sale back to the shore. Brownbeard turned
and saw nothing.
“There you are,” said Hazel.
Brownbeard looked to see to whom Hazel was
talking.
Hazel stooped to pick up a large, tiger-striped
cat, holding a chipmunk in its jaws.
“Good ‘ol Kumquat,” said Wilbert. “Wattya got
there? Not another pet I hope.”
Brownbeard thought he saw Kumquat the cat
glare at Wilbert.
“There, there, Kumquat. Don’t get so defensive.
What do you have there?” asked Hazel.
Kumquat jumped from Hazel’s arms and raced
below the deck, chipmunk in tow—or jaw.
“Kumquat!” yelled Hazel chasing the cat. “How
dare you be so rude! Come meet your new
captain!”
“Yeah!” agreed Wilbert. “Why the theatrics? I
don’t care if you’ve got yourself another rat!”
Wilbert and Schmoor raced after Hazel, down
below deck. Brownbeard followed. He found them
in a room of the For Sale that he did not remember
seeing before. Strange. Kumquat was standing on
her hind legs, latching shut the gate to a large pen
with her front paws.
“For your information darling, it’s a chipmunk,
not a rat,” hissed Kumquat.
Wilbert shrugged. “Okay! Chipmunk—rat—
gerbil—whatever. Are you going to let her keep it
Hazel?” he asked.
“Well, it’s not my decision,” stated Hazel, “as I
am not the captain of this ship. That’s for
Brownbeard to say.”
Everyone turned to look at Brownbeard.
Brownbeard saw Kumquat looking very
expectantly at him. Actually, everyone looked
expectantly at him. Brownbeard looked at Hazel.
How could Hazel put him on the spot like this?
“Ummm, keep it?” asked Brownbeard.
“Yes, keep it,” said Kumquat. “May I keep it?”
“Keep the chipmunk?” asked Brownbeard.
Kumquat looked at Hazel questioningly and then
back to Brownbeard. “Yes, keep the chipmunk,”
Kumquat stated with a twinge of exasperation in
her cattish voice.
“Keep it? Keep it? Keep—what do you mean by
keep?” asked Brownbeard.
“What?” asked Kumquat. “What do you think I
mean?”
“Well, I think you mean to ask, ‘May I eat the
chipmunk?’ because that’s what a cat would do
with a chipmunk,” answered Brownbeard.
Kumquat looked horrified. “Eeewwww!
Grooosssss! I’ve never heard of anything so
disgusting in my life,” howled Kumquat. “Hazel!
Where did you find this monster? Oh, my! I think I’
m going to throw up!”
“Not on board the ship!” yelled Wilbert. “Some
people have been working all day cleaning and
scrubbing.”
Schmoor nodded his head in agreement.
“Kumquat,” said Hazel in a soothing voice.
“That is what many—no make that most—that is
what most cats do you know? They eat
chipmunks, and squirrels, and the like.”
“Animals!” yelled a horrified Kumquat.
“Barbarians! Ghouls!”
“So, can she keep it?” Wilbert asked
Brownbeard.
“So, when you say keep it, you mean keep it.
Literally,” said Brownbeard.
“My word! I think he’s got it!” yelled Wilbert,
slapping Schmoor on the back.
“Yes, Kumquat means to keep this chipmunk,”
said Hazel to Brownbeard.
“Well, I don’t see the harm in letting her keep
such a small, seemingly harmless creature aboard
the For Sale,” said Brownbeard.
“Captain, Sir! With all due respect,” began
Wilbert, “Don’t you think she has enough such
pets already? We must put a stop to this madness
at some point. Why, I’m not sure the For Sale isn’t
already too loaded down to fly. I’d hate to have to
abort the mission because a measly little
squirrel—”
“Chipmunk!” shouted Kumquat.
“Yes, of course. Chipmunk,” apologized
Wilbert. “I’d hate to have to abort the journey
because a measly little chipmunk added that just
too much bit of weight that could crash the ship.”
“Well, I don’t really see how one little
chipmunk—”
“It’s not just one little chipmunk, Captain! Sorry
for interrupting, but look! Just look at all of the
other rodents she’s keeping. Where is this going to
stop?”
Brownbeard looked at where Wilbert gestured.
He observed for the first time that this room was
full of many cages, and that in each cage was a
small animal of some type. Squirrels, chipmunks,
ferrets, weasels, skunks, parakeets, cockatiels,
and so forth. It was indeed a miniature zoo that
Kumquat had collected for herself.
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Brownbeard. “I didn’t see
those.”
“How will we feed all of these beasts while we’
re in the middle of nowhere? And you do know
what these varmints will do after they eat, don’t
you?” asked Wilbert.
“Yes, yes, quite,” replied Brownbeard. “I get
your point.”
“They’ll be no trouble,” said Kumquat. Then, as
an afterthought, she added, “Captain”—a word
Brownbeard thought she spit out as though it were
a fur ball—“I’ll feed them from my own share.
They’ll take nothing from anyone else’s comfort. I’
ll care for them completely.”
Brownbeard looked to Hazel for help. Hazel just
smiled sweetly, seeming to enjoy his predicament.
“She likes testing me,” thought Brownbeard.
Pacing back and forth, Brownbeard finally said,
“All right Kumquat. You may keep this new pet.”
“Aw, floopatagootey!” spat Wilbert.
“Ah! Watch your language please,” said Hazel.
Kumquat smiled a smile of triumph.
“But you must care for all of your animals as
you say you will. Should your pets become in any
way a nuisance or burden to our voyages, then we
will have to be rid of them at whatever stop we
may make.”
“Of course—Captain,” said Kumquat.
“Good, now that that’s settled, how soon until we
are ready to go?” asked Hazel.
“We’re nearly done with our chores,” said
Wilbert, a bit glum over the favorable decision for
Kumquat. “Supplies are fully stocked. We’ve just
to re-check the condition of the lines and sails.
There is a bit of wood that needs to be replaced
here and there.”
“Really?” asked Brownbeard.
“All the renovations and additions you asked for
are complete,” continued Wilbert.
“Renovations and additions?” asked Brownbeard
looking at Hazel.
“Yes, I took the liberty of making some minor
adjustments to the old gal,” replied Hazel. “If
were going to be the leanest, meanest pirating
operation this side of the Seven Zillion Seas, then
it has to be done.”
“Quite right,” agreed Brownbeard, not sure he
liked what he was hearing. He looked again at the
room he was in with the cages full of Kumquat’s
pets. How did Hazel add an entirely new room to
the For Sale?
“So, can we sail by tomorrow?” asked Hazel.
“We can sail tonight,” replied Wilbert.
Schmoor nodded in agreement.
“That is, we can sail tonight if Kumquat is
ready,” said Wilbert. “Which would be truly
amazing considering how much time she’s spent
outside bird-watching and painting lovely
watercolor landscapes.”
“I have been more than ready for quite some
time you—you—troll!” hissed Kumquat.
“Enough you two!” shouted Hazel. “Brownbeard,
you must do something about this ridiculous
bickering!” pleaded Hazel, her lovely green eyes
almost tearing.
“Me? Hazel—I’ve just met—ah—okay,”
stammered Brownbeard, his heart skipping a beat
as he gazed upon this beautiful woman looking so
sad that her cat and troll were not getting along.
He turned to look at the miscreants. “Okay, you
two. Stop the bickering right now! This behavior is
quite reprehensible. Let’s have some teamwork.
Okay?”
Kumquat and Wilbert just looked down at the
ground.
“Excuse me! I asked ‘Okay?’ and I expect a
proper response!” said Brownbeard.
“Okay, Captain!” said the two in unison.
“All right then,” said Brownbeard. “Now, let’s
get to work and finish doing what needs to be
done. If you’re done with your work, lend
someone else a hand with their chores.”
“Yes, Captain,” said everyone, except for
Schmoor, who just grunted and shook his head in
the affirmative with a big, toothy smile emerging
from behind his large, droopy nose. With that,
everyone left the room and went to work, readying
the For Sale for her first trip as a full time,
professionally staffed pirate vessel.
The Adventures of Short Stubbly Brownbeard
Alan J. Levine
* * *
Chapter Twenty
Buy yer hard copy
at . . .
at . . .
Want to support
children's literature?
That's great! But
instead, why don't you
go to the followin'
links to buy yer own
miserable copy of
Brownbeard and
support Pirates
Anonymous? We've
been assisting pirates
with mental health and
hygiene issues since
1633. Brownbeard is
also available to
schools and libraries
through wholesalers
like Follett, Ingram,
and Baker & Taylor.
children's literature?
That's great! But
instead, why don't you
go to the followin'
links to buy yer own
miserable copy of
Brownbeard and
support Pirates
Anonymous? We've
been assisting pirates
with mental health and
hygiene issues since
1633. Brownbeard is
also available to
schools and libraries
through wholesalers
like Follett, Ingram,
and Baker & Taylor.
