[Leaf Sweep]

When the Autumn King first brushed his paw over the world that week, Pinku felt it in the tips of his horns before he saw it with his eyes. A hush moved through the branches, ripples of color blooming from green and violet into ember-orange, maple-red and glittering gold.

Pinku stood still beneath them and the air carried a crispness that tasted faintly of spice. A leaf detached above him with a soft pop and spiraled down until it landed on his nose. He went slightly cross-eyed, held the pose for exactly two heartbeats, and then sneezed.

“Bless you,” called a familiar voice, slow and warm.

Aremis trotted up the path, a duo of rakes balanced over his shoulder like lances. Even his gait looked autumnal somehow; unhurried and content like a late-harvest stroll. His orange and caramel coat looked made out of leaves, and the tiny ribbon on his chest bobbed along as if it, too, wanted to wave like the leaves fluttering downward.

“You look like a traveling tool shop,” Pinku called back.

“Volunteer duty,” Aremis said cheerfully, nose wrinkling as a leaf landed on it and he went cross-eyed in expert mimicry of Pinku. “If we don’t keep the roads clear, every bab in town will be wading through leaves up to their chins. Come help?”

Pinku had already promised he would, but he still performed a small show of weighing options. “I suppose,” he said. “I guess I could be convinced, if there’s a pastry in it for me.”

“Two pastries,” Aremis said with solemnity. “And a hot cider.”

“Sold!”

The town had posted notices that morning: the Autumn King’s arrival had thickened the canopy over the walkways, and the winding roads that braided through their neighborhoods would need repeated clearing for a week or two, lest even the adults trip. A dozen babs were already out with proper rakes, a few wearing sweaters that clearly still smelled faintly of cedar chests. The air was full of the smell of cloves and baked apples from the newly turned ovens at the corner bakery. When the front door swung open, warm air puffed out and carried cinnamon on the breeze.

Aremis handed Pinku a rake sized to his clumsy paws. “Mind the tines,” he said gently. “You can start along that stretch.”

Pinku nodded, feeling the usual mixture of enthusiasm and dread in his belly. He wanted to do well. He wanted to be the sort of bab who made work look easy. Unfortunately, he was also the sort who could trip over dust motes. On his first pass he caught his rake on a lamppost and apologized to the lamppost twice, then to the rake, then to Aremis for good measure.

“It’s all right,” Aremis said with a soft laugh, as if Pinku’s clumsiness were charming. “We’ll make a pile over there, by the bench.”

They worked. The leaves worked too, falling as surely as snowfall, a steady whish, whish, whish. Pinku liked their sound. He could listen to it for hours, and when the wind lifted them, they went willingly, flashing their soft pale undersides that matched the velvety patches on Aremis’ cheeks and ankles.

A small babling wandered out past the bakery steps, found a leaf-heavy drift, and fell into it with a squeak of fierce joy. Her mother, a mantibab with a knitted cap, gave Pinku and Aremis an apologetic shrug and Pinku waved, smiling. 

“Look at that one,” Aremis murmured, and pointed with his chin. A leaf the color of marmalade sailed past, a transparent vein down its center catching the light. “Could go in a pressed book.”

Pinku’s ears perked. “We should make a scrapbook,” he said, words spilling all at once because crafts always excited him. “Of Autumn King things. The first leaf we raked. A clipping of your bow ribbon, if you don’t mind sacrificing one someday. A smudge of hot cocoa on the corner. Ooh, and sketches of road lamps through the fog on cold days.”

Aremis’s smile deepened into that soft curve he wore whenever Pinku said something that sounded fun. “Yes,” he said. “We should make that.”

The morning lengthened and their pile grew into a mountain of leaves plucked from both trees and wind. Each time Pinku yanked his rake back for another stroke, more leaves clung to his ankles. “I feel personally decorated,” he reported. “Like a festival float.”

Aremis examined him, head tilted, eyes serious. “You look like one of those extravagant parade carriages from the championship games,” he decided. “You need a banner that says ‘Pinku, Rake Commander of the East Road.’”

Pinku puffed up at once. “Rake Commander,” he repeated, and swished his tail in exactly the sort of way that said he knew the title was ridiculous and wanted it anyway. He slung the rake like a halberd and managed, in the same motion, to knock a small stack of bakery boxes off a bench.

“Ah! Sorry!” he squeaked and darted to pick them up, cheeks hot with embarrassment. The baker popped her head out of the doorway, waved away his apology with a sugar-dusted paw, and offered them each a spiced cookie for their trouble. Pinku tried to take a bite that wasn’t too enthusiastic and ended up with cinnamon on his nose.

Aremis dabbed it away with his paw. “There,” he said, very seriously. “Now you’re fit to command again.” And they laughed.

Their pile eventually reached an impressive height. The wind teased it and it shivered, leaves quivering together. A team of other volunteers passed, hauling tarps toward the municipal compost wagons. “We’ll be back in a bit,” one called. “Don’t let your mound fly away.”

“We’ll keep it clean,” Aremis promised.

They kept raking and talking and Pinku kept discovering how many shades of red there could be. The Autumn King, he’d learned as a babling, never arrived all at once. The King was patient, a thread drawn through every grove, tugging colors loose a little at a time so that no tree had to hurry into change. Some babs thought the King a nuisance; those who preferred sandals to boots and bare trees to sweeping. But Pinku liked the King’s gentleness. Even when the season grew brisk and the first frost nipped in the mornings, the King’s work felt like care.

By midafternoon their mound was tall enough to hide a bab and half as deep. Pinku stood at the edge of it, breath fogging the air and felt mischief slink across his shoulders. “Aremis,” he said in the certain, solemn voice of someone about to be very silly. “We have reached an important milestone.”

“Oh?” Aremis leaned his rake against a tree and brushed leaves off his ankles. “Do tell Commander.”

“It is the solemn duty of any raking party,” Pinku intoned, “to test the structural integrity of the leaf pile.”

Aremis blinked, glancing at the mound, back at Pinku, back at the mound. His gaze darted to the road, which was mercifully quiet save for a few distant cyclists and a bab debating apples with a vendor. He chewed his lip. “Is this… sanctioned?”

“Absolutely,” Pinku lied. “Article three in the Volunteer’s Guide to Joy.”

Aremis’s ears pressed flat in uncertainty for a heartbeat and Pinku gentled his voice. “I’ll go first,” he promised. “I’ll make sure it’s safe for you.”

That did it. Aremis nodded, relieved. “All right. But be careful of the lamppost.”

Pinku squinted at the lamppost as if it had wronged him personally, then backed up three long steps so his tail brushed the bench. “Observe,” he declared. “A professional at work.”

He ran.

Halfway there, he tripped on nothing at all, performed a miraculous stutter-step recovery that would have made Crederian commentators gasp, and launched himself into the pile. Leaves exploded everywhere and he vanished with a whumph and a squeal.

Aremis hovered on the edges until Pinku’s head popped up, crown of leaves and all. “Safe!” Pinku shouted, wheezing. “And deeply scientific!”

Aremis snorted a laugh. Then, glancing once more down the road, cheeks pinking, he trotted back to build up his own run. He lifted off with remarkable grace and vanished into the pile and came up giggling.

From there, science took over. It was absolutely necessary to test the mound’s integrity from multiple angles: a headfirst dive, a sideways flop, a noble belly-flop that left Pinku seeing stars and Aremis in hysterics. They reshaped the mound, raked it smooth again between tests. A pair of passing elders clapped politely for one particularly showy leap, laughing together when Pinku bowed so low he almost pitched forward again.

They were still engaged in rigorous reviewing when the first municipal wagon rattled up the road. The driver leaned out, grinning. “Are we collecting or playing games?” she called.

“Both.” Aremis said, breathless but trustworthy, the way he sounded when recommending a book.

The driver tipped two tarps their way and together they scooped the unruly pile into obedient, tarp-bound bundles. Pinku found a ladybug in the leaf drift and coaxed it onto a warmer spot on the lamppost and tucked three exceptional leaves aside for their scrapbook: one a bright red, one veined lavender to gold and one with a heart-shaped bite taken by something very small and hungry.

By late day the sky went pale and the first breath of woodsmoke drifted down from the northern row of townhouses. The baker stepped outside to hang a chalkboard with that day’s specials. “Cider’s on,” she called to anyone within hearing range. “Pumpkin loaves too. And yes, Ms. Gladis, the spice level is unchanged, no need to write a letter.” She gave Pinku and Aremis a conspiratorial wink. “Volunteers first in line.”

Inside the bakery, warmth brushed their faces and Pinku’s paws tingled. Later, they carried their bounty. Two ciders, two pastries, one slice of apple cake they would share back to the bench and sat watching the world trade its greens for gold.

While they ate, Pinku let his gaze wander down to where the road curved toward the river. Even at this distance, the sight of the water put a thin, cold chill in his chest. He didn’t have to go near it. He knew that. He also knew you couldn’t always choose what you were afraid of, only what you did next. He’d built Little Courage with Aremis at his side, and sometimes remembering that boat bobbing steady in a tide pool took some of the sting away.

He must have gone quiet for too long, because Aremis’s shoulder bumped him. “You good?”

“Just thinking,” Pinku said, and then, because he was learning to be more open with his thoughts rather than wait for Aremis to pull them out like splinters, he added. “About the river. It’s silly.”

Aremis set down his cup. “It isn’t silly.” His voice had that particular softness that made Pinku’s fears feel less silly. “We can keep to the upper roads. No need to go close. And if you want to look at it from far away, I’ll look with you and pretend to say philosophical things until you laugh.”

Pinku snorted into his cider. “Deal.” He peeked sideways at Aremis, at the careful way he had arranged their napkins so crumbs wouldn’t get caught in their fur, at the ribbon of his bow dusted with stray cinnamon, at the leaf caught behind his ear that he hadn’t noticed yet. Warmth slowly unfurled in Pinku’s chest, big and impossible to hide. He could see their future scrapbook in his head, this exact leaf pressed under a new page, a note scribbled beneath: Aremis didn’t know this was caught in his ear.

They set to work again when their cups were empty and sunset had begun to edge the world in amber. Leaves fell slower in the evening chill as if the Autumn King had put a finger to his lips and whispered that it was time to rest for a while. On their last stretch of road, all that was left was Pinku, Aremis and the weather.

They finished the final leaf mound with a tidy flourish and stood admiring their work. Pinku felt dignified and proud in equal measure. His clumsy paws were blistered, but his heart felt full with satisfaction of a job well done.

“Do you hear that?” Aremis asked.

Pinku tilted his head. At first he only heard the rustle of leaves. Then, music. It came from the small park by the statue of a trader, where a trio of musicians had taken up their evening practice and the notes drifted over the road towards them.

Aremis’s tail swished. “We could go sit and listen,” he said, and his voice held a question even though he wasn’t really asking Pinku at all.

The musicians smiled when they arrived and Pinku sat with Aremis with their backs to a maple that was slowly undressing for the winter as the sky turned from amber to lavender.

They fell into a comfortable silence. A babling toddled by with her parent and stopped to pat Pinku’s ankle patch like a good-luck charm. He froze, then smiled, and she toddled on satisfied. The trio finished their set and the small crowd that had formed applauded.

By the time they started home, the roads were glossy with lamplight. They each wore a leaf crown without realizing it; the natural consequence of an afternoon of “science”. As they passed the baker’s shop, the door stood ajar to let out one last coil of spice. The baker called, “Good night, Commanders!” and Pinku tucked his chin into his ruff to hide a blush so bright, his face felt hot.

At the corner where they’d built the very first pile, Pinku stopped. The lamplight pooled on the bench where they’d sat with their cider. The lamppost looked less menacing now, just a chaperone waiting to guide someone safely home.

“We did good,” he said softly.

Aremis bumped his shoulder again. “We did,” he agreed.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we could bring ribbons for the rake handles. And a thermos. And… and we could start the scrapbook on your kitchen table so the glue can dry while we nap.”

Aremis’s smile widened. “I have a fresh pot of glue and a roll of craft paper.” He hesitated, then added shyly, “And the championship’s highlight reel is on tonight. We could watch while pages dry.”

“We’ll cheer,” Pinku promised.

“Perfect,” Aremis answered.

When they reached Aremis’s stoop, Pinku paused, looking up at the window where just earlier that year, they’d leaned shoulder to shoulder and talked about an ending to the first story of Little Courage. Inside, there was warmth and lamplight. On the table, they spread a sheet of craft paper, and Pinku delicately arranged the three leaves he had saved on the first page, then wrote a title across the top in his neatest hand: Autumn King, Year of Little Courage. He drew a small boat in one corner and Aremis added a line of commentary: First pile achieved at the east bench, integrity confirmed by successive leaps, witnesses applauded.

Pinku laughed and they worked until the glue dried. The championship highlights rolled in the background to the gentle murmur of commentators. At a particularly daring goal, Aremis pressed his paws to his mouth and cheered, eyes shining and Pinku cheered with him because it seemed important to Aremis and that was all that mattered.

Eventually, with pages drying, they tugged a blanket from the back of the couch and collapsed beneath it. Pinku tucked himself under Aremis’ chin the way they always did when the day had been full and exciting.

Pinku lay awake a while longer, listening to Aremis’s breathing, the muffled rattle of a wagon outside, the soft, contented hush of the season making itself at home. He tightened his arm a little around Aremis’s shoulders and felt Aremis nestle closer in sleep.

“Good night, Your Majesty,” he whispered to the season out the window, to the swirl of leaves that would be piles tomorrow and mulch next spring and shade next summer.

And he slept, his dreams full of leaf piles and crowns, while outside the trees, pleased with themselves, let go one more handful of red, orange and gold.