Banjo's Apple

The parents of the Leadbeater's possum (who are also Leadbeater's possums) realise at once that their young one is missing.

He'll have fallen out of the hollow! says the mother.

And there are people below! says the father. 

I know! says the mother. I'll go down and see if they've found him. You stay here and keep an eye on the honeydew.

It won't run away, says the father.

It's a community hollow, says the mother. If someone comes back early they'll eat it.

I'll make sure they don't, says the father. 

The mother goes down.

Wonderful! says Gaius. Another Leadbeater's possum! A female!

Mama! cries the young possum.

What are you doing with these people? asks the mother.

They have notes! says the young one.

On what? asks the mother.

Coughing, says the young one. They're getting me an apple.

An apple is not what you need, says the mother. Come home at once. We've brought honeydew.

Honeydew will help him, says Gaius. The apple is more of a long term solution.

An apple cannot be a long term solution, says the mother. Apples go off.

Not if they're made into apple cider vinegar, says Gaius. My colleague has gone back for an apple. As well as a knife.

Pierre-Louis looms out of the dark, with an apple. 

We didn't pack a knife, says Pierre-Louis.

Then we'll improvise, says Gaius. Using our teeth.

There's no need for you to go to any more bother, says the mother. Come on up, Banjo.

Why are you called Banjo? asks Terence.

It's my name, says Banjo. What's yours?

Terence, says Terence. 

Why are you called Terence? asks Banjo.

Terence can't remember.

A lesser Roman playwright, says Gaius.

Banjo is named after a poet, says the mother.

Which one? asks Pierre-Louis.

Banjo, says the mother. Look, this is all very well, but Banjo needs his honeydew.

C-huh! coughs Banjo.

Of course, how remiss of us, says Gaius. But I wonder if you might put Banjo to bed with his honeydew and come down again. It would be a privilege to speak with you further.

No, says the mother.

Failing that, says Gaius, may we send up our bat?

Me! squeaks Squattu.

And our drone, continues Gaius. The bat would interview you and the drone would record it.

No, says the mother.

She ushers Banjo back up the tree to the shredded bark hollow.

And feeds him with honeydew. 

Yum.