Murphy's Law: A Sully Murphy Story

The first thing Sull Murphy did at his grandfather's funeral was piss on a government sign.

The second was fall into the grave.

Neither had been planned. The sign was new, the earth was loose, and Sully had drunk enough fermented crabapple cider to tranquilize a moose.

It was twelve minutes past midnight.

Founder's Clearing served as Knottingham Woods' town square, wedding chapel, battlefield memorial, and cemetery. Executions had once been held there, too, until the politicians started charging admission.

Lanterns hung from the Great Oak. Crickets played a funeral march, though several were threatening to strike over overtime pay.

Sully had arrived before the mourners. He hadn't been home in three years.

Four nights earlier, a crow from Blackwing Postal Service had found him sleeping beneath an abandoned railway platform. The letter read: Seamus Murphy deceased. Estate proceedings require your presence. Property transfer pending.

Beneath it sat the seal of First Woodland Financial.

Sully had bought two bottles of cider and walked forty miles home.

Now he stood beside the grave, staring at a sign reading WOODLAND MUNICIPAL AUTHORITY: ALL BURIALS SUBJECT TO APPLICABLE FEES.

“Applicable fees,” he muttered, unbuttoning his trousers. “Apply this.”

The ground gave way beneath him. He grabbed the sign; it came loose in his paws.

“Ah, bollocks!”

He landed six feet down, flat on his back.

“Granddad,” he told the stars, “you always said I'd end up in a hole.”

He raised his bottle. “Cheers.”

***

The first mourner to discover him was Father Benedict Bucktooth, a beaver of the Church of the Sacred Timber, whose followers believed all creatures came from the Great Log and would one day return to sawdust.

“Good heavens! Mr. Murphy?”

“Depends who's asking.”

“What are you doing down there?”

“Looking for buried treasure. What the fuck does it look like?”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Only since Tuesday.”

“Today is Friday.”

“Then I'm doing better than expected.”

A ring of faces gathered above him: rabbits, hedgehogs, foxes, and two deer who looked offended by the entire affair. Nobody offered a paw.

Then a red squirrel in a denim jacket pushed forward.

“Are you helping him out,” Hazel McGraw demanded, “or are we burying two Murphys tonight?”

She lowered a rope. Sully grinned.

“Hazel. You look lovely.”

“You look like something a fox coughed up. Grab hold.”

Two rabbits helped pull him out. He landed crookedly and saluted.

“Thank you, citizens. Your country appreciates your service.”

Nobody applauded.

Hazel brushed dirt from his old military jacket. “You couldn't come home sober for one night?”

Sully glanced at the approaching coffin.

“Apparently not.”

***

There was a reason Knottingham tolerated Sull Murphy. It wasn't his personality.

Squirrels were already considered noisy, impulsive hoarders, unreliable around food or important decisions. Sully was considered excessive even by squirrel standards. He argued with parking meters, insulted officials, and treated every conversation like a disagreement he hadn't yet won.

But he was a Murphy.

His great-grandfather had fought at Broken Branch. His grandfather, Seamus, had defended the northern forest during the Tree Wars, then spent decades repairing neighbors' homes, feeding hungry families, and sheltering orphans without asking for payment.

Everybody loved Seamus Murphy.

His grandson was a different proposition.

“That boy will be the death of somebody,” whispered Mrs. Thistlewick, the hedgehog schoolteacher.

“Probably himself,” said Mr. Bramble, the grocer.

Sully heard them. “You're welcome, by the way.”

“For what, dear?”

“The war.”

“You weren't fighting for us,” Mrs. Thistlewick replied.

“I was fighting for every bloody tree in this forest.”

“And we're grateful.”

“Funny. Nobody looked grateful when I came home.”

Hazel took the bottle from his paw. “Not tonight.”

He watched the coffin settle on its platform. “Right. Not tonight.”

***

At twelve forty-seven, Father Bucktooth began.

“We gather beneath the branches of creation to honor Seamus Murphy, a generous soul and defender of the weak.”

“A stubborn old bastard, too,” Sully muttered.

Hazel elbowed him.

“Perhaps his grandson would like to share a memory,” the minister offered.

“Oh, no,” Hazel whispered.

“Oh, yes,” said Sully.

He approached the coffin and laid a trembling paw on the lid.

“Granddad taught me how to climb. How to build a shelter. How to tell a good nut from a rotten one. He said if someone's hungry, you feed them. You don't ask what they owe you.”

The crowd quieted.

“When I came back from the war, I couldn't sleep. Couldn't stand loud noises. Couldn't stand quiet ones either. Granddad never asked what happened.”

Sully swallowed.

“He just left the porch light on. Every night. Even when I wasn't coming home.”

His eyes shone.

“And now the old bastard's gone and turned it off.”

He laughed once, badly.

“I miss you, Granddad.”

He leaned closer to the coffin and whispered, “Roger would've liked this.”

***

Roger had been a chipmunk, smaller than most, with enormous brown eyes and the unfortunate habit of believing Sully.

They'd met behind the schoolhouse, where three fox cubs had cornered Roger. Sully had charged into the fight without considering the odds. Both boys left with bloody noses; the foxes had a worse afternoon.

Afterward Roger followed him everywhere. Sully played the older brother, always protecting him, usually from trouble Sully had started.

When Sully enlisted, Roger enlisted. When Sully volunteered for the northern campaign, Roger volunteered. When Sully promised they'd both come home, Roger believed him.

That was the worst lie Sully ever told.

Sometimes he still saw Roger sitting across a table or walking beside him on an empty road. He knew the chipmunk was dead. Knowing didn't always make him disappear.

Now Roger stood beneath a lantern at the edge of the clearing, wearing his military jacket.

“You're making a right mess of this,” Roger said.

Sully almost smiled. “Shut up, Roger.”

Hazel turned. “What?”

“Nothing.”

When he looked back, Roger was gone.

***

At one fifteen, the bankers arrived.

Three badgers stepped from a black carriage marked FIRST WOODLAND FINANCIAL. Their leader, Bartholomew Diggs, wore a charcoal suit and gold pocket watch. Ledger and Tally carried briefcases behind him.

Badgers were natural bankers: gifted diggers, obsessive hoarders, and violently territorial about things they claimed to own.

“Mr. Murphy,” Diggs announced, opening his case.

“Wonderful. The grave robbers have arrived.”

“We represent your grandfather's financial interests.”

“He's in the box. Ask him.”

Diggs unfolded a document. “Unless outstanding obligations are settled before sunrise, ownership of the Murphy Oak transfers to the bank.”

Sully stared.

The Murphy Oak stood at the end of Splinter Lane. He'd learned to climb there, listened to his grandfather's awful guitar playing, and watched the porch light burn through sleepless nights.

“You can't take that tree.”

“Ownership is a complicated legal concept.”

“No, it fucking isn't. He owned it.”

“The property secured a government-sponsored emergency acorn loan.”

Sully remembered last winter: three stale peanuts, half a cashew, a discarded French fry. Hunger so fierce he'd stopped feeling it. Seamus had found him nearly frozen beside a roadside stump.

“How much?”

“Four thousand, eight hundred and sixty-two acorns.”

“You lent a dying squirrel food and charged him his home?”

“Interest is the foundation of a healthy economy.”

“Then your economy can lick my nuts.”

***

At one forty-three, the funeral became a protest. Eight minutes later, a riot.

Sully had spotted bulging sacks inside the bank carriage.

“What's in those?”

“Private financial assets,” Diggs said.

Sully sniffed. “Pistachios. Imported pistachios.”

“Please step away.”

“I couldn't afford a cashew last winter. Pistachios were expensive. All they gave us were government acorns.”

“The emergency nutrition program was successful.”

“They tasted like cardboard!”

“That is your opinion.”

Sully grabbed a sack. “Let's see what success tastes like.”

“Don't!”

The seam tore. Pistachios scattered across the clearing.

“Imported!” gasped a rabbit.

“Roasted!” cried a hedgehog.

“Unsalted!” said a fox, disappointed.

Mourners scrambled. A porcupine collected twelve nuts merely by walking through the crowd. The badgers screamed about theft. Father Bucktooth demanded order while quietly pocketing three pistachios.

Sully laughed.

Then wood cracked sharply behind him.

His laughter stopped.

Another crack. The overloaded funeral platform collapsed beneath two wrestling badgers.

But Sully was no longer in Founder's Clearing.

He smelled burning pine. Heard branches exploding. Saw the northern forest lit orange by fire.

And Roger was screaming.

“SULLY!”

Sully dropped flat. “INCOMING! GET DOWN!”

Hazel knelt beside him. “Sully, look at me.”

“ROGER! BEHIND ME!”

She reached for his shoulder. He recoiled.

“DON'T!”

She withdrew her paw. “You're home. It's Knottingham. The war's over.”

Slowly the smoke became lantern light. Explosions became arguments. The screaming became bankers demanding their pistachios back.

Sully stared at Hazel, ashamed.

“I'm sorry.”

“I know.”

Beyond her, Roger stood beneath the Great Oak.

“You couldn't have saved me,” the chipmunk said.

“Shut up,” Sully whispered.

Hazel followed his gaze. “Who are you talking to?”

“Nobody.”

For once, she didn't argue.

***

At two thirty, the dead squirrel spoke.

“Would somebody mind getting off my coffin?”

The clearing froze.

Diggs dropped his pocket watch. Father Bucktooth crossed himself so violently he nearly struck his own teeth.

The coffin lid shifted, then opened.

Seamus Murphy sat upright, gray fur flattened, whiskers crooked, expression furious.

“Christ Almighty. Can't a squirrel get some bloody peace?”

Sully's jaw dropped. “Granddad?”

“Why do you look like shit?”

“I thought you were dead!”

“That's a fine thing to say.”

“We buried you!”

“Not very well, apparently.”

Father Bucktooth approached, trembling. “The physician certified your passing.”

“That hedgehog couldn't diagnose a broken branch if it landed on his head. I took a sleeping draught. Next thing I know, I'm in a box listening to everyone talk about how wonderful I was.”

Seamus climbed out and stretched.

“Which, to be fair, was accurate.”

Sully embraced him so fiercely Seamus wheezed.

“Easy, boy. You're squeezing the life out of me, and apparently that's not difficult.”

The crowd erupted. Some cheered. Others demanded refunds for funeral flowers. Father Bucktooth called it a miracle, then checked whether a second service would incur a fee.

Sully laughed until he cried.

For a moment he was a child again, and the porch light was still burning.

***

At three fifteen, Diggs attempted to repossess the tree anyway.

“The estate remains encumbered,” he announced. “The borrower's survival does not erase the debt.”

Seamus frowned. “What debt?”

“The emergency acorn loan you signed.”

“I never signed an acorn loan.”

“Perhaps you've forgotten.”

“I forget where I put my spectacles. I don't forget signing away my bloody house.”

He demanded the document and studied it.

Then he laughed.

“That's not my signature. It's my brother Fergus's.”

Sully blinked. “Uncle Fergus died twenty-three years ago.”

“Aye. And he always wrote the M backward. Said it looked sophisticated.”

There it was: a backward M.

Hazel took the paper. “You used a dead squirrel's signature to create a loan?”

Diggs sweated beneath his collar.

Sully grinned. “To steal a living squirrel's tree?”

“That is a gross oversimplification.”

“That's a fucking masterpiece.”

***

At four fifteen, the bankers were tied to a bench with their own neckties. Nobody could agree whether that constituted kidnapping.

A weasel attorney arrived threatening lawsuits. An owl magistrate, irritated at being woken during daylight-adjacent hours, ordered the badgers detained until an investigation.

The weasel objected. The owl stared at him. The objection evaporated.

Hazel found another document in Diggs's case. The government had already reimbursed the bank for the supposed loan. The bank had then charged interest and attempted to seize the tree.

“They got paid three times?” Sully asked.

“Essentially.”

“For nuts they never gave him?”

“Apparently.”

Sully surveyed the clearing: broken platform, spilled pistachios, exhausted mourners, and badgers shouting about their rights.

“Granddad? How many other trees?”

Seamus sighed. “More than you know.”

He rested a paw on Sully's shoulder.

“You always were a noisy little bastard.”

“Learned from the best.”

“Aye. But noise isn't the same as being heard.”

“What does that mean?”

“You'll figure it out.”

***

At four forty-seven, Seamus collapsed.

This time there was no sleeping draught. No mistaken diagnosis. No miraculous awakening.

Sully caught him before he hit the ground.

“Granddad?”

“Listen, boy.”

“Don't.”

“Bedroom floorboards. Left corner.”

“We're getting a doctor.”

“There's something there for you.”

Seamus struggled for breath.

“Don't let the bastards make you bitter.”

Sully shook his head. “Too late.”

Seamus managed a smile.

“Then make something out of it.”

His eyes closed.

And this time he didn't wake.

***

The second funeral began at five twelve.

No speeches. No minister. No bankers.

Just Knottingham's animals standing beneath the Great Oak as the first gray light appeared between the branches.

Hazel stood beside Sully. She didn't take his bottle. She didn't tell him what to say.

When the coffin was lowered, Sully whispered, “Goodbye, Granddad.”

Nobody made a joke.

Not even Sully.

***

At five forty-eight, Sully reached the Murphy Oak at the end of Splinter Lane.

Its enormous trunk had survived two centuries of storms and wars. A faded sign hung over the door:

MURPHY'S LAW

Anything that can go wrong probably already has.

Inside smelled of cedar, dust, and pipe tobacco. Newspapers covered the kitchen table. A cracked mug stood by the window. On the mantel was a photograph of Seamus carrying a young Sully on his shoulders.

Sully touched the frame, then climbed upstairs.

Bedroom. Left corner.

He pried up the floorboards with a rusty screwdriver. Beneath lay a sealed envelope and battered leather case.

The envelope contained the original deed to the Murphy Oak, granted generations before the Woodland Property Authority existed. A notarized transfer named Sull Murphy as its new owner, effective upon Seamus's death.

No mortgage. No loan. No bank claim.

The old squirrel had protected the tree after all.

Sully sat down and opened the case.

Inside lay his grandfather's guitar, scratched and rusted, with one tuning peg missing. Carved into its back were the words:

When the world won't listen, make the bastards sing.

Sully remembered Seamus playing terrible songs by the fireplace, mocking crooked officials and wealthy foxes who charged admission to the forest. He remembered laughing. Feeling safe.

Then he remembered the war. Hunger. Roger. The badgers.

He strummed.

A hideous noise filled the room.

“That's fucking awful,” said Roger.

Sully looked up. The little chipmunk sat on the windowsill in his old military jacket.

“Never said I could play.”

“You never could do anything quietly.”

Sully laughed. Then the windowsill was empty.

He knew Roger wasn't there. Still, the silence felt different.

He tried again. Three notes. Four. Something like a melody.

“I can't afford a cashew,” he sang.

He smiled.

“Pistachios are expensive…”

Outside, the sun rose over Knottingham Woods.

For the first time since the Tree Wars, his anger had somewhere to go. He wasn't going to bury it. He wasn't going to drink it away.

He was going to make the entire forest hear it.

And if the government didn't like what he had to say?

Well.

They could lick his nuts.