One month earlier…
Mokey scooped earth from around the rim of the radish, digging a groove for her fingers. Purple hands eased down the irregular roundness of the vegetable, applying slow, steady pressure, working up under it, patiently trying to free it from the reluctant ground.
Mokey generally left those vegetables which did not come up with a moderate amount of effort. After all, what she could not lift, a Gorg could pluck up with two fingers, or Doozers easily mine. The garden itself seemed to split its own contents up among those who depended on it, to each was allotted that which was useful to it. But occasionally, Mokey came upon a radish or a carrot or a rutabaga which promised to be such a treat for the others at dinner that there was really no question of not getting it. This was just such a radish. It was a deep red all the way up to the base of its leaves, and Mokey judged (and after so many years, of any judgment, Mokey's was the best) that it was just on the verge of going bad, so that the delicate sweetness of impending rot was just evident, and tomorrow would have taken over. Radishes like this were hard to find, the state being only a day or even a few hours long, and thus had to be eaten quickly. Mokey had herself lunched on parts of several over the years by herself in the garden, when one was too far gone, or merely too stubborn, to be taken and shared by many. Always, this carried for her some regret. But the best use she knew of for these radishes was Boober's Sweet Radish Pie, which he had been yearning to make of late. So Mokey was not unhappy to spend a little time digging one perfect radish for him. As she dug, she thought of red things. Summer rose petals in the other side of the garden, the line between shadow and light on the Sweetwater, Red's hair in the night as she slept. It was not in her nature to think of blood.
The radish came up from the ground, only its long ragged thread still in the ground, which loosened itself as Mokey stood up. She brushed the dirt off of it as best she could, shifting it from one arm to the other as she tried to get most of it off before hauling it back to the Fraggle hole. When all of it she thought was necessary had been knocked off, she straightened up.
A blast of choking white threw her off her feet, the radish fell and rolled. Mokey could not breathe. There were hooks in her lungs, thousands of them, tiny and airborne, and they burned and shredded her wind tunnel. The sheer force of the blast of air had knocked her down, coming from her right side, and therewithal a large voice sounded.
"Hey, wow, I got a Fraggle! Come 'ere, Fraggle!"
She was scooped up in a huge, warm, hairy hand, in which she lay limply, barely conscious.
"Hey, Fraggle? Are you dead?"
Junior Gorg poked at the small furry thing in his palm. It was a large Fraggle, but still its feet only dangled at his wrist, while its head rested on the first knuckle of his fingers. He gently tugged at its arm. Mokey was jerked back up from the mist by pain as the bone separated from the socket, writhing, grabbing it with her other arm, before falling back again. Junior, unaware of the damage he had just done, put a hand to his mouth.
"Ohhh…Fraggle, don't be dead. You wasn't supposed to die! It's just a stunning potion! You doesn't die until I stomp you…Don't be dead…" His agitation was growing as the small creature did not respond. A sense of terrible guilt took over him, and he searched for some way to undo it. "Here," he said, stooping down, "I put you back. See, I put you back where you were. I leave you here, your little Fraggle friends will find you, yes? Don't be dead, Fraggle…"
He set the tiny body down beside the hole from which the radish had just come, and now lay over to one side. He lay her down as gently as he could, the backs of his hands indenting a small hollow in the ground. And as gently as he could, he tiptoed away. Mokey lay in the dust, breathing in the leftover fumes.