"Roan's First Days"

Part 7

 

Roan stepped onto the stone river. The warm, unmoving pebbles felt strange and unnatural beneath his paws. Pebbles were supposed to move when walked upon and not emit the sharp, awful odor that these did. Nostrils stinging, he hurried across the open expanse to the protection of the high grasses on the other side.

 

The chipmunk plunged into the vegetation to escape the acrid smell and the unnerving exposure of the stone river. He fought his way through the grasses until he found the little stream again, skirting it until he came to the first tree of the little grove that made its home along its banks.

 

There was little protection here, but he could see limestone outcroppings on the far side of the stream. Some of them appeared to have small caves that offered shelter from the elements. Roan scanned the surrounding fields for signs of danger. The shadows were beginning to lengthen, and it would not be long before the creatures of the night began to hunt.

 

A thin branch that had fallen from the oak tree nearby spanned the stream, and Roan made his way to it. He climbed on easily and crept across the rough bark. The end of the branch sat submerged in the water, and Roan made a great leap that landed him solidly on the bank.

 

He gazed about him and found a well-worn path leading downstream to his right. The chipmunk scowled.  He wondered who used the trail in order for it to be so well-defined. He hoped with his soul it was not a hunting trail. The lengthening shadows urged this thought from his mind, however, and he made his way to the first dark opening in the limestone.

 

Roan took half a dozen steps and stopped cold. His skin prickled, and his heart pounded.

 

A firm, stern voice growled behind him.

 

"What are you doing here?"

 

 

 

 



"Roan's First Days"

Part 6

 

Roan sucked in a breath and backpedaled as fast as he could go to escape the reach of the snake's strike. His eyes never left the rattle, for he could not see the viper's head. At last, the large chipmunk squeezed out the opening to the burrow and found himself drenched in autumn daylight once again.

 

He thanked the stars the weather was cool. It made the rattlesnake stiff and sluggish and too cold to strike.

 

Roan kept to the north side of the little stream and followed it out of the woods to an open field. The grasses were tall and yellowed, waving gently as the breeze rivered through them. Roan sniffed the air. The scent of acorns and damp leaves mingled with the smell of sun-warmed grasses and the metallic scent of the stream.

 

An old rabbit trail skirted the stream, and he followed it a ways before it veered off and vanished into the high grasses. Roan departed from the path and plunged his way through the vegetation until he reached a large, dry ditch. He forged ahead and followed the slope downward, then climbed the bank on the other side, stopping abruptly when he reached the top. Before him spread a vast river made entirely of small gray stones. It stretched for as far as he could see in either direction, but the grasses waving at him from the opposite bank were not twenty paces away.

 

A strange odor arose from the stone river, and it stung Roan's nostrils. He touched the pebbles with his hindpaw. They were warm. Far beyond the opposite bank of the stone river, Roan could see the tops of trees clustered in a little grove. It appeared that the stream he had followed led right to it.

 

The chipmunk had come to a crossroads and had a decision to make. He turned to look over his shoulder toward the tree with the snake's burrow, and beyond that to the persimmon grove. Finally, his gaze returned to the unmoving gray mass of the stone river.

 

Should he go left, right, or forward?

 

Or should he go back?

 

 



"Roan's First Days"

Part 5

 

It took a moment for Roan's eyes to adjust to the darkness of the burrow. He blinked several times and squinted to see to the end of the short tunnel before taking a step inside.

 

The odor of mice was stronger, but it was definitely old, perhaps from mid-summer. The other smell, the one that was strange to him, filled the burrow. The large chipmunk felt along the wall and found that he had to duck his head several steps in.

 

He paused and breathed deeply, drawing the odor into his nostrils, willing his brain to work out what it was. It was an earthy, sour smell--almost the scent of--skin?

 

Roan pricked his ears. He thought he detected the sound of breathing ahead, but it was so faint that he thought it must have been an echo.

 

At last, his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the burrow. He could make out a flat, roundish object at the very end of the tunnel. It appeared to be a stone.

 

Roan approached, his senses ever alert. He stepped forward two paces and slammed his toe into something hard. Cursing under his breath, he limped back a half step. In the dim light of the burrow, a solitary object rose straight up from the stone, standing pale against the darkness. Roan swallowed hard.

 

The object was a viper's death rattle.

 

 





"Roan's First Days"

Part 4

 

 

Roan trudged out of the persimmon grove. It would never make a suitable home for him, for it reeked now of death. He had killed an enemy here. The weasel's corpse stood propped up on its death spear, staring after him with glazed, unseeing eyes as the chipmunk walked away without a backwards glance.

 

The little grove gave way to a small wood of young, gangly trees. They offered little cover from the coming winter, so Roan ignored this place and made for the sound of water.

 

The trees grew larger here, and clumps of grass sprouted up among their roots. Roan had nearly reached the edge of the wood, for he could see a vast field of gently waving dried grasses just beyond the trees. The sound of water was loud. To his right, the ground sloped sharply downward, and he followed an old rabbit trail down to a narrow gravel bar.

 

A little stream babbled happily in front of him, having carved its way through the gray limestone eons ago. The water was clear and free from silt. Roan scanned the bank. A small outcropping of stone jutted out on the other side. Above that stood a rather large sycamore tree, one gnarled root crawling over the edge of the rock shelf and reaching the water. Roan could see the entrance to a burrow at its base.

 

The chipmunk glanced upstream and spied a fallen branch that spanned the quiet brook, joining one side to the other. He bolted for the makeshift bridge and hurried across, finding himself at the mouth of the burrow within moments.

 

He sniffed the air and pricked his ears for sound. The burrow smelled of mice, but it was an old smell. And beneath that, there was another scent he couldn't quite place--a scent he hadn't encountered before.

 

Roan braced himself for danger and peered inside...