"The Storm is Here"

Part 4

 

Storm leveled his gaze on the creature before him. The white squirrel's tail swished irritably as he held his staff in a defensive posture.

 

The large blue jay stared at the red-eyed squirrel. Storm watched the wicked bird clack his beak.

 

"I asked your name, Child of Snow," the blue jay said dangerously.

 

The young squirrel straightened to his full height. "I am called Storm. And I don't care who you are."

 

Storm swept his staff toward the bird's legs, and the blue jay jumped, landing lightly on the branch again. The white squirrel scowled. He thrust the staff at the bird's chest and grazed the jay's feathers before it leapt back.

 

"Feisty little morsel," the bird taunted.

 

Storm growled and lunged forward, driving the staff into the blue jay's abdomen. Thrown off-balance, the bird stumbled backward, and Storm pounced. He struck the jay repeatedly, attacking the body, face, and wings. At last, Storm heard a loud crack when his staff thwacked the blue jay's right wing.

 

The jay looked into the white squirrel's eyes for one startled moment before he lost his balance and tipped over the edge of the branch. Storm watched the bird flap its one good wing in vain as its broken wing trailed helplessly through the air. The jay's body collided with a branch and spun in sickening circles, striking a second branch before it landed on the ground with a satisfying crunch.

 

Storm gazed down at the bird's lifeless form. His remorseless red eyes flashed with understanding.

 

This was his first kill. 

 

It would not be his last.

 



"Before the Storm"

Part 3

 

"No, Storm! You're going to get in trouble," the little gray squirrel called up to her younger, larger  white brother.

 

The robust white squirrel pup raced along a low-hanging branch above his sister and brother, who watched him from the safety of the ground.

 

"Mom's going to kill you," Ripple called again, stamping her hindpaw on the packed earth.

 

"No, she won't," Twilight whispered in her ear.

 

The two siblings stood with their jaws open, watching their pale brother flash through the canopy.

 

Storm moved along the branches like a ghost. The early days of infant plumpness had disappeared, replaced by stout, solid muscle--even at his young age--and he carried himself with quiet, steady confidence.

 

The white squirrel flicked his tail and switched directions as he launched himself onto the neighboring branch. His heart beat wildly as he carved his path along the outstretched limb, dodging leaves and nearly invisible spiderwebs. Storm smiled to himself in an almost manic way. He felt alive. And strong. And invincible.

 

He leapt onto the trunk of an old oak and shimmied up the bark until he was certain he was hidden from his siblings' view. Storm reached a sturdy branch and crawled onto it. Above him, a straight twig that had been stripped of its bark jutted out from a hollow in the trunk. In one mighty leap, he reached up and snagged it. The hollow served as a perfect stash for weapons. It housed a collection of stones for throwing, but the staff was by far his favorite instrument. 

 

Edging along the branch, he thrust and twirled and snapped the staff at invisible foes. His blood-red eyes sparked with fire as the imagined enemies fell.

 

Abruptly, the pale squirrel stopped. He froze in place, and the fur prickled on the back of his neck as a foreboding sensation overwhelmed him.

 

A dry, sinister voice spoke from behind.

 

"And who might you be, little morsel?"

 

 



"Naming"

Part 2

 

Healer Slate held the pale, newborn baby squirrel to his chest as he wiped the birthing muck from his eyes and nose with a clover leaf. The little squirrel blinked up at the Healer and made a squeaking sound in his throat.

 

Feather stared at the plump white newborn, an equal mixture of horror and fascination washing across her face. She glanced over at her husband, Dusk, who held their two gray newborns in his lap. He looked just as dumbfounded as she felt.

 

Feather's gaze shifted back to Healer Slate. "Is he--okay?"

 

The old squirrel grunted. "He seems healthy. He's hefty enough."

 

The Healer looked down into the white squirrel's eyes, squinting as he examined them.

 

"Oh, stars! His eyes..."

 

"What is it?" Feather asked, alarmed.

 

"His eyes...they're as red as blood."

 

Dusk stood up and crossed the burrow to hand the gray newborns to Feather. She accepted them gingerly as her husband edged closer to the Healer.

 

The old squirrel handed the robust newborn to Dusk, and the little white squirrel gazed up into his father's eyes.

 

"Red and pink--I've never seen anything like it."

 

Dusk glanced up at Healer Slate, a questioning look etched across his face.

 

"I have heard of a white deer who walks these woods, but I have never seen it." The Healer placed a reassuring paw on Dusk's shoulder. "Do not worry, my friend. Perhaps he is destined for something great."

 

Feather and Dusk looked at one another. Dusk turned and brought the pale baby to Feather's side.

 

"What shall we name him, my love?" he asked.

 

Feather gazed upon the little white squirrel with the bright red eyes.

 

"He is the color of snow, but he has eyes of fire. How about Storm? He reminds me of a winter storm."

 

Dusk smiled. "Storm it is."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



"A Ghost is Born"

Part 1

 

"Push a little more, Feather," the Healer urged.

 

The gray squirrel strained to push her third baby into the world. He seemed to be larger than the other two and was proving to be a challenge.

 

Between pushes, Feather allowed her gaze to wander across the burrow to her husband, Dusk, who sat in baffled delight as he held in his lap the two squirming infants that had been born only minutes before. She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments between contractions. Her breathing was ragged.

 

"A couple more good pushes should do it," the Healer said.

 

Feather opened her eyes and looked at Healer Slate. The large gray squirrel carried a lifetime of worries in his eyes, but he also carried a lifetime of kindness. His features softened when his gaze fell upon Feather.

 

"You're doing well for your first litter, my dear," the Healer assured. "Star nearly bit my paw in two when our first daughter was born."

 

The young squirrel attempted a weak smile, but the urge to push came back with a vengeance. She gritted her teeth and bore down hard.

 

"You're doing well, Feather," he repeated in his soothing voice. "Just a little mo--"

 

The Healer fell silent. He glanced at Dusk, who leaned forward, worry etched across his face. Oblivious to this exchange, Feather bent her chin to her chest and pushed with all her might.

 

At last, she exhaled with an explosion of air. The third baby was out. She opened her eyes to look at the infant.

 

Healer Slate held the wet, writhing baby in his paws and stood up to his full height for Dusk and Feather to see. They gasped.

 

The baby squirrel was unusually large--and he was as white as snow.

 

 



"Roan's First Days"

Part 8

 

Roan locked his eyes on the figure standing before him. Even standing on its hindpaws, the creature was half a torso shorter than him, but no less intimidating.

 

The creature was a field mouse. His fur was strangely dark from nose to tail, and he bore a pale scar that slashed across his right eye, making a long track from his brow to his shoulder. Roan squinted. The eye beneath the scar was clouded. The mouse was blind in that eye.

 

"What are you doing here?" the mouse repeated.

 

The large chipmunk straightened up to his full height before answering. "Looking for shelter."

 

The mouse nodded. "Your name?"

 

"Roan."

 

"Roan," the dark mouse repeated, testing the name on his tongue. "I am called Rasp. Do you know where you are?"

 

The chipmunk cast a quick glance around, searching his memory for stories of the old kingdoms his mother had told him long ago.

 

"Have I passed from the Crow Kingdom?" he asked. Rasp nodded. "Then this must be Evershade."

 

"It is," the dark mouse confirmed.

 

Roan stood in silence as Rasp assessed him with his one alert eye. At last, the mouse broke the silence.

 

"I have three questions for you."

 

"Go on," Roan said.

 

"How many gatherers have you killed?"

 

"None."

 

"How many hunters have you killed?"

 

The chipmunk stared hard at the mouse.

 

"One."

 

"Why?"

 

"It was about to kill me."

 

Rasp nodded his approval of Roan's responses. "Follow me," he said, turning on his heel.

 

"Wait, who are you? Are you king?" Roan called after him.

 

The mouse turned and grinned.

 

"No. I am no king. I am the Watcher."