"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?"