Part 5
Two nights after his first encounter, a skunk came to the little cavern in search of an easy meal. The chipmunk whacked him on the nose, and the striped brute promptly turned around and sprayed into the chamber, dousing him in its horrendous stink. He promptly vomited, and for many days the shelter smelled like urine, skunk essence, and half-digested grass seeds. It was miserable, but his leg was healing.
One morning, he tested his injured leg, leaning against the wall as he stood. He took a few tentative steps, keeping his paw on the wall for balance. The bone felt okay, but his muscles ached from lack of use. They felt weak, but he was certain he could travel, provided he gave the leg adequate rest every so often. He thanked the stars he hadn't fractured his leg in the flood, only cracked the femur.
Leaning over, he took up the stick that had traveled with him since he'd dragged himself from the floodwaters. It had served as a crutch and a weapon, and now it would service him as a cane to help him on his journey. Keeping the weight on his left leg as much as possible, he exited the little limestone shelter that had housed him for over a fortnight.
The air was fresh outside. He breathed deeply, pushing the foul, acrid air of the shelter from his nose and lungs. Turning east, he stepped into the grass and followed an old trail that skirted the stream. The grasses that had been bent over from the heavy rains stood straight and tall, and the water had receded, exposing banks plastered with leaves, twigs, and various bits of debris.
Something silver glinted in the sun, catching his eye. He parted the grasses and limped toward it. Realizing what it was, he stopped cold, bile rising in his throat. Sparkling on the bank, the shell of his king protruded from a mound of damp leaves. With slow steps, the chipmunk picked his way toward the great snail's shell. Bits of blue glass, silver pieces of broken mirror, and red beads glittered from its surface. He eased up to the remains of his king and lay his paw on the shell between the jewels. His body must have washed downstream from the burial mound.
The chipmunk cast his gaze upstream. If the flood was strong enough to wash away the burial mounds, then what was the condition of the rest of Evershade?
Grimly, he made his way back to the trail and continued east. He walked the whole day long, stopping only to rest his leg or relieve himself. By late afternoon, the trees of Evershade became visible, and by evening he had reached what was once the Beaver Pond. Clusters of short, pointed stumps dotted the area around a wide expanse of water. The dam was gone, and the beavers' lodge was little more than a short pile of dismantled sticks. The burial mounds were only a memory, and the beavers were nowhere in sight.
He grimaced and picked his way toward the Home Tree. Part of the path that had once skirted the pond and the little stream that fed it had washed away, and he had to find an alternate route. The landscape had changed so drastically that his community was nearly unrecognizable. Eventually, the Home Tree came into view, and he was disheartened to see that both the bridge and the bottom half of the spiral stairs that wrapped around the trunk had been ripped away by the floodwaters. Only a section of twig railing and a couple of skewed steps were visible from where he stood.
He looked across what had been The Commons and found that the bakery was filled with layers of muck. A large branch protruded from the opening and stretched all the way to the stream. leaves plastered the trunks of the surrounding trees, most of which housed the burrows of his friends. His own burrow had escaped the flood, but he had no hope of reaching it. His leg wasn't quite up for a swim, and he doubted very much he could climb the Home Tree and jump from its Corridor branch to the one on his own tree.
Limping to the edge of the stream, he turned to look up at the balcony.
"Hello! Walnut Keepers!"
The chipmunk listened for a response, but no calls came back.
"Ash! Hickory! Flint!"
Still no answer.
Movement on the balcony caught his attention. He peered through the railing at red and gray feathers.
"Sky!"
A red head appeared over the railing and gazed down at him. Within moments, the bird fluttered down and landed awkwardly next to him. His shoulders slumped, and the devastated look in his eyes said everything. Be he had to ask.
"Sky, where are they?"
The distraught bird swallowed and shook his head.
"Roan--they're gone."
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