"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."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



"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...