Return To The Forest

The scents and smells of the bad bihgwun house came to him before he saw it. Among them was the rich aroma of the garden, and as he hungrily concentrated on that smell, he heard the subtle sounds of movement and activity. Small, unintended noises like the intake of breath, the rustling of clothes brushing against each other as the bihgwun bent down to tend the garden. The sounds of plants being pulled from the ground. Sounds that would have been swallowed and forgotten in the low roar of the city.

He paused at the house and sat up on his haunches, knowing that on the other side of the house was the garden, and that the bihgwun was outside, right now. The tiny morning breeze whispered how pleasant it would be to lie on a tree branch in the shade and sleep as the hot sun climbed high overhead. He could sleep and enjoy the warmth of the day, and there was no reason why he couldn’t wait until a different morning came around. Why ruin this bright summer morning? His torn ear ached.

Riffraff was frightened. His tail twitched up and down, fast and fearful. The Idea was too much, it was too big for a little squirrel, and he wasn’t supposed to show bihgwuns how clever he was. Especially this bihgwun, with the long metal stick that spat thunder and tiny pieces of evil that flew faster than his eyes could see. He looked over his shoulder, back towards the mountain slope. He could run, keep running into the trees just like he planned to, before the big Idea came. No one would know the Idea that came to him and that he let go of it. The dried blood on his torn ear was slowly forming into a scar, and he reached up with one paw to touch the raw skin. He didn’t want another hurt. It was already difficult learning to live in the forest without inviting trouble. So why was he here, at the bad bihgwun’s garden? With so many good reasons to leave, why wasn’t he already running away?

The breeze played in the leaves above, inviting him to hurry on up.

Small, frightened questions, bold at first but quick to dodge the truth he saw inside. If no one else ever found out that he had given up, or how his bold idea might have worked- especially coming from the little mind of a squirrel- he would still know the truth inside. The same pictures would scamper after him, pictures of what could have been, how things might have happened if he was brave and courageous. He would always remember that he was a frightened, timid little one, no matter how strong he appeared to be.

His ear ached. Front paws sank down to the ground and whiskers twitched. He didn’t feel any better inside for making what he knew was the right choice. In fact, he felt worse, almost like he was going to be sick to his stomach all over again. It was the right choice, and there was no way around it, no other route for little paws to find. He took a small step forward, hesitating for an immense, terrible moment-

He ran around the house. 

Bruce was slow and tired, and guzzled more coffee than usual before deciding to face the day ahead. His daughter and her family had left late in the night, little Lauren fast asleep as the car drove away, and in the morning he found the house empty once again. The best thing to do was to get busy. The sun was shining, and he knew it would be a hot day, which meant giving particular attention to the tomato plants. They were doing well this year. They needed so much water, and needed it now, before the heat of the sun shone full upon the garden. Plenty of water, sun, and weeding to keep the pests away.

Pests. He grunted with effort as he bent around the far side of the row of plants, reaching and pulling. Bugs and insects he could deal with. The larger pests were another thing entirely. A fence was the first best idea, if also the most time-consuming, and an easy project to put off. Much easier to have the gun handy for the determined varmints. He leaned out to grasp another handful of small green sprouts, and straightened up to cast the weeds aside.

Only a few paces away was a squirrel, sitting up on it’s hind paws, head bent slightly to one side, observing him. Bruce’s mouth opened slightly, and he reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow. The squirrel chittered, bold as brass, and Bruce was sure it was the same varmint he’d seen and aimed at.

“You again,” he frowned. The same squirrel, back to raid the garden. Should have shot it when I had the chance, he thought.

It chittered loudly, and the old man reached for a handful of soil.

“Get out of here!”

He threw it at the rodent, who dodged easily. The man threw another handful of earth, and another, cursing. Each time the rodent scampered aside, not retreating, seemingly unafraid of him. Mocking him. Bruce’s face turned red. He rose to his feet and shouted incoherently, taking a few running steps towards the squirrel, who casually scampered away, turning when the man stopped, already wheezing with effort. It growled, tail twitching, pacing slowly round in a small circle, moving it’s fuzzy head slowly from side to side.

“Oh, you think so, do you,” the man hissed, his teeth clenched.

The squirrel took a step closer, the little growl sometimes opening into a snarl, and Bruce actually stepped back with a vague sense of unease. Was the rodent sick? Rabid?

He took several steps backward, keeping the animal in sight. At the steps to the deck, he whirled and moved swiftly inside, to the den. He lifted the first rifle, striding over to the desk for ammunition, and loaded the gun as he strode to the door. The gun was swinging up into position before the door closed behind him.

The squirrel seemed to recognize the gun, sitting up and chittering excitedly.

“Last chance, varmint,” Bruce muttered. He sighted the animal, then lifted his head in mystified disgust. The squirrel was down on all fours, growling, moving a few paces away and looking over its shoulder at him. It returned to it’s first position, looking intently up at him, hopping excitedly from side to side. Was it teasing him, even now?

“I’m telling you,” the old man warned, lifting the sights to his face, “this is it. Get out of here while you can.”

The little animal fearlessly hopped back and forth, seemingly aware of the danger yet moving just enough to stay out of the crosshairs. Teasing him. Daring him to shoot.

Bruce grimaced as he moved to keep the squirrel in the center of the sights, and fought the same feeling of vertigo he had yesterday when he was filming his granddaughter. What little Lauren would think if she saw him now, with the rifle… he cursed the animal, cursed the unsteadiness of his age, and pulled the trigger.

The squirrel yelped, and bolted away in terror. The shot was wide, and Bruce knew it as the recoil of the weapon took him a half-step back for balance. He drew a hand over his eyes. He looked up, and there was the varmint, not quite as audacious now, and moving slower. He squinted at the squirrel- had he actually grazed it? Why was it moving so carefully, so deliberately? Only the tail kept moving, twitching spasmodically. Surely it was hurt.

All the more reason to finish it off, and he raised the gun, determined to hit the squirrel cleanly. The squirrel carefully stood up on it’s hind feet, balancing with it’s large tail on the ground, standing uncomfortably. No dodging this time; it wouldn’t have time to move. There it stood, frozen in his sights, gazing seriously at him, front paws lifting gingerly up. Was it trembling?

Bruce frowned, finger tensing on the trigger.

The squirrel raised one paw to hold something unseen, cocked it’s head slightly and brought the other paw up to it’s nose, in line with the other. Holding a gun. Aiming. Imitating him.

The old man’s hands shook. He lifted his eye from the sights, and the gun sank slowly, pointing down at the ground as he stared. Holding the imaginary gun, the squirrel deliberately turned away from him, clumsily pointing the unseen weapon into the trees. This time when it dropped to all fours, growling, tail twitching and pacing slowly in a circle, Bruce went pale.

It was a charade of himself hunting the cougar, clear as the sky above him.

He felt dizzy, reached for the nearby deck chair, and sat down heavily. The squirrel waited as the thoughts whirled round his head.

His gaze returned to the little animal as it moved impatiently from side to side. He hated varmints.

The white-blue of the sky turned red and orange, the shadows advanced through the wood, and the cougar stretched with a low, growly yawn, sitting up to shake the slumber from it’s head. Riffraff’s eyes popped open at the sound, and he sat up too, grasping the tree bark with his outstretched paws and opening his mouth in a huge yawn. He peered warily at the beast in the fading orange light, and was already halfway down the blind side of the tree trunk as the cougar got to its feet and sauntered away. The hunt continued, the cougar unaware of the persistent squirrel who followed him downwind, alert for any other unexpected dangers. He needn’t have worried. Wherever the cat walked, lesser animals scattered, and though Riffraff often heard others in the growing darkness, every last set of paws rustling in the underbrush was anxiously scampering away from the predator. None came near.

Hunting was not a priority for the cougar. The afternoon meal seemed to be enough for the evening as well, and it took a slow, wandering route up the ridge into the long shadows far above the bad bihgwun’s house. The woods were thin, and Riffraff feared that he might lose the cat if he had no protective trees to run to. Within the wilderness, a squirrel on open ground was a foolish squirrel, and not likely to live long enough to make the mistake too many times. The cat loitered here, sauntering in wide circles, sniffing the ground and prowling through the solitary trees, inspecting it’s own territory. Riffraff climbed up a tree on the lower slope as high as he could and strained to see what the animal was doing. The only way to get closer meant scampering through the open rocks and scrub, and he fretfully gazed upward into the dusk. For all his efforts to follow the beast, would the open ground and evening shadows force him to give up?

Once the inspection was complete, the beast deliberately made straight for a cluster of dry, weathered Lodgepole pines that clung to a ledge upon the rocky slope. It stopped for a leisurely look over its shoulder at the woods behind. As the squirrel hid himself from sight, the cat turned and bent low. Head and shoulders, back and tail were enfolded by a dark cut in the stone face of the outcropping and disappeared from sight.

Riffraff’s eyes narrowed triumphantly. He had found the cougar’s den.

He made a quick assessment of the tree, and decided it was suitable for an overnight stay. Good or bad, there was no choice, for the sun was gone, and little ones had to be safely hidden before the creatures of the night came out to hunt. He located a forked branch high in the upper reaches of the spruce, and made himself comfortable. The heat of the day rose up from the ground, dispersed by the cool evening breeze, and as the branch gently swayed, he lay down and watched the pictures of the day go by. His ear stung, and he grumbled, reaching awkwardly overhead to rub the jagged notch. The lesson of tracking the cougar with his ears and nose returned, and he sat up, just to practice what he now knew. Many different smells and aromas traveled upon the breeze, and when he concentrated, the faintly musky scent of the cougar came to him from the cave above. A lesson learned all too dearly, and the memory of the beast looming over him set his blood racing.

The little one awoke in the pitch black of a moonless night, his fuzzy head popping up from beneath his tail. The noise he heard was accompanied by two tiny eyes that shone in the twilight and lit up the distant road that lead to the bad bihgwun’s house, at the bottom of the slope. They vanished in the trees, and the car engine stopped, followed by the faint sounds of bihgwuns talking. He rolled over and closed his eyes. Awhile later the lonely song of wolves drifted over the valley from the distant peaks, and he drowsily stirred. The howling was only vaguely audible, and though a shiver of respect rattled through him, he was too tired to remain awake. He sank deeply into slumber.

Daylight found him, the rosy dawn leaving tiny dewdrops upon his back and tail. A yawn and vigorous stretch brought him to his feet, and he squinted into the dawn, sweeping his paws rapidly through his fur and washing his face, constantly looking around and from side to side. Today would be sweltering and hot; the sun had only just cleared the eastern peaks and already he could sense the heat.

Eyes widened and small heart thumped as he remembered. He had to move, right now. Riffraff scampered down the tree, and after checking his surroundings, bounced to the ground, trotting through the early morning shadows in the direction of the bad bihgwun’s house. He was almost certain the cat was in the cave, for the smell felt the same way as the night before. It was difficult to describe why he was so sure, without actually checking. The scent felt the same, and there was no trace of the cat in the dewy grass and moss. He lowered his head to scoop up the precious moisture from the tiny leaves and buds beside him.

He frantically sidestepped and skittered around the nearest tree as a pair of grasping talons hissed silently through the air beside him. An angry squawk interrupted the morning silence, and the hawk arose to turn about for another pass. The large, well-fed squirrel wasn’t going to get away that easily. Riffraff watched the bird rise and return, swinging down between the trees with a screech that was meant to paralyze it’s intended victim with fear. The little one knew it, and that made him angry. Wings opened wide, flapping to slow the hawk while it circled the tree trunk, but Riffraff dodged round the far side. The bird landed above on a branch, waiting for the squirrel to make it’s move. It was the larger animal, and confidently hopped to the next branch, craning it’s head to locate the squirrel. The beak swung upwards as it heard paws on the other side of the trunk, climbing higher, and the wings opened, lifting into the air. Circling, it landed on the same branch as Riffraff, hopping, wings flapping and talons alternately grasping the branch and flexing.

Riffraff didn’t want to retreat. He was in a hurry, and this bird was annoying him. After escaping a cougar the previous day, he wasn’t afraid of a stupid bird. But the hawk was convinced that it could fight him. How to get rid of it? He lunged forward on the branch, and his opponent’s beak came down, opening and viciously snapping as it skipped backwards to the edge of the branch. Riffraff pulled back hastily. It wouldn’t do any good to recklessly acquire more wounds; one notched ear was enough. The bird hopped closer, and the whole branch bounced up and down, all the maple leaves on the connected limbs swaying and shaking. Hunter and the hunted studied each other.

Paddington’s face came between Riffraff and the hawk. The way that the little one could think, could read, could be so effortlessly clever was a quality that the older, stronger squirrel had always admired. And envied. What would Paddington do now? Turn and run? Riffraff knew that he could back away to another branch, and the bird would simply follow, hoping to tire him out eventually, or wait for the squirrel to do something desperate. If he ran along the ground, he might be able to elude the bird, but one wrong move and those sharp talons would be the end. He lunged again, the bird hopped back, and wings flapped threateningly as the beak snapped. The branch and all the leaves rustled and shook. This could go on for a lot longer than Riffraff had the patience to endure. The cat would be awake by now, and he had to move quickly.

He considered the branch and the many smaller limbs attached to it, each one long and heavy with leaves. Like long bihgwun arms… with leaves like paws. Could he use one of those limbs like a paw? Riffraff slowly anchored himself to the branch with his tail, watching the hawk, who watched him in return, sharp beak opening slightly, poised to dart in, rip and tear. Yet with a outraged screech and alarming backwards launch the hawk was airborne, as an entire branch worth of leaves rose up and swatted it in the face. The hawk squawked again, rising high above the tree as it considered what to do next. The leaves didn’t hurt, it was the shock that was infuriating.

The hawk dived. Several frenzied bites cut the adjacent branch loose, and now Riffraff was armed. He raised his fuzzy head as the bird hurtled towards him, talons outstretched. Riffraff braced himself, grimly held his breath, and swung the branch. The wood caught the hawk’s talons, deflecting them aside and down. Leaves and smaller twigs temporarily blinded the bird, lodged in between one flapping wing and the round body of the bird, and in an instant were completely tangled together, sending the bird crashing to the ground in one long shriek.

Riffraff leaned over and stared in amazement at the wreckage below. The bewildered hawk staggered to it’s feet, struggled to free itself from the mess of leaves and branches. The tangled wing flapped, and the effort took the bird on a weaving path away from the tree. The squirrel warily descended to the grass, keeping the hawk always in view. He cautiously hopped away, then bolted frantically to the next tree trunk, just in case. The hawk paid no attention, flapping unsteadily off the ground to the nearest branch to perch silently, carefully working both wings and ignoring Riffraff. It refused to look at him.

In another meeting, Riffraff might have chased the bird away and enjoyed his victory. Not this morning. He was free to go. Turning, he scampered down the mountain slope, nervously looking about, leaping up a tree trunk to be certain he wasn’t being followed. Only the birds sang, and he bounced down to the ground.

The Squirrel’s Christmas

Squeezing several squirrels into one drawing is no small project. For the last 2 years it’s become a tradition to bring the little family together for a Christmas portrait, and as late as I was last year, I’m early this time around. This is my favorite so far. Anyone looking for a truly original card is invited to visit CafePress, where single cards and sets are available.

Before the pace of the holidays switches into high gear, I’d like to wish all of you a Merry Christmas, and all the best of the season!

Riffraff shook himself. His nose twitched, and with a determined snort, he launched himself forward, senses intent upon the big cat.

The beast was closer than he realized. Casting about, the cougar was looking for something, perhaps an animal it was chasing or a trail it was following. Riffraff wasn’t sure, halting at the base of a tall spruce, watching and ready to race upwards as the large predator’s growl bubbled irritably, nose down, focused upon the ground. It was hungry, and after meandering in frustration nearer to the tree where Riffraff hid, it changed direction and loped purposefully up the slope into the large area between the two houses. The squirrel took a long breath and followed. His torn ear ached.

Squirrel and cougar wound through the trees. Riffraff tried to keep a sufficient distance between himself and the cat, just enough to be within hearing range of where the animal was. Fortunately for Riffraff, the large beast was searching for a meal and wasn’t running for any great length. Yet it was also a danger, as the squirrel had no desire to become the meal, and when the cougar changed direction to test the breezes, the little one had to scramble to be downwind and out of range of the cat. With no choice but to run along the ground, Riffraff found himself an uncomfortable number of leaps from the safety of the surrounding trees.

An unexpected turnabout by the cougar caught Riffraff unaware, on the ground and too close. Abruptly the squirrel was only paces from the nose, teeth and claws of the monster. He chirked in surprise, and the cougar roared, leaping for the impudent rodent that dared follow so close behind. Riffraff dodged, whirled and skittered wildly under bushes that were immediately crushed under the weight of the cat. He jumped sideways, and the swish of a huge paw whispered past, the sharp claws slicing the air where a tail had been for a mere instant.

 The fearful squirrel landed and bounced away in the opposite direction as leaves and twigs crackled under the predator’s paws. Skipped sideways in terror as the front pair landed on either side of him, and he bolted backwards beneath the hind paws. The big cat was terrifyingly quick and smart, yet Riffraff gained a few steps, and as the air howled in his lungs, he scrambled to an immense, solitary evergreen. Up into the thick, dense branches he scampered, swiftly climbing up the well-protected trunk to safety. The hungry cougar screamed and snarled, but even by fighting through the sharp pine needles to the trunk, there could be no climbing up between the closely grouped branches to the tall pinnacle. The frustrated cat made a horrible noise, circling around the base of the tree as the trembling squirrel huddled near the top, at once both safe and trapped. There was nothing to do but gasp for breath and wait.

The beast realized that its prey had no intention of moving, and that the noise it was making was a clear warning to any other nearby animals on the menu. It fell silent, took a long, hateful look up in Riffraff’s general direction, and sat down on it’s haunches to consider it’s next move. The first efforts of the day were lost with nothing in the belly, outwitted by two squirrels and leaving it enormously hungry. With a great show of casual disregard for the little one hiding in the tree, the cat lay down on the cool ground, cleaning both front paws and smoothing the fur on it’s back. After an agonizingly long wait it lazily rose to its feet and sauntered off.

Riffraff clung thankfully to the tree and breathed a long sigh of relief. The feeling didn’t last, and cold was the touch of fear on his fur. The chase wasn’t over; was he going to follow and risk being discovered again? Was he so willing to put his little life into the paws of a predator? He had to choose now, before the cat was gone. His ear throbbed, lingering dully behind his fear of the beast, and the strongest squirrel of the family gulped.

As one who chooses to fall into the depths of a bad dream, Riffraff reluctantly descended the trunk to shadow the animal. The dream became brighter as he timidly reached out with his ears and nostrils, stretching his senses in ways he hadn’t thought to try. Acute hearing and sense of smell were overwhelmed and useless in the city. Not so, here in the forest, where he realized that he could depend on both to work together, perhaps even more reliably than eyesight. Though he couldn’t see the cougar, the sound and scent of it were heavy upon the breeze, enough to track the animal at a distance with considerably less risk of confrontation. It was an important discovery.

Commotion ahead spooked Riffraff. He immediately ascended the nearest tree, looking down from a safe height, yet the noise was over before he had a chance to see the badger’s vicious snarl stifled. The cougar smoothly slid one paw under the animal’s belly, flipped the low-slung animal onto it’s back and snapped the throat in it’s jaws. The thrashing claws sank to the ground, and the struggle was over before Riffraff knew what kind of animal it was. He forced himself to watch the beast begin it’s meal. The rule of life and death within the forest was neither fair nor evil, neither kind nor cruel. Riffraff told himself that he was going to take hold of that law and crack it like a walnut, if he could.

The meal was filling for the great cat, and once satisfied, it lazily wandered a short distance from the kill to a shady spot, where it circled the moss and twigs several times before lying down in the warmth of late afternoon to wash and cleanse the claw marks from the badger’s struggle. Riffraff was certain the animal would remain long enough that he could quietly scamper away to find a meal of his own, careful to avoid the other and ready to follow when the cat arose. He wasn’t choosy about his own meal; a pine cone or two worth of seeds, the moisture and sweetness of blackberry leaves, and a careful sampling of berries from the same bush, much different than the toxic meal from the night before. He returned to the fir tree overlooking the area where the cougar lay, and at sight of the slumbering animal, decided to join the other in a nap. 

Riffraff awakened suddenly. It was an unmistakable sound, even at such a distance, at the edge of his hearing. The high, shrill cry of a squirrel- one of the family. It had to be. He sat up in the half-darkness of his new home, listening intently, tail twitching. One of the family was in trouble! A savage roar followed, and he froze as the terrified cry of the squirrel rose a second time. What was happening?

Reflex carried Riffraff to the entrance of the nest, so swiftly that his stomach threatened to keep rising, and he lurched sideways. He ignored the rolling sensation in his bowels and continued listening. He thought he heard another call, yet it was different, higher, and he had no way of knowing for sure. Roohv?

He cradled his face in his paws, grinding his teeth. One of the family was in trouble, his stomach was stirring dangerously, and it was at this point that the torn ear began to throb. One paw carefully explored the ear, and he winced, nose down and eyes closed.

No other sound came to him, save the hushed wind rustling in the pines outside. Riffraff clenched his front paws into fists, pictures of the family passing before his eyes. He should be with them, defending and protecting the others against such things as the cougar, not sick to his stomach in an empty nest and missing a piece of his ear. What had happened? Was one of his brothers and sisters injured? Worse? Thoughts of returning were already well away from him, leaping through the underbrush, running straight for home-

“Noh,” he said aloud, shaking his head and looking around the nest. He was home. He was here by his own choice, and no matter how right the reason might be for returning, he would be telling them all that he was wrong. The restless pictures and the forceful feeling that struggled to find a voice would ache and rot inside him, ever and always. If he wasn’t going to search for it, why live in the forest? Better to stay in the city, where food was plentiful and the most dangerous animals were cats and dogs.

He hung his head. Did that mean he had to run away from the others completely? If he could somehow help them… wouldn’t he? Riffraff had rarely spent so much effort trying to make sense of the pictures and feelings inside of him. They were like ideas. Padndn and Ahbry could sit and wonder about them if they wished, and though he respected and cared for each, he hadn’t understood why they should bother. Now he did. His heart ached for the others, especially little Brvoh.

His stomach was steady, the marked ear subsiding to a dull pain that was no longer jagged and sharp. Gazing outside, at the nearby trees and the patches of bright sunlight, he realized he was hungry, and that was good. No matter how worried or sad, he needed to find food. A long look outside lead to hopping out on to the nearest branch, peering in every direction, and a cautious descent. Pine cones littered the ground between trees, and he felt much better after chewing two large ones down to the rich, mellow seeds they held inside. The empty, nauseous feeling attached to the picture of the berries was gone. They were to be avoided.

Refreshed, he leapt up to the top of a tall pine and looked in every direction. The sky overhead was cloudless, white-blue above the forested ridge surrounding him, and on the gentle slope below the two houses were faintly visible through the thick dark green trees. The lookout tree was roughly centered in the middle of the wood dividing the two bihgwun places, with a long distance between. What happened, he wondered. He knew he could run from here to the house, and ached to know who was hurt, how badly. Strong as he pretended to be, he trembled as awful pictures stirred in his imagination.

Movement.

Riffraff stretched and twisted, straining and blinking to see what it was. Through the trees it glowed, sunlight twinkling on the glass; Pawl’s car, swiftly winding down the slope, speeding around one of the lower ridges til it was gone from sight. He could hear the wheels on the rough gravel road, and he knew the bihgwun was taking one of the others to see the bihgwun who made Roohv better. Someone was badly hurt! The squirrel wanted so much to know- what happened? He squeezed the pine needles in his paws until they smarted. Who was it? Rihzo? Brvoh?

The long whiskers twitched and sank. He couldn’t stay here, so close to the others, yet separated from them. Staying here was not a farewell, it was a miserable half-place between seeing the others and living in the forest. He had to decide- go back or go on, deep into the forest. Leave what was familiar and truly follow after what it was that brought him this far. His gaze wandered over what he knew of the slope below, and his eyes lingered upon the other bihgwun place, and the garden. He would have to leave that, too, and it would make the bad bihgwun happy. He could go back right now, once more before leaving, and eat his fill of the delicious fruits and vegetables. One more visit.

The strongest squirrel made his way to the ground, and with a look over his shoulder at the tree with the nest, he scampered forward. The tree was an Important Thing to Remember, a tree with a fine nest that he might need later. Under bushes and through the shadows he ran, imagining a race between Blaberhn, Qwisihvr and himself, and he was winning. Though he covered ground that much more rapidly, the excitement of overtaking the others when they weren’t really there didn’t mean much, and he was overtaken instead by the tall shape of the bad bihgwun with the long, shiny stick in his arms, the thunder and the tiny evil churning up the ground before him. He was running towards danger, and yet he continued, driven by the tastes and smells ahead, and at the edge of the trees he halted, looking out over the clearing, shivering with anticipation and fear. The garden awaited him.

He blinked. Startled, the squirrel turned to stare in both directions, as if someone or something was near, yet nothing stirred, and that felt worse. He warily retreated to the nearest tree trunk, tail anxiously twitching. The sensation was like a tap on his shoulder, an unsettling awareness, calling for his attention.

Figures and movement stirred around him, like the shadow of a cloud over the sun. A picture formed, the vague essence of something that hadn’t happened, an event that might take place quite soon. An Idea, overwhelming and mysterious. Stronger than the taste and smell of the food mere steps ahead, stronger than running into the deepest part of the forest, it unfolded in the air before him, strange and yet compelling.

The idea was connected to the first one, and he had followed it, leaving the others to begin living in the forest. This new thought pulled at him in the same way. He raised his paws over his eyes in alarm, yet the challenge persisted. Good and bad, exciting and terrible, it refused to be ignored, growing and becoming clearer. He chittered fearfully and peeked out through his paws, blinking as sunlight dissolved the shadow. It was simple, a challenge that only a truly brave little one would dare pursue.

And just like that it began, with a commotion in the woods, the sound of something large moving swiftly through the brush. The bihg cad chasing after something, just a few steps past the house! Riffraff’s eyes widened with astonishment and terror. The picture was no longer something waiting to happen, it was his to take hold of, here and now. His heart pounded, consumed with adrenalin even as he stood paralyzed in a moment of terrible indecision. Would he follow after it or let it go, always wondering what might have happened if he was truly a courageous squirrel?