Return To The Forest

 The weathered, critical face that frowned out of the mirror at Bruce had two working eyes again. That was the good news. The vision on one side was occasionally blurred, and slow to focus on nearby objects. Bruce sighed. Three days after his visit to the hospital, and he couldn’t be sure that the eye was healing. The surgeon was noncommittal about how much of his sight the old man would retain, and with mild sarcasm expressed his bewilderment that his elderly patient was still alive after wrestling with a cougar. He recalled the dry humor with a grin. It faded as he turned sideways, facing away from the large mirror and looking into the reflection on the glass of the smaller medicine cabinet. The stitches on that side of his head no longer required protective bandages, and the scars were healing, in their own way. The grim tattoo of long lines would remain, permanently.

Bruce finished his morning routine, and armed with a mug of coffee shuffled outside into the morning sunlight. A deep breath and squared shoulders was necessary to prepare himself for his first look at the aftermath of the storm. For three days the rain poured almost continuously as he watched the garden transformed into a soggy square of dark mud under the downpour. A stern warning from the surgeon to relax for a few days before stressing his eye was also something to be taken seriously, and so he delayed going outside. Now the ripe produce had to be collected quickly before withering under the summer sun, and the sooner the fresh produce was out of the garden and on the table, the better.

Rain and the weight of ripened fruit had broken several branches, and traces of rot dotted the rows. The damage wasn’t as bad as he feared, and his prized tomatoes were mostly intact. Those were the first to be collected, and as the sun climbed higher, the elderly man worked his way up and down the plot of land, stopping at noon to make a sandwich, filled with fresh lettuce, cucumber and tomato slices over cold cuts. The taste was additional motivation to continue into the hot afternoon, kneeling and bending from plant to plant and row by row.  

The work released his thoughts, soothing cares and worries in its simplicity. It was one activity that he truly enjoyed, although at times his thoughts wandered into bittersweet memory. His wife was the true gardener, her husband the grousing, unwilling helper that too often left her alone with her packets of seeds and the monotonous vigilance of weeding. Now he understood what drew her here, what she tried to show him, and how she seemed to linger in this place, years after her passing. She would have been thrilled with this year’s harvest, and it was easy to imagine her teasing him about the assistance provided by the small, unusual gardeners who lived with his neighbor. He heard her laugh, and a lopsided smile warmed his face.

By late afternoon his back was aching, and he gave up trying to collect everything he could, concentrating instead on the best of what was left to harvest. He was aware that he was pushing himself hard, but didn’t mind. There was plenty of produce, more than he could possibly keep for himself. An assorted bag or two for Angie at the food store, a selection for his neighbor, and as if that wasn’t enough, his last efforts to take only the best of what remained meant more than a few vegetables and fruit lingered on the vine. Unbelievable. What to do with that? Wasteful to just let it go to seed.

He shrugged. The answer was obvious. Standing on the deck in the midst of buckets full of produce, he picked up the wireless phone.

“Paul? Bruce… yeah, the eye is working, thanks,” he began, nodding.

“Quite the storm, eh? I waited it out and had to collect as much as possible from the garden today. I’ve got more here than I can handle. If you’re interested, I’ve got a bag of this and that, anytime you want. And, um… I’m done with the garden for the year. If the squirrels want what’s left outside… they are? Ten tomorrow morning is fine. See you then.”

Time to wash and clean as much as he could, as the sun slid lazily into evening. One by one the buckets were emptied, cleaned and sorted. A selection for Angie, a portion for his neighbor, and rest for himself. He took a break for supper, and was washing up when a knock came at the front door. He looked up, frowning. His neighbor? Paul wasn’t coming over until tomorrow, with the squirrels. Sighing, he washed his hands and made his way to the other side of the house. One of the reasons he loved this place was the lack of interruptions and strangers at the door.

He looked through the peephole, and the man standing outside was indeed a stranger. Tall, thin and slightly pale, two piercing eyes darted to the peephole as Bruce squinted through it, and the old man stepped away as if the stranger had spotted him. He paused, took a breath and opened the door.

“Hello?”

“Hello, sir,” the tall man began politely, a raspy voice tinged with a faint accent. Bruce couldn’t place it.

“My apologies for arriving without advance notice. My name’s Andrew… I was the one who sent an email to inquire about your property.”

Bruce relaxed visibly as the connection was made. He shook the hand that the other offered.

“Ah… Bruce Thompson. I was going to write back with the address- guess that won’t be necessary.”

“I do apologize for the intrusion,” Andrew repeated, and produced a business card.

“I am accustomed to acting swiftly. Real Estate is my business, and there is little left to work with in Europe.”

He indicated the surrounding trees, continuing in his rough, friendly voice.

“Certainly nothing so spectacular as this. You are extremely fortunate.”

Bruce nodded, reading the card. Andrew Bader, Roth Projecktmanagement, followed by an address in Germany.  

“How did you find me,” he asked.

The other’s chuckle was a distracting, humorless sound.

“Your pictures online are posted with others in this general geographic area, under a username of ‘BT’. Your photos identified the house style, and I compared it to the transaction records in this area for sales to a buyer with the initials B.T. Available to any realtor. It was difficult, but this is the house, and you’re the man who owns it.”

The old man’s eyebrows lifted, and he grunted.

“Hmph. That’ll teach me to use my initials. Well, as long as you’re here, what can I do for you?”

“Could I impose upon you to tour the house? I know you are not prepared… please show only what you feel comfortable with,” Andrew said, and invited himself inside.

“Sight unseen, Mr. Thompson, my interest in your property begins at one million dollars. The balance on the house will be additional.”

The stranger wasn’t looking to impress the owner of the house; it was a simple matter of fact. As Andrew politely gestured for Bruce to lead the way, he asked questions about the age of the house, any work that Bruce might have done himself, and explained how eager several of his clients were to buy into the North American market. Eager enough that prices could be set independently of any existing local contracts. Andrew was observant, and as they walked into the study, commented on the rifles and backpacking gear, listening admiringly as the old man described the wealth of hunting and hiking available, steps from his front door. When the foreigner revealed his own familiarity with weapons, the real conversation began, and Bruce was happy to recall stories of old hunting trips with the other truckers in the company he owned. Andrew had one or two of his own. They continued through the entire house, talking and chuckling over past adventures.

“Well, that’s it,” Bruce spoke over his shoulder as they left the last bedroom for the hall.

“How about a cup of coffee before you leave?”

“Yes, please,” came the answer.

“Great. Let’s go to the kitchen,” the old man said, continuing with enthusiasm.

“You know, hunting deer is one thing. We had a moose- well, we thought we had a moose-”

In a single chopping motion the stranger’s right hand sliced down through the air, striking Bruce’s neck where it curved into the shoulder. The last syllable of ‘moose’ was choked off, and a second precise blow struck his head. Andrew smoothly caught his unconscious host under his arms as the legs collapsed, dragging him backwards into the bedroom.

 Riffraff’s appetite might have disappeared, but he was as thirsty as ever, perhaps more so for his fits of sneezing. He shuffled across the rocks and pebbles to the shallow edge of the river. It was wider here, and though the sound of the rushing water was loud, several groups of rocks and boulders broke up the current, offering plenty of paths for a small animal like him to venture into the middle of the river. He knelt down, bent his head low, and drank, lifting his head often to be sure that he wasn’t being watched. Light flickered in the corner of his eye, and as he whirled around, thunder rumbled upriver, beyond a remote ridge. Was that where home was? How far had the river carried him after he hit his head? Ignoring the rain, he sat up, gazing at the orange gold that bled through the ragged outlines of the storm clouds. The muted sunlight cast a pale glow upon the mountain peaks and forested heights, and slowly he turned completely around. Beautiful, lonely and desolate, the high country rolled and rose in every direction.

Riffraff had no idea where home was, and no idea how far the river carried him. Lost and alone here, where the trees kept on going, on and on, wherever he looked. No family, no welcoming voices at daylight’s end. Only a coldly beautiful terrain that cared nothing for one proud, foolish squirrel, knew not the slightest warmth of mercy nor offered the smallest gift of shelter to one who dared imagine that surviving in the wilderness was as easy as living in the city. That was his choice. He continued to turn slowly, overwhelmed at the expanse of forest, peaks and sky, and fear crept into his thoughts. Fear, lingering in the trees where the mother hawk, the marten and any number of other creatures lurked, waiting to hunt him.

The bleak and empty loneliness settled upon Riffraff, cold and heavy as the falling rain on his fur coat, and he shivered. Wahd ar yoo doon heehr? Where was the confidence he had when the family tried to convince him to stay? He was a stranger, a spoiled scavenger from the bihgwun places, a little one who dreamed of being something he wasn’t. Every waking moment would be a test, a lesson to be learned quickly, with no second chance if he failed. He would never see his family again. The tall, snowy mountains and the moody, grey sky overhead- they would continue to send hunters and water after him, every waking moment offering nothing more than the struggle to find food and safety, until he could no longer escape. He would vanish in this great wilderness, an insignificant glimpse of fur and paws, alone and forgotten-

A series of sneezes interrupted his thoughts of doom. In the midst of feeling sorry for himself, he remembered where he was, and warily spun round to take in the far side of the river.

He frowned. On the other side of the water a sheer rock wall rose forbiddingly from the riverbed, lunging upwards to a dizzying height where the trees clung precariously to the cliff’s edge. He saw it every time he looked out over the river, and yet now as he studied it, he realized no danger could come to him from that side. Climbing up or down, it would be difficult if not impossible for most animals to climb the vertical slice of bare rock. Most animals. Cracks and dark fissures chased each other in diagonal lines, back and forth across the face of the stone, and his ears perked up.

He shook the rain off and hopped carefully to the base of the wall, on the far side of the riverbed. The stone was slippery with rain, footholds were small and treacherous, yet his long claws anchored him firmly to the slightest cracks and ridges on the rock. He recalled scaling bihgwun places in the city, walls made of tiny pebbles and gray hard stuff that climbed straight up, higher than any tree, with huge ledges where bihgwuns kept all kinds of interesting things. Sometimes there was food, and only birds shared such high places. Even in the rain, this natural wall wasn’t nearly as challenging.

Until the force of a sneeze pushed him from the rock face and dislodged his front paws. He fell back, flipping upside down and smacking his head hard, as his hind paws held the tiny ledge for dear life, and upside down he gasped at sight of the glittering river far below. Unconscious instinct brought the powerful hind legs up into a crouch at the same time as head and chest curled up against his own belly, snapping forward, front paws lunging, reaching, latching securely into the rock above. One single, fluid move that he didn’t understand restored him to his former position, exactly as before.

Shaking, he hugged the wall with a trembling respect, reaching overhead for his next foothold. Long cracks and small, dark crevices were everywhere. Exhaustion was forgotten as he curiously made his way towards the first, and squeezed in. He could barely fit inside, and yet he knew there must be other, larger openings close by. He backed out, studying the stone above and sidestepping along the a massive diagonal of darker rock, chirking with excitement. Paws grasped and followed an opening before his eyes realized what he’d found. A hairline crack in line with the slanting dark rock grew ever wider, and abruptly diverged into a much larger fracture, a pebble-strewn ledge and dusty interior that opened up into a crooked, miniature cave, high enough that he could almost stand up on his hind feet. Not quite. Cutting inwards, it gradually closed within the darkness of the cliff until it was too narrow to go any further.    

Riffraff sat up and carefully turned about in silent appraisal of the tiny cave. Shelter! A chill draft came in from the open entrance, yet at long last he had found a place that was dry, with a roof overhead, and smooth, dusty stone under his paws. He was inside, and the rain was outside. The dripping, weary little one shook himself, impatiently swept pebbles and debris aside to make a place to lie down, and curled up into a tight little ball. Eyes closed before his fuzzy head touched the stone.

The little one slept through the night, and through the storm. Lightning and thunder rolled between the peaks in the far north of the region, and though the occasional burst of light and sound echoed through the valley, Riffraff barely stirred. He lay still, lost in deepest slumber under his dry, warm tail, wrapped around his paws and over his head. He opened his eyes  in the grey dawn, and lifted his head in brief disorientation. A small, drowsy smile appeared under his whiskers as he remembered where he was, how good it was to be dry, and as the cloudburst outside sent rain down in sheets of white, he rolled over, tucked his head under his tail, and went back to sleep. He might have awakened, once or twice, and possibly looked around, perhaps even sitting up to take in the dark day and following night as the relentless showers fell. He couldn’t recall.

The next time he opened his eyes and was truly awake, the rain and clouds were gone. Grey sky was replaced with blue, bright with golden sunlight, as clear and fresh as the previous days were dark and wet. Riffraff sneezed. It didn’t matter. He rose to his feet, stretched, and paced to the ledge of the small, crooked cave. He had climbed higher in the rain than he realized, and the view was amazing. The sparkling, rolling river wound in a huge arc to the east, and on either side, the forest spread out below him in every shade of green.

Riffraff was starving.

It seemed more dark than light when Riffraff opened his eyes and wearily shook off the accumulated rain and dew from his fur. A troubled half-sleep found him sitting up, and as he lurched forward down to his front paws, he remembered why he was sitting, and hesitated. The thick, sheltering tree branches hid him from sight, yet they also prevented him from seeing what might be waiting and watching. The biggest, strongest squirrel of Falstaff’s family timidly parted the branches, tested the air with his nostrils, and felt nothing like the brave squirrel who had so recently vowed to chase his visions of living in the wilderness. He moved forward along the branch, tail nervously twitching, and poked his head out. Was something waiting?

Relief and anger welled up in a fierce burst of chittering. The moose!

Less than one healthy leap away from the tree, the immense beast from the nearby river ponderously swiveled round to see what all the racket was about. The amiable monster had moved in the night under the trees to escape the rain, dozing on it’s feet. Riffraff chirked and sniffed the air- sure enough, that particular scent had been present in the darkness, there for him to learn and identify. The heavy, overwhelming scents, smells and odors he knew from the city were gone, and here in the forest, the signs and signals he needed to know were subtle, so easily overlooked. He had been quite safe, the entire night. In fact, the same animal that stood watch over him while he lay in the shallows of the river had once again protected him, simply by standing in the same area. Few of the nocturnal predators would intentionally disturb such a large beast.

Squirrel and moose considered each other. The animal seemed to recognize him, and the immense antlers swayed as the beast put one foot forward, then the other, slowly moving towards him. Riffraff’s eyes widened as the gigantic beast approached, its massive nose on a level with the branch he was perched upon. Was it angry at him? Was it going to attack? The squirrel frowned, and shook the rain off his little shoulders. He stubbornly sat up.

“Kmahn,” he challenged the other, “I nahda frehd.”

The moose came onward. In spite of himself, Riffraff drew back as the huge nostrils flared, sniffing, and clouds of vapor rose in the damp morning air. Front paws lifted in defense, and he realized the animal wasn’t attacking- it was identifying him, just as he had done earlier! From head to toe as big as he was, the inquisitive snout nudged him, retreating just slightly. It was an odd experience. Riffraff’s whiskers shook as he laughed, and he placed his paws between the gaping nostrils, pushing gently. At his touch the beast shied backwards, tilting its head to cautiously peer at him. The sweeping antlers turned gingerly about as the moose maneuvered in the opposite direction, through the trees towards the sound of the running water. The drifting mist came between, and the little one decided that they were friends. The rain continued to fall, he had no home, and yet he felt less miserable.

The search for shelter continued as dark clouds crept overheard, barely clearing the treetops. Riffraff was soaked through, scurrying across the forest floor and leaping up more trees than he could recall. The wood was slippery, the ground sodden and moist, and any leafy branch he passed under was certain to pour it’s weight worth of water upon him. The forest was hardly inclined to welcome newcomers and strangers, and of the few dry places a squirrel would prefer to live, most were already occupied. The rain paused just as he met his first squirrel. A closer look at a dark knothole revealed a tiny, inviting nest- and an enraged, feisty red flash of fur who chased him down the tree and halfway up the next, chittering fiercely with every step before indignantly returning to her dry home. 

Riffraff hunched over on the branch, sullenly muttering as he cleaned his wet paws and shook out the water from his fur. He told himself that it was encouraging, in a small way, to meet another squirrel. He didn’t feel nearly as sore from his ride in the river, and stoically endured the fits of sneezing that shook him from head to tail. He was certain that there was a vague connection between the sneezes and his constant state of dampness since falling into the river. As weary as he was from the previous night, the instinctive need to find shelter drove him onward. More than one nest was occupied by birds, and he let them be. However, as his frustration increased, he couldn’t avoid thinking how easy it would be to evict the current occupants. Wouldn’t any ordinary squirrel do the same, given the situation? Wasn’t that how things happened, here in the woods?

The clouds closed with a fleeting glimpse of late afternoon sunlight, and as the rain commenced, Riffraff felt the evening waiting, not far off. He was exhausted, no closer to finding a nest, and hadn’t eaten anything the whole day. He simply wasn’t hungry. He turned about to retrace his path to the river, watching the trees on either side, leaping along the branches, from one tree to the next where he could, and wearily down to the ground where the trees stood too far apart to jump. The reoccurring thought of evicting a bird from its nest grew tempting as he scouted one final grove of trees at the edge of the riverbed.

Was that a dark indent he saw? Riffraff had to get closer, and with a determined grunt ascended the tall pine. The bedraggled little squirrel’s tired paws could barely lift him. This would be the last tree for the day, and the inviting shadow higher up the trunk became that much more important. He fervently wished for an empty nest, and the thought of falling inside it’s welcome dryness drove him on. He pictured being out of the rain at last, high above the ground, and struggled upward.

A head popped out of the hole. A grey squirrel, the first he’d seen since leaving the city! He was so surprised that he forgot his disappointment. The grey took care to let him know that he was trespassing, protectively barking and growling, and as he stared, Riffraff saw a small, fuzzy head appear next to it’s mother, just before being hustled inside. A tiny little one, younger than Bravo, perhaps one of several in the nest, a family of grey squirrels… the head and shoulders of the mother squirrel emerged, and now she meant business, fur bristling, tail twitching, and ready to fight. Get away from my nest!

Riffraff took another mournful look at the cozy home, and retreated through the lower branches, down the trunk and once again to the wet, muddy ground. He felt completely and entirely rejected. The discovery of a grey squirrel protecting her family was especially sad, for they belonged in this strange and unfamiliar place, and he didn’t. He was as much an outsider here as he’d been in the city. No shelter awaited him this evening, and the weight of disappointment settled on his shoulders with every miserable drop of rain, the cold, heavy drops falling relentlessly down upon him as he despondently scanned the surrounding area for any sign of danger before trotting towards the river, tail drooping and head held low. He paused at the river’s edge, a small, insignificant animal wondering how he could have been so wrong as to believe he could live in such a vast wilderness.

The lone squirrel opened his eyes, and sneezed, a small, squirrel-sized noise with a smaller echo. Riffraff shook his head- and sneezed. Another faint, empty echo crept back through the trees to his ears. Water was in his nostrils, and he held his fuzzy head in his front paws as the familiar feeling welled up, ticklish and irritating. Yet again he sneezed, and looked upwards, sideways into the dripping leaves overhead. Water dripped down on both sides of his head. The clouds seemed to be huddling low, barely clearing the tops of the branches, the higher treetops disappearing in the grey, misty morning. His back ached, sides ached, the bump on his neck ached, his muscles were stiff and sore, and no matter how carefully he moved, everything complained. Riffraff gingerly sat up, expecting another round of sneezes, and shivered instead.

He sat on the branch, front paws folded up against his chest, wondering what to do next. Rising to meet the new day usually meant a rumbling in his belly and a good breakfast waiting for him and the others at the bihgwun’s hows. Today wasn’t the first new day without the bihgwun’s breakfast waiting- today was the first day that he realized that he wasn’t hungry. Not even a bowl of cshoos in his Important Things to Remember could make his tummy growl.

“If y’nahd huhgry, behdr fyhn a plehs to gehd owhd of th’ rehn,” he firmly told himself.

Perhaps a place suitable to stay. Every muscle protested as he methodically prepared to descend the tree, his little face determined as he carefully went down, head first. The drops of rain were heavy, thick and while most slid effortlessly off the protective umbrella of his furry tail, a stray drop or two splashed on his head and ran into his eyes. He resolutely shook his head, continuing down the sodden, slippery tree trunk, and reflexively glanced in every direction, listening and looking for anyone or anything in the surrounding woods. To one side, the river rumbled faintly, and on the other, only the sound of the rain and wind in the darkness of the deepening forest. The rain was good, he told himself, because the larger animals wouldn’t be out hunting as long as the rain was falling heavily.

At the base of the tree he stood up straight, and winced at the sharp twitching between his shoulder blades. A fallen, hollow tree trunk caught his eye, until Riffraff discovered the rotted floor was crawling with ants, and he forgot everything else in his haste to get out. He sat outside, studying his paws to make sure the little insects had been swept off, and looked dejectedly at the first possibility of shelter, no longer available. It wasn’t good to be on the ground, he thought, and moved on. He moved carefully along the forest floor, too sore to move swiftly, and ventured up the first inviting trunk. A dying tree, struck by lightning, and there was a large hole, higher up on the trunk. A puzzling smell made his nose itch, and he lifted himself cautiously higher, peering upwards. The breeze shifted, and the odd scent solidified, a withering stench of decomposing meat and bones, filling his nostrils so abruptly that he recoiled. If he had been starving and desperate, the smell might have been intriguing to the squirrel, perhaps even worth investigating. However, he was neither, and as he turned about, something stirred inside the massive tree. Two somethings, their deceptively feeble chirps triggering an instinctive alarm. Get down! Get away!

Run! Blindly Riffraff let himself fall. Clasp, hold, release- his claws kept him close to the trunk and allowed the ground to pull him down almost as fast as falling free. He chirked and growled as he fought to slow down, and couldn’t help touching the ground with a bump. All his muscles joined in a chorus of complaints, and he winced. Huddled against the bottom of the tree, he felt the faint tremor in the wood as far above, dark wings flapped and sharp talons landed at the entrance to the nest. The mother hawk was home, and with his gaze constantly overhead, Riffraff half scampered, half-ran as fast as he could, away from the dead tree. Any little animal had better know how foolish it was to linger near a tree where a mother hawk was raising her young.

He paused to catch his breath, and realized that the stiffness in his limbs was fading. Riffraff didn’t understand how running and climbing could make him feel better, and it didn’t matter, not now. He kept on exploring, discovering other places that seemed promising, only to find that they were either occupied, leaked water, or didn’t offer him enough protection from hunters. Places could be found on the ground that were dry, yet too easy for others to find, and he had to pass up the high places in the trees that could be used for hiding, but weren’t dry. The rain stopped, and he bent over as a fit of sneezing overwhelmed him. Sitting up, he nibbled half-heartedly on a pine cone. Not hungry. What was wrong? He forced more mouthfuls down, listened for the river, and considered the next area to explore. As long as he kept the rushing water within hearing, he wouldn’t get lost- no more lost than he already was, he told himself. Somewhere farther up the river was where the fox chased him into the water, and beyond, on the other side of the ridge… that was where the others were. Home. His whiskers twitched.

More exploring, until the end of the day. The light paled behind dark, heavy clouds, and the dejected squirrel realized he would find no dry hiding place tonight. Tiredness, no appetite, and the occasional round of sneezing added to the overall gloom of the evening. He found a young, thick spruce, not nearly high enough, and though he knew it was more secure in a taller tree, he felt too tired and weak to do any more climbing. He pulled himself carefully up into the dense blackness of the close branches and heavy layers of needles. The occasional drop of rain found its way through the branches, but his long, fuzzy tail deflected those, and he settled in for the night.

Sometime later in the dark, twigs snapped on the ground and rustling sounds came through the rain, and he awakened. His nose itched and ran, forcing him to sit up, his paws clapped over his nose to muffle sneezes that sounded horribly loud in the blackness. Something was lurking nearby. It came so close to the tree that Riffraff could smell it, could hear the animal breathing, and he trembled, unable to see what it was and certain that teeth and claws were going to come crashing through the branches. Wide awake and fearful, he silently begged the animal to go away as he held his nose and willed himself not to sneeze. A sheet of rain found him, and he had no choice but to let the drops slide slowly over his head and down his fuzzy cheeks as the animal lingered. The horrible closeness dragged on, so awfully long that Riffraff’s fists clenched, listening for any indication that the hunter was waiting or gone.

A small, explosive sneeze refused to be stifled, and he shook with fear. Wide awake and unable to return to sleep, he remained upright, listening intently as the blackness stretched on and on.