things as clearly as he used to.
‘What’s that in front of them?’ he barked at a youngster near him.
‘It’s a stick, sir. A sort of knobbly one.’
‘What’s it for?’
‘I don’t know, sir. It might be some kind of totem, these natives do have some funny customs.’
‘There’s a prime territory for any squirrel who can bring it to me – spread the word. What’s your name?’
‘Monterey, sir, same as the new Great Lord Silver, sir.’
‘Well, Monterey, how do you fancy living up to that name. Go and get that knobbly stick. If you bring it to me you get a choice of territories. Off you go now – go on.’
Monterey braced himself, rushed down the bank and leapt on to the bridge. He saw one of the natives scratch at the knobbly stick and then felt as if he had been hit by an invisible whirlwind. His head swam, lights flashed in his eyes and, losing his balance he fell from the bridge into the water. The shock cleared his head a little and he struggled for the bank, splashing clumsily. The squirrels who helped him ashore saw that his whiskers were coiled into tight little curls. He begged them to bite them off before he could report back to Malachite.
‘It works,’ Rowan said, ‘we must have got those numbers right.’ He looked at the sun. ‘About four hours to sunset, I wonder if they will try again?’
Lord Malachite, who had never seen a Woodstock in action before, was interrogating Monterey.
‘A wave hit you? I didn’t see any wave, you’ve lost your brains as well as your whiskers. Everybody on this side get ready for a mass charge. Ready now. CHARGE.’
Malachite watched a flood of squirrels pour down the bank towards the bridge. As the first of them reached the fallen trunk it rolled sideways, clawing at its face, as did the next and the next. The other squirrels turned and scrambled up the bank leaving the three behind.
Malachite watched in astonishment. This was more than a totem that the Reds had. It was an amazingly powerful weapon. It was as well that he had been wise enough to stay up on the bank. Wouldn’t do for his battle group to lose their Commander.
‘Bring up the injured,’ he ordered.
The Reds watched a small party of Greys come cautiously down the bank, their tails low, and help the three with the curled whiskers, climb back up.
‘What now?’ Hickory asked.
‘Wait and watch,’ said Rowan –
‘Unknown Danger near
Lie high, wait, watch and look out.
Trust in the Sun’s light.’
‘The danger’s not unknown,’ said Hickory.
‘Kernels don’t always fit exactly, but the message is clear. Keep alert – trust in the Sun.’
Meadowsweet asked if she should organise the building of dreys in the trees.
Rowan looked up at the three trunks, then across at the mainland.
‘It goes contrary to squirrel nature, but I think we should make a ground-drey. There’s no fox danger here at present and if we are on the ground and all together, we can react faster to anything the Greys do.’
With one watching the bridge and another scanning the bank across the water behind them, the other Reds collected fallen twigs, biting off and dropping more dead ones from the trees. With these they built a hollow mound, large enough to take them all. The females used their skills with grass and moss to make a warm lining.
Dusk was falling and there was no sign of another attack. Rowan sat outside the ground-drey, thinking, his paw on the Woodstock. Across the narrow strip of water he could see Sitka’s body hanging, the tail moving eerily whenever the evening breeze eddied among the trees. Another Sun-squirrel gone. At least he had died standing up for what he believed in.
Rowan remembered how Sitka and Hickory had helped with the classes for the colonists passing through, allocating them to those skimpy dreytels. Then organising the newcomers so that they all absorbed the messages of the Kernels and were at least partly Sun-worthy before they moved on to
‘What’s that in front of them?’ he barked at a youngster near him.
‘It’s a stick, sir. A sort of knobbly one.’
‘What’s it for?’
‘I don’t know, sir. It might be some kind of totem, these natives do have some funny customs.’
‘There’s a prime territory for any squirrel who can bring it to me – spread the word. What’s your name?’
‘Monterey, sir, same as the new Great Lord Silver, sir.’
‘Well, Monterey, how do you fancy living up to that name. Go and get that knobbly stick. If you bring it to me you get a choice of territories. Off you go now – go on.’
Monterey braced himself, rushed down the bank and leapt on to the bridge. He saw one of the natives scratch at the knobbly stick and then felt as if he had been hit by an invisible whirlwind. His head swam, lights flashed in his eyes and, losing his balance he fell from the bridge into the water. The shock cleared his head a little and he struggled for the bank, splashing clumsily. The squirrels who helped him ashore saw that his whiskers were coiled into tight little curls. He begged them to bite them off before he could report back to Malachite.
‘It works,’ Rowan said, ‘we must have got those numbers right.’ He looked at the sun. ‘About four hours to sunset, I wonder if they will try again?’
Lord Malachite, who had never seen a Woodstock in action before, was interrogating Monterey.
‘A wave hit you? I didn’t see any wave, you’ve lost your brains as well as your whiskers. Everybody on this side get ready for a mass charge. Ready now. CHARGE.’
Malachite watched a flood of squirrels pour down the bank towards the bridge. As the first of them reached the fallen trunk it rolled sideways, clawing at its face, as did the next and the next. The other squirrels turned and scrambled up the bank leaving the three behind.
Malachite watched in astonishment. This was more than a totem that the Reds had. It was an amazingly powerful weapon. It was as well that he had been wise enough to stay up on the bank. Wouldn’t do for his battle group to lose their Commander.
‘Bring up the injured,’ he ordered.
The Reds watched a small party of Greys come cautiously down the bank, their tails low, and help the three with the curled whiskers, climb back up.
‘What now?’ Hickory asked.
‘Wait and watch,’ said Rowan –
‘Unknown Danger near
Lie high, wait, watch and look out.
Trust in the Sun’s light.’
‘The danger’s not unknown,’ said Hickory.
‘Kernels don’t always fit exactly, but the message is clear. Keep alert – trust in the Sun.’
Meadowsweet asked if she should organise the building of dreys in the trees.
Rowan looked up at the three trunks, then across at the mainland.
‘It goes contrary to squirrel nature, but I think we should make a ground-drey. There’s no fox danger here at present and if we are on the ground and all together, we can react faster to anything the Greys do.’
With one watching the bridge and another scanning the bank across the water behind them, the other Reds collected fallen twigs, biting off and dropping more dead ones from the trees. With these they built a hollow mound, large enough to take them all. The females used their skills with grass and moss to make a warm lining.
Dusk was falling and there was no sign of another attack. Rowan sat outside the ground-drey, thinking, his paw on the Woodstock. Across the narrow strip of water he could see Sitka’s body hanging, the tail moving eerily whenever the evening breeze eddied among the trees. Another Sun-squirrel gone. At least he had died standing up for what he believed in.
Rowan remembered how Sitka and Hickory had helped with the classes for the colonists passing through, allocating them to those skimpy dreytels. Then organising the newcomers so that they all absorbed the messages of the Kernels and were at least partly Sun-worthy before they moved on to
Similar Books
