Chapter 6
Eagle eyed, he saw the racing red car and this roadside watcher make their move. Also a strong believer in perfection through timing and counting, the numbers rolled through his head in rapid succession and sequence. One, two three, one. One, two, three, two. How great this was that it was him who was chosen for such an honor. One, two, three, three. How great that he would achieve the ultimate gift. One, two, three, go.
He spread his wide wings and stepped off of the branch causing a swift and well telegraphed descent. Soaring down at incredible speeds towards the two primate kids behind the wheel, he kept his keen eyes on his target scurrying about. He admired the spirit that the little guy possessed, but he loathed everything that same spirit stood for. It was not only an honor to be part of this cause; it was an honor to oppose such a worthy adversary.
Squawking as he adjusted his wings to slow his flight, and extended his talons in front of him, more for intimidation and show rather than functionality at this point. He could read the fear in each of the humans faces; mission accomplished. He watched with pleasure as neither one in the vehicle knew what to do, the male wobbled the steering wheel and then slammed on the break causing the car to skid and hiss, but it was all too fast. The massive bird collided with the windshield resulting in a glass shattering cave in and a feathery explosion like a raspberry pillow fight gone awry. The car spun out of control and careened off of the road and into a tree, but not before successfully smearing the target across the black top with brilliant contrast, like a painter’s first gleaming stroke on a fresh and pure canvas.
Chapter 7
There are few moments in a forest, with all of the busy woodland inhabitants, where silence reigns; this was one of those times. The rustling of wind through leaves on the tree halted and breaths staled with it. Chirping and chatter seized, and scurrying and scampering stopped. What had just happened? Could it be as it seemed? Premeditated, no, right? The same thoughts raced through all the minds who witnessed, and confusion and horror ranked highest amongst what was being felt, then one voice rang out amid the still.
“No,” Boro screamed as he processed that his father had become permanently bonded with the road. His face twinged and his stomach hurdled this way and that; he was going to be sick and he knew it. He could feel the tears immediately welling in his eyes and he made no attempt to hold them back. The fur of his face was soon matted and messed as his brother embraced him and held him tightly almost as if to prevent him from running out into the open.
“Boro,” his brother whimpered, and from the strain in his voice in was apparent that his insides were also performing some acrobatics. Ardo was feeling the pain himself, but he knew better than to act rash, and he knew they could not run to their father’s sides. “It is not safe, you know that.”
“But, father,” Boro turned with the look of his brother’s betrayal smeared all over his face. “He might still be,” Boro started but was unable to put the words at the end of his sentence, but his brother knew what he was unable to say.
“It is impossible,” Ardo spoke softly, turning his head away at the disgust of the sight before him. “He is nothing more than a streak.”
“Was that, a bird?” Boro asked with his blank expression remaining.
“I think it may have been,” Ardo answered and then turned to the rest of the stunned audience who moments before were excited about seeing history made before their eyes. “Was that a bird who interfered?”
For a short while the crowd remained silent and solemn and scared, but finally a young squirrel, who was the local librarian and a well respected citizen, which shocked some given her age, voiced her words confidently and courageously.
“There was a bird. This was no accident; Hemlock Rudolph was murdered.”
Chapter 8
Toby Furrows leaned his head out of the window of his modest nest and perked his ears to enhance his listening potential. He was quite certain that he had heard something resembling an explosion or a crash, but now all that was audible after a brief nothing was the normal sounds of the woodlands. He was almost certain, but then again his week at the office had been very stressful and his mind needed a break.
Toby returned into his den and sunk back into his couch to continue watching his mind numbing television in spite of what he really wanted to do which was sink into a crime novel, but his eyes were not up to it. Toby was not usually one to pass the time with reruns, but his work as an acorntant at the Big Oak during the fall’s fall was always stressful and would have surely turned him prematurely gray had he not been a squirrel. He would have loved to be employed as any of the more relaxing professions such as forager, or crossing guard, but Toby was a gifted mind amongst the Sciurini Tribe and they relied heavily on him to keep proper counts of the acorns to ensure that all mouths were fed during the winter months. At least he had solace in knowing he could always rely on his family to help him escape to peace when reruns where not up to task.
Toby let out a sigh and closed his eyes for some relaxation, but his peace was short lived as his three vivacious daughters bounded into the room and hopped on their pop; so much for the peace they brought, but he would not change them for the world. Toby let out a howl of laughter as his girls relentlessly tickled him from every angle, and his wife, Tress trotted in smiling fondly.
“Three daddy’s girls, we have,” Tress Furrows shook her head. “I wish we had a litter of boys so that you could know how it feels to be left out for a change.”
“Perhaps next spring we could give it a shot,” Toby smiled up from the nonstop barrage of tiny claws. “And it was not me who forces their paws, they just like to tickle and I am much more ticklish than you. Blame nature, who made me this way, and made you a rock under the tender touch.”
“Mommy we love you too,” Sally turned and with wide loving eyes assured her mother that she and her sisters, Ren and Sam, loved their parents equally as much.
“Sorry to interrupt your shows,” Tress went on. “I know you need your rest, so I was going to take the girls out for a picnic so that you can rest in peace, wait, I don’t like the sound of that.”
“How about just rest in quiet?” Toby said.
“But you know what; I think I have had enough of the old boob tube, why don’t I join you?”
“Really?” Shouted the three excitedly shrill voices in unison.
“Yes, I just want to take a quick shower so why don’t you go to the Big Oak and pick up some food and I will meet you there,” Toby said.
“Sure thing love,” Tress leaned in to huddle up the girls and once she had a full load of three, she leaned in and placed a kiss on the gray forehead of her husband.
Chapter 9
Ardo looked around back at the faces, all of which still bore expressions of shock, including his brother. “We should get back to the Dreys and tell the Chief that father was attacked.” Ardo spoke to Boro, but he chose to speak loud enough as to grab everyone’s attention. Ardo never considered himself a leader, in fact he never considered himself much of anything, but he always knew what to do when a situation arose, and he always wanted what was best for everyone; especially Boro.
“We can’t just leave him there,” Boro whined and made another attempt at crossing into the road; his brain unable to process logic and danger, which was a terrible state to live amid the wild.
“No,” Ardo screamed as he gripped his brother by the shoulders and shook him violently. “He will be picked up by the scavengers. That is the way of life. It is how it is supposed to be. He would have wanted it that way, and anyway we need to get back to our village in case there is another attack. Everyone, it is not safe out here, we must return.”
“We live in troubled times,” came the hysteric cry from amidst the crowd.
“Hem was a hero,” shouted another, which was met with murmurs of agreement.
“My fellow squirrels,” Ardo let go of Boro and stood taller to address the portion of his tribe. “We must make haste and retreat back to the Dreys. We must inform Chief Bushy Tail of what has ensued at what was intended to be a joyous occasion. As you know, Hemlock was my father, and if anyone has the right to take the time to grieve it is Boro and myself, but I implore you to turn tail. This should show the grave severity of the words I speak. We could be in danger. Our tribe could be in danger. Too much innocent blood has spilt already. Please, do not let the Sciurini Tribe be caught off guard.”
With will eyes on him, Ardo’s fellow squirrels nodded and those with children scooped them up and held them tight. Quickly and haphazardly all the little gray creatures were pulling on their cloths and dressing their young and a moment later, they were all scurrying as fast as their paws could carry them; presumably to safety.
Chapter 10
“Did you hear?” Franklin casually walked up to Scribbles, who was perched on a maple jotting down the latest thoughts of his mind.
“I hear many things,” Scribbles said without tearing his eyes away from his pad. “I am not deaf yet, but when I am, I assure you my answer may change.”
“No, about Hem Rudolph,” Franklin stepped closer, his breath now making an attack on the nape of Scribbles who shuddered ever so slightly at the proximity of the squirrel whose best talent was pushing the limits of the poets nerves.
“He was to set the tribes challenge record in the Games for passing completely through the tires of a vehicle traveling over one hundred miles per hour,” Scribbles said wryly. “I can read the headlines. I was going to interview Hem once he got back and slept off his partying so that I could record the events for the tribe log.”
“You better change your take on the story,” Franklin said, toying with the details of the story just to irk the scrawny squirrel.
“Did he chicken out?” Scribbles looked up, finally finding some interest in the tale, perhaps he could write a prose on how even the bravest know when they are in over their head. Brave Hem dared, brave Hem darted, brave Hem deserted; or something along those lines. He would need silence for this article, silence which did not involve Franklin.
“No,” Franklin said with a smug, self pleasing smile. “He ran.”
“And?” Scribbles put down his pen and looked up with eyes wide.
“He was hit,” Franklin delivered in a hush of a whisper.
“Is he alright?” Scribbles stood briskly, his pad and pen scattering to the leafy ground below the branches.
“He is dead,” Franklin spoke softer, barely audible.
“Then why the hell were you smiling just before,” Scribbles exploded into anger and fear. Hemlock Rudolph was an icon amongst the tribe as the best to ever play the Games. He was a personal hero to Scribbles, because Hemlock symbolized everything Scribbles wanted to be but knew he could never achieve. Hemlock was powerful and brave, while Scribbles was the runt of his tribe and never participated in the Games, let alone anything remotely athletic in nature. Hemlock was loved by all, and Scribbles was an outcast, knowing that the majority of his tribe did not even know that his name was not Scribbles, but Leroy John. Hemlock had charisma, and all Scribbles could do was insight sorrow in others through his self loathing deprecation. The one thing however that Scribbles did do well, and better than his hero, was write. As someone who was left alone most of his life, even if involuntary, Scribbles learned and perfected the craft of wordplay and tale telling. Scribbles quickly became the scribe of the tribe, as well as the tale teller, history recorder, newspaper editor, and post master. In the self proclaimed saddest existence in the woodlands, Scribbles often told himself that words were his only true friends because they did not judge.
“Sorry,” Franklin backed away at the fuming Scribbles and scurried off onto another tree, calling behind, “I just thought I would let you know.”
“Thought he would let me know”, Scribbles gritted his teeth. The only reason why he ran to tell him was because he wanted to see the pain that took his face when the news was delivered, Scribbles knew. That Franklin was a true work of art, and an even truer piece of trash.
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