Aspen spiraled up the trunk with the chaotic energy of a character in a video game controlled by a five-year-old hyped on sugar. His heart raced, pulse fluttering. The wind whispered in his ears, its chilly breath sending a shiver rippling straight through to the tip of his tail. Almost there. A flock of chickadees scattered in his wake, chirping their sharp opinions over his intrusion upon their resting space. He chittered back, more of a human-like laugh than any sound a squirrel naturally produced. The branches thinned, the trunk grew slim. He slowed his headlong rush, bursting through the curled brown leaves still clinging to the apex of the tree with a quiet chirp. His panting breath emerged as grey puffs in the cool morning air. He clung to his swinging perch and watched the first hesitant rays of light cover the mountains in brilliant hues of pink and orange and violet. The colors tickled the underside of the clouds and danced upon the horizon like bejeweled wind spirits celebrating a new day. Snow-covered mountains became blank canvases for a masterpiece made of rainbows and renewed hope.
Aspen let out a tiny, squirrel-sized sigh. He watched until the colors faded and the sky once more donned its cyan garb. This sunrise was glorious, majestic, perfect even. He picked his way back down the tree at a more sedate pace, ears on a swivel, claws digging into the rough bark. The lower branches, interconnected with nearby trees, extended his route in either direction. Not having a destination in mind, he closed his eyes and spun in place, then pointed one tiny, padded claw and opened his eyes. This way was as good as any other.
Aspen launched himself from branch to branch, a silent, early morning ninja, sharp gaze searching the underbrush for signs of food – a daily activity despite the sizeable fortune lounging in his bank account as a member of the Berhan family. He preferred foraging over hiking into town for groceries, though he occasionally indulged himself when the caffeine bug bit him on the tail, so to speak – no one made a better coffee than Betty.
A flash of orange interrupted his train of thoughts. Aspen searched for predators before picking his way down the trunk to ground level. He hopped the few steps towards this colorful feast for the eyes. The dry leaves underfoot crinkled in protest. Insects scurried under the leaf-litter, tiny things with multiple legs slinking back into the earth where it was safer, warmer. He brushed aside the leaves covering his found treasure. Mushrooms! One tiny paw, claws folded into a fist, pumped through the air as his joyful chirp echoed through the forest. There were three of them, each sporting domed orange caps covered in crusty white warts with delicate veils hanging from their stalks like lacey skirts. Fresh amanita mushrooms, while toxic to humans, made a delicious breakfast for a squirrel. He broke off a chunk and held it between his paws, sniffing the earth’s fruit as if testing a fine wine. He detected a faint, earthy scent, with undertones of snail and a touch of sweet. He nibbled the flesh, chirping like he was a four-year-old squirrel-child giggling his way through a stolen tray of cookies. Man, his aunt made the best chocolate chip cookies! His cousin Fitch had talked him into swiping the dozen cooling on the rack, and the resulting sugar high had them both literally climbing the walls and exploding through the squirrel tunnels built into the old manor’s bones.
He broke off another corner of mushroom and tucked his tail against his back, ready to enjoy a second helping of breakfast, when a silent swish caught his attention. His ears swiveled in search of the whisper of a sound, nothing more than the silk of a skirt brushing against a woman’s legs. The forest grew silent in a wave, the heavy kind, as if mourning the passing of a close friend. His heart beat a mighty rhythm in his chest. His pulse fluttered like a hummingbird on steroids. His pupils dilated to pinpoints. The wind in the trees, nothing more than a brisk autumn breeze, shrieked like a hurricane to his stressed senses. The crack of a branch startled him into looking up.
Straight into the beady black eyes of a diving falcon.
Shit.
A nearby wild squirrel chirped in alarm, its strident call echoed by others hidden in the canopy. He barked and jumped to the side. Sharp talons dug into the flesh of the mushroom, scratching, tearing. Swift wings buffeting the air kept the raptor from smashing into the ground. Aspen didn’t wait around for a second attempt at his life. He high tailed it for the relative safety of the trees, spurred by the falcon’s plaintive calls. His claws dug into the wood, sending bits of bark and lichen crumbling to the forest floor. His world narrowed to his next step, his next branch, each jumps made with careful, though hurried, calculations. The screeching of the raptor made it difficult to concentrate. His muscles screamed, burning with each stretch, each pullup onto a higher branch, each jarring hop down. Every leap of faith threatened to become his last. The bird chirped with discontent at its fast food, perhaps shouting at him to just give up and play dead like the nice little snack he was.
Little snack.
Little.
By the first acorn! Fitch was right. Aspen was becoming wild, like their justice-driven ancestors hiding in the woods until their next mission called them forth. He scurried down the trunk and jumped to the ground. With a deft twist of his magic, Aspen shifted to human form.
The falcon executed a masterful backstroke, screaming in fury at its lost lunch. Aspen stretched, then crossed his arms and glared at the bird.
“Get lost, you overgrown canary!” Aspen stuck out his tongue like a petulant child. “No squirrel for you.”
Greythorn's Nook 