I learn anything more I’ll try to get away and tell you. Trust in the Sun.’
So Hickory has become a Sun-squirrel like us, Meadowsweet thought. I can believe what he says.
‘Thank you,’ she called after him. ‘The Sun be with you.’ Then turning to her companions she said, ‘Who’s coming with me to see what was making the light we saw in the night?’
They all circled the Little Pool, keeping together in the treetops until they were above the place where they agreed they had seen the mysterious glow.
‘There’s nothing here but a rotten log.’
Wood Anemone had climbed down to investigate. She poked at the soft fibres, damp from the mist. They smelt mouldy and particles came away on her paw. She rubbed it against her belly fur and then tried to brush off the crumbs of wood that stuck there.
‘Come on up,’ Meadowsweet called to her, ‘we’ll go and see if we can contact Rowan and Spindle. Move quietly now.’
‘Kill them both,’ said Lord Malachite. ‘Natives are just a nuisance. The only good native is a dead one!’
‘There can’t be many Reds left now,’ said Lord Silica. ‘It’d be a pity to kill them all. Perhaps we could make a reserve for them to live in. Our youngsters could go and look at them and know what New America was like before we came.’
‘They’d only breed and then we’d have the same problem again.’
‘We don’t know yet what the new Great Lord Silver’s attitude to natives is,’ Lord Obsidian said. ‘I think we should keep them under guard until we know that. We’d better capture the females.’ He turned to Sitka. ‘How many of these are there?’
Sitka hesitated for a moment, then replied, ‘Five. There’s Rowan’s mate, Meadowsweet, and their daughter, Bluebell, and Spindle’s mate Wood Anemone, and their two daughters, Rosebay and Willowherb. Those two are identical – I can never tell which is which.’
‘All natives look the same to me,’ said Malachite. ‘Useless creatures the lot of them.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Hickory, whose absence and return had been unobserved. ‘You can’t make broad-leaved statements like that. The ones I know are honourable and decent. They should be judged by their standards, not ours.’
‘So you’re a native-lover are you?’ sneered Malachite.
‘I’m just trying to be fair, but I agree with Lord Obsidian. We should keep the red males secure while we learn what Woburn’s views are. The females are not likely to go far away while we are holding their males.’
Malachite was thinking how exciting it would be when he was the Great Lord Silver, with the whole of Grey-Squirreldom in New America waiting on his pleasure and responding to his every whim. Young Grey males were taught that the position was attainable by any one of them.
‘Anyone know where the females are?’ Lord Obsidian asked.
The Greys shook their heads, except Hickory who was scratching and biting at some irritation on his back, his face buried in his fur.
The females, moving cautiously in a single file led by Meadowsweet, were nearing the Warren Ash. They made a pretty sight as they moved through the treetops. A weak sun was just breaking through the mist, lighting up their glossy fur. Each squirrel was well groomed and tidy, though none were as fanatical as Rowan’s mother, Fern the Fussy, had been. Their tails were clear of tangles and their claws neat and clean. There was just a suspicion of the ear tufts that made the Reds so distinctive in winter.
‘If you see any Greys – freeze,’ Meadowsweet whispered.
When they were in view of the Warren Ash, they stopped and watched. Two Greys who they did not recognise were on guard, one on either side of the hole which showed up clearly where squirrels’ teeth had over many years, worked to keep the bark from growing and closing it.
Meadowsweet quoted the Reconnaissance Kernel –
‘In a strange country,
Be careful. Time spent looking
Is seldom
So Hickory has become a Sun-squirrel like us, Meadowsweet thought. I can believe what he says.
‘Thank you,’ she called after him. ‘The Sun be with you.’ Then turning to her companions she said, ‘Who’s coming with me to see what was making the light we saw in the night?’
They all circled the Little Pool, keeping together in the treetops until they were above the place where they agreed they had seen the mysterious glow.
‘There’s nothing here but a rotten log.’
Wood Anemone had climbed down to investigate. She poked at the soft fibres, damp from the mist. They smelt mouldy and particles came away on her paw. She rubbed it against her belly fur and then tried to brush off the crumbs of wood that stuck there.
‘Come on up,’ Meadowsweet called to her, ‘we’ll go and see if we can contact Rowan and Spindle. Move quietly now.’
‘Kill them both,’ said Lord Malachite. ‘Natives are just a nuisance. The only good native is a dead one!’
‘There can’t be many Reds left now,’ said Lord Silica. ‘It’d be a pity to kill them all. Perhaps we could make a reserve for them to live in. Our youngsters could go and look at them and know what New America was like before we came.’
‘They’d only breed and then we’d have the same problem again.’
‘We don’t know yet what the new Great Lord Silver’s attitude to natives is,’ Lord Obsidian said. ‘I think we should keep them under guard until we know that. We’d better capture the females.’ He turned to Sitka. ‘How many of these are there?’
Sitka hesitated for a moment, then replied, ‘Five. There’s Rowan’s mate, Meadowsweet, and their daughter, Bluebell, and Spindle’s mate Wood Anemone, and their two daughters, Rosebay and Willowherb. Those two are identical – I can never tell which is which.’
‘All natives look the same to me,’ said Malachite. ‘Useless creatures the lot of them.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Hickory, whose absence and return had been unobserved. ‘You can’t make broad-leaved statements like that. The ones I know are honourable and decent. They should be judged by their standards, not ours.’
‘So you’re a native-lover are you?’ sneered Malachite.
‘I’m just trying to be fair, but I agree with Lord Obsidian. We should keep the red males secure while we learn what Woburn’s views are. The females are not likely to go far away while we are holding their males.’
Malachite was thinking how exciting it would be when he was the Great Lord Silver, with the whole of Grey-Squirreldom in New America waiting on his pleasure and responding to his every whim. Young Grey males were taught that the position was attainable by any one of them.
‘Anyone know where the females are?’ Lord Obsidian asked.
The Greys shook their heads, except Hickory who was scratching and biting at some irritation on his back, his face buried in his fur.
The females, moving cautiously in a single file led by Meadowsweet, were nearing the Warren Ash. They made a pretty sight as they moved through the treetops. A weak sun was just breaking through the mist, lighting up their glossy fur. Each squirrel was well groomed and tidy, though none were as fanatical as Rowan’s mother, Fern the Fussy, had been. Their tails were clear of tangles and their claws neat and clean. There was just a suspicion of the ear tufts that made the Reds so distinctive in winter.
‘If you see any Greys – freeze,’ Meadowsweet whispered.
When they were in view of the Warren Ash, they stopped and watched. Two Greys who they did not recognise were on guard, one on either side of the hole which showed up clearly where squirrels’ teeth had over many years, worked to keep the bark from growing and closing it.
Meadowsweet quoted the Reconnaissance Kernel –
‘In a strange country,
Be careful. Time spent looking
Is seldom
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