by Chris Hill
The Major gritted his teeth. Fighting any rival Northend Family was easier than dealing with this foolish young female!
“Ooh-ooh, can we go and spy on the enemy Cloudfoots?” Tarragon shuddered in delight at the terrifying prospect.
“Niece, have you not listened to a word I’ve said? A foraging party went into the Towers at dawn. The sun is almost at the Mid-levels so I must be at our boundary trees to meet them, and I am late.”
Tarragon didn’t care—it was all just so exciting! “Ooh-ooh, goody!” She jumped up and down. “Let’s go!”
Major Fleet controlled many of the Northend trees, but not enough to keep every squirrel under his rule well fed—there were simply too many feuding Families, and the Major had temporary alliances with some, and uneasy truces with others.
Many smaller, lesser Families only occupied one or two trees, and fights for food and territory broke out all the time. One day, thought the Major, as they scurried toward the boundary trees, I will find a way to unite this rabble—and then what a force the Northend will be!
As they passed small groups of Fleet squirrels in adjoining branches, Tarragon waved enthusiastically at her Family. “Hello! How are you?” she signaled with her tail.
The common Fleet squirrels, deeply embarrassed that they had been noticed by the Honorable Mistress, bobbed low and made clumsy gestures of reply. They tried not to catch the Major’s eye.
“Tarragon,” he snapped, “we’re not here for you to stop and gossip.”
“Yes, Uncle,” she said meekly. She could see he was cross now, and it didn’t do to anger the Major—even she knew that. But it was so unfair! She never got to talk to anyone outside the drey. When I’m older, she thought, I’m going to go out every day and speak to whoever I like—and no one’s going to stop me!
The dirty crumbling Towers came into sight and Tarragon shuddered. How can humans live in there? she thought. They’re not proper trees at all, and the humans don’t even use the viewing platforms. No leaf cover—nothing grows up the trunks—they’re horrible!
Tarragon was right: The old concrete tower blocks had tiny balconies and had been built to cram in as many humans as possible. The only garden was a small strip of grass at the front, which was always covered in litter. Only sad dogs, stuck in the Towers with their humans, used it—and they used it as a toilet.
Despite its ugly look, however, every Northender knew that behind the Towers was a great prize: huge trash cans overflowing with food, thrown away by the wasteful humans. When the trash cans were full, there were also plastic sacks to forage through, piled high. It was a place of plenty amid the barren concrete, and if you kept a wary eye out for foxes, it was like squirrel snacking heaven.
But today there was no sign of the foraging party. The six soldiers should have returned by now, so where were they?
There was a busy road between the trees and the Towers, and the foul fumes of the humans’ metal boxes drifted up into the Mid-levels. The squirrels went as far out onto an overhanging branch as they dared, and Tarragon spotted a little gray shape far below, limping toward the road.
“Uncle, look!”
The squirrel was going as fast as he could and leapt out into the traffic, dodging awkwardly between the cars. For a moment it looked like he might make it—then a car came straight at him.
“Oh, no!”
Tarragon didn’t want to look. Most humans would run straight over a squirrel, either because they didn’t see them or because they didn’t care. But this Northender was lucky. The human driving her young to school spotted him just in time, and with a squeal of brakes she swerved.
“Ooh-ooh, goody, he got to the trees!” Tarragon clapped in delight.
Tooth and claw! thought the Major. The silly child thinks it’s all a game! He spiraled quickly down the tree. Something was wrong. Where were the rest of his troops?
Something was wrong, and Tarragon let out a gasp of surprise when they were close enough to see the soldier. Blood was dripping down his haunches. No wonder he was limping—he had been badly bitten.
“Report, Corporal!” ordered the Major.
“Sir!” The male staggered, trying to salute.
Tarragon was horrified. “Uncle, he’s hurt—can’t we get help?”
“Don’t interfere, girl, I need to know what happened.”
“Rats,” gasped the injured corporal. “Swarms of them. Th-they ambushed us.”
“What! You didn’t smell them?”
“N-no, sir! They were … in the bins.” He shuddered. “They waited until we were close to the food and poured out of the bins. No noise—they made no noise but kept on coming, more and more. W-we fought and—they just kept coming!”
“Pull yourself together, Corporal! Where is the rest of the troop?”
The soldier looked wretched. “They’re all gone—th-they didn’t stand a chance!”
“So how did you manage to escape?” asked the Major coldly.
The young corporal could hardly look him in the face. “They captured me, sir.”
“What!”
“Their Rat Lord wanted me t-to deliver a m-message, sir,” whispered the miserable squirrel. “I didn’t want to!”
Bud and branch, thought Tarragon, this is horrible. I’ve never seen Uncle look so angry. Surely it’s not the corporal’s fault?
“Well, what is this message?” he growled.
“The Rat Lord proclaims all of the Towers his territory now. B-but if the Northenders wanted to send him m-more squirrel meat … he … he’d be happy to have it.”
Tarragon grabbed the Major’s arm as he went to strike the corporal. “Uncle, he’s injured—it’s not his fault!”
“Fault! I will Cast you Down, you miserable coward!”
“I didn’t want to do it, sir! I begged them not to send me back. The Rat Lord just laughed at me. I know—I know I have dishonored you … Cast me Down now!”
“No!” cried Tarragon, leaping between them. “This is silly! Five soldiers are dead—why lose another?”
“Because he surrendered!”
“But if he hadn’t brought the message back, you would have sent more soldiers to the Towers,” reasoned Tarragon. “Then they’d have been attacked too.”
The Major stopped; amazingly, the female had a point. “Very well. But hear this, Corporal. You have been spared only by Mistress Tarragon’s intervention—for now.”
The injured corporal nodded dumbly and the Major swept Tarragon away.
Back in the home-tree, Tarragon found she was shaking. Her drey companion scurried up, eager for news. But Tarragon realized she didn’t want to talk about it. She’d wanted excitement, but it had been horrible—and squirrels from her Family had died. It hadn’t been the corporal’s fault, but he had wanted to die too, because of some silly invisible thing called “honor.” It was all too complicated and confusing, so she crept into her moss-bed and slept.
She felt better when she woke. It had been exciting really, hadn’t it? She had just decided to tell the story after all, when word came that she had a visitor.
“You won’t want to see her, mistress,” said her companion. “She is something of a scrub. A shoddy creature, from a coarse branch of the Family. I don’t think the Major would like you to—”
“Don’t be silly. I never get any visitors. Send her in!”
The gray squirrel who shuffled nervously into the drey was skinny and very old. But that’s no reason to call her a scrub, thought Tarragon. And she looks terrified.
The old female made a stiff bob and held out a parcel of leaves in her shaking paws.
“For me?” Tarragon opened the parcel. Inside were a few dried and wrinkled berries, and Tarragon could hear her companion snickering behind her. She ignored her and made a polite tail gesture of thanks.
“What can I do for you, Grandmother?”
“Oh, no, mistress, this is a gift of thanks—from the corporal’s wife. We are all so grateful for what you did. It was
very brave.”
“Ooh-ooh, how nice!”
“Oh, my! You sound just like your dear departed mother—” The old squirrel stopped, suddenly flustered.
“Thank you,” Tarragon said softly. “I don’t really remember her, or my father. But the Major said they were both very brave.”
The old squirrel gave her a very strange look. “May you store and survive, mistress,” she stuttered, as the companion bustled her out of the drey.
She’s frightened, thought Tarragon. What does she have to be frightened about?
Finlay wagged his tail in thanks as his human let him out of the house. Tail-wagging was an easy way to reward humans and Finlay liked to encourage George—he was a good human, and they had been working together in the Force for many years. But when the old detective had had to retire, so had Finlay.
It’s ridiculous, thought the German shepherd. I’m only twelve years old. In my prime! I should get another partner. But he had stuck by George—you couldn’t just abandon humans, not when you’d had them all your life.
George didn’t seem to like retirement much either, and he spent all his time slumped in front of the TV watching the Serious Crime Channel. Fortunately, the human understood that Finlay wanted to carry on patrolling, and let him out every evening. “Scratch at the door when you want to come in!” called George, as Finlay trotted down the garden path. He always said that—Finlay had him very well trained.
The German shepherd padded along Park Road with the familiar feel of paving stones beneath his huge paws. “Chill in the air,” sniffed the old dog. “Definite smell of autumn.”
The distant roar of traffic and trains running into the city never stopped. But Finlay’s ears were pricked for other noises—a dog in distress, or a fight to break up. Cats were wailing and calling in the backyards and alleys, but Finlay ignored them—the local top tom would deal with any trouble in his territory, and the dog wasn’t going to interfere in cat business.
But he would stop a silly young pup from chasing a cat. At best, the thrill of pursuit could get a dog lost. At worst, if a cat turned to fight, razor-sharp claws dragged deep down the nose were not nice.
All seemed peaceful as dusk settled and the streetlights started to come on. I wonder if Eric’s in, Finlay thought, and he turned down Manor Road and went to the back of number 47. The gate wasn’t locked—it didn’t need to be, as no sane human would break in with Eric in the yard.
The demonic-looking Staffordshire bull terrier was actually a very softhearted animal. But he had a bad-boy reputation to keep up for his human, Roadkill, who was always getting into fights. No one would dare touch the pierced and tattooed biker with Eric by his side, and the dog could repel trouble with a snarl. He also didn’t mind acting like a deranged maniac for the human, though he did object to Roadkill calling him “Satan”—it was just wrong.
Finlay raised the latch of the gate and went into Eric’s yard. The Staffy had already smelled his friend coming and was wagging his stumpy tail in greeting.
“Evening, Eric, want to come—”
Finlay stopped in surprise. Eric was wearing a brand-new leather harness that was covered in shiny studs and spikes; the legend “Satan” was engraved on the breastplate.
“I see Roadkill’s got you a—”
“Don’t wanna talk about it, Fin,” muttered the Staffy unhappily.
“That’s, um, quite understandable,” said Finlay, trying to keep a straight face. “I just wondered if you fancied coming on patrol with me?”
“Yeah,” sighed Eric. “I need to get out.”
They trotted up the road side by side. Although the Staffy only came up to the old German shepherd’s shoulders, every bit of him was solid muscle. Eric was the best backup any dog could have, but teaching him policing wasn’t easy.
“Biting first and asking questions later is not the way we do it in the Force!” It was very hard to get Eric to remember this.
But he was useful. Eric had fearlessly driven the hawk away from the lucky little squirrel that day in the Park. He was fast too; nothing on four legs could outrun Eric.
“We goin’ to the Albion?” asked the Staffy.
“Yes, but I thought we’d just stop by the shops and see how Millie the Mutt is getting on. Her human’s not well.”
“A dog shouldn’t ’ave an ’omeless ’uman,” sniffed Eric. “It’s not right, just ’avin a sleeping bag in a shop doorway.”
“Eric, you’re being judgmental!”
“Me? Nah! I blooming hate judges; Roadkill says they should all be put down.”
I bet he does, thought Finlay.
As they rounded the corner of Main Street, a piercing shriek came from the alley of Mr. Tang’s Magic Kitchen. A massive crash and clatter of rolling garbage bin lids was followed by manic yapping. The dogs leapt into action as out of the alley shot a small red-brown shape.
“Follow that fox!” ordered Finlay.
Eric didn’t need to be told twice, and he took off like a bullet.
From the terrible noise, Finlay expected a pack of dogs to come dashing out of the alley, but there was only one: Jock, the West Highland terrier.
“Outta ma way!” yapped Jock, trying to get past Finlay. “I’m gonna lose her!”
“Too late, Jock, she’s gone, and you’ve no right harassing innocent animals.”
“Innocent? That wee cur is a filthy thief! You should be after her yerself!”
“Okay, Jock, I will, but you go home now. You’ll get into trouble messing with foxes.”
“I’m no’ afraid of foxes!” declared the little dog, but he turned tail and trotted off.
Finlay followed Eric as fast as he could. There was only one direction they could be headed in, and that was to the Park. The Albion gates were at the crossroads, and Finlay thought the fox had probably gone to ground by now. But to his surprise, when he reached the Albion, he found that Eric had apprehended the runaway. The little fox was cowering by the metal gates with the Staffy towering over her.
“I’ve not bitten her, Fin,” said Eric proudly. “I thought you’d want to ask questions first.”
“Good work, Eric. Now, miss, what d’you think you’re playing at?”
The vixen looked fiercely up at him and did her best to snarl; it came out as a squeak.
Blood and bone! She’s just a cub, thought Finlay. She shouldn’t be out of her home-den at night. “What’s your name, young lady?”
“What’s it to you?” snapped the cub, not so scared now.
“Does your mother know you’re out?”
“Does yours?” said the fox cub, getting cocky. She’d been frightened of the black dog dressed in spikes and leather, but this big one seemed like a soft touch.
“Right, that’s it,” said Finlay, losing patience. “We’re taking you home.”
“No! No, it’s okay, I can go home on my own.” The fox looked genuinely worried now.
Ah, thought Finlay, she’ll be in trouble with her mother if we take her back. “And where is home, Miss … ?”
“Amber,” said the cub. “I’m Amber. It’s just down the road. I’ll be okay—honest.”
“Well, Miss Amber, we’re not going to stop you, but I’d leave the garbage in the main street alone if I were you, and keep close to your home-den. Are you listening to me?”
Amber’s eyes snapped back to the dog. “Oh, yeah, yeah,” she lied. “What is this place?” She gestured to the Park.
“This, Miss Amber, is a dangerous place that a fox cub should keep well away from,” said Finlay sternly.
“I can smell some great stuff!”
“Squirrel,” said Eric. “Well ’ard to catch.”
“Eric! We’re friends to the squirrels—we do not hunt them.” Finlay looked at the fox cub. “Amber, we saved you from that dog at the bins. He’s not fussy about who he bites, so I want you to promise to keep out of trouble, and that means keeping well away from the Park—and no hunting squirrels!”
“
Yeah, yeah, okay,” muttered Amber. She was lying. All foxes lied—they couldn’t help it.
Lucky spring-boarded from the tip of a thin branch and flew through the air with his tail flicking and whirring like a propeller.
“Wheeee!”
He landed nimbly on the next branch tip, which bent with his weight, then sprang up, catapulting him outward again. I’m flying! “Mazie, look, I’m flying!”
She watched him leaping nimbly from branch to branch, and hid a smile. He nearly beat me to the home-tree this time, she thought. I must let First Daughter know.
They arrived together, with Lucky out of breath but triumphant. “Did you see that? Bet you can’t do that!”
“Don’t get cocksure, Lucky squirrel,” she said sternly. “Pride goes before a Falling.” But secretly she was proud too.
“First Daughter!” called Lucky as they went into the drey. “I got back without touching the tree trunks! Not even once!”
“Well done, my son, I’m very pleased.”
She doesn’t look very pleased, thought Mazie. Have I done something wrong?
“I have something to tell you both,” said First Daughter. “I met with the Trial Instructor today and it is agreed. Lucky will join the Cadet Troop at the next full moon.”
So soon! Lucky could hardly contain his excitement. “That’s great! Isn’t that great, Mazie?”
She nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course it is. Congratulations.”
Lucky couldn’t understand why neither of them looked very happy. But there wasn’t much time before the new troop started training, and although Mazie had watched with satisfaction as Lucky became stronger and faster in the trees, she knew that it wasn’t enough. And it was too late now.
So in their last remaining days together she taught him the diving skills that her mother had taught her—the diving skills so useful for a quick escape. Mazie had a bad feeling that Lucky might need them …
First Daughter also briefed him carefully just before he left on how to behave like a Cloudfoot.
“Always obey the Trial Instructor and never make a fuss or complain,” she advised. “Watch what the others do and try your best to be like them, but if you can’t, find a way that works for you.”
