Lucky

by Chris Hill

  Lucky nodded solemnly, though this was the third time she’d told him this.

  “Remember to judge the terrain,” First Daughter continued. “The first and most obvious move might not be the best. Think, Lucky. Use your head—”

  “And be careful!” interrupted Mazie. First Daughter’s whiskers stiffened in disapproval and the young squirrel hurriedly shut up.

  Lucky nodded again and stuck his head out of the drey. Then, with a deep breath, he launched himself down the home-tree to the training branches below.

  The two females watched him go. “Good-speed, Lucky,” whispered Mazie.

  “Good-speed indeed,” said First Daughter. “And now, Miss Trimble, I shall not need your services as tutor anymore.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” said Mazie miserably. “Lucky won’t have time to forage now.”

  “Neither will you, Miss Trimble,” said First Daughter briskly. “I want you to move into my home-tree immediately. It’s time you were promoted.”

  Lucky hurried down the trunk. He mustn’t be late. This was the big day! I’ll show them, he thought determinedly. If I’m stuck in these trees, then I’ll show them I can be as good as any Cloudfoot!

  But he was a little bit worried. Mazie had never let him meet any of the other young squirrels. What would they be like?

  He landed lightly on a branch near another group of males and was immediately surrounded. They all pushed and shoved to get a closer look.

  “It’s the lucky squirrel!”

  “Wow! Your ears really are weird!”

  “We’ve heard all about you!”

  They chattered around him, fascinated, friendly, and full of questions. Lucky tried his best to answer, overwhelmed by the attention.

  Yes, he’d always been this color. No, he hadn’t had an accident; of course they were his real ears! Yes, he knew he was smaller than them—but he was still growing!

  Only one squirrel held back, and Lucky recognized him—the big sullen male he’d seen with Second Daughter. “He’s not going to grow,” sneered the squirrel. “He’s just a runt.”

  “Shut up, Nimlet,” said one of the males.

  “Yes, shut it,” said another. “Take no notice of him, Lucky.”

  “No one likes him.”

  “Not even his mother likes him!” declared the first squirrel. The Cloudfoot males rolled around laughing at this display of wit.

  “I’m sure she does,” said Lucky, feeling a bit sorry for Nimlet now.

  “Don’t even talk about my mother!” threatened Nimlet. “Or I’ll—”

  “Troop!” A stern voice cut through the air. “I expect silence and attention from my cadets and I shall have both—now!”

  The chatter stopped dead and Lucky saw a grizzled sharp-faced male moving slowly toward them. Surely this small scraggy squirrel wasn’t the Trial Instructor? First Daughter had told him that the Instructor was a great warrior. That must have been a long time ago, he thought. This squirrel’s really old.

  “Now,” said the Trial Instructor, glaring at them and plainly not liking what he saw. “You are all here because you want to join the Watch and Patrol.”

  The squirrels all nodded obediently.

  “But what you want, gentlemen,” he continued drily, “does not come without commitment and hard work. There will be training, there will be trials, and no Cloudfoot joins the Watch and Patrol unless he can pass the Final Run. And if he does not pass … ?” He left the question hanging in the air.

  “He will be Cast Down!” chorused all the males except Lucky. What did the old squirrel mean?

  “Correct,” continued the Instructor. “Cast Down to the Ground-level and banished from the Cloudfoot trees—forever!”

  Lucky suddenly realized why First Daughter and Mazie had been so unhappy. Cadet Troop was a one-way branch, and they were worried that he’d fail the Final Run. I’m not going to fail, he thought. I’m going to make them proud.

  “We have a fine tradition to uphold, gentlemen,” continued the Trial Instructor. “My great-great-great-grandfather started the Watch and Patrol …”

  “I bet he looked like a rat too!” whispered the witty squirrel.

  “Cadet!” snapped the old male—clearly there was nothing wrong with his hearing. Several squirrels moved fractionally away from the unfortunate youngster. “Cadet, do you think you could defend our Avenue like our brave forefathers did at the Battle of the New Dawn?”

  The squirrel trembled; he was not so witty now. “Y-yes, sir!”

  “Really? Well, sadly we do not have a horde of attacking Northenders in the trees.” The other males realized this was supposed to be a joke and tittered nervously. “So we shall just have to see if you can get past me.” The Instructor beckoned the horrified squirrel over to his branch.

  “I—I don’t want to hurt you, sir!” The young cadet was a sleek, strong male who towered over the Instructor.

  “Indeed,” said the old male in his dry voice. “But all you need to do is get past me to the trunk.” He beckoned the very worried-looking youngster forward again and crouched slowly down on his haunches.

  There was a blur of flying fur as the young squirrel lunged forward and was flipped, tackled, and tossed in the air by the old male. Grabbing his tail, the Instructor whirled him around his head and slammed him down on the branch with a thud!

  How did he do that? The young male lay spread-eagled and groaning.

  “That,” announced the Trial Instructor crisply, “was a demonstration of the tail-throw. A useful move against a larger and less intelligent opponent.” He bent down to pull the stunned youngster to his feet. “Call me a ‘rat’ again, Cadet,” he said calmly, “and your mother will wish you’d never left the drey.”

  “Yes, sir,” mumbled the humiliated male.

  “Now, let’s see if any of the rest of you rabble are Cloudfoot material …”

  “So, gentlemen,” the Trial Instructor began, “the first exercise is a simple little game.”

  I don’t believe it, thought Lucky. There’s going to be a catch in here somewhere. The other squirrels looked worried too.

  “You may know the game as ‘tag.’ While playing it, you will familiarize yourselves with the Mid-level runs.”

  All the squirrels brightened up—this was going to be fun!

  “The exercise is designed to build up your strength, speed, and stamina,” the Trial Instructor continued. “So you will chase and tag your partner, then return to me at base to repeat the operation. You will play until sunset, gentlemen, and I shall be watching.”

  The squirrels groaned. Nonstop tag? All day? This wasn’t going to be fun at all …

  The Instructor started to pair off the cadets. At the last group of squirrels his eyes narrowed when he saw Lucky and Nimlet.

  Tooth and claw! The strange red squirrel was clearly a weakling, and Nimlet was known to be shortsighted and clumsy. He could show no favoritism here, even if they were the sons of First and Second Daughter. But he might need to give them some extra help outside class or they’d both fail.

  “Mr. Nimlet, Mr. Lucky, you will be tag mates.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Are you presuming to argue with me, Mr. Nimlet?”

  Nimlet bristled with rage, his tail flicking furiously. You didn’t question the Trial Instructor, but why pair him with this loser? “No, sir!”

  “Then get moving, Cadet.”

  Yes, thought Nimlet, gritting his teeth. I’ll move all right. That spiky-eared scrub won’t stand a chance against me!

  Each squirrel that was “it” was given a horse chestnut. The nut casing was covered in tiny hooked burrs that attached easily to body- or tail-fur. His tag mate was given a few minutes’ start, and then the chase was on. They had to tag their partners by attaching the horse chestnut and then get back to base before they were tagged back.

  The Trial Instructor handed out the chestnuts and Nimlet shoved theirs into Lucky’s paws.

  “You’re
it,” he said bluntly and crashed through the tree growth, disappearing from view before the starting signal.

  Lucky looked around, completely confused. I mustn’t start before the others, he thought, remembering First Daughter’s advice. He held the chestnut firmly between his teeth and, at the Instructor’s signal, took off after Nimlet.

  Loser! thought Nimlet as he furiously blundered through the branches. He’ll never catch me. Strength and stamina? Huh! I’m stronger than him any day. He hurled himself from tree to tree, recklessly careering up the Avenue.

  Then he had an idea. I can outrun him and outleap him! I’ll go up to the Canopy, and he won’t even know where to look! So he headed to the higher levels, where the branches thinned out and the distance between the trees became wider and more difficult to cross.

  The sound of laughter and the chase of the other tag partners drifted away as Nimlet climbed. “Mustn’t get too high,” he panted. “Dangers in the Canopy.” He stopped and squinted at the sky. He might be shortsighted but he wasn’t stupid, so he checked the airways. No sign of birds—he was safe. He traveled farther up, leaping vertically from one branch to another. He’d like to see that useless weakling climb like this!

  The sunlight was blinding as Nimlet reached the top of the trees and the open expanse of sky. He stopped to see if Lucky was following. Good! No sign of the loser! Now all he needed to do was jump onto the topmost branches of the next tree and work his way quietly down to the Mid-levels. Lucky would never find him. Just a little bit farther should do it … and Nimlet leapt.

  Lucky was halfway up the trunk, following Nimlet’s clumsy trail of bent and broken twigs. I’ll never catch him, he thought, but at least he’s easy to track. He stopped to catch his breath.

  A high-pitched scream suddenly cut through the air. Lucky’s head snapped up to see a squirrel crashing down from the next tree. It was Nimlet, falling, twisting and turning with his limbs flailing desperately as he tried to grab on to a branch. Any branch!

  Lucky catapulted through the air to the next tree and hit the branch tip as Nimlet tumbled past him. The branch bowed and Lucky made a wild grab for the squirrel. He lurched downward and managed to grasp his tail, just in time. He hung on to the creaking branch as they swung wildly back and forth. Tooth and claw! I’m going to drop him, thought Lucky. He’s too heavy!

  Nimlet came to his senses and climbed over Lucky onto the branch. They slowly crawled back to the safety of the tree trunk and Nimlet turned to discover the horse chestnut firmly attached to his fur.

  “You’re it!” said Lucky smugly.

  Nimlet was speechless. He looked at the chestnut, and he looked at Lucky. Then he looked at the chestnut again. He looked down through the branches to the ground far below and shuddered. The runt had saved his life!

  “Th … that was … that was … completely awesome!” he finally spluttered.

  “You’re still it,” said Lucky doggedly.

  “Yeah, and I’m still alive!” said Nimlet, grinning. He slapped Lucky on the back, sending the squirrel staggering. “Want to play some more?”

  They finished the run side by side, giggling and passing the horse chestnut back and forth in a furious game of catch and run. They tumbled down toward the Mid-levels, somersaulting and leapfrogging over each other. Laughing hysterically, they landed at the starting branch, happily trading insults.

  The Trial Instructor was furious that they weren’t taking the exercise seriously and failed them both. But who cared?

  Lucky had a real friend.

  Nimlet had a real friend.

  What did anything else matter?

  The Honorable Mistress Tarragon Fleet stamped her foot. “I will go out!”

  “Mistress, I really don’t think you should—”

  “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do!” She stamped her foot again.

  “But, mistress, the Major said—”

  “I don’t care,” said Tarragon stubbornly. “I’m going out! You don’t have to come with me.”

  “But I’m your companion, mistress!”

  “Ooh-ooh, you’re so annoying!” Her long-suffering companion looked stricken, and Tarragon felt a twinge of guilt. “Oh, all right,” she said, flicking her tail prettily, “you can go and ask the Major for permission to leave the drey.”

  The female let out a sigh of relief. The Major would be furious if Tarragon was left to discover the Northend on her own. Who knew what she might learn?

  “You will wait here for me, mistress?” she asked.

  “Of course,” said Tarragon, smiling her sweetest smile. “I’m not going out on my own, am I?” But as the flustered companion left the drey, this was exactly what Tarragon was planning to do.

  Going out was so … nice! Ever since she’d heroically rescued the corporal, the common squirrels waved and clapped whenever she passed. They liked her! They called out her name, and shoved their young forward to see the Honorable Mistress. Tarragon was delighted and waved back enthusiastically. They did seem to go quiet when the Major glared at them, but of course, he was there to protect her.

  She stuck her nose out of the drey to make sure her companion had really gone, then arched gracefully out onto the home-tree branches. It was nearly dusk, but there’d still be a few folk around. She’d go and talk to them.

  Or she’d go to the Albion and spot some enemy Cloudfoots. Ooh-ooh, that would be exciting! Hadn’t her uncle said something about planning a raid with the Coppice Family? He might even be gathering the Northend troops for action. That would be a marvelous sight to see! Whiskers quivering in anticipation, the Honorable Mistress Tarragon Fleet went out to explore.

  Amber the fox cub never stamped her foot, or asked permission to leave the den. She just went out, whatever her mother said.

  Headstrong, the old vixen thought. Never had a cub this reckless. Trouble, that’s what she is.

  But Amber didn’t want to get into trouble; she just wanted to have her own way. Somehow, trouble tracked her down.

  As Tarragon was leaving her drey in the Northend, Amber was emerging from her city den into the dusk. A pale crescent moon was rising above the distant tower blocks and human and other animal sounds mingled with the distant roar of the traffic. Amber could taste wood smoke in the air and the tantalizing smells of scurrying small night prey. Good hunting! she thought. But first, a snack at one of the bins.

  She realized that Mr. Tang’s Magic Kitchen attracted too much competition. There was the nasty little white dog, and sometimes bigger stray dogs, really desperate for food. Cats she could deal with, but then there were also the rats, and she’d rather not deal with them—too many teeth in a rat pack, and far too nasty.

  No, Mr. Tang’s Magic Kitchen was too much trouble—and she’d found a much easier source of food in the backyard trash cans along Park Road. She’d also found bowls of food, put out by the humans for their cats.

  Amber was a clever thief and could smell a cat coming from streets away. She also knew that if you held your nerve in a cat face-off they’d back down. They could hiss and puff up their fur all they liked, but she still stole their food.

  She stealthily trotted down the road and slipped under the gate to the first backyard. It was empty and the garbage bin lids were firmly closed. I’ll try farther up, she thought, and leapt over the wall.

  Spud the mongrel was asleep in his kennel, snoring loudly. He was dreaming of cats and it was a good dream. He chomped his massive jaws on imaginary tails, and cries for mercy went unheeded. Then a whiff of rank fox hit his nose, and he slowly opened an eye.

  Amber knew there was a dog in the little wooden den. But there was also a big juicy bone on the lawn, and she was sure the dog was asleep.

  She was wrong! Spud exploded out of the kennel in a rage. “Mine! Mine!” he slavered madly. Amber turned tail and ran frantically for the backyard wall, when a rattle of a chain and a snap made her turn. The dog was straining pop-eyed against a leash, his teeth gnashing and foam flying fr
om his jaws. “Mine! Mine! My bone!”

  “Nah-ha! Can’t catch me!” taunted Amber, and she leapt nimbly over the wall. That had been close!

  She ran swiftly through the next yards and suddenly realized she was nearly at the Albion. She’d promised the old police dog not to go back there. Huh! She headed for the Park …

  Tarragon had been right—there were a few Northend squirrels in the trees, but they were hurrying home as night drew in. Never mind, she thought, I will go to the Albion. I’ll go and spy on the Cloudfoots! I don’t care what Uncle says.

  She headed for the Park …

  Back in the Northend drey, the Major loomed over the cowering form of Tarragon’s companion. “You were ordered never to leave her alone,” he growled.

  “M-Mistress Tarragon promised to stay here, sir—”

  Thwack! She was slammed against the drey wall, where she reeled from the Major’s blow.

  “Get out,” he spat. “I’ll deal with you later.”

  The hurt and terrified squirrel ran crying from the drey.

  The Major paced up and down furiously. Tooth and claw! I don’t need this distraction, he thought. Gone to the Albion, I know it in my bones. If she alerts the Cloudfoots to my raid, I’ll skin her alive! The Coppice Family have only just agreed to join me. Any excuse and they’ll turn tail. I have to find her—and quickly.

  The Albion gates were well lit by streetlights, but the huge chestnut trees at the start of Cloudfoot Avenue were deep in shadow. Tarragon strained to see any squirrels in the dark branches. Nothing! How disappointing.

  Her eye was caught by a shape swiftly moving across the gates. Ooh-ooh, what’s that? She spiraled down the tree trunk to get a better view. Was it a dog? No, it didn’t look like a dog—she knew what dogs looked like. What a lovely bushy tail it had!

  Amber spotted the small gray shape coming down the tree and smiled slyly. Good hunting! But how to get to the prey?