Lucky

by Chris Hill

  Tarragon stopped on the lowest branches and waved. “Hello! You’re not a dog, are you?”

  Amber couldn’t believe her luck. How stupid could a squirrel be? “Hiya,” she said brightly, grinning upward. “Can’t see you up there, come a bit closer.”

  Tarragon scurried farther down the trunk. Not close enough, thought Amber. “You don’t look like a dog,” the squirrel said.

  “Come down and you’ll see better,” Amber called. The foolish squirrel moved closer, still just out of reach. “I’m just like a dog. I’m a … friend of the squirrels. A friend … like Mr. Finlay.”

  As Tarragon came farther down, Amber’s mouth began watering. Now the prey was in reach!

  “Ooh-ooh, how exciting!” Even Tarragon had heard of the famous police dog. “Do you know Mr. Finlay? I’d love to meet him!”

  “Yes, Northender, she knows Mr. Finlay,” said the old dog, stepping out of the shadows. Tarragon’s mouth fell open. He was huge!

  “What are you doing here?” snapped Amber.

  “Waiting for you, young lady. I knew you’d be back. And what did I tell you about hunting squirrels?”

  “Wasn’t going to hurt it,” lied Amber.

  “Oh, just wanted to be friends, did we?”

  “Yeah! That’s it! Honest!”

  Finlay sighed. “Amber, if I ever find you hunting squirrel again you’re going to regret it.”

  “Oh, yeah? You going to make me regret it?” she said cockily.

  “No, not me—but I might let Eric bite first and ask questions later.” Amber looked worried—she didn’t want to cross the Staffy. “So go home this instant!” barked Finlay crossly, and she trotted sullenly away. “Now, miss,” he said, turning to Tarragon, “there are a few things you need to know about foxes.”

  At that moment the Major came bounding down the tree toward them. “Tarragon! I’ve been worried sick. My thanks, Finlay, you’ve found her safe. The Northend is in your debt. Come, niece, we must go home at once.” He started to drag her back up the tree.

  “But, Uncle, I want to know about the foxes! And I want to talk to Mr. Finlay …”

  “Come now”—he smiled through gritted teeth—“before I lose my temper.”

  He bustled Tarragon through the branches in a silent rage and shoved her into the drey, where an unfamiliar, stern-faced female was waiting for them.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Juniper. Your new companion,” snapped the Major.

  “But I don’t need a new companion,” wailed Tarragon. “I’ve already got a companion!”

  “Not anymore,” said the Major grimly.

  Nimlet squinted across the wide windswept void to the next Cloudfoot tree and shook his head. “You’ll never make it.”

  “Want to bet?” challenged Lucky.

  “It’s too far. No one uses this route—there’s a better path on the lower levels.”

  “Watch me, I’ve done this before!” declared Lucky, and he started to claw up the tree bark.

  “Hey! You said you could jump it from this branch!”

  “Just watch me, Nim!” shouted Lucky from above. “And keep back by the trunk!” He looked down at the thin branch below and then across to the tree. This was a long leap, longer than he’d ever done with Mazie. He’d boasted he could do it. Now … he wasn’t so sure. Good-speed, he thought, that’s all I need …

  Bud and branch! thought Nimlet, as Lucky dove from the branch above and sped down toward him. He’s nuts!

  Lucky hit the target, bowing down the branch, then shot up with a twang and launched into the air. Nimlet held his breath as Lucky sailed through the air and landed on the faraway tree. He spun around dramatically and waved to Nimlet in triumph.

  Spiky-eared show-off, thought Nimlet. If he can do it, so can I! He started to climb. I see how it’s done. Drop, bounce, push off—easy!

  Lucky was waving frantically at him now. Yeah, go on—wave, thought Nimlet peevishly. I’m coming to your branch sooner than you think! He took a deep breath and plunged down the tree.

  Lucky stopped waving; it was too late to stop his friend now. He watched in horror as the big squirrel dropped like a stone toward a branch that was far too thin. “No! Not that branch—it’s going to—”

  Break. The branch bent flat against the trunk with a thwack, and the wood split at the spar. Nimlet splattered facedown onto the bark, his limbs splayed and tail drooping. Lucky hurried back across to the stunned and angry squirrel.

  “Go on,” said Nimlet, crossly spitting out pieces of bark. “You know you want to.”

  “What?” asked Lucky innocently.

  “Say ‘I told you so’!”

  “No, I wasn’t going to say that!”

  “What did I do wrong?” asked Nimlet, pulling himself stiffly off the trunk.

  “Oh, you were fine—it was the branch that was, er … too thin.”

  “You mean I’m too fat,” growled Nimlet.

  “No—you’re getting fitter,” said Lucky quickly. “You’re getting muscles. Muscles are heavy.”

  “Thicker branch?”

  Lucky nodded. “A thicker, stronger branch.”

  They scurried down the tree, searching, until Lucky found a likely spot below them.

  He pointed down. “That one looks okay.”

  “It had better be okay,” muttered Nimlet. He gathered his strength and dove down the tree again. This time the branch catapulted him like a missile over the ground far below. He landed on the target tree with a thud and stood on his hind legs punching the air in delight. Yes!

  Can’t stop him now, thought Lucky, and he was right. Nimlet wanted another turn at once. Soon they were scuttling up and down the trees, finding target branches and leaping across the void, whooping wildly. Until—

  “Cadets!” Lucky and Nimlet stopped in horror. Ratter!

  Of course they didn’t call him Ratter to his face. But after the “call me a ‘rat’ ” episode, all a cadet had to do was mouth “rat” and the troop cracked up. The Instructor was both feared and admired—he had to have a nickname.

  “Mr. Lucky, Mr. Nimlet, you are supposed to be conducting Patrolling Exercises.”

  Lucky and Nimlet hung their heads guiltily. They should have been at a Watch Point ages ago.

  “This is not the Patrol Route, is it, gentlemen?” The squirrels shook their heads in shame. “This is not a game. Patrolling must be taken seriously. You are not supposed to be larking about in the trees!”

  Nimlet snorted. Larking?

  “But we are taking it seriously, sir!” said Lucky quickly. “We’ve found some really good new routes!”

  “New routes?” spat Ratter in disgust. “There are no ‘new routes.’ The Patrol is a fixed path, every spar, every branch, every Watch Point! Timing, gentlemen! A correctly performing Patrol Group has the whole Avenue under constant observation.”

  The squirrels shuffled uncomfortably, their eyes cast down.

  “Call yourselves Cloudfoots?” snapped Ratter, losing patience. “Return to base immediately.”

  They followed him obediently back through the trees. “Call me a rat,” mouthed Nimlet, and Lucky had a fit of coughing.

  As they neared base, the Trial Instructor stiffened, then started to hurry his pace. There was something wrong; there was too much activity in the branches. The chattering news came to them quickly. A raid—a Northend raid!

  “Stay here,” ordered Ratter, and he leapt off toward the Albion.

  “We staying?” asked Nimlet.

  “No chance!” said Lucky.

  Keeping low, they followed behind, but were soon lost in the large crowd that had gathered at the Albion.

  “No Northenders!” complained Nimlet. “We’ve missed it.”

  Lucky said nothing; he could see the evidence of the raid. Groups of females were gathered around a couple of wounded males, and on the ground below the chestnut tree was a flurry of crows fighting over a … He shuddered. He didn’t want to look.


  The crowd let out a cheer as a Cloudfoot Patrol emerged from the Northend trees. “They must have driven the raiders back,” declared Nimlet. “It’s not fair—we missed it.”

  Heading the troops was the finest squirrel Lucky had ever seen. “Is that the Patrol Leader?”

  “Yes,” said Nimlet reverently. “Isn’t he great?”

  Lucky nodded dumbly as the battered warrior went straight to comfort the fallen squirrel’s mother. He then stopped to check on every wounded soldier, ignoring the cheering crowds. Finally, amid stamping feet and clapping paws, he went to receive thanks from Great Ma Cloudfoot.

  Lucky had never seen her before, but he knew it was the Ma—she radiated authority from nose to tail-tip. Gesturing regally for silence, she addressed the crowd.

  “Cloudfoots! Today we give thanks, once again, for the bravery and dedication of our Watch and Patrol. Sacrifices have been made, but the enemy has been repulsed and our Avenue is safe again. Victory is ours!”

  The cheering crowds went wild as the Ma gathered together her Daughter Generals and left the trees.

  “So, gentlemen,” said a dry voice by their side. “Perhaps now you will take your training for the Watch and Patrol seriously.”

  Lucky and Nimlet nodded solemnly to the Trial Instructor.

  This wasn’t a game—this was war.

  Lucky arrived at First Daughter’s drey at dusk, hardly able to drag himself along the branches. He’d been on Patrolling Exercises since dawn with Nimlet and he was exhausted. It’s okay for Nimlet, thought Lucky. Now he’s fit, he never gets tired.

  He heard voices in the drey and stopped—that sounded like the Ma! He knew it was wrong, but he crept up to the entrance to listen.

  “This is a very worrying development, Patrol Leader.”

  Lucky got closer—the Patrol Leader was in there?

  “Yes, ma’am, it wasn’t the usual rabble. They were organized. The Watch Squirrel on the first chestnut didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Did they take much?” This was First Daughter’s voice.

  “Yes, ma’am—several batches of food. It’s the biggest raiding party I’ve ever encountered.” He paused, as if uncertain whether to say more. “I—I fear there was more than one Family.”

  “That’s impossible,” snapped the Ma. “Northenders never work together!”

  Lucky jumped guiltily as someone pulled at his tail. “Lucky,” whispered Mazie angrily. “What d’you think you’re doing? Come away at once.”

  “The Patrol Leader’s in there.”

  “Yes, and so is the Ma! It’s no business of yours, Lucky—leave it to the Ma and the Daughter Generals.”

  “But the Patrol Leader said—”

  “Forget what he said,” she snapped. “You’re just a cadet—you’ll follow orders like every other male!”

  They crept away from the drey and Mazie got a proper look at Lucky. Tooth and claw, she thought, he looks worn out. “Are you okay?”

  “I can’t keep up,” said Lucky miserably. “It’s fine at first, but then I get so tired. I want to keep up! Nimlet says we could join the Patrol Leader’s troop when we’ve finished the Trials, and I really want to do that.”

  Mazie couldn’t say what she was thinking: She wasn’t sure Lucky would even make the Final Run at this rate. “Is Nimlet helping you?” she asked instead.

  “Oh, yes—but he’s not great either. He’s really strong now, you know, but he can’t see very well and he misses the targets a lot.”

  Mazie had heard gossip of this already. Only a day or so ago, Nimlet had fallen through the trees and landed on a group of cadets. One of them was still in his drey recovering—his mother was furious.

  “Surely the Patrolling Exercises are nearly over?” she questioned.

  Lucky nodded.

  “What’s next?”

  “Wrestling.”

  “Oh dear,” said Mazie.

  All the cadets were looking forward to Wrestling. At last they could do some real fighting!

  The Trial Instructor had other ideas. “Gentlemen, this is not a free-for-all. There will be no scrapping or brawling in this troop. We are here to learn a skill.”

  The young males were disappointed—they’d been looking forward to some ruck and tumble.

  “The skill of wrestling is one of defense,” the Instructor continued. “We Cloudfoots, unlike the rabble Northenders, do not attack other clans. If an enemy attacks, we shall defend. If he will not surrender and retreat”—he paused for effect—“then we will Cast him Down!”

  “With No Mercy!” chanted the males, stamping their feet.

  “Indeed,” said Ratter drily. “So, gentlemen, you will learn to fight like Cloudfoots. Let us begin on the training ground.”

  The troop scurried down to a clearing in the center of the Avenue that was surrounded by thick bushes. A Watch Squirrel had been posted to keep a close lookout for any incoming threat. Just to be on the safe side, the squirrels’ friend, Mr. Finlay, was also quietly padding around the perimeter.

  They started with crouches and maneuvering to find the best holds. There was a lot of good-natured jostling and shoving as squirrels tumbled among the dead leaves.

  Lucky was paired with the witty squirrel, of “call me ‘rat’ ” fame, and they ducked and dove around each other, trying to grab at fur. Lucky was quick, and easily dodged his opponent. This wasn’t as bad as he had thought it was going to be!

  “Enough,” cried Ratter. The cadets must have let off enough steam by now. It was time to get down to some serious training. “Mr. Nimlet, come here, please.”

  Nimlet advanced warily.

  “Don’t look so concerned, Mr. Nimlet, this is just a demonstration.”

  The other squirrels laughed—they weren’t the ones being demonstrated on.

  “Any attacker on a branch will instinctively drop to his hindquarters …” said Ratter. Nimlet dropped. “And raise his forearms to strike.” Nimlet raised his forearms. “This leaves him vulnerable, gentlemen, to the classic wrestling hold of the armlock.”

  Ratter grabbed Nimlet’s arm, twisted it up behind his back, and tried to complete the lock. Normally, the unfortunate cadet would fall to his knees begging for release. Nimlet’s rock-solid arm didn’t move. Bud and branch! That’s no longer fat, it’s muscle! thought Ratter. He hastily dropped Nimlet’s arm to cover his surprise. “Your turn, gentlemen, to practice this hold.”

  The witty squirrel held up his arms and Lucky grabbed and twisted the nearest limb, but he was flung easily to the ground before he could finish the hold. He jumped up and tried again. Again he was floored.

  “Change.”

  “I’ll try not to hurt you,” said the witty squirrel.

  “Thanks,” muttered Lucky.

  It really, really hurt.

  He limped home at the end of the day with Nimlet at his side. He’d been thrown, spun, sat on, and clinched. Every bone in his body ached. Nimlet, on the other hand, had thrown, spun, sat on, and successfully clinched every squirrel he’d been paired with. He was a natural.

  “I’m looking forward to tomorrow. Ratter’s promised to show us the tail-throw!” he said enthusiastically.

  “Right,” said Lucky weakly.

  “Then we’re going to move back up to the training branches.”

  “Can’t wait,” muttered Lucky.

  “Then we’ll have the proper Wrestling Trial, in front of the Ma and the Patrol Leader!”

  What? No one had mentioned this to Lucky! “D’you mean in front of everyone?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Nimlet happily. “It’s a proper wrestling match. The whole Clan will be there.”

  “Oh, that’s great! The whole Clan. There. To see me fail.”

  “I’m not going to let you fail! We’ll practice together. I’ll help you.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to work, Nim.”

  “Don’t worry! We’ll both be wrestling champions!” He slapped him on the back and Lucky yelped w
ith pain. “Oh—sorry.”

  Lucky faced his opponent on the branch and concentrated hard. Watch him carefully, Nimlet had said. Anticipate his moves. The squirrel leapt toward him and Lucky dodged left as his opponent made a clumsy grab to the right. Lucky spun around, pounced on his back, and the squirrel fell flat on the branch. It worked! The squirrel raised himself up, but he seemed dazed and Lucky easily tackled him again. I’m winning! thought Lucky.

  “Cadet!” called Ratter, shaking his head. “You will wrestle Mr. Lucky correctly.” The youngster looked guiltily at his feet and Lucky felt a hot rush of anger and shame. He let me win!

  They came together again. This time he was thrown effortlessly down and clinched. Before Ratter could say anything, Lucky fled the training branches, furiously fighting back tears. He hated wrestling!

  The cadets all shuffled uncomfortably as they watched him go. They didn’t want to fight Lucky—there was no glory to be won there. Nimlet was a different matter: He’d wrestled down every squirrel in the troop—he was unstoppable!

  Ratter had even drafted in two ex-cadets, who’d already joined the Watch and Patrol, to teach Nimlet a lesson. His troop-mates watched with a mixture of admiration and envy as he beat them too.

  Nimlet should have been triumphant and happy, but he was too worried about Lucky … and so was Ratter.

  Mazie Trimble formally announced the Trial Instructor into First Daughter’s drey and she greeted him warmly. “I do not often get the pleasure of your company, old friend. Your cadets keep you very busy.”

  “Indeed, ma’am, and one has been keeping me busier than most.”

  Ah, thought First Daughter, of course. He’s come to see me about Lucky. “I heard that you have generously been giving my son extra training.”

  “Yes, ma’am, and Mr. Nimlet has been helping him too.”

  “Nimlet the unbeaten wrestling champion. Second Daughter must be very pleased.”

  Your spiteful sister shows more interest in Lucky’s failure, thought the Instructor, but he kept this to himself.

  “Ma’am, I will get to the point, painful as it is. Lucky cannot possibly take part in the Wrestling Trial. Truly, I have done all I can. I have never had a cadet fail the Final Run—I cannot have this happen now. Your son must withdraw.”