by Chris Hill
“Th-thank you—” spluttered Nimlet.
“Pah! No need. Bit of a risk, though, lads, doing the Final Run in the Canopy. You’re a plucky pair!”
“Please don’t tell!” said Lucky.
“Tell? Tell who? It’s a good plan if you don’t meet the birds. Takes me back to my Final Run—I wasn’t always this old, you know.” He laughed wheezily and, rubbing his paws, again stuck his nose out of the hole in the trunk. “Right, lads, I reckon it’s all clear, but you need to crack on if you’re going to get to the Albion by sunset.”
The squirrels got beyond the ash trees and picked up the pace. It was hard going. The treetops swayed in the air currents, making balance difficult, and they often had to double back to find close enough branches to leap onto.
Then there was incoming. Twice they had to spiral down a trunk to avoid hunting birds. The third time was a false alarm—the dark shape turned out to be a lone greylag goose, honking morosely for its lost mate.
“I thought you were good at spotting birds,” grumbled Nimlet.
“How was I to know it was a goose!” said Lucky. He was getting tired.
“I want a turn as lookout,” said Nimlet.
“You? You’re as blind as a bat!”
“Yeah? Well, you’re as slow as a worm!”
They had only gone a third of the way along the Avenue, and the sun had reached its highest point in the sky. Lucky was starting to slow down.
“We should stop for a bit,” suggested Nimlet.
“I don’t think so. We’ll never reach the Albion by sunset if we don’t keep going,” Lucky answered. But he did stop for a few moments and clung to a branch, taking long deep breaths.
“You won’t get to the Albion at all if you don’t have a rest,” said Nimlet, who wasn’t a bit tired. “I might be able to keep going, but I need you as lookout. I’m as blind as a bat, remember? I mean, what’s that? That flappy dark thing over there?” He gestured toward the Albion.
“Oh, I expect it’s another goose,” said Lucky dully, rousing himself to look. That’s a strange shape, he thought, though it was difficult to focus through the glare of sunlight. He narrowed his eyes and a chill ran down his spine. Nimlet sensed him stiffen.
“What is it?”
“Magpie,” said Lucky shortly.
“Forget that! Even I can tell that’s not a magpie shape.”
“It’s a magpie shape when it’s got a squirrel hanging from its claws,” said Lucky grimly.
The limp body of the squirrel was a dead weight in the magpie’s grip, dragging him down toward the treetops. He was nearly back to his own airspace, but … why not lighten the load?
“Cack!” Take the eyes and liver? “Cack!” A snack! A snack! “Cack! Cack!” The bird descended into the Canopy, intent on his meal.
The attack came out of nowhere. A gray-furred shape hurled painfully into his side. What? What? “Cack! Cack!” His hold loosened on the squirrel and she dropped like a stone through the branches.
Mine! “Cack!” He bowed to swoop after the meat, but a hot jet of pain seared through his wing and he squawked in agony and fury, instinctively twisting up, away from the danger. The damaged wing flapped jerkily as he struggled to gain height.
Nimlet watched him go, spitting out bits of feather in disgust. Yuck! That’s rank! Lucky and his stupid ideas!
Down below, Lucky had easily grabbed the falling squirrel. She was skin and bone, not much bigger than him, and she was lying motionless on the branch—was she dead?
Nimlet landed with a thud by his side, looking very pleased with himself. But his expression changed when he saw the female. “She’s not one of us!” he exclaimed.
“What d’you mean?”
“She’s a Northend squirrel, Lucky! I’ve just risked tail and whisker for a Northend squirrel!”
“So what? You beat off a magpie! That was brilliant! Who cares what tree she came from?”
Nimlet shook his head. “Don’t be stupid. Can’t you see? She’s not a Cloudfoot.”
“So she’s not worth rescuing?” Lucky couldn’t believe it.
“She’s not one of us!”
“Like me, then!”
“That’s different—”
“No, it’s not!” snapped Lucky. “Do I look like a Cloudfoot? No one thinks I’m a Cloudfoot!”
“I do,” protested Nimlet.
“So what’s the difference?” demanded Lucky. “At least she looks like you. No, hang on—she’s not as ugly as you!”
“Ugly!”
“Ugly stinking Cloudfoot!”
“Stinking red runt!”
“Lousy fat fart!”
“Lousy mutant tree-rat!”
Lucky rose up, quivering with rage. “Call me a rat?”
There was dead silence. Then they started laughing. They would have carried on rolling around the branches, snorting and howling—but the little Northend squirrel was conscious now, and crying.
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know!” said Nimlet. “Cloudfoot females aren’t supposed to cry …”
Lucky plucked up courage and went over to the sobbing Northender. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“No! Of course I’m not! That was horrible!” exclaimed the squirrel tearfully.
She pulled herself together and sat up shakily and Lucky saw what Nimlet meant. The spiky-haired female looked nothing like the sleek, well-fed Cloudfoots: She had a sharp muzzle and huge eyes. Her tail hair was sparse and straggly, but she was pretty, in a skinny sort of way.
“What Family are you?” She’d never seen a squirrel like him before.
“I’m Lucky, ma’am.” What did she mean, Family?
“I’m not a ‘ma’am’—don’t you know me?”
Lucky shook his head—why should he know her?
“I am the Honorable Mistress Tarragon, beloved niece of Major Fleet, Protector and Great Leader of the Northend Family Fleet!” she declared. “You may address me as Honorable Mistress.”
For a squirrel with a fancy name she looks like a mess, thought Lucky, but he tried again. “How can we help you, Honorable Mistress?”
“Take me home!” wailed the little squirrel, and burst into tears again.
“Okay! Okay!” said Lucky, panicked. Anything to stop her crying.
“Lucky, that’s crazy! We can’t take her back to the Northend—we’ve got to finish the Run!”
“What do you mean ‘back to the Northend’?” Tarragon looked around in alarm and recognized none of the trees. “Where am I?”
“This is Cloudfoot Avenue, Miss Fleet, and we won’t have any of your Northend nonsense here,” said Nimlet sharply.
Tarragon backed away, appalled. The treacherous Cloudfoot enemy! “Ooh-ooh, I’m doomed!” she squealed dramatically.
“No, you’re not. We rescued you!” said Nimlet crossly.
“But—but I thought there was a raid …” She screwed up her brow, trying to remember. It was so confusing. “I—I was high up—I was dizzy—and a bird came swooping down …”
“Yes,” said Lucky patiently. “You were taken by a magpie, but Nimlet tackled him and I caught you.”
Her huge dark eyes widened in amazement. “Mr. Nimlet—you? You fought off a bird?” She stood up, her tail flicking with excitement.
“Well, er, yes,” said Nimlet, suddenly rather embarrassed.
“And I caught you,” repeated Lucky, but the female ignored him.
“Mr. Nimlet, you are a true warrior! You are my hero!” She clasped her paws and looked up adoringly at the blushing Nimlet. “My uncle must reward you!”
“Stone the crows,” muttered Lucky under his breath. Any more of this, he thought, and I’m going to be sick. “You didn’t seem that grateful a moment ago,” he said loudly.
“Ooh-ooh, Cloudfoots, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to offend your Clan. My uncle thinks there’s a raid—” A terrible thought suddenly hit her. “Oh no! I’ve got to go back right now! If I�
�m missing he might think you’ve taken me!”
“What, us?” said Lucky.
“No, silly! That I’ve been taken by the Cloudfoot raiding party. Don’t you see? He has allies now—a huge army! They’ll attack the Avenue!”
“Lucky, she’s right. We have to get her back. And if there is a possibility of an attack we have to sound the alarm. Remember, it’s what the Watch and Patrol is all about.”
“Oh, fine,” said Lucky sarcastically, “but is that before or after we finish the Final Run?”
“If the Honorable Mistress Tarragon is right, we have to move quickly.”
Honorable Mistress Tarragon? What happened to Miss Fleet? wondered Lucky.
“We’re going north, so we can take her to Ma Cloudfoot. She’ll know what to do.”
Tarragon skipped around, her tail swishing in delight. “Ooh-ooh, thank you, Mr. Nimlet—I can’t tell you how grateful I am!”
Nimlet looked bashful and rather pleased.
“Oh, Mr. Nimlet, I’m so grateful!” mimicked Lucky. “How’re we going to get to Ma Cloudfoot and finish the Run before sunset?”
“It’s in the same direction. The Ma welcomes the runners at the Albion gates.”
“Okay, okay,” sighed Lucky, resigned. “Back up to the Canopy then.”
“Oh no!” gasped Tarragon, horrified. “Please, not high up there—not near the birds! Surely there’s another way?”
“Mazie’s plan?” asked Nimlet.
“Guess so,” said Lucky, grinning. “If you can fight off a magpie, you can fight off the Watch and Patrol—my hero!”
The sun was setting over the Avenue and the Patrols seemed to have gone home. Moving quietly now was pointless; Lucky and Nimlet knew that they had to get back quickly to raise the alarm. Nimlet crashed tirelessly through the Mid-level branches and Lucky and Tarragon followed, struggling to keep up.
They came to a Watch Point, but the old squirrel there was far from alert. He’d been watching since dawn and was curled up in a tree trunk hollow, snoring loudly. The three squirrels scurried past him with no problem.
“I think that everyone’s already been past,” guessed Lucky correctly. “They’re not on the lookout anymore!”
There was very little daylight left and Nimlet increased his speed. We might, he thought, just make it in time.
Lucky wasn’t thinking about anything. He was concentrating all his efforts on leaping from branch to branch to keep up with his friend. Even Tarragon was ahead of him, but he didn’t care—he just had to keep going.
The final six chestnut trees of the Avenue were in sight. Nimlet turned back to shout encouragement as Lucky screamed a warning—too late. A large, sleek Watch Squirrel dropped swiftly from above and pinned Nimlet to the branch.
“Keep going!” gasped Nimlet as he struggled under the weight of the Watch Squirrel. This was no dozing oldster; this was a real pro-Watcher, a mature and skilled fighter.
The Watch Squirrel moved to get a hold on Nimlet. They thrashed around frantically, hind legs pummeling and tails whiplashing from side to side. Nimlet broke free and the Watch Squirrel lunged and grabbed again.
Unbalanced, they both lost their hold, and Lucky and Tarragon watched in horror as the two crashed down through the branches. Lucky went to follow, but Tarragon put a restraining paw on his shoulder.
“We have to get to the Albion gates!” she said.
“That’s my friend,” Lucky snapped at the female. “We have to help him!”
“No, we have to get to the gates! That was what he said—remember?”
Lucky glared at her in disgust. She was right—and he really hated her for it.
They set off again through the branches, the sound of furious fighting fading into the distance. They were now very close to the Albion gates and a Cloudfoot female came into view. It was Second Daughter, Nimlet’s mother. What a relief!
“Ma’am!” he called, bobbing respectfully.
“Lucky!” exclaimed Second Daughter, swiftly disguising her disappointment. How on earth had he gotten this far up the Avenue? She suddenly noticed his companion. A Northender! What was he doing with a Northend female? And … “Where is my son?”
“Nimlet is wrestling the final Watch Squirrel so that I can get to the Albion gates,” said Lucky breathlessly. “This is Mistress Tarragon.” The female bobbed gracefully. “She was taken by a magpie and we have to get her back home!”
“I see,” said Second Daughter, her eyes narrowing and her devious mind working fast. “A Northend female in Cloudfoot space—this could start a war.”
“Yes! We’ve got to get to the Ma.”
“No! You must take Mistress Tarragon back to the Northend immediately. I will tell the Ma.”
“But what about finishing the Run? What will the Instructor say?”
“Lucky,” she said, fixing him with a beady eye, “I shall confirm you’ve finished the Run. You must go to the Northend quickly. Take the Ground-level path—it’s quiet tonight.”
“What about Nimlet?”
“I’ll ask Ma Cloudfoot to send him after you to help. A large group of Patrol squirrels would look like a raiding party.”
Lucky nodded in agreement; this was the sort of logical thinking that First Daughter had taught him.
“There is not a moment to lose.” Second Daughter smiled kindly at them both. “Good-speed, Lucky, we are all depending upon you. Good-speed, Mistress Tarragon, may you store and survive.”
“Mistress Cloudfoot,” said Tarragon formally, “the Family Fleet thank you.”
They leapt across the branches and were soon spiraling down the tree trunk out of sight.
Second Daughter watched them go, her false smile replaced by a sneer. Pompous little Northend runt, she thought. The Family Fleet thank me, do they? I don’t think so!
The wrestling squirrels had fallen on the crisscross branches of the lower level. Winded and bruised, they still grappled tightly together.
Nimlet was struggling desperately to break free. He’s going to win, he thought. He’s too strong! He realized he had finally met his match.
The Watch Squirrel had been a wrestling champion before Nimlet was even out of the drey, and he was determined that this young upstart wasn’t going to beat him! Promotion! he thought, as he slammed Nimlet down again. He’s gotten past the rest—he won’t get past me. I’ve got my orders! He was also frantic to beat Nimlet so he could go after the deformed “Lucky” animal. The Trial Instructor had made his reasons very clear: “Not Cloudfoot material—he must not be allowed to finish the Run, gentlemen.” Even Second Daughter had hinted at her support if he succeeded in Casting Down Lucky.
No surprise they don’t want a runt like that, the Watch Squirrel thought. A disgrace to the Watch and Patrol! And who was the female? A Northender spy? I’ll get them both—and promotion for sure! The Watch Squirrel redoubled his efforts.
Nimlet was really taking a beating now and he knew his strength was failing; he was going to make a mistake sooner or later, so he had to think of something—and fast. What would Lucky do?
“I surrender!” yelped Nimlet, going limp on the branch.
“What?” exclaimed the Watch Squirrel, drawing back in surprise.
Nimlet tore himself off the branch and tumbled to the next level.
“You dirty motherless rat! That’s against the rules!”
“What rules?” said Nimlet, who jumped to the trunk of the next tree and spiraled swiftly upward.
“Come back, you coward!” demanded the Watch Squirrel, shaking his fist as Nimlet disappeared above him.
“Okay,” Nimlet shouted as he dove off the tree. The Watch Squirrel’s nose hit the branch with a thwack as Nimlet landed on the squirrel’s head. Nimlet leapt up and crashed off toward the Albion as fast as he could, before the dazed and moaning Watch Squirrel could recover.
The last light of day was fading, but there were no other squirrels between him and the Albion—he was going to make it! They were all
going to make it! Wait until Lucky heard how he’d tricked the Watch Squirrel—what a laugh! The pretty Northend squirrel would be impressed too …
He could hear the sounds of other squirrels now, so he knew he was very near. Sure enough, there were groups of cadets with their proud families up ahead. Nimlet strained his eyes to see Lucky and cursed his shortsightedness. Then he saw First Daughter scurrying toward him. Lucky and Tarragon couldn’t be far behind.
“Nimlet,” cried First Daughter, “I’m so glad to see you! Where’s Lucky?”
“Isn’t he here?” He looked around wildly, completely confused.
“No, I’ve been frantic with worry. Everyone else has finished the Run. I thought you must have been caught at the ash trees. Why isn’t he with you?”
“B-but he came on ahead!” stuttered Nimlet. “He has to be here. He came with Tarragon!”
“Who’s Tarragon? Nimlet, what on earth are you talking about?!”
Before he could answer there was a great deal of hushing and shushing as Ma Cloudfoot and the Trial Instructor appeared to signal the end of the Run. “The Trials are over!” declared the Instructor. “These males who have finished the Run are no longer cadets—they have proved themselves worthy to join the Watch and Patrol. They are, as of today, official Defenders of the Cloudfoot Clan!”
A massive cheer went up throughout the trees. Nimlet and First Daughter were the only squirrels not rejoicing. This was a disaster! Lucky wasn’t there, and now it was too late—he had failed the Final Run!
Second Daughter scurried up to their side. “Well, my son, it seems that I must congratulate you.”
Nimlet looked at her blankly. What was the cause for celebration?
“Dear sister … I feel for you. What a pity that your adopted son didn’t finish the Run. Still, we didn’t really expect him to, did we?” she said sweetly. “I wonder what could possibly have happened to him?” And with that she whisked away, a contented smile on her spiteful, treacherous face.