Lucky

by Chris Hill

  There was First Daughter, trapped and cut off by the advancing army. Bands of ragged Northenders from Bracken and Glade were swarming around the lower branches. They had not spotted her, but they would very soon.

  “I have to rescue her!” cried Lucky in distress, starting forward.

  Nimlet grabbed him by the arm. “Lucky, you won’t stand a chance,” he urged. “First Daughter wouldn’t want you to.”

  “But—but—she’s a mother to me!” he sobbed.

  “Lucky might not stand a chance,” said Mazie grimly to Nimlet, “but you and I just might.”

  Lucky looked in confusion from one friend to another. He didn’t want to lose them either. What were they to do?

  “Ooh-ooh, no!” cried Tarragon, pointing to the chestnut tree. “It’s too late!”

  A group of ragged Bracken squirrels had spotted First Daughter and were climbing up the trunk, evil in their sharp, hungry faces. This would be good sport and an easy kill.

  First Daughter drew herself up proudly on the branch, her tail held high. She could smell their wickedness, but she would not run. She would not give them the pleasure of a hunt.

  The Northenders reached the spar of her branch just as two Cloudfoots leapt skillfully from the fourth chestnut and landed with a thud on the branch before her. First Daughter hardly recognized them—Ratter’s coat was a bloody stained mess, and the Patrol Leader had lost part of an ear. They turned snarling upon the startled Northenders, who dropped back at once.

  “You will let us pass!” demanded Ratter.

  The leading Bracken soldier grinned nastily. “Granddad wants to pass—not askin’ very nice, is he?”

  “Nah! Ask us nicely, Granddad,” taunted another, “and we might only hurt you a bit!” The soldiers snickered at this witty response.

  “That was not a request,” said Ratter coldly. “That was an order.”

  Tails thrashing and hissing with rage, the two Cloudfoots plunged down upon the enemy, claws outstretched and teeth bared. Lucky watched in awe as the two warriors viciously forced the Northenders back to the lower branches. They had the height advantage and they would defend their Cloudfoot Daughter to the death.

  “Get to safety, ma’am!” shouted the Trial Instructor.

  My brave friends, thought First Daughter, Good-speed to you both. She raced along a slender spar and, with all the strength she could summon, launched herself into the air toward the sixth chestnut.

  Lucky gasped and Mazie stiffened. It was too far—she’d never make it!

  First Daughter arced through space and dove. Tail flicking frantically, she aimed for a branch and just caught the tip. The wood bowed and she lost her hold.

  “No!” cried Lucky.

  She fell farther, slowing her fall by catching the branch tips—but she was going to hit Ground-level.

  “The Northenders will catch her!”

  “No, look! It’s Mr. Finlay!” Mazie pointed.

  As First Daughter fell to the foot of the sixth chestnut, Finlay and Eric charged up to the base of the tree, scattering the Northend troops. Amber ran around them snapping happily, bits of tail-fur hanging from her jaws. Good hunting!

  Finlay gently carried First Daughter over to the trunk and she climbed slowly to safety. Lucky and Mazie hugged each other in relief and delight.

  But it was not yet over.

  The Northenders’ easy sport had turned into a bloody skirmish and they screamed for help from their Family below. More Bracken squirrels spiraled up the fifth chestnut toward Ratter and the Patrol Leader. Already surrounded, the two Cloudfoots would soon be hopelessly outnumbered and overpowered.

  “Patrol Leader!” gasped Ratter, kicking a Northender away. “I order you to retreat.” He spun around and caught another Northender with a cutting upsweep.

  The Patrol Leader was backing up along a branch, holding off two snarling males. “No, sir!” he panted. “I’m not leaving you!” He twisted one Northender off the branch and stunned the other with a dropkick.

  “I’ve had my day,” growled the old warrior, “and you will have yours. Live to serve the Ma and defend the Avenue. Retreat now, Patrol Leader—that is an order!”

  “The Patrol Leader is leaving!” cried Nimlet, horrified. “He’s leaving Ratter to be Cast Down!”

  “No,” said Mazie, who had judged rightly that only one squirrel stood a chance of survival. “Ratter must have ordered him to go—the Patrol Leader would never desert the Trial Instructor.”

  The old warrior was almost hidden now beneath a writhing mass of furious Northend troops, swarming up the trunk. But he had not stopped fighting. Enemy squirrels were still screaming in pain as Ratter went down—dying as he had lived: a true Cloudfoot defender of the Avenue.

  It was finally over. The sickened and stunned squirrels could see the Patrol Leader and First Daughter reunited with the Ma on the sixth chestnut. But of Ratter there was no trace. The Trial Instructor was Fallen.

  The four young squirrels watched helplessly as every able-bodied squirrel, and a few who weren’t, gathered to defend the sixth chestnut. From the youngest cadets to veteran oldsters, every Cloudfoot had been called to arms. Finlay, Eric, and Amber patrolled the battle line, keeping the Northenders from attacking at Ground-level.

  “We should join the battle,” urged Nimlet. “Not hide up here!”

  “I have a better idea,” declared Tarragon.

  “You?” exclaimed Mazie. “What d’you know about battles?”

  “I’ve had history lessons,” said Tarragon primly. “I know all about battles!”

  “Mistress Tarragon,” said Mazie, surprisingly patiently. “This isn’t the same. You know nothing of strategy and tactics.”

  “Or fighting,” added Nimlet.

  “No, but I know about my Family—and I have a plan!” This was exciting; she’d never had a plan before!

  They all looked doubtful.

  “What is this plan, Honorable Mistress?” asked Lucky kindly.

  “Ooh-ooh! It’s ever so clever!” said Tarragon. “And it goes like this …”

  Ma Cloudfoot was very angry—angry with herself. Never in Cloudfoot history had the Northenders taken the Albion. The Trial Instructor and many fine Defenders had Fallen. Her Second Daughter had betrayed them all. She should have trusted the Northend female. I am not fit to be called the Ma, she thought bitterly.

  She sent First Daughter back to the Meeting Drey to collect the youngsters.

  But it was empty and, to First Daughter’s horror, so was her home-drey. News came that Second Daughter and the Watch Squirrel had been spotted fleeing the Avenue toward the Good Shepherd. But of Lucky, Mazie, Nimlet, and Tarragon there was no sign.

  The battered and exhausted Cloudfoot males evacuated the chestnuts. A group of valiant Daughters took their place, keeping the invaders at bay. They fought to the bitter end, and one by one were Fallen. Finlay and Eric saved those they could, and Amber harried the swooping crows and magpies.

  It bought the Cloudfoot Clan enough precious time to regroup, and a horde of Cloudfoot squirrels was now gathered on every branch of the sixth and final chestnut. The Northenders could advance no farther.

  But as night drew in, more squirrels from Northend Families joined Major Fleet’s troops and the Albion was occupied by the enemy. As the Ma gazed out at the invaders, she realized the chances of holding off a united Northend army were slim: very slim indeed.

  They will attack again at dawn, she thought.

  Light broke through the cold misty trees. As the Cloudfoots gathered to face the enemy, a low murmur of horror ran through the Clan. Hanging from the nearest branches of the fifth chestnut were the Fleet Family troops, and next to the Major stood … Nimlet.

  The Ma could hardly believe her eyes. Betrayed by the mother and the son! She called for a parley.

  “Mr. Nimlet, what do you think you are doing?” she demanded sternly from the branches of the sixth chestnut.

  “I don’t answer to you!” d
eclared Nimlet. “I don’t answer to any Cloudfoot. You are no longer my Clan—I have joined the Northenders!”

  The Northend squirrels chittered and jeered, stamping their feet as the Cloudfoots looked on in dismay.

  “Great Ma!” called the Major with a sneer. “Mr. Nimlet thinks I should ask for my niece back—before our army invades and we take her by force.”

  “Northender, we do not have your female,” said the Ma, facing him defiantly.

  “You lie,” snarled the Major, his tail thrashing wildly. “See how the treacherous Cloudfoots lie!” he proclaimed to the surrounding Northend mob, who stamped and hissed in agreement.

  “No,” came a clear voice from above them. “She is not lying.” Lucky stepped out from the high branches of the fifth chestnut Canopy and dove gracefully down to Nimlet’s side. “There is your Honorable female!”

  Tarragon emerged into full view above them, with Mazie at her side. There was a sharp intake of breath from the Fleet squirrels, who recognized her immediately.

  “You interfering runt!” growled the Major, lunging at Lucky.

  But Nimlet was ready, and swiftly swung him around in an armlock. The Major’s troops moved menacingly toward them, but Lucky held up his paw and declared loudly, “Listen to the truth from Mistress Tarragon Fleet!”

  Tarragon dove down to the branch beside Lucky and made a graceful bow to all the Northenders around her. Many Fleets bobbed in formal response. War was no excuse to ignore good manners, and she was their Honorable Mistress.

  “Fellow Northenders,” she cried, “you have been deceived and badly used. I was not taken by the Cloudfoots—but by a hunting bird!” There was a collective cry of surprise. Just the effect she’d wanted! “I was rescued by these brave Cloudfoots”—she gestured toward Lucky and Nimlet—“who returned me to the Northend.”

  Northenders were chittering frantically to each other now. The Cloudfoots had rescued their Honorable Mistress?

  “Don’t listen to this foolish female,” shrieked Major Fleet. “She has gone mad!”

  “No,” declared Tarragon, flourishing her tail dramatically. “It is you who are mad—mad for power!” She was really enjoying this now. “Fellow Northenders, I was returned home—but my uncle would have killed me, just as he did my parents, rather than see his chance for warfare spoiled!”

  The Northenders were shaking their heads and chattering angrily. Was this true? They had been tricked! Groups of Glade and Bracken squirrels started to melt silently away into the trees.

  “Comrades!” cried the Major, desperately trying to free himself from Nimlet’s grip. “What does it matter? See what our united armies have achieved! Stay with me and we will conquer the whole Avenue!”

  But it was too late. The allied Families were already disbanding; only the Family Fleet troops remained, and they were muttering mutinously. This was not honorable warfare.

  The Major finally tore himself free from Nimlet and turned to his troops. “We shall hold these trees!” he ordered. “We need no other Northend help. This will be my territory!”

  “Major Fleet!” The old Ma’s voice rang out over the branches. “The time has come for retreat, and there has been enough bloodshed. Believe me, we will fight your troops till the last squirrel standing if you do not withdraw.”

  “There will be no retreat,” declared the Major. “Not while I am leader of this Family!”

  “In that case,” declared Tarragon, “I challenge your leadership!”

  The Northenders gasped in amazement—a female leader? It was unheard of!

  Major Fleet laughed out loud. “Now I know you’re mad!” He turned to his troops. “Seize them—they will be Cast Down!”

  “No!” called Tarragon with a flourish of her tail. “Would you ignore tradition? Any Family leader can be challenged by an Honorable squirrel—and I make the Challenge!”

  “That’s true, mistress,” said one of the Fleet soldiers, completely flustered. “But it has never been a … er … female.”

  “If the Cloudfoots have a female leader, so can the Northenders!” proclaimed Tarragon.

  “This is absurd,” sneered the Major. “You cannot challenge me. The tradition requires single combat—winner takes all. How can you possibly fight me?”

  “I do not intend to fight you,” said Tarragon primly. “I have a Champion.”

  “Oh, really,” said Major Fleet. “And who is that?”

  There was a pause as the Northenders looked around expectantly, waiting for the chosen Fleet warrior to appear.

  Tarragon smiled sweetly. “My Champion,” she declared dramatically, “is Mr. Nimlet!”

  Lucky rounded furiously on Tarragon. “You idiot! You never said that was part of your plan! What’re you doing?”

  “You mustn’t speak to an Honorable squirrel like that,” she said primly. “I really think you should calm down.”

  “Calm down? Calm down? You’ve just volunteered my friend for a fight to the death!” He turned on Nimlet. “Did you know about this?”

  “Er … no, but—”

  “This is completely nuts!”

  “Look, Lucky,” said Nimlet reasonably. “The Major isn’t going to retreat like the rest of them. There’ll be many more Cast Down squirrels today if I don’t defeat him. I’m honored to be Mistress Tarragon’s Champion.”

  “There’s no point in being honored,” spat Lucky, “if you’re dead!”

  At that moment a young Fleet soldier stepped forward and announced that they should leave the branch; the leader of the Family Fleet was ready for the Challenge. Nimlet readied himself.

  He’s not going to change his mind, thought Lucky. I can’t stop him and he is right—Cloudfoot lives will be saved if he wins. But at that moment, the only life Lucky cared about was Nimlet’s.

  “Nim,” he whispered urgently as they passed. “Don’t fight like a Cloudfoot.”

  Nimlet nodded. He understood.

  The Challenge began with the soldier holding Major Fleet and Nimlet apart. “Gentlemen, you may fight—now!” He dropped swiftly off the branch and the two males crashed together. They were well-matched in size—the Major was large for a Northender and just as strong as Nimlet.

  The two gray bodies whipped around and around, a thrashing, spinning ball of tooth and claw. Major Fleet was a skilled and ruthless fighter and he was fueled with fury. His plans had been ruined and these Cloudfoots would pay! He lunged and spun, desperate to close in for the kill, but Nimlet matched his every move.

  Lucky, from the viewing branch above, could see that his friend was cleverly keeping one step ahead of the furious Fleet male. But how long could he keep it up? Both were moving with dizzying speed, each screeching in anger and pain. They started to slip and slide, struggling to keep a grip.

  Suddenly Nimlet seemed to lose his hold and stumbled backward, his arms flailing desperately. The Major reared up with a look of triumph on his face and prepared to pounce.

  But the trick left him exposed. Nimlet kicked upward with all the strength in his hind legs and the Fleet male went sprawling. Nimlet leapt onto the animal and got him firmly into a choke hold.

  “Now,” panted Nimlet, “I might not fight like a Cloudfoot, but I follow the Word of Ma. Our aim is not the Falling—we only Cast Down our enemy if he will not surrender. What do you say, Northender?”

  The surrounding Northend troops were chattering in confusion. Why hadn’t the Cloudfoot gone for the kill? He was clearly the winner!

  Tarragon came scurrying onto the branch with Lucky close behind her. “Nimlet!” she cried urgently. “You must finish it—only one challenger can survive!”

  “Enough squirrels have died,” said Nimlet, wearily struggling to his feet. “I don’t want to be a killer. It’s not the Cloudfoot way.”

  “Then you Cloudfoots are fools!” came a voice from behind him.

  Major Fleet had pulled himself upright. He lunged forward, and before Lucky could stop him, he had grabbed Tarragon by the ne
ck and held her dangling in the air. “A step nearer,” he growled, “and I Cast her Down!”

  One glance passed between the friends, and Lucky dove off the tree to the branches below.

  “Ha! Fools and cowards!” crowed the Major, watching Lucky go.

  “Put her down,” urged Nimlet. “Surrender now and you can leave Cloudfoot space unharmed.”

  “Unharmed!” the Major spat in disgust. “You Cloudfoots aren’t real squirrels—you cowards have no stomach for true combat!” He dangled the struggling Tarragon farther out into space and shook her roughly. “Want the simpering little fool?” he taunted. “Come and get her—you fat, motherless Cloudfoot rat!”

  That was enough for any squirrel. With a roar of fury, Nimlet hurled himself at the Fleet male, and the Major flung Tarragon off the branch. She spiraled screaming through the air—to be plucked to safety by Lucky, ready and waiting on the branches below.

  A deep, primeval rage engulfed the Cloudfoot. He smashed into the Major with all his might. Nimlet wasn’t thinking; he had only one aim—he went for the kill.

  Nimlet was lost in a red haze of rage, blood pounding in his ears. Then one voice reached him: clear, and strong, and right. It was Lucky.

  “Nim, stop—please stop!” cried his friend. “You’re not a killer! It’s not the Cloudfoot way!”

  In shame, Nimlet released his hold, and the Major staggered backward, reeling with pain. In a blind panic, paws scrabbling frantically on the branch, he slipped. Nimlet lunged to grab his paw—but too late. The Major went tumbling from the tree.

  On the ground, far below, a West Highland terrier had just trotted out for his morning walk. He was snuffling around the undergrowth, happily following scent trails, but at the sound of a screaming squirrel he froze.

  His ears pricked up and his muscles tensed. The small white dog looked up to the trees just in time to see the animal falling directly toward him.

  This time Finlay was too late.

  “Gotcha!” said Jock, grinning.