by Tor Seidler
After the burial most of the squirrels slumped off to their holes or dreys. Phoenix was about to join Giselle when Great-Aunt Flo linked arms with him.
“Would you walk me home?” she said.
“Of course!”
Great-Aunt Flo wanted to make sure he wasn’t too traumatized by his friend’s death.
“It is pretty horrible,” he admitted. “How do you get ‘electrocuted’ anyway?”
“It has to do with electricity,” she told him.
“What’s that?”
“A power source vital to humans. It provides them light and heat.”
Having displayed his backward climbing to her already, he wasn’t about to display his ignorance, so he nodded as if he understood.
On the way home from his great-aunt’s birch, he ran into Giselle, who wondered if he felt like going to the pond. He did. After all the looks he’d been getting, it would be nice to check his reflection to see if he looked any different, plus it would be comforting to snuggle with Giselle. But somehow it didn’t seem right in the wake of the funeral, so he suggested they hold off till tomorrow.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said with a sigh.
* * *
When he came down his pine the next morning, a portly uncle of Tyrone’s was waiting for him on the pine straw.
“Quite the circler,” the uncle commented.
“Morning exercise,” Phoenix explained. “May I help you?”
“We’ve been dividing up the poor lad’s things. Seeing as you brought him back to us, we thought you should have a memento.”
He handed over a foil pouch. Phoenix opened it. Out wafted the delightful smell of smoked almonds.
“Thank you! I’ll think of Tyrone every time I eat one.”
He stowed the pouch in his hole but stuck a couple of the almonds in his cheek before going to look for Giselle. When he found her by the burial ground, he wondered if she might have been communing with Tyrone. But her mood seemed awfully bouncy for that.
“Last one to the pond’s a chipmunk!” she cried.
Off they went, racing out of the woods into the reeds. She was almost as fast as Great-Aunt Flo, and though he sprinted full-out, she nipped him, bursting out of the reeds onto the bank of the pond a tick before he did.
“Did you let me win?” she asked, once she caught her breath.
He tried to smile enigmatically—not easy while panting. After a moment they heard a soft croak.
“A bullfrog,” Giselle said, pointing across the pond. “Ever had frog?”
He shook his head.
“Me neither,” she said. “I had salamander once.”
“How was it?”
“Chewy. Isn’t it a gorgeous day? Not a breath of wind.”
Nuzzling against him, she gave him one of her soulful looks.
“Your breath’s funny,” she said after they brushed whiskers.
“Probably these,” he said, spitting the smoked almonds into a paw. “One’s for you.”
“Out of your mouth?” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“Oh, sorry.”
He went to the water’s edge and washed the almonds. As he turned back, he caught a glimpse of his tail in the pond and couldn’t resist swiveling back around and leaning out over the water. He gave his tail a fluffing shake. It was terrible that Tyrone was gone, but at least there could be no question now who was the finest specimen of young squirrelhood in the woods.
“You know,” he said, “in the daytime you can see yourself even better in the—”
A searing pain shot through his left shoulder.
Phoenix felt himself jerked upward, the almonds falling out of his paw. He caught a glimpse of Giselle gaping up at him. In another instant she looked smaller than a chipmunk. Then she was no bigger than an acorn.
4
FRESH SQUIRREL
IN NO TIME THE WOODS were dizzyingly far below, the pines like blades of grass. Phoenix twisted his head around and choked on a snoutful of feathers. He was in the clutches of a bird of prey. He tried to wrench himself free, but the bird tightened its grip, and the terrible pain in his shoulder redoubled—a talon was piercing it. The bird’s other claw had a vicelike hold on his hindquarters.
“Let me go!” he cried.
The bird gave a great flap of its broad wings and said, “Are you a flying squirrel?”
“I’m a tree squirrel!”
“Then I don’t think you’d want me to let you go.”
Phoenix couldn’t look down again. He couldn’t look anywhere—they were too horrifyingly high—so he squeezed his eyes shut. With his eyes closed the sting in his shoulder seemed even more intense. Was he about to die? The air was rushing by faster than when he’d rescued Tyrone on the tower, and his heart was beating so fast it felt like it was going to burst out of him.
He went limp, waiting for the end. If the talon in his shoulder didn’t kill him, the bird would soon land somewhere and eat him. That’s what birds of prey did, his parents said. What part of him would be the first course, he wondered. If only it were over!
But the bird just kept flying along. None too smoothly, either. They would dip, then the bird would flap its wings again, and up they jerked. Eventually the bird muttered, “Ever consider a diet?”
It almost sounded as if the bird expected an apology. Phoenix just clenched his teeth. But the suspense became unbearable, so he unclenched them and said, “Why don’t you stop and eat me?”
“Pardon me?” the bird said.
Phoenix repeated himself, shouting over the rush of air.
“You’re not for me,” the bird replied.
“Who am I for?”
“The eyases.”
“What’s that?”
“The chicks.”
“Arghhh!” Phoenix cried, picturing little birds of prey pecking him to death. “Couldn’t you just put me out of my misery?”
“I can see your point of view,” the bird admitted. “But they like their food fresh.”
“Where are they?” Phoenix asked in a strangled voice.
“In the nest. More’s the pity.”
They moved jerkily along, passing a flock of starlings heading south. Then the bird said, “You’re too young to have kids, I suppose. A word of advice. Don’t be soft. Boot them out when it’s time they fledged.”
Phoenix had no idea what “fledged” meant, but he felt a spark of hope. Why would someone offer child-rearing advice if he was about to feed you to his kids?
“My shoulder,” he groaned.
“What?” said the bird. “Oh, sorry.”
The bird relaxed its grip for a moment, extracting the knifelike talon from Phoenix’s flesh before regrasping him. Phoenix’s shoulder felt only slightly better, but the bird’s consideration seemed another good sign.
“Is your nest nearby?” Phoenix asked.
“I wish. Silly of me to load myself down. But you were such easy pickings—how could I resist? And you know how kids are. You can’t come home empty-taloned. I was down visiting Mother in Cape May. A long trip, but that’s where I grew up. You?”
“Me?”
“You a Jersey squirrel?”
“I’m a tree squirrel,” Phoenix said, managing a little indignation even in his current straits.
“I mean, you’ve always lived in New Jersey?”
Phoenix had never heard of New Jersey. He didn’t like sounding ignorant, but under the circumstances it hardly seemed to matter, so he asked what New Jersey was.
“That,” the bird said, pointing his hooked beak downward.
Phoenix took a peek—and almost fainted. Far below them two seagulls were riding the wind. Far below them was a beach.
“I picked you up in Manahawkin,” the bird said.
“What’s Manahawkin?”
“A place in New Jersey. Don’t you squirrels know anything?”
Phoenix didn’t say another word for a long time. He just kept his eyes shut and his teeth gritted. Even wit
h the pain in his shoulder dulled, it was extremely unpleasant, dangling in the bird’s talons. Little by little the air began to smell less fresh, though the flight got a bit smoother.
“Not my favorite part of Jersey,” the bird finally commented. “But at least we’re picking up a nice little tailwind.”
Phoenix snuck another peek. Below them were more Hilliard Boulevards packed with killing machines winding between big boxlike buildings with skinny towers poking out of them. He asked the bird what was coming out of the towers.
“The smokestacks?” the bird said. “Pollution, mostly. This is what they call an industrial area. Over there, that’s a landfill.”
“A landfill?”
“A dump,” the bird said with a sniff. “Awful stench—though seagulls like it.”
“What kind of bird are you?”
“A red-tailed hawk. Name’s Walter. What’s yours?”
Phoenix twisted his head around backwards. Walter did have reddish tail feathers.
“Phoenix,” Phoenix said.
Walter didn’t make any cracks about it being a girl’s name, so Phoenix asked him what place in New Jersey he called home.
“The Palisades,” the bird said. “Just north of the city. Glorious spot. You should see the sunrise over the river from our cliff.”
“I’d like to,” Phoenix said hopefully. “What city is it north of ?”
“New York City. Good grief. You’re not going to tell me you’ve never heard of New York City?”
Phoenix didn’t tell him, though he hadn’t.
“That’s it, up ahead,” Walter said. “Not a place you’d want to live. A regular hive of humanity. Though a cousin of mine likes it. Nests on a building by Central Park. He’s a publicity hound. Got his picture in the newspapers.”
Much of this was lost on Phoenix, but he did know what newspapers were and mentioned that his great-aunt lined her den with them.
“They don’t hold up in the rain,” Walter said. “We tried some in the nest. Should be there soon.”
The prospect of landing would have been appealing, if not for the hungry little beaks that awaited him. Instead of starting their descent, however, they seemed to be rising higher.
“One plus about the city,” Walter said, “is that the concrete holds in the heat, so when you do a flyover, you get some nice thermals.”
“What are thermals?” Phoenix asked.
“Updrafts. Saves you energy. Quite a view, no?”
Almost against his will Phoenix took another peep. Below them was the most appalling sight he’d ever seen. From the top of his parents’ pine he’d seen a dozen or so buildings and steeples, but now, directly below them, were millions—more spires than trees in the woods, all poking up at them like spears.
“This part of the city’s called Manhattan,” Walter said.
“Isn’t that where you picked me up?”
“Not Manahawkin, Manhattan. It’s an island. See the bridges? You can perch on them and fish in the river—if you’re partial to fish. Personally, I’m not, but the eyases are.”
Phoenix couldn’t bear to look down again, even to see bridges. “Are the eyases partial to squirrel?”
“Um, well, yes. I’m afraid they are.”
The hawk sounded almost regretful. So Phoenix couldn’t help but ask, “You wouldn’t really feed me to them, would you, Walter?”
Walter considered. In fact, he was rather enjoying his passenger’s company, though it would have been nice if the squirrel were a trifle lighter.
Phoenix heard a noise and looked back. A bird a hundred times bigger and shinier than Walter was roaring toward them.
“Watch out!” Phoenix cried.
Walter swung his head around and let out a squawk. Flapping his wings in panic, the hawk loosened his grip for an instant, and Phoenix slipped from his claws. For a heart-stopping moment Phoenix was staring up at the gigantic shiny bird, which was blotting out the sun. The huge thing must have eaten Walter, for there was no sign of the hawk or his red tail.
Then Phoenix flipped over so he would land on his paws. But the ground wasn’t there—only the spearlike spires rushing toward him. Off to his left was some of the water that surrounded Manhattan. He hadn’t lied when he’d said he was no flying squirrel, but he instinctively mimicked one, spreading his arms and legs wide to create the most possible wind resistance. He strained to get to the water, which was bound to make a softer landing place than this city.
But he could tell he wasn’t going to make it.
5
BROKEN CRACKERS
CENTRAL PARK, WHERE WALTER’S COUSIN did his hunting, is over a square mile of woods, fields, and ponds, right in the middle of Manhattan. The city boasts plenty of smaller parks, too. Unfortunately, Phoenix didn’t land in any of them.
But his luck wasn’t all bad. Some of the city streets are lined with trees, and Phoenix happened to come down in an old sycamore with countless layers of broad leaves to cushion his fall. And when he finally dropped out of the tree and hit the street, the pavement wasn’t as unforgiving as pavement usually is. This particular block was being repaved. A road crew had just laid down a new layer of hot tar, which was still soft and doughy.
Nevertheless, the impact was jarring, to say the least. The force of Phoenix’s touchdown splayed his legs, so he basically belly flopped. Though it didn’t quite knock him out, he would certainly have lain there in a daze if the tar hadn’t been steaming hot. However, it was. It would have fried him like an egg in a matter of seconds. His whole front side was instantly scalded, so he instinctively flipped onto his back. This was just as bad. When he leaped to his feet, the tar scalded his footpads.
To make matters even worse, the fumes from the hot tar made his eyes burn and tear up, so he could barely see. He could still hear, though. Humans on the sidewalk were yelling things.
“Is that a squirrel?’
“More like a rat, if you ask me.”
“He’s about to be a pancake.”
Of course, Phoenix could no more understand what they were saying than he could see the approaching steamroller. But as the gigantic thing bore down on him, he could hear it, and the sound was terrifying enough to send him bolting in the opposite direction. The pavement that way was just as blistering, so he darted left—and ran smack into a curbstone. Half stunned, he dragged himself off the steaming pavement onto a sidewalk, where he was greeted by a sound even more terrifying. A professional dog walker was coming down the sidewalk with six dogs on leashes, and the sight of Phoenix set all six of them barking at once. Phoenix sprinted away—and knocked into something else, something with a little give. He blinked furiously. His vision cleared just enough for him to make out a fence much like the one at the humans’ watering hole.
As he squeezed between the chain links, he almost passed out from the pain. His whole body felt as if it were on fire. If only he could dive into the pond where Walter had grabbed him! That’s what he needed: water to cool him off. And to drink. His throat was dry as dust. He blinked some more and trembled to see huge monsters looming up ahead, some with gigantic teeth, some taller than pine trees.
“What’s with you?” said a warbly voice.
Phoenix cowered back from the blurry silhouette of a good-size bird. “Are you a red-tailed hawk?” he rasped.
“Do I look like a hawk?” said the bird. “I’m a pigeon, for goodness sake.”
“Do you eat squirrels?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’m a squirrel.”
“You don’t look like one. Where are you from?”
“A place called New Jersey.”
The pigeon gave a low coo. “Don’t tell me you swam the river!”
“River?” Phoenix cried. “Where is it? Could you show me, please?”
“Want to swim home, do you? The river’s not far. This way.”
Pigeons are worldly, big-city creatures who like to think they’ve seen everything. But this one, whose name was
Martha, had never seen a charred creature like this swim the mighty Hudson River. It would be something to tell her grandchildren.
She waddled off across the construction site. That’s where they were. The monsters were actually pile drivers, backhoes, and cranes. Figuring the pigeon was his only hope, Phoenix followed her around a deep hole and then underneath a big pipe lying across two sawhorses. But when they passed through a rip in a fence onto another sidewalk, a bloodcurdling sound stopped him cold. The river seemed to be full of killing machines whooshing by at fur-raising speeds.
“I meant a river of water,” he croaked.
“What else?” said Martha. “It’s over there.”
“You mean we have to cross this Hilliard Boulevard to get to it?”
“Hilliard Boulevard? What are you talking about? This is the West Side Highway.”
Martha rarely gave traffic much thought, since she could fly right over it. But this poor critter was wingless.
“We’ll have to wait for the red,” she said.
While they awaited this mystifying event, they exchanged names. Before long the killing machines all slowed to a halt, and Martha waddled across the highway. Only the thought of reaching water induced Phoenix to follow. Though he still couldn’t see very well, he could hear humans laughing from inside their machines.
After crossing the wide highway they had to stop at another narrower one.
“This is where they jog and bike,” Martha explained.
At the watering hole and in the cornfield Phoenix had gotten the impression that humans were slow, lazy creatures, but here their blurry shapes were hurtling by, some on foot, others on two-wheeled contraptions.
“Where are they all rushing?” he asked.
This was something Martha had never been able to figure out. But she didn’t like sounding at a loss, especially to a bumpkin from New Jersey.
“They’re looking for food,” she said.