From The Tree Part 1: Early Birds

         From The Tree

         Part 1: Early Birds

By: Ryan Evanick





Warm, sunny, a few stray fluffy clouds lounging in the sky. Trees rustling only occasionally in the sleepy snores of the breeze. A bright yellow flower flutters as a bee finishes with its gathering, bumbling away to a neighbouring blossom elsewhere in the suburban backyard. One of many in this older, more out of the way community.

Some were well taken care of, loved. Filled with pretty flowers, green grass, or fruits and vegetables. On occasion, even a tree. Many others were, well, less elaborate and well kempt. Fences crisscrossed the district, white, with flat tops. And along one particularly aged stretch scurried a very furry and very aspiring sneak-thief named Francis.

Francis was a squirrel. A Red squirrel to be exact, and he was more of a light brown truth be told. With a long bushy tail that flowed behind him in a wave as he scampered. He knew the fences by another, more appropriate name amongst his kind. The Picketway. And right now, he was approaching the corner of Copperton Trail and Michelson Way. Ambling towards his final destination off of Henderson Drive. Francis always enjoyed this stretch of the picketway, tall bushes lining either side. Their branches waved hello in the breeze, courteously offering him a cool slice of shade from the hot sun, and any hawks that may be lurking above. Hedges were well known for their hospitality, and proud of it too. Sometimes they even gave him a fresh raspberry on his way.

Approaching a certain knot in the wood, he knew his turn off was close. Ahead was a small tree with sickly looking white branches. He had arrived at his destination on the right. Digging his claws into the white painted wood, he took a breath, steadied himself, and looked down over the edge towards the jagged red chunks of shale below. Crawling head first, the tree concealing his movements, he inched forward. One intrepid paw after another. Ears swivelling, listening for danger while the air tickled his whiskers. Sharp rustles emanated from the brambles around him, the little squirrel froze, much like his heart. A fluttering of wings accompanied the cheerful chirp of the sparrow who owned them. Francis breathed a sigh of relief, sparrows are very friendly, and also fond of peanut butter.

The cool chalky texture of the faded red shale felt nice beneath his paws. Scraping lightly as the dry stones slid over one another, Francis had gotten used to their looseness. He remembered the first time he stepped down here, though he wished he didn't. Scrambling, slipping, and falling on his belly? Phew... the only good thing about that experience was that no one was around to see it.

This property was a bit out of the way, part of one of the founding districts of the town, and it looked it too. The lawn generally conformed to the theory of what could be described as neatly mown... though it might opt to use a, perhaps, less up to date picture of itself if it wanted to attract any meadows over the Wood Wide Web. But it did smell nice.

The hairs on his back stood on end as he skulked his way through the grass. Ears perked, whiskers tingling. His whole body was tensed and every sense was sharpened to a needle's point. His approach was different this time, coming from the north fence. He'd learned the dangers of trying to climb the tall side of the deck on the west. The narrow stretch of grass between it and the fence was less a shortcut and more an enticing trap when conditions were right. That's what he told himself as he took in the green flatness around him, he was exposed, vulnerable, his whole body rejected it yet he pressed on. It was just a little further to the deck.

He neared the first stair, pausing a moment to check his own sanity for embarking on this endeavour. Reaching out his left paw, laying it flat on the warm wood, he concluded that he was quite mad. He knew that, but one must be mad to have any hope of achieving greatness. Clenching his fingers, claws biting into the soft surface. He pulled himself up in a flurry, before his mind had time to second guess itself. Up the first stair, then the second, finally the third landed him on the lower platform. He paused again, sniffing the air, heart pounding. He heard nothing but the leaves swaying, the distant sound of a car engine on an adjoining avenue.

It was a ratty, ring-wormed old thing that had either been loved too much or not enough. One can never quite tell with old porches. Mostly grey and with the odd crack, the geriatric planks were more than sturdy enough... but certainly could use a coat of paint, or varnish, or whatever it is that porches like these days. Francis quite liked it though, reminded him of the tree he grew up in. Besides, he could see it, his prize, sitting so innocently out in the open on the second level of the deck. The object of his devotion and life's quest. A canister of Watkins Peanuts, winner of the Timothy Perkins Award for Best Nut seven times running at the annual Roasters Expo. Tuscan Barbecue flavour. Perched next to a chair on a rickety folding table made of a cracked and faded pine or cedar or some-such. It was a table in any case. Such a prize will need to be approached carefully and with great caution,

The coast was clear, he moved forward. His left paw pulled from the wood with some effort, having gripped its nails too hard into the surface. His nerves were getting to him. Francis was close, closer than he'd ever gotten before. Yet ready to spring back at the slightest sound or flash of shadow. The paradox of the peanut hunter. He followed the north railing, its poles wide enough that he could squeeze through in a pinch. Concealing himself behind the two large egg shaped chairs and the round glass table sat between them. It's diameter may be less than the length of his body, plus his tail of course, but the metal frame still provided him some comfort. A loud creak, the chair above him swivelled, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest as his blood froze. His body reacted, toes tensing, twisting his torso towards the railing, bracing to jump-... ... ... A summer breeze whistled cheerfully... that's all it was, just the wind. Francis inhaled, and moved forward.

A planter pot. Beige, rough, containing the cracked and dusty remains of a season passed, or perhaps one yet to begin. It smells as though it would need some water in that case. Sitting behind the second egg chair, nestled in the corner close to the next set of stairs. It would be his leap of faith. Quickly, he moved out from behind it and clamoured up the stairs as quick as his legs would carry him. Sneaking behind one of the cushy lounge chairs at the top, significantly higher quality than the egg chairs below. A sturdy wrought iron with luscious brown cushions. But they don't catch the morning sun quite as well.

Careful now, one step at a time, the fuzzy bandit crept around the edge of the railing, curving along the west side. Staying underneath the furniture as best he could. Sure, he could've climbed on top of the railing and even the frame above which plants hang from sometimes. It would get him to the table faster, but Francis had learned that sometimes the most direct, and most visible approach, isn't always the best one.

So he skulked, ears flat, head low. Watkins, official peanut of Ale-Fest since 1983. Except for 2004 when everyone had to evacuate due to that incident with the goose. The tin was there, unattended. Up the seat cushion and across the arm rest, Francis climbed on top of the table. Finally, it was in front of him, he could see its glossy paper label shining magnificently in the sun, but there's no time for admiration. Gripping his claws underneath the tin he braced himself to pry. Then, a loud whump to his left.

He knew that whump, it was an unfavourable whump, and as Francis peered over his left shoulder he saw the familiar and terrifying sight of one very large, very slobberly, white canine with a brown patch on its left cheek. Sheffield. He was not very friendly, though he was fond of peanut butter. Lean, and with the long snubbed snout of one who has ran into the glass door too many times. Francis hated that stupid dog, with his big stupid drooling dog face. The sentiment was mutual. But where had he been? He hadn't caught sight of him on the lawn, perhaps in that space between the house and the shed? He knows the mutt sleeps there on occasion. In either case he had come bounding up the patio for one reason or another and luckily hadn't noticed the tasty brown rodent with its fingers in the proverbial peanut can. Perhaps the sun was in the hound's eyes, but Francis knew better than to look a gift hen in the beak. Pulling his hands out from under the lid, Francis leapt as deftly as a squirrel could off that rickety old table. Reaching towards the west railing. It was a movement of such drama and grace Sheffield couldn't help but catch sight of it. Activating the dog's primal instincts, honed over a whole baker's dozen or so of generations of hounds before him defending their owners backyards from existential threats. Strange noises in the middle of the day, passing butterflies, neighbours sitting on their own porches in their own yards at routine hours. Sheffield recognized the furry blur as what it was, the most ancient enemy of lounge hounds everywhere, the common tree squirrel.

And like his fathers and grandfathers before him, Sheffield performed the ancient technique of squirrel eradication passed down to this day. Scrambling to his feet in a frenzy of scraping claws and gangly, flailing limbs and barking,

With jowls flapping, Sheffield launched himself towards Francis. But the offending rodent was already on the railing. Coiling for his next leap Francis felt the the mutt already following through on his own to snap at his tail. All strength holy and unholy poured through his tiny legs to throw himself off that railing and away from the jaws of oblivion that snapped shut like a thunderclap mere millimetres away from him. Stealing with them a tuft of loose fur as Francis sailed to the grass below. Feeling as much as hearing how the the railing shook from the impact of eighty pounds of cantankerous dog.

Sheffield, possessing of an incredibly rare and equally terrifying trait for a dog, understood that he took up physical space and was thus unable to phase himself, or other objects, through another solid mass. Thus his overgrown nails scraped on the deck once more as he spun around, sprinting for the stairs. Forced to take the long way around to get to Francis. Who was thanking the great acorn that this hound could not fit through the gap between the railing and frame as he hit the ground. Darting for the fence as the rumbling beat around the bend towards him.

Clips of grass sheared under Sheffield's snarling paws. Francis, only halfway up the fence, ripped chips of paint off as he climbed. Sheffield dug in his hind claws and jumped, snapping once again at the squirrel's brown fluffy tail. Fruitlessly. Catching his breath, calming his heart, adrenaline flooding his body, Francis had made it to a swaying branch of the nearby tree. Out of reach of Sheffield, but only just so.

Meanwhile, leaping again and again, ole' Sheff tried his darnedest to levitate himself through sheer canine willpower. Only managing to voice his numerous and uncategorized complaints, suggestions, and to-whom-it-may-concern's towards the bush tailed trespasser.

Francis had heard it all before and long since filed it under 'errata'. After his heart stopped pounding he took one more deep breath, and turned to skulk away with an exasperated chitter, ears flattened with melancholy. Flicking his tail disapprovingly in the mutts general direction. Another raid gone afoul thanks to that dimwitted white hound. Another shameful journey home without even a single Watkins peanut. With 39 flavours to choose from, each meticulously crafted by Watkin's elite staff of flavourneers.

Weaving through the various drives and avenues of the picketway, past bushes and barbecue sets, flowers and their attending elderly florists; Francis saw the familiar splintered, round post next to Jacobson's bridge. A long tree branch of a old gnarled oak laying across the aged fence. The path to his home, The House.

Perhaps not the most imaginative name for a lonely, abandoned rural property. But it was what it's founding animals used after the Jacobson's passed. And well, one thing led to another, and the name just stuck. Expanding from the tree to the assorted former human dwellings, connected together via a series of planks and tree branches much like the one Francis was on now. It was home to a multitude of rodentia, a cheerful family of robins, and the odd bat.

The area was abuzz with activity as it often is this time of day. On the trunk of the tree an old squirrel was enjoying the breeze, waving at Francis as he passed. A team of chipmunks were busy repairing one of the planks connecting the shed to the garage. They waved at him to keep to the side. As he slipped by he nearly bumped into a train of mice carrying seeds and berries from the nearby bushes back to their burrows.

Thankfully they didn't comment on his own empty pawed arrival. following another foliaged finger into the second story window of what was once the old farmhouse. Setting foot into the former study and spare bedroom when the kids would visit. These days it served as a sort of stopover and emporium for all travellers furry and feathered alike to rest and catch a bite to eat. So long as the bite wasn't each other, of course. It was a bustling place most of the time that had many great memories for Francis, it was the place where he'd first gotten a taste of glorious Watkins when he was but a lad. Roasted in premium charcoal-product ovens for a more natural taste.

Passing a family of chipmunks and their two tots who were just on their way out, Francis shuffled through the conversing crowds until he found a quiet spot in the hall. Sitting with a tired squeak on a bump in the corner. Tail flicking, disheartened. His mind and body released all its tension from the day's events. He considered his options, he would have his Watkins peanuts - established in 1926 by Gerard and Thomas Watkins, no relation - one way or another. But the question was how? Scratching his finger sombrely on the floor, lost in thought until a fuzzy shape filled his peripheral vision. Chuck, his buddy and best friend came to see what he was up to.

A bit larger in build than Francis and a degree less nimble, Chuck and he had known each other since they were pups. And, in a series of squeaks, clicks, and flails, Francis recounted his failed peanut heist. Chuck sighed, when was Francis going to learn? No matter how many Deliciousness Trials they've gone through at Watkins' prestigious Tasteologly Labs (located in Reginald Missouri) they're not worth getting eaten by a dog for! Chuck sympathized with his friend, he really did, he was just worried is all. Francis understood this, but he had a dream, a dream of peanuts brushed in a powder of ingredients both real and less so. Then baked at three hundred and seventy five degrees Fahrenheit for twenty minutes until it melts and congeals into a thin, savory coating. It was the perfect snack.

After a few more pleasantries, Chuck excused himself, having to sort out his own spoils of the day. Francis congratulated Chuck on a good days forage before being left with his thoughts once again. Around this part of the house squirrels and their family's happily chittered this way and that. But in one corner, he saw another familiar face. Chloe, playing with a group of pups. Seemed like a game of tag or some such. Looked fun anyways. She was such a nice squirrel, Francis had planned on maybe asking if she wanted to go out with him sometime. Take a walk, perhaps. Maybe she'd even want to be his squirrelfriend. But with no Watkins slow roasted peanuts in his possession, the chances of that seemed slim to none. He sighed, what was a small tree dwelling rodent to do?

The problem was that mutt. Dumb, drooling idiot that he was, he was still exceptionally strong and quick. Not to mention large and, of course, smelly. The moment that hound locks eyes with him, lady luck calls in her tab. Francis sighed and let his eyes gaze lazily around the house, People having fun, playing together, eating together, laughing together. He focused on Chloe, the pups, and their game. Chloe trying to catch one of the pups who hid behind another, Tossing a piece of gravel the size of his tiny fist to a third. Ah, that was the game, keep away. Chloe turned to chase the new gravel keeper, clearly taking it easy on the trio, who laughed and giggled at their trickery.

Then Francis got an idea. An owlishly, deviously wonderful idea. He needed to talk to a few people...

...

Inside of an old linen closet, through the hole in the wall first gnawed out by the mice and reinforced by the chipmunks, sat an old round ornate wooden serving platter that was little more than a section of tree cut out as to expose the rings. Left behind when the kids cleaned out the house, whether forgotten or unwanted the home's new benefactors would never know.

Above it hung a solar cell patio light, appropriated and installed into the ceilings here and elsewhere by the joint efforts of squirrels and blue jays. Illuminating a cadre of hopefuls. This room was a planning stage for raids long past, many members of woodland society started their journeys in this very room, and now so to will all of them.

First, of course, was Francis, who had gathered them here from around the house. Those who were interested in a taste of Watkins and adventure.

Second was Chuck, Francis' best and oldest friend. The voice of reason in his life, reliable, cautious, but always willing to help. Crazy as this all was, he was willing to at least hear Francis out.

Next, Darlene, an old timer with with rusty red fur and many successful raids under her belt. Easy going and a little long in the tooth, she met the call to adventure with a shrug.

Forth, Gerry, Gerry is a chipmunk. Gerry is somewhat perplexed as to how he got here and why, but, Gerry prefers to go with the flow.

Oh, and, Harold was there too.

Francis outlined for them a plan to get the nuts, the precious Watkins Tuscan BBQ. So that they may all enjoy their smokey sweetness together. A plan of daring and subterfuge that even Chuck was on board with, even if only to keep his friend from doing anything too wild. It was simple and elegant and they all got the idea. Even Gerry.