Rising Sap

         Nine squirrels were skittering across the path, each holding nine golden acorns. It was obvious that Ninian, the Ninth Lord of the Night had sent them forth to loot hidden hoards. He clutched the key to his precious hoard, hidden nine feet under. He heard thunder … fine neat thunder … the noon eat-finder … nine feet under … hind feet under ...

         Scirius gave a great harrumphing snort that dragged him into wakefulness. He shivered in the chill of the morning, spring was the worst time of the year, his stores of buried nuts had started to sprout, no new buds were yet out, and he’d been hungry for days. He had spent winter in the tree of a Yummun family gone South for winter - Yummuns built these huge fake trees from pieces of trees. They’d returned two weeks ago and hunted him out with vigour.

         What was all the fuss about, just a few wooden sticks that stood up in useless array along planks that staggered up an incline in that house. Worthless stuff, one could easily scamper up the clear tree hole, one of the many built-in, all ugly rectangles, then to the ledge and straight upstairs along the molding. If he hadn’t chewed them, he’d have ended up with nine centimeter long incisors! But they had thrown nine kinds of fits and driven him out with a stick that made noises like the ninety year-ol’ elm in a high storm, all crackin’ and poppin’.

         He had upset a couple of thingys in the large dreys upstairs, but they only had some kind of tree sap in them, nothing edible. There was even a small stream that gushed out of a sunken stone that he had pressed too hard, but the lake it created rose no higher than the ninth plank in that up-down sculpture of wood.

         There hadn’t been much to eat, except in those hollow tree blocks stacked in that polished downstairs drey. One of those had plenty of nuts and scrunchy crispy stuff, even the covering in which they had been hoarded was edible, smooth and with a hint of pine, it melted on the tongue. Yummuns had plenty of that delicious covering lying around, even on non-food. They seemed to hoard a lot. He’d sampled most of the covers, his favourite was the ones in the topmost drey, black in colour and with the snap of gum and a faint nuance of … mint. He had nine of those before he was full.

         He’d tried to chew on those bright vine-like things at the back of that drey, but it had given him a sharp electric pain in his jaw to bite into it! He wasn’t sure he hadn’t seen bright lights too – it was so intense. He’d then left those strictly alone, not another bite in all the days he’d been there.

         They weren’t annoyed about the nests he’d made in that lovely large clump of fur, were they? Squirrels used hair and fur to line their nests, but everybody did that, even little Yummuns. He’d often peeped in on them all curled up and cozy in their nests. He’d not even teased out the threads or hairs to make it more comfy for himself. He’d kept each of those nine nests warm, turn by turn.

         He had even made sure his ‘pellets’, the inevitable telltale leftovers of sustenance, had been neatly deposited in a convenient receptacle. He’d found many carefully laid out in a shallow and the two cup-shaped cavities were obviously for such use – ‘His’ and ‘Hers’. In all the days he’d been there, he could not have made more than ninety-nine pellets.

         Nah, must be Yummuns were short tempered after returning North, that would be it. Scirius stopped trying to figure out the past, he needed to think of the future. Where on earth was he to find breakfast?

         He heard chittering, joyful chittering – it sounded like his ninth son, Tamascirius, now other voices swelled his song. For it was a song – weird, high-pitched enough to make the leaves quiver, but an uprising of many voices. He heard maybe six, eight, no, nine … a lot of voices.

         His daughter-in-law’s head peeped in, “It’s Sap Rising Day. Buds are on the bloom. Come on let’s go, eat, and make merry!”

         You’d never tell Scirius was old, ninety-nine in squirrel years. He was out of there in nine shakes of a bushy tail!


Words:739
Prompt:The number nine keeps popping up everywhere you turn. It started when nine squirrels crossed the road in front of you. What else happens today, and what does it all mean? (Winner of the Day)
N.B.: A drey is a term for the squirrel nest.