The Trials of Alar

10

Alar drifted gently down the mighty river upon his back, lifeless to every observant eye. Whether from drowning or the rocks that had left the jagged cut on his brow, it was hard to tell. Nevertheless, the current carried the limp body of the warrior squirrel on and on, until it saw fit to deposit him upon a gravelly bank as the course of the river took a sharp turn. For the longest time, not a thing stirred save the slow, endless ripples across the water glistening in the moonlight. Then, somewhere near midnight, the sodden form moved.

It started as a small twitching of the tail. Then came the ears, and at last his entire body began to shudder and heave. Finally he raised his head and coughed up a bit of water that had forced its way into his lungs. He groaned and opened his eyes just a crack to take in his surroundings. He knew that it was dark, and he knew that he was still dangerously near the river’s edge. But he also knew that his body was absolutely burning with pain. His head in particular was throbbing. He did a quick check of his faculties and found that, although nothing seemed to be broken, he was sore in too many places to count. A particularly sharp pain shot through his left shoulder as he tried to move it, and he winced. Still, he supposed, he had to thank Skiouros it wasn’t worse.

Then, after a moment’s pause to collect his senses, he turned first onto his side, then onto all fours. He could not raise himself any higher than that, so he used what ounces of strength he had recovered to crawl up the rather steep bank away from the river’s edge. Each movement was sheer torture, and his limbs begged him to stop. But he knew if he passed out by the water, he might be swept away and never wake up again. So, he pushed himself to the absolute limit, forcing his aching muscles to respond until he reached a patch of scrub at the top of the bank. Once there, he sank down among the shrubbery in a fit of coughing and spluttering. Then he sighed, closed his eyes, and let exhaustion overtake him once more.

When he opened his eyes again, it was daylight. His limbs still ached, though slightly less than before, and his shoulder still burned. Sitting up stiffly, he tried to piece together what had happened. He remembered leaving the outpost in the morning and the ride through the mountains. There was the battle, and then the cliff. He shuddered at the recollection. What had happened after that was less clear, but obviously he had fallen into the water and at some point hit his head on a rock. He somehow doubted whether his opponent had been as fortunate as he. In fact, his foe’s body was probably what had cushioned his fall. At any rate, here he was, alone and injured in a land completely foreign to him, possibly many miles from the nearest road or settlement.

He looked around to try and get his bearings. It looked like the river had carried him several miles from the mountains. From what he understood, Corallia’s capital city of Boarra was located somewhere away to the southeast, though where exactly and how far, he couldn’t say. The only sure thing was that he needed to get moving if he was ever going to get anywhere. With this end in mind, he forced himself up onto all fours and winced. He paused for a moment and shook his head slowly. This was more of an effort than it ought to be. His body hurt in a hundred places, and especially that shoulder. He needed more rest, but not just here and now. Right now he needed to move on.

Thus, with a massive effort he managed to leverage himself up onto his knees. He reached for his sword to use as a prop, only to find his scabbard was empty. He had dropped it during the struggle, he now remembered. So, slowly but surely, he worked one knee out from under him and paused. Heaving a deep sigh, he placed all his weight on that leg and heaved himself up until at last he stood upright. He teetered for a moment, then regained his balance. He took a deep breath, let it out, then took stock of his situation.

He was in no shape to move, yet somehow hoped to find a way back to his friends and husband. Alar’s heart ached as he suddenly thought of Adam. Poor Adam! He must believe him dead by now, assuming he was unharmed himself. They all probably did. And who could blame them? He himself still found it hard to believe that he had survived. He would just have to prove them wrong as soon as possible. All that lay between him and them was the Corallian wilderness, which he would have to survive using his dagger and wits alone. Right now he considered using his wits to find some food, though he doubted whether there’d be anything good around here.

Plenty of fresh water, at least, he thought with wry amusement, though he decided he’d had quite enough of that for now.

Thus, he set off into the woods heading south. It was painful to move too quickly, so he had to pace himself despite his eagerness to make progress. What he wouldn’t give to have his horse back right now. But of course, this was no place for riding. The dense undergrowth and low-hanging branches would make navigating the woods impossible for the horse alone, never mind a rider. And the ground was too rough besides. Even he had to watch his step at times, as he quickly found his foot had been bruised on the side, and pained him severely to knock against anything. Be thankful it wasn’t your whole leg, he told himself.

The constant state of alertness to danger and the need to watch his every step eventually took its toll on the warrior squirrel, and he had to stop at the base of a large tree trunk to take a short rest. He wished he could have climbed the tree and nestled into the safety of its crown somewhere, of course, but that couldn’t be helped.

After a short, light doze, he awoke feeling only marginally better and hungrier than ever. But since he couldn’t do anything about the latter and he couldn’t simply sleep the day away, he pressed stoically on. At first he tried to distract himself by thinking of what kind of creatures might inhabit this forest, and whether or not he’d be up to fighting them if necessary in his current condition. He soon grew uncomfortable with the scenarios that played through his head, however, and decided to focus instead on the flora.

It surprised him just how different Corallian trees were from those in Kentros. The differences were subtle for the most part, but there were enough that he felt just a little out of place here, despite his instinctive affinity for the woodlands. He felt almost as though the forest denizens were watching him like some sort of oddity—or perhaps some sort of intruder. This feeling began to intensify as he proceeded. He sensed that some creature was close and getting closer. He was hardly up for a fight right now, as he’d determined earlier, but he placed a paw instinctively near his dagger hilt regardless. Perhaps his opponent had survived the fall, and was out to finish what he’d started. It was an absurd thought, he knew, but as he sensed his stalker closing in, he braced himself for the worst.

Emerging into a small clearing, he suddenly heard a light click of claws to his left. In a flash his blade was out and he had whipped around to face his newly revealed assailant: a baby red squirrel in a tatty tunic steadily sucking his paw. With visible relief, Alar lowered his blade.

“Hi,” said the squirrel babe.

“Hello there,” replied Alar, trying to sound as nonthreatening as possible “What’s your name?”

“Name Tuck,” the squirrel babe answered, unperturbed. “What yours?”

“Alar.” He paused. “Are you lost, Tuck?”

“Nope.”

“Well, I think I am.”

“What’s wrong wiv your head?”

“I cut myself.”

“Wiv knife?”

“No.”

“Shouldn’t play wiv knifes.”

“Sound advice,” said Alar, eager to get things back on topic. “Do you live around here, Tuck?”

The little squirrel nodded. “Inna town. Wiv Miz Mags.”

“Miss Mags. Is that your mum?”

Tuck shook his head vehemently. “Tuck no gotta’ mama. No gotta’ papa neiver.”

“I see.” In spite of himself, Alar felt a brief pang of sympathy for the little fellow. “I never knew my mum or dad either.” He paused again. “Do you think you could take me to this town?”

Tuck nodded.

“I’d appreciate that very much.”

“Why you gotta’ knife?” asked Tuck abruptly.

“I thought I might need it.”

“Knifes is dangerous. Shouldn’t play wiv knifes. That’s what Miz Mags says.”

“Smart squirrel, Miss Mags. I hope you listen to her.”

“I do.” Tuck stopped sucking his paw and turned, waving for Alar to follow. “I take you there now.”

So, the squirrel kit headed off confidently into the trees. Alar sheathed his dagger and followed. It was a long walk through more dense woods. There were patches where it might have been easier to climb through the trees like Tuck if he had had the energy. But right now, walking was enough of a trial. And listening to Tuck’s endless chatter and questions made it even more so. Alar had quite forgotten how annoying kits could be. It was hard to believe some people like Adam actually wanted their own.

He felt that pang in his heart again as he thought of his dear mate and friends. He simply had to get back to them somehow. But first he had to find a town where he could recover his strength and get some directions. And right now, that means enduring Tuck’s endless babble! he realized.

It was a longer journey than he’d anticipated, but by late afternoon, they had reached the small town of Tunra beside a little lake. Everyone seemed to recognize Tuck in town, though the bloodied up stranger wearing a uniform with the emblem of another land drew endless cold stares.

I must look quite a sight, Alar mused.

At last they came to a small house on the edge of town. It was a humble abode of worn out gray timber—a shack, really—but it was nevertheless a welcome sight for the tired warrior’s sore eyes. The more so on account of the smiling old squirrel dame standing at the entrance.

“Tucker! Where have you been, my dear?”

“Inna woods, miz. I found a friend named Alar.”

“So you did,” said Mags, looking Alar up and down. “My, you’re in quite a state, sir. What in heaven’s name happened to you?”

“I fell off a cliff traversing the mountains.”

“Mercy me! You must be exhausted.”

“I am a bit, I’ll admit.”

“Well, come inside. I’ll see what we can do.”

“Thank you.”

Inside, Alar found three more squirrel babes and a young doe who appeared to be helping the old doe take care of them.

“My granddaughter is a great help in looking after the orphans,” said Mags.

“This is an orphanage?” Alar looked around in surprise at the very cozy décor and lavish furnishings.

“Not officially, no. But ever since my husband died, I’ve been taking care of the local waifs. I love children, you know, and it helps keep me occupied.”

“I see.”

“But enough about that. Let’s see about getting you some dry clothes and some nice warm soup. Then, when you’re rested, we can hear your story.”

And so, following a warm bath, the good Widow Mags supplied Alar with some of her late husband’s old clothes to wear while his other garments finished drying. She and her granddaughter Kara also tended to his more severe wounds, applying salves and bandages where necessary. The cut on his head turned out to be far more benign than it at first appeared, and after treatment was little more than another minor nick among his vast collection of scars. “Marks of distinction,” as Adam called them. His shoulder wound proved the worse of the two, though with the medicine, even it didn’t bother him nearly as much. After a bowl of warm nettle broth with carrots and a few flakes of meat, he told his story and intentions as succinctly as possible.

“Oh, you’re a little way from the capital yet,” said Mags at the end. “About a day’s journey along the road. The forest’s a more direct route, though, if you’re in a great hurry.”

“I am.”

“Then you can rest here for the night and head out at first light.”

“Oh. I’m afraid I don’t have any money…”

“Don’t worry about that, dear. I’ve got plenty to keep myself going for now. Just you focus on getting a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow will sort itself out soon enough.”

“Thank you, miss. For everything. And to Tuck as well.” He looked over at the little squirrel kit, who was tucked into a tiny bed pushed against the side of the room with his tail curled tightly about himself. “I’d have probably never found this place had it not been for him.”

“Tucker is a good boy,” Widow Mags said with a wistful smile. “Always trying to be helpful.”

“I wonder,” Alar resumed after a pause without knowing why. “What happened to his parents?”

“They died in a boating accident a year ago. Fishersquirrels, you know. Normally his father went out alone, but he’d injured his paw and needed some help.” She shook her head. “Storm blew in before they knew it, and the boat was overturned in the river.” She paused and concluded in a lower voice. “The bodies washed up the next morning.”

“That’s terrible,” remarked Alar, feeling a little inane. “I’m so sorry.”

“Poor little fellow was too young to even remember his parents, so I simply told him he didn’t have any.”

Alar nodded slowly. “I see,” he lied. He could not imagine not being told the truth from an early age, not having that understanding of his origins that was essential to every young squirrel’s upbringing.

Everyone should have parents! he thought. But the Widow Mags had no doubt meant well, and after all she’d done for him, he was in no position to criticize her for it. So, he sighed.

“Well, I’m for bed now. Thank you again, Miss Mags, and good night.”

“Good night, Alar sir. Sleep well.”

And so it was that after supper, Alar went directly to bed in the little guest room tacked onto the back of the house. It was cramped but cozy, and the bed linens were clean and fluffy. Alar quickly undressed and said his prayers—particularly for his mate and friends—then rolled over and fell into a deep, exhausting sleep.