The Tribes: Book 1 - Chapter 1

The Tribes

Book One: The Catastrophe

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Chapter 1: Flynn and the Blue Jay

The trouble began, as it so often did, with Flynn.

Specifically, it began with Flynn hanging upside down from the third fork of a tall white oak, peering into a blue jay’s nest and whispering to himself:

“Oh, you magnificent sky-pebbles… you won’t even miss one.”

Below him, three members of the Firstbranch Tribe clung to the bark in various stages of disbelief.

“Flynn!” hissed Skitterleaf, her tail puffed to twice its normal size. “That is not an acorn cache!”

“I am aware,” Flynn replied calmly, reaching one paw a fraction of an inch closer to the speckled egg. “It is an egg cache.”

“That is not better!” squeaked Pippin Barkdash.

Flynn grinned.

Now, it should be understood that Flynn was not hungry.

He was not desperate.

He was not even particularly interested in eggs.

What Flynn was interested in… was proving that he could.

He had once leapt from the Split Pine to the Bent Birch in a single bound.
He had once outrun a fox.
He had once convinced young Rootrick Splinterpaw that humans stored lightning inside hollow sticks.

Flynn had a reputation to maintain.

And today’s audience was excellent.

Unfortunately, the owner of the nest had also arrived to watch.

There is a particular sound a blue jay makes when it discovers an unauthorized squirrel within pecking distance of its offspring.

It is not musical.

It is not polite.

It is not negotiable.

It begins as a shriek.

The shriek erupted so suddenly that Flynn’s whiskers flattened.

He froze.

Slowly, he turned his head.

The blue jay hovered midair, wings beating like agitated thunder, eyes blazing with a fury usually reserved for raccoons and tax collectors.

“Oh,” Flynn said.

The bird struck.

Branches shook.

Leaves burst upward.

Flynn dropped from the fork of the oak like a fur-covered comet.

“RETREAT!” Skitterleaf squealed, though she herself was already halfway down the trunk.

The blue jay pursued with a scream that rattled bark.

Flynn leapt.

Branch to branch.
Trunk to trunk.
Tail balancing.
Claws skimming.

The blue jay dove again, peck snapping inches from Flynn’s ear.

“YOU STOLE MY BABIES!” the bird shrieked in the universal dialect of indignant avians.

“I didn’t even take one!” Flynn protested mid-flight.

“That was your intention!”

He vaulted a narrow gap between trees.

The bird clipped his tail.

He yelped.

Acorns began raining down from above, whether in panic or judgment, it was difficult to say.

Members of the Firstbranch Tribe erupted from surrounding branches in a storm of chattering commentary.

“Again?!”
“It is always Flynn!”
“Why is it always eggs?!”
“That bird will remember this for seasons!”

Flynn twisted midair and launched himself toward the safety of an ancient dead tree, hollowed, twisted, scarred by lightning long ago.

He shot into a narrow crevice just as the blue jay slammed into the bark above him, screeching outrage.

Silence.

Then heavy breathing.

Flynn peeked out.

The blue jay perched above, eyes narrowed.

“This is not finished,” it declared.

“Of course not,” Flynn muttered.

Eventually the bird took to the sky, still muttering threats.

Below, the forest resumed its ordinary hum.

One by one, squirrels re-emerged.

Skitterleaf approached first.

“You will one day be eaten,” she informed him.

“By what?” Flynn asked cheerfully. “The egg?”

Pippin Barkdash glared.

“That tree,” he whispered, lowering his voice, “is restricted.”

Flynn blinked.

“It is hollow.”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“It is the Hollow of Memory.”

Flynn rolled his eyes slightly.

“Oh not this again.”

A new voice spoke.

Calm.

Old.

Worn smooth by seasons.

“Some of us remember what you do not.”

The squirrels parted.

Elder Bristlethorn descended slowly from the upper branch.

His fur had faded to pale silver. His eyes, however, were sharp and steady.

Flynn straightened, brushing bark dust from his whiskers.

“With respect, Elder,” Flynn began carefully, “the Hollow of Memory contains nothing but wind and rot.”

Elder Bristlethorn studied him.

“That is what it looks like.”

The forest grew still.

“Has he learned nothing from The Catastrophe?” murmured Mosswhisk from somewhere above.

Flynn’s tail twitched.

“The Catastrophe,” he said lightly, “was long ago.”

“For you,” Bristlethorn replied.

A wind moved through the branches.

And as the leaves shifted…

The forest seemed, just for a moment, to hum with something older.

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(To be continued in Chapter 2: Before the Falling)