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)

The Waiting Place

The place had no walls, yet it felt arranged.

White mist drifted in every direction, luminous and soft, concealing distance rather than defining it. Vision did not end so much as it gave up, dissolving gently into brightness. The ground, if it could be called that, was firm beneath the feet, smooth and pale, like polished marble remembered from a dream.

Scattered throughout the open expanse were pieces of furniture: desks, chairs, low tables, all pristine and white, elegant in a way that suggested purpose rather than comfort. They stood as if part of a waiting area, an office of sorts, though there were no doors to pass through, no counters to approach, no clocks to consult. Nothing here measured time.

Sound was muted. Not silent, but softened, as if every noise had to pass through layers of cloud before being allowed to exist.

Seated among the furnishings was a soul.

It was shaped like an adult human, upright and composed, hands resting loosely in its lap. Its features were smooth and unfinished, suggestive rather than specific, as though identity had not yet settled into place. There was no age to it, and yet there was history, an accumulated weight that did not burden, but informed.

The soul remembered other lives. Many of them. Each one distinct, each one folded neatly into memory. It remembered decisions made too confidently, moments where pride had spoken before wisdom had time to arrive. Not with regret exactly, but with awareness.

This life would be different.

“I wondered if you would choose now,” a voice said.

The soul looked up.

Gabriel stood nearby, his presence calm and immediate, as though he had always been there and had simply waited to be noticed. He was radiant without being blinding, authoritative without force. His expression held something between kindness and inevitability.

“Yes,” the soul said. Its voice carried clearly, untouched by echo. “It is time.”

Gabriel inclined his head slightly. “You have been at rest long enough.”

The soul nodded. “I have considered it carefully.”

“I know.”

They waited together in the mist, surrounded by the quiet geometry of white desks and chairs, all of it suspended in a space without edges.

“You understand,” Gabriel said, “that this is the final meeting.”

“I do.”

“The life you have chosen is not an easy one.”

The soul smiled faintly. “None of the worthwhile ones ever are.”

Gabriel regarded it with something like approval. “You know the conditions of your birth. The place. The mother. The circumstances.”

“Yes,” the soul said. “I know her name.”

“And you accept the challenges you will face there.”

“I do.”

A pause settled between them, not empty, but reverent.

“You have chosen this life,” Gabriel continued, “to temper what once hardened.”

The soul lowered its gaze. “Pride,” it said quietly.

Gabriel did not correct it. “Experience,” he replied instead. “Perspective.”

The mist shifted, brightening almost imperceptibly.

“You also know the cost,” Gabriel said.

The soul’s expression did not change, but something in its posture tightened.

“I will forget,” it said.

“Yes.”

“All of it.”

“Yes.”

Gabriel’s voice remained steady. “Your memories of this place. Your memories of other lives. Your certainty. Your clarity.”

The soul closed its eyes, not in sorrow, but acknowledgment.

“You will enter the world innocent,” Gabriel said. “Unburdened by knowledge that would bend your choices. You will not remember why you are there.”

“But I will still be drawn,” the soul said.

“Yes.” Gabriel stepped closer. “Direction remains, even when memory does not. The lesson you seek will follow you quietly.”

Another pause.

“What if I fail again?” the soul asked.

The question was not dramatic. It was honest.

Gabriel looked at it for a long moment. “You have failed before,” he said gently.

The soul met his gaze.

“And you are still here.”

The mist around them began to glow, light swelling from every direction, soft but insistent.

“It is time,” Gabriel said.

The soul rose from the chair. The furniture around them seemed less solid now, its edges blurring into brightness.

“I am ready,” the soul said, though unease flickered briefly beneath the words.

Gabriel placed a hand over his heart. “Go,” he said. “Live.”

The light expanded.

Mist thickened, then dissolved.

White became everything.

And then…

A newborn baby cried.