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The Tribes
Book One: The Catastrophe
Chapter 6: The Giants
The second morning in the unfamiliar forest brought hunger.
Not ceremonial hunger.
Not scheduled nourishment.
Real hunger.
Acorns were discovered.
Edible bark identified.
Small insects tested cautiously.
The food was primitive.
But survivable.
By midday, a cluster of survivors led by Elder Bristlethorn had gathered near a shallow stream.
Healer Nutmeg Flicktail tended twisted limbs.
Younglings clung silently to elders.
The air was heavy with absence.
Then…
The ground shook.
Not violently.
Rhythmically.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
All heads turned.
Through the trees emerged something vast.
Tall.
Upright.
Hairless except at the top.
Wrapped in strange fabric.
It carried a long stick.
The creature paused at the stream and bent down, splashing water onto its face.
Several squirrels gasped.
“It stands on two legs,” whispered Mosswhisk.
“It has no tail,” murmured Skatterlily faintly.
The creature made a noise, a low, humming sound, entirely unaware that dozens of hyper-intelligent, dimensionally stranded beings were staring at it in stunned silence.
The human scratched its head.
Looked around.
Then sneezed.
Several squirrels flinched.
Bristlethorn narrowed his eyes.
“Observe,” he said quietly.
The human squinted toward a nearby branch where three survivors clung frozen in place.
Its gaze passed directly over them.
Unfocused.
Unseeing.
Then it turned away.
A pause.
“He does not perceive us fully,” Mosswhisk whispered.
Bristlethorn felt it then, faint but intact, the psychic resonance all their kind possessed.
Their species had always been able to bend perception slightly. It was subtle in their home dimension, a diplomatic courtesy among sentient species.
Here…
It could be survival.
Another human voice called from deeper in the forest.
The first responded and moved away.
The shaking of the ground faded.
Silence returned.
Bristlethorn exhaled slowly.
“They possess intelligence,” he said at last.
“But small.”
“Unfocused,” added Nutmeg Flicktail.
“And enormous,” Skatterlily said faintly.
“Yes,” Bristlethorn agreed.
He looked at the gathered survivors.
“If we are to endure here… they must never truly see us.”
The others understood at once.
A collective stillness settled over them.
Not ritual.
Instinct.
Bristlethorn closed his eyes.
He reached inward, toward that part of himself attuned to mental resonance.
The others followed.
A quiet wave moved outward.
Not domination.
Not control.
Just suggestion.
A gentle shaping of expectation.
Humans would see squirrels.
Simple creatures.
Native.
Unremarkable.
Nothing more.
The psychic imprint settled into the forest like pollen on wind.
When the next human passed by an hour later, he glanced at a nearby branch and smiled faintly.
“Squirrels,” he muttered.
Then he walked on.
The Firstbranch Tribe had made its first true decision in exile.
They would endure.
They would adapt.
And they would wait.
(To be continued in Chapter 7: The Firstbranch)
