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Every day at nearly the exact same moment, the giant arrived.
He came stomping down the forest trail with all the subtle grace of a falling tree, carrying his strange black seeing-box around his neck and wearing the most baffling hat Flynn had ever witnessed.
Two round ears protruded from the top of it.
Not squirrel ears.
Not fox ears.
Not even respectable raccoon ears.
Mouse ears.
Flynn stared from the branch above and shook his head slowly.
“I ask you,” he whispered gravely, “how can a species survive while dressing like prey?”
Below him, Rootrick Splinterpaw nodded with wide-eyed admiration.
“It is disgraceful,” Rootrick agreed.
Skitterleaf rolled her eyes.
“It is a hat.”
“It is a declaration of weakness,” Flynn corrected.
Pippin Barkdash twitched nervously from a nearby branch.
“He’s coming,” Pippin whispered. “Maybe we should reconsider this.”
“No,” Flynn said dramatically. “Today… we restore dignity to the forest.”
Skitterleaf sighed.
“Oh good. Another speech.”
Flynn leapt onto an old stump overlooking the trail below. Around him, young members of the Firstbranch Tribe crouched beside carefully gathered piles of acorns.
Far too carefully gathered.
Flynn had spent nearly an hour organizing them into “tactical distribution clusters,” which mostly meant piles of acorns in different sizes.
“The giant has tromped through our territory for many cycles,” Flynn announced, pacing atop the stump. “He crashes through leaves, startles birds, points his seeing-box at everyone, and worst of all…”
Flynn pointed dramatically toward the approaching trail.
“…he wears the ears of lesser creatures.”
Rootrick gasped softly.
Skitterleaf muttered, “They are decorative.”
“We cannot allow such disrespect,” Flynn continued. “Today, Operation Acornfall begins.”
Pippin raised one trembling paw.
“What exactly is the objective of Operation Acornfall?”
Flynn smiled.
“To humble the giant.”
Rootrick nearly fainted from excitement.
The giant appeared moments later.
The ground shook rhythmically beneath his boots as he wandered slowly along the trail, occasionally lifting the black seeing-box to his face.
Click.
Click.
The machine blinked with its strange glass eye.
“Positions,” Flynn whispered.
The young squirrels scattered into carefully selected branches above the trail.
To Flynn’s credit, the operation was surprisingly well organized.
Skitterleaf controlled the left flank.
Pippin served as lookout.
Rootrick handled ammunition transport.
Two younger squirrels waited above with reserve acorns.
Flynn himself occupied the central bombardment branch.
The giant stopped directly beneath them.
Perfect.
Flynn lifted one paw.
Every squirrel froze.
The forest fell silent except for distant wind in the leaves.
Flynn grinned.
Then he dropped the first acorn.
Thunk.
The acorn bounced harmlessly off the giant’s backpack.
The human stopped.
Slowly, he looked around.
Above, the squirrels held perfectly still.
The giant shrugged and continued walking.
Flynn’s eyes widened with delight.
“It works,” he whispered.
He gave the signal again.
Thunk.
Thunk.
A second acorn struck the giant’s shoulder.
A third bounced off his ridiculous mouse-ear hat.
The giant stopped again.
This time he looked upward suspiciously.
Flynn flattened himself against the branch.
Below, the giant narrowed his eyes.
“Oh, you little jerks,” he muttered.
Rootrick looked astonished.
“He suspects nothing.”
Flynn nodded proudly.
“Primitive minds rarely grasp tactical superiority.”
Then everything went wrong.
Pippin panicked first.
“The seeing-box is looking at us!” he squeaked.
Indeed, the giant had lifted the black machine upward toward the branches.
Click.
Click.
“He’s documenting the operation!” Flynn hissed.
Rootrick became overexcited and accidentally dumped his entire reserve pile at once.
Acorns exploded downward like hailstones.
The giant yelped.
“HEY!”
Another young squirrel lost grip on an enormous acorn nearly the size of his own head.
It plummeted directly onto the brim of the mouse-ear cap.
WHOMP.
The hat flew sideways.
The giant staggered backward in disbelief.
High above, Flynn panicked and attempted what he would later describe as “an advanced tactical finishing maneuver.”
What this actually meant was leaping to another branch while carrying three acorns in his mouth.
He collided directly with Pippin.
Both squirrels tumbled through leaves in a screeching blur.
Acorns erupted everywhere.
The forest descended into chaos.
“RETREAT!” Skitterleaf shouted.
“You said this was organized!” Pippin screamed.
“It WAS organized!” Flynn yelled back while dangling upside down briefly from a twig.
Below them, the giant now stood in the middle of a full acorn bombardment.
He looked upward in absolute disbelief as squirrels scrambled wildly between branches.
Then...
to Flynn’s horror...
the giant started laughing.
Not angry laughing.
Amused laughing.
“Oh, you absolutely did that on purpose,” the giant said, raising the seeing-box again.
Click.
Click.
Click.
“He is collecting evidence!” Flynn shouted.
The squirrels fled into the upper canopy.
The scolding came later that evening.
Elder Bristlethorn waited upon a broad branch near the Hollow of Memory while Flynn and his exhausted companions sat in a deeply uncomfortable line.
No one spoke.
Bristlethorn looked at them quietly.
Then he looked at the acorn fragments still stuck in Flynn’s fur.
“Would someone,” Bristlethorn said calmly, “like to explain why a repeat forest observer carrying a visual recording device was subjected to a coordinated aerial assault?”
Silence.
Finally Flynn cleared his throat.
“In fairness,” he began carefully, “the giant was wearing mouse ears.”
Skitterleaf covered her face with both paws.
Rootrick whispered, “It did look ridiculous.”
Bristlethorn closed his eyes briefly.
“You organized this?”
Flynn straightened slightly.
“Yes.”
“With assigned positions?”
“…yes.”
“With ammunition reserves?”
“…possibly.”
Pippin raised one paw weakly.
“I said it was dangerous.”
“You participated,” Skitterleaf snapped.
“I was pressured by leadership!”
Bristlethorn sighed deeply.
“Young squirrels,” he said, “must understand something important about humans.”
The group listened.
“They are dull-witted creatures.”
Flynn nodded confidently.
“Yes.”
“But,” Bristlethorn continued, “they are not entirely dull-witted.”
Flynn’s confidence weakened slightly.
“When acorns fall naturally,” Bristlethorn said, “they do not usually strike hats in coordinated succession.”
“That may have been coincidence,” Flynn offered.
“Flynn.”
“Yes?”
“You attempted what witnesses describe as a ‘finishing maneuver.’”
Rootrick looked impressed again.
Bristlethorn fixed Flynn with a long stare.
“One observant human can become a problem.”
The branch grew quiet.
Far below, somewhere along the forest trail, the giant was probably still examining photographs and wondering if squirrels could organize military operations.
Flynn scratched the back of his neck.
“…do you think he knows?”
Bristlethorn looked out into the darkening forest.
“No,” the Elder said.
Then after a pause:
“But he suspects.”
The younger squirrels exchanged nervous looks.
And despite himself…
Flynn grinned.
Somehow, that made the whole thing even better.
