A Trek of A Storyteller

Ch.9: Squirrel

He woke up the next morning with the sun spilling through the small hole of his tarp into his eyes, like it had been now that the sun rose earlier. But when he reached for his small chunk of bread, he found only Bast's soft fur. He pet her tiredly, but quickly realized that the body beneath the fur was much smaller and besides, Bast was curled against his stomach, same as always. Sitting up in horror, he turned to see a dead squirrel with only bread crumbs and it's own blood around it, pooling from a cat's bite on its broken neck. He let out a strangled cry and scrambled backwards on all fours, getting tangled in the tarp.

His foot met Bast's body and she made sure to let him know with a loud yowl, leaping up and clawing her way up his leg. He cried out and struggled with the tarp. When at last he could see, Bast's pupils were wide with fear, staring at him accusingly as she clung to his thigh with her claws. The dead squirrel lay where it was, and Skylos took a deep breath, a shaky sigh escaping his lips.

"Good catch, Bast," he said sarcastically, though a glint of humor shone in his gaze as he unhooked the cat from his pants. Grimacing, he rolled up the small rodent in the section of tarp it lay on, and, taking out his knife, sliced the tarp where the roll ended.

Carefully, he walked down the steps of the Oaktale Compass holding the roll of tarp aloft with a furry tail poking out one side while Bast stuck at his heels, head turned up to watch curiously. He placed the roll down and, using his hands, dug a small grave for the animal while Bast played with her tail, rolling in the dirt beside him.

He paused a moment, remembering his matches. He could build a fire, cook the squirrel. He could have food. Meat, no less. But he stopped himself, remembering not only that he owed the poor animal something proper for its taken life, but also that he didn't know how to prepare a squirrel or any other animal for that matter.

"May the divine powers watch over your soul, as small as it may be. Your heart will rest here, in the dirt you emerged from, and once again you will jump from branches and leap through trees and bound through meadows. Your mortal body will rest here, shed from it and be free," the boy said as he unrolled the tarp and carefully cradled the little squirrel's limp, cold body in his hands before placing it in the hole and piling dirt over it.

He found a flat rock and used the dull paring knife which he retrieved from his camp to carve a small note: Here lies Squirrel, ?? - March.

Nodding decidedly, he placed the rock as a headstone and gave a small salute before heading back up the stairs with Bast running to catch up with him quickly. He gave her a small scratch between the ears.

"No more killing unless you'll eat," he said, shaking a mockingly stern finger at the cat. She followed his finger and pounced, wrestling with his hands while he grinned and laughed.

When finally she grew bored and sat away, cleaning herself, he picked up his satchel and ignored the pain in his belly, instead setting off to improve his map and explore the inside of the grounds.

He set off towards Riddle Booth, interrupting Bast's bath, but instead explored the small island before it. Once again he marked off the impenetrable shops and those that he had yet to search.

After only an hour, when he'd finished the island, he sat back and looked upon his map. It was as accurate as it could be until July 31st when those that truly did belong here arrived and set up their own second-homes. He tried his best not to think of how lost he'd be after those days without a camp to stay.