Of Pattertwig the Squire

Aravir, the morning star, faded in farewell low in the eastern sky. The drowsy sun peeked between the trees as morning dawned with youthful radiance. The Evergreens intermingled with the beeches, ashes and the wise old oaks, awakening from peaceful slumber to the nattering warble of the merry early birds.

In a dusky hollow of a wizened oaken trunk, awoke the red squirrel Pattertwig. A sore sight it was for him; the roomy corner for his tree house where his abundant stash of nuts should be had none at all! But there was nothing else for it. With a shake of the head and spring in his step he left the gloom of sleep among his aromatic bed of leaves and scampered to the forest floor. He was unusually sluggish, burdened by his bloated belly as he headed for Rushafell Stream (known to some as the Rush River).

"Oh nutless-shells and knotted-furs!" he groaned hugging his gut as he toddled on. "My poor old tummy! It's always my luck, everything it is always just spiffy for Pattertwig!"

It did not occur to Pattertwig that the indulgent feast of berries the night before may be something to do with his bellyache.

The Rushafell Stream ran cool and clear. The delicate water caressed the riverbank and the current-worn stones. Infrequent rays pierced through the verdant canopy above and adorned the water face with a sheet of shimmering light. Pattertwig came to the riverbank and took hardy draughts of the milky smooth water. He was particularly thirsty and the morning fresh water soothed his grumbling stomach, but so occupied he was with drinking that he forgot to pause for breath. A sharp chill bit his throat and he choked on his last gulp of water, spluttering and gasping for air.

"Easy on!" came a voice from across the way. "The Rushafell pavenders won't be happy if you drink all the water!"

With a flinch, Pattertwig spied a small bear casting him a curious glance. Being a squirrel, his instinctive thought at the sight of the bear was not sit around until he found himself between a pair of jaws. Before the bear could blink twice, the red squirrel had made a shot for the highest branch of the nearest tree. Pattertwig was now perched on a branch that overhung the stream, a comfortable spot to converse with the staring, black-coated bear cub.

"I'm sorry Miss Squirrel, I didn't mean to scare you." said the black bear gazing up at Pattertwig from across the stream.

"I beg your pardon Mr. Bear! My name is Pattertwig, and I am most certainly not a 'Miss Squirrel' as you would say I am!" he spoke bravely from the safety of the high branch. The bear rummaged through his mind for words that would not further upset the startled squirrel.

"Oh – Mr. Pattertwig," he started "How fast you do climb!" The bear now waded across the water casually, with only his head and back emerging from the surface. Pattertwig's eyes were fixed on him as he arrived on the bank below him, nibbling his paws anxiously.

"I've never seen a redder squirrel!" the bear murmured to himself, immensely intrigued. He sat now under the tree straining his head up at Pattertwig. "It's nice to meet you Mr. Pattertwig. My name is Bonfre. Today is my birthday!"

"Well, happy birthday Bonfre." said Pattertwig warily, "But would you be a kind bear and be on your way? Nuts don't gather themselves you know! I want to preen my fur and wash in the water and I can't very well do it with you…" Pattertwig trailed off as he observed the bear approach the base of the tree, then wrap his densely furry arms around the tree trunk, paying no notice to what he was saying.

"What are you doing Bonfre?" Pattertwig asked uneasily.

"Hold on Mr. Pattertwig, I will be up in a second. Just you wait!" said Bonfre. Pattertwig gave a humorous gasp and watched Bonfre doubtfully. Bonfre clamped his claws into the bark of the tree with a steel grip, then surged himself upwards with his powerful forelegs. To Pattertwig's disbelief he was half way up the tree trunk. His heart leapt in his throat and triggered his whole body with rigid fright. Like a wound up spring he launched himself off his perch to lower branches, landing then jumping again faster than the nimblest of cats, eventually finding the mossy ground. He rolled across the forest floor like a fey wood sprite, passing by on-looking foxgloves, liberty caps and snowbells and over the cluttered carpet of forest litter. With rapid momentum he bolted up another tree swifter than a sky bound robin and settled between two arms of the tree, his chest heaving.

"What a bothersome bear! Since when do bears climb trees?" he thought to himself peeping around the branch. His thoughts were broken by a ruckus above him. Quarrelsome voices exchanging insults and exclamations muddled with croaks and curses.

"…five bothersome weeks...like a bunch of pretty wagtails!" croaked one harsh voice.

"You? You sat like a plump little pigeon while we collected…" another yowled.

"Pipe down you flocking crowd of coots!" broke in yet another.

"…the bumpy sweet blue berries, the juicy red shiny ones, the little round scrumptious ones- oh! And the prickly sour bubbly ones and all! Gone! Stolen by the little red fiend!"

"We'll get'em! He's sure to be around this cosy little wood someplace..."

Pattertwig felt sick. The voices did not sound friendly at all, filled with cruel rage, they chilled his soft heart. It occurred to him that he was the only creature with a red coat about these parts as far as dozen thrusts of a wind-filled wing would reach. He remembered something about eating alot of berries the night before, but could not quite recall where he got them. His breathing was frantic now, still shaken by the last ordeal. He closed his eyes and wished to be in his comfy tree hollow; home, where there was nobody there to be angry at him, or chase him out of the tree.

"What's this? There's someone down there!" said the first angry voice.

"- …not allowed in our tree!" squaked the second.

Before Pattertwig knew it he was on the run again. Like a frightened deer he leapt and bound, over and under fallen logs and sleeping rocks. Between the towering pillars that stood everywhere about him. With a glance behind him, to his misfortune, he saw a host of black feathered birds. There was easily an even two dozen, all crying a chorus of fierce curses and croaks. The air-swift cloud of feathered pursuers stormed after Pattertwig like a raging tempest.

"Oh cheerless world!" sobbed Pattertwig. "- where trees mean strife for squirrels, and sweet berries summon angry birds!"

The forest gave way to an open field under the gaping sky. Not even four squirrel strides did Pattertwig fly till he was in the grasp of the vengeful birds.

"Pattertwig, furry-twig, see him run-away!

His belly full of Raven's feast, he cannot run all day!

Pattery-twig, dangly-twig now hanging from the sky,

We'll take him to the Mountains for hungry Giant's pie!

Or East to the sea-serpent, where it'll munch on squirrel's bones!

I say down to the bone-break ground where we'll laugh at him explode!"

The Ravens forgot their rage as fast as yesterday's breakfast with their wicked song. They were now as giddy as a swarm of frolicking butterflies, enjoying their game of 'pass-the-squirrel' with poor Pattertwig. It wasn't much fun at all for him, his eyes glued shut with fear for his life, and he remembered nothing of the following happenings that would decide his fate. The ravens got clumsy with their game and bore Pattertwig but a tree height off the ground; such fun they were having!

"Peck his ears and scratch his fur,

To and fro with the thieving cur!

Scrape-a-twig, throw-a-twig, hear the rascal scream!

And -"

The Ravens' antics came to an abrupt end. One of the jolly birds was struck square on the beak with an airborne rock.

"Unhand that squirrel wing-rats!" piped a voice from below. The Ravens all discovered the mouse, none other than Reepicheep himself, wielding sword and shield.

"Get stuffed little squeaker!" one jeered at him.

"Hah! - Yeah, get stuffed Nibbles! This squirrel has mouthed more nuts than he can chew!" crowed another. Whiz! Zoom! Thud! Yet again the throwing arm of Reepicheep felled another blackbird from the sky.

"Since when do folk of Ravenscaur fly out to do work of the White Witch? Old Raven shall answer to my blade if ever he issued such orders! If you find twenty wing-rats against one red squirrel fair odds, with the tiny brains you do have, perhaps a mouse in the squirrels stead will send you cowards to lay eggs in a chicken coop." hollered Reepicheep, humouring himself with his last remark.

"Well if I didn't know better, I'd say that mouse just insulted us!" squawked one raven.

"You really are a puffin-head! Mice don't insult birds; they run and cower just like scaredy-squirrels!" croaked another.

"Not this one! He's a –"'whizz! Zoom!' The raven manoeuvred with a jolt of his wings to dodge the third missile, loosing grip of the petrified Pattertwig. Thanks to Reepicheep's well timed shot, his fall was relatively short and with a bit of luck he fell on a bed of ferns at the edge of the wood and emerged unscathed. But all the same, he was very shook up. That was the last straw for the ravens. Reepicheep had spoiled their newly invented game, insulted their intelligence and left two of them with bruised beaks.

"Have at'em lads!" cried one raven, followed by an outbreak of harsh squawks and croaks from the multitude of diving birds. Reepicheep stood now, one mouse against twenty enraged ravens, playing with the grip of his sword and the weight of his shield, visualising the fight to come. His rapier sword will be swift and sure like a stinging wasp. He will adjust his balance to the weight of his shield. The ravens are overconfident and driven by anger, they will attack with mindless strength, careless blows easy enough for the brave mouse to evade parry and repay them with the tip of the blade and ridge of his shield.

Pattertwig looked on in terror from his cover of wispy leaves. He could not bear to look at his mouse friend torn apart by the wicked birds. He caught glimpses of the battle unfolding between his paws covering his eyes, cringing at any elevated noise or flurry of activity. On the large, it was a haze of black feathers flying, torn from the flesh of the birds by the bite of steel. The whinging of pain stricken blackbirds rang constantly in Pattertwig's ears, with the spontaneous clank of metal as one bird's head would meet the face of Reepicheep's shield or a slashing of flesh would be heard as the Knight of Aslan sank his blade deep.

Reepicheep cleaned his blade and gave one sore-winged raven a last kick to the rear tail feathers before it limbed off. Reepicheep then approached Pattertwig the squirrel.

"Hurray Pattertwig! I want to thank you for those berries you gave me. And not a moment too soon it would seem." laughed Reepicheep. Pattertwig could have hugged the noble mouse there and then but restrained himself for he had great respect for him now and at the same time was immensely grateful for him saving his life. In a fit of excitement the red squirrel ran here and there, and in circles about the noble mouse babbling his own string of praises to Reepicheep. It was a good quarter of an hour before he began to talk plainly again, and to Reepicheep's wonderment he seemed to have conjured an acorn out of thin air and wasted no time going about nibbling at it. He was about to ask him about it but before he could put his words together Pattertwig asked,

"Where are we going now Sir. Reep? I should like to know! Really I should! Where ever shall we go next I do wonder? Well? Let's get going then! Where are we to go next great swordsmouse in all the reach of Rushafell?" For a moment Reepicheep was at a loss for words. But he seen no harm in Pattertwig accompanying him for a while, for it was a long walk to the site of the Stone Table. Reepicheep had found himself thinking about that place too often for a fanciful memory, he was meant to go there and look once more upon the cracked table in his mind.

About three day's journey it was at a casual pace and with one significant stop on the way. They became acquainted with two dwarf brothers at an inn called the Undertree Inn, and if you are wondering where that name came from, the inn was dug into the earth by the dwarves under a great oak tree. And it just so happened that their names where Brimblebeard and Drumbatuff Undertree. Anyhow, when they learned of Reepicheep's noble statue, and of Pattertwig's fond adoration of Reepicheep, they showed young Pattertwig a thing of two about the care and maintenance of weapons and armour and many essentials skills of one who might wish to assist a knight on his adventures. Indeed it wasn't much of a rest for the red squirrel, but he proved quite proficient in such tasks. He enjoyed it almost as much as cracking nuts and refurbishing his squirrel hole for Winter. Reepicheep recognised his skills and enlisted him as his squire, to bear his shield and perhaps even their own banner if Aslan wills it! As you can imagine, Pattertwig was most delighted to hear this and from then on wore a green feather behind his right ear much like Reepicheep's red one that he wore in the same manner.