Squirrel Mountain Trilogy [Complete] [NOOK Book]

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Time slithers like some dark and angry snake on its belly, waiting for its prey to weaken, to give up. Time waited for Grand Stanley and so did the deep ravine known as Squirrel Valley.

Grand looked out over Squirrel Valley squinting his eyes in the sun and shielding them with his outstretched hand. He knew the time had come, but didn't know if he could go through with it. His brother had done it and died. His father had done it and was lucky, luckier than his father, and his father's father. The Stanley men died young.

Grand's young son, Bench, stood behind him in a small copse of trees watching curiously as his father stood at the edge of the cliff. Bench's eyes would see on this day something he would not soon forget. The young boy stood alone behind a small birch. He had his backpack sitting beside him, paying no mind to its contents of dried venison, fruit, and a bedroll. He paid no mind to the old, rusty shotgun leaning on an adjacent tree. The gun was loaded just in case, just in case...

Grand tested the wind. He knew it had to be right. He knew the wind. He knew it well, the subtleties and the brutal cyclonic rushes. He had watched for years. Squirrel Valley would soon be his grave or his genesis. He looked back at the boy, feeling a tinge of sorrow. If he didn't survive, the boy would have to walk back to his mother and the other children by himself. It was a long journey for a lad, five days fraught with danger.

Cliff flying had been a tradition in the Stanley tribe forever. Stories had been passed down through the generations. It had been told that Arkin Stanley had begun the practice over two hundred years before. He hadfallen to his death while his oldest son stood by a tree not dissimilar to the one Bench now stood beside.

Tradition has it that the patriarch of the family could not jump from Squirrel Hill cliff if he had no sons. Taber Stanley had four daughters and therefore was not allowed to jump. Wonson Stanley had no children and was not permitted to jump. In other words, the Stanley patriarch could not leave his wife unattended or without a man to keep wood in the stove.

After the oldest son's tenth birthday, the Stanley patriarch could take his leap. A successful leap placed the patriarch at the head Clan Table during the Red Leaf Season Festival. He and his son had bragging rights until the next patriarch jumped. A failed leap placed the patriarch's name on the Stone of Legends and his son was required to weave a tale about his father's attempt. Grand wondered if the boy could weave such a tale. Bench was a quiet lad, never imposing, always compliant, a good son. But, could he lead? Could anyone? Grand's father survived the leap, but had passed away two years ago. He died the yellow death. Grand's father, Bond, was quiet too, like the boy, but had been a great leader in the clan. Yes, Bond Stanley was quiet, but deadly.

The story was told about Bond's confrontation with Yamen Tyler, clan leader of the Tylers, a rugged, leather skinned man who had the temperament of an ox and just as ugly. Seems Yamen wanted to take one of the Stanley women to bed without marriage. Bond stood his ground and stared old Yamen down. The Tylers have stayed away from the Stanleys ever since the incident. The clans have learned to be tolerant of one another, speaking only when necessary. They used the same forest to hunt in, but the forest was immense, giving plenty of game to both clans.

• • •

Bench ran over to the edge of the cliff in spite of his father's previous warnings. He stopped himself a few inches from the edge, afraid of what he might see. He lowered himself to his knees and then to his stomach, inching himself to the edge. What he saw surprised him. The white mist of a cloud covered the deep chasm, making it seem like a white-capped lake, but Bench knew it was no lake. He knew what lay below the mist was a cemetery of ragged rocks and boulders, and his forefathers' bones. He involuntarily shuddered. Perhaps now his father's bones have joined the strange Stanley mausoleum lying at the bottom of this gorge. His stomach felt jittery, like something was swimming around in it. He instinctively knew it was fear.

He followed his father's orders. He went to the large tree where the rusty old gun was leaning and began preparing a campfire. His father had told him to camp there until morning.If morning shows and I don't, you must go home. Remember the trail signs we made together.

• • •

Red Leaf season was close at hand and the north wind was crawling into Bench's bones. He threw more branches onto the fire and pulled some dried fruit out of his backpack. He sat with legs crossed on a skin-blanket and chewed the dried peach quietly, trying to think with hope that his father would be walking into the small camp at any moment. The moment never came.

• • •

Light shining through the thin tent walls woke Bench from his restless sleep. His mind was fuzzy and had almost forgot why he was alone, but the memory worked its way into his thoughts. He wept. His father had not made it. He, no doubt, was dead or hurt too bad to climb the mountain. In case of the latter, Bench prayed for a quick death for his kind, gentle father. He decided to wait awhile before breaking camp, with the hope his father might still show up.

When he first heard the snapping of twigs and branches, and the rustling of leaves, his heart jumped prematurely for joy, thinking it was his father.

The huge black bear slammed all thoughts of joy out of Bench's mind. The creature stood on its hind legs and grunted hungrily, its head moving from side to side. "Your father is dead." The bear's dark, beady eyes stared at the boy. "He is gone." Bench was speechless. "Little boys can be hurt in the forest if they're not careful. So, my friend, make haste and leave this spot. Find your way home ... and beware of the slithering creatures of the night." The bear turned with great agility and crashed through the underbrush.

Bench stood, staring and disbelieving, frozen in his stance. He had heard many stories of such things, but he thought the tales were foolhardy. The beast had left him gasping with fear. The magnitude of his dilemma became frightfully clear to him. He was a boy, alone, and by necessity was about to become a man.

Bench walked cautiously to the edge of the cliff. This time he stood dangerously on the edge with no more than a step between himself and eternity. He looked into the chasm below. He could barely make out the floor of the canyon, scarred and pitted with rust colored boulders. He stared into the vast valley, wondering if someday he would be back. Bench knelt and prayed to the God of his world.

Copyright © 2006 Stan Grimes.