Instinct | second entry

Instructions

i n s t i n c t -------------------------------------------------------------------------- April 19th, after sunhigh, near Mushroom Farm “Remind me again why we’re headed towards the carnivorous stoats and weasels?” I sigh. The blue jay, Loyd, has not stopped pestering me even though we’re almost already there. “Look,” I say, turning to face him, “I’m not going to pretend I know how it is with birds, but some of my siblings and some moles are there - and no birds were supposed to be there until the Harvest started. Which means they have no idea about the stoats and weasels. Someone’s gotta warn them.” “But why am I here?” asks Loyd, who, to be fair, has been flying behind me for a good half-mile or so. “Because I need you for something. Actually, can you fly in through the avian entrance to the Main Burrow and grab that birch-bark sheath on the hearth?” “I stayed for this?” Loyd mutters in disbelief. “No,” I say, “You stayed because I actually have a plan for once. And I need a bird and you came when I blew the grass stalk.” “A plan… for once? Oh great. That’s reassuring.” He rubs his beak under his wing, something birds do when they’re frustrated. I only know this because he’s doing it right now. Nevertheless, he flies off towards the Main Burrow, still dutifully echoing the alarm for any stragglers to hear. I take this time to myself to try to think of an actual plan. Don’t get me wrong; I had one. But it’s always best to have a Plan B, especially when dealing with weasels. They’re like cute skinny foxes with needle-sharp teeth that you don’t see - unless they want you to. Like I said. You can’t just waltz in there with some bravado and wits and hope to scare them off… even if that’s what my original plan was. And it still is. Besides, what Loyd’s bringing back will help my case. It’s a shard of moose horn that I tied very securely to a good-sized stick. I’ve been using it as a dagger, and nobody knows the difference. Even if they do, I can always tell them I took it from the moose myself. It’s not my fault if they take it to mean I killed the moose. “Here,” says Loyd, and said moose-horn dagger clatters to the dirt. “Now would you mind explaining what you’re planning?” “Simple. You go and announce me like I’m this big-shot warrior, I walk in and they go ‘Wait she’s a bunny’, you get Collin, Bailey and the rest away, and I jump over their heads and into the harvest cellar. Which I happen to know to be a pantry and tunnel to the Main Burow’s pantry. You fly in their faces and be all ‘Beware, vermin!’ And then we live happily ever after.” Loyd scuffs the drawings in the dirt I’m using to further illustrate my plan. “That’s a horrible plan, but it might work. And that’s enough for me.” He flies off yet again, but this time in the direction of the vermin, yelling, “Run whilst you still have two feet to stand on! I warn you now, leave before she comes!” I smother a laugh and walk towards the bushes, where I can leap impressively from once the time is right. (I wrote this next part after it all went down, as I couldn’t bluff to be a warrior and write in this confounded notebook at the same time) “She’s laid low the moose of moosiness! Radishes all over Brockmoor tremble in fear at the mention of her name!” One of the stoats, a lean one with a small head and thus small brains, grunts, “Wot’s a radish?” “Oh,” says Loyd, sweeping his wings dramatically, “Only one of the biggest predators to ever walk the earth! You’re lucky you haven’t met one yet, stoat. And the moose of moosiness! She laid him low too, no doubt about that!” “That sounds like just a moose ter me,” protests the stoat. “Shows how little you know,” says his fellow stoat. “I think I’ve heard of that un. He was a beeg moose, with antlers bigger than yer face!” The other stoat feels his face. “But ain’t a moose’s antlers already bigger than me face?” Now’s my chance. I make a big show of striding in, dagger out and chin high. I hold up the dagger. “Oh really? Well then tell me why this bit of his antler is bigger than your face.” “Ye just proved me point though,” says the now thoroughly confused stoat. “Are you Artemis the Fierce, Scourge of Brockmoor?” asks a weasel, gnashing his teeth with every word. I glare at Loyd and try to nod haughtily. The weasel bursts out laughing. “Lookit here, fellas, an’ tremble before the mighty rabbit! Ooh, I’m a-shivering in me boots, yes siree!” I back away and jump, landing on the unfortunate stoat who didn’t get the point of my dagger, pun intended, and slash the hilt of my dagger at his friend. The weasel laughs. “My companions might be felled easy-like, but I’m not gonna lose to a rabbit!” He lunges, claws out and teeth sparkling, dangerously blinding in the dappled sunlight of the farm. I twist out of the way a second too late, and I feel needle-sharp claws rake my hide, and I twist mid-twist, kicking the weasel’s paw away.