Fire Red Squirrels 1636 ^new^ Info

On the morning of August 12th, the wind came. Rust was perched on the highest limb of a lightning-blasted oak. His fur was the color of embers, a tawny red that seemed to glow. He watched a plume of smoke rise beyond the far ridge, not gray like a campfire, but yellow-white, churning like a living thing.

He reached the muddy bank and dove into a shallow pool choked with ash. One by one, the other squirrels tumbled in after him, plunging into the water until only their noses showed. Above, the world burned. The roar was now a continuous thunder. Oaks that had stood for two hundred years burst like torches. fire red squirrels 1636

They stayed submerged until the worst passed—perhaps an hour, perhaps a day. Time had melted. On the morning of August 12th, the wind came

In the summer of 1636, the village of Oakhaven lay drowsy under a bronze sun. The people knew drought, but they did not yet know fire. The one who did was a red squirrel named Rust. He watched a plume of smoke rise beyond

Then he saw them. A dozen of his kind, frozen on a rocky outcrop. Their eyes were wide, their noses twitching at the strange, hot smell. They were trapped. Behind them, a dry streambed offered a path to the river. Ahead, a wall of flame was beginning to crown the ridge.