Of Flashbacks and Flames

[Timbones Oldburrow]

A disheveled figure shuffled amongst the endless dunes of the Great Southern Desert. Timbones had been fighting hard to stay awake - Olna had warned him before leaving about how "the antelope squirrel is a creature of the day," and how their bodies naturally shut down after nightfall in order to prevent "the exact sorta foolhardy night ventures that yer Uncle takes a likin' to." But Tim didn't listen, he had just wanted to get out and away as soon as possible. At the time taking life into his own paw by leaving home at an unscheduled time and trekking off into the darkness felt "mature" - now it was quite obviously just "foolhardy," and the young squirrel regretted his headstrong decision... almost.

Tim smiled as he uncorked his canteen and took a sip of precious liquid. He was his own creature now; the charmisack no longer weighed upon his back, and there was nothing to remind him of his life before...

Wait a minute-

There was a bulge in his tunic - a hard square bulge. Sandspeaker Beastmasters always had pockets inside their garments to house smaller and more delicate tools of the trade; it was into one of these that Tim had slipped Olna's journal.

With a sigh of resignation Tim removed the book and opened it in the middle, surveying the pages in the bright moonlight. The text was a series of slanted lines, scratches, and tick marks: Squirrelscript. Each page was dedicated to its own creature of the desert, complete with a list of do's and don'ts, most effective taming or mastery techniques, difficulty scale and some quaint illustrations. Ironically, Timbones had opened the entry "Diamondback Rattlesnake." The difficulty rating was 10.5 accompanied by a red skull-and-crossbones danger label.

That's about right... but I'd round that down to 10 considerin' I'm still alive.

He flipped through pages, making his way to the front cover. The creature entries were organized into chapters based on type: scalies, crawlies, hoppers, stingers, fliers, furies, even a small section on "swimmers" which Tim doubted he would ever need to use. Preceding the critter categories was a monograph titled Techniques of the Trade, which included instructions on how to go about certain rituals and dances and proper use of charmisack implements.

It was a lot to take in - this wasn't a journal, it was a guidebook, and Olna must have dedicated seasons to compiling it. Tim couldn't help but feel that it'd take just as long to read. He shook his head All that time you were preparing... but why weren't you preparing me? If only I had had this book sooner, maybe I could've made something out of myself. And now here I am stranded amongst the sands...

Stranded...

That word brought back a memory from his first trek with Uncle Norris. It was several seasons ago, back when the seasonal rains still occurred. Tim and his uncle were prospecting in the fork of a dry river valley when one such torrential downpour let loose, and they narrowly escaped drowning by standing atop a sand bar at the point of the river's divergence. The river rejoined itself but a few meters downstream, and the Oldburrow boys found themselves trapped on an island between two raging currents. For nine days they awaited the water level to drop sufficiently enough for a safe passage, and in that time the two got to know each other much better than they had before. Norris taught Tim about the legend of Quetzalcoatl, how to catch trout using pieces of Olna's "famous" blueberry hardtack biscuits (the berry flavoring was intended to make them fit for squirrel consumption), whistle "Old Dead Turtle on the Log," and perhaps most importantly, how to tell direction based on the position of the Great Lights of the Night. Tim knew that most beasts just called the lights "stars," even though nobody knew exactly what they were, but he liked the poetic name that had been passed on from his Auntie's side of the family. He looked back fondly on that night, laying there with his back against the sandbar, the cool night air blowing across his fur, and the river singing babbling songs into his ears. And then there was the gruff voice of Norris, lulling the boy to sleep as he talked of the lights far away.

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"Now son, you look over thar to the South an' you'll see the Great Buzzard - his wings are open, ready to take all the bad souls who've met the dust today. Or that's what they say anyhow... I don't much giva darn. But it do look like a bird if ya tilt yer head I s'posse. An' then to 'is left thar is the Big Rock - ya that's what it's called, Big Rock. That's where they say all tha little rocks come from, they say the luckiest beasts git ta see when rocks are born an' fall from the Big one thar in the East. Now that story's true - I've seen 'em fall, twice in my days, an' I met a 'coon once that even found one such fallen stone."

'Wowww really?!?" young Tim interjected in astonishment.

"Yes really, I ain't no liar!" was the stern reply. "Now, lemme tell you about the other two most 'portant Lights. That one thar-" he pointed to a single dot in the Northern sky, "That one thar is called the Finder's Point, it can help ya if yer ever lost. It's always North - if ya were ta foller it, you'd end up dead."

"Dead? Why?" Tim interrupted again.

"Cause you'd be walkin' straight till ya made it to tha Green Forest! An' everybeast knows what happens thar, even you!"

Tim nodded in acknowledgement - Olna had told him bedtime stories about the terrors of the distant woodland beyond. In fact, most parents used the place as a threat against misbehaving youngins: "Do yer chores Mable, or we'll send ye off!" or "Dustback, you don't want to meet a Greatmaw do ye?" or even as far as "Old Sally Mae disappeared one night you know... sister said two big black things showed up aside her bed... and we know where they come from, sure as ye like."

Tim shivered. And it wasn't the cold night air.

"Now last one, then it's shuteye got it?" Norris continued. "Now, the West. In the West you see tha Stag. He's a big boy - you see his two antlers thar? Good? He'll lead ya to the sea, just like tha rivers will, if ya foller him. Now then me boy, ye know South, east, North 'n West. Ye remember 'em all right? Timmo?"

"Yes... I think so..." replied a tired Tim, barely keeping his eyes open.

"Right, well I surely hopes so... cause if ya don't, ya might just meet that Buzzard someday sooner than ya want. Got it?"

Tim's eyes were shut, and his chest undulated to a steady rhythm.

"Poor kid." The old man covered his nephew in a heavy blanket from the travel pack. He shuffled over to their campfire and stoked it, glancing over at the river bank as he did so. He hadn't told Timbones just how lucky they were - if the rain had continued, their island would have been swallowed up long ago. But fate had smiled upon the duo, and now Tim slept soundly, paw and stump serving as a pillow. A tear ran down Norris's cheek. "I'm sorry m'boy... so, so sorry. We all go on to the Deep Dune someday. Perhaps it woulda been better if I'd let you go on sooner... but here we be. On an island. Stranded."

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Thunder rumbled across the sky. Timbones's eyelids flickered open to the sight of a soft orange light emanating from the horizon. He was slumped over in the sand in the middle of the open desert - completely vulnerable to any passing predators, thieves, or slave traders. Olna's guidebook lay on the ground in front of him, open to the entry Burrowing Owl.

"Nice try book, but they're daytime critters, an' they don't eat squirrels!"

Suddenly there was a rustling sound from behind and somebeast shouted "WE DON'T?"
Tim jumped up and stumbled, falling face first in the sand. He rolled over to see two bright yellow eyes staring down at him. The bird wasn't as large as the great eagles or buzzards of the wastelands, but it still towered over Tim. His heart pounded and his mind raced. Should he run? Fight? Negotiate? He decided to answer the owl's question and hope for the best...

"Um... no?"

The owl stared blankly for a moment, and then began to bob its head up and down. Tim thought maybe it was going to cough up a pellet, but instead the bird succumbed to a fit of laughter.

"OH WHO WHO WHO WHO WHOOO! You are correct... well... not usually..." he said as he wiped away a tear. "My kind dwells in the earth, just as yours, and it would hardly be sporting to consume one's neighbors WHO WHO WHO!"

Tim swallowed the lump in his throat. He had met a burrowing owl once or twice before. After all, the Oldburrow homestead was a commercial one; customers of all shapes and sizes came for Olna's beetle stock and Norris's precious metals and exotic finds. But birds weren't the most common customers (save for that annoying magpie family), especially not semi-predatory ones.

"Well sir-" Tim got to his feet. "We ain't neighbors as far as I know but I'd be mighty appreciative if you found yer brekkist someplace else."

This sent the owl into further laughter. "WHO WHO WHO Brekkist? By your book I took you for a learned beast. Don't you know us burrowers are owls of the day?"

"I do know as a matter a' fact!" Tim rubbed his eyes (one at a time). "Why'd ya think I asked?"

"I believe that you are somewhat confudeld... This is the night." He dramatically extended a wing towards the sky - specks of light could be seen from in-between the dark clouds.

Tim pointed his stump defiantly at the orange glow on the horizon. "And that's that sun comin' up!"

The owl rotated his head from side to side. "Then that is strange... I've always known the sun to rise in the east!"

Tim's eyes darted to the sky - he remembered his lessons. Sure enough, the Superb Stag was fixed above the rising sun... but it should have been the Great Rock.

Timbones blinked. Perhaps he was still asleep. That would explain the gregarious owl.

"What... I don't understand..."

"Not convinced? Take a closer look: It is true that the sun burns - but does it smoke?"

Tim squinted into the light - this time he was able to make out a dark cloud rising against the night sky. The squirrel's eyes widened. He had heard stories of disastrous prairie fires that roared unchecked across the land, consuming entire villages within minutes. The hairs on his back rose as the realization of imminent danger set in.

"A fire - we gotta move! Git goin', fly! Wait no, take me with ya! Er, please!"

Much to Tim's distaste, the owl once again erupted into laughter. "WHO WHO WHOOOO! We are not in danger here, silly squirrel. But I do fear for the inhabitants of the town..."

"Town? Thar's a town?"

"Why yes. I was just on my way there, delivering the post you see" - he patted a duo of satchels strapped across his back - "When I ran into you. And I must say that I am thankful for the delay... as I did not plan to be roast meat today! Who Who!"

Tim's heart rate increased to near- levels "Tell Mr. Owl, what town is it!?!"

"Why Sandsline of course - it's the only civilized establishment this side of the sandbox... or was anyway... and my name is Jones. Steven Calamity Jones the nineteenth."

"I need ta git thar!" Tim threw himself at Jones and grabbed onto a bunch of stomach feathers. "I need ta git thar now!"

"Personal space please!" the bird gently shoved Tim back with a talon. "Why do you wish to enter an inferno? Do you hail from this town? Have family there? A mate?"

"A mate? No course not, I'm- nevermind! My Uncle is down there!"

"Your Uncle? Well, that is a situation. If you wish to help, I suggest you get moving."

Tim looked out across the sands to the distant column of smoke. "I need to travel fast - can't you help me?"

"I only wish that I could..." Jones said earnestly. He extended his wing - his only wing.

Tim stood shocked for a moment - it was everyday he met a fellow amputee. But there wasn't any time for chatting.

"Alright so you can't fly me there, but you've gots a pair of fine lookin' legs - how fast can you run?"

"You're asking a mail runner that? WHO WHO! I can run just as fast as any stool pigeon can fly WHO WHO WHO!"

Tim blinked. "That mean fast?"

"Er - yes. It does."

"Well then I'd be much obliged if-"

"No need to ask twice!" Jones squatted and extended his wing like a ramp. Climb aboard - let us go west young squirrel!"

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It really was morning (but still dark) by the time Jones and Timbones reached Sandsline, alarm bells and distant shouts intensifying as they approached. The pair crested the top of a sandy dune ridge overlooking a field turned inferno, firelight glinting from their eyes as dry agave, yucca, and prickly pear crackled, bubbled, and burned in the face of the heat. Several buildings in town had also succumbed to the blaze and now crumbled down to their stone foundations.

"I dare say," said Jones, catching his breath, "this is quite the disaster, worse than my prediction! If the town does not burn, it will surely starve!"

Tim wasn't listening. His eyes followed a young woodrat as she ran across the edge of the field towards a small building with several tanks and boilers out front: a distillery.

Tim leapt off of Jones's back and rolled in the sand. "WAIT STOP!" he shouted. He raced down the ridge, tripping and rolling once again, all the way to the bottom. He got to his paws just in time to see the rat's yellow ear ribbons streaming in the wind as she disappeared into the distillery. "JAYNE COME BACK!"

The explosion sent Timbones flying backward into the sand dune. His head connected with a chunk of sandstone, and it all went black.

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Agonized screams of burning beasts echoed inside the squirrelbabe's mind. The noxious miasma of smoke and singed fur and death stung his nostrils. The intense heat from the surrounding inferno threatened to close in and consume his own life at any moment. Escape offered itself in the form of an open kitchen door, a portal to the quiet night world of safety and peace. But he could not leave - there would never be peace for a beast that abandoned his family.

Timbones struggled with both paws to remove a burning log obstructing the bedroom door. But what could a squirrel squibbly of three seasons do? It seemed hopeless, but not once was he tempted by the door. Life without his family would be pointless.

"Timbones..." came a wretched, cracked voice from the other side. "Timbones... get out..."

From a gap in the debris Tim could see his sister's face - it was terribly scarred and nearly furless, yet she still wore the yellow ribbon that Ma had given her for Dust Day last year.

"Jayne!" Tim wheezed. "I can't gonna leave ya, nope never! Gerrout!"

The little squirrel stuck his head through the opening and tried to squeeze through, only to be met with a forceful shove from the other side that popped him out like a cork from a bottle.

"No Timbones Oldburrow... you get out now!" she stuck a paw through and pointed to the open door. "Now!"

Timbers creaked overhead as the fire sapped their strength.

"Neva!"

"Timbones... I'm sorry..."

Jayne retraced her paw, Tim lunged and caught hold with an iron grip. Someone from further back in the room screamed a final scream as they made their way to the Deepest Deep.

"Let go Tim! Please..."

"No!"

Grandad's portrait fell from the wall with a shattering of glass.

"Well... did you get the... chestnuts? I'm still... I'm still... hungry."

Tim looked over at the broken candy jar on the floor, just out of reach, and then back to his sister. He let go, but only with one paw, straining to his limit for the treats. And then the roof collapsed.

There was a horrible banging and snapping sound overhead, and a scream from the other side, and the most unimaginable crushing pain surged through Timbones. It felt like an enormous branding iron had just clamped down on the babe's paw. The gap in the doorway no longer existed, for there was no doorway, no bedroom, nothing but a pile of rubble. But the kitchen door remained, opened to the world of sanctuary. But it was no longer an offer, it was a taunt, for Timbones could not move - the blazing monster had him by its teeth, and every attempt to free himself only magnified the pain. Tim's fate - his entire future - had changed in that moment when the boards gave way. It seemed that the babe would now have his wish: he would not leave his family, rather join them in their journey down the Deepest Deep Dune.

Timbones sat amidst the flames as his tear ducts ran dry and the flames slowly burned the fur off of his tail. His fist balled around a candied chestnut as he held it to his chest.

"Please Mama... Papa... Jayne... I miss you... I wanna go home..."

Through the open door strode the embodiment of death - a hooded figure carrying a blade. Tim looked up. This must have been one of the big black things from Ole Miss Nizzlepaw's stories that escorted (or kidnapped) young beasts to the Green Forest. Tim hadn't expected to go there - and surely his family weren't headed that direction! It must have been punishment for starting the fire!

Tim squealed as loud and as horsey as could while squirming to get free of the logs. "PLEASE NOOO! NOOO MAMA I CAN'T GO TO THA FOREST! MAMAAAA!"

The figure loomed down and covered his mouth. "Quiet! You'll inhale all the smoke!"

Tim recognized that voice, albeit muffled. He looked up to see the apraition's face - it was not death after all, but a savior! Uncle Norris! And carrying Pa's wood saw at that! Surely he would cut through the logs, and they would all be saved! The happy family could continue!

Only there was no time for log chopping. Norris rested the blade on Tim's wrist. The child looked up at the old man with watery eyes. What are you doing?

"Be brave lad."

Stars burst before the boy's eyes as flesh tore and bone snapped. The last thing he saw before passing out was a singed yellow ribbon fluttering to the ground and being consumed by a tongue of fire from below the floorboards.

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Timbones awoke to a silent world covered in ash. Gone were the bells and shouts, replaced with a whistling wind that urged a trio of tumbleweeds across the desiccated landscape. Everything was gray. The ground was grey, covered in a blanket of snowy ash. The sky was grey, the clouds having yet to disperse. The foundation stones of the distillery were charred grey and black, the only remaining evidence that a building once stood there.

Tim staggered to his feet and nearly fell over. The blast had blown him a safe distance away from the blaze; but he still suffered from the shock of the explosion and the blow to his head. The squirrel's ears rang with such sharp tinnitus that he wasn't sure if the world was truly silent or if the blast had deafened him.

Step by wobbly step Tim made his way to the ruins of the ale house. The stench of burned fur and flesh had not yet dissipated. He peered over the stones - all that remained inside were the smoldering remains of a small woodrat and, by some small miracle (if it could even be called such), a frayed yellow ribbon.

A shadow caught Tim's attention - he wasn't alone. An adult woodrat, with features not unlike the girl he'd seen last night, stood across from him. Her lip began to quiver as the situation processed through her brain, gradually acknowledging the situation.

A shrill sound built up in Tim's earlobes, overcoming the tinnitus. It got louder and louder until finally pop! clear hearing returned, and he could experience the full volume of the rat's agonized shrieking.

The poor woman couldn't even coddle the remains of her child. She became frantic; pulled and scratched her ears, put one paw in her mouth and bit it so hard it bled - and then she noticed Tim. The shriek reached a decibel previously unknown to rodentkind.

"YOU KILLED MY BABY!!!"

Before Tom could even process what was happening the woodrat had leapt across the debris and pinned him to the ground with a stranglehold on his neck. Tim gurgled but was helpless against the onslaught of the furious mother.

Well this sure ain't how I thought I'd be goin' out...

Luckily this was not how Tim would "be goin out," a set of burly paws grabbed the woodrat by the shoulders and pried her off his neck.

"Whoa there Albi, calm down! This ain't Burrows!" said a much larger, male woodrat.

"It's his fault Toma!" Albi shouted between sobs. "Stupid lazy old beast!"

"Now now he couldn't 'ave known! Besides I tell ya, this ain't old Burrows. Huh, if anythin' he's a New Burrows!"

Tim wheezed and coughed out ash. "That's - cough hack AHACK I'm- wheeeze I'm dead." He fell back onto the parched ground and tried to catch his breath.

Another creature came running up - a young prairie dog wielding a shovel. He gave Timbones a quizzical expression before turning his attention to the rats.  He looked back and forth between them, and then down into the debris. His shoulders slumped as his gaze fell upon the cadaver. "I hoped that wasn't the case... I'm so sorry..."

Toma responded by putting on a good face. "We'll make it - somehow, we'll make it. We desert beasts face hardship everyday you know."

"Make it? We'll 'MAKE IT!?!'" Albi-lee's frenzy turned to fury. "We just lost our daughter and our town, you old fool! This is the end! And it's all because we welcomed one ridiculous old man into our village - Petal went to warn him! And I'll bet he started the fire too! We should burn him at the stake, make him pay for it! For all of it!" She pointed an accusatory claw at the prone squirrel.

The prairie dog stepped over to have a look at the "old man." He raised an eyebrow. "Albi-Lee, you're frenzied. This isn't even an Oldburrows... It's a Young Burrows!"

"That's what I said! I think the fire reincarnated him or somethin'. You ever heard of such a thing, Cyno?"

"Can't say I have." He prodded "Newburrow" with the shovel. "Hey - get up! Who are you and what are you doin' in our field? I don't suppose it's a coincidence that you showed up at the same time our entire town went up in smoke, is it?"

Tim opened his eyes and took hold of the shovel, allowing himself to be pulled up by the prairie dog. He immediately felt dizzy, but stabilized himself before falling into the ash pit.

"My name's Tim - Timbones. Oldburrow. Yes I'm an Oldburrow, I came here looking for my Uncle... I take it he's not well liked in these parts..."

"Uncle?" Cyno and Tuma exchanged glances. "Big tubby fella with a beard?"

"Yes, that's him!" Tim nodded vigorously.

The prairie dog sighed heavily. "Well Timbones Oldburrow... your Uncle had takin' up lodging in our town distillery... and if you don't know where he is, then I'm afraid there isn't much place he could be... when it went up, it blew bits and pieces all over the town... there wouldn't be anything left..."

So that was it then. Tim had come all this way to find Norris - denied Olna's instruction, gone off the beaten path, risked death at the fangs of a serpent - all to find out that his Uncle, mere seconds after Tim's arrival, had been blown to pieces in his own shack. It didn't make any sense; why would the universe play such a nasty trick? A minute sooner, a minute later, and Tim would've been free of all guilt. But no - this is how it had played out, and this was the new reality. How could it be coincidence? There was only one solution.

"You're right - this is my fault." Tim admitted. "Just because I'm here. It follows me everywhere. Trouble, death, sadness. I know it. I never should've come..."

"Did you start the fire?" Cyno asked sharply.

"No..." Tim avoided eye contact.

Cyno placed a paw on Tim's shoulder. "Well then don't go blaming yourself for something you didn't do - that'll get you killed pretty quick. There was a storm last night, it was most likely a lightning strike. Several of them."

"You think so?" Tim wiped rubbed ash from his eyes.

"That's what our interpreter says," Cyno replied as he began to steer the squirrel towards the vestiges of the town proper. Albi-Lee wept into her husband's shoulder as the two followed.

Tim's ears perked up. "Interpreter? You have an interpreter here?"

"Why yes, I fetched him myself. A kind old fox, served my father for years..."

Tim's energy returned, as did his accent. "Please, ya have to take me to 'em! That's the whole reason my Uncle came 'ere, was to meet yer interpreter!"

"Well I suppose... but let's get you fixed up eh? You've been travelling a long time I take it, and there's a Gila egg growing on the back of your head..."

"Please," Tim implored. "I come so far ta see my Uncle, I gotta know if he talked to yer fox!"

"Well, if you insist."

Cyno led Tim into the battered rubble of Sandsline. Several buildings had been reduced to ash, while others had had windows broken and holes punched in the walls by debris from the distillery explosion. Critters were milling about, salvaging what they could from the remains in a near aimless manner. Toma led Albi-Lee, still sobbing and moaning, towards their haberdashery, while Cyno brought Tim towards a house with a large front porch. A vulpine silhouette rocked in a chair, features masked by the shade.

"Master Timbones!" someone hailed. Tim looked behind him to see Jones dashing over. "I do hope you will forgive me for abandonment! I thought you consumed by the blaze, and focused my efforts on helping these townbeasts save what they could... which turned out to be not much, I'm sad to say."

"No worries Jonesy, I'm a little singed and jostled, but alright." Tim could feel the lump on his head throbbing.

"Oh good - I can't stand a guilty conscience. It would've taken seasons for me to forget you! We owls have good memories, you know... traditionally, at least." he cocked his head and began mumbling to himself, as if pondering some new thought reflecting his own existence.

"Hm that is strange... Why does everyone say owls are wise beasts? We're no different from anyone else!" he kicked at pebbles and dust as he wandered off, lost in his own thoughts.

Cyno watched with raised eyebrows as the bird stalked off. "Odd fellow that one. Anyhow- Ahem." Cyno cleared his throat and motioned to the porch. "Timbone Oldburrows, meet Gilhert Greysand, interpreter extraordinaire. You two fella's get to know each other, I gotta go... make sure everything's under control." He headed off to a crowd of concerned and curious beasts that had gathered around Toma and Albi. "C'mon you folks, give the gal some space!"

The rocking chair creaked as Gilhert leaned forward. He adjusted his spectacles and squinted across the porch at the squirrel. "Pleased to meet you, Timbones. Oldburrows, you say... Now, why does that name sound familiar..."

"It's Oldburrow - no s."

"Ah, yes... You must be related to that older beastmaster fella? The drunk." Gilhert stared at Timbones expectantly.  "Your grandaddy perhaps?"

Tim winced at the slight on Norris's character... but kept silent, as it wasn't entirely wrong. Well, except the part about him being a Beastmaster. That was Olna's expertise. He decided to respond with a simple straight answer.

"No, he were my uncle actually. Name is Norris... was Norris, that is."

Gilhert nodded solemnly. "I take it there isn't much left."

"No - the distillery was blown clean off its foundation. I don't even know how... how come the girl wasn't blasted to bits..."

Gil shook his head and hissed through his teeth. "Sad thing, that is. Do they hold your uncle responsible? I heard my hostess made quite the ruckus when her daughter was finally discovered..."

"I- I know her mother does. She mistook me for him."

"I see." Gilhert leaned back in his chair and lifted a bone pipe to his mouth. From a pocket he produced a small striking device: two sticks, bound together, with flint in between. The fox snapped the two sticks together, sending sparks flying directly into the mouth of the carved alligator.

Curious... Tim thought. He then remembered the nature of his mission.

"Oh, Mr. Greysands-"

"It's Greysand - no 's' he winked.

"Righto yes, Mr. Greysand, did you ever speak with my uncle? The whole reason he came to Sandsline was to consult with you."

"Fraid not," Gil shook his head long and wide. "I stepped over him while he was passed out in the field the day I arrived. That's about all the interaction we had."

"I see." Tim nodded sadly.

"Cheer up though - it's a sad situation to be sure, but there is hope..."

Tim's ears perked. "How so?"

"Well-" he inhaled dramatically, "Seeing as how there isn't much left of Sandsline here, the way I see it, there isn't much choice for these beasts but to move north. Perhaps you could join them. Think of the opportunities you may find in a new world! A chance to escape your uncle's bad reputation, anyway..."

So that was it - everything had come full circle now. Tim's destiny would take him North after all.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," said Gilhert as he rose from the chair. "I must convene with the town leader... or second in command, anyhow."

Cyno, looking more depressed than before, was trudging his way over to the porch, carrying some tin cups. He tipped his hat at Tim as he hopped up on the wood decking.

"It was good meeting you Tim, even given the circumstances." The prairie dog passed a cup of mezcal to Gil, and offered another to Tim, but the squirrel refused.

"Thanks but I don't drink. You wouldn't happen to have any cactus milk?"

Cyno shrugged. "There's some around here," was the tired response. He was physically and emotionally at the end of his rope. "Sorry about your Uncle Tim - best steer clear of the woodrat family for the time being... or forever. For now, why don't you head over to Doctor Lutkin's pavilion over there, he's treating all of the survivors."

"I'll do just that." Tim bowed slightly to the elder creatures - well, to Gil at least, as Cyno seemed to be not a whole lot older than Timbones.

"Thank you for your hospitality. We'll meet again on the trail, I'm sure."

And with that Tim turned and headed out, leaving the two to discuss.

"I'm sure we will!" Gilhert smiled to himself.