RAW KINGDOM ENTERTAINMENT

                    The Death of Uncle Fuzzball

 When the marten sprang upon the ancient oak, where young squirrels tumbled and chattered among its branches, Uncle Fuzzball set himself to a secret task. He burrowed in the mossy earth beneath the roots, planning a storehouse for the long winter ahead. For the old squirrel, who had seen many seasons come and go, knew that the frost might linger and the snow lay deep.
 That summer, the forest was generous: hazelnuts lay thick upon the ground, beech acorns carpeted the woodland floor, and even the distant walnut trees offered their bounty to those who could reach them. Each nut gathered, each cache hidden beneath the roots, was a small triumph against the coming cold, a promise of warmth and plenty when the wind whistled through the bare branches.
 Uncle Fuzzball had chosen a secret nook for his storehouse, hidden beneath the roots of a fallen ancient beech. A broad slab of gnarled wood marked the entrance, worn smooth by time and weather. The squirrel had visited the place a week past and found it well suited for his needs. It was dry, and the food he stored there would keep through the seasons. Close by, the sturdy oak stood sentinel, and the remnant of the beech trunk shielded the hollow from winter’s snow, making it simple to retrieve whatever lay within. Sunlight rarely reached this hollow, yet the gloom was gentle, suffused with the quiet hush of leaves and earth, a place where secrets and stores might rest undisturbed.
 Believing that Yoshi would watch over the young ones with care, Uncle Fuzzball set to work, digging a shallow hollow beneath the slab. A sudden cry of the little squirrel startled him, and he sprang forth, leaping through the underbrush toward the ancient oak. There, in the shadowed thicket, he hurled himself upon the marten, teeth bared. Yet the marten, swift and cruel, was stronger still. She abandoned the frightened youngling, turning upon the old squirrel with a savage snarl, sinking her sharp fangs deep into his neck. Staggering from the tree, wounded, Uncle Fuzzball dragged himself with trembling strength into the hollow of the gnarled oak, the forest around him silent but for the soft rustle of leaves.

  The owl’s sudden appearance sent the marten fleeing into the shadows; yet the poor squirrel she had struck lay helpless, and soon was carried away in the terrible bird’s talons, vanishing into the deeper forest.
 Uncle Fuzzball knew nothing of what followed after he had been wounded. When at last he recognized Yoshi beside him, he grew calmer. Blood covered him, and what had already flowed had left him faint and wavering. He understood that his end was near; but in those dim moments his thoughts turned not to himself, but to the young squirrels.

“Go, call them to me,” he murmured to Yoshi. “Bring Squeaky-Hazel and the eldest ones. Before I depart, I must leave them a few words of counsel.”

Quivering with pity and sorrow, Yoshi sped towards the great oak to fulfill Uncle Fuzzball’s bidding. There he found the squirrels anxious and full of grief. The younger ones had fled upward into the highest branches, while the older stood pressed close to the trunk with bowed heads, their bodies clinging to the bark as though rooted to it. In that stillness they seemed like clusters of moss hung there by ancient winds.
 Yoshi expected them to spring upon him with sharp reproaches, for the squirrels were seldom gentle when crossed. Yet they paid him no heed at all, though the full moon cast its pale silver across the branches and showed him plainly beneath their perch. But the moment he spoke Uncle Fuzzball’s name—and told them the old one was wounded and calling for them—they leapt down from the tree in a flurry of tails and soft chattering, gathering round him as leaves gather in an autumn gust.
 Squeaky-Hazel and three other elder squirrels, sons of old Fuzzball, hastened at once toward the hollow where he lay. There they bowed their heads close to him, listening for what scraps of wisdom or warning he still had strength to give. Yoshi remained humbly at the entrance of the hollow, standing as still as a young sapling in the night wind.
 Before his passing, Uncle Fuzzball charged them to keep faithful to his labors in the old warehouse, and to gather what supplies they could against the coming winter.

“It will be a hard season, and a long one,” he murmured, as though speaking half to them and half to the dim rafters above. “The spiders have warned me. This autumn they will tear down their webs far earlier than their usual time, and creep into the hidden cracks of the trees. I have spoken also with the crows—grim prophets whose words have never yet proven false. Even our foe, the owl, is aware of it, for he has been calling often in the dark hours of the forest.”

“Keep peace among yourselves, and look well after one another. And tomorrow, when the jays wake chattering in the bright branches, tell them what befell in the night. They will bear this news to all the quiet folk of the forest, and the owl will face his due. For then the gentle birds will be joined by the hunters of the daylight—falcons, hawks, and the like—for the owl is despised by all who walk or fly beneath the sun…”

 Uncle Fuzzball barely had the strength to finish his instructions. His black eyes fluttered shut, a final shudder passed through him, and his spirit slipped away.
 The squirrels scattered at once, their cries thin and forlorn as they vanished into the deeper reach of the wood. Yoshi was left standing in the silence that followed, unnoticed—as though the very world had forgotten he existed. Saddened by the passing of the old squirrel, the hedgehog wandered on through the forest, aimless and heavy-hearted. The trees, ancient and bowed with age, seemed to lean inward as he passed, as if listening to the silence he carried with him…