Snowcorn
Rick McQuiston
The
acorn
was nestled in a bed of desiccated leaves, a light dusting of snow coating most
of its casing and cap. Time had no meaning to it. It sat there, oblivious to
its surroundings, coddling the tiny seed that was slowly germinating deep
within its housing. Towering oaks loomed overhead, each effectively blotting
out most of the gray, cloud-laden sky. Barren branches resembling long fingers
jutted out of it in myriad directions and swayed ever so slightly in the chilly
breeze. The mother tree was rooted not more than 20 feet away from its
discarded offspring. Topping 90 feet tall, it stood a few feet above its
brethren, threatening to tap the gray sky with its branches.
A red squirrel scampered along the
snow-dusted landscape. Near skeletal due to its inability to secure sufficient
food from its foraging, much less being able to fatten its cache for the
upcoming winter months, it slumped along lethargically. Its pocked hide,
thinned by
malnutrition,
hardly moved as it moved, flattened to the gyrating musculature of its body,
dehydrated and sallow.
For some reason a thick lump in a
nearby pile of leaves caught its attention. No larger than a golf ball, it was
discernible solely by its pronounced shape: a rounded globe in stark contrast
to its surroundings.
The rodent stopped its pursuit of food
and switched to one fueled by simple curiosity. Its glossy black eyes rotated
in their sockets as it attempted to clarify what it was seeing.
It nervously
scurried over to the pile of leaves and sniffed at the curious lump.
It detected nothing unusual at first
but a slight and undeniable aroma drifted up into its twitching nostrils, causing
it to recoil from the
stench. It vaguely resembled carrion (something it was not attracted to, being
a herbivore) although with a hint of wheat mixed in.
The squirrel inched closer and closer
to the pile of leaves. Its senses tingled. It hardly blinked. Its front claws
clicked in anticipation. A light maelstrom swirled up from the forest floor but
seemed out of place somehow. Although there was a moderate breeze rustling the
trees it was still as if something was orchestrating it, maneuvering the
elements to its whim.
The squirrel reached out a trembling
claw and tentatively touched the closest of the leaves.
The breeze picked up, a chilled breath
through the picturesque landscape.
The squirrel pulled back. It sensed
something was wrong. The allure of an easy meal was mere inches from its
twitching snout, but still...
* * * *
The pile of leaves shifted with the
wind. A dozen or so on top lifted from the ones below them, and supported by
the breeze, were carried to unknown parts of the forest. A few brushed against
the enormous trunk of the mother tree and rested for the briefest of seconds
before fluttering off in various directions, silent reminders of Nature's
mysterious ways. One leaf in particular differed from the others however. While
it had shades of light brown and pale yellow, with hints of long-lost green,
the leaf had something that differentiated it from the others: blots of deep
crimson.
The blood of the squirrel decorated
the leaf on both sides, as well as on its shriveled stem. It contrasted in
full-bloom: arid death against wet, colorful life.
The mother tree shuddered.
The leaf danced away in the breeze.
The squirrel scampered across the
frost-dusted landscape, the seed within its husk pulsing with hunger, anxious
to find sustenance.
