Fire Red Squirrels 1636 < Exclusive Deal >

That spark had not died. It had become a sleeper—a coal smoldering in the root of a dead pine, waiting for a breath of wind.

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. fire red squirrels 1636

He leaped onto a sun-bleached stump and began a warning call—not the angry chrrr of a predator, but a sharp, staccato kik-kik-kik! that cracked through the smoky air. He turned and bolted down the streambed, then stopped, looked back, and called again. That spark had not died

When they emerged, the forest was a smoking skeleton. But the river had saved the outcrop and the meadow beyond. Rust shook the water from his fur. The russet female touched her nose to his. Around them, the other squirrels began, cautiously, to dig for wet tubers and unburned acorns. The people knew drought, but they did not yet know fire

They stayed submerged until the worst passed—perhaps an hour, perhaps a day. Time had melted.