Diary of an Oak Tree: A Fantasy Fiction Story About Urban Treetop Creatures and the Legend of Troika.

By Lizbeth L. Savage and James Cressler

Hurricane Charlie strikes without warning, devastating Orlando and the treetop realm of Dreylanda secret society of urban birds and animals. The desperate wildlife migrates to other neighborhood groves defended by hostile residents. Worst of all, the Winter Slayer, a specter with power over death, reigns supreme in the carnage and destruction.

In this chaotic post-hurricane setting, we see the power of the Creator, and of family and friendship eclipsing death as two wayward squirrels, Notch and Fuzzy, encounter Reek-Lee, Spook and other dangerous predators while searching for Heaven on Earththe legendary Nirvana tree.

The story is told by Q, a wise old mother tree, and revolves around the three animals ruling in a Troika: Sage, a raccoon prophetess; Notch, the governor; and the regulator, a cat aptly called Dagger. They enjoy very long lives, in fact near immortality. But, after many seasons, a grudge between Dagger and Notch boils over into mortal combat, breaking the Troika, and releasing the Winter Slayer to claim what its long been denied.

More than a modern-day animal story, in Diary of an Oak Tree we time-travel from Dreyland, back to the magical Age of Oaks, where rebellious men fought nature itself in the Battle of the Valley of Nigh, changing the Earth forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Oct 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781489708786

Lizbeth L. Savage

James Cressler, a Desert Storm veteran, lives in Orlando, Florida with his wife Julia. He is a graduate of Valencia College and member of Word Weavers International and Shine Street Writers groups. The trees and lakes, birds and animals he sees while bicycling and walking along the many Florida cobblestone streets and trails give Jim his story ideas. And with his imagination, we learn their language and understand how wildlife lives with giants—mankind.

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Copyright © 2016 James Cressler.

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LifeRich Publishing is a registered trademark of The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Illustrated by Elizabeth Savage.

ISBN: 978-1-4897-0879-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-0878-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016910931

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 11/22/2016

Contents

Lexicon

1   The Wayward Squirrel

2   Quercus Virginiana

3   Lake Adair

4   The Age of Oaks

5   The Great Storm

6   The Nirvana Tree

7   The Wayseer

8   Gracula Los Sabio Profeta

9   A Wayseer’s Long Bitter Trail

10   Dagger

11   Old Pine and Camphor

12   The Legend of Notch

13   A Good Day to Die

14   Blue Moon

15   The Winter Slayer’s Season

Acknowledgments

JULIA D. CRESSLER, MY WIFE AND ENCOURAGER

AND

JACKIE ZUROMSKI, PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, VALENCIA COLLEGE, WHO INSPIRED AN OLD SOLDIER TO WRITE.

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Lexicon

Bagfood what humans eat, adapted from fast food and deli containers

Black desert islands parking islands containing trees, grass, or shrubs

Black deserts large parking lots, like at Publix and Wal-Mart

Black trails paved streets, roads, and highways

Chaser an aerial or ground predator

Flatlog furniture, like chairs, tables, and beds

Flatrock sidewalks, patios, and other poured concrete construction

Fruta dura the treetoppers’ favorite staple, usually peanuts, corn, nuts and dried fruit. Also, Notch renamed his conquered oak tree province Fruta Dura.

Goggle-box the treetop community’s name for televisions and radios

Hand wings the common Florida Evening Bats, insectivorous night flyers

High-glows street, stadium, and other kinds of outdoor lighting

Mankeep the treetop community’s name for houses, sheds, stores, or any other buildings

Mother trees are very large and usually dominate forests and neighborhoods. They are connected to other local trees via subsurface mycorrhizal fungal threads (living in tree roots) that subsidize, or share water and nutrients with younger trees to insure that they thrive. Simard, Suzanne; Nature Journal. Jan/Feb.2011

Nimbus waves sudden wind gusts and odd air currents thought to carry forewarnings

Pathfinders divine guides or angels often seen in visions and dreams by creatures on spiritual journeys to enlightenment, or ascending to heaven posthumously. They’re also trusted escorts and interpreters during otherworldly experiences.

Pokebox trash cans and dumpsters

Red stone trail cobblestone streets and paver driveways

Spook is the name for nighttime birds of prey, usually a large owl.

Talon daytime birds of prey, usually the red-tailed hawk

Trailkiller urban animal’s most feared enemy, all motor vehicles

Troika an authority or government led by three rulers

Waterjaw alligators. O’Ma is a large female (cow) that lives in Lake Adair.

Wayseer name for prophets, healers, and other wisefauna

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Chapter One

The Wayward Squirrel

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The sun—my strength and hope, has risen, pulling the long morning shadows back to their eastern vanishing point and highlighting my babies, a multitude of acorns waiting patiently for early winter to drop. My name is Q, a mother tree to many. The strength of countless seasons’ course through my limbs, limbs adorned with Spanish moss and giant pothos vines, towering above house and drive.

Life—I love it. I love its twists and turns. I like never knowing what’s next, what possibility might be coming around the corner. Because what would life be like without risk or danger? Predictable, too much routine, even for a tree. Death gives life adventure— a priceless edge.

I have an adventure to tell, about a secret fauna society that lives in the great southern trees that line city streets and parks, that tower over house and business. Welcome to Dreyland—a magical treetop Kingdom of raccoons and squirrels, of song birds and owls, of cats and dogs and yes, a man or two.

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I love to creature-watch on bright summer mornings. What’s that? You know what it is. Everyone does it—people watch people—trees watch everything. It’s what we do. Anyway, one day I was creature-watching along Vassar, the black trail where I’m rooted, when I heard a ruckus in the treetops. The songbirds, especially the mockingbirds, were sounding off about something.

Now most people think that a bird’s utterances are mating calls or happy songs about the sunrise, but not so. Our Creator made songbirds very small for a good reason: birds have a personality disorder. They’re narcissists. They have a warped ego that demands admiration. So every morning from the tallest perches, the cardinals and mockingbirds sing egotistic ballads touting their own beauty and supremacy.

But that morning, the birds were especially noisy because the Gray Walker, the man with an odd gait who dressed in gray had stirred them up. I know him by sight because he has ambled by me for many seasons singing hymns and prayers for all to hear. He’s a wise and spiritual man that starts his days walking with the Creator. But there’s something else that makes Gray special. He can talk to birds.

However, most birds don’t appreciate Gray’s opinions, much less his hymns. His devotions interrupt their arrogant trill. So there’s a longstanding banter between him and the cardinals and mockingbirds.

Once again, he’d whistled a challenge declaring that they were daft, that this was his territory, and that he was both prettier and a better fighter than them all. In righteous indignation they countered, and by the time Gray Walker reached me they were angrily whistling and chirping over the top of each other. It was a loud, awful racket that alarmed the neighborhood dogs. They began to bark and howl at his strange whistling. My best oak guess is that the songbird band was hard on human ears too, because about that time, several angry people joined the disharmony by waving and screaming from their windows. The sanitized version of the things they sang was:

What the hell’s wrong with you?

What’s the whistling for?

Hey you, shaddup, some folks need their sleep!

Do you realize what time it is?

It didn’t quiet the musically challenged choir. In fact, the window singers amplified the ruckus all the louder.

Meanwhile, Ott, a young local squirrel bounced out of a side yard and began to explore along the sidewalk. He was so busy digging and marking that he didn’t notice Gray until they were beside each other. The squirrel panicked and scurried up the closest object he could find. That happened to be my live oak cousin, Hoary. I knew that was a bad move because a pair of very territorial mockingbirds had already claimed Hoary as home. A loud commotion erupted in the heart of Hoary’s canopy, and the mockingbird’s song went from a joyful noise to a raspy repetition similar to a woodpecker hammering into wood. The situation intensified as one bird guarded the nest while the other attacked Ott as he climbed an upper tree limb. He couldn’t escape the angry birds because Hoary wasn’t close enough to a mankeep or a fence for him to jump, so he went back in, scrambling past the nest. Unfortunately, on this trip he attracted the other incensed mockingbird to make the fray two-on-one. Round and round the tree limbs at breakneck speed and down the tree trunk they came, both birds flying close enough to deliver accurate strikes on the fleeing squirrel’s head and neck.

Gray stepped into the black trail to better see the fast action comedy.

The panicked intruder was losing fur with each turn as he descended the oak. Finally he reached a jumpable height, and with both mockingbirds literally flying on his back, he launched into a short but thick podocarpus hedge.

His tormentors gave him no quarter, and in a blur, all three disappeared inside the conifer. There was a five second pause in the action. Gray bobbed back and forth to better see what was happening. The whole hedge started shaking, and a few seconds later, the mother mockingbird reappeared. She flew back to the nest and resumed her loud rat-a-tat-a-tat vocal alarm.

The squirrel made a break for it and launched out of the hedge past Gray toward the black trail, ducking and dodging to lose the persistent father mockingbird.

That’s when the trailkiller entered the fray. The driver was so preoccupied with the mirror and backseat children that she didn’t see the squirrel and Gray Walker in the black trail until it was almost too late.

She slammed on the brakes.

Coffee cups, I-Phone, and toys flew everywhere as the car screeched to a stop, narrowly missing the man and squirrel. The driver cursed through clenched teeth in anguish as hot coffee steamed through her dress, scalding her legs. In frustration, she laid on the car horn and let loose a string of profanities. It frightened the children, who added bawling to the chorus. Gray rejoined the off key choir by bellowing that she was an idiot and driving too fast for a blind woman.

The spectacle was truly fascinating and a privilege for any live oak to behold. Overall, I’d say that the troupe of birds, dogs, cars, and people made up for their poor talent with volume and passion.

However, Ott saw no humor in the scene. The young squirrel’s naïve adventure had turned his world upside down. Every tree and black trail had a dangerous occupant and his only option was to outrun them all. A quick turnabout bought him a three step gap and he raced under a parked car. The mockingbird pulled up short and peered at the squirrel, rotating his head left and right, chattering a final warning to the bushy-tailed trespasser. That’s a mockingbird tree! Stay out, never, ever climb it again! And on that note, he flew effortlessly back to the nest to reassure his mate and hatchlings.

Gray Walker regained his composure from the near miss and continued east along the flatrock to home. The frustrated driver told her children to be quiet and turned around to return home to change clothes.

At that point in time, the story lost its humor and became deadly serious.

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I’d never been that scared in my life. A trailkiller almost got me crossing the black trail. Winded and shaken, I hid under another one to catch my breath. How in Dreyland did I ever get here?

Mama told me, "Ott, trailkillers are huge hard skinned, bright-eyed beasts; fast ... thump-bump ... and you’re dead." They were every squirrel’s nightmare because they killed more squirrels than all the talons and spooks put together. Before, I’d only seen them from a distance, but today I came within a few steps of being crushed under one’s big, round black feet.

Leaving my home tree was a huge mistake. Mama Chaka told me and my sisters Bee and Bug many times to never leave the nest without her or daddy. But I thought it would be ok for a little while. I was curious about what was around the corner, so while mom and dad were out foraging I climbed down the tree for a little look-see on the other side the fence. Now I was hopelessly lost.

I knew nothing about Dreyland, except that every inch of it belonged to someone who aggressively defended their land.

How can I get back?

Miserable and afraid, I repeated a distress cry several times, Mom, mom, dad, dad, help, help, where are you?

Nothing – only a threatening silence loaded with loneliness answered.

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The squirrel’s distress call attracted someone else: Dagger, a large yellow tabby cat. He lived in a mankeep with Redlips, an odd woman who believed that she could understand animals and birds. Of course she couldn’t; besides Gray Walker, very few featherless bipeds appreciated the absolute freedom of wildlife. Nor could they understand the fauna tongue. It was all noise to them. This was good, because Redlips wouldn’t like what most treetoppers say about her and other jabbering humans.

Dagger was a dangerous cat. He had an appetite for killing. Nobody knew where he came from or how many seasons he had ruled the Lake Silver area. Some treetop dons claimed that Dagger was as old as the trees. But every bird and animal that knew what was good for them left him alone. He was the worst of chasers.

Dagger slipped from the corner of the mankeep and under the trailkiller next to Ott in seconds. A dialog started.

Hiss ... well, lookee here a wayward squirrel, a trespasser, someone who doesn’t understand Dagger’s black trail law. Hiss ... are you a thief, or just stupid?

Ott had never been close to a cat, let alone talked to one.

He panicked, Tic, tic, tic, no, please don’t think that—I’m not a thief—I’m lost. I left my nest for a look-see and now, and now I’m lost.

Dagger sat back and curled his tail around the front. Then, he deliberately raised one paw and extended his sharp claws for Ott to see. He waited for several heartbeats and then growled, Lost you say?

Tic, tic, tic, I ran here to get away from angry birds and, and, there was a man. I’m looking for the way back.

This is too easy, he purred.

You can help me find my home tree?

Hiss ... why not, I live to help clowns like you find their way. Hiss ... come a little closer I’ll show you the way.

Dagger pretended to look down the black trail like he was going to point the way. The desperately naïve squirrel stepped toward the tabby.

In a flash the cat was all over him.

Dagger’s first blow drew blood and Ott realized he’d been duped. But he surprised himself and Dagger with a double kick to the cat’s face knocking him back. Enraged, Dagger attacked again and the fight accelerated to a blur with Ott giving as well as he took as they thumped and bumped underneath the car from front to back, scratching, clawing and biting.

It was a loud bloody fight with neither opponent gaining the advantage. Dagger paused and backed off a step to catch his breath. Squirrel, he yowled. This isn’t right—can’t be.

Ott wiped the blood from his eye and rattled an ugly warning.

They studied each other.

The squirrel had his back to a tire. All Dagger could see was four bloody claws and bared teeth.

Then out of nowhere a voice commanded, Enough—Dagger stop.

The Tabby glanced left and right and hissed.

Dagger this one’s different, the voice said. He’s troika—you hurt him—you hurt yourself. Let the squirrel go.

Hiss ... troika, troika?

Confused and overcome by fear, Ott chattered his loudest warning, Back, back, back!

The two fighters stared at each other in silence; the smell of blood and their heavy breathing filled the air. The cat knew the kill was at hand, but the voice, the whole situation unnerved him. He fought the urge to run.

The three Dreyland rulers are troika, the voice answered.

Hiss ... I don’t need this. Dagger knew that he’d lost control and like all chasers, hated it.

Squirrel, I’m feeling charitable today, he lied. So I won’t kill you. Now, this’s your one and only chance. I’m going to give you a six count to get away, hiss. You need to run for your life, run far and fast and never look back. If I catch you or ever see you again I’ll finish this fight.

Hiss ... one, Ott didn’t hesitate. He ran as fast as he could straight down the flatrock.

Hiss ... two, he looked over his shoulder—running.

Hiss ... three. Ott ran right in the middle of a woman walking her dog.