Squeak with Animals

In Grindlewood, the trees didn’t just whisper — they eavesdropped.

They leaned over the moss-covered trails, gnarled and ancient, heavy with mist and secrets. Roots twisted across the ground like drunken vipers. The canopy draped the world in green gloom, and somewhere overhead, a crow laughed — like it knew what was coming.

Jinx Quickpaw flicked a slug off her boot with the tip of her dagger and scowled. “This forest smells like wet bark and tax evasion.”

“That’s because it’s alive,” Miri Thistlewhip said calmly, kneeling beside a lichen-covered stump. Her fingers traced faint glowing lines in the moss. Her tone, as always, was flat and matter-of-fact, like she was reading ingredients off a bottle of poison.

Jinx rolled her eyes. “You mean it’s judging us.”

“That too.”

Behind them, Bram stomped into view, armour clanking, helmet tucked under one arm. He looked like someone who had lost a fight with an especially personal shrubbery. “We’re lost again, aren’t we?”

“I wouldn’t say lost,” Miri said, tilting her head. “More… spatially unverified.”

“That’s the same thing!”

“I can fix it,” Miri murmured and placed her palm on the moss.

“No—Miri—don’t you—”

“Speak with Animals,” she whispered.

A ripple of green shimmered across the clearing.

The trees rustled.

Somewhere, something squeaked in alarm.

Jinx flopped onto a log and buried her face in her hands. “You need a twelve-step program for that spell.”

“It’s effective,” Miri replied.

“It’s a war crime,” Bram muttered.

A pinecone sailed from above and hit him directly in the forehead.

He froze.

Another one bounced off his shoulder.

Then a third.

“I’m going to kill something small and fluffy,” he growled.

“Don’t,” Miri said. “They’re organising.”

The leaves rustled.

And then, like a living wave of fur and judgment, they came.

Squirrels.

Dozens of them.

Fifty, by Miri’s quick count — because of course she counted.

They leapt from branches, slid down trunks, and burst from underbrush in perfect formation. Each wore a hollowed-out acorn helmet strapped with bark twine. Many carried tiny bark spears sharpened to fine points. A few dragged leaf-shields. One rolled in a pinecone-mounted siege engine that looked suspiciously functional.

“Why do they have a formation?” Bram whispered.

“Because someone keeps using Speak with Animals like it’s squirrel Wi‑Fi,” Jinx hissed.

“I’m building trust,” Miri said.

“You’re building an uprising.”

The squirrels encircled them. At their head stood an older squirrel with silver-streaked fur and an acorn crown carved in a vaguely royal style. His tail was twice-fluffed, and his bark staff glowed faintly at the tip.

“Druid,” he said. “We meet again.”

Miri stood and dusted off her knees. “Archibald Nuttlebun.”

Jinx’s jaw dropped. “No. No. You are not on first-name terms with the squirrel warlord.”

Nuttlebun’s tail twitched with restrained fury. “You have cast Speak with Animals six times this week. You’ve interrupted nesting rituals. Interrogated sacred den mothers. Asked if anyone’s seen ‘a spooky cave with cool loot.’”

“I said please,” Miri said.

“And she—” he pointed at Jinx, “—stole ceremonial acorns.”

“They were on the ground!”

“They were arranged in a sacred rune.”

“They looked like trail mix! You can’t expect me not to graze!”

“This is your final warning,” Nuttlebun snapped. “Cease the spell. Cease the questions. Cease the nut theft. Or face the consequences.”

“What kind of consequences?” Bram asked.

Nuttlebun narrowed his eyes.

“Tea.”

Later that evening, Miri vanished.

One moment, she was stepping into the mossy ruins of Melgaroth the Forgotten, and the next — gone.

No scream. No flash. No trace.

“Did she just get squirrel-napped?” Jinx said.

“She’s been tea-napped,” Bram muttered.

They barely had time to react before the rustling returned.

Fifty squirrels.

Same formation. Same judgment.

“Your druid is undergoing reeducation,” Nuttlebun said. “She is being prepared for the Ceremony of Leaf and Steam.”

“Is that your version of a trial?” Bram asked.

“It is our most sacred ritual.”

“You’re making her brew tea?”

“Yes,” Nuttlebun said gravely. “And so will you.”

They were escorted — politely, but under firm squirrel supervision — to a circular clearing surrounded by glowing mushrooms and carved stumps. Vines shaped like druidic runes framed the space. In the centre stood a flat altar, atop which sat a teapot made of bark and crystal, faint steam curling from its spout.

Miri stood beside it, her hair re-braided, expression unchanged.

“They gave me a leaf apron,” she said.

Jinx choked on laughter. “You look like an acorn midwife.”

“They’re very serious about tea,” Miri replied. “It’s not about the tea. It’s about patience. Respect.”

A squirrel with a sash and monocle handed Jinx a pouch of luminous green fuzz.

“What’s this?”

“Sugar moss,” Miri said. “Highly prized. You’ve been assigned Sweetness Steward.”

“I accept this burden,” Jinx whispered.

Bram received a tiny mortar and pestle. “What’s this for?”

“Grinding mint,” Miri said. “Bruised leaves absorb emotional intent.”

“I hate this forest.”

“That’s your emotional intent.”

They began.

Jinx tended the fire beneath the kettle, feeding it twigs with ceremonial reverence. Bram crushed herbs as they owed him money. Miri stirred the infusion clockwise with a spoon carved in the shape of a squirrel tail, chanting softly under her breath.

The squirrels watched in absolute silence.

When the tea was ready, Miri poured it into tiny acorn-carved cups. One by one, the squirrels received their portions.

They drank.

The wind shifted.

Silence stretched long and solemn.

Then Nuttlebun smacked his lips and nodded once.

“Acceptable.”

The tension snapped like a twig.

“You are forgiven,” he said. “For now. Should you cast Speak with Animals again without cause—”

“We won’t,” all three adventurers said in unison.

“Good. You will remain for the Second Steeping. It is polite.”

They obeyed.

No one spoke.

They sipped in silence.

Jinx nibbled on a squirrel biscuit. “You know… not bad.”

Bram leaned back. “We almost died over leaf water.”

“I told you,” Miri said, eyes distant. “Squirrels know things.”

High above them, a squirrel with spectacles and a quill made a tiny note in an acorn-bound ledger.

Miri refilled the kettle, set it back over the embers carefully, and waited for the water to sing.

The squirrels watched.

This time, no one rushed her.