The Grey Squirrel

It’s good to confide. But I’m done making him the subject of my story.

The Raven paused, her feathers stilling in the quiet of the Witch’s firelit cave. She glanced at her host and considered whether to speak.

“This is a safe place,” she reminded herself.

With a slow nod, she began.

“I met him while working in the Kingdom of Trade. The Grey Squirrel. He was a seasonal trader, and I helped arrange storage for his goods. He told me about the tightrope community within the Kingdom, a place of balance, ambition, and support. His stories stirred something in me. They were so different from the pace and competition of the city.

“When an invitation finally came, curiosity carried me farther than doubt could hold me back.”

Her eyes unfocused, as if tracing the long journey in her mind.

“The trip was harder than I expected, and when I arrived, the hills were dry and the fruit small. The Grey Squirrel brushed it off, saying the lush times would return. In the meantime, he asked me to help. He wanted me to fly to the treetops and collect the fruit no one else could reach.

“At first, I did not mind. But I began to notice my portions were smaller than the others. When I asked why, he told me I needed to earn my place.”

The Raven’s voice tightened. “So I gave more. I joined them on the tightrope, practicing balance and agility. But the tests grew longer, and the rewards no greater. One day, I served myself an equal share. He took it back in front of everyone.

“Later, he told me, ‘You’ll get no more fruit from us. Birds can find their own food.’”

The Witch’s gaze didn’t waver.

“The days after felt heavy,” the Raven continued. “I kept trying to make it work, giving more, bending more, but I grew tired. I began to fade. To cope, I gathered bark and twigs, weaving shapes and symbols, adding beauty to our dwelling. It was the only thing that still felt like mine.

“One afternoon, a Bear wandered by. He saw the imbalance, the quiet way I was disappearing, and reminded me I had wings. So I left.”

The fire popped softly between them.

“The Grey Squirrel kept telling his version of the story in the city,” she said, her voice quieter now. “But I no longer let his voice be the center of mine. I carry my own story now; one of courage, of choosing better places, and of remembering I can always take flight.”

The witch nodded, her gaze warm and knowing.

“You have come a long way, Raven. And in these last few moments, you’ve shown just how far. Keep healing. Keep wandering. Keep creating. The path ahead is still yours to shape.”

© 2025 Sarah Dooley. Story and images by the author. All rights reserved.