Guerrillas in the Glen
Gordon Stearns

Chapter 8
Longest of Nights
page 1 of 3

A soft, steady rain was falling. Hyde remained stunned, unaware that the humans had hastily packed up and left. Finally Hyde slowly climbed down from the evergreen. Like a sleepwalker, he lurched towards his favorite tree. "Why you not cover up the hole, Figan," he sobbed angrily and flung himself onto its lifeless branches, weeping uncontrollably. "My... tree...still be... hole." Figan knelt by his little chum, gently rubbing his head. "Beautiful... lovely... favorite...tree," Hyde sobbed brokenly as his tears mingled with falling rain softly caressing the fading leaves. All afternoon, Figan remained close by his grieving friend in woods silent but for Hyde's muffled sobs and the peaceful hiss of the rain. Sometimes Figan would carefully stroke Hyde's head; sometimes he would gather berries from a nearby bush for Hyde to eat. "My tree not even very old," choked Hyde at one point, "and now my tree is dead." "I know, Hyde. I know," soothed Figan as Hyde burst into fresh tears. It seemed like years before the rain stopped. A growing chorus of crickets insistently announced the approach of nightfall. Hyde stirred in irritated disbelief. "How can those stupid things be chirping away? They not even know my tree is dead?"
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Guerrillas in the Glen Copyright 1997, 1998 Gordon Stearns
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