Born of Myth: Part Three

III. Ratatoskr

            Hours later, after she emerged at sunset, Vera spotted Drilltooth bathing at the edge of the lake near her home. She thought he was a gift from Providence to quell her fear of death. He fluttered at the periphery of her vision, and his black silhouette stung her eyes. She moved until their shadows touched. “Monsieur.” The chirp hit a low pitch, and Vera’s tail descended to the snow. She tittered.

            They huddled together in her drey, a nest made of twigs, dead leaves, and the remaining fur from her last molt. She loved the smell of the leaves as they decomposed. The odor amplified in their warmth; it mingled with the must of her scent and with the freshness of his. In the hollow of her trunk, they abandoned their defenses. Drilltooth yawned.

            “The little ones will arrive soon,” she clicked. “They scratch and thump like rabbits. They are eager to see the world, mon ange.”

            “You are frightened.”

            “Oui.”

            He shifted farther into the blanket of her fat. “This new world is not so different, ma chaton. Only, the humans have become prey to those from the stars. Or, perhaps they have been here all along. I do not know. I suspect.”

            “Here?”

            “Earth, ma chère.”

            Vera did not fathom his meaning, but neither did she press him. She could not keep her thoughts from the kits who grew inside her. “Will the little ones survive? These days, the danger does not stop. It never stops growing. The babies seem to know.”

            “They know nothing, ma minette. They will all reach six years. You will see them. They will all shine with beauty.” He nuzzled his nose into her ear. “You will see. They will smell like you.”

            “What if they die?”

            Drilltooth’s black, bottlebrush tail curled about her back, and he lowered his head to the leaves. “Everything dies, mon ange.” Vera searched his face when she heard the note of melancholy. His eyes glimmered in the darkness.

            He turned to her and chirped. “But there is rebirth. In the leaves. And in the grass. It all comes round.” He paused. “Death is nothing.”

            “It is everything.”

            “It is a veil. A sheer veil, mon amour. You know that.”

            Vera felt her anxiety evaporate. She breathed deeply and smirked. “What is your real name?”

            His laughter bounced off the walls of her den, a series of squeaks that made her beam. “Why must you know?” He hesitated. “Please do not laugh. My name is Ratatoskr.”

            The name was taken from legend, she knew. Ratatoskr had been a horned squirrel who scaled and descended the Great Tree in the forest across the ocean. He had carried messages between the Eagle above and the Snake below, gnawing away at the Tree all the while.

            “I am fond of it,” she clicked. “The name suits you perfectly, monsieur.”

            Soon thereafter, sleep caught the pair unawares. Night fell among the conifers and their cousins.