Introducing The Red Falls
Your first look at The Blue Beacon's sequel.
Authors Note
Today I’m pleased to present the first bit of my second novel in the Cascadia Chronicles, The Red Falls.
The Red Falls is a sequel to The Blue Beacon and will continue the adventures of Eola, Ophir, Bajo, and Arrick as the mammal citizens of Cascadia reel and respond to a declaration of war.
There’s still a whole lot left of this story to write, but you’ve waited long enough for an update, so this is what I do have to share. I hope you enjoy more of this world we’re uncovering together!
Prologue
A bell rang over the front door of Abernethy Teahouse and a black-tailed jackrabbit robed in a dark gray cloak stepped inside.
“Holmes! Welcome! How can we help you today?”
“Evenin’, Warner,” replied the rabbit. “Just browsing for now, thanks.”
Warner was the proprietor of Falls City’s most revered tea shop, a thickset beaver who knew customer service sometimes meant giving the customer space. He nodded, set his head down, and went back to polishing the oak counter with a rag.
Holmes was not actually browsing, and while he would love a warm cup of tea even in late summer, refreshment was not his aim. Holmes was there to wait and watch. To while the time, he wandered the teahouse floor, glancing about at shelves stocked with boxes and jars of loose leaf oolong and spearmint. He scratched the fuzzy lobe of his long right ear idly, and kept one eye glancing outside the window.
Holmes was an agent of the Office of Information, Counterintelligence Branch. He was still new to his assignment, but had faced a fiery trial so far. Action was picking up as Old Way operatives worked around the city more frequently than ever.
Of course, those were the fragments of opposition which the OI knew of. Many of Holmes’ colleagues believed the infiltration of enemy agents was far more invasive, that even some herbivores sympathized with the Old Way. Holmes couldn’t guess at why planteaters would want to go back.
On the other paw, sources in the Old Way had gone quiet, and the wilderness was locked down even tighter than usual.
The OI needed a win, and Holmes was here following a tip and a hunch: a reliable source claimed vital documents were barely guarded and under threat of thievery. Holmes figured the Office of Data made for an easy target.
Warner finished wiping the counter and returned his attention to a dog-eared copy of And the Bright Sun Dawned, a best-selling treatise on the history of pan-mammalian language and its galactic implications by cat essayist Carlton Curveclaw.
Holmes circled around the back of the store slowly to avoid raising Warner’s concern, then returned to the front to see more clearly out the windows and onto Falls Street. There were mammals bustling by, elk pulling carts, porcupines and squirrels and rats and mice milling about or perusing the shops. The evening was ordinary, the late summer air dry and just a little cool. To those who paid attention, there were wisps of rumors of dangerous days ahead, but most went about their lives without worry.
Holmes found a chair his size, sat down at a counter facing outside, and set his eyes on the gray stone building across the street, only a few floors high. It wasn’t a building anyone would remember, which fit the Office of Data’s general ethos.
“Here, Holmes,” said Warner, startling the rabbit from his vigil. The beaver had a steaming mug of peppermint tea in his paw. “We made a pot of our own so it’s on the house.”
Holmes took the mug and nodded his thanks to the shopkeep, then turned back toward the building across the street. Heat from the ceramic slowly seeped into his paw. He puffed across the surface of the tea, the peppermint clearing his airways, and sipped a bit. He kept his eye on the building all the while.
The building was a regional storage facility which held records and paperwork for Falls City and the surrounding fields and woodlands. Info of all types was collected and stored there: addresses, agricultural reports, census data, and financial statements. Most mammals passed by without a thought, but for those who wanted to understand Cascadia, to know what and who was where, these offices were invaluable.
When the mug was half finished and Holmes was settled into a flow of focus—all senses alert and intent—a long-tailed weasel in a dark green cloak and carrying a brown canvas satchel pushed his way through the building’s revolving front doors and onto the sidewalk.
The weasel took a moment, its eyes adjusting to the light, and glanced around the bustle of the street. There was something furtive in its movements which raised Holmes’ hackles. Then the green cloak twirled and the weasel struck off on a beeline south.
This is who you’re waiting for, the agent sensed inside.
He set down the mug on the counter, then moved toward the door.
“Thanks for the tea, Warner!” the rabbit called back into the tea house, and Warner nodded and returned to his novel and the bell above the door chimed behind Holmes as he left.
Outside, the warm air and clamor of the street swept over him. The sun slowly descended toward the horizon, and creatures bustled home for the evening meal and time with family, giving Holmes plenty of cover. He tracked the weasel, following at a distance and from across the street, but close enough to keep an eye on his target, even as carts and ungulates slid past. He walked quickly, but not so fast as to draw attention.
Zzzzziiiiipppp!
Holmes felt a flutter of wind on his cheek and turned to find Benji, his hummingbird partner, hovering near his ear.
“Weasel in the green coat. I’m trailing. Keep an eye on him and stay discreet.”
The hummingbird chirped and flitted off on a circuitous route, bending around buildings to find a spot where he could quietly watch their quarry.
Holmes tracked the weasel down Falls Street, shoving his paws in his pockets, trying not to seem in a hurry, even as the weasel definitely was. There was a fine line in surveillance between speed and secrecy, however, and Holmes soon realized he was erring on the side of the latter. The weasel seemed to accelerate, slipping ahead through the downtown traffic, weaving around other creatures on the street. Then a flurry of donkey-drawn carts passed and the jackrabbit lost sight of the dark green cloak as the weasel ducked around a corner.
Holmes sped up, crossing the street as he did so, stressed at losing eyes-on. An elk-drawn carriage crossed in front of him and he dove and rolled under its wheels, startling the elk and the carriage’s various rodent riders.
The jackrabbit finally reached the corner and peered around and up the street, scanning the crowd. He caught sight of Benji, the ruby-jeweled bird perched in the foliage of a large maple, and he followed the aim of the tiny bird’s beak down back onto the street, where he picked up sight of the green cloak. The weasel was nearly a block ahead, headed east toward the tunnel which lead to the Falls City Elevator.
Holmes wished he could catch up because the elevator ride would afford him time to examine the satchel and possibly even stop the weasel. He couldn’t tell if his target was armed or not, and Holmes only had a service dagger and a sling. Weasels are wily and strong, but Holmes had a size advantage and felt confident paw-to-paw.
But there was no way Holmes would reach the Elevator in time. He was only halfway up the street when the weasel vanished down the tunnel.
The stairs, thought the jackrabbit. They’d take longer, though, and he’d need to track the weasel until he caught up. Holmes waved up at Benji, and the hummingbird zipped out from the tree toward him.
“Watch that weasel,” said the rabbit to the tiny bird, and Benji rocketed off from a stock-still hover, spiraling up the bluff to the Elevator’s upper terminus.
The tunnel to the elevator was also the tunnel to the stairs, so when Holmes reached it, he paused at the side of the entrance to watch the elevator doors close behind the weasel. Then he took off, darting down the stairs and through the tunnel. Upon reaching the Elevator, he turned left to run up another long stairwell to a path which wound to the top of the bluff.
The rabbit’s legs churned underneath him, and passing animals glanced at him curiously.
Creator, let the velocity of Lightning Ben live in me, the jackrabbit prayed.
The walk was long, but not steep, so Holmes was able to keep a quick pace as he rose sidelong up the face of the cliff. He reached a small waterfall which dropped in tiers down the side of the bluff and his lungs burned a little, but Holmes was in excellent shape and barely felt the exertion. He passed the final waterfall, which poured through a cut in the stone, and turned right along a sidewalk toward the top of the Elevator.
The upper terminus of the Elevator offered an expansive view of Falls City , and the old landmark’s perch at the top of the bluff was both the town’s key tourist stop and useful for public transportation. Because of its vitality, the Elevator was powered by the waterwalls and mills which still stood along the Great Western River, remnants of the prime mammals’ long reign. Even now, the Elevator was busy, crowded with creatures enjoying the late summer views.
Unfortunately for Holmes, there were no signs of the weasel. If his quarry had headed north or east, he would’ve crossed paths or spotted the green cloak. Instead, he spotted Benji, a shimmery dot hovering off the bluff, high above the city. The hummingbird’s beak was aimed southeast.
Must’ve taken the promenade toward Canemah, thought the rabbit.
He jogged south down the path which meandered along the edge of the bluff, moving hurriedly, though not quite at a full sprint so as not to raise suspicion. As he moved, he glanced out at Benji, still tracking the weasel’s progress. The beak kept rotating closer.
If he weren’t in such a rush, Holmes might’ve enjoyed the view. The path was lined with mossed over chunks of flagstone, and the newer quarter of the city lay off to the right, a complex of glass and wood towers, restaurants, cafes, and shops which looked out over the water. Far out ahead were the falls, where the Willamette curled around a central caldera, wrapped around the basalt cliffs like a horseshoe, then tipped off the stone and plunged to the misty cauldron below.
The falls was a key location because it also broke up river commerce and travel, dividing the Willamette between its long run upstream into the southern reaches of the Willamette Valley, and it’s brief northern stretch, which flowed through Bridge City before joining the Great Western River. On the south side of the falls were giant locks, around which boats could move through to continue up- or down-river travel.
Around a bend in the path, Holmes finally spotted the weasel. His quarry sat alone on a bench in the midst of a clearing where creatures were gathered for picnics and to revel in the view. The green cloak crinkled up around him, and the canvas satchel was propped against his lower paws.
Holmes slowed to a stroll. The weasel seemed serene, which offset the tension the rabbit felt. He stopped, leaned against the trunk of an apple tree, and gazed around, trying to seem inconspicuous as he considered his next move. He could confront the weasel directly, though risking an open conflict among all picnickers could tarnish the reputation of the OI, and the Office needed all the reputation it could muster.
As Holmes considered his options, the equation suddenly changed. He was tipped off by Benji, the little hummingbird chirping and clicking in alarm from the branches of a nearby tree, and Holmes followed his avian partner’s attention. Further down the path and walking toward them, Holmes caught sight of a fox on two paws shadowed by a large and dangerous-looking Doberman. Both were headed down the path toward the clearing. The Doberman peeled off, standing to the side, but the fox continued on, and Holmes caught its eyes flick toward the weasel, who stood up when he saw the new arrivals and headed their way.
Holmes began to carefully move toward them, watching close. As the weasel neared the fox, he pawed the satchel off to the larger creature, an exchange so subtle even animals looking straight on wouldn’t notice. But Holmes was well-trained and watching, and now he knew fully this chase was worth any effort to stop.
Now the jackrabbit had to act.
Holmes drew his sling with one paw, and service dagger with the other, though he kept both hidden along his forepaws. The sling was already loaded with a stone, though that hardly mattered. Between the weasel, the fox, and the Doberman, the jackrabbit was overmatched even with surprise on his side. Doubt flooded up in him. He wasn’t even sure what the satchel held. But then Holmes remembered if he let the trio go, the contents of the satchel, and whatever they meant in this escalating conflict, would be lost. Conviction forged within him. He shouted.
“Stop! Office of Information!”
Every creature in the clearing, from picnickers to Benji to the fox and the weasel and the Doberman, turned to stare at the shouting rabbit.
“Drop that satchel!”
For a flash of a second, the fox seemed startled, but when he saw it was only a jackrabbit advancing, a smirk spread over his muzzle. He fired a glance at the Doberman, who charged.
Benji immediately recognized the odds against his partner and winged off to find reinforcements. Meanwhile, the fox and weasel used the Doberman’s charge to escape in different directions, fully expecting the powerful guard dog to wreak havoc.
Holmes was trained in all sorts of combat and tradecraft, but he was also accustomed to a long and peaceful age, so his training heretofore had been mostly theoretical. The Doberman running full-speed at him, on the other hand, was real and terrifying. Every instinct in the rabbit wanted to run.
Instead, the training took over. The sling uncoiled from his paw, dropping down to the rabbit’s thigh, and in another twirl of his paw, the leather pouch whirled clockwise, back and down, and Holmes fired the stone with a flick. The rabbit was only a decent shot, but the Doberman charged head on, closing the distance between them in a flash, and the dog’s speed multiplied the speed of the stone so that when it impacted on the Doberman’s head, there was a resounding thunk, and the big dog dropped like a timbered fir and skidded to a stop.
With the Doberman down, Holmes bolted out in pursuit of the fox and the stolen satchel. The red canine loped hurriedly south along the bluff toward the small town of Canemah.
Holmes was faster, though, and fifty meters on he caught up to the fox, and drove full force into the back of the larger beast. The fox sprawled, and the satchel swung free, rolling open against a stony outcrop near the top of the bluff. A few documents fell out and a breeze swept them over the edge of the cliff, but the fox was more intent on Holmes, spinning with a snarl and a drawn knife to confront his assailant.
Holmes brought up his dagger just in time to parry the fox’s attack, but he staggered back from the blow and the second lunge caught his shoulder, slicing in, immediately drawing a line of blood on the rabbit’s gray fur.
“Long-ears always gotta meddle,” growled the fox. “Maybe I should cut one off after I kill you.”
Then he lunged again. Holmes moved to block but the fox hesitated his attack and this time the blade sank deep in the flesh above Holmes’ right paw, and the rabbit lost hold of his service dagger. It fell away in a clatter of steel.
With a badly wounded paw, and armed only with an unloaded sling, Holmes’ courage faltered and he dropped back. Fear seized him for a moment, but he pressed it back, and when the fox lunged, Holmes ducked and rolled under his enemy’s outstretched paws, then kicked hard into the canine’s gut. The fox crumpled, the wind dashed from his lungs. He sucked hard for air, then snarled after catching his breath. But just as he lined up for another attack, the fox’s eyes caught something beyond Holmes. The fox froze. His eyes widened, then narrowed.
“Stop, brigand, in the name of the Canine Corps!” Holmes heard a gravelly voice call behind him. He turned to find an English bulldog, thick as a medicine ball, bowling across the lawn toward them. On the bulldog’s back was a squirrel rider with a drawn bow.
Quick as a flash, the fox snatched up the satchel and bolted north down the trail. The squirrel nocked and loosed her arrow, which hummed over Holmes’ head, but the shot fell just a bit short of the fox’s lower paws and skidded past him down the path.
Holmes loaded a stone into his sling and flicked another volley after the fleeing fox, but the stone faded to the left as the red canine widened the distance between them, racing downhill.
Holmes felt confident he could have caught the fox, but not without the blood he was losing. The bulldog rolled up beside him, and the squirrel leapt from its back to check on Holmes. Benji flitted after the fox to keep him in sight, but Holmes feared danger for the hummingbird if he tracked the fox too long, and whistled for him to return. The tiny bird buzzed back and alighted on the jackrabbit’s left shoulder.
“Are you badly wounded?” the squirrel asked, pulling a scarf from her cloak and wrapping it around the stab wound on Holmes’ right paw.
“I’ll be okay,” said the rabbit, though he gritted his teeth as the dressing sent prickles of pain through his body.
“I’m Sergeant Sera Duniway of the Falls City Peace Officers and this is Sergeant Burly Barclay of the Canine Corps,” said the squirrel, nodding toward the bulldog.
“I’m Holmes Graytail. Counterintel for the OI.”
“What happened here?”
“I’m not sure myself. I got a tip to watch for a thief at the Office of Data. A suspicious weasel in a green cloak walked out with a satchel and carried it to the bluff where there was a hand-off with the fox. I went to break it up but they sicced that behemoth on me,” Holmes jabbed a paw toward the inert Doberman. “I managed to put him down and caught up to the fox, but that’s where events took a turn. Then you folks rescued me. Thank you, by the way.”
“Yer welcome. And we won’t catch them now anyway, but we’ll put out a lookout page and at least we got one Old Wayer to question,” said Sergeant Barclay.Which…I’ll go cuff him while you talk this out.”
Sgt. Duniway nodded, then continued the interview as the bulldog trundled off.
“Any clues about what’s in the satchel?”
“No. I’m wondering the same thing. Must be important enough to fight over.”
Then Holmes recalled the papers which fell out.
“Some of what they stole blew off the bluff. Will you check that out, Benji?”
The hummingbird clicked, rose up, and dipped over the side of the cliff. A moment later, Benji returned, clicking wildly.
“I’ll head right down,” Holmes told the tiny bird, and Benji clicked his assent.
“There’s no quick way off the bluff and you need that wound treated,” said Sgt. Duniway. “I’ll track down the papers with your hummingbird while Sergeant Barclay takes you to the hospital for those wounds.”
By then the adrenaline of the chase was wearing off, and the throbbing pain from the dagger wound grew angrier.
“I could use some treatment. And thank you again for showing up.”
The squirrel offered her paw and Holmes took it and the smaller animal pulled the jackrabbit upright with ease, and they headed over to help Sgt Barclay apprehend the unconscious Doberman.
Hours later, a bevy of cottontail nurses at Falls City Medical Center were still fussing over Holmes’ wound. They’d cleaned and stitched up the deep laceration with spider thread, forced him to rest, and checked in frequently since Holmes had the dashing charm of a spy.
By the time Holmes was discharged later that evening, the sun was down over the western hills and night was falling. Three of the cottontail nurses wheeled him out to the waiting room, where Sergeants Barclay and Duniway sat alongside the OI Station Director of Falls City, Felix Quill. Director Quill was a Norway rat who oversaw intel collection in the region around the falls. Holmes felt relieved because curiosity about the case was nearly spilling from his’ soul and the Director would have the answers.
“What’d you find?” Holmes asked even before they noticed him.
“Three papers,” Sgt. Barclay answered after a beat. “Two were contact lists for healers in the region. One was a list of supervisors at the docks and locks.”
“What do you make of it,” Holmes asked Quill.
The rat scratched his chin and smoothed out his whiskers.
“Both lists are of useful citizens. It’s reasonable to assume the other documents were, as well. Short of Old Wayers throwing a party for the Falls City’ leadership, this seems ominous.”
“Could be a routine intel grab?” Holmes replied.
“Could be,” the rat conceded. “But brazen if so.”
“What do we know about the thieves?”
“So far we know the weasel worked for the Office of Data and went by Ray Slythe,” added Sgt. Duniway. “That’s likely an alias, though. He was hired in the spring and mostly kept to himself. The Canine Corps is looking out for him.”
“The Doberman’s name is Rocco. He’s a low-level troublemaker who’s in custody and still unconscious. We don’t know the fox at all,” added Sergeant Barclay. “His scent went cold near the docks at Canemah. No one saw any unfamiliar boats, but we assume one picked him up.”
“It’s not a lot to go on,” said Holmes. “What’s the next step?”
Director Quill gave a closed-muzzle smile which the rabbit knew meant the answer wasn’t clear yet.
“You’ve done enough today already, Agent Holmes,” added Sgt. Duniway. “We’ll let you know if anything else unfolds on our end.”
The sergeants had reports to file before their shift was done, so they said goodbye and headed off to the Canine Corps precinct.
“Have a round of ciders with me,” said Quill. “I’d like to talk this out a bit.”
“Yes, sir,” Holmes replied, and the Norway rat and the jackrabbit made their way over to the McLoughlin Tavern along Molalla Avenue, talking all the way. They discussed the day's events and theories, certainly, but the conversation also ranged since the best thinking often requires some meandering.
After a tastefully detailed report on Holmes’ prolific dating life, the two OI agents turned back to the matter at paw. A fight with data thieves was rare and concerning, but the main question was What do we do with the names on the list?
“They’re likely in danger,” said Quill.
“Do we let them know?”
“Would you want to know?”
“Absolutely. At least to have a go bag ready.”
“Then tomorrow we’ll start with what we have, and see if the Office of Data has copies of what we’re missing.”
This seemed to settle the matter, and the two OI agents returned to their ciders. Holmes was hungry by now so he ordered a sugar snap pea salad adorned with ricotta, minced shallots, fresh mint leaves, and sliced almonds scattered over the top. When the salad and the next round of ciders were finished, Quill paid their tab and the two agents wandered out onto the street.
The evening was warm and quiet, almost pleasant enough to ward away the pain in Holmes’ paw, and as they made their way back to the grand pathway leading down the bluff to downtown, they were alarmed to find Sergeant Barclay charging up the stairs toward them.
“Good! I hoped you weren’t gone,” said the Sergeant.
“Is there a break in the case?” asked Holmes.
“Not quite,” replied the bulldog. “Something else changes the game.”
Quill and Holmes narrowed their attention on the bulldog.
“The Beacon changed.”
Holmes was confused for a moment. What beacon?
“From blue to what?” Director Quill asked.
“Red.”
Then Holmes’ mind clicked the news into place. A red light atop the Beacon meant war. For all of Cascadia. And if there was war enough to light the Beacon, then the escalation he and his colleagues experienced over past seasons was now real and imminent. Falls City was surely a target.
“What about the raptors?”
“The Beacon being red is all I know right now, sir,” answered the bulldog.
Having delivered the terrible news and without much more to share, Sgt. Barclay said goodbye, left the two OI officers with their thoughts, and rumbled on back to his precinct. Holmes looked at Quill, and the rat’s eyes was deep in focused thought. The jackrabbit knew right then that the evening wasn’t over. How could they sleep when there was endless work to do, and imminent threats loomed?
“Sir?”
The wizened rat blinked and turned to look up at the younger agent.
“How can I help, sir?”
OI Station Director Felix Quill paused to consider this, for his prodigious mind was already spun up and processing how all-out war might unfold around them. There were a million tragic angles and paths of action, and any path they took would require the aid of trusted OI officers like Holmes very much indeed. But he also saw the weariness in the young agents’ eyes and he knew there would be sleepless weeks ahead. He set his paw firmly on the jackrabbit’s shoulder.
“Your orders are to go and rest, Agent Holmes. I’ll need your help tomorrow.”
Holmes wanted to argue with Quill’s orders, because he knew even providing companionship could unlock the Director’s thoughts and strategy. But right then an unsettling throb bloomed in the rabbit’s forepaw where the fox’s blade cut his muscle. After the odd mix of ache and sting subsided, a profound exhaustion sank into his bones.
“I’ll be there in the morning,” said Agent Holmes Graytail, and he gave a casual salute and parted ways with his station chief and set off back to the one-room warren he rented near Abernethy Creek.
Quill’s night was just begun, but he had a little time, so instead of heading to their office near the Falls City Riverfront, he walked north from the stairwell along Center Street to the end of the bluff, which folded out into a broad vista of the Willamette and Clackamas Rivers, and all the way to the far-away glow of Bridge City. Off to the left, barely visible over the hills, was the dim light of the Beacon, shining red.
This will change us all, thought the station chief.
Back home, wrapped in a light cotton comforter, Holmes was suspended between the worlds of consciousness and dreams. For him, the war and the day’s earlier chase and the ensuing investigation were too much to ponder right now. Instead, the mercy of denial settled in, and the rabbit’s mind turned slowly around memories of life as a leveret here in Falls City, how the pew cushions felt on Sunday mornings as they listened to sermons about the how the goodwill of the Creator (and Lightning Ben) rested over them all, how he and his siblings and cousins and neighbors would gather at Storm Park and play lemonball like laughing banshees until the sun was well down and the ball was hard to see in the dark.
The dangers ahead felt far away, and there were only warm recollections of early life. Then consciousness surrendered fully to dreams, and Holmes slept.
Loved it! Happy to see new Chronicles emerging. Fun new characters!