The morning mist clung to the forest floor as Jukrit adjusted his woven bark satchel, checking once more that his collection of healing herbs and carved totems were secure. His bushy tail, adorned with small wooden beads that clicked softly as he moved, swept the ground behind him. For the first time in his twenty seasons, he was leaving the familiar oak grove that had been his home.
"The world holds wisdom beyond these trees," he murmured to himself, repeating the words his mentor had spoken before passing. "A true shaman must seek understanding wherever it grows."
For three days, Jukrit traveled through forests he'd only heard about in stories. He stopped to help a family of field mice whose burrow had flooded, teaching them which roots would help their youngest recover from the chill. He shared his evening meal with a suspicious crow who eventually warmed to his gentle nature, trading stories about the lands beyond.
On the fourth day, the trees began to thin. Through a break in the canopy, Jukrit glimpsed something that made his heart skip—a stone structure rising from the earth. As he drew closer, his paws trembled with excitement. The entrance was marked by carved figures, and though weathered by countless seasons, the shapes were unmistakable: squirrels wearing ceremonial garb, their tails held in ritual positions he recognized from his own training.
"Others like me," he whispered, running his paw over the ancient carvings. "Perhaps they've preserved knowledge that was lost to my grove."
The temple's interior was dark and musty. There were carvings and artwork of squirrels performing healing ceremonies, blessing acorn harvests, mediating between different forest creatures. Jukrit's imagination soared—what if descendants of these shamans still lived nearby? What exchanges of wisdom might they share?
His reverie was broken by an aggressive voice from the entrance. "Trespasser!"
Jukrit turned to see a blue rabbit with endearingly floppy ears, whose gentle appearance betrayed his unfriendly demeanor. The rabbit's fur was well-groomed, and he wore a simple woven collar decorated with small shells.
"Peace, friend," Jukrit said, raising his paws in the traditional greeting. "I am Jukrit, shaman of the Spirit Whiskers clan. I've come seeking—"
"Go away!" the rabbit said. "The only thing you need to know is I'm Phluphy, guardian of this place. Me and Striatus do not tolerate visitors!"
A chipmunk emerged from the shadows, and something about him seemed familiar to Jukrit—the distinctive stripe pattern, the way he moved. Could this be the same Striatus who had visited his grove years ago? But no, Jukrit realized with a chill. This chipmunk's eyes had always held a hardness, even during that visit. He'd asked strange questions about which herbs could harm rather than heal, which Jukrit had naively attributed to scholarly thoroughness.
"Striatus? I thought you—"
"He said go away!" Striatus's mouth twisted into what might have been mistaken for a smile.
Phluphy's angry grimace never wavered.
More creatures emerged from the shadows—squirrels with matted fur and filed teeth, a scarred badger, a one-eyed crow. All wore similar bone ornaments, and all watched Phluphy with a mixture of devotion and fear.
"I... I don't understand," Jukrit stammered. "The motifs show peaceful shamans—"
"Fools," Phluphy said sweetly, his floppy ears bouncing as he shook his head. "They welcomed everyone, shared their knowledge freely. And where did it get them? Conquered. Forgotten. We learned better." His smile widened, showing teeth that were surprisingly sharp. "Now, only the strong survive. Only our chosen blood belongs here."
"But," Jukrit said to Striatus, his voice faltering, "you seemed so interested in helping creatures—"
"Such a shame," Phluphy sighed, still maintaining his pleasant demeanor even as his followers began to close in. "You seem nice, really. But rules are rules. Striatus, show our guest what happens to trespassers."
The chipmunk raised his bone club without hesitation, and Jukrit realized with horror that there had never been any kindness in either of them—only predators wearing the masks of prey.
Behind him, Phluphy's melodious voice called out commands that contrasted horrifyingly with their violent content. "Get him, friends! Remember, no outsider leaves alive! Wonderful teamwork, everyone!"
Jukrit fled through the forest, his ceremonial beads scattering as branches tore at them. The thought that he'd been so thoroughly deceived, that his trusting nature had blinded him to Striatus's true intentions all those years ago, stung almost as much as his bleeding paws.
He ran until his lungs burned and his paws bled, not stopping until the sun had set and risen again. Collapsed beside a clear stream, Jukrit wept—not from fear or pain, but from sorrow. How had the descendants of those wise shamans fallen so far? How had creatures like Phluphy learned to weapon their harmless appearance?
As he tended his wounds with poultices from his satchel, a realization slowly dawned. Perhaps this was why his mentor had sent him into the world—not just to find existing wisdom, but to plant new seeds where the old growth had withered. And perhaps to learn that kindness must be coupled with wisdom, that trust must be earned rather than freely given.
Over the following seasons, Jukrit established a small shrine by a waterfall two valleys away. Word spread slowly among the peaceful creatures of the forest: here was a place where predator and prey could drink from the same stream, where the injured found healing regardless of species, where young ones could learn the old songs and the names of beneficial plants.
Sometimes, while teaching a young rabbit to identify medicinal mushrooms or showing a family of opossums how to build rain shelters, Jukrit would remember his encounter with Phluphy and Striatus. He'd learned to watch for the signs he'd missed—the calculating look behind a friendly gesture, the questions that probed for weakness rather than wisdom.
"Trust is sacred," he would tell his students, "but discernment protects the sacred. Not all who appear gentle are kind, and not all who seek knowledge wish to heal."
And in his small sanctuary, surrounded by creatures of all kinds living in mutual respect, Jukrit found a wisdom his travels had taught him: sometimes the greatest danger comes wrapped in the softest fur and the sweetest words, but truth and kindness, steadfastly maintained, will always find fertile ground—as long as they're guarded by wisdom.
