Flacks dreams were of his father and of his mother. Dreams that told him of a father who is taken from him in the night. No panic, no commotion, only a leaving.
And then dreams of a mother taken by the humans, amidst a brutal struggle that left a river the colour of blood.
There were dreams of the two squirrels, Chart and Brand, so innocent, so small, and so brutally killed because of the humans.
Visions of a mother covered with blood, scenes of squirrel dying in the hands of a human. Pictures of the squirrels holding hands, and then screaming, and then blood flooding over the scenes he dreamt.
And, as a backdrop to all of the images, there was the sound of many, many voices and screams; shouts coming from all of the races of beasts, all laughing, all scolding, and all hurtful.
There were beasts charging at him, suddenly slain by the arrows of humans and then the humans turning their arrows on him. He screamed when the arrows struck his flesh while the sounds of the Lioness’s laughter washed over him.
And then the dreams would repeat over and over again, more powerful, angrier, and more deadly.
Flack whimpered in his dreams, cried in his dreams, and tried to escape from his dreams; but he could not.