“I’m glad you think so,” Nimble said, giving a slight wag of her tail.
“And . . . and,” Ereth struggled, “if you ever, well, need me for anything, you can come get me.”
“You never told us where you lived,” Flip said.
“Cross the field, through the forest, till you get to the log cabin at Long Lake. Follow the trail south until you reach a gray snag. It’s full of mice. I live right next to it. In a log.”
“Oh great,” Nimble said. “Maybe we’ll visit you.”
“Yeah, right,” Ereth returned, not sounding very encouraging or hopeful. Then he remembered that he was going to find a new home where he could live alone, so no one would find him. He didn’t let them know about that.
No one spoke. The foxes gazed at Ereth, then away, then down at their paws. Ereth, not trusting himself to look at them, stared at his paws too.
“I have to go,” he suddenly announced. “Be careful until you find that last trap.”
“Don’t worry,” Tumble said. “We will.”
Still Ereth hesitated. “Hope things go well.”
“We’ll be okay,” Nimble said.
“Okay,” Ereth said. Abruptly he whirled about, took three steps, and banged into a tree. “Puckered pine pits!” he screamed. Then he backed off and stumbled away.
After ten yards he stopped and turned around. The foxes were still sitting there. Still looking after him.
“One more thing,” the porcupine croaked. “If I ever hear that any of you gangling idiots eats a mouse, I’m coming back. And if I do, I’ll make your nose look like a cactus in need of a haircut! Remember that!”
With that, Ereth, not daring to look back, ran away as fast as he could.
CHAPTER 24
Ereth and the Salt
ERETH WADDLED BLINDLY through the woods. He barged into bushes, bumped into trees, slipped, stumbled, fell into pockets of snow. Each time he stalled, he snarled, swore under his breath, picked himself up, pawed his eyes clear, and pushed on.
Only when he grew so weary that he had to rest did he stop and lean against the trunk of a tree. He did so reluctantly, gasping for breath. Briefly, he peered back along the trail he had just traveled to see if he had been followed.
For a second, he thought someone was there, and his heart jumped. Then he decided he was just imagining things and his heart sank again.
With an angry shake of his head, he murmured, “Alone at last,” and allowed himself a sigh that he fancied was one of contentment. At the same time he felt a great swell of emotion in his chest, which he did not have the energy to suppress. The effort left him weak and shaky.
“Blue heron hogwash,” he muttered. “I’m done with all this family fungus! Better to do what I want, when I want, how I want. I’m free again! Life is good!”
With that Ereth gave himself a shake, as if he could rid himself of whatever might be sticking to his quills. “It’s about time I did something for myself,” he announced out loud. Then he grinned. “Time to get some . . . salt.”
Damp-eyed, he looked around. By scrutinizing the sun as well as the shadows on the ground, he determined where he was.
After careful consideration, Ereth was quite sure his headlong rush had taken him north. To the best of his judgment, Long Lake, along with the cabin and the salt, was to be found in a southwesterly direction.
Feeling much more composed, Ereth took time to eat before resuming his journey. Yet once, twice, he gazed about, unable to rid himself of the feeling that someone was lurking in the woods, watching him.
“Fool,” he muttered. “No one’s there! No one will ever be there!” Still, he allowed himself the thought that it was always best to be on guard. But when he caught himself taking another peek behind, he made a stern vow to look no more.
As he went on, his spirits grew lighter. It was good, he kept telling himself, to be on the move. Good to have no responsibilities other than himself. He tried to put his thoughts on the salt and how it would taste. He thought too about home—wherever that might be. Indeed, the old porcupine thought of many things, but never once did he allow himself to think of the kits any longer than the moment it took to regret such thoughts. All that, he insisted to himself, was over and done with. Finished. Only once did he slip from his mental discipline, when he suddenly shouted, “They didn’t even say thank you!” That said, he vowed to say no more. It was done. Gone. Finished. The end.
The porcupine pushed through the woods at a steady clip. The snow had receded, leaving great patches of brown, cold earth. The pine-scented air was bright and crisp, filled with buoyant energy.
When Ereth decided he had gone far enough to avoid the field and the bluff, he swung southwest, trusting that at some point he would reach the shores of Long Lake.
It was not till late afternoon that he rested again. Early winter shadows, like grasping paws, extended a stealthy hold over what remained of the crusty white snow.
The porcupine fueled himself with a quick chew of some bark, then set off again. “That lake should be near,” he told himself, trying to ignore his exhaustion.
As he hurried, there were a few times—despite his earlier resolve—that he caught himself thinking about the kits again. What had they done all day? Had they eaten well? Did they do their chores? Had they thought about him? Then, with a snarl and a muttered, “Salivating shrew slop,” he angrily dismissed such thoughts and willed himself to concentrate on the salt that soon would be his.
He reached the lake at twilight. In the dim light its surface lay white and frozen. Ereth stared at it. It looked so cold and deserted.
Suddenly, tears began to flow. “Oh, why did I ever leave home?” he asked himself. “Because of my birthday,” he recalled. “No one paid any attention to me. I was forced to go and get a present for myself. And look what’s happened! Well, that’ll be my last birthday.
“That’ll teach ’em!” he said out loud with a savage bite in his voice.
“Salt,” he whispered with desperation, “I must get some salt.”
With new urgency, Ereth wheeled about and hurried on. Keeping the lake to his right, he skirted the shore. Sometimes, as he scooted across low, beach-like areas, the going was easy. At other times the shore was irregular or boggy, clotted with old brambles. In those places he had to push his way through or take long detours. “Why is it always so hard to get where you want to go?” he complained.
Night wore on. The white moon rose with brilliant promise, only to be obscured by clouds. A wind rattled the bare branches like old bones. Around midnight, snow began to fall. Fearful that if he stopped he might never move again, Ereth pressed on. The snow piled up quickly, making the going slower. When dawn came, gray and hard, mantled by still-falling snow, he dared not rest.
Then, at last Ereth saw the cabin. By early morning’s thin light it seemed little more than a dark lump on the snow-filled landscape. No lights were on, though Ereth reminded himself that was no proof the hunters weren’t there. It was still early. The humans might be sleeping.
He sniffed the air, trying to detect any hint of burning wood. None.
Emboldened, Ereth edged closer to the cabin. He continually looked about, seeking some sign, any sign, that would suggest the presence of people.
There were no footprints, but new snow would have covered them. Briefly, he tried to calculate the time since he’d seen the hunters on the field. Was it two weeks ago? A month?
In the growing daylight he scrambled under the cabin and peered around. No snowmobile. That, he decided, was a good sign.
Then he caught sight of the box in which he had seen the traps and was filled with revulsion. Even so, he crept forward, hoisted himself up, and peered inside. The box was empty.
Had the humans come back and set the remaining traps? Or had they returned and taken the traps away with them?
Cautiously, Ereth crept out from under the cabin and worked his way to the front porch.
He went up the steps and
put his nose to the doorjamb. A tremor of excitement coursed through him. The smell of salt was unmistakable. It was still there! His heart hammered. Oh, if only he could have some! So much would be mended!
He crawled up to the window, the one he had previously knocked in. Not only was glass back in place, bars had been placed over it. One glance and a disappointed Ereth knew there was no way he could get through it.
He dropped down and butted his head against the door. It would not give. Frantic, he raced down the steps and around the cabin, searching for any way to get inside. He found none. He even plunged under the cabin in hopes he might discover an entry there. Once again he was thwarted.
“Hit the puke switch and duck!” he shouted. “It’s not fair. I deserve better. I’ve been treated badly. I should get something!”
Furious, feeling nothing but the cruel injustice of the world, he raced back to the front porch. Maybe he had given up on the window too quickly. In great haste, he crawled up and balanced himself on the windowsill. Perched precariously, he clutched the bars and tried to rattle them as if he were in a cage and trying to get out. The bars held. Increasingly desperate, he reached through the bars and pressed against the window itself. It would not budge.
Thoroughly defeated, he turned around. Only then did he see that right below him on the porch was another animal. He was about three feet in length and more than a foot tall, with short brown fur and small, round, dark eyes, which, to look at them, were almost blank of emotion.
“Got you,” said Marty the Fisher. “Got you at last.”
CHAPTER 25
What Happened at the Cabin
OPEN-MOUTHED, Ereth stared at the fisher.
“You thought you were being clever, hiding with those kits for so long,” Marty sneered. “But you’re too stupid to know that I’m the most patient creature in the world. I’ve waited and watched every move you made. I saw you pretending to take care of those foxes when all you were doing was hiding from me. I saw you rush through the woods and take an indirect route back here. I saw and I followed. I’m like death. You can’t escape me!
“You coward!” he went on. “I know you for what you are. You’re an old, witless, selfish porcupine. But now you’re going to get what you deserve. Get down from there!”
“But . . . but . . . why?” a very frightened Ereth stammered. “Why are you so angry at me? What did I do to you?”
“You porcupines think you can go and do anything you want,” Marty replied angrily. “You’re nothing but self-centered beasts without any feeling for anyone but yourselves. You don’t care what you say or do. You think nothing of others. You think your quills will keep you safe. Well, I’m here to show you, porcupine, no one can be safe from Marty the Fisher. Not even you. Now get down!”
“But . . . but . . . I’m not like other porcupines,” Ereth stammered. “Or if I was, I’ve changed. I’ve become different. I have feelings. I do care what others think.”
“Liar!” Marty snarled. “Come on down here and get what you deserve!”
Ereth, knowing perfectly well what the fisher could do to him, remained where he was. While he could put up resistance, he was hardly in a place to do so. Beyond that, he was exhausted from his long, difficult trek back to the cabin.
He looked around. The barred window was behind him. No escaping that way. Nor was there any escape right or left. He glanced beyond the porch, toward the woods. There, perhaps, lay safety. If he could climb into a tree he might be able to defend himself. But first he had to get to the tree, and the new snow would be slippery, perhaps even deep in places.
“Get down!” Marty shouted, eyes cold and hard. “Get down or I’ll yank you down!” So saying, he reared back on his hind legs as though ready to attack.
“Moldering mouse marbles!” Ereth cried. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t!” But when he saw the fisher’s muscles tense, he knew he had no choice. He had to reach the trees.
Terrified, Ereth did what he had never done in his entire life. He made a flying leap off the windowsill. Kicking back hard, he sailed over the fisher’s head, landing with a hard thump on the porch.
Marty, caught by surprise, swung around.
Paws smarting from a painful landing, a dazed Ereth struggled to his feet. He spun about, trembling with panic, and waved his quilled tail wildly, ready to smack Marty across the face if he got too close.
Marty stepped back spryly.
Seeing that he had won a brief advantage, Ereth turned again. He tried to get off the porch by running but completely forgot about the steps. Missing the first one, he tumbled head over tail, doing three complete somersaults before landing on his back in the snow, belly exposed.
Shrieking with rage, Marty extended his claws and took a great leap off the porch, aiming right at the porcupine. Ereth saw him coming and rolled over, but not fast enough. The fisher managed to snare him with his front claws, leaving two long scratches across Ereth’s belly. Blood began to flow.
“Potato pip paste!” Ereth screamed. “I’m being murdered! Help!” He continued his roll, then turned again, once more putting his tail between himself and the snarling fisher.
Marty, alert to the danger, backed off.
A frantic Ereth began to race toward the trees, taking what were for him great bounding leaps. As he went he trailed streaks of blood, which were like stitch marks on the white snow.
The fisher saw where Ereth was heading. With a burst of speed he shot past the porcupine, made a sharp U-turn, and confronted him head-on.
Ereth came to a skidding stop. He started to turn, but saw that if he did, the fisher would be herding him right back toward the cabin, the last place Ereth wanted to be.
“Give up, you stupid beast,” Marty taunted. “You don’t have a chance!”
“You occupational ignoramus!” Ereth screeched, huffing and puffing as he tried to recover his breath. His heart was hammering so hard it was making him dizzy.
Trying to defend himself, he tucked his head down between his front legs, shaping himself into a ball of bristling quills. Then, with mincing steps, he awkwardly waddled forward. This moved him toward Marty, but with his head so low he could no longer see where he was going.
Marty, seeing that Ereth was attacking blindly, backed up and quickly circled the porcupine, looking for a place to attack. Noticing that the quills along Ereth’s side were flattened, he leaped forward, both front paws out, trying to knock Ereth off balance.
Hit hard where he least expected it, Ereth rolled away. Once again his belly was exposed. Once again, the fisher struck, drawing more blood.
The pain was enough to force Ereth to uncoil himself. He had to see where he was, had to see where the fisher was, had to know how to escape. But when he looked about he was so confused and woozy he couldn’t find his enemy. Belatedly, he saw that the fisher had jumped in front of him again. Even as Ereth realized his whereabouts, Marty attacked, this time aiming right at Ereth’s face.
The porcupine ducked. He avoided the worst but received a bad scrape on one ear even as he managed to butt the fisher hard, hoping he’d poked him with a couple of quills.
Marty dropped back, coolly trying to decide where to attack next.
In that moment, Ereth stole a quick glance to see how far he was from the trees. He had covered half the distance, but it felt as if they were still miles away.
As Ereth struggled to decide what to do, Marty took another hard lunge at him, trying to knock him over. This time he missed completely and went sprawling in deep snow.
Sensing his opportunity, Ereth hurled himself toward the trees. He was beginning to think he was going to make it, when he received a hard smash on the left side.
The stroke came so suddenly, so intensely, Ereth landed hard against an old stump, the wind knocked completely out of him.
Feeling increasing pain and growing even more muddled, Ereth knew that he must get up and defend himself.
He could not.
The best he coul
d manage was to open his eyes. He beheld a dreadful sight. Marty the Fisher was crouching a few feet away. His face bore a cruel grin. “Now I have you,” Marty hissed.
“Help!” Ereth gasped. “Help!”
“You’re done, porcupine,” Marty snarled. “Completely done. No one, absolutely no one, escapes Marty the Fisher.”
Ereth strained to get up again. The pain was too great. He was too weak. He was bleeding too much. “Please,” he bleated. “I need some help . . . please. Someone help me.”
As Marty the Fisher prepared his final, fatal spring, Ereth closed his eyes. “Goodbye, Poppy,” he whispered. “Farewell, kits!”
He opened his eyes to see the fisher, claws fully extended, leaping at him.
The next instant there was an explosion of red. It seemed to come from nowhere, and yet it was everywhere all at once. Thinking it was his own blood he was seeing, Ereth squeezed his eyes shut. Then he heard the yelping, barking, and snarling.
Ereth opened his eyes and blinked with astonishment.
Tumble, Nimble, and Flip had burst from the woods and leaped upon the fisher, taking him completely by surprise. What’s more, they were pummeling him with all the ferocity they could muster.
Tumble, with jaws tightly clamped, was holding on to the scruff of the fisher’s neck and shaking hard, all the while grunting and snarling. Nimble had taken a fast hold of one of the fisher’s legs and was refusing to let go, no matter how much the beast thrashed. As for Flip, he had a firm grip on the fisher’s tail and was growling and yanking and pulling with all his might.
In seconds it was Marty the Fisher who was on his back, kicking and clawing frantically, trying to get away.
A weak, dazed Ereth could only mutter, “Welcome the wombats and bless all bees!”
Suddenly Marty the Fisher gave a mighty yank and freed his leg from Nimble’s grasp. Though Tumble was still clinging to him and Flip refused to let go, the fisher staggered to his feet. With a violent shake, he flung Tumble away. Then he turned and snapped savagely at Flip, who was forced to let go of the fisher’s tail.