Suddenly he stopped. Directly ahead, but hidden by a cornice of snow, he heard the sound of thrashing and clanking, followed by a soft whimpering. This was followed by a piteous “Please.”
Whoever had been calling was not only still in trouble, it sounded as if he was growing weaker.
Ereth lifted his nose and sniffed. An animal was right in front of him. The question was, what kind? He couldn’t tell because another smell filled the air. Though this second smell was familiar, Ereth could not quite grasp its nature. “Wilted wolf waffles,” he muttered, “what is it?”
His frustration abetted by curiosity, Ereth took two more leaps forward in the snow, then stopped and gasped in horror.
CHAPTER 7
Ereth Makes a Promise
ON THE GROUND LAY a slim fox with tawny red fur and a long, bushy tail. The lower part of her delicate, pointed face and much of her muzzle were white. Her few remaining whiskers were as black as her nose. Black too was the outline of her almond-shaped, orange-colored eyes. Her pointed ears were limp. All around her, the beaten-down snow was red with blood, for the fox’s left front paw was gripped in the jaws of a steel spring trap.
In an instant Ereth understood: she had been caught in one of the traps that the hunters from the cabin had set.
The trap consisted of a pair of metal jaws, which—once sprung—had crushed the fox’s paw, biting savagely through fur, flesh, muscles, and tendons. All were exposed. The amount of blood that lay about suggested the fox had been trapped for a long time. It was the blood that had confused Ereth’s sense of smell.
Just to look upon the scene turned Ereth’s bone marrow colder than the snow.
The fox, not yet realizing anyone else was there, whimpered softly to herself as she tried to move her paw. Though extremely weak, she managed to lift the trap an inch or two. It was connected to a stake by a metal link chain. When the trap moved the chain jangled. Her effort—small as it was—was an enormous struggle, so much so that after a painful moment, she dropped paw, trap, and chain and lay panting with exhaustion.
As Ereth, horrified, continued to watch, the fox leaned forward and tried to gnaw at the chain, then at the trap itself.
“Murdering mud malls,” Ereth growled under his breath.
His words were just loud enough for the fox to hear. Slowly, she turned her head.
Her nose was dry, caked with blood. Her whiskers were bent and broken. Her eyes were so glazed over with pain and tears, Ereth was not certain she grasped that he was there. “Can . . . can I . . . do anything?” he managed to say.
The fox cocked her head slightly, taking in the words as if they came from a distant place. This time Ereth was sure she saw him. “I’m . . . caught . . .” she said in a weak voice. “Please help . . . me.”
Ereth, fighting waves of nausea, drew closer. The smell of blood, the sight of the fox’s mangled paw, were making him feeble. “I’m . . . awful sorry,” he whispered.
“Yes . . .” was all the fox could reply.
Gingerly stretching his head forward, Ereth attempted to bite the chain, the trap itself, and the spike which held the trap to the ground. Bitterly cold, iron hard, the metal would not give.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
“All day.”
“Mangled moose marbles,” Ereth whispered with fright.
“It’s been . . . so long,” the fox said.
“I . . . see.”
“The moment it happened I knew I would never get free,” the fox went on. The snow, fluttering softly through the trees, clung to her fur like a delicate shroud. “I’m going to die,” she said after a few moments. The words took a great deal of her energy to speak.
For once in his life Ereth did not know what to say. Though he wished there was something he could do, he had no idea what it might be.
“But—” the fox went on, gazing at Ereth with dark-rimmed eyes, “I want to ask you . . . to . . . promise me something.”
“Oh, sure,” Ereth blurted with relief. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”
“You’re . . . very kind,” the fox whispered.
Ereth was about to ask her how she knew he was kind but decided against it.
“Not far from here . . .” the fox went on, speaking with increasing difficulty, “is my . . . den.”
“Yes . . .”
“In the den are my . . . three kits. They’re only a few months old.”
“Three kits?” Ereth echoed, not grasping what the fox was leading to.
“Two sons, one daughter,” the fox explained. “They don’t know . . . what’s happened to me. I went out in search of some fresh food for them when . . . I stepped on this . . . trap and . . . got caught.”
“Salivating skunk spots,” Ereth whispered. In spite of himself he looked anxiously about in search of other traps. How many had those humans said they set? Was it sixteen? Twenty?
“The snow hid it,” the fox went on. “And . . . took away its smell.”
Ereth licked his lips nervously.
“Would . . . you,” the fox continued, “could you . . . be kind enough . . . to go to my kits. They . . . need to be told what’s become of me.”
“I . . . suppose,” Ereth stammered, taken by surprise.
“They are very young. Helpless,” the fox went on. “If you could just . . . take care of them . . .”
“Take care of them!” Ereth cried.
The fox blinked tears. “It would be so generous. Just knowing that you . . . would . . . I might . . . die with some measure . . . of peace.”
“But . . . buttered flea foofaraws!” Ereth cried. “Where’s . . . where’s their father? Isn’t he around?”
The fox turned away. “I don’t know where he is,” she said. “He’s . . . gone off.”
“Puckered peacocks,” Ereth said indignantly. “That’s not right. Or fair. I mean . . . it’s absolutely un—”
The fox turned and gazed at Ereth with such sorrowful eyes he shut his mouth and wished he had not spoken so loudly.
“Would you . . . please, please, promise you’ll take care . . . of my kits? Show them some . . . kindness? I love them so much. They’re not old enough to take care of themselves . . . yet.”
“But . . . oh, chipped cheese on monkey mold,” Ereth growled, feeling sick to his stomach. “I suppose . . . I . . . could . . . for a bit. But only a bit,” he added hastily.
“Thank you,” the fox said. “They will be . . . so . . . appreciative. And so . . . will I. You are a saint to do so.” The fox’s eyes were closed now. Her breathing had become more difficult.
“Zippered horse zits,” Ereth swore as he realized the fox was doing worse and worse.
“My den . . . is about . . .” the fox said, paying no mind to Ereth, “. . . a mile from here. Due east . . . in a low bluff. Behind . . . a pile of boulders. Just behind . . . a big blue rock.”
“Blue?”
“A little . . . bit.” The fox was fading rapidly.
“Low bluff . . . due east . . . blue rock,” Ereth repeated.
“Thank you,” the fox murmured, “thank you . . . so very much.”
“I’ll do it,” Ereth sputtered. “But only for a short time, you understand. Only until their father gets back. I mean, I’ve no intention, none whatsoever, of taking the place of real parents who have the responsibility to—”
Ereth stopped speaking. It was obvious—even to him—that the fox had died.
For a long while Ereth stared at the dead fox. Twice he swallowed hard and sniffed deeply.
The smell of death filled the air. It frightened him deeply. “Jellied walrus warts,” he mumbled as he hastened away from the scene.
For a while he went on silently, only to suddenly halt, lift his head, and bellow, “Dying! It’s such a stupid way to live! It makes no sense at all!”
Taken aback by his own outburst, Ereth gave himself a hard, rattling shake. “It has nothing to do with me. Nothing!” he added savagely. “I’m go
ing to live forever!”
He gazed up at the sky. It had stopped snowing. In the darkness a dull moon revealed rapidly moving shreds of clouds. It made the sky look like a torn flag. Stars began to appear, cold and distant. “Waste of time, stars,” Ereth complained.
He went on, only to stumble into a ditch and sink up to his neck in snow. “Suffocating snow!” he screamed with fury. “Why does it have to be cold and wet?” With a furious snort he hauled himself up and shuddered violently.
Grudgingly, painfully, he recalled his promise to the fox, that he would help her three kits. His heart sank. He groaned.
“Oh, why did I ever say I would do it?” he reproached himself. “I didn’t mean it. I only said it to make her feel better. Fact is, I should have ignored her cries. I’m old enough to know better. Help someone and all you do is get into trouble. Always. I don’t even like to be my own friend. But then I befriended Poppy. And accepted her husband. Then I was nice to their children. I should have kept to myself. Better to be alone. To stay alone.
“Helping others,” he snarled viciously. “Being good! It’s all broccoli bunk and tick toffee. Oh, pull the chain and barf three buckets. What am I going to do?”
CHAPTER 8
Following and Moving On
MARTY THE FISHER had been as surprised as Ereth when the fox’s call came out of the woods. He looked from Ereth to the woods, from the woods to Ereth, wondering what he should do. Of course, Ereth had made the decision for him. When the porcupine broke away from the cabin and went lumbering through the snow toward the sound of the call, a puzzled Marty followed from a safe distance.
Then he saw Ereth disappear behind a mound of snow and heard low voices.
Alarmed, he swiftly, silently crawled up a tree and out along a branch, then looked down. When he saw the trapped fox, he was so startled he almost fell out of the tree.
As the fox and Ereth talked, Marty watched. He could not hear what they were saying. Then the fox slumped down, and the porcupine backed away. The next moment Ereth hurried off.
Staring at the scene below, Marty was filled with anger. The fox was dead. He knew who she was, too. Leaper. He knew of her kits, and her husband. “Humans . . .” the fisher hissed with fury. Then he saw where Ereth had gone, and his anger redoubled. “Look at him! He thinks he’s beyond all that! Just runs off, the self-centered good-for-nothing . . .” More than ever, Marty resolved to catch the porcupine.
“Most likely I’m only going to get one chance,” he reminded himself. “It has to be right. As long as he stays beneath the trees I’ll be fine.
“Be patient, Marty, be very patient,” he told himself as he resumed his stalking.
Ereth plunged on through the thick, soft snow. “She said they were kits,” he mumbled to himself with disgust. “Three months old. Babies. Nothing but poop and puke, puke and poop. Helpless. Brainless. Useless. The only thing I hate more than children is babies. Babies,” he sneered with contempt. “Never could figure out why there are so many babies. They can’t do anything . . .
“Right,” he said, halting in his tracks. “And that means I should forget the whole thing, head back to the salt, and for once, do something nice for myself!”
Then Ereth had a terrible thought. The traps. Hadn’t the humans said they had staked out many of them? With so much snow the traps would be as invisible and odorless to him as they had been to the fox. They could be anywhere. He could be caught.
Engulfed by rising panic, he began to move forward again, but now each step he took was a cautious one.
Now and again he paused nervously to check over the trail he had made. It looked as if someone had dragged a bulky bag through the snow. “I could follow my own trail back,” he told himself. “Safe once, safe twice.” He turned around.
“Except . . .” he muttered, “I suppose somebody needs to tell those kits what happened to their mother. If they come looking for her . . . they might get caught, too.” The thought was too ghastly for Ereth to contemplate.
Besides—he told himself—if he did not tell the kits what happened, they might never know. Being stupid youngsters, they were liable to just sit there and wait for her to come back. Doing nothing for themselves, they would starve to death. “That’s the way the young folks are,” Ereth thought, “always waiting for someone to give them a handout—even if the waiting kills them.”
He turned back around and continued in the direction of the fox den.
“Of course,” his thoughts continued, “if they did know what happened—I mean, if they had any brains, which isn’t very likely—they could go out and find their father. That’s what they should do. Let him take care of them.
“Wonder where the father is. Gone for a holiday, probably. Foxes are such idiots. But then, all meat eaters are jerks!”
Ereth groaned. “All that incredible salt sitting there and . . . I could use some sleep.”
Once again he looked back in the direction of the log cabin. For a second he thought he saw what appeared to be a shadow moving high among the branches. It startled him.
“You’re getting jumpy,” he told himself. “No, not jumpy. Gilded carrot quoits,” he swore. “The truth is, I don’t want to do what I promised to do.”
He rubbed his nose and sniffed. “Then again, I suppose it won’t hurt me to drop by and tell those kits what happened. The salt isn’t going to walk away. And maybe I could sleep in their den—long as it doesn’t stink of meat—then get back to the salt in the morning.
“Now where did she say those kits were?” the porcupine wondered out loud as he peered around. “About a mile east from where I found her. In a low bluff. Behind some rocks. A blue rock. Oh, boiled badger boogers!” he growled in exasperation. “I hate this!”
He studied the scene before him. With everything buried in snow, it was hard to distinguish anything—rocks, boulders, bushes—much less determine where he was.
Coming out from the woods Ereth found an open field stretching before him. Blanketed in snow, it lay in perfect stillness. The new snow—untouched, untrod upon—appeared to have been there since time began. Moonlight gave it a radiant glow.
At the far end of the field was a bluff. It rose up sharply, as if half a hill had simply dropped away. Peering at it, Ereth could see the lumpy outline of rocks and boulders beneath the snow.
“Chipmunk tail squeezers,” Ereth said. “I bet that’s where her den is.” It fit the fox’s description and seemed logical. Anyone approaching the den from across the field would be seen from a safe distance. And it wasn’t likely anyone would drop down to the den from the top of the bluff. It was too steep.
“But how am I, in the middle of the night, supposed to find a blue boulder that’s buried in the snow?”
With a snarl that was half anger, half weariness, Ereth moved out across the field. Suddenly he stopped. “Goat gaskins and maggot mange!” he cried. “What am I supposed to say to those kits?” The thought of it made him groan out loud.
“Tell it to them straight,” he told himself. “Right off. They’ll have to face the mucus some time or other. It’s a rough world. No sentimental slip-slop for me.
“I’ll say: ‘Hello! Guess what? Here’s the news. Your mother’s dead. Go find your father. Goodbye.’
“Yes. That’s the way it’s going to be. If they don’t like it, they can eat my quills.”
Grimly determined, Ereth continued to push forward. As he went he kept practicing his speech. “Hello! Guess what? Here’s the news. Your mother—”
It took him a while to reach the base of the bluff. Once there he halted and searched for some clue that might tell him where the fox’s den was. But now that he was close he could see that there were many boulders embedded in the bluff. Every one was jagged and irregular. In the best of weather the den’s entryway would be masked. Now it was further hidden by snow. “Lazy lizard lips,” Ereth complained bitterly. “If those kits are deep inside some den, I’ll never find them!”
More w
eary than ever, the porcupine waddled along the base of the bluff in search of some meaningful sign.
Suddenly he heard a single yelp. It seemed to come from within the bluff itself. Ereth had no doubt it was one of the kits. He was close. He held his breath in the hope that the sound would be repeated.
Though it took some time—Ereth was shivering by now—it came. This time the yelp was behind him. With a grunt of exasperation the old porcupine wheeled about, trying to determine the exact location of the sound. Once again there was only silence. “Bat bilge,” the porcupine muttered angrily. “Since I’m spending so much time looking for them, the least they could be is helpful!”
He took another step and paused. From almost right over his head he heard an explosion of yelps.
He peered up the bluff to see a particularly jagged group of rocks. He began to move up. Upon reaching the first of the boulders he scratched the snow away to expose the surface. The rock was dark, but in the moonlight it had a blue cast.
Ereth had no doubt he was close to the den. But where was the entry?
He crawled higher. Twice he slipped back and had to struggle to keep himself from tumbling all the way to the bottom. The more he looked, the more exasperated he became. There didn’t seem to be an entry. If there was one—and there had to be—it was so cleverly hidden he would never be able to find it.
Sighing deeply, Ereth wondered what he should do. He was exhausted. Angry. “Wet worm water,” he whispered between chattering teeth. “Why did I ever agree to do this! Why did I ever leave home? Oh, Poppy, why did you abandon me?”
He took some deep breaths and shut his eyes. He had hardly done so when he felt a sharp smack on his nose.