Once chores were done—and in the end they always did get done—they all went outside and began the daily search for the remaining unsprung traps.
The search began with a discussion as to what areas of the field they should investigate that day and how they should do it. There was even Dimwood Forest to consider.
Ereth, for one, was wary of the forest, fearful of what might be found there. While he was fairly certain the hunters had not returned to the field, Ereth could not be certain about the forest. The problem was, if the hunters had returned, there was no way of knowing if new traps had been set. Though he kept it to himself, Ereth had a distinct memory of the traps he’d seen under the cabin, the four additional spring traps and the one designed to catch a large animal alive.
From time to time Ereth contemplated going back to the log cabin on his own. Once there, it would be easy to determine if the humans had returned. The idea was appealing. Besides, he had not forgotten the salt.
Yet it was the presence of the salt that held Ereth back. He preferred to keep that a secret. Not that he believed that the foxes had any interest in it. In fact he was certain they would never understand his feelings for salt at all.
Over the next six days they did find traps, four in all. By Ereth’s reckoning, that meant—if the humans had spoken true—there were only two more to find.
In the afternoons, Ereth insisted that the kits take naps. This they did while he took a brief stroll back out to the grove of trees, where once again he satisfied his own appetite.
After nap time, there was dinner to fetch.
The hours after dinner were the best. Snug and warm beneath the ground, feeling safe, their bellies full, the kits settled down. Every night Ereth told the kits stories. Mostly they were about things he had done or heard about. What they loved most were the exploits of Ereth’s famous friend, Poppy. The kits loved the tales about the many battles she and Ereth had fought. With eyes wide and large ears erect, they paid close attention to them all. Indeed, they liked these stories so much, no one objected when Ereth repeated them, even though each time the porcupine told them they grew in length, facts, and complexity.
In turn, the foxes told stories about their mother and how she had hunted this or that creature. Though Ereth was not really interested, he listened patiently.
Not so pleasing for Ereth to hear were tales about Bounder, the foxes’ father. These stories seemed all alike to him, tales in which Bounder accomplished the most amazing feats with incredible strength and astonishing brilliance.
“He’s the smartest fox in the whole world,” Nimble assured Ereth, when the porcupine dared to question whether Bounder had once truly managed to open a steel lock on a certain farmer’s barn using only his teeth.
“How do you know it really happened?” Ereth asked.
“Because Dad told us, and what he says is true,” Tumble said, defiance in his voice.
“Do you think he’d lie to us?” Flip demanded.
“Snail sauce on snake saliva,” Ereth returned. “I was just asking.”
At night, when the young foxes were finally abed and Ereth was at peace, he sometimes thought about how different his life had become. How crowded. How busy.
From time to time, he also thought of his home and, in particular, of Poppy. It was a long while now since he had left his log. Ereth wondered if she ever puzzled as to what had happened to him. Did she miss him? Was she worried about him? Did she regret ignoring his birthday?
Just to think about such things made Ereth unhappy. “Better to be here,” he told himself. “At least the kits are beginning to appreciate me.”
Early one morning, when Ereth popped out of the den, he was startled to see two hunters walking about the field. Horrified, he watched as they moved along the trails the foxes had made. One by one they picked up the sprung traps and stowed them in a bag.
Ereth stayed to see if they would reveal the unsprung traps—or if they would put down new ones. They did neither, but retreated back into the woods.
The porcupine was not sure whether to be pleased by what he had observed. He could only hope they had not touched the salt at the cabin.
When he told the kits about the hunters they listened wide-eyed. “The danger isn’t over,” he warned. “Not yet.”
More cold winter days passed. There were good days and bad. Sometimes winter weather raged. Sometimes it was almost balmy. Even so, one more trap was discovered, leaving, by Ereth’s calculations, just one more trap to be found. He was hopeful they would find that one soon enough.
One evening, four weeks from the time Ereth had first come to the kits, right in the middle of what must have been his fourteenth telling of the famous battle between Mr. Ocax the great horned owl and Poppy the mouse, a voice boomed down the entry tunnel.
“Anybody home?” the voice bayed. “Anybody care for some fresh chicken?”
There was a moment of silence.
Then Tumble leaped to his feet. “It’s Dad!” he cried, and tore up the entryway. The next moment his sister and brother followed.
“Buzzard boozers on burnt toast,” Ereth mumbled. “Bounder has returned.” The old porcupine felt very nervous.
CHAPTER 22
The Return of Bounder
BELOW GROUND ERETH could hear joyful yapping and barking from the kits up above. Part of him wanted to go up and see what was happening. After hearing so many stories about Bounder from the kits, he was curious about him and wondered what he was truly like. But he worried even more how the fox would treat him.
While Ereth hesitated, a very excited Flip rushed down into the den. “Ereth,” he cried, “why are you staying down here? Come on up. It’s Dad. He’s back. Don’t you want to meet him? And guess what? He brought a whole fresh chicken. Just for us. Isn’t that fantastic? It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten! A lot better than anything Mom or you ever got us. Come on! Look!” With that, the excited fox raced back up to the surface.
Even as Ereth knew it was good that Bounder had returned, he wished the fox had not. Ereth was not unfamiliar with jealousy. He recognized the almost forgotten feeling in himself now. It infuriated him. “You pocket of pig poke,” he accused himself. “You’re an idiot! A fool! A dope!”
The force of his own barrage propelled him up the entry tunnel. Once at the top he poked his head out and looked around.
Bounder was stretched out on the ground, forepaws extended, tail straight behind him, head held high. There was an air of muscular pride about him as he gazed down at the kits.
The three youngsters were frolicking before him, yapping and growling joyfully, tails wagging wildly. They were in the midst of devouring the chicken, which they must have pulled apart as soon as it was offered. But even as they ate, they kept breaking away from the food to leap at their father, pummel him with their paws, nip at his fur, roll on his back, then rush back to their food lest they miss a delicious morsel. All the while they also were—as best they could with mouths full—jabbering away, telling Bounder everything they had been doing. They talked simultaneously, paying no heed to one another. Ereth had never seen them so happy.
There was endless chatter about tracking down the traps. “There were sixteen of them, Dad! Sixteen! They were so ugly. And really scary.”
On they went: How Flip had the idea of making snowballs to find them safely. How they had managed to make the balls. How the balls had worked.
There was talk too about the big snowstorm and, in passing, the sad death of Leaper—but that talk was brief. There was much more talk about how they had managed to keep everything going. “Mom left us a whole storage den of food, Dad,” Nimble explained. “So we’ve had plenty to eat.”
“But this is so much better than anything she left!” Tumble quickly put in, his mouth full of chicken.
The only thing the kits never mentioned was Ereth.
Bounder himself gave little response to the youngsters other than a few nods and yaps, just enough to make it apparen
t he was aware the kits were talking to him.
Then, quite casually—as if by accident—Bounder turned and gazed at Ereth. Their eyes met. In an instant Ereth recognized him as the fox he had met in Dimwood Forest a long time ago, when Poppy had first run into his log.
He could not help but grin at the memory, telling himself he had every reason to detest this fox, and that nothing—ever—would alter that. Nothing.
“Well, hello, Ereth,” Bounder said in a low, even voice. “What a surprise to see you here.”
“Nice to see you again,” Ereth returned, trying to keep the snarl out of his voice, but not quite managing.
Nimble, hearing the exchange, looked up and around. “Oh, right, Dad. This is Ereth. He’s been staying with us.”
“Has he?” Bounder said.
“Yeah,” Tumble put in as he looked up from his food. “But don’t worry. Now that you’re back he’ll go away. That’s what he keeps telling us.”
Ereth flinched.
It was Bounder who grinned now. “Been keeping warm in my den, Ereth?” he asked the porcupine.
“I’ve been taking care of your kits,” Ereth replied sharply. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, you know how it is, Ereth,” the fox said in his most casual way. “Business. Constant business. It keeps me on the go. I wish I had the time to hang around and take it easy—like you,” he added with a smile. “But then, some of us have to work hard to make a living.”
“Dad,” Tumble said. “Do you want to see how we make the snowballs and find the traps? Do you? Please. It was our own idea.”
“Be delighted to, son,” he said. “Delighted.” He stood up to his full height. He was much bigger than the kits, and Ereth too, for that matter.
The young foxes fell back and stared at him with wide-eyed admiration.
“Dad,” Nimble said, her voice tinged with awe, “how big are you?”
“Oh, pretty big,” the fox returned casually. “And someday you might be as big, too.”
“As big as you?” Flip asked in astonishment.
“Could be. If you eat all the meat you can.” He looked at Ereth. “We foxes are mostly meat eaters. You know, mice and such.”
“Come on, Dad,” Tumble cried. “I really want to show you how we get those traps.”
“Be right there, son. You guys go ahead. I need to tell Ereth some things.”
“Dad,” Flip said.
“What?”
“I think you better stick to the paths we made. There’s still one trap we haven’t found. Isn’t that right, Ereth?” He looked over to Ereth.
“Right,” Ereth said glumly.
Flip, sensing something was wrong, cast a worried look at Ereth, then at his father before joining his brother and sister, who were already heading down the bluff.
Left alone, Ereth and Bounder eyed each other with suspicion and hostility. Ereth, to his own horror, found himself wishing he could be so big and handsome and young, instead of being so old, small, lumpish, and covered with quills.
“So you’ve been looking after my kits,” the fox said.
“Leaper asked me to.”
Bounder lifted one eyebrow skeptically. “I thought she had passed away.”
“I came upon her just before she died, broom tail,” Ereth returned. “She was caught in a trap.”
“Yes. Terribly sad.”
“She asked me to come here, tell the kits what happened, and take care of them.”
“Oh?” Bounder said, again conveying doubt.
Ereth felt rage boiling up inside him. “You bet she did, you lump of lizard lung,” he shot back. “Only until you got back.”
Bounder grinned. “Well, here I am.”
“Are you going to stay with them?”
“Well, Ereth, I don’t know if that’s any of your business. They’re my kits. I think I can manage perfectly well without your intruding.”
Ereth opened his mouth to say something. He found himself too furious, too upset to speak.
“Hey, Dad!” Tumble was calling from the base of the bluff. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Be right there,” Bounder called back. To Ereth, he said, “Look here, porky, I think it would be best if you left. Why don’t you just take off right now. I’m going to be down there for a while. When we get back, I want you gone.”
“But . . .”
“Hey, Ereth,” Bounder said, “face it. It’s me—their father—they should be with, not you. They don’t care about you. Don’t you see? You’re no longer wanted. Or needed. In other words, pin cushion, you’re fired.” So saying, Bounder turned his back on Ereth, and with a whisk of the tail that managed to swipe across Ereth’s nose, he trotted down the bluff.
Ereth, watching him go, felt as though he was suffocating with rage and humiliation. His eyes filled with tears. His chest was bursting with pain. “You dusty dump of dog diddle,” he muttered furiously. “You stretched-out piece of wet worm gut! You bottomless barrel of leftover camel spit! You . . .” He was so enraged he could speak no more.
Even so, for a while Ereth remained in place, staring down the hill, watching the kits frolic with their father. Then, still boiling with a furious hurt, he retreated to the entryway, only to realize that was the last place he should be.
“I can’t go without saying goodbye to the kits,” he told himself. “I can’t. And there’s nothing that idiot of a fox can do to prevent me from doing that.”
With that Ereth made his way along the bluff until he reached the cleft in its side. From there he scurried over the bluff, after which he made his way to Leaper’s winter food stockpile.
Once among the trees, the old porcupine chewed on some bark strips, but quickly realized he had lost his appetite. Instead of eating he climbed into a tree in search of sleep. In the morning he would talk to the kits—if they came—alone.
CHAPTER 23
Ereth Says Goodbye
IT WAS THE FIRST TIME in a long time that Ereth had slept outside and he made a poor night of it. Tossing and turning, more than once he almost fell off his perch. He kept waking and craning about to look for the first signs of dawn. Again and again there were none.
Sometimes he felt full of rage. At other moments he was so full of grief he almost could not see. Ereth’s thoughts kept turning to his old life of solitude, before the kits, before Poppy, before these ridiculous feelings, all of which were a direct result of too much contact with other creatures.
“There are other places to live besides Dimwood Forest,” Ereth told himself. “I’ll find one and make sure no one ever sees me again. And I’ll never leave that home. Never, never, never.”
Dawn came at last. When it was little more than a pale pink glimmering along the eastern horizon, Ereth scrambled down from the tree. He went directly to the pile of rocks, trusting that one of the kits would show up sooner or later to get some food.
Exactly what he intended to say if anyone appeared, he had no idea. All he knew was that he had to say something. He did caution himself not to say anything bad about Bounder. It would get him nowhere. Worse, it would only, in all probability, anger the kits. Nothing would be gained.
As time passed Ereth tried to wait patiently, but found himself pacing. Around and around the pile he went, pausing now and again to check the progression of the sun in the sky. It was growing late. Humph! If he were at the den those kits would have been up and about a long time ago.
Then he asked himself what he would do if they did not come. “No, they have to come,” he kept telling himself. “But what if they don’t?” he wondered. Should he stay the whole day and wait until the next? No! If they did not come soon he would go do what he needed to do, which was to find a new home for himself.
When the kits finally came—about an hour and a half later—Ereth was daydreaming about burrowing deep inside a dark, smelly log.
Startled by a sound, he swung about. Nimble, Tumble, and Flip were right before him, sitting in a row. They were looking at
him. Their tails were wagging, their mouths slightly open, their large ears pricked forward.
“Ereth!” Flip said. “We didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Where did you think I’d be, murk mind?”
“Well, Dad said you wanted to get home right away,” Nimble explained. “And that’s why you didn’t say goodbye.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Yeah,” Tumble said.
Ereth took a deep breath. There was a great deal he felt like saying. All he said, however, was, “That isn’t true. He told me to go. How come you’re all here?” he asked.
Tumble said, “Dad said we should have a huge breakfast together. Told us to come up and grab as much as we wanted. A feast. As much as we could carry. That’s why.”
Ereth said nothing.
“Ereth,” Flip asked cautiously, “are you going home?”
“Eventually,” Ereth returned. “But I needed to hang around.”
“Why?” Nimble asked.
“I . . . I wanted to say goodbye.”
“Oh,” Flip said.
“Did you think I’d go without that?” Ereth demanded angrily.
The foxes exchanged looks, but said nothing. They had ceased wagging their tails.
As Ereth considered them, he thought they seemed a little sad. Or were they only confused? Or did he only want them to have those feelings? Maybe they were just embarrassed. Maybe they were wishing he had not been there. Flip kept looking over his shoulder, back toward the bluff, as if half expecting his father to appear.
“Look here,” Ereth began, though he found it hard to speak. “I just wanted to say . . . I liked being . . . with you.”
“It . . . was fun,” Flip said after a moment.
“Fun . . .” Ereth echoed sadly before continuing. “I . . . really came to . . . well . . . like you. You taught me a . . . lot.”
“Taught you?” Tumble asked. “What could we teach you?”
“Oh . . . forget it,” Ereth muttered helplessly. “I only wanted to say,” Ereth repeated, “that I’m glad I stayed. You’re very . . . nice.”