Naw put his arm around Nawmer, and his entire face softened, making him look almost …
Well, Squirrel-like, Nutley thought.
“I said, ‘Nawmer, gal,” and Naw began to laugh with those great descending wheezes. “I said that Squirrel is in the Great White Box and everybody knows that Thosethatgoesindon’tcomeoutagain.’” He wheezed another laugh.
Nawmer looked up at him, eyes glistening. “And I told him that “Everybody knows rats and gulls can’t live together, but we do. Side by side. And everybody knows that Red Squirrels got no courage, begging your pardon, Nutley. But—I said—this one does.”
Nutley’s mouth dropped open. “Me? Courage?”
The second biggest of the Tatters gave a laugh which sounded like nuts being spit from his mouth: ak ack ack. “That was a wicked body slam.” His paw pounded the air. Whap! Whop!”
“So I said, said I,” Naw ended, with another great terrible wheeze, “that we had to save those nuts then and rid the North Side of those Grays. If only in memory of the Hero. Cause we thought …”
“You thought, but not all of us did,” Nawmer told him.
“Did it!” added the two big Tatters together.
And then all the Rats shouted together, “DID IT!” And baby Nawshus leapt from his mother’s arms and ran up to Nutley and hugged his leg. Hard.
The gray and white cloud of Gulls above all seemed to clear their throats at the same time. “Us! Us! Us!”
“Them, too,” said Naw. “Them, too.”
Nawshus held up his paws. “Up!” he said to Nutley.
And Nutley picked him up. Even though his own paws hurt. Close to, the little Rat was not exactly pretty. Rats never are. But he had a certain charm.
Larie winked at Nutley, as if she knew exactly what Nutley was thinking. She whispered, “He’ll probably grow out of it.”
Then pumping her wings, she flew off to join her mates.
For a moment, Nutley was sad, watching her go. But then she flew back over his head, the wind from her wings ruffling his ear tufts.
“See you tomorrow, Nut-Boy!” she called.
“Nutley,” cried baby Nawshus. “It be his name.”
This you should know:
In the real world, Red Squirrels have been pushed out, marginalized, by the bigger, stronger, more aggressive, and (some say) smarter Grays. The Grays carry a Squirrel pox to which they alone are immune but which kills the Reds. But is there more meaning to this little tale about Trash Mountain than you see on the page? Well, remember—the word history, even natural history, ends in the word story. There is more meaning here if you would have it be so. Or at least it’s the beginning.
Nutley made the Great White Box his drey, his home. It was warm in the winter, cool in the summer, and a perfect place to store his nuts. It was like a gigantic hole in a tree. Without the tree, of course.
Nawmer found him a picture of the Queen from a thrown-away magazine called OK which Nutley kept in memory of his Mummy. And he told all the new little Rats the stories that Mummy had told him. They especially liked the tales about Trolls. Oh, and he told them the story of the Great Battle too. They always loved that one. He taught them things his Father had said. And he and Larie remained the closest of friends thereafter, though she was the only one of the Gulls he ever got to know well.
She let him pretend to be a Flying Squirrel, though no more than once a week. He ate so well from his private stand of hazelnut trees, that he grew big and round, even in the winter, so much so that by his third year at Trash Mountain, Larie had to stop giving him rides.
As for Danger, once and only once more, because of a Fox, Nutley had to use the Dead Man’s Latch to close the door. But that’s another story altogether.
Really.
Jane Yolen, Trash Mountain
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