Trash Mountain

  At last, Nutley let out a long breath and gulped in a new one. He stretched a little. Now he finally understood what Mummy had meant. The Grays were not a sharing race. Or at least they didn’t share with Reds. And not a caring race, either. In fact, they were dreadfully mean. He lay on his back a long time beside the stump, trembling, and horribly afraid that the Grays might come back down and beat him some more.

  He whimpered a bit but not too loudly and hoped nothing was broken. Or at least nothing important was broken. And he waited to get his breath back … if not his courage.

  At last, standing up painfully, ear tufts drooping, he looked around.

  No Grays at all.

  He gave a huge sigh. Evidently with the Grays, it was out of sight, out of mind. At least that was something good he could say about them: they had a short attention span.

  Nutley couldn’t see the Grays any longer, but he could still hear them, raucous and rollicking on the other side of the hill. He stayed beside the stump until their voices faded away. Perhaps they’d gone off to the front garden or the hazelnut woods. Perhaps they’d gone to their own holes to sleep.

  Then quietly trembling and hurting almost every-where on his body, Nutley limped back home.

  ***

  “Was that a Disaster?” he asked Father when at last he’d made it to the fir tree.

  Father was on the stump, working on cone cuttings. He looked at Nutley and nodded sadly but said nothing. Cone cutting was hard work.

  “Very much a Disaster,” Mummy told Nutley, holding his head between her paws and examining him all over but especially looking at his eyes and nose and ears for cuts and bruises. She washed his ear tufts with quick little licks. “Tsk,” she said. And then, “Poor dear,” as if she didn’t like what she found. Afterward, she held him close.

  Too close, Nutley thought, hoping nobody but family was watching. Her long fur got up his nose, and he began to sneeze.

  Really, he thought, I am all right. I am much too old for such cuddling.

  But Father was not so soft with him. “Grays are but a short step above the Lowlifes,” he said. “One short step. You know they are an Introduced race.” Harrumphing, he continued. “Fuzzy-tailed sewer Rats, that’s what they are. They eat …” and he said this final bit with disdain, “flower bulbs from Mrs. Temple’s garden.”

  Nutley was aghast. He was never allowed to go near that garden. Farmer Temple had a shooting stick and was not loathe to use it. Great-Great Uncle Lucius had gone that way, back in the days before any Grays were around. There were rumors about Moles being shot at all the time. And the neighbor’s big, black, one-eyed Tomcat had been killed by the shooting stick, though that, Father often said dourly, was no great loss at all.

  “They’re very Dangerous,” Mummy added. “They carry diseases.”

  “The bulbs?” Nutley asked. “The shooting stick?” He had lost the thread of the conversation while thinking about Moles and the black Cat. And Great-Great Uncle Lucius.

  Father rolled his eyes.

  “The Grays,” Mummy explained. “Try to keep up, dear.”

  She fussed over him a bit more until he got quite tired of it and pulled away from her. Instead, he went up onto a small, swaying branch at the very tip-top of the tree. It was too small for either Mummy or Father. There he perched and watched the Grays playing in the hazelnut trees and running along the rooflines of Farmer Temple’s sheds on their way to raid the bird feeder. They had doubtless already forgotten about him, but not Nutley. How could he forget? He ached everywhere, and his hurt pride still prickled.

  The Paw of Friendship, he thought, was a very bad idea indeed.

  Well, actually Nutley wasn’t thinking a lot about the Paw of Friendship. Not really. Really, he was thinking that Dangerous must be a desirable state. After all, he himself wasn’t Dangerous. Reds were never Dangerous. Trying to do something nice, like offering the Paw of Friendship to an enemy, had backfired. Look where that had gotten him! Pummeled and pounded and sore.

  So, he thought, maybe being Dangerous is more valuable than being nice or being a friend. Certainly the Grays had come a long way with danger at their core.

  ***

  That very day, though he still ached from the beating with the thorny sticks and he hadn’t quite gotten rid of all the burrs he’d picked up rolling down the big hill, Nutley started practicing being Dangerous. He bared his teeth, twitched his tail, and opened his eyes so wide they looked big and fierce as if fire were shooting from them. He even learned how to growl deep in his throat.

  He’d show the Grays what being Dangerous really was.

  He’d show them all.

  Below on their larger branches, Mummy and Father watched him. Mummy clapped her paws once or twice. Father didn’t look quite so amused.

  But Nutley?

  Despite the aches and despite the pains, Nutley felt wonderful.

  This you should know:

  Red Squirrels mostly eat the seeds of trees, stripping conifer cones to get at the pine nuts. They also eat fungi; bark; flowers; berries; young shoots; and when they can get them, hazelnuts. Unlike the Grays, Reds do not eat acorns. And they are not a Dangerous race.

  Nutley continued to practice baring, twitching, and growling whenever he could, and by the end of three weeks, he’d gotten quite good at all three. However, he’d had to give up the widening of eyes.

  As he explained to Mummy, “It just gives me a headache.”

  “Of course it does, dear.” She patted him on the head and went back to decorating the hole with the first red leaves of fall.

  Nutley shrugged. “I’m off then. As promised.”

  Father didn’t say anything, just harummphed loudly and looked entirely discomforted. But it was no worse than he’d done for days.

  Nutley went out of the hole, refusing to look either right or left for Danger. After all, how could he show fear? Anyone truly Dangerous instills fear in others. So without checking for possible peril, he raced off to glean seeds in the far field where Farmer Temple had planted corn and sunflowers. Nutley did it because in one of his more sharing moments, Father had said he was so tired of pine nuts and bark, and Mummy had pleaded for something—anything—other than mushrooms. Full of Dangerous Thoughts, Nutley had volunteered to go out at first light to find them sunflower seeds, though he’d never been to the far field all by himself before.

  The rising sun stained the sky as bright as blood. Because the early harvest was over, the corn had all been cut down yet the cornfield wore its stubble manfully. As Nutley got closer, he could see several rows of huge sunflowers that were still standing, their large yellow faces turned toward him. A few sunflowers had their heads bowed, but the rest gazed straight ahead seemingly unworried about the future.

  Like me, he thought, baring his teeth at them. Dangerous.

  He went up and down the rows, finding little enough that Mummy and Father could eat. There was a bit of cob here, some dry and wizened kernels there, but they were not really edible. A small breeze danced along between the rows and ruffled his ear tufts. In the little round garden of sunflowers, he found a few fallen seeds that were plump and inviting. Those he stuffed into his cheeks. Then he sat down to contemplate his next move, enjoying the warm sun on his back.

  Nothing better, Nutley thought, than being Dangerous and in the warm sunlight.

  Suddenly he heard distant screams.

  Screams? He looked around. This far from a tree—any tree—put him in Danger. And while he had practiced being Dangerous, he knew there was no fooling around with real Danger. Like Foxes. Like Owls.

  Quickly, he raced up the row to the end of the field farthest from the farmhouse. The cries were louder here, but he couldn’t quite make out who was crying or why because there was such terror in the voice. His tail twitched, signaling its go-away sign.

  Now he heard a whole range of cruel and awful chittering laughter, high and unrelenting. It was the laughter—not the cries—that made his skin crawl a
nd the hairs on his tail stand straight out. He got up on his hind legs and stared fearfully toward the sound. Squirrels are not terribly farsighted, so all he saw was a blur.

  Remembering that he was now Dangerous—or at least he could make a good imitation of it—Nutley bared his teeth and growled. He twitched his tail. He thought: Nutley to the rescue!

  He said it aloud. “Nutley—to the rescue.”

  His feet tried to respond, though for a long moment they didn’t move.

  He said again, even louder, “Nutley to the rescue!”

  This time his feet listened. He started over circling to the west, skirting the fir tree, and hid at last in the tall grass beneath the shadow of the Long Hill.

  At the hill’s bottom—where not three weeks earlier he’d crouched bruised and trembling—he suddenly recognized the screamer. It was Mummy, only he hadn’t realized it was Mummy before because her terror had been so great that it made her voice high and shaky.

  Now he forgot all about being Dangerous and simply raced up to the top of the hill where he saw with astonishment—and then with growing horror—that the Grays were mounting a full-scale attack on his parents’ fir tree home. He’d never heard of such a thing.

  He wanted to race to their aid at once. He wanted to push a closed, Dangerous paw into the face of every Gray he could find. But deep down, he knew it would do no good. Reds are simply smaller than Grays. Weaker. If he went now, he could be terribly hurt. He might even die. And then Mummy would be unhappy and say “Tsk” again. Father would scold and look disappointed.

  And if he died, his parents would never get over it. Their last pup.

  But he couldn’t stop himself from inching forward one paw at a time till he was almost within range of the tree. He was very quiet and made no sound. The grass barely moved. He wasn’t Dangerous, but he was Stealthy. Stealthy is Healthy, Father always said.

  Suddenly the Grays ended their raid and passed close to where he crouched, trembling, in the tall grass. They headed back to the hazelnut copse. Some even passed right by his hiding place as they ran, so fast they didn’t even notice him. Groundling was in the lead.

  Nutley waited until they were far, far away, tremors running up and down his back. When the Grays were out of sight, Nutley crept back to the bottom of the hill so as not to be seen should any of them turn around. He thought he would wait only a few minutes. But somehow, he couldn’t get his legs to carry him up the hill. Terror and the trembles can defeat good intentions every time.

  ***

  In fact, Nutley waited until late afternoon, eating three of the sunflower seeds, waiting till clouds settled over the sun, which made the day seem even darker. Only then did he feel brave enough to creep home, circling around and coming to the tree from behind. so none of the Grays still celebrating near the farmhouse night spy him. He hoped that the local Crows—such nosy, noisy, annoying Birds—would not give him away.

  Things with Wings, Father always said, are not to be trusted. And knowing what he did about Owls and Hawks—both hideous Squirrel killers—Nutley had to agree.

  “Mummy,” he called when he got near, his voice muffled by the seeds left in his cheeks. “Father.”

  Unaccountably, they were both silent.

  Maybe, Nutley thought, maybe they have gotten tired of waiting for me and gone to the field to find food themselves. He climbed up the back of the tree and only at the last, when he was hidden by the pine needles, did he sneak into the hole.

  Mummy and Father were not there.

  Scrambling to the end of his favorite branch—the bendy one—he looked out toward the field. But it was too far away and blurry for him to make out anything as small as a Red Squirrel and he could see no movement at all, except for a Hawk making lazy circles in the sky. Father would have already seen such a killer and made sure he and Mummy were hidden. Nutley was certain of that.

  He started to back down the bendy branch, looking left and right. By accident, he looked straight down and saw—oh, horror!—both Mummy and Father lying broken and still at the bottom of the tree.

  Nutley scarcely dared to pause long enough to shed a tear, knowing that speed was now of the essence. First, he went back into the hole, grabbing up what possessions he could stuff in his cheeks on top of the few seeds that were already there: his acorn doll, his crinkly grass pillow, and his old bean rattle.

  Then, speeding down the tree, he stepped onto the ground where pine needles lay thick and soft all around. He stopped for a moment and touched Mummy’s paw. It was stiff and cold. Father lay on his back, his legs splayed out in uncharacteristic abandon. Nutley realized that they had been long dead. Maybe for hours.

  “I’ve killed them,” he whispered, thinking that he might have helped if he hadn’t been cowering while they’d been fighting the marauding Grays. But he knew in his deepest heart that he could not have saved them even he’d tried. That didn’t make him feel any better. If anything, it made him feel worse. Worse because he hadn’t tried. He’d only hid. Hid and nibbled on a seed. Or two. Or three. And what was Dangerous about that? Nothing at all.

  Nutley could hear the Grays singing songs somewhere in the distance, drunk as the local badgers—on elderberries probably. He shivered. He had to leave, leave now, and never come back. Leave his Mummy and Father and the little fir tree, the only home he’d ever known.

  He took a moment to gather up pawsful of pine needles and sprinkle them over his parents. There was nothing more he could do for them. Nothing except all he really wanted to do was to weep and scream, scream and weep. Or maybe to race over and attack the rioting Grays. He even thought briefly of falling honorably in battle.

  But he was too like Father. He could think things through when he had to. He knew he had no time for any of that Dangerous and Honorable stuff now. His cheeks were too full to even whisper a curse at the Grays, but his thoughts were dark and bleak. He looked down again at Mummy and Father all covered with the pine needles.

  Good-bye, he thought, miserably. I love you.

  Then he dashed back behind the tree, went over to the shadow of Long Hill, and made his way across the tall grass due west towards the Winding Road, careful to keep the sheds between himself and the sound of the squirrels making fools of themselves at the farm. He guessed they were in the hazelnut trees. But he knew he had to go quickly. He was running out of time.

  ***

  Nutley knew he had to take care, since he had to make sure that there were no Cats about. Or that the Red Fox that Father always warned of was not on the prowl. He hoped the Hawk had gone. He also worried about Owls, of course, and shivered thinking how fierce and silent they were. But it was still day and he had time before Owl Light and Owl Flight, so he kept on running.

  He came at last to the Winding Road. He didn’t know which way to go. He only knew he had to go far away from the fir tree, far away from the familiar dirt paths of the Temple farm.

  Stopping, he stepped gingerly onto the hard, gray surface, a place he’d never set foot on before. It felt strange and unyielding, not like the grass or soil of the farm, not even like the gravel of Farmer Temple’s driveway. For a moment he stood trembling, nervously shifting the few possessions packed in his cheeks.

  What to do? he thought. Which way to go? As he stood there, dithering, some of the Grays spotted him from the deck rail.

  “Hey, lookit there!” one cried.

  “Is that our Red or some blood splotch on the road?” another yelled.

  “If not now, he soon will be. One small flattened fauna!” shouted a third. Nutley thought it sounded like Groundling.

  There was a loud chittering. Though Nutley listened with all his might, he couldn’t really make out how many of them there were or, indeed, where they were. He suddenly feared they’d perched atop the three sheds. He knew he didn’t dare stay a moment longer and began to run along the macadam, choosing a direction without thinking, sudden fear helping him put on a burst of speed. The hard road sent sharp pains up his le
gs and into his belly. Way behind him, maybe even back on the porch railing, the Grays continued to jeer.

  “Go along, ye small weenie!”

  And another—it might have been Groundling—added, in a high-pitched voice: “He’s naught but a doomed member of a doomed race.”

  Then they all laughed.

  For the first time, Nutley believed them. Doom settled on his slim, red shoulders and weighed him down, which made running even harder. It was like swimming in the Long River, something that a Squirrel never did. Or would never want to do, Father always said, there being Squeals in the water, long snaky things with big jaws that would like nothing better than a meal of Squirrel.

  And then Nutley remembered. Father! Mummy! In his mind, he immediately conjured up how they had looked, so stiff and silent and cold covered only by a few pawfuls of pine needles, which did nothing to disguise their deaths.

  Only then did the tears finally began to fall, which made navigation on the Winding Road a bit haphazard, but he didn’t dare stop to wipe the tears away.

  This you should know:

  Not far from the green trees and the long green meadow, around a deep bend in the Winding Road, sat Trash Mountain, only no Squirrel of character ever dared go there. It was said that any nuts on Trash Mountain came wrapped in plastic bags. It was said that the very earth of Trash Mountain was sullied and malodorous, which is another way of saying it stank. Besides, the mountain was only frequented by Rats and Gulls and other Lowlifes. Could a Red find enough food on Trash Mountain? Only Rats and Gulls and other Lowlifes knew for sure.

  It was getting dark by the time Nutley came to the first curve on the Winding Road. Dark meant Owl Light. He knew he needed to find a hole for the night and soon.