Free at last, Marty, instead of staying to fight, whirled about, leaped through the bushes, and fled among the trees.
The kits, tongues lolling, chests heaving, watched him go. So did Ereth. For a moment there was nothing to hear but the sound of the fisher smashing through the underbrush. Next there came the distinct, dreadful sound of a metallic snap.
CHAPTER 26
Marty the Fisher
NO ONE MOVED. Not Ereth. Not Tumble, Nimble, or Flip. Instead, they all stared in the direction that Marty the Fisher had gone.
“What . . . happened?” Nimble said at last, though she as well as everybody else was pretty sure.
Tumble, trembling visibly, began to edge forward, his nose extended, sniffing.
“Careful!” Ereth cried out from where he lay. “There may be more traps about. When I checked there were none left under the cabin.”
“Do you think he got . . . caught?” Flip asked.
No one replied. Instead, the three kits crept forward into the brush. Hauling himself up, Ereth limped painfully along.
“Look!” Tumble cried. He had managed to get ahead of the others.
The two other kits went forward. Ereth came last.
What they saw was the large box trap from under the cabin. Inside—very much alive—was Marty the Fisher. In his haste to get away he had rushed blindly into it. The moment he did, the doors at either end snapped shut.
The three kits and Ereth crept closer, their eyes glued to the sight.
Marty, his face bearing a look of terrible rage, glared out at them. “Don’t just stand there gawking,” he snarled. “Get me out of here!”
Neither Ereth nor the kits replied.
“You don’t understand,” the caged animal said, speaking with barely suppressed fury. “I’m from the great fisher family. No finer animals in all the world. We’ve been hunted down everywhere by humans because of our fur. Even dolts like you must be capable of seeing how beautiful I am. We’re so beautiful there are very few fishers left. Every time one of us is killed or captured, the chances of our survival are reduced. If you let them take me away, we fishers shall be almost extinct. Now, get the cage open.”
“But . . . you were trying to kill Ereth!” Nimble protested.
“Of course I was,” returned the fisher.
“But . . . why should you want to do that?” Flip asked.
“Because,” returned Marty proudly, “only fishers are smart enough to deal with porcupines. Now stop yapping and open the trap!”
The kits looked to Ereth.
“I . . . don’t know how to open it,” Ereth said.
“You blundering idiot!” Marty the Fisher cried out. “Can’t you do anything right? Open your eyes. There’s a rod lever on top. Push it down. It’ll open the trap doors. The four of you can do it easily.”
Once again the three kits looked to Ereth, waiting for him to decide.
“Fumigated goat fidgets,” Ereth muttered, not knowing what to do.
“Will . . . you promise not to hurt Ereth?” Tumble asked.
“And just go away and leave us alone?” Nimble added.
“I don’t make deals with anyone,” the Fisher shouted. “Just get me out!”
The kits turned yet again to Ereth.
Ereth sighed deeply. He could feel the pain where the fisher had clawed him. And yet, as he looked at the beast in the trap, all he could think of was the fisher’s predicament. “Frog freckles,” he grumbled. “I suppose we should.”
“Of course you should,” Marty snarled. “The weak always have an obligation to help the strong. We’re the important ones. Besides, I’ve suffered a great deal. Didn’t I just explain, my family is almost extinct. You have an obligation to help me.”
Lumbering forward, Ereth approached the cage. After sniffing and studying it carefully, he found the bar Marty had mentioned, the one that would open the trap. Rearing up he pushed down on it. It gave way partly but not enough to release the doors. He looked around at the kits. “Come on,” he called.
“Ereth . . .” Flip called, “are . . . you sure we should do this?”
“Come on,” Ereth growled, “lend a paw!”
Tumble jumped atop the trap. Nimble reared up from one side, while Flip got close to Ereth.
“When I say three, we’ll all push,” Ereth said.
“Would you hurry!” Marty snarled.
“One . . . two . . .” Ereth stopped.
From somewhere in the distance came a high-pitched whine.
Tumble cocked his ears. “What’s that?”
The animals listened.
“Faster, you fools!” Marty shouted. “I must get out!”
The whine grew louder, becoming a growl as it got closer.
“What is that?” Flip asked Ereth.
“Pig pudding,” the porcupine swore. “It’s the snowmobile. The hunters. They’re coming back.”
“Let me out of here!” Marty shrieked. “Don’t let them get me. You mustn’t!”
The sound of the snowmobile grew very loud.
Ereth leaped off the trap. “Into the woods!” he cried to the kits. “Hide! Run!” He scrambled away painfully.
The kits tore after him.
“Don’t leave me!” Marty screamed. “Don’t let them get me!”
Ereth dove under the low-lying branches of a pine tree. The kits quickly joined him.
“What’s going to happen?” a frightened Flip asked.
“Shut up!” Ereth ordered.
The four peered out through the tree branches. They could still see the trap. Marty was thrashing about, trying desperately to free himself.
The sound of the snowmobile had become a roar. The next moment they saw it burst into the clearing in front of the cabin and stop. It was the same machine Ereth had seen before. Sure enough, two men were perched on it. Though they were so bundled up it was hard to see their faces, Ereth recognized the furs they were wearing: they were the same humans he’d dealt with before.
Sure enough, one of them said, “Hey, Wayne, look here. There’s blood on the ground.”
The man on the backseat leaped off and peered into the snow. “Some animal has been wounded,” he said.
“That’s my blood, you two-legged lump of wind cheese!” Ereth snarled.
“Shut up!” Tumble whispered.
Ereth gave the fox a dirty look but said no more.
“Whatever it was, it went this way,” said the man. He began to follow the trail of Ereth’s blood away from the cabin, moving right to the stump where the struggle had taken place. The other man followed.
“Look here, Parker,” the first man said. “Must have been some kind of fight. Must have been a whole bunch of animals.”
“Tracks go there,” the man named Parker said. He began to move toward the trap.
Ereth and the three kits, not even daring to breathe, watched.
“Wayne,” Parker called. “I think we got something.”
“Good Lord . . . what is it?”
“Not certain. Look at that gorgeous fur. But he sure is mad. Watch out for his claws.”
“Hey, that’s a fisher!”
“Sweet.”
“Lot better than that porcupine we were trying to get. Zoo material. Might give us a lot for it. No one wants to see a porky. But lots of people would like to look at a fisher. Pretty rare.”
The two men picked up the trap and began to walk toward the cabin. Once they reached it they opened the door and took the trap inside with them. Then they closed the door with a bang.
At first the animals under the tree said nothing. It was Flip who finally spoke.
Turning to Ereth, he nudged him with his wet nose. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Did you hear what he said?” Ereth muttered. “Better than a . . . a porky!”
“Ereth,” Flip repeated, “is your body all right?”
“Oh. Some cuts and bruises. Where did you all come from?”
“The den,”
Tumble said.
“But . . . your father . . . where is he?”
“Dad?” Flip said. There was a slight look of embarrassment about his face. “He said he had some business to do.”
“And he left?” Ereth asked, feeling his indignation rise.
“It’s okay. He asked us if we minded being left alone,” Nimble explained. “We said we didn’t.”
“He said he only came back to be sure you weren’t bothering us,” Tumble said.
Flip said, “So the day after you left, he took off.”
“It was important business,” Tumble interjected with some of his old heat.
“But . . . when will he be coming back?” Ereth asked.
“Oh, sometime in the spring,” Nimble said casually.
“Right. He’s going to take us hunting,” Tumble said.
“He’s really great at that,” Flip put in.
Ereth thought of saying something. Instead he told them, “You saved my life. And . . . and I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
“You didn’t?” Flip said, taken by surprise. “Why?”
“Because . . . oh, toe jam on a toothbrush,” Ereth grumbled. “I just didn’t, that’s all.”
“I mean,” Nimble said, “Dad is fun, but you’re the one who takes care of us. So of course you’d have to see us again.”
“The thing is,” Tumble added in his sour way, “Dad has more important things to do than take care of kits. But Ereth, you’re so old you’ve got nothing better to do.”
A speechless Ereth looked around.
“So can you come back to the den with us?” Nimble asked.
Ereth glowered.
“We found the last trap,” Tumble said. “You won’t have to worry about that.”
“Will you come back?” Flip coaxed.
“No,” Ereth said at last.
“No?” the kits chorused.
“I’m going home. My home.”
“But . . . what about . . . us?” Flip whispered.
“You’ll be fine without me,” Ereth said. “You didn’t eat up all that food your mother left you, did you?”
“No.”
“Good. It should get you through the winter.”
The dismayed foxes stared at Ereth.
“But . . . we’ll miss you,” Nimble said.
“A lot,” Flip said.
To which Tumble added, “Yeah, we will.”
“Tumbled toad toes,” Ereth grumbled. He looked out through the forest and toward the south—and his home.
“Ereth . . .” Flip said. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“There was something we forgot to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
Flip looked from Nimble, to Tumble, then back to Ereth. “We wanted to say . . . thank you.”
The pain in Ereth’s chest was making it hard for him to breathe. “Oh, bobcat beads,” he muttered.
“And another thing,” Tumble said.
“Stop!” Ereth snapped. “I don’t want to hear!”
“We . . . like you. A lot.”
Ereth looked away.
“And anyway,” Nimble added, “I bet with those scratches that fisher gave you, you’ll need us to look after you. Am I right?”
“Right,” Flip said, “this time we’ll take care of you.”
Ereth stared at the three kits, who were sitting in a row. Tongues lolling, eyes full of bright curiosity, large-eared and big-pawed, they seemed so terribly young.
“Busted bug bottoms,” Ereth muttered. “You’ll never be able to take care of me.”
“But if you don’t let us try,” Nimble said, “you won’t ever know, will you?”
“Yeah,” Tumble said.
“Centipede armpits!” Ereth cried. “All I want is to go back to my own smelly log.”
The kits looked at one another. It was Flip who said, “Well, then we’ll go with you.”
“No!”
“But . . . why not?” Flip said.
“If you came to my place, what would you eat?”
“What we always do,” Tumble said. “Meat.”
“Look here, nibble nose, my best friends are mice.”
“Oh,” Nimble said.
“If you so much as touch one whisker of one mouse—one!—I’ll turn you inside out so fast you won’t know what direction you’re going. If you come with me for a visit you’re going to eat nothing but . . . but vegetables.”
The foxes exchanged looks.
Tumble grinned. “That’s okay with us,” he said. “But only when we visit you.”
CHAPTER 27
Ereth’s Birthday
ERETH LED THE WAY, the three foxes trotting by his side. With the porcupine limping, they moved slowly. Now and again the foxes darted off, but they never went far and they always came back.
At first they chatted quite a bit, asking Ereth questions about where he lived, how he lived, whom he lived with, along with countless queries about Poppy. Ereth answered very little. To most questions, he said, “You’ll see.” Or, “None of your business, nit nose.”
So the foxes chatted among themselves. It was continual, it was loud, and was not without some bickering. Ereth paid little mind, but waddled slowly, steadily on.
It had taken one day for Ereth to come from his home to Long Lake. The return trip took two days. There were moments he felt he should just turn around and go with the foxes to their den. But he kept reminding himself that he wanted to be in his own dark and smelly home. He also needed to see Poppy.
Of course, as he limped along, he occasionally thought about the salt he’d left behind in the cabin. Perhaps someday he would go back. But as he mused on when that day might be he suddenly stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Flip asked him.
“I’m very old,” Ereth whispered. Though he found himself glancing over his shoulder from time to time, he said no more.
They arrived home the following day just about noon. It was Columbine, playing about at the foot of the snag, who first saw them coming.
“Uncle Ereth!” she cried with delight. “You’re back!”
“Of course I’m back, you dull dab of bobcat widdle. Where else would I be?”
“But . . . you’ve been gone so . . .” Then Columbine saw the three foxes. Frightened, she turned tail and raced into the snag.
In moments Poppy ran out. She was joined by Rye and the rest of the litter. “Ereth,” Poppy cried, “where have you been?”
Ereth wanted to burst out with all that had happened. Instead he said, “Oh, busy.”
“But you were gone for a month. We were worried.”
“You were?”
“Of course we were.” Poppy looked over to the three foxes. “Are these friends of yours?”
“Absolutely. This is Tumble, Nimble, and Flip. Guys, this is Poppy. And her husband, Rye. These mice are named Columbine, Mariposa, Snowberry, Walnut, Verbena, Scruboak, Pipsissewa, Crabgrass, Locust, Sassafras, and Ragweed the Second.”
“How-do-you-do-Tumble-Nimble-and-Flip,” the young mice chorused.
Rye considered the foxes nervously. “Are they . . . safe?” he asked Ereth.
“Strict vegetarians.”
“Oh, okay.”
The foxes, remembering all the tales Ereth had told, gazed at the famous Poppy with awe. She was so small, but she had done so much!
It was Poppy who said, “Ereth, did you realize that on the day you went off, it was your birthday?”
“Is that so?” Ereth replied, trying not to frown. “I guess I forgot.”
Sassafras ran over to Poppy and whispered into her ear, “Ma! Ereth’s . . . you know.”
“Oh, my, yes,” Poppy said. “You really should.”
With that all eleven of the young mice raced back into the hole at the base of the snag.
“It’s just a little something Rye and I—and the children—got for your birthday,” Poppy explained. “We went to get it for you that morning
.”
Ereth could feel himself blushing. “Well, it didn’t seem to me that . . .”
“The children said they tried to get you to stay but you rushed off.”
The young mice reappeared, rolling forward a large lump of salt. The lump being six times the size of any one of the youngsters, all of whom were trying to be helpful, there was much slipping and falling, squeaking and laughing.
“Happy birthday, Uncle Ereth!” they cried in unison when they finally reached the porcupine.
It was Rye who explained: “You see, Ereth, Poppy and I got it from the salt block at New Farm. Unfortunately, it took us longer to drag it back than we thought it would. By the time we got home you had gone.”
“And we had no idea where,” Poppy added.
“Then the storm came,” Rye said.
“We began to think something might have happened to you,” Poppy went on. “Really, Ereth, we were very worried. But we didn’t know where to look. When you go off that way you really must leave some word. I . . . I began to think something awful happened to you. I’ve been very upset.”
Eyes glued to the gift, Ereth stood there open-mouthed, incapable of saying a word. “Salt . . .” he muttered finally, already drooling.
“Speech, Uncle Ereth,” Sassafras cried. “Birthday boys have to make speeches.”
Ereth took a deep breath. “I . . . Oh, pull the chain and grab five mops,” he managed to say, even as tears began to roll down his cheeks. “I . . . don’t know what to say,” he muttered between sobs, “except . . . oh, thank you . . . thank each and every one of you.”
The next moment the eleven young mice started to sing “Happy Birthday” in a very ragged chorus. The three foxes joined in with howls of their own.
Ereth could not wait until they were done. He snatched up the salt and began to lick it in a frenzy of delight.
The mice cheered. The foxes bayed.
And if Ereth’s tears made the salt a little saltier than usual, that might explain why, as far as the old porcupine was concerned, it was the best-tasting salt he had ever eaten in his whole, long life.
Indeed, as the years went by and Ereth grew truly old and his quills became gray—and less sharp—and he looked back on all that had happened to him, he had no doubt—not the slightest doubt in all the world—that this birthday turned out to be the very best he ever had.