Vison, the Mink (American Woodland Tales)

by Jean Craighead George

  Then he turned and loped off toward the river on a hunting trip, for he knew this rival would never appear.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE SUN WAS BELOW the rim of the hillside. Vison was bounding toward the canal. A cardinal was singing at the edge of the woods. A gray squirrel raced up the limb of an elm tree. It was cold and the snow sang under the pressure of the mink’s leaps.

  At the edge of the canal, the outlaw found the charred coals of yesterday’s bonfire, built by vanished ice skaters who had come from Washington to enjoy the long stretch of smooth ice on the canal. Nothing remained of them now but the black pit in the snow and the white tracings of their blades on the ice. Vison investigated the fire and their footprints. Even their scent had disappeared in the cold of the February night. He passed the camp site and walked out to the canal, sniffed at a clump of cattails and went on to the river.

  A heavy rain storm and thaw several weeks earlier had flooded the river to its tree-lined rim. At flood peak, the freeze had settled in again, and the river was ice from shore to shore. Vison ran onto the river, searching the clumps and logs for a hole through which he might fish. He found a small opening at the edge of a rock and thrust his nose through it. Then he sat up. There was no water beneath him. Again he looked down into the opening. Stretching his long neck and twisting his head upside down, he beheld a great white cavern, dark and glowing in the pre-dawn light. Ice hung in banners from the roof and vast avenues led off across the river.

  Vison dropped through the hole to another layer of ice beneath the first one. After the flood, the river had frozen and then dropped slowly back to its bed where it had frozen once more, leaving a vast labyrinth between the two layers of ice. The outlaw stood on the lower floor of ice and looked up and down the strange interior of the Potomac. He ran over the driftwood that was frozen against the rocks and through the silent ice masses. In a few bounds he discovered a hole in the floor of ice and plunged into the river to fish. He circled the cold water, but found no game, and came swimming back to his entrance. Climbing back on the river ice, he shook himself and leapt further along the corridors of his castle.

  The morning sun struck the upper roof and a sparkling rainbow of colors poured through the many ice prisms and sent a shower of dancing lights around the mink. At intervals Vison found breaks in the roof of the labyrinth. He would thrust his nose through them, dart out into the dawn, flip around in the snow and then slip back into the crystal chamber. Leaping and playing, he came to the cattail marsh that stood in the lowlands of the river. The slender reeds were iced from the floor to the roof and they shimmered grandly in the multicolored light. Vison explored them for signs of life, but the reptiles of the mud flats were sleeping through the winter.

  The sun threw more and more warmth as it rolled higher in the sky, heating the frigid earth ever so slightly. Then a strange thing happened in the ice grotto of the river. Vison’s rhythmical leaps along the floor set up a vibration in the cavern. Suddenly, there was a splintering clatter and a deep moan that shot across the river. A million sparkling facets of ice shattered and fell to the lower level. Vison sped toward the bank, looking for an exit. As suddenly as it began the explosion stopped and the mink was racing through a cloud of broken ice splinters. He looked at the destruction around him. Frozen water lay in a million broken pieces, and a heavy fog of minute crystals drifted through the cavern. As the crystals settled to the lower level, they covered his fur in gleaming geometric patterns. Vison looked up to see a bit of blue sky above him. With a leap he went through the open hole and stood on the precarious rim of the cave-in. There, not more than fifty yards away from him, was Will Stacks, his trapping basket on his back. The man was running toward Vison to get a better view of the dramatic happenings in the river. He stopped when he saw the mink, and Vison, still awed by the excitement in the icy cavern, stood up and looked at Will.

  The first thing Stacks noticed about Vison was his exquisite pelt. The mink gleamed like a piece of polished wood; the muscles of his body sent rippling lights across his umber back as he tensed for his next move. Here was a fur that would bring a handsome price at any market. Stacks watched Vison with great admiration. It was a plucky little animal that looked at him, unafraid. As Will continued to watch the bright-eyed marauder, his interest in the wildlife of his region slowly replaced his first commercial thought.

  Vison, perplexed by the tree-still figure, looked the man over from head to foot. He saw the long dangling arms, and the two straight legs. The small eyes were dim, and the bare face was lined and unattractive. The longer the man stood motionless the less Vison could see of him. His big hands seemed to grow smaller, and the looming body to shrink to the unimportance of a tree. Satisfied that he was harmless and confident of his own swiftness, Vison turned slowly away and went back into the cavern. He crossed the broken ice and loped up the river several yards before wedging his way through a hole by a cattail into the daylight again. Out on the shore, he turned once more to look at the trapper, who was now moving like a giant along the bank. Stacks was scanning the land for further signs of the mink. Again they looked at each other, one no more curious than the other. Vison sat up and stretched his neck. A flea, roving up his stomach toward his shoulder, annoyed him and he sat down, lifted his hind foot and scratched. This done, he looked back at the man who was now as motionless as the big elm tree behind him. The man ceased to be a man for the mink because there was no movement to focus on or scent to smell or sound to hear.

  Vison turned his back on the trapper and started off to hunt, when he heard the squeak of a mouse on the river bank. He listened and automatically moved toward the sound. All the time, he kept his eye on the frozen form of the trapper. There was something strange about the figure. He dimly remembered that it once had moved. The mouse squeaked again; Vison walked half way up to Stacks before he began to suspect the reality of the rodent. Its call came directly from the stalk of river debris that had once been a man. Vison stood up, cocked his head, and listened more carefully. The sound was not coming from the grass, but from high in the air. Looking toward the man’s head, he saw a slight twitching of the muscles in Stacks’ face as he emitted the mouse-like noise. That slight motion brought the river debris to life, and Vison saw the trapper clearly. Realizing the folly of the hunt, he turned deliberately and vanished into the tangled hedge of water willows.

  Stacks walked over to the spot where Vison had disappeared to check the size of his tracks. They measured almost two inches.

  “Hmm, large tracks,” Stacks mused to himself. “I thought he was a big fellow.”

  It was late February when Vison was aware of a new restlessness among the mink of the Potomac River. The melting snow was tracked with footprints, and the air was drenched with the strong odor of mink. It was the beginning of the courtship festival of the mink, and the males were traveling night and day in the mood of the mating season.

  This curious behavior of his fellow nomads brought a new sensation to Vison. He, too, became lively and restless. He often hunted the entire night and spent the better part of the day bounding and leaping along the canal and river. Occasionally, he would meet another male, and his bold temper would lead him into a snarling fight.

  The female mink were preparing for the February festival. It was upon them that the entertainment rested. Each had selected her den at some point along the waterways of the river and streams. Some were splendid with twisting tunnels and roots gnawed white at the entrance; others were the summer homes of muskrats dug into the pond banks. Leading to these dens were trails of mysterious and earthy scents. Vison had always been able to tell the trail of a male mink from that of a female, but never before had their scent awakened such bravery in him. When he came upon the subtile lure of some festive female, he forgot his hunting to seek her company.

  Some evenings he would trespass on land which belonged to other mink and bravely defend himself with gleaming teeth and ferocious snarls.

  One moonlit ni
ght when the mink festivities were at full height, Vison came out of his den after a brief sleep and scurried down to the canal to fish. He had leapt to a log above the water when he caught the magic scent of a female.

  He left his fishing and followed the trail across the roots of the water-washed elms. It led over the forest floor through the damp bottoms where the dried stems of the jewel weed stood. It disappeared at the entrance of a well-hidden den under the blasted rocks of the canal. In the spirit of the festivities, he was drawn into the small dark entrance where he knew a young female would meet him. Vison stood up to his full height and listened to the sounds of the woods. Coming hurriedly through the underbrush was another mink. Vison sniffed the wind and realized it was a male who had also picked up the trail of the little female. He waited for the prowler to come through the bushes toward this spot that Vison now wanted for himself.

  Flashing out of the tangle of blackberry bushes came the rival. His head was lifted high and his eyes were shining. He stopped when he saw the big mink of Muddy Branch standing before the den for which he had been searching. Now he was too close to his goal to permit Vison to enter the den without a fight, and Vison, whose temper had been rising at every approaching step of the other mink, was ready and eager to accept the challenge. He lowered himself to the ground and silently moved toward the oncoming male. They stopped so close to each other, that Vison could feel the breath from the intruder with his twitching whiskers. Then Vison crouched, haunches held close to the ground, ready for the last spring. Moments passed, the two males were prepared to fight for the right to carry on their strain in the woodland wilderness.

  Vison eyed his opponent, waiting for a false move. His rival lunged, only to meet Vison’s bared teeth. Then Vison closed with a lightning thrust on the throat of the mink. The force of his attack carried his opponent over backwards, but he held his fatal grip. Breathing heavily, Vison withdrew and turned, victorious, toward the den.

  Later that night, according to the laws of the mink, Vison left the sleek, brown Mustela and wandered off into the still glades of the woodland. Mustela now wished to be alone, and had retreated deep into her den.

  After his visit to Mustela, Vison disappeared from his lands around Muddy Branch. He returned many nights later to the rim of the muskrat pond. He was sleek and heavy, for the salamanders had been moving over the rain-soaked leaves toward the ponds, and he had been feeding upon them as they left their rotted stumps and murky winter homes for the forest pools.

  The first spring rain had come to the Maryland shores and had thawed the frozen earth. Water ran down the trunks of the trees and across the forest floor. From every bud droplets hung. Like glittering blossoms, they would splash to the earth and join the streaming water as it poured to the river. Into this wet world the salamanders awoke, and squeezed up through the oozing litter of the forest floor. This first spring rain after the first thaw was their mating season, and they were gathering in the ponds to perform their strange mating ritual.

  Pausing with unblinking eyes, like prehistoric creatures, they shoved themselves along. From under twig and leaf they emerged to join the ancient procession, moving forward with the water that was eating away the last rotting patches of the snows of winter.

  By midnight of the first night, almost a hundred of these dull-brown creatures with their yellow spots had collected in Vison’s muskrat pond. Some scattered, milling freely in the water; others grouped together, swirling their thick tails in the black leaves of the pond bottom. From time to time they would lash their way to the surface, breathe in the night air, and return laboriously to the shallow depths. The buoyancy of the water gave them more freedom than the land, where their awkward construction made it difficult for them to walk. Here they circled, twisted, and prowled around each other.

  In this way they sought their mates. The males would deposit a little gelatinous mass much like a collar button near a female. These small white spermatophores contained the vital cells that possessed the ability to create new life. Their tips teemed with spermatozoa. The females sought this source of life and largely by chance settled over them. As they touched them, the spermatozoa entered their bodies, uniting the two elements of new life—the egg and the sperm.

  All through the hours of darkness the courtship continued. With the coming of dawn the salamanders retreated to their moist refuges beneath the leaves and rotted logs. All that was left of the midnight meeting were the little white spermatophores resting on the leaves at the bottom of the pond.

  Many days passed before the females returned to the woodland ponds to lay their eggs in jelly-like masses in the still waters. They attached them to the twigs or reeds that the little embryos might develop safely. The embryos grew and changed in their cool cells until, at last, they swam free of their mother-home and entered into the scheme of the pond life.

  All over the spring woods, now, new life was beginning. Under the leaves, the moist spring rains had swollen the cotyledons of the seeds and small white roots reached down to anchor the seedlings to the earth.

  The skunk cabbages, first of the spring plants to emerge into the cool days of early March, sent their mottled cones into the light. Piercing the leaves in their growth toward the sun, came the folded heads of the bloodroots and spring beauties. The willows leafed and the red maples flowered. Each in order—the mating of the mink, the trek of the salamanders, the sprouting of the seeds, the flush of the first spring wildflowers—was a response to the warmer weather and longer days.

  One morning Will Stacks crawled out of his iron bed to find that the new season had arrived. He opened his door at the call of Hylocichla, the wood thrush, and a banner of sunlight streamed into his smoky room. The air was warm and smelled of the wet tips of the trees that had turned from gray to purple-pink and yellow. Stretching and yawning, the trapper dressed and strode out into the spring. He sat down on a stump and looked across the fields and hills. For the first time in months he thought of fishing and boating.

  Far down the valley, he saw Al Starcher making his way along the muddy road. Al jumped here and there to avoid pockets of water. Stacks called out to the small figure, and the fisherman stopped to wave back. Al, glad to see the old trapper out in the sun, turned off his trail and wandered across the field and up the hill.

  “Mighty fine day,” Al said with a smile as he came within talking distance of his friend. He cast a backward glance at the faint colors of the woodlands before pushing himself with a last effort up the rest of the hill.

  “Been down on the canal trying to catch snapping turtles,” he went on when he had taken a seat on a rock beside Stacks.

  “Any luck?” the trapper asked.

  “None to speak of,” said Al. “Got six a couple of weeks before the ice melted. Saw them swimming under the ice and hit the ice over their heads. That stunned them. Sure can get them that way. I set out some lines last night and was lifting them this morning. Had three more to go when I saw you.”

  Stacks nodded and went into his shack for two cups of coffee. When he handed Al his steaming treat, he settled back on his stump and resumed their conversation.

  “Well, I’ve taken in my last rat trap,” he began as if Al just asked him all about this matter.

  “Any mink?” Al asked.

  “Three; that is, three good pelts. They should bring almost a hundred dollars. Really had a right fair take this season.”

  “Fine. Now you can get tires for that old car of yours. There’s a man up at Seneca that has some good ones for sale cheap. If you got them, we could take that trip to Washington when the herring run.”

  “Now I’ve just been thinking along that line,” the trapper said as he put down his empty cup and clutched a knee in both hands. “Saw a fellow about tires the other day.”

  “Well now, Will, if you can find some, you better pick ’em up,” Al said anxiously, thinking of the fishing trip they could take to Chain Bridge if they had the car running. The herring run in the spring of the ye
ar was a big event in the lives of these men who lived with the river.

  The two men were discussing details of the trip: food, three-pronged hooks, rods, and baskets, when Sam, the old Negro of Red Sand Hill, came tramping across the field.

  Sam was as strange a man as ever lived among a strange group. He seemed to appear at any moment without coming from anywhere, and he disappeared as easily. Many of the river people were superstitious about him, and the Washington people, who had summer cottages at Seneca, were almost afraid of him.

  To Al and Will, he was a fine old man who saw and heard more miracles in the woods of the Potomac than any other man alive. They never quite believed him, but his stories were so nearly correct that they never failed to listen to the end of every tale. Stacks had often passed his house in the woods beyond the little Negro graveyard on Red Sand Hill, but he had never seen Sam in or around it. Nor were there any signs of life in the big, tumbling, seven-room house that the people of the river called his. A freshly emptied tomato can Stacks once had found lying in front of the cellar door, was the only indication that someone might be living in that house. However, no one was too curious about Sam; whether he lived in the house on the hill or on someone’s front porch did not make much difference. Sam was just a part of the river community.

  Stacks called out to him:

  “Hello, Sam.”

  “Mornin’, mornin’, mornin’,” Sam shouted back as he came toward the men. He was smiling broadly, and his ragged clothes were swept around his thin body in a dashing style. Sam could make the oldest shirt and the baggiest trousers distinctive. He had a knack of wearing them with a spot of color at his neck or around his waist that gave him the air of a country gentleman.