by Jane Yolen
Nutley heard a noise and looked about. Suddenly, he noticed a shadowy movement at the bottom of the tottery mountain of trash. Three gray shapes with long, waving tails. He guessed—no, he knew–that they were the Grays. Trying to climb up the sides of the Mountain, they kept slipping back. All the while they cursed loudly, calling him names, like “Weenie” and “Rat Lover” as well as words he’d never even heard before so had no idea what they meant, like “Fink” and “Flabbergaster.” Then they rested for a moment before trying to climb up again. It reminded him of the stories Father liked to tell about the Great Salmon, some mythical Fish that spent much of its life trying to leap up waterfalls. Which sounded unlikely to Nutley. The Grays seemed to be having as much luck getting to the top of Trash Mountain as the Great Salmon had getting to the top of the Falls.
The moment he thought of the Falls, the gray clouds opened up and a waterfall of rain began to wash around them. It bucketed down. There were clashes and flashes of lightning on both sides that lit up the landscape.
Hope fountained into Nutley’s heart. He and Larie could remain on the Mountain and maybe shelter just inside the Great White Box without needing to close the door at all while the Grays got so wet and tired they would finally have to give up. Once the rain stopped, Larie could fly off and bring him back nuts and they would be fine, and …
“Get in,” said Larie, snapping her beak for emphasis and pointing a wing at the Great White Box.
That was when Nutley remembered what Larie had told him about what waited inside. A Dead Man’s Latch.
And then he remembered too what Naw had said about the White Box. “Thosethatgoesindon’tcomeoutagain.”
“We don’t actually have to do anything,” he told her. “Look—the Grays can’t get up here. Not with the Mountain going all slippery with this storm, and …”
“That side,” she whispered. “They can’t get up that side. But sooner or later, they’ll find out that the back side is easier. A gentler slope.”
“How do you know …” Nutley began. Then nodded. “Right—wings. You’ve flown over and seen it.”
In the lightning flashes, Larie’s yellow eyes sparked. “Even a Squirrel can figure that out … eventually.” Then she cocked her head to one side, clearly listening.
Nutley didn’t even bother arguing, because now he could make out the sounds Larie heard—someone was already scrambling up the back side of the Mountain. So the Grays had figured it out. Sooner rather than later.
Several voices were now shouting up at them. “We’ll get you yet, you thieving weenie.” He could hear them panting and hollering in turns, coming closer and closer.
“Don’t be a Dumbnut,” Larie said. “Get into the Great White Box.”
“But … Naw … Thosethatgoesindon’tcomeoutagain,” Nutley’s voice broke twice on the long word, but he was too frightened to care.
“What’s there to come out for?” asked Larie.
He knew she was right. He hated that she was right. He hopped into the Great White Box. Larie hopped in with him.
“But you can fly away …” Nutley said. “You can go back down to your mates. You can escape. Be free. Be safe.”
“So I can,” she answered. “But they weren’t no mates of mine when I needed them most. Only you were.”
Nutley didn’t say anything more. Actually, he was relieved. If he had to be somewhere he couldn’t come out of again, it was best to be there with a friend.
Larie settled down inside the Box, adding, “Besides, I love adventure. Trust me, Nut-Nerd, I’ve seen a lot. This one promises to be the most interesting adventure of them all.”
He wasn’t sure he liked that—about an adventure that promised to be interesting. Interesting meant Danger. He was tired of Danger. He just wanted quiet. Peace. Friendship.
And nuts.
So he reached out to grab the back of the door to pull it shut, but it was suddenly flung wide open and a body hurtled in.
“Gotcha!” came a familiar voice.
Nutley knew at once it was Groundling. It is going to be, he thought, an ignoble end after all. But the one he was most worried about was Larie. He hadn’t been able to save Mummy or Father, but now he knew where his duty lay.
He had to save Larie!
As Groundling rushed in, even before he could turn around and savage either one of them, Nutley grabbed him by the tail. Using every ounce of strength he had, Nutley swung the Gray against the Box wall. There was a loud crack!
Groundling crumpled and lay still.
At the same time, something rustled by his side.
He heard a thunk and then a click. “What?” he began.
“Shutting the door, Nut-Boy,” Larie said. “Quick now. The latch.”
“But we need to throw him—” he gestured to the crumpled Groundling—“out.”
“We don’t want more of those Gray Ghouls coming in here. What we need is not to make things any more interesting than they already are.” Larie reached across him and flicked the latch down with her beak. “That’ll keep them out.”
And us in, Nutley thought. He wondered whether it had been a wise decision. Especially now. With Groundling locked in with them.
At that very moment, the rest of the Grays reached the summit by the easier slope. Since they couldn’t open the Box door, they began to hammer on the window. It sounded like BANG-BANG BAM-BAM DE-BAM as each one took a turn.
Nutley stuck his paws in his ears.
“Don’t worry. That glass won’t break,” Larie said. “Neither will the latch. And they ain’t strong enough to push the White Box down the hill.”
He could barely hear her with his paws in his ears, but he heard enough. Push the White Box down the hill? He began to really tremble now, turned too quickly, and hit his head on the top of the Box. At that point, he fell over and rolled next to Larie’s legs. His head hurt, but he didn’t care. His paws and bottom hurttoo, but he didn’t care about them either. And his pride—well, that had been shattered long ago. Still, if the door couldn’t be opened from the outside, even if the Grays managed to push the White Box down the hill, they were safe.
As long as Groundling doesn’t wake up.
He thought long and hard about that. Maybe he should kill Groundling now that he was out cold. Gnaw his head off. Stomp on his tummy. Stick his tail up his nose. That’s how a truly Dangerous Squirrel would act.
But Nutley didn’t move. Not a hair, not an ear, not a paw. He lay next to Larie, who seemed content to have him there. Her wing tip touched his right ear. And that’s when he knew, truly knew, that he wasn’t the Dangerous kind of Squirrel at all.
“Here we go,” Larie said.
He’d no idea what she meant, for where could they possibly go? They were locked inside the White Box.
But a moment later he understood.
When the Grays finally realized that they couldn’t open the door, they leaped one after another up onto the White Box and began to bang on the top in anger.
And then there was a greater bang, as if the very Heavens had thrown down a hammer onto the Great White Box.
“Lightning,” said Larie. “Sometimes the magic works.”
Nutley didn’t quite understand. How could he. He was inside, not outside. He couldn’t see the lightning crash into a puddle where the long tail of the dryer’s cord lay. He couldn’t see the electricity run up the cord like a wild thing, hissing and sparking and singing out with joy, filling the cord with power. He didn’t realize that with all their banging and bumping on top of the Great White Box, the Grays had pushed a button they shouldn’t have pushed or pulled a knob they shouldn’t have pulled.
All Nutley knew was that suddenly the round inner barrel of the Great White Box where he and Larie and the unconscious Groundling lay began to creak and groan. Then slowly it began to turn.
“Oh no!” whimpered Nutley.
“Spin Cycle!” cried Larie.
And they did indeed begin to spin—around and around and around faster
and faster.
As they spun, the White Box shook and whuffled and squealed. Or maybe it was Nutley and Larie shaking, whuffling, and squealing. It was hard to tell. They went up and over, up and over dozens of times, as did Groundling, still out from his head bump, until they were all giddy and a bit sick.
The spinning went on for a long while, but at last, it slowed and then finally stopped. For some time after that, the three of them lay on the bottom of the barrel, Groundling inert and unmoving, and Larie and Nutley trying to sort themselves out.
Nutley found himself pressed against Larie’s soft, feathered back. His tail was caught around her legs. Groundling lay head down by his side.
Finally, everything went quiet. Quiet inside and quiet outside as well.
“Have they gone?” whispered Nutley.
Larie unwound Nutley’s tail from her legs, crept to the window, and stared out. The rain had stopped, the storm moved on, and the moon was now high overhead so all the ground around was illuminated. “I think so.”
“Think so or know so?” whispered Nutley, as he clambered to his feet and joined her at the window.
Larie cocked her head to one side, listening. After a moment she said, “Know so.”
“Sure?”
“Sure. And I can always fly you away from here if …”
“No ifs,” he told her. “We have no time for ifs.”
“Always good to have a plan B,” she said.
He shook his head. There was no plan B. Never could have been. But he wasn’t going to tell her that. “What do we do now?” he asked.
“Dead Man’s Latch.”
He had forgotten about that. He began to tremble.
She flipped the latch up.
And that’s when he finally understood. It was not called after someone who had died but someone who doesn’t die. Without that latch, they’d never have been able to open the door from the inside. He leaned over and pushed open the door, which creaked in protest.
Much too loud, he thought, shuddering. Everyone will be alerted.
Moonlight spilled into the White Box. Nutley realized they must have been in the Spin Cycle for a long time. The storm was over, but there were huge puddles everywhere. And bits of burned fur and sizzled tail hairs. The smell was electric.
“Help me,” he said to Larie.
“Help you do what?”
“Take Groundling out of here.”
“Groundling?”
“Him!” He pointed to the lump of Gray Squirrel sprawled out beside them, unmoving, and breathing uncertainly.
“Leave ’im,” Larie said. “He’d have left you. Close the door and walk away.”
“He’ll die.”
“He may already be dead,” Larie said. “Or so close to it that he’d never mind.”
“But if he isn’t?”
“Not your problem.”
But Groundling made a noise then, a soft groan.
Nutley remembered when he himself had groaned like that after being rolled down the hill. Groundling hadn’t killed him then, though he could have. He’d just walked away.
I can walk away too, Nutley told himself. But not like this. He turned back and put his paws under Groundling’s upper legs and began to haul him toward the door.
This you should know:
The Red Squirrel is considered by scientists to be a solitary animal, shy, incapable of making friends, or playing well with others. And that may be so. Scientists further note that Red Squirrels do not share food with foreigners. So how can this tale of Nutley and Larie be true? Remind yourself how under certain circumstances, a Dog and a Cat can be best of friends, an Owl may serve as a surrogate mother to baby Chicks, Lately, a Tortoise and Hippo were seen living comfortably together. A Lioness was reported raising a baby Oryx, though normally she would have chased it down and eaten it. Scientists point out that when it is not breeding season, several unrelated Red Squirrels may share their quarters to keep warm in the winter. Nature, it seems, provides escape pods for all of us.
“Oh, for silly’s sake,” Larie complained, as she came over to nudge the Gray Squirrel’s bottom with her head. It took quite a bit of pushing and pulling, but at last, the two of them had moved Groundling to the White Box’s door.
Cautiously, Nutley crawled through the open door and peered out. It was a cold night, edging toward dawn, which was only a thin red line down on the horizon. The moon was still up, but a cloud was heading toward it. For the moment, Nutley could see perfectly and hear even better. Larie was right. The Grays were gone.
“All clear,” he said.
“Whadda you know?” said Larie.
Nutley knew she had simply asked what Father called “Not a real question.” Like How about that? And What’s it to you? And Isn’t that something?
Grabbing Groundling under the arms once again, then pulling and pulling, Nutley was finally able to leap out of the Great White Box. They landed with a thump onto something sharp and crunchy. There seemed to be a great deal of it. But now the cloud hid the moon and so he couldn’t quite make out what they’d landed on.
Larie climbed out after him, standing dizzily on the ground for a moment more before gaining enough stability to fly up into the air. Her wings made a small breeze that blew Nutley’s ear tufts around.
“What are you doing?” she called down to him, and this time it was a real question, for he was pulling Groundling along the crunchy path.
“I’m going to roll him down the hill,” Nutley said. “Just as he did me. And if he is meant to live, he will. I can’t just let him die in the White Box.”
Larie hovered for a moment more before settling down onto the ground. She folded her wings and walked over to Nutley just as he reached the edge of Trash Mountain.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said sensibly.
“I am?” He was surprised. It was the first time she’d complimented him.
“Yes, we may need to use the White Box again as a winter home.”
“Oh!” He was disappointed in her reasoning and was about to say so, when the cloud moved on and the moon shone straight down, illuminating everything. Now he could see that the crunchy things he was standing on were nuts, maybe a hundred of them, strewn around the White Box. Mostly hazelnuts but some pinecones, with pine nuts attached too. He was surprised he hadn’t smelled them. But then, he’d been too busy being scared and heroic to consider food. Whadda you know, indeed!
Nutley was about to lean forward and pick one up, when Larie’s left wing stopped him.
“What are you doing now?” she asked.
“About to eat some nuts. I’m starving.”
“What if …” Larie said softly looking around, “what if it’s a trap?”
Just as she spoke, the moon once more hid behind a cloud and the top of Trash Mountain was plunged into a truly scary darkness.
“Who could gather so many nuts in such a small time and set out a trap?” Nutley whispered. But the answer was right before him. Who indeed? Grays climbed trees. Grays gathered nuts. Grays were devious and crafty enough to set a trap. “They couldn’t have had time …”
“We don’t know how long we were in the Box?” said Larie. “It might have been a really long time.”
Nutley nodded and took a step back.
Suddenly, from either side, dark shadows closed in on them. Lots of dark shadows with lots of shiny eyes.
“Fly!” Nutley cried, to Larie. “Save yourself. I’ll keep them busy.” He gave Groundling’s body a little push, rolling him over the side of the mountain. Groundling’s body picked up speed at each revolution down the mountainside. Nutley could hear him saying, “Ouf!” and “Ouch!” all the way down.
So—he is alive! Nutley thought. It didn’t feel as good as he’d hoped it would, but it didn’t feel entirely bad either.
“SURPRISE!” about twenty slightly grating voices cried. And then one voice giggled. It sounded like a wheeze crossed with a gasp, as if the poor thing was going to die o
f laughter.
Behind him, there was a rustle and more laughter, this time a deeper sound. Nutley squared his shoulders and turned to face his fate.
The moon popped out again, like a Rat from a burrow. It was a dying moon, white and ghostly.
“Hush, Nawshus. Let Dada talk.”
Only now Nutley realized that the shadows weren’t Squirrels at all but Rats. Big Rats and small Rats and even some baby Rats. They formed two lines to one side of the White Box. Naw stepped forward. He was not as big as the biggest two Tatters, but he was certainly more composed.
“We of the Rat Community,” he began, stopped, and cleared his throat. “Well, Nut-Boy …”
“Nutley,” said Nutley and Larie together.
“We have much to thank you for.”
Above there was a fluttering sound. Nutley looked up, and a delegation of Gulls appeared too.
“Ours! Ours! Ours!” they cried.
“It’s about time,” Larie said under her breath. “Better late than …”
Nutley knew that one. Mummy said it all the time when Father came home with nuts long after dark. “Than not at all.” He grinned at Larie, and she grinned back. At least he thought she was grinning. It was hard to tell with one of the Winged Folk. After all, they have beaks, not lips. But her yellow eyes gave her away, for they were gleaming with joy.
Naw was smiling too. It did not improve his looks. “So we brung you something.”
“All these nuts!” exclaimed Nutley, pointing.
“Well, that was an afterthought,” said Nawmer, stepping forward with baby Nawshus in her arms. “Or an after-battle.”
The biggest of the Tatters sidled up to her. Both his ears were ripped to shreds. His voice didn’t match his body, being high and thin. “We beat them Grays up. Then we beat them down. And then we beat them off. And finally, we followed them to where the fence meets the Big Gray Road.”
He must mean the Winding Road, thought Nutley, amazed that the Rats had a different name for it.
“We watched them strip the trees bare on the North Side of the road,” said Nawmer. “And then I said to Dada, I said, ‘Naw—that will mean nothing’s left for our baby’s Hero to eat for winter.’”