Meph slowly sensed the struggle for survival that was taking place in the woods. The hunted pheasant roosted high in trees above the prowling night predators. The cottontail sat tight in his form, and always had a burrow within spurting distance to which he could escape when the larger predators threatened him. The animals were hungry and weak, and with weakness came disease.
Then still another killer came to the valley—a rabid fox. Whatever he bit was marked for death by rabies.
Meph heard the cry of the fox as he walked through the night, sniffing his route under the hawthorns and elms. He stopped and listened, then turned to dig at the rotting bole of a fallen maple tree.
The eyes of the fox were glassy and they stared unnaturally. His once rich pelt was dulled and roughed. He looked sluggishly across the night landscape, and called like an hysterical woman. He had a fierce thirst and yet could not swallow. The sick fox crept down the hillside and trotted unsteadily toward the stream. As he reached the woods that bordered the creek, he frightened a field mouse. It sprang with alarm and dived into a tunnel at the base of a joe-pye weed. The fox veered to bite him, but his pounce, was mistimed, and the mouse scurried off along its grass-covered avenue. Unnoticed by either mouse or fox, however, was the keen-eyed weasel that slipped from behind the rotting maple and closed on the mouse. As he made his swift kill the joe-pye weed stalk trembled. The fox saw him, turned, and attacked. He was too ill to be hungry, but felt a driving urge to snap and bite; to sink his teeth into flesh.
The weasel smelled the sickness in the fox, and knew by the sound of the poorly co-ordinated steps that the animal was ill. He left the mouse and bounced back into the woods. Meph heard the violence in the field edge and stopped digging to smell the wind. He tasted the strong musk of his cousin the weasel. The musk odor was similar to his own, though not as perfect a weapon. It was being thrown into the air as the animal dodged and twisted before the rabid fox. The fox was by far the swifter runner of the two, but the small weasel made short darting movements that carried him around grass tussocks and through brush. He danced from right to left. The fox couldn’t use his speed. Like quicksilver the weasel sprang, leaped, swerved; always eluding the fox’s bite. While the fox was snapping at air, the weasel reached the cover of the maple log. The fox, foaming and panting, dug along the log where the weasel had disappeared, wurping and crying, desperate to bite.
The fox was no more than thirty feet down the log from Meph. Meph caught his scent and its odor of sickness. He did not know the symptoms or the meaning of the scent, but it was different and not right. He lifted his tail swiftly, the long black and white hairs trembling and quivering as they fell over his back. He turned his scent glands toward the illness and walked slowly away. Down the bank of the stream he moved, still arched, still prepared, his paws pressing the dry leaves as quietly as possible.
The fox saw the movement by the stream. He saw the pattern of the skunk and the white anus turned directly upon him, but he knew no caution. He leaped heavily over the log, and wobbled toward Meph. The breathless chase with the weasel had winded him, and he came less swiftly. Even the malodorous scent of the skunk was no armor now: his urge to bite, to bite anything, was greater than fear. He stalked forward, as Meph, still eying him, side-stepped down to the mud plain of the stream, on and on toward the water. He beat the ground as he went, and for the first time Meph was afraid. It brought snarls from his chest and spitting ejaculations from his bared teeth. He sensed by the sick eyes of the approaching fox that he was no longer immune from attack. He knew that not even the greatest warning he could give would stop the unsteady trot of the sick animal. When the fox was almost upon him, he threw his scent. It shot from him like an arrow and struck directly between the yellow eyes. It burst into a misty spray, golden and luminous, and filled the night with Meph’s glory. Meph had a wonderful feeling of accomplishment, for through the scented mist he saw the fox stagger. The fox rubbed his watering eyes against his legs and silently withstood the burning pain. He could no longer see to follow Meph. Moreover Meph’s discharge blanked all scents and the fox could not track him. Meph galloped to the water’s edge and turned, again ready to fire.
The fox came on, angry and fitful. He rushed blindly toward the sound of the water. Meph waded into the stream. He disliked water, he disliked its weight and wetness in his fur; but there was no recourse. His fur buoyed him, however, and he drifted downstream with the current, angling gradually toward the far bank. Then the mad fox stumbled into the water and went into convulsions. Meph heard the struggles of the fox, and felt the waves from his thrashing body rock him. For a moment he thought the waves were the pursuing fox. He dug the water with his paws and swam on. Meph’s lazy life in the pit, and his extreme tension began to tell on him. He breathed hard to keep going. His legs trembled and he grew tired and weak. At last he could swim no more. His feet slowed to a numb standstill. However, Sycamore’s food lay in a buoyant tire of fat around his body, and Meph did not go under. He floated like a cork until his feet struck the sycamore log.
The fox managed to crawl back to the bank where he dropped panting. He fluctuated between fear of himself, his disease, and rage. Then the rabies that was killing him took hold and drove him in a fit up the bank and back across the fields at a senseless pace. He cried as he ran, sick unto death and terrified of his own driving body that was speeding him through the night, crazily out of balance with his environment.
Meph headed for the nearest snug hollow. He had had enough of this night. He forgot Sycamore Will and curled up in a restless sleep.
THE MASON JAR
SYCAMORE WILL AWOKE tired and unhappy the next morning. The farm was sold. Last Saturday his father had met with the lawyer and the man from the city. They had read over the deeds and signed the papers. Tomorrow the man was coming back to the farm to talk to his mother and father. Sycamore hated him. What right had he, a man from the city, to take their farm and home in the Cumberland Valley? He was deeply hurt, and somewhat stunned by the rapidity of the change. He crawled out of bed with a tightness in his chest. He fought back his fright—where would they go—what would they do? Sycamore tried to hide his feelings. He dressed in a hurry and jumped down the back steps three at a time. Casually, he swung his legs over his kitchen chair and sat down to the breakfast table. His mother looked at him strangely as she handed him a bowl of corn-meal mush. Sycamore ate only half of it, then rose and left the room.
“I wish it were all over and done with,” Molly Lites said unhappily to the dish-filled sink. “No one is himself any more.”
Sycamore Will joined his father in the barn. He took a milk pail and sat down beside Belle. He would not speak, for he did not trust his voice. Through the soft golden legs of the cow, he saw his father’s face as it bent over his work. It was sad and unhappy, and Sycamore understood for the first time what a hard thing his father was doing—selling and leaving the old farm.
Seed was worn and defeated; defeated by the eroding land, the flooding stream, the dwindling crops. The boy finished the milking as quickly as he could and left the barn. He wanted to pick up little Meph and hug him, to try to forget his hurt and confusion. He walked to the silo pit and looked in. Meph was gone! For a moment he could not believe what he saw. A board leaned from the bottom of the pit to the top and the nail keg was empty. He stood there staring, disbelieving. Then he bit his tongue until it hurt, kicked the dirt, and turned away.
As he passed the barn, he met his father driving the cows to pasture. A fierce anger shook the boy, and he looked at his father with wrath. He slammed the gate behind him and walked down the road.
Seed Lites saw the boy’s thoughts in his narrowed eyes and was alarmed.
“Sycamore! Sycamore!” he called, but the boy did not turn. “I just can’t be worried with anything else,” he said to himself and closed the boy from his mind.
Sycamore felt suddenly much older. He felt as though he were forty-five and tired, like his father. He walked to the
iron bridge and climbed up on the steel catwalk. For many hours he sat there thinking. Then he walked on down the road to Sam’s house. He found Sam in the barn cleaning the trenches. He surprised him as he walked quietly up to him and said:
“Sam.”
“Yeah,” the cropped head lifted, and Sycamore saw Sam’s face. It looked unsure, something Sycamore had never noted before.
“Will that friend of yours still take us to Arizona?”
“What? Ah, yes, I guess so; but there’s a matter of money you know.” Sam stared bewildered at his friend who looked almost fierce.
“I’ll get the money,” he said. “Can he leave this afternoon?”
Sam regained his composure, flicked a straw off the end of the shovel, and replied:
“Well, that remains to be seen. It might be difficult; and I have a few things to do before I go.”
“O.K., just say you don’t want to go. You don’t. But tell him I do. What’s the story?”
“Well, he has an aunt out there and he said if we could pay for the gas, oil, and food, he’d go out to see her. We figured thirty dollars would do it. Tell you what, Sycamore, I’ll see him this afternoon and maybe we can make the arrangements.”
“Do that,” Sycamore said. He turned to go. Then added: “And don’t get chicken on me. Do you want to be a peasant all your life?” He walked out of the barn.
“Gee,” Sam said to himself, “what’s eatin’ him?”
“Hhm, he means it, too.” Sam went back to his work, but with less zip. Something was wrong and he was a little scared.
Sycamore did not come home until late in the afternoon. He met his mother in the garden and she looked up at him in surprise.
“Where were you at dinner?” she asked.
“I wasn’t hungry,” he said curtly and walked up the hill toward the house. Molly rose slowly and watched him, her heart aching for him. It had been so long since she had taken the little yellow-headed boy on her lap and talked to him about this and that: why he had not received the bicycle for Christmas, why he had to help his father. She sensed he needed it again, but knew that it was too late. It would be awkward now, it had been too long since she had last helped him to understand—so many washdays and canning days and scrubbing days ago. She bent back over the bean patch and sighed.
Sycamore walked into the empty kitchen and turned white as he looked at the canning shelf. He dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand and walked stiff legged to the cupboard. It was too late to change his mind; Meph was gone, and Sam had the plans underway. He blanked everything else out of his mind, climbed quickly up the shelves, and clutched the fruit jar. For a moment he thought it was burning hot. He felt sick and sweaty, but stuffed the dirty dollar bills, quarters, and pennies into his pocket and climbed back to the floor. The sweat poured off his forehead; he dared not think of what he had done; the great outlaw of the plains, stealing egg money. He walked through the summer kitchen and out into the yard. The day suddenly seemed intense and sharp as if everything had been carefully outlined in pencil. He looked at the farm. It was strange and unfamiliar to him. He felt as if he had never lived here before. He turned down the walk and strode up the dusty road.
“Sycamore!” his father called. The boy jumped in guilt. “Sycamore, give me a hand with this fence post.” Everything seemed unreal as if he, Sycamore were another person. He looked bitterly at his father and walked away.
He didn’t climb up on the bridge to cross. He defied the unwritten law and walked over it. He found Sam sitting on the stream side of Toy’s strawstack with a Western novel. He was half hidden by the yellow straw, intently turning the pages. Sycamore dropped into the stack beside him and Sam looked up with a start.
“Well,” said Sycamore.
“Well, what?” queried Sam.
“I’ve got money. Is your friend ready?” Sycamore pulled the bills from his pocket. Sam looked at them in disbelief.
“Oh yeah, my friend,” he said. “Gee, Sycamore, he left this morning.” He laughed with embarrassment. “Maybe you’d better put the money back and we’ll forget the whole thing. I’m pretty busy these days anyway.”
Sycamore grew sick at his stomach. He looked long at the face in front of him. It was not a strong face, even the fringe of beard did not make it look manly. It was a scared little boy’s face. He suddenly lost all respect for Sam and was angry with himself for having admired his big talk and strutting actions.
“Guess there never was a friend, was there Sam? Well, I’ll take the bus.” He rose and flicked a Jimson pod at Sam.
“You are?” Sam whispered, his eyes widening in admiration.
Sycamore did not like to see his friend looking at him as if he were a candy stick; he didn’t like to be disappointed in Sam. He turned and walked away.
“Bye, peasant.” he said.
Sam sat still, his mouth open. He was scared to death; Sycamore had never been so fierce before. He knew things would be different between them from now on. He could never bully and push Sycamore again, he could never lie about a friend again. He drew farther back into the haystack and closed his book. All he could think about was Sycamore living out in the Western hills, known as the “Yellow Breeches Kid.”
Sycamore swung down under the bridge and started off for Boiling Springs by the creek route. There he would take the first bus West, he could stop off along the way and earn money washing dishes or helping farmers if he ran out of cash. Eventually he would send the mason jar money back to his mother. Yes, that was it. It would only be a loan. He’d pay it back. It didn’t seem so terrible when he looked at it that way. Sycamore walked briskly along the stream bed watching the turtles plop into the water from their logs as he approached. A great blue heron flew up from the creek and winged far ahead of him. Sycamore turned the bend of the stream and came across his farm. He kept close to the bushes so that no one would see him.
Suddenly he stopped still. Plodding up the hill was a black and white ball. It was moving slowly, stopping now and then as it made its way toward the house.
Never had Sycamore seen anything more beautiful. His heart warmed and he laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks.
Never had anything or anyone looked so good as the poky little skunk making his way slowly up the hill. Sycamore burst into a run, crossed the creek on the fallen log, and dashed up the hill.
“Meph!” he cried. “Meph!” The skunk recognized the sound of the boy’s voice and turned to look blindly in the direction of the call. He sniffed the air, caught the upwind scent from Sycamore Will, turned and galloped toward him.
Sycamore scooped him up, hugged him, kissed him, and rolled into the tall grasses with him.
“Gee, I thought you had left.” Meph bit his nose gently and buckled in his hands. Sycamore put him down and watched him bounce to his feet, rub his back against him, and chutter and chortle as if he really had missed him and cared.
Sycamore found himself sobbing, sobbing as if his heart would break. He buried his head in the soft fur. Alone with Meph in the tall dense grass he gave vent to all his griefs. Meph pricked up his short ears and looked at him, then lowered them and licked the salty water from his cheeks. As fast as the tears flowed, he licked them until his rough tongue tickled Sycamore’s cheek and he shifted from crying to laughing.
“It ain’t half as bad as it looks, Meph. Come on! You need some milk and a fresh mouse.” He put the skunk down and headed for the barn. Meph followed at his heels. Sycamore kept turning his head to see if Meph was there. Meph followed him, up the hill, across the lawn, over the road to the barnyard. The boy laughed. Pa had turned him loose and Sycamore would leave him loose for he knew Meph was a loyal friend. He would not leave.
“We have a few things to settle tonight, Meph. Bad things, sorta.” He walked to the silo pit, jumped in, and picked up the barrel. He carried it back to the porch where he set it down. He turned to the little fellow who was eying him curiously.
“You’re on your ow
n. You can go anywhere you please. Pa was right you shouldn’t be cooped up in the pit.” He started out across the alfalfa field for grasshoppers. Behind him bounced and waddled the black and white skunk.
“And I guess,” Sycamore said as he turned to Meph, “that I’d better stay around and take care of the folks.”
As he stooped to snag grasshoppers, he felt the money in his pocket. He must return it. Suddenly returning it seemed more difficult than taking it. He had to sneak back into the kitchen, climb up the shelves and put it all back in the jar. His mother would be in the kitchen now. He must do it when she was not around. Maybe after they had all gone to bed.
Sycamore had been so happy to find Meph and to decide not to go West that he had not thought much about the money. Now he felt he could not return it soon enough. He wanted to get everything back to normal again as swiftly as possible.
Sycamore fed Meph a few more grasshoppers, then left the field. He was uneasy, restless. He walked toward the house; the black and white shadow ran out of the tall grasses and plodded after him.
“Sycamore!” his father called from the marsh. “Get the tractor and haul this log out of here!”
He looked at his father and found he was not angry with him any more. He would show him that Meph was not so easy to lose.
“O.K.,” he answered and walked to the far edge of the hill before he circled back to the barn. He saw his father stop his work and look up.
Meph, the Pet Skunk (American Woodland Tales) Page 5