by Tor Seidler
“I’m not sure,” he lied.
“Where’s Margaret?”
“Um, isn’t she in bed?”
“No, she’s—”
Another scream—and off Phoebe dashed.
Soon she was pushing the child back down into the living room. “Poor Margaret, she’s scared out of her wits,” Phoebe said. “That bear was marauding around out there.”
Fred couldn’t help thinking Margaret’s shrieks would have been less piercing if she’d been tucked safely away in the bear’s stomach, but of course he kept this to himself. And though he got precious little sleep that night, he accompanied Phoebe food-hunting in the morning. This time they tried flowers. It was getting summery, and there were plenty to pick: buttercups, daisies, dandelions, red clover. When they got back to the burrow, Margaret grabbed the pretty bouquet and stuffed it greedily into her mouth.
“Ick!” she cried, spitting it out.
Though Phoebe didn’t seem to mind getting sprayed with dandelion juice, Fred certainly did. Halfway to the stream he tripped over a stick.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going!”
“Sorry,” said Fred, realizing the stick was actually the striped snake.
“You know, woodchuck, you don’t look so hot,” the snake said. “You look run-down, and your fur . . .”
“I know, I know.”
“Wife on the warpath, I suppose. Didn’t I tell you marriage is a fool’s game?”
“It’s not Phoebe. It’s this child she’s taken in.”
“Orphaned woodchuck?”
“Human. It’s a nightmare, snake. The monster won’t eat a thing, so all she does is bawl.”
The snake coiled himself up and scratched his head with the tip of his tail. “Human, eh. Want my advice?”
“Certainly.”
“Boot it out.”
“I couldn’t agree more. But Phoebe . . .”
“I see,” the snake said, giving him a pitying look. “Well, I know some folks who might be able to help you.”
“Who?”
“There’s a squirrel—one of my roommates, actually. He could show you where to find nuts. Then there’s that wild goat who mows the meadow. If you caught her on a good day, she might give you some of her milk. Then there’s this bear who’s been hanging around.”
“You talk to bears?”
“Of course not,” the snake said impatiently. “But if you follow him, he might lead you to honey. And you could check with one of these flighty birds about where the ripest berries are.”
It was Fred’s turn to scratch his head. He’d never have thought of inedible things like nuts or milk or honey or berries. But then, the snake had steered him to Phoebe.
“Thanks, snake.”
“One more piece of advice.”
“Yes?”
“Get some sleep and clean yourself up.” And with that, the snake slid off through the grass.
Fred did give himself a thorough scrubbing on the bank of the stream. But as for a desperately needed nap, he got back to the burrow to find Margaret bawling away, ignoring Phoebe’s attempts to comfort her. Fred, who wouldn’t have minded a little comforting himself, tugged Phoebe into the kitchen.
“This can’t go on,” he said.
“I know. The poor child’s starving.”
That wasn’t what he’d meant at all. But since it was clear that Phoebe wasn’t ready to give up on the dreadful creature quite yet, he told her what the snake had advised.
“Nuts and berries?” she said doubtfully. “Milk and honey?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I suppose we could give it a try. Anything to shut her up.”
“All babies cry.”
“Why don’t you find the goat, and maybe a bird. I’ll look for the squirrel and the bear.”
“Be careful of that bear, dear,” Phoebe said, squeezing his paw.
Fred found the snake sunning himself on his flat rock by the edge of the meadow. “Excuse me for disturbing you again, snake, but have you seen that squirrel you mentioned?”
The snake let out a startlingly loud hiss. Soon a squirrel came scampering up.
“You called?” the squirrel said.
“Squirrel, woodchuck,” said the snake. “Woodchuck, squirrel.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the squirrel said.
“Likewise,” Fred said, trying to sound sociable.
“Wants some nuts,” the snake explained.
“Really?” said the squirrel. “I never knew woodchucks cared for nuts.”
“Not for me,” Fred said. “It’s a long story.”
“Oh, I love stories,” the squirrel said.
“He doesn’t want to tell stories,” the snake snapped, “he wants nuts.”
“Of course, sorry,” said the squirrel. “Just follow me, woodchuck.”
The squirrel led Fred into some woods and generously revealed where he’d hidden supplies of chestnuts and acorns and hazelnuts. After stuffing a sampling into his cheeks, Fred thanked the squirrel in a garbled voice and trotted home. Phoebe wasn’t back yet; in their absence Margaret had splintered one of his inherited chairs.
Spitting out the nuts, Fred tried to swallow his rage. “Have one of these,” he said, handing the miserable child a chestnut.
“Yicky!” she said, hurling it.
The nut ricocheted off the wall and hit Fred in the thigh.
“Well, try one of these,” he said, giving her an acorn.
Margaret had a remarkable arm, and when he got the acorn back in the gut, he doubled over in pain. A few inches from his face was one of her bare feet. Woodchuck teeth are like razors, and it would have been deeply satisfying to nip one of the ogre’s toes. But her feet were so filthy he was afraid of germs.
Just as Fred straightened up, Phoebe came in, carrying the bowl. “What a marvelous goat!” she said. “We had a real mother-to-mother talk—and look!”
The bowl was half full of goat’s milk.
“Duck when you give it to her,” Fred advised backing away.
But Margaret didn’t spit the milk out. In fact, after sticking her tongue into the bowl for a taste, she slurped it all up.
“She likes it!” Phoebe said triumphantly. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
The milk had left a hideous mustache on Margaret’s face. “Wonderful,” Fred mumbled.
“Hungry!” Margaret squawked.
“She didn’t like the nuts?” Phoebe said, noting the ones on the floor.
“Not exactly.”
“We better go back out.”
While Phoebe went in search of a bird, Fred plodded over the rutty field and up the hill to the spring. From there you could see most of the countryside; but, unhappily, he didn’t spot a single human being out searching for a lost child. However, he did make out a fuzzy brown shape lumbering along the edge of the woods he’d just visited with the squirrel.
Fred tromped wearily down the hill and headed that way, keeping a healthy distance between himself and the bear. Before long, the beast stood on his hind legs and stuck his head into a hole in a tree. He was quickly surrounded by a nasty swarm of bees, but even so it was quite a while before he pulled his head out and went back down on all fours. He ambled away, smacking his lips.
Fred approached the bee tree gingerly. It was a half-dead pine with deeply grooved bark, ideal for climbing. He scrabbled up and peered in at a hollowed-out trunk lined with comb upon comb of honey. The bees crawling on them didn’t take him very seriously. In fact, several laughed at the sight of him. Still, when he leaned in and pried off a comb, one bee was annoyed enough to sting him right on the tenderest part of his snout.
Though not heavy, the comb was horribly gooey and gave off a revoltingly sweet smell. By the time Fred had lugged it back to the burrow, he felt nauseous.
Phoebe, who’d beaten him home, was all smiles.
“Margaret adores the berries,” she cooed.
It certainly looked that way. Margaret n
ow had a purple-smeared chin to go with her milk mustache.
“I got a terrible bite on my—”
Before Fred could finish his sentence, Margaret snatched the honeycomb out of his paws. She devoured it whole.
“I told you everything would work out!” Phoebe cried, clapping for joy. “Isn’t it fantastic?”
Fred said nothing. He was busy licking the horrid honey off his front paws so he could try to work the stinger out of his snout.
The Cave
A few weeks later the striped snake was sunning himself on his favorite rock when he heard a rustling in the grass. He didn’t so much as twitch; only his yellowish-green eyes shifted. Several yards away a female field mouse was making her way along, sniffing at this and that. It wasn’t till she was just a couple of snake-lengths from the rock that she sensed danger and looked up.
The snake struck. Unluckily—for him, at least—he had to negotiate a clump of tall grass and just missed the mouse’s tail, losing the advantage of surprise. But he was hungry and dashed after her anyway. The mouse darted left, then right, then dove into a hole.
It was the bolt hole of a woodchuck’s burrow. The field mouse sprinted through the living room without so much as a “Pardon me,” but the snake stopped in confusion, letting the mouse escape out the front entrance. He could have sworn this was the burrow of his woodchuck acquaintance. But that was always neat as could be. The floor here was stained with rancid milk and berry juice, and the walls were all gooey, with splintered wood and broken nutshells stuck to them.
“Where am I?” he wondered aloud.
“Shhhh,” said a woodchuck, trudging out of the kitchen.
The woodchuck was so worn and exhausted it took the snake a moment to recognize him. “What’s going on around here?”
“Don’t wake her,” Fred said, pointing at the bedroom.
The snake peered into the bedroom. It was entirely filled by a softly snoring creature with neither fur nor scales.
“Ah, the human. I see you tried some of the food I mentioned.”
Fred moaned. “All she does is eat. She’s twice the size she was.”
“What happened to your furniture?”
“Broken. Every piece of it.”
“You look kind of broken yourself, woodchuck. Have you been eating enough?”
Fred glanced wistfully at the kitchen. “I try. But I don’t seem to have any appetite.”
“Maybe it’s the smell.”
“Charming, isn’t it.”
“Where’s the wife?”
“Out getting goat’s milk.”
“Keep feeding the creature and you won’t be able to get her out of the bedroom.”
“I know, I know.”
“Didn’t I tell you to get rid of her?”
“Yes. But Phoebe loves the brute.”
The snake decided against asking if the woodchuck’s wife had a screw loose, and since he had nothing else to say, he slipped away. Being cold-blooded and selfish by nature, he was mainly annoyed at losing the mouse, but once he was coiled up on his favorite sunning rock again, he couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for the foolish woodchuck. To get married—and then, on top of that, to take in a human being!
A few days later, while hunting on the edge of the woods, the snake crossed paths with the squirrel. The squirrel started jabbering away as usual, but the snake simply tuned him out, as was his habit. They lived in the same cave, along with a skunk and a pair of bats.
After a while the squirrel gave the snake a nudge. “Isn’t that your friend?” he said.
The snake looked around and saw the woodchuck stumbling toward them with a honeycomb in his paws and two bee bites on his snout. “Acquaintance,” he said.
“He looks awful.”
Squirrels are warm-blooded and have softer hearts than snakes, and when Fred got closer, the squirrel volunteered to carry the honeycomb. Fred blinked blearily. He was so drained he’d virtually been sleepwalking again and hadn’t even noticed the two animals. If they’d been foxes, he would have been dinner.
“No use two of us getting all sticky, squirrel,” Fred said. “But I appreciate the offer.”
“Still getting squeezed out of house and home?” the snake asked.
Fred nodded despondently.
“We could put you up,” the squirrel said. “We have tons of room.”
“I couldn’t possibly impose,” Fred said. “But it’s kind of you to offer.”
“You haven’t even seen the cave,” the squirrel said, relieving Fred of the honeycomb. “Come on. What can you lose by looking?”
Fred, who didn’t have the energy to protest, traipsed along after the squirrel. The snake trailed after them to protect his interests, not at all sure he liked the idea of more roommates. But he needn’t have worried about Fred, who took a few steps into the cave and immediately started edging back out. It was big, but damp and messy, and there was a skunk in residence. As if a squirrel and a snake weren’t enough!
“Skunk, this is a friend of snake’s,” said the squirrel.
“Good afternoon,” the skunk said, swishing her impressive tail. “Are you from these parts?”
“More or less,” Fred said. The cave was on the far side of the hill where Phoebe’s mother was buried.
“Remarkable we’ve never run into each other.”
“The truth is, I didn’t used to cover much territory. Though nowadays . . .”
“He’s being squeezed out of his home,” said the squirrel. “Don’t you think he should move in with us?”
“It’s not just him,” the snake hissed.
“You have a family, woodchuck?” the skunk asked.
“There’s my wife and me,” Fred said. “And, at the moment, a human child.”
“Human?”
Fred nodded grimly.
“Remarkable!” said the skunk.
“That’s one word for it.”
“We never see human beings over this way.”
“Well, they’re not much to look at.”
“Is that so?” squeaked a voice overhead. “We’ve flown over them, but we can’t really see.”
Fred stared up at a pair of wrinkly black creatures who were hanging upside down from the cave’s ceiling.
“Sorry to wake you, bats,” said the squirrel. “We have a guest.”
As soon as Fred had been introduced to Mr. and Ms. Bat, he took the honeycomb off the squirrel’s paws. “Thanks so much for having me over,” he said, anxious to escape this zoo. “But I’m afraid I’m due home.”
“You just got here!” the squirrel protested. “Don’t you like it?”
“Do stay,” said the skunk.
“Would you like us to fly out and get you a snack?” asked one of the bats.
“You’re too kind,” Fred said. “But I really do have to get this thing home.”
The honeycomb prevented him from shaking paws, so he simply bid the cave dwellers good-bye. As he tottered away, he heard the friendly squirrel sigh—but a second later he was pretty sure he heard a hiss of relief escape the snake.
Mud
Thank heavens!” Phoebe said when Fred finally got home. “I was afraid you’d been stung to death!”
“Well, I—”
“Whaaa!” wailed Margaret, poking her head out of the bedroom.
“The poor thing’s famished,” Phoebe said.
The poor thing grabbed the honeycomb out of Fred’s paws and wolfed it down.
“You did get a few stings, didn’t you, sweetheart?” Phoebe said. “Are they bad?”
“Well, they’re not good.”
“But it’s worth it to see her eat like this, isn’t it?”
Fred just poked the bumps on his snout.
“Did you stop for a nap?”
“I wish. I got dragged off to a cave.”
“A cave?”
“Where that striped snake lives. And the squirrel. Over on the far side of the hill with the spring.”
“W
hat’s it like?”
“It’s a dreadful place. Sort of a rooming house for animals. Bats even.”
“Is it spacious?”
“I suppose.”
“You know, if we have to live somewhere else, Mother’s hill would be a nice place. Her spirit could watch over us.”
“I need some clover,” Fred mumbled, heading for the kitchen.
He refused to discuss the cave further, even after another week of fetching honeycombs and sleeping on the living-room floor. But before long the human eating machine outgrew the bedroom, and though Fred was glad to get his bed back, life with Margaret occupying the entire living room was grimmer than ever. It was dimmer, too. Whenever Margaret saw a glowworm slip out of the jar to find some food, she would try to catch it, and if she did she pulled it apart. Soon the few remaining glowworms were so scared and starved they barely glowed at all.
For Fred and Phoebe, sleeping till nine was no more than a rosy memory. Now they woke before seven, knowing Margaret would be yelling for food any second.
“I think the time’s come for desperate measures, sweetheart,” Phoebe said early one morning, smiling at Fred from her bed.
“What sort of desperate measures?” Fred asked groggily.
“Adding on.”
“Adding on?”
“A new room. Now don’t worry. I know you hate digging even more than I do. I’m going to do it myself, as soon as I get back from the goat.”
Fred yawned and rolled over. But in fact he was wide-awake, and as soon as he heard Phoebe get the bowl and leave the burrow, he jumped out of bed and pulled the pictures off the far bedroom wall. Phoebe was right: the time had come for desperate measures. And she was right, too, about his despising digging more than anything. But she was wrong if she thought he was going to let her do it.
When Phoebe came home with a bowl of goat’s milk, Margaret usually greeted her with a hungry whine. But this morning the child was giggling.
“What’s so funny, dear?” Phoebe said, pleased to see her enjoying herself.
“Fred,” said Margaret, who by now had mastered a fair amount of animal language.