Martin Marten (9781466843691)

by Doyle, Brian

  Let’s start by learning to be silent, said the trapper, and for the next hour they were, as they picked their way along the river through a series of old clear-cuts and windfalls. For a few minutes, Dave noticed, being silent was no effort, especially as Mr. Douglas set a fairly rapid pace, but then he found the lack of conversation a little unnerving; but after another twenty moments or so of wanting to ask questions and make observations, he noticed that he did seem to notice more when he wasn’t able to speak, an observation he made to the trapper when they paused finally and Mr. Douglas asked what he’d been thinking.

  For the next hour, then, said Mr. Douglas, let’s concentrate on walking silently while not speaking. Let’s slow down and walk carefully. Look down and see where your feet are headed. Pause when necessary to negotiate your next step. See what’s down there, rather than just walking through it. We spend a lot of time not seeing, it seems to me. Report on what you noticed.

  At the end of this second hour, Dave was able to say that he had seen salamanders, two kinds of frog, what might have been a lizard but it was way too fast for even rough identification, and the vanishing tail of a dark snake that might well have been after what might have been a lizard.

  That all?

  No, sir, said Dave. Lots of crickets, grasshoppers, beetles, snails, spiders, caterpillars, moths, butterflies, quick small brown birds with tiny tails that I believe were wrens, more than a few sparrows, two towhees, a thrush, and a large bird that I believe was a blue grouse. Also various feathers—this one I am almost sure is an owl, and this is surely a jay feather. Also several beer bottle caps, a plastic knife, and a pencil.

  Sharp eye, Dave. That pencil still work?

  Yes, sir.

  Keep it—another lost treasure of the vast and mysterious forest.

  Yes, sir.

  You don’t have to call me sir, Dave.

  Yes, sir.

  Want me to call you sir?

  No, sir.

  Want me to call you Elmore, or Mohammad?

  No, sir. Dave is good.

  Alright, then, Dave. What say we go for a couple of hours now as quietly as we can and keep our eyes peeled, this time for animals and their habits and customs and trails and territories. Animals live in certain ways, and when you pay close attention to their ways, what they like, what they are most comfortable with, that’s when you go down a few layers deeper, sort of. Know what I mean? My job is to catch some of them, but the larger pleasure isn’t the money, it’s the literature of their lives, so to speak. And it’s very humbling, which is refreshing. You never get to the end of knowing about them. There’s always something new that the books and Web sites and grizzled old veterans of the woods don’t know. That’s a good thing to remember. Whatever you know beyond the shadow of a doubt out here, you don’t. On the other hand, a working knowledge of habit and probability is a good thing. If you are looking for mink, for example, you’re probably not going to find a whole lot of them above timberline. That narrows down your search engine, so to speak. Ready?

  Yes, sir.

  So we’ll just walk and talk quietly. You ask anything you want and tell me anything you see, and I’ll do the same. We’ll be quietly companionable. Two students in the biggest school there is. Both of us working for Miss Moss.

  Can I ask you about Miss Moss, sir?

  No, sir, said the trapper, smiling. She’s not on the agenda. For one thing we are both on task here, and for another I don’t know anything for sure about the estimable Miss Moss. She’s a mystery from head to foot and tip to toe. No, sir.

  And off they went for two hours and then a lunch break and then two more hours, looping back downhill another way and eventually back to the store. And indeed they walked and talked quietly, and Dave never forgot, all the rest of his life, the gentle murmur of the trapper’s voice in the shadows as he talked about how most predators of any size like to establish territories, which he called yards, and how they would patrol their yards every day, rain or shine, and how any encroachment on their yards was a flagrant offense, and how not only would they defend their yards against enterprising members of their own species seeking to snatch some new yard but also sometimes against members of other species even if they were larger and dangerous, and how some animals seemed to have a détente or treaty going for reasons you couldn’t really tell. And on top of that, some individuals of some species established their own treaties for their own reasons—for example, a cougar he knew that just would not eat deer no matter what, even when apparently presented with the world’s easiest chance at venison for dinner. Who knew what was up with that, said the trapper. You could speculate that maybe she, the cougar, tasted poisoned meat or associates deer with pain or trouble or something, but you don’t know, and it’s all the more mysterious because every other cougar on the mountain would take a train and a bus to get deer for dinner. But there you go.

  They talked about marten and what they ate and where they lived and when the kits left their dens to establish their own yards, and they talked about foxes and how usually on the mountain there were few red foxes and lots of gray foxes, but lately in the last few years there were montane foxes, which are red foxes particularly adapted to mountain life, with thicker coats and more muscle in the chest, seems to me, said the trapper. And they talked about deer and elk, and mink and otter, and bears and bobcats, and how in the old days there were lynx up here and fisher and wolverine but probably never much badger; your badger is not much for mountain life, all things considered, said the trapper. And they talked about chickarees and chipmunks and bats and birds and snakes and skinks and every other sort of animal the trapper knew and Dave was curious about. And they stopped, here and there, and stood silently when a resident presented himself or herself—an owl half-asleep in a tree bole, two rabbits in a clearing, a kingfisher rattling down a creek on a blue trail in the air. At one point, Dave turned and could have sworn he saw a golden brown flash of fur in the canopy, but it vanished so quickly and thoroughly that he didn’t mention it to the trapper; and later that night, in his bedroom, he realized that to have mentioned the young marten would be to have instantly endangered it, for the trapper would have marked the spot and returned to look for sign. He fell asleep, exhausted and pleased. When he awoke in the morning there was a bright yellow warbler feather on his chest, a gift from Maria in gratitude for the owl feather he had left for her the night before.

  24

  INDEED IT WAS MARTIN in the trees above Dave and the trapper, watching curiously. By now he recognized the smaller human being as the one who ran without being chased, and something about this particular being drew Martin like a lure. He could not have explained it, even given a language we could understand; it was a feeling composed of interest and even affection. He liked this being, felt a certain empathy for it, much like he had felt for his lost brothers and felt still for his quiet sister, despite not seeing her much anymore as summer waned. He was intrigued by Dave; he felt some inarticulate assurance that Dave was not dangerous, and he liked both proximity to him and sprinting through the trees overhead as Dave flew along the forest trails. Granted the eloquence in our tongue he already had in his own, he might have said simply that he liked Dave and felt somehow that Dave liked him too.

  Which increasingly was the case. Now when Dave went for his morning and evening runs, he looked automatically into the trees to see if the marten was there, and almost every day there Martin was, the distinctive golden brown burnish of his fur evident to an eye looking for just that characteristic color; and Dave would smile, and say ready? and take off, upriver or down depending on the bounce in his legs, and above him to one side or another the marten would float along effortlessly, flying along branches so fast and gracefully that Dave would have sworn on a Bible that there were times the marten’s feet touched nothing but the crisp clean air.

  This is probably a good time to stop and talk for a moment about the really amazing athletic machine for which we use the word marten; and let
’s use Martin as an example, as he is right there above us, in midleap between fir branches. Let’s freeze time for a moment and zoom in on Martin and take a close look. He’s four months old today, still growing, but already you can see the size and build of the mature creature he will be in a few months. He’s almost two feet long already, if you count his tail; his thick furry tail is about six inches long and a little darker in color than his body, as are his feet and legs. On his chest there’s a patch of lighter fur than his generally golden brown body; it looks like he’s wearing a permanent bib. Rather large triangulish ears, black nose and eyes, black burst of whiskers. Serious claws, when he unsheathes them. Small teeth, but sharper than any knife. Alert and attentive at all times, capable of long periods of absolute stillness and then instant violent action so fast that he would be a blur to your eye if he was moving at top speed. Weight, about two pounds now; in a few months he will grow to be close to three pounds. In essence he is a furry muscle in the woods, quite comfortable on the ground and in the trees. He can climb anything lightning fast and is the king of the forest insofar as using the canopy as a highway. While his favorite food is voles, caught on the floors of forest and meadow, he much enjoys squirrels of all kinds and is the only hunter of squirrels who can follow them to the highest, thinnest branches; not even the fisher, being heavier, can achieve that dangerous elevation. He eats everything else he can find, of course, but given his druthers, like today’s late-summer bounty, he would have a vole for breakfast and then some thimbleberries and a cricket as a midmorning snack and then another vole for late lunch, followed by huckleberries in the afternoon, most of a dead white-crowned sparrow, some early white-oak acorns—which were not quite as toothsome as he had hoped—and then, delightfully, a young flying squirrel, which was just waking up in a cottonwood tree for its own evening hunt. All in all, an excellent day food-wise; had Martin known it, this would be one of his best dining days of the year, for heavy snow will come all too soon on the mountain to cover much of the larder. Savor these last days of summer, for autumn on Wy’east will be short, and soon cometh winter; and winter on a mountain eleven thousand feet high is thorough and inarguable.

  * * *

  The hole in the cottonwood tree where Martin had found and eaten the flying squirrel was roomy, angled out of the prevailing wind, relatively inaccessible from other predators, high above a creek filled with fish and crawfish and snails, relatively close to two meadows with good hunting prospects, and equipped with the remnant of a branch that served as something like a porch or deck by the front door. After cleaning out all evidence of previous occupancy, Martin moved in, driven by some feeling that he must have secure housing before the seasons changed. He could feel the change, somehow—the chill now, after dark, and the beginning of leaf loss among the deciduous trees; the reddening of vine maples and yellowing of birch and aspen trees; the ripening of first acorns on the burly white oak trees in meadows; the first salmon and steelhead returning to their native streams; the male deer and elk growing restless and testy with each other. From his perch in the afternoon sun, he could hear the clash of their antlers like faraway swords.

  Driven by another inchoate feeling, he sought out his mother and sister, and for two days, all was as it had been in the beginning—his mother bringing food to their den, Martin and his sister chasing each other comically, the three of them curling up for naps. More than once, Martin caught a faint and final wisp of the smell of his brothers and remembered them curled in the dark of their natal burrow. But early one evening, as he and his sister and their mother filed out of the burrow for an early evening hunt, they went one way and Martin another; and they would not see each other again for a very long time.

  25

  THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL at Zigzag High is always officially three days after Labor Day, but freshmen with athletic aspirations were required to register early for physicals and interviews with coaches and team captains, so at ten in the morning on the first day of September, Dave was waiting nervously by the back door of the gym amid a remarkable gaggle of boys and girls, only a few of whom he even vaguely knew. More evidence, says Moon quietly to Dave, that there are a lot of people living out in the woods about whom we do not know a thing.

  Not that you would know them anyways if they lived in town, says Dave.

  Town? says Moon. What town? Is the Zag a town? A wide place in the road with a store and a gas station is a town now? Did I miss the meeting at which the Zag was christened a town? I’ll tell my folks next time they’re home.

  Moon has been persuaded to register for a sports physical, but he has yet to choose a sport. He says he will feel it out as the day goes along. He says he will listen to each coach and each team captain and see if there’s a place where their agendas meet his. He says you can tell a lot about coaches and captains by the way they explain what it is they want. He says that there are all sorts of ways they talk about what they want, and you have to listen carefully as if they are speaking in code, which basically they are. The coaches and captains who dwell on glorious victories over bitter rivals are interested in war. The coaches and captains who talk about each member of the team rising to his or her best self are interested in weight lifting. The coaches and captains who talk about the team as a family are the sort of people who will cut you from the team without the slightest hesitation or compunction if you get hurt. You have to listen carefully before committing yourself to things, Dave, says Moon. You have to tread very cautiously in water this deep.

  Isn’t that a mixed metaphor? asks Dave.

  I think you are committing to running without knowing anything about the people you will be running with or who will be telling you where and when to run and in what direction, says Moon. Is that wise? Is that the approach of a sensible man?

  Are we men? asks Dave. At fourteen?

  I’m serious, Dave.

  Moon, says Dave, smiling, I am going to try out for the cross-country team, and I hope I make it, and that’s that. If I make it, great. If not, I’ll run on my own. I like running, and I am no good at any other sport. Like you.

  It turned out that the cross-country team had three captains—two seniors and a sophomore who was so clearly the best on the team that there was no way not to make him a captain. To Dave’s relief, all three of the runners and the coach seemed relaxed and honest and direct folks; secretly, he had been worried that Moon was right and that the captains and coach would be grim martinets or screamers. The seniors talked about summer training, academic expectations, and how the team mixed and matched for travel slots during the actual season, depending on performance and attendance and health. The coach talked about how the team was really a collection of individuals who ideally supported each other but were in the end responsible for their own training; his role was only to help runners train, choose the best for meets, and make sure everyone got the same chances and opportunities. It’s a loose team, and you are on your own together, is the best way I can explain it, he said. We are not much like the other teams here, with organized practices and such. We just stretch and run and then stretch. Sometimes we have meals together. I drive the bus. If your grades sink below a B, you’re off the team. If you miss school for disciplinary reasons, you’re off the team. If you fight or curse at anyone, you’re off the team. Otherwise you’re on the team. You freshmen might not make the traveling squad, but you’re on the team. You get your uniforms at the end of the first week of running, if you make it that far. Once you get your uniform, only you can take it away from you. Questions?

  The sophomore spoke last. He was a tall thin boy with a ponytail that hung to his waist, and he was barefoot and shirtless. Dave could see each detail of each rib on his chest. He looked like he might have about an eighth of an ounce of fat on him, or less. He spoke quietly. He said that running was an ancient human craft, and we ought to honor and celebrate such a gift. He said he would be at the back door of the gym every afternoon at three o’clock, starting today, and that anyone who
wanted to run with him was welcome to do so, for as long or short as they wanted. He said it would be an honor to run with anyone who wanted to run with him, because running was memory and meditation and fitness and witness, and those were good things to achieve collectively.

  Even the kids who usually sniggered at talk like this did not snigger, partly because the sophomore was one of the best three runners in the state already and partly because of the sheer calm dignity with which he said his piece. You’d feel like a heel laughing at a guy like that, as Dave said later to his dad. He was speaking right from his heart without any fuss and bother. He wasn’t selling anything or showing you how cool he was or anything like that. You got the sense that this is exactly who he is, no more and no less.

  Alluring, isn’t it? said his dad. That’s the final frontier for all of us. To take off as many masks as you can pry off and just be you. Was that the end of the tryouts?

  Yep, said Dave. I passed my physical, and I’ll show up for the run at three o’clock and see if I am really in shape or not.

  What sport did Moon choose?

  Basketball.

  Isn’t basketball in the winter?

  That’s why Moon chose it. He says he gets to say he’s trying out for basketball, but he doesn’t actually have to do anything. He says he picked basketball because it’s a metaphysical idea for the next three months.

  Unusual boy, your boy Moon.

  I’ll say.

  Do his parents know he chose basketball?