by P. K. Tyler
The villagers dispersed and spread throughout the community. Tis-Chik stayed with Ruth and her family. They told everyone that his name was Tristan Castor. Castor is part of the formal name for beavers. He eventually went to school and became an engineer. His understanding of dams, bridges and hydraulics was unsurpassed. Many a bridge that you have crossed during your lifetime was constructed based on the principles he designed. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology still uses a beaver as its symbol.
Tristan and Ruth eventually married. Their oldest son became the first United States Senator from this State. Their youngest son was the Secretary of the Interior Department under Theodore Roosevelt. He and his family accumulated several thousand acres of land surrounding the pond where the golden beavers raised Tis-Chik. The people in the state never forgot how the beavers had saved the settlers. The story grew with the telling. The flood waters became faster, deeper and colder through the years. The number of people saved by the beavers became larger and larger with the telling and retelling of the story. It was said that Tis-Chik could bite through an axe handle. The legends claimed that the man raised by the beavers could swim faster than the fastest racing boat could travel. He could hold his breath for hours on end. Some even claimed that he was a mystic spirit of the forest and would protect good people, but would punish evildoers who would despoil the land or the wildlife.
No matter how much the story became exaggerated, the settlers and their descendants never forgot the debts that they owed Tis-Chik and the beaver colony. Tis-Chik’s son used his power as a senator to establish perpetual protection for the land of the golden beavers. The land he carefully assembled was donated to the federal government and designated a wildlife refuge. I was pleased to be the first ranger assigned to the refuge. I have written this so that you understand why this place is secret and why it must be protected. The beavers saved my family; it is my job to save them. If you read my grandfather’s story in this logbook, it is your job, too.
The log entry ended there. I put the ranger’s log away and went to bed. I spent a sleepless night because I had so many questions. I must have finally fallen asleep because I woke to the smell of bacon and coffee, got dressed and staggered into the kitchen.
Gary said, “Good morning. Coffee’s ready. How do you like your eggs?” He poured a cup of coffee, slid it toward me and pointed to the sugar bowl. “Scrambled? Fine. You drink some coffee while I finish this bacon and cook the eggs. I know you have questions, just hold them until I have breakfast ready.”
The coffee was good and so were the eggs. I ate everything, washed the dishes and poured us both another cup of coffee.
I looked at Gary and said, “I know about Senator Castor and his son, the Secretary. If I believe the log, his father was a feral child raised by beavers. Romulus, Remus, and Bucky, oh my! Do you believe it?”
“It is absolutely true, that’s why the story has been suppressed. The truth is the reason this refuge is hidden. The press would never leave this beaver colony alone. They saved a small village that included some very important people. They deserve better than that. It’s my family’s obligation to see that they get that protection.”
“Your family?”
“Yes, my family. I am a direct descendant of Tis-Chik and Ruth. Every ranger has been a member of our family. We work and live an outside life and then, when we reach what most would consider retirement age, we take our turn guarding the beaver colony. My father crossed Europe with General Patton. He supervised the construction or repair of numerous bridges during the allied advance. He could tell the places where the tanks could cross without building a bridge. He knew whether to dam a creek or river or to build a bridge. He helped make the advance go quickly. He stayed on after the war for a while. He helped repair dozens of dams. He even spent a year with the Dutch repairing dikes. I never fought, but I designed and built hydroelectric dams across the world.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m not a Castor. I’ve never built anything in my life. So why am I here?”
“I’m old and I’m sick,” said Gary. “I don’t have any relatives that are the right age to take my place. The oldest is only in his early fifties. We need someone to be the ranger for the next ten years or so. We’ve watched you for years. You have no family and you truly believe in protecting the animals in our national parks and refuges. I’m to spend this month with you, making sure that you are the person we can count on until my nephew can take over.”
“What if I’m not?”
“If you’re not, then I’ll send you back and spend time with the next person on our list. The cancer won’t get me tomorrow, so I have time to check out the next two or three candidates, if necessary. In the meantime, the refuge perimeter fence won’t check itself. We can talk while we walk.”
We dressed, packed lunch and then spent the day walking the perimeter. We ended up by the beaver pond before sunset. Gary said, “Let me show you some things.”
He pointed to a blackberry thicket, “This is where Chee, Tis-Chik, and the young beavers killed the bobcat. Right up this trail is the tree where he watched the trapper. Look closely, you can still see scars on the trunk from where the trapper tried to pull the chain loose while he was being stoned. We can find evidence of where other trappers were waylaid and either killed or frightened off if we keep looking around.”
I noticed the beavers who were positioned as guards around the pond, and they took notice of us but did not sound an alarm. The beavers continued working with no concern about our presence.
“The beavers know me. Within the month, they will know you, too. It’s like in the Sherlock Holmes story, a dog doesn’t bark at its own people.”
After I had been with Gary for a little over a week, he brought out an old suitcase after dinner one evening and placed it on the table. “You are going to work out just fine. I can tell. These are the last things I need to show you.”
Inside the suitcase was a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. He carefully unwrapped it and picked up the first item. “This is the axe that Tis-Chik took from the first trapper.”
He handed me the axe and reached down and held up a bone handled knife. “This knife was taken from the first trapper or perhaps a later one, no one is quite sure. It is quite old, isn’t it?”
I stood and looked at the remaining items on the oilcloth. There were more knives and a dozen or so animal traps of various sizes. I looked questioningly at Gary and he said, “Tis-Chik destroyed most of the traps, but he always kept enough of them around to use against any human intruders.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
“I told you how we descendants of Tis-Chik have watched over the lodge and pond all this time. I haven’t told you the rest of what the family does.”
He rolled the antiques back in the oilcloth, returned it to the suitcase, and stored the bundle in the closet. “When every man child is three years old, he is brought to the lodge. Each young man, myself included, spends three years with the beaver colony. This tradition has continued since the senator, Tristan and Ruth’s first son, was brought here years ago. One of my nieces gave birth to a baby boy last month. In three years, he will be brought here to live with the beavers. You must not interfere. The only thing you are to do is to leave the oilcloth-wrapped axe, knifes, and traps under the scarred tree. The beavers will handle everything else.”
“You expect me to watch your family abandon a three-year-old?”
“The child is not being abandoned. He is being fostered by the beavers for three years. The beavers will be the better for it and so will the boy. I know. Remember, I lived three years with the beavers. I need your word that you will do as I ask. It is possible that you may be the ranger during the fostering of more than one child. Whenever a child completes his time with the beavers, either he, his parents, or the beavers will return the knives, axe and traps to the scarred tree. You must keep them safe until the next child arrives. You will be the first ranger here that doesn’t speak beaver, so
the colony can’t talk to you. The children may be able to communicate with you if necessary, but you can’t count on that. My family and the beavers have been doing this for years, so just trust the beavers. They know how to do this.”
I had already made up my mind to do as Gary asked. Nevertheless, I asked the same questions over and over again until Gary left. His answers never changed. It was really simple. Keep the perimeter fencing intact, deal with any human intruders, and don’t bother the beavers.
I woke up one morning about two weeks later. The cabin was quiet and empty. There was no evidence that Gary had prepared breakfast for himself. His bed was neatly made and all his belongings were in place. I went onto the porch and called for him, but I got no response. I continued to call his name as I followed the well-worn trail to the beaver pond.
I stopped calling for him when I got to the edge of the pond and saw his clothes. His shirt and trousers were neatly folded and his Smokey Bear ranger hat was sitting on top of them. His boots were sitting to one side of the clothing. Socks were stuffed inside them. There were bare footprints leading into the water.
For a moment, I considered the possibility that Gary had drowned himself in the pond. I shielded my eyes and scanned the placid water. The beavers were working like only beavers can do. I didn’t see Gary anywhere. Perhaps the worry showed on my face, I don’t know. I turned to go and before I could take a single step I heard a clear whistle echo across the pond. ‘Shave and a haircut, two bits.’
I knew Gary was fine, he was where he wanted to be. The oldest golden beaver had come home.
About the Author
Robert was a restaurant owner and home builder. He managed numerous commercial and government construction projects across the country. He also performs the occasional wedding.
He tried to keep work from interfering with flying hot air balloons and daily long runs. He is retired and lives in New Mexico with his wife, Sally. They are commercial balloon pilots and plan to keep flying as long as they can climb into the gondola. They watch sunrise on New Year’s Day somewhere every year, including Stonehenge, Hawaii’s Hilo Bay, the Grand Canyon, Amelia Island, and the Presidio in San Francisco.
Robert has contributed articles to Fantasy Amateur Press Association since 1982. His next professional publication will be his story, "The Road Doesn't Care" in the upcoming anthology Keeping Pace with Eternity.
Robert knows three small beaver dams hidden along the Rio Grande River. He runs by them about once a week and he'll never tell anyone where they are.
The Least Child
By Daniel Arthur Smith
Summary: After a two-month dry spell, a writer finds inspiration in the form of a small, plant-dwelling creature.
Two months had passed since I’d written anything of worth and the toll on my wife was evident when the subject came up. She was, of course, endlessly supportive, but only after a pained look or an unmistakable pause in whatever our conversation happened to be. I’m sure there is some formal physical law that states, unwillingly or willingly, a writer not applying his craft tends to agitate himself and those around him, so I quite understand her concern for the lapse in prose.
I should say, though, that the fatigue was not due to slacking. I had been extremely busy before the holidays, but the cold stillness of the seasonal break brought any productive endeavor to a stand still. That was expected and I did not initially fret. The words always returned in full flood with the first sunny days of January. But that month winter stayed sad; there was no sun nor words—they simply did not come. Into February, my pages remained clear. I fought it. I declared that the world was merely gray and not sad. She cleaned the house, tidied the table, and insisted I dress.
“All you need to do is write,” she said.
So I took my seat at the kitchen table, next to the courtyard window, and raised the lid of my laptop. On the window sill next to where I sat, she had placed a leaf filled flower box. A thick stem arced high from the foliage and dangling from it in a line were five unopened ruby colored blooms, near half the size of my fist. Their texture appeared crepe and they could have easily been paper ornaments had I not known better. She, a floral designer, would never bring home paper flowers.
“What are these,” I asked, rubbing the flat brass end of my Blackwing pencil along a braid of vine that led to one of the full round pods. The two Blackwing 602 pencils and legal pad I kept near my laptop were, at most, luck charms and, more so, confidence-building props. I always imagined I would write an entire manuscript longhand with the dark leaded ‘writer’s’ pencils, but never used them for more than writing the sparsest notes.
“Some variety of Physalis,” she said.
“What?”
“Japanese lantern.” She often gave me Latin names and I guess I should have known them, yet even after all of our years together I never picked them up. To me, they were the names I had learned as a child, a daisy, a lilac, a mum.
She pulled some crackers from the cupboard. The lunch she packed was never more than what I considered a snack. She was already dressed for work in her black collared sweater that was so much the uniform of Upper West Side attire. After fifteen years, I marveled how maturity had added to her beauty. “They usually aren’t so red,” she said, unaware I was watching her in that husbandly way. “A vendor gave them to me.”
“In the market?”
“No. She came into my shop. An old woman.” They were most always old, her flower purveyors, particularly those specializing in exotics such as orchids, lilies, and odd blooms such as these. “I thought you’d like it. I thought maybe they’d inspire you. You know, they’ve been impossible to find lately.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
* * *
I stayed true to my task that morning, as I always do. One does not give up if the words do not come, one simply stares at his monitor. It is a challenge of man over machine, or maybe it is simply with himself; regardless, if the flood gates were to burst open, you need to be at the river to experience the rush.
That morning, though, my eyes strayed from the pages to the window, to the string of Japanese lanterns on the sill. I suppose, as any writer, I’ve a tendency to procrastinate and absolutely anything would have taken my attention away from my screen; a fly on the wall, food on the floor, a memory that something in another room needed to be tended to. Except there was something magnetic about those bright red, dangling pods. Perhaps it was simply that there were bright globes in the corners of my eyes that kept me from staring straight, or maybe it was the vitality of a robust living organism so close by that demanded my attention, or that the lantern was so unique in shape and color, so different and distracting. The venation of each pod was thick and alien, and for the first time in months, a thin ray of sun cast outside the window, so that the light in the courtyard gave the bulbous plant an inner amber glow. It was easy to see how they earned the lantern moniker.
On close observation—and keep in mind this was my morning spent—I noticed movement inside of one.
At first, I thought my eyes were being teased for staring too long. The way they see things when I mistakenly lock on to something; the yellow line on the road while driving, the underground walls through the window of the subway. This had been a condition I fell into since childhood, remaining still, slowing my breaths, until the entirety of my body tingled and I felt if I moved a single muscle it would spoil, and that was when the world, reality, would become something different.
When I was five, I remember lying on a daybed at an aunt’s house, my mother’s aunt actually, but we all just called her aunt. The sunbed was warm from the summer morning sun coming through the large window to the garden and the quilt I rested on was thick and soft and smelled a floral mix of the face powder and lipstick my aunt and grandmother and other women of the time wore. I was watching the ceiling fan slowly spin above my head, round and round, and I remember thinking, after so long had passed and my eyes were
locked on, that the ceiling fan was a spider, and it was a spider moving, and I remember it moving, wanting to go out into that garden. Until I blinked. And then it was a ceiling fan again.
I thought that was the way with the lantern. I crunched my lids together tight, to reset them, and then opened my eyes again fresh, sure the movement would be gone. I pulled my face closer, inches away. Within the inner amber, I was sure I saw a shadow, a silhouette. Slowly, I tilted my head to the side to gain a different perspective. The lantern twitched. I froze, the way a predator does before prey, or at least the way I have seen kittens and cats freeze solid when surprised by whatever they are toying with.
The pod moved again.
“Aha!” I said, leaning back into my chair with satisfaction.
Of course, there was no one around to hear my small victory over reality. Still, the pod really had moved; it was not my mind playing tricks on me.
A wave of dread rapidly washed away my moment of triumph as I began to race through a mental Rolodex of what little knowledge I had on moving plants. Images played of Venus Fly Traps and nameless plants I had seen that curled their leaves at the poke of a stick. This was not a leaf shifting to the light or reacting to touch. These were big pods.
Another childhood memory. My grandparents, as grandparents do, went on many vacations when I was young, and always brought back presents for me and my cousins. I remember that after returning from a particular trip to the south, they brought back a present so small that initially I cried. I was a small child. The gift they gave me was a small, clear plastic case that fit in the palm of my hand. Inside were three dried beans, or maybe five, and my grandmother consoled me by telling me they were magic. She promised if I held them I would see, and I did; I saw. I held that little plastic case close to my face and right about when I thought my grandmother was teasing me and was about to cry again, one of the tan beans flew up to snap against the plastic side of the case. The others began to do the same. In an instant the beans were all dancing, the sound was the same that popcorn makes popping, except they were jumping. Mexican jumping beans.