Rescue at Lake Wild

by Terry Lynn Johnson

  Lid instantly becomes fixated, a string of drool leaking out the side of his lips.

  “Can you tell us the plan now, Madi?” Aaron says as he picks up a sandwich. A piece of lettuce drops from his hand and hardly hits the floor before the dog pounces. Lid’s satisfied expression gives way to a slow horror. He spits it out, sniffs it cautiously, and then slides Aaron a wounded look, his eyes full of accusation.

  I produce the iPod I’d taken from the house. “This is the plan.”

  Stuffing it into a waterproof Otter bag, I press Play. At the sound of running water, everyone, including Lid, looks at me, puzzled.

  “Step two will take some time,” I say.

  I wait until the kits trundle off to their bed, and then stick the iPod under some branches on the side of the pool. I look at the pile of dirt, the water, the sticks, and nod.

  “I’m not sure yet if they’ll do what I think. We have to wait till tomorrow to see if it works.”

  Aaron eyes the setup and nods too. I see his engineer brain working. “I think you’re right!”

  The boy has always been clever.

  After we pack up to leave, I peek in to see if the kits are settled. They’re already asleep next to the teddy bear. Despite their fight, the brothers are pressed together, their little arms wrapped snug, holding each other close.

  18

  The next day Aaron, Jack, and I open the clubhouse door and peer inside.

  I feel a little thrill, even though I’d already seen it this morning when I gave the kits their breakfast.

  “That’s a thing of beauty,” I say, proudly, as if I’d done it myself.

  “That’s a big mess,” Jack says.

  “It’s exactly where you wanted them to do it, Madi,” Aaron says, his eyes shining with wonder.

  We gaze at the interlaced pile of sticks and mud. Branches jab out of the mound at odd angles, looking like a sad melty snowman. It leans precariously to one side. Most of the material we’d brought in has been used to make it.

  The best part is where the kits built it. Along the side of the pool. Right on top of where I’d hidden the iPod.

  The kits return our stare until Cooler seems to shrug and goes back to work. Grunting, he shoves a large stick into the door of their house. Phrag mutters a protest.

  “It’s obvious once you think about it,” Aaron says. “Everyone knows beavers are the world’s smelliest engineers.”

  “Step two of the plan worked,” I say. “And they aren’t smelly.”

  “What worked?” Jack says. “I don’t know what’s going on. All I see is a gigantic pile of mud in the middle of our clubhouse. Is that supposed to be a dam? That’s the worst dam I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’ll admit, they need practice.” I worry again that they don’t have anyone to teach them how to do these things with their parents gone.

  “Why build one here?” Jack says. “It’s in the way.”

  “The kits built where Madi wanted them to,” Aaron explains. “She’s using their instincts with the sound of running water to direct them.”

  “Ah,” Jack says. But he still looks confused.

  I’m not entirely clear myself about what to do next. “But I don’t know if I can do it in the wild with other beavers. I’ll need your help, Aaron.”

  “Well, that’s never good. The last time you said that, I got attacked by a raccoon.” Aaron loves to bring up the tree incident.

  “He was just saying hello.” I wave a hand. “Before we do anything, though, we should give Phrag and Cooler some kind of reward for all their work.”

  Even though beavers are nocturnal and don’t care for bright sunshine, the small clubhouse isn’t the right place for growing kits. They should be outside, somewhere they can play and learn how to swim and be beavers.

  “Let’s take them for a real swim,” I say.

  Mom’s gone to work, so the only thing we need to worry about are predators and other beavers. As Aaron and I carry the kits toward the lake, I think about what I’d read in my beaver research. Beavers are fiercely protective of their territory and could attack other beavers they don’t know. An adult beaver might kill one of the kits. Or they might decide the kits aren’t a threat since they’re so small. But there’s no way to know, so we have to be cautious.

  Aaron and I place the kits on the beach sand. They’ve already grown heavier since I rescued them. Must be all the sweet potatoes they’ve been eating. I was so relieved when I figured out they were old enough to eat solid food.

  They huddle together and blink, not quite sure what to do.

  Jack shucks off his shirt and grabs the boogie board from our box of beach toys.

  “Banzaiiiii!” He runs screaming into the lake the way he always does.

  Aaron enters the water in his usual method, tiptoeing inch by painful inch, flailing his arms. He’s dramatically silent. The lake here isn’t as sun-warmed as the channel, but at least it’s not infested with leeches.

  I carry the kits out on a bright pink flutter board. They float on the board and peer down at the water. Gaping owlishly at the lake and all the space around them, they seem to quiver with glee.

  Cooler jumps off first. Once he sees his brother do it, Phrag follows. They float on the surface, motionless. Little brown balls of fur shaped like torpedoes pointing right at me.

  I drape myself over the board and float on my belly. Phrag scrapes me with his thrashing nails, trying to climb on my back.

  “The thing I can’t figure out now is how to make it work,” I say to Aaron.

  He floats next to me on a giant inflatable pineapple.

  “They’ll respond to the sound of running water,” I say. “But we—Yowch!”

  Cooler marches up the back of my leg. He hovers on my butt, looking down at Phrag victoriously.

  “But we can’t hide an iPod everywhere we want them to build,” I continue. “And how do we know where to get the beavers to build, anyway?”

  I watch Aaron’s mind considering the problem as he bobs. He gets a particular blank look on his face when he’s thinking hard.

  “Maybe we can use the current somehow.”

  Phrag manages to haul himself up my right shoulder, clinging with nails as sharp as fork tines. He keeps up a running commentary: Whee, whee, whee. My back’s going to be covered in red scratches by the end of our swim.

  “What are you guys even talking about?” Jack complains. “How is that going to help the flooding? And it’s not getting us any closer to solving the poaching case. If we find the shooter, we stop the beaver killings. Isn’t that the important part? We need to investigate Mr. Archer.”

  Lid dog-paddles past me, biting the water as he splashes.

  Jack has a point. I’m not even sure I know what I’m doing with the water experiment. Maybe we should follow his lead.

  I dive under, dislodging the kits, then come up again. They voice their protests loudly. Meee, meeeeee, meee. They swim in circles around me while the dog swims in circles around Jack.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go see Mr. Archer.” We have to catch the shooter before any more murders happen.

  19

  Holly Archer’s an older girl at our school, going into eighth grade.

  She lives in a small house on Birch Street, but she’s not home when we knock on the door. No one is except some small dog inside who’s freaking out about us being on the porch. Lid cocks his head at the door and whines.

  “Well, we tried,” Aaron says. “Let’s go.”

  A truck pulls into the driveway. Mr. Archer steps out wearing work boots and a safety vest. “Hello, kids. You selling something?”

  I wonder how Jack’s going to get him to confess to shooting beavers.

  “Did you shoot a beaver in Birch Creek a couple nights ago?” Jack blurts out.

  I guess that’s one way to go about it.

  Jack’s got his notebook out with a pen hovering over it like some kind of reporter. But his professional air is ruined by th
e crisscrossed red scratches on his arms from the raspberry bush, and his long dark hair plastered to one side of his face from our swim.

  Mr. Archer stares at us and blinks. “Eh?”

  “You bought shotgun shells, and a beaver showed up dead near your house.” Jack’s using his adult voice again. I’m almost impressed.

  “A beaver? Shotgun shells . . . ?” Mr. Archer pauses to collect his thoughts, grabbing a metal lunch box and a big tube of paper off the front seat. He shuts the truck door and turns back to Jack. “Now, why would I want to shoot a beaver? Don’t have the time to shoot anything. I think you’re talking about the skeet ammo I got for Holly’s birthday.”

  He stalks toward us on the trampled grass. “But if Holly told you about that, then you’d know she’s practicing for the skeet competition. Gotta say, I’m perplexed. What are you kids up to?”

  Aaron, who hates all confrontation but especially with adults, starts slinking back toward the road. He aims a glare at me as if this is my fault.

  “Sorry to bug you, Mr. Archer,” I say. “We’re just doing dares. We’ll be going now.” I grab Jack’s sleeve and yank him.

  Jack grudgingly follows as Aaron and I hightail it out of there. I glance behind me to see Mr. Archer still watching us, shaking his head.

  Once we’re around the corner, we slow down. I turn to Jack. “Did you know Holly does skeet shooting competitions?”

  “Have to look into it. I’m not sure I buy it,” Jack mumbles. His face is set with frustration. He suddenly seems unsure of himself.

  “Mr. Archer better not tell my parents about this,” Aaron says. “Next time, leave me out—” He stops short as we all take in the scene before us.

  Hot fury spikes inside me, blinding and intense.

  Two boys are playing with a baby animal in the ditch. They’re tossing it back and forth.

  “Stop that!” I charge toward them.

  They drop the animal. I see them size up the three of us coming at them—or more likely, they see Jack—then they grab their bikes and take off. The unlucky animal just lies there unmoving. My heart stutters, and when I get closer, it almost stops. It’s a beaver kit.

  For one silent, sickening moment, no one says anything.

  I feel Aaron and Jack look to me.

  “This is what happens when adult beavers get shot!” I shout.

  Beavers don’t wander around by themselves away from their lodge. If this kit’s parents were still alive, they’d be protecting it.

  My chest feels as though it’s been carved out. I can barely bring myself to inspect the kit lying in the ditch.

  When I carefully pick it up, my breath returns.

  It’s alive.

  In fact, I can’t see any injuries. The kit blinks at me in a daze.

  Quickly I pull my shirt out and cradle the kit inside, next to my bare skin. It’s smaller than Phrag and Cooler, and scrawny for a beaver. As if it’s been starved.

  “Hello, Xena,” I say softly.

  Aaron looks at me quizzically.

  “Kits have sensitive eyes,” I explain, thinking he’s curious about why I covered the beaver. “The sunlight’s too bright for her.”

  “How do you know it’s female?” Jack asks.

  “I don’t. But she’s a survivor. Doesn’t she look like a warrior? Plus, I guessed that Phrag and Cooler were male, so I should change it up.”

  I peer into my shirt at the kit. She’s strangely quiet, not like my other two at home. And she doesn’t look nearly as sweet. In fact, I’d say she’s glaring at me.

  A choked groan escapes me as I recall beavers usually have more than one kit. “What happened to the rest of your family?”

  Xena starts to quake. I clutch her protectively. I have to get her home, warm and dry, or she won’t be a survivor after all.

  20

  The next day, Xena’s doing a lot better.

  When we’d arrived home, I put her in isolation in her own box in the far corner of the clubhouse. If she was sick, I didn’t want her giving anything to Phrag and Cooler. Nana had called it the “settle period”—when an animal needed to be kept warm and quiet when it first came to her.

  Now I need to introduce them, because I don’t have time to do everything twice. Between getting fresh lily roots, harvesting wild strawberries, changing their water a couple times a day, cleaning their bedding, cutting sweet potatoes, pilfering the fridge for fresh herbs, fruit, and yogurt, I’ve barely managed to show up for meals on time. My daily observations have been put on hold.

  I plunk Xena on the floor next to the pool. Phrag and Cooler are perched on the boardwalk peeling twigs, but stop immediately. The three of them sniff the air.

  The new kit takes the lead by waddling over and grabbing Cooler’s face. Cooler isn’t sure what to make of this small beaver with grabby hands. I think he’s used to being the pushy one.

  Xena stares at him, then smooths his cheeks, smells him, sucks on his ears. Cooler mutters uncertainly. Xena lets go of him and does the same to Phrag, inspecting him by running her fingers over his face. Phrag seems to enjoy the attention. Meeee, meeeee, meeeee, he says.

  I’m pleased when Xena answers. She starts telling a long story. I imagine it’s about her adventures wandering around alone looking for her parents. Cooler joins the discussion. He babbles his own tale, probably telling her how I braved the leeches and rescued them.

  Fiercely, Xena grips Phrag with her short arms. Cooler objects at first, but then allows her to hug him, too. Xena seems thankful to not be alone anymore.

  I’m glad she’s more interested in them than in me. She hasn’t really stopped glaring at me since she came, even after I fed her. That’s a good thing for rehabilitating her back to the wild.

  I watch Phrag and Xena cling to each other, mumbling to themselves. They’re bonding and they aren’t even from the same lodge. My observations today are happening right here. I pick up my logbook and write: You don’t need to be blood to be a family.

  * * *

  I’m on my paddleboard, the kits following me along the shoreline. The board is rough under my toes as I balance to pull my paddle through the water. I glide silently along the surface. The kits are silent too—the only sounds are waves gently lapping along the rocky shore and birds in the trees. The kits take turns hopping on and off my board for short rides. It’s thrilling to be out with the beavers like this, in their element. Was this how Jane Goodall felt when she was accepted by a family of wild chimps?

  We’re in the bay near the marsh when a tail slap shatters the calm. There’s another beaver somewhere deep in the marsh. Unease grips me as I recall what adult beavers do to unfamiliar kits.

  “Come on, guys—let’s get out of here!” I try to turn the kits back home, but Xena has heard the splash too. She wants to investigate and she isn’t used to listening to me like the other two. Worse, Phrag and Cooler follow her.

  “No! Come back!” I rush after the kits, paddling hard.

  There’s an old wire fence lurking just under the surface at the entrance to the marsh. The kits swim through it with ease. Chasing after them, I’m stopped short when my board gets caught. I have to shove the top of the fence down with the paddle so I can skim over top. That takes a few seconds. When I look up again, the kits are gone.

  “Phrag! Cooler!” I shout in panic. Where is that adult beaver? I can’t let it kill them!

  “Xena! Where are you guys?”

  Suddenly a little brown head pops up next to me. Cooler eyes me with a mischievous twinkle, pleased with himself. Phrag and Xena appear beside him.

  “Oh,” I breathe in relief, turning the board around. “You guys don’t know how dangerous this is. We have to stay away from those wild beavers! Let’s go home.”

  Cooler takes the lead. All three kits swim through the fence again. I try to follow, but this time my board gets even more stuck. The fin underneath is caught on the wire.

  I have to get off the board to pry at it. The water is murky
and as warm as bathwater. I’m frantic to get out of here. Where is that wild beaver?

  My feet grip the wire like a tree frog’s as I hang off it. The fence squeaks in protest at my weight. It’s not letting go of the fin. Jiggling the board, I search around for the kits. They’d all kept going home and left me.

  Just as I think this, Cooler appears, probably wondering what’s taking me so long. He swims closer and watches me try to yank the paddleboard over the fence. I see him study the situation as though trying to figure it out. Then he’s beside me, reaching for my board. He clasps the top of it and helps me pull it. When that doesn’t work, Cooler glides to the wire and starts chewing it.

  “No, Cooler. You’ll hurt your teeth on that!” I push him away.

  The determined kit sees that I’m still stuck. He swims underneath me and then surfaces behind the board. This time he pushes the board toward me.

  Between the two of us, the board finally floats free and I hop back on. Cooler takes the lead again and I follow him toward home. The other two kits were waiting for us and Cooler rounds them up on the way.

  As I paddle, I marvel how Cooler recognized that I was having a problem and came back to assist. He cared about what was happening to me! And I’ve always thought he was so grouchy toward me.

  The most amazing part was that after he saw what the problem was, Cooler came up with three separate solutions to try to solve it.

  I wish that the landowners could’ve seen him. No one would believe what Cooler just did. No one will listen when I tell them how smart beavers are.

  Somehow, I have to show them.

  A sudden tail slap restores my focus. Not far behind me now are two wild adult beavers. One is a medium size, the other large. Two sets of mean black eyes stare at me.

  “Go away!” I yell.

  They follow, drifting ominously closer, intent on the vulnerable kits in front of me.

  Just in time, we arrive at our beach. I lunge off the board, anxiously scanning behind me.