Rescue at Lake Wild

by Terry Lynn Johnson

  “Come on, guys.” I urge the kits out of the water. “We made it home.”

  That’s when I hear Mom’s car pull into the driveway. My blood freezes. She’s way early.

  The kits waddle with beaver speed across the beach. I can’t carry them all. I can’t hide them. I’m not even wearing a shirt over my bathing suit.

  Glancing at the distance to the clubhouse, I calculate roughly that there’s a greater chance of beavers growing wings than of us making it there in time.

  I pick up Xena and start herding the others toward the shed. “Come on, hurry, faster . . . faster!” I hiss at them.

  Mmmmm, mmmm, mmmm, they say.

  I hear a car door slam. “Madi? Marley?”

  I tickle Cooler’s waggling tail to encourage him, and he curses at me. We’re totally in the open, waltzing along the lawn as if we’re going to a picnic. Mom only needs to glance around the corner of the house and my whole life will be ruined.

  “I’m home!” The echo of Mom’s voice tells me she’s in the garage.

  We’re twenty feet from the clubhouse.

  I’ve been lucky until now, I realize. I’ve gotten too comfortable, not careful enough. Is this the day I get caught?

  Twelve feet.

  The kits are moving as fast as they can, huffing and complaining the whole way like children at a park wanting to be picked up.

  “Where is everyone?” Mom sounds so close that if the kits talk any louder, we’re busted.

  Eight feet.

  Footsteps crunching, getting closer. She’s coming round the corner. My heart smashes against my ribs.

  Five feet.

  I dive to the clubhouse door, open it wide, and toss Xena inside just as Mom appears. The door blocks the sight of Cooler collapsing in a heap of sulk, refusing to move any further. Phrag ambles cheerfully around his brother, his tail trailing sand.

  “Oh, there you are!” Mom says.

  My hands shaking, I pretend I’m just coming out of the clubhouse. Nudging Cooler with my toe, I shut the door behind me.

  21

  After spending the required amount of time with Mom before she left for Boston, I’m on fire with the need to get back to my plan to save all the beavers.

  When Aaron and Jack meet me at Birch Creek, we stand on the bank and watch Lid chase frogs. My gaze travels from Lid to the culvert behind him, and I wish that I knew exactly how my plan will work.

  It’s a good sign that the large metal culvert, which looks like a tunnel underneath Birch Street, isn’t clogged up with sticks anymore. That’s what made the river back up and flood the road. To keep the beavers from damming it again, I need to think like a beaver.

  I study the creek. Water ripples merrily over rocks. The sun’s hidden behind low-hanging clouds. There’s a dense weightiness in the air that feels like expectation.

  “The trickling-water sounds from the iPod in the clubhouse got the kits to make the dam,” I say, thinking out loud. “We need to stop the beavers that live here from making a dam in there,” I point to the culvert, “and put a dam where we want, like we did with the iPod.”

  I think of the way I’d pulled apart the dam downstream. Those beavers came to the sound.

  Lid pounces along the muddy bank and midge flies scatter to zoom along the surface of the creek.

  “What do you think?” I ask Aaron.

  Aaron picks up a stick and holds it in the current, stretching out to protect his shoes. The water gurgles its way around the stick. I watch Aaron inspecting the area, biting his lip with a blank expression, thinking hard.

  “We need fat poles,” he says. “To put them here and here.” He points in the current upstream of the culvert.

  “Poles like these?” Jack says. He’s above us, crouched on a ledge of dirt near the trail that the snowmobiles use in winter. A rock the size of a truck has shifted and split away from the trail, creating a long, deep crevice in the ground. Jack points into the crevice.

  Aaron and I scrabble up the embankment of loose rocks to see what he’s pointing at. The crevice is narrow and smells like freshly turned earth. Lying at the bottom on bedrock are three steel poles. They look like old highway signs.

  “They must’ve fallen down there,” Jack says.

  I kneel on the edge of the dirt and stretch my arm down, but I can’t reach the poles. And I don’t think I can wedge in next to the rock.

  Jack and I look at Aaron.

  Aaron’s face falls in dismay. “Come on! I always do it!”

  I look at the unsturdy tree clinging to the shallow dirt next to the crevice. If Jack holds on to the tree, we can form a human chain and Aaron can lower himself to retrieve the poles.

  “Do you trust me?” I ask.

  “What kind of question is that?” Aaron says. “Of course I don’t trust you. And I’m not that small!”

  But soon we’re stretched out from the tree with me in the middle and Aaron on his belly, hanging into the crevice. He clings to my hand and reaches with his other. The spindly tree, which might actually be dead if I’m being honest, bends under our combined weight.

  “What if we lowered you by your feet?” I suggest.

  “No feet!” Aaron grunts, his voice muffled by the crevice. “Just an inch more. I nearly got ’em.”

  “If this branch breaks . . .” Jack says, but doesn’t finish the thought.

  The tree lets out a threatening creak.

  Aaron’s head pops up with the sound. “Retreat!” he yells.

  I pull Aaron back, frustrated. “Wish we had a rope.”

  “Oh. Uh, could we use this?” Jack reveals that he’s wearing Lid’s leash around his middle as a belt.

  “Only if your pants don’t fall down,” I say.

  “What?” Jack grips the leash as though reconsidering.

  “What’s wrong, Jack?” Aaron crows. “Don’t want us seeing your Cookie Monster underwear?”

  Jack will never live down the underwear incident when we were nine.

  “Would you two focus!” I snatch the leash.

  This time Aaron goes back into the crevice hanging on to the handle of the leash with me on the other end. He reaches the bottom and hands the poles up to us. One has a small metal triangle attached to the pole. It’s a snowmobile sign.

  “This is perfect,” Aaron says. “It’ll cause more resistance in the water and create turbulence.”

  Jack nods as if he knows exactly what turbulence is.

  The next challenge is getting the poles stuck far enough into the riverbed so they stay upright. Standing up to his thighs in flowing river water, Aaron has given up on his shoes staying dry.

  We hammer the tops of the poles with rocks. Aaron has chosen the narrowest part of the creek to sink the line of poles across. Jack does his own pole, most of Aaron’s, then helps me with mine. I have to admit his solid build’s handy to have around sometimes.

  Once the pounding and ringing stop, we listen to the sound of the water rushing around the poles. It gurgles and gushes, hopefully sounding like water going down the drain of a bathtub.

  By the time we’re done, we’re all waterlogged rats covered in sweat and scratches from the rocks. Jack blows mud out of his nose.

  The sky clears with an optimism I don’t quite share. My wet clothes feel steamy under the sun. We squeak as we climb back onto the muddy bank.

  “Now we wait,” I say. The experiment had been a success in the clubhouse with the kits, but surveying our effort out here, I wonder why I ever thought this would work. And thinking of the kits in the clubhouse, I’m suddenly anxious about how long we’ve been gone.

  “Let’s go feed the kits,” I say.

  “My shoes are squishy,” Aaron complains, as we clomp back to the ATV.

  22

  It isn’t until we pull into the driveway that I remember it’s Friday.

  My yard is full of people standing around laughing. Some are hauling coolers out of the back of trucks, and some are on the lawn doing yoga poses. T
eenagers are so weird.

  “What’s all this?” Aaron says, looking around with concern.

  “I forgot about Marley’s party.”

  We hop off the ATV in the driveway and stow our helmets. Lid flops on a cool spot on the cement floor of the garage. Music thumps from somewhere—I can’t see the source.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Let’s go feed the kits.”

  We weave through a group of people carrying benches to the fire pit in the backyard. A girl loses her flip-flop and falls to the ground, laughing with a high-pitched squeal. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to be so loud. Everyone’s already looking at her.

  Marley’s best friends, Brenda and Pam, are sitting on the patio playing guitar. Trevor walks by and gives me a little salute. I recognize him even though it’s been almost two years since my sister had gone out with him on her first date. I don’t recognize everyone though, there are so many. And some of them look older. I wonder if Marley even knows them.

  My sister intercepts us. She’s with Cal, wearing his straw cowboy hat and cutoff jean shorts that show off her long legs.

  “What are you turdlets doing here?” She points at Aaron and Jack.

  “Nothing!” they both say in unison.

  “Relax,” Cal says, draping an arm over Marley’s shoulders. He takes a swig out of a Pepsi can. “Let the little dudes stay. What are they hurting?”

  I adjust my opinion about Cal. He’s way better than any of Marley’s old boyfriends.

  “Don’t. Talk. To anyone,” Marley warns us.

  Jack, Aaron, and I exchange a look. We turn as one and skulk off in the other direction, out of Marley’s line of sight.

  As we head toward the clubhouse, the smell of smoke catches my attention. Someone’s started a fire in the pit. There’s a pile of wood next to it, and an ax leans against the pile.

  I take another look. The ax head is green. Something about that makes me pause. Where have I seen a bright green ax before?

  Brushing my hair out of my eyes, I briefly search my memory.

  “That’s the ax!” Jack hisses. He grabs me and Aaron. His fingers squeeze my arm.

  “What ax?” Aaron asks.

  “Remember Mr. Kang’s trees? How they had paint marks? That must be the ax used to cut them down.”

  “Hmm,” Aaron says, not convinced.

  “How many axes do you think have been painted lime green?” Jack says, full of renewed enthusiasm. “This is the lead we’ve been looking for. Why didn’t I think of the green on the trees? The poacher could be right here at this party.” He gazes around suspiciously.

  “I don’t think that’s going to . . .” I start to say. But then someone next to the fire picks up the ax.

  “Maybe it’s his!” Jack steps forward.

  Just as I think that Jack could be right, I notice something much worse. I clap a hand over my mouth. All thoughts of catching a poacher vanish.

  “Oh no!” I say, and take off running.

  The boys race behind me. We arrive at the clubhouse at the same time, piling on top of each other as we brake. The door is wide open. Someone’s been in here and left the door open.

  I rush in, scanning around in a panic. “Phrag! Cooler! Are you here? Xena?”

  I drop to my knees in front of their cardboard house and peer in. No sign of them. I lift the box, shake it. Nothing inside. My blood turns to ice. I sit down hard.

  The kits are gone.

  23

  When I was seven, Marley and I went on an adventure.

  She was trying to show me a baby deer she’d heard about by the ball diamonds. Marley knew I’d want to see it, so she drove me on the ATV. She was old enough to take it out, but she wasn’t as familiar with the trails as I am now. We got lost on the way.

  Marley was afraid of going down a strange trail and getting stuck, so we left the ATV and tried walking back the way we’d come. That just got us more turned around.

  I remember her crying—that’s what scared me the most. She was my big sister and wasn’t supposed to be afraid of anything.

  “It’s okay, Marley,” I said. I wished I’d paid more attention to where we were going. I felt I’d let her down.

  She was sitting on the ground with her face buried in her hands. I reached out and patted her head like she was a spooked animal. My sister pulled me down on her lap, hugged me tight.

  She kept saying, “I’m sorry, Mads. I’m supposed to protect you, but I always screw up.”

  We sat there awhile, just holding on to each other, and somehow it made us both feel better. We stood, brushed the dirt off, and walked home as if we’d known all along where we were going. Later, Dad went and got the ATV. We never told them what happened, only that the ATV stalled so we’d walked the rest of the way.

  That feeling of being lost and scared floods through me again as I stare at the empty cardboard box. Is that how the kits feel right now? The three of them are out there alone somewhere. I hate to imagine them huddling together, lost and vulnerable.

  “No, no, no!” I say, feeling dizzy. “We’ve got to find them!”

  I shove Aaron and Jack and we tumble outside. Standing there a moment, we survey the party that’s going on as though nothing awful has happened. Jack and Aaron look just as worried as me.

  “If I was a scared beaver kit, where would I go?” Aaron asks me.

  Right. I’m the expert. Calm down and think.

  “The beach?” I suggest. “When we go there, it’s fun. They’ll remember it.”

  We dash toward the lake. A few of Marley’s friends lounge on our small beach, chatting. Gentle waves lap at the shore. No beaver-shaped torpedoes in sight. We sprint up to the girls, accidently kicking sand on their towels.

  “Hey!”

  “Have you seen any beavers around here?” Jack asks.

  They look up at us and laugh. “Beavers? Well, let me think. What did they look like?”

  Aaron starts indicating with his hands about the size of the kits, but I grab his arm and pull him away.

  “Never mind,” I say. To Aaron I whisper, “They wouldn’t laugh if they’d seen them.”

  Where else could they be? Is Xena terrified of all the people around, remembering the last time she was out in the world? I wonder if the two brothers will gain strength from each other out here like my sister and I did. Are they feeling brave because they’re together? I hope so.

  “We have to find them. Before anything bad happens.” I look out across the water. What if the beaver family came and killed them? What if they’ve fallen somewhere and got stuck or hurt and can’t get out? A terrifying thought suddenly occurs, and I spin toward the driveway.

  “Come on!” I race ahead. As we run, I shout, “They wouldn’t have gone out on the road, right?”

  Jack pales but doesn’t answer.

  Why do we live so close to the road? No one will see the little fur balls waddling along until it’s too late. And Mrs. Stinton always drives crazy.

  I should’ve been more careful. I knew this party was happening. How did I not recognize that they’d be in danger? I shouldn’t have left them alone so long. I should’ve been here protecting them.

  We leap over a pile of blankets someone’s dumped on the edge of our driveway. Aaron doesn’t quite clear them.

  I hear his soft “Oof!” behind me but don’t wait.

  Jack and I sprint down the driveway toward the gate. Which I’ve never thought to notice before, since it’s always open. Really, why even have a gate then? Can’t it be closed just this once?

  We reach the gate and pause, catching our breath. I’m suddenly terrified of what we’ll find. What if they did get hit by a car?

  All three of them.

  I can’t look out at the road. But I have to.

  24

  I inch toward hawk Lake Road and search up and down the length of it.

  No vehicles. No little brown bodies anywhere. Jack and I both sigh in relief.

  Aaron arr
ives, winded. “Wish we could track them somehow,” he wheezes.

  Jack slaps his own forehead. “Right. C’mon.”

  We follow Jack to the garage where we’d left Lid.

  “Let’s go track the beavers!” Jack says to him.

  The dog, who’d been out cold, lifts his head and gives us a look, which I easily translate.

  “Yes, right now,” I tell him.

  “We have to start at the clubhouse,” Jack explains. “He follows a scent in the direction it moves, toward where the smell is newest.”

  At least it sounds like Jack knows what he’s doing. He points to the empty cardboard box. “Find them, Lid. Where’d they go?”

  Lid sticks his nose to the ground and starts snuffling. I feel hopeful. He continues out to the lawn, and then beelines for the house. We dash after him, careful to avoid bumping into loitering teenagers.

  The side door is propped open with so many people coming and going, so we chase him inside.

  “This doesn’t feel right,” I say. “Are we sure he knows what he’s doing?”

  “Of course,” Jack says. “He’s a trained tracker.”

  We find him in the kitchen. Someone has spilled a bag of Cheezies and Lid’s busy hoovering the floor. He lifts his head briefly to acknowledge us, his black snout coated in bright orange crumbs.

  “Not helpful, Lid!” Aaron says.

  Jack looks deflated.

  I turn away, frustration making me want to scream. “Let’s go back outside. That dog was only following his stomach again. We’re wasting time!”

  A desperate fear is mounting inside me. We have to find them.

  “Let’s split up,” I say. “Aaron, you check under the back deck. Jack, try the hedges. I’ll look around the garage.”

  We break off and I run around the corner of the house. I crash into Cal.

  “Hey. Slow down. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m . . . looking for a baby beaver,” I say. I don’t have time to explain it. But Cal hardly blinks. He just nods, looking serious.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll help you find your toy. Where did you last see it?”

  “Not a toy. They were in the shed. Do you know if anyone went into the shed?”