The Second Intelligent Species: The Cyclical Earth (17 page)
Read The Second Intelligent Species: The Cyclical Earth Online
Authors: Dale Langlois
Sarah had enough. “Why don’t you just crack her on the ass. We’re all getting sick of hearing you begging her to get away. Make her. Stop letting her get away with murder.” She spoke for all of us, and no one objected.
“Mind your own business. You’ve got all you can do with Eve. Her feet are soaked.” Beth was very defensive when it came to Tara.
“At least I’m not yelling at her all the time. That’s what’s annoying.” Again cold glares were exchanged.
As if on cue Tara picked up one more piece of wood that had fallen back from the embers. This time, it was still glowing on the end she grabbed. She shrieked with pain.
“There, now she’ll learn,” Sarah said as she quickly reached for some cold water to stop the burning.
Beth was looking at the baby’s hand, as Sarah attempted to pour water over the blisters. “I’ll do it, just get away from me.” She took the water, spilling a quarter of it as she jerked the canteen away.
“Well you got what you wanted, didn’t you?” Sarah said to Tara.
I half expected Beth to push her into the fire. “Well let’s go and get some more wood Marcos,” I said. We were low, plus it was an excuse to get away from the constant bickering. The baby had second-degree burns on her thumb, which Beth tended.
We set up racks to dry shoes, clothes and wood. Steam came from all three, though care had to be taken not to scorch the clothing.
The children walked barefoot on old silage, all but Adam. Beth placed the inside out muskrat
skins on Adam’s feet to keep them warm while his shoes dried. We were learning to survive with whatever we could find.
Though no fuel could be found at the Amish home, we stocked one wagon half full of vegetables harvested from their garden. Onions and tubers would add to any meat we could find along the road. Our route took us in a rural direction. Few Amish lived on the fast lane. Their gardens proved more important than travelling. Waiting for help to come to us while food was at our disposal was the obvious choice and unanimously agree upon.
The Mennonites were easily found once we knew what to look for. Their tractors with metal wheels made angled marks in the pavement along the side of the road. We eventually tracked one to an underground tank besides the burnt foundation of a barn. It held more diesel than we could put in the large tank we carried.
Days blended into weeks, though none of us could be sure exactly what day or time it was. Days were measured between sleeping and eating. Our eating habits adapted to eating two meals a day.
We were only putting about twenty hours into what we called a day. With no sunshine, it was impossible to tell the difference. We merely survived one day to the next. Collecting wood became a large part of our daily chores. The temperature dipped lower every day.
One time when Marcos and I were collecting water and wood, we heard a splash in the swamp. It sounded like a flat stone had been thrown into the water.
“What was that?” Marcos asked. “There’s somebody over there.” He pointed in the dark.
Marcos’ voice initiated something to make a second splash out in the void.
I knew that sound could only have been made by a beaver, slapping its tail on the water to give a warning. I had heard it hundreds of times before. It surprised me because I thought that all animals bigger than a cat were dead. “Marcos, give me that torch.” We were saving the flashlights. “We’re going for a little walk. I’m going to show you something neat. We’ll set the wood down here and pick it up when we come back.”
“Who threw that rock in the water?” the boy asked.
I’m sure Marcos had never seen animals wilder than those held captive in the zoo. “It was a beaver. He slapped his tail on the water to warn the
other beavers about us.” I felt like I was the narrator of some nature show.
“There’s more than one of them?” His voice cracked. I could tell he wasn’t even sure what a beaver was.
“I hope so.” I had eaten beaver before, and we could all use some more fresh meat. I knew I could trap one if I could find where it had been living.
“Do they bite?” His ignorance of the animal made me laugh.
“Only if you’re made of poplar. You are a real boy aren’t you, Pinocchio?” I’m sure he had no idea what I was talking about. I laughed again. “No they won’t bite unless you’re made of wood. That’s what they eat. Poplar is a wood with a soft bark. Some people call it aspen.” Now I was a botanist. I was starting to laugh at myself too.
“What are they eating now that all the wood is burned?” Marcos asked a good question this time.
“That’s what we’re going to find out. Follow me and be careful not to fall into the water.” It looked deep along the edge.
I held the torch up, and to my surprise, noticed that the poplar trees out in the water weren’t burned. Their top parts were, but the lower half near the water was undamaged. Their waxy bark remained unscorched near water level.
“Ya know, Marcos, this is going to make our life a little easier. Did you know that beavers store their food underwater, so that they can eat it in the winter?” Another source of food just became evident. Beavers had lived and might continue to survive for a while.
We walked along the edge of the slow meandering riverbank until we came to an area that felt as if it was hollow beneath our feet, a pile of wood covered by earth and mud. We were standing over a beaver den in the bank of the river.
My concentration was interrupted by Marcos bouncing up and down on the unstable ground.
“Be careful, we could fall through and land in a nest of beavers,” I warned.
Marcos immediately stopped jumping on nature’s trampoline, and stood frozen in terror, as if his next move would be his last.
I laughed yet again. “’Don’t worry, it’ll hold you. Beavers are nature’s engineers. They built this lodge to hold snow that weighs more than us, but don’t jump on it anyway. I don’t want to scare them away now that we know where they live. I took off my backpack and took out copper wire I’d kept from a cellar we ransacked. The longest piece I had was only about seven feet long. I would have liked it better if it had been a bit longer.
I made a loop on one end and tied the other end to roots down at the water’s edge. Marcos held
the torch as I lowered myself to water level. It was too dark to see, so I had to feel for the entrance to the lodge. I was justifiably nervous about putting my arm down into this water. I told Marcos that beavers didn’t bite, but I’m sure one would, defending its lodge.
I found the tunnel going in, and centered the snare with a couple of sticks that were lying in the water. Now any beaver going in or out would pull the wire tight around its neck, and we’d have fresh meat tomorrow. Getting back up from setting the snare was more difficult than I expected. My age was catching up with me.
“Let’s get our wood and then tell the others what we’re going to have for breakfast tomorrow.” Anticipation sent chills up my spine. I hadn’t had these feelings since I was kid on opening night of trapping season.
We loaded all the wood we could find onto the trailer and headed back to the rest with the good news.
That night I couldn’t sleep thinking how happy everyone would be with meat that wasn’t turtle or muskrat, so I stayed up and kept the fire going. It needed to be bigger all the time as it was getting colder. We had plenty of wood. The trailer made it easier to gather large amounts of wood without constantly returning to drop off the small bundles. We only had to make one trip.
While the others slept I sat and thought about our new discovery. I’m surprised I didn’t wake the others with my growling stomach. I couldn’t wait any longer. I went to wake Marcos. He was already awake.
“Are we going now Nick?” he slept about as much as I did.
“Yea, you go get some more wire and I will get the truck ready to go.”
“Do you think that we got him?”
“I bet we did, but bring the wire and we’ll set some more snares.”
We went our separate ways. I unhooked the trailer so we could move faster, and filled up the Hyster with diesel. The fuel gauge didn’t work, so I was leaving nothing to chance.
Marcos came running up to the road trailing a tangled mess of copper wire behind him.
“Do you want to drive?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be.
“Yeah. I’ll drive if you want me to.” He was really awake now.
I helped him into the seat. “Put on your seat belt, and tighten it up. If I would have had mine on the day we went into the crater, I wouldn’t have gotten a concussion.”
I stood on the edge of the truck with one foot in the step, so I could jump off if I had to. Marcos was a good fork truck driver—foot right to the
floor all the time. I would tell him to slow down and he would, but after about thirty seconds we would be at full throttle again. Luckily the company had placed governors on the throttle, so top speed was about eight miles an hour. I would disconnect it when I was driving but left it on when Marcos drove.
Soon we were pulling up to the edge of the swamp.
“Don’t get off the blacktop, we’ll get stuck again.”
Making sure the brake was on, we abandoned the truck and hurried down to where the swamp turned into a winding river. The light of the torch made it easy to see, but finding the place where we set the trap wasn’t. We walked back and forth the same stretch of river over and over again, but couldn’t find the entrance.
“Maybe we walked by it; let’s go back and start again.” I turned to head back to the swamp, when I saw Marcos bouncing on the bank. “Hey, you’re going to fall in,” I yelled.
“Is this it Nick?” he asked.
“Could be, let’s check and see. Here hold this.” I handed him the torch. “Hold it lower to the ground.” I knelt down to look for the snare I had set. The poor lighting made it difficult to find the wire in the tangle of roots and branches beneath the water line. Feeling more than seeing, I
found the entrance to the lodge: an opening in the bank about six inches below the waterline.
I felt for the wire on the roots above the water, because that’s where I had anchored it. Finding nothing, I began looking underwater. It was possible that with all the precipitation the water had risen. My hand touched something sharp, like a piece of wire, almost cutting my palm. Carefully I reached back to the same area. I was poked again. I felt from the tip of the wire, up into the lodge. I was sure our meal was dead, lying on the floor of the den. The wire was lodged on some roots. I reached up into the entrance hole to untangle the wire, when I felt the wire go slack. A sudden jolt went from my left arm to my neck, like an electric shock. I was pulled towards the water. Before I knew it, I was submerged. The snare kinked and wrapped around my little finger. The animal’s tail paddled my body as it tried to escape. Apparently the snare had wrapped around the front leg and neck of the rodent, preventing a quick death.
Marcos attempted to rescue me and fell into the water with me. The beaver continued heading for deeper water, dragging me further away from the surface. Marcos thrashed, but could not swim. I had to act fast to save us both. I pulled hard on the copper wire, which only brought the toothy critter closer to my face. I pulled as hard as I could. My lungs burned for air. Another strong
tug and I broke free. As my head broke the surface I swallowed air and water at the same time. I immediately looked for Marcos. He struggled to hold roots along the river’s bank. The smell of castor drifted heavy on the water as I swam to the edge. I struggled to climb the muddy embankment. With Marcos’ assistance, and the never-ending will to live, I did.
In the turmoil of falling into the water, the pain that I should have sensed was absent. My little finger had been amputated from the small knuckle down; blood ran down my wrist. The copper wire wasn’t strong enough to hold an adult beaver, but it was strong enough to tear off my finger.
Breakfast had gotten away and it took my little pinky with it; but now we knew where it lived.
