Ereth's Birthday

  Dedication

  For Elise, Beth, and Ruth

  Contents

  DEDICATION

  MAP: Dimwood Forest

  CHAPTER 1 A Special Day

  CHAPTER 2 Ereth Makes a Decision

  CHAPTER 3 Marty the Fisher

  CHAPTER 4 In Pursuit of Salt

  CHAPTER 5 The Cabin

  CHAPTER 6 Ereth’s Revenge

  CHAPTER 7 Ereth Makes a Promise

  CHAPTER 8 Following and Moving On

  CHAPTER 9 Ereth Speaks

  CHAPTER 10 Ereth and the Kits

  CHAPTER 11 Marty the Fisher

  CHAPTER 12 The Other Den

  CHAPTER 13 Marty the Fisher

  CHAPTER 14 The Kits

  CHAPTER 15 Chores

  CHAPTER 16 Hunting

  CHAPTER 17 Traps

  CHAPTER 18 Ereth Has Some Other Thoughts

  CHAPTER 19 In Search of Food

  CHAPTER 20 Bounder

  CHAPTER 21 Discoveries

  CHAPTER 22 The Return of Bounder

  CHAPTER 23 Ereth Says Goodbye

  CHAPTER 24 Ereth and the Salt

  CHAPTER 25 What Happened at the Cabin

  CHAPTER 26 Marty the Fisher

  CHAPTER 27 Ereth’s Birthday

  EXCERPT FROM POPPY’S RETURN CHAPTER 1 Poppy and Rye Visit Ereth

  CHAPTER 2 Ragweed Junior

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND ILLUSTRATOR

  BOOKS BY AVI

  PRAISE

  CREDITS

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  Map: Dimwood Forest

  CHAPTER 1

  A Special Day

  IN DIMWOOD FOREST, in the dark, smelly log where the old porcupine Erethizon Dorsatum lived, Ereth—as he preferred to call himself—woke slowly.

  Not the sweetest smelling of creatures, Ereth had a flat face with a blunt, black nose and fierce, grizzled whiskers. As he stirred, he rattled his sharp if untidy quills, flexed his claws, yawned, frowned, and grumbled, “Musty moose marmalade,” only to suddenly remember what day it was and smile. Today was his birthday.

  Ereth had given very little thought to what he would do about the day. As far as he was concerned, his birthday meant others would be doing something for him. And the one he was quite certain would be doing all the providing was his best friend, Poppy.

  Poppy, a deer mouse, lived barely an acorn toss from Ereth’s log in a gray, lifeless tree—a snag with a hole on one side. She resided there with her husband, Rye, and their eleven children.

  Ereth, in a very private sort of way, loved Poppy. He had never told anyone about this love, not even her. Enough for him to live near her. But since the porcupine was certain that Poppy thought of him as her best friend, he assumed she would be making a great fuss over his birthday. A party, certainly. Lavish gifts, of course. Best of all, he would be the center of attention.

  So it was that when Ereth waddled out of his log that morning he was surprised not to find Poppy waiting for him. All he saw were her eleven children playing about the base of the snag, squeaking and squealing uproariously.

  “Why can’t young folks ever be still?” A deeply disappointed Ereth complained to himself. “Potted pockets of grizzly grunions, it would save so much trouble if children were born . . . old.”

  Agitated, he approached the young mice. “Where’s your mother?” he barked. “Where’s your wilted wet flower of a father?”

  “They . . . went . . . looking for . . . something,” one of them said.

  Though Ereth’s heart sank, he made a show of indifference by lifting his nose scornfully and moving away from the young mice.

  Snowberry, one of the youngsters, glanced anxiously around at the others, then cried out, “Good morning, Uncle Ereth!”

  This greeting was followed by the ten other young mice singing out in a ragged, squeaky chorus, “Good morning, Uncle Ereth!”

  Ereth turned and glowered at the youngsters. “What the tiddlywink toes do you want?” he snapped.

  “Aren’t you going to stay and play with us, Uncle Ereth?” Snowberry called.

  “No!”

  “Why?”

  “I’m . . . busy.”

  “You don’t look busy.”

  “I’m trying to find some peace and quiet,” Ereth snapped. “With all the noise you make, buzzard breath, what else do you think I’d be doing?”

  One of the mice—her name was Columbine—slapped a paw over her mouth in order to keep from laughing out loud.

  Ereth glared at her. “What are you laughing at?”

  “You,” Columbine sputtered. “You always say such funny things!”

  “Listen here, you smidgen of slipper slobber,” Ereth fumed. “Don’t tell me I talk funny. Why don’t you stuff your tiny tail into your puny gullet and gag yourself before I flip you into some skunk-cabbage sauce and turn you into a pother of butterfly plunk?”

  Instead of frightening the young mice, Ereth’s outburst caused them to howl with glee. Sassafras laughed so hard he fell down and had to hold his stomach. “Uncle Ereth,” he cried, “you are so hilarious! Please say something else!”

  “Belching beavers!” Ereth screamed. “I am not hilarious! You’re just a snarl of runty seed suckers with no respect for anyone older than you. How about a little consideration? As far as I’m concerned you mice have as much smarts as you could find in a baby bee’s belly button.”

  “But you are funny, Uncle Ereth,” cried another of the young mice, whose name was Walnut. “Nobody else talks like you do. We love it when you swear and get angry at us.”

  “I am not angry!” Ereth raged. “If I were angry, I’d turn you all into pink pickled pasta so fast it would make lightning look like a slow slug crawling up a slick hill. So listen up, you tub of tinsel twist.”

  This was too much for the young mice. They laughed and squeaked till their sides ached.

  “Uncle Ereth,” said Sassafras between giggles, “please—please—say something funny again. You are the funniest animal in the whole forest!”

  Staring wrathfully at the young mice, Ereth considered uttering something unbelievably disgusting—dangling doggerels—thought better of it, and wheeled about, heading north as fast as he could.

  “Uncle Ereth!” the mice shouted after him. “Please stay and say something else funny. Please don’t go!”

  But Ereth refused to stop.

  Sassafras watched the porcupine plunge into the forest, then turned to the others. “But what are we going to tell Mom and Dad?” he cried. “They told us to make sure he didn’t go anywhere.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Columbine assured her brother. “Uncle Ereth always comes back.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Ereth Makes a Decision

  “KIDS,” ERETH MUTTERED as he hurried away. “They think they’re so wonderful. Truth is, they do nothing but make their elders work hard, eat their food, ask for things, break them, then proclaim all adults stupid! And what do kids give in return? Nothing!

  “All that baby-sitting I do . . . all that listening to their endlessly boring stories, dumb jokes, what they learned today . . . hearing Poppy and Rye talk about this one’s problems, that one’s doings . . . attending their parties . . . finding presents for them . . .

  “Well, here it is, my birthday. At least I only have one a year. But do those kids notice? No! Not so much as a gill of grasshopper gas. Do they care what I feel, think, am? Not one pinch of pith pills! Right! The whole world would be better off without kids. So all I say is, keep kids to the rear, blow wind, and turn on the fan!”

  With such thoughts and words churning in his mind, Ereth rushed on. Once, twice, he passed a rabbit, a squirrel, a vole, but when they saw the mood the porcupine was in they retreated quickly, not willi
ng even to call a greeting. After all, the creatures of Dimwood Forest knew Erethizon Dorsatum quite well. Very few had any desire to interfere with him when he was in one of his bad moods—which was clearly the case that morning.

  The old porcupine pressed on, his mind taken up by a careful composition of the things he hated, the insults he had endured, the slights he had suffered. The list was very long. The more he recalled, the grumpier he became, and the faster he hurried on.

  It was an hour before Ereth allowed himself to pause. All his emotion and running had quite worn him out and made him ravenous. Spying a young pine tree, he scrambled over to it and began to peel away the outer bark, then chew on the green layer underneath.

  “Good, good,” he babbled as he gobbled. “This is more like it.”

  Suddenly he lifted his nose, sniffed, and frowned. “Squirrel-splat soup! The air has changed.”

  It was true—the air was different. It had become crisp and had a deep, tangy smell. And now that Ereth thought about it, the days had been growing shorter, the nights longer. It was only a question of when the first snow would arrive.

  “Seasons,” Ereth thought to himself. “Boiled bat butter! Just when you get used to one way, everything changes. Why can’t things ever stay the way they are? Phooey and fried salamander spit with a side order of rat ribbon. I hate change!”

  More than ever, Ereth was convinced that he needed something to mark the day. But what? It had to be something special. Something just for him. Then, in a flash, he knew exactly what would please him most. Salt.

  Just to think about salt turned Ereth’s longing into deep desire and dreamy drools. For Ereth, salt was the most delicious food in the whole world. He could shut his eyes and almost taste it. Oh, if only he had a chunk! A piece! Even a lick of salt would salvage the day. No, there was nothing he would not do for the smallest bit of it.

  The old porcupine sighed. Since no one else was going to pay attention to him, he owed it to himself to find some birthday treat, and salt was the perfect thing. But where was he going to find any?

  Though Ereth, with his great knowledge of Dimwood Forest, knew exactly where he was, finding salt was quite another matter. He considered New Farm, a place where some humans kept a whole block of salt in the middle of a lawn. Once, when the block had shattered and fallen to the ground, Ereth had gorged himself for days. Though truly fabulous, that salt was long gone. Moreover, when the humans replaced the block they put it at a height convenient for deer—not porcupines.

  “Deer dainties!” Ereth snarled with contempt. “Why couldn’t they have put the salt out for me?”

  So the question remained, Where could Ereth find salt?

  Then Ereth remembered: on the far northern side of Dimwood Forest was a lake. Long Lake, the animals called it. On its shore humans had built a log cabin. Rather crudely constructed, it did not even sit on the earth, but on a platform a few feet off the ground. The cabin was used rarely, only when humans wanted to hunt or trap animals. Every year brought frightening stories of deer, fox, and rabbits, among others, being killed, hurt, or maimed by these humans. Hardly a wonder that the cabin—though more often than not deserted—was a place the animals of Dimwood Forest avoided. Just thinking about it made Ereth shudder. And yet . . .

  As Ereth also knew, these humans often left traces of salt on the things they used. Sometimes it was nothing more than a smear of sweat on the handle of a tool, a canoe paddle, or an odd bit of clothing like a hatband. These objects were often stored in that space beneath the cabin.

  Scanty though these tastings were, they were tempting enough for Ereth to venture to the log cabin now and again to satisfy his salt cravings. Once he had been rewarded by finding an almost full bag of salty potato chips. That was a day to remember.

  Hardly a wonder then, that just the possibility of finding even a lick of salt stirred Ereth.

  He looked around. Overhead loomed the great trees that kept the ground dim and gave the forest its name. Such sky as he could see was gray, while the sun itself seemed to have turned dull. White mist curled up from the earth’s murky nooks and crannies.

  “It’s almost winter,” Ereth told himself. “This may be my last chance to get salt for a while. Besides,” he reminded himself yet again, “it’s my birthday. I deserve something special.”

  Even so, the porcupine hesitated, all too aware of the risks involved. Fooling around with humans, especially if they were hunters or trappers, was risky.

  “Bug bubble gum,” he swore. “What do I care if there are humans at the cabin? Nothing scares me.”

  With that thought Ereth continued making his way in a northerly direction toward Long Lake, the cabin, and the salt.

  CHAPTER 3

  Marty the Fisher

  AS ERETH RUSHED ON he passed beneath a particularly large oak tree. So quickly did he move by it, he had no notion that two dark eyes were looking down at him. The eyes belonged to Marty the Fisher.

  About three feet in length, and more than a foot tall, Marty the Fisher had short, brown fur and small, round eyes almost blank of emotion. His legs were stubby but powerful. With his sharp claws he could climb trees and leap about branches as nimbly as a squirrel. On the ground he was just as agile.

  The only thing Marty feared was humans. With reason. Human hunters, attracted by the fisher’s glossy brown fur, had all but exterminated his family. Marty was the only one left, a fact that filled him with enormous rage. Even so, he kept to a stern, self-imposed rule: never, ever tangle with humans. They were far too dangerous.

  Though he killed birds—even ate their eggs—what Marty liked to hunt were other four-legged creatures, like mice, rats, rabbits, and squirrels.

  Marty chose his victims with care, stalking them silently and patiently, wanting to be certain he could overwhelm them with the savagery of a single attack.

  Once he chose his prey, Marty pursued it for however long it took to bring the creature down. It could be hours. It could be days. Or weeks. The most patient of hunters, Marty loved nothing more than to devise clever strategies to fool his victims, luring them into places where he could surprise them and they would be defenseless. Those whom he assaulted barely had time to know what hit them.

  To further insure his success Marty traveled alone, keeping to trees, rocks, and leaves, where his dark fur blended in. Such tactics made him almost invisible. Indeed, Marty was rarely seen—until it was too late.

  Though he never bragged about it, never gloated, rarely even smiled—in fact, had almost nothing to do with any other creature—Marty’s solitary tactics almost always worked.

  Hardly a wonder that Marty gained the reputation for being the most patient hunter in all of Dimwood Forest. Indeed, he rather liked to consider himself Death on four paws.

  And of all the forest and woodland animals Marty hunted, it was porcupines he enjoyed hunting the most. It was not that porcupines had injured Marty in any way. They did not insult him. They did not compete for food or space. No, it was their vanity that infuriated Marty the Fisher. Porcupines believed that no one could interfere with their lives, that they could do whatever they wished. How dare any creature think itself immune from Marty’s anger?

  What’s more, Marty had found a way to successfully attack porcupines. By careful observation, he had discovered that porcupines had no quills on their bellies. The belly was the porcupine’s most vulnerable spot. If Marty picked his moment with care, moved with complete surprise, a porcupine could be successfully attacked from below.

  Thus it was that whenever Marty came upon a porcupine, he liked nothing better than to hunt it down and kill it.

  Hardly a wonder that when Marty the Fisher looked down from his perch in the old oak tree and saw old Ereth lumbering along beneath him, he became very excited.

  “Ahhh,” he whispered to himself. “It’s Ereth! If ever there was a self-centered porcupine, he’s the worst. Look at the way he’s waddling along! Not a worry in the world. Acting as if he could liv
e forever. Well, I’ll teach him a thing or two!”

  From that moment, Marty the Fisher began to stalk Ereth.

  CHAPTER 4

  In Pursuit of Salt

  THE DAY GREW COLDER. Not that Ereth cared. He rushed on, completely absorbed in the anticipated pleasures of salt. At times, his desire was so great he began to salivate, producing great drools of spit, which he sucked up noisily.

  So focused were his thoughts on salt that he failed to notice when it began to snow. Coming with a breathless, hurried hush, the snow’s silence was intense, swallowing every sound like a sponge absorbing water. Within moments, the entire forest became utterly still.

  The snow was an inch deep before Ereth even realized it was there. Suddenly he could not see his own paws. Surprised, he gazed up. For just a moment Ereth imagined that it wasn’t snow falling, but salt, and his heart leaped with joy. Then a particularly large flake of snow landed on his nose and made him sneeze. That brought him to his senses.

  “Stupid snow,” he complained. “You would think it would have the decency to wait until I got to where I was going before it started.”

  Though Ereth knew the snow would make traveling harder, not for a moment did he consider returning home. “What do I care?” he told himself. “It’s my birthday. Who needs noisy mice? The salt will taste even better when I get there.”

  With an angry shake of his head—as if that could get rid of the snow—Ereth pushed on.

  Leaping silently from tree branch to tree branch, Marty the Fisher followed.

  The snow tumbled from the sky like confetti from a barrel. It sleeved tree branches in white. It hid rocks and stumps. It covered the land until its surface became round and soft, melding into one continuous undulating form. It was as if an enormous eraser were rubbing out the world, leaving nothing but one vast sheet of blank, white paper. Only Ereth, like a solitary, dark dot, moved across it.

  Becoming weary, Ereth paused and looked back over his shoulder at the trail he was making. To his surprise it did not extend very far. Like a ghost, he left no tracks. The thought startled him. Then he realized it was only that the snow had covered his paw prints.