Meph, the Pet Skunk (American Woodland Tales) Read online

  Meph hunted near her all night and returned to his log at dawn. He had not won her. He awoke around noon, crossed the sycamore log, and waited once more by her den. She did not come out until late afternoon. This time as she led him to the swamp hollies, she did not leap upon him or right him but she kept him at a distance. As she grew accustomed to him, he seemed less strange to her, and she tolerated his digging in her rotted logs for the cold white grub of the leaf chafers. At dawn she snarled at him at her den and would let him follow her no farther.

  Sycamore jumped off the school bus that evening and waved good night to his friends. He ran to his room and changed to his work clothes. He stood before his window looking at the pond. It was thawing slowly, the ice pulling back from the edges as it melted. He took great pride in the pond and with eagerness watched the winter pass. As soon as the frost went out of the ground, Mr. Crocket would fertilize and stock the pond with fish. They would put wild mallard eggs under the hens, and when they hatched, ducks would swim on the water.

  He stopped dressing a moment and looked closely. A black figure marched across the far meadow. Meph! Meph had come out of his winter den and was roving the land again. Sycamore was thrilled to see his woodland friend; for during the cold spell he had believed that Meph had wandered off. He had not even made tracks on the snow. The milk he had left for him had frozen without being touched. Even the mice that he caught in traps were left uneaten. He dashed down the stairs, ran through the kitchen and leaped off the porch. As he came around the house, he stopped to locate his friend again. He saw him on the dam stopping now and then as he clawed the earth. Sycamore sprinted down the hill and out along the dam. He stopped ten feet short of the swishing, rising plume. Meph turned and held up his tail as the thumping footsteps of the running boy shook the dam.

  “Meph, Meph!” Sycamore Will called. Meph shifted his small ears and gazed up over the round stub of his nose. He saw the great lanky figure with the swinging arms and white face. He looked long, then recalled the scent and the smell of the boy. He came toward him, waddling from side to side as he moved. Sycamore knelt down and waited for his friend to come to him. After all, it had been some time since they had met, and Sycamore wanted to be sure this was Meph. Meph sniffed his knees, his extended hand, lowered his tail and permitted Sycamore to lift him gently into his arms. Meph bit his fingers as in the past, but his bite had strengthened during the winter and Sycamore took his hand away. He hugged him close, then put him down. Meph trotted behind him as they rounded the pond. The dam seemed to be holding well. He went up the hill to the barn. Meph followed him and waited by the door for his saucer of milk. After emptying the saucer he walked over to the boy who was milking a cow. The cow snorted and bellowed and lunged hard against her stanchion. Sycamore was relieved to see Meph wander out into the twilight. He crossed the barnyard, squeezed under the fence, and marched down the embankment. He bridged the stream on the fallen log, then snarled and raised his tail, for the scent of the white-footed one led down the trail toward the white oak. He galloped toward the den, swinging his plume angrily.

  The white-footed one was waiting by the twisted roots, but he was not idle. He would wander to a pocket of wet leaves, now partially exposed in the melting snow, dig a few minutes, then come back to the den. Meph stood back until the white-footed one returned to his diggings and stood guard before the den entrance. The white-footed one returned, smelled Meph, and charged him in rage. His matted, mangy fur stood up in clumps, and he snarled and reared as his enemy moved in. Meph clutched him swiftly under the neck and shook him until he gasped. The white-footed one sprawled in the snow, and a spot of blood colored the gray slush. He jumped up, however, and came in for another attack. Once again Meph clutched him and threw him aside.

  Neither male heard the soft pad of her feet in the tunnel as she emerged. For a moment she stood and watched the contestants, then she, too, charged. It was Meph that she struck with a snarl, for the sweet odor of milk was about him, and the acrid scent of Sycamore’s hands. He was not one of them. Meph turned away when the female entered the fight and sped toward the sycamore log.

  He was, however fighting for a mate. At the log he turned once more and lunged at the white-footed one. Inspired by the support of the female of the white oak, the white-footed one sank his teeth into Meph’s back and tore open the warm skin. Meph turned away again and crossed to his own side of the stream. There he stood at the far end of the log, stamping his feet and threatening the two. He pounded and stamped in rage.

  The white-footed one turned toward the female. Meph snarled and charged back across the log. He galloped at top speed and hit the white-footed one without slackening his pace. Down went his enemy. Now there was no doubt as to the outcome. Meph bit, slashed, and tore. The white-footed one never overcame his fright at the sudden attack. Terror mounted within him at the fury of Meph’s onslaught, and he retreated as fast as his tired body permitted him. He could not muster enough strength to defend himself. He ran through the woods and out across the field.

  Meph watched him go, then turned back to the white oak den and his mate. She accepted the victor.

  With the coming of spring, Sycamore Will expected miracles to take place on the farm. The winter wheat, green in the disappearing snow, was a little taller and a little denser, but the strange grasses he had sown didn’t look much different from the old ones. However, when the spring rains pummeled the earth, there was a change. The water seeped into the earth or ran softly off the hill in the diversion ditch. There was no washing. The topsoil did not slide down the hill to the creek. There would be no need to replant fields this year.

  Sycamore stayed after school one afternoon to hear a talk by a man from the Conservation Service. The man talked about new grasses and pasture management and surprised Sycamore by mentioning his farm as a place where the new pastures could be seen. Sycamore felt proud of his new land and stayed after the talk to speak to the man and ask questions about the soil and its production.

  When he left the school building it was late, the school bus had gone. Supper was probably over at the farm. It was two miles home. He shoved his hand into the pockets of his coat and started up the road. He wanted to get home quickly and tell his parents that the conservation man had singled out their farm. He walked swiftly.

  He had hardly passed the little Brethren Church when a car pulled up beside him and he heard Sam Toy’s voice.

  “Hey, Syc. Want a ride?”

  “Sure. You going by my house?”

  “Hop in I’ll take you.” The door swung open and Sycamore got in the back seat. There were two more boys in the car, dressed in expensive tweeds and pleated trousers. Great watch chains hung across their vests and their ties were knotty and gaudy. Sycamore looked at them with suspicion as Sam introduced him.

  “This is my friend, Sycamore Will; Nat Fields and Ben Trenk. Sycamore’s the guy I’ve been telling you about. He’s got the hottest hand in the country. He could lift a hundred bucks under your nose and you’d never know he did it. Why he took fifty not long ago and no one knows about it yet.”

  Sycamore looked from one face to the other. The boys looked pleased with Sam’s story. In the dusk they couldn’t see the hot flush of shame pass over his face. Nor did they sense his shock at Sam’s twisted tale.

  “Now, didja?” said Nat.

  “Well, yes, sorta,” stammered Sycamore.

  “What do you mean, sorta. Did you or didn’t you?”

  “He’s modest,” spoke Sam. “I saw the dough myself.”

  The car drove out to the edge of Boiling Springs and turned left, not right.

  “Looks like we’re getting a lucky break tonight, fellows,” said Sam, “having the slickest hand in town to help us with the Salem job.”

  “What are you talking about, Sam?” Sycamore asked. He looked at his friend and wondered if he really knew him at all. His hair was combed, he wore a tie, and in the dim light Sycamore could see that he wore a suit, which was som
ething uncommon for Sam.

  “Tell him,” said Sam.

  They drove up to and parked by a dark house. Ben Trenk lit a cigarette and leaned toward Sycamore.

  “Your friend, Sam here, wants to break into the gang. We might take you in, too. Nat and I’ll wait out here and keep the car warm. You can go in with Sam. He knows what to do.”

  Sycamore reached for the door.

  “Are you crazy? Let me out of here.”

  “You wouldn’t want the D.A. to know you lifted fifty bucks would you?” Nat said as he held the door closed. “Now just be reasonable. This is a cinch. The people haven’t been home for four days. You did it once. The second time is easier.”

  “You’ve got me all wrong,” said Sycamore. “I settled that affair long ago. I’m getting out.”

  “You wouldn’t want the school to know about it, would you?”

  “Gee, what is this, Sam?” Sycamore turned to his friend, who had lost a little of his gangland veneer and looked downright frightened.

  “Come on. It’ll only take a minute, and then I’m in the gang,” he whined.

  “You’re crazy, Sam.” Sycamore grabbed the door handle and shoved his way out. The two boys followed him. Ben Trenk grabbed him and pinned his arms behind his back.

  “Look, pinky,” Nat’s face was several inches from his own. “You’re in on this now. You can’t pull out. You’re not going to walk out of here knowing all you know. Go in there with Sam.” With that he slapped Sycamore.

  Sycamore was angry now. He had never been so angry in all his life. He wrenched free, took a long swing at the face before him, contacted, and pulled away. Nat staggered back against the car. He didn’t run in for a fight, for he had felt the rocky hardness of Sycamore’s fist. Nor did Ben Trenk make any move for he knew the strength of Sycamore’s farm-toughened arms. He backed away.

  “I’m leaving,” said Sycamore. “Don’t worry. I don’t squeal.”

  “You’ll be sorry for this,” Nat said, but his threat lacked the polished toughness of his former speech. His jaw ached. He climbed into the car as Sycamore strode off.

  Dinner was over and Seed was in the barn milking when Sycamore Will turned the bend in the road and saw the stone house. He had walked off his anger between Boiling Springs and the farm, and had just about forgotten the entire affair by the time he reached home. He hurried into the house, hopped over his chair, and sat down to his waiting meal.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Ma,” he smiled, “but I talked to the conservation man about pastures and fish ponds and missed the bus. I had to walk.”

  Molly looked at Sycamore, felt he wanted to say something more, but didn’t press him when he became silent. She turned to her work thinking that in the past year Sycamore had slipped from a little boy with big ideas to a young man with real ones. She was ever so grateful and happy with the farm experiment. It had given Sycamore an interest in farming. He worked harder than ever now, but it was no longer fruitless drudgery. He no longer looked for wild spectacular outlets for his energies and intelligence. He no longer sought false excitement. The pond, the fields, his new knowledge of the land and its gifts were filling that need. It was an exciting adventure for him. She hoped that the experiment might prove successful, and she too watched spring come with hope and belief. The new farming must work. It was their last chance to bring up a boy as Molly felt one should be. Seed was her worry now. She knew he did not like the new farming. He would have to see it pay off in better crops and more money.

  The next morning a car drove up to the house and Seed spoke long with the driver and his companion. It was Saturday and Sycamore was harrowing a strip, preparing it for the corn kernels. He looked down at the road each time he came around and wondered to whom his father was talking. On the next trip he saw that the car was gone, and his father was walking out toward the field with his swift disturbed walk. Sycamore slowed the tractor to a stop and waited. His father came on, stepping more quickly as he drew nearer.

  “Get down from there, Sycamore!” he shouted. “I want to talk to you.” The boy felt a little frightened as he turned off the motor and jumped down to the soft turned furrows. He could not imagine what was troubling his father. He waited.

  “Where were you last night?” Seed asked heatedly.

  “I stayed after school to hear the Soil Conservation Service man.”

  “You did, did you? Don’t lie to me, boy.”

  “But I did.”

  “Well, then, how come three boys that are being held for housebreaking in town, said that you were with them. How come?” Sycamore stood stone still, frozen with disbelief.

  “Sycamore is that true?”

  “I was with them. But I didn’t do anything. I left.” Seed wouldn’t listen. He was furious, disappointed, and terrified that his son was involved with the law.

  “Come to the house,” he shouted, and turned on his heel to go down the hill. “I won’t put up with lying. Not even my own son can do that.”

  Sycamore followed slowly. He walked into the kitchen and sank into the chair. He didn’t listen to his father as he told Molly angrily what the sheriff had said. It really didn’t matter since it was all mixed up anyway. Then he heard:

  “I’m breaking the contract. It’s all these new-fangled ideas that have gotten into the boy. This kind of farming ain’t normal. We’re leaving. It’s all crazy, no wonder a boy robs and steals. Everything’s turned around. You can’t plow this way, you gotta plow that way. Old-time farming ain’t good enough. But there wasn’t any stealing then. And now my own son’s a thief. He wasn’t like that before Mr. Crocket came. I had him under my thumb. I was planting good sound things in his head; not crazy ones.”

  Sycamore looked at his mother. She shook her head sadly and came over to him.

  “Sycamore, what happened? Pa says the sheriff is coming back to talk to you. You had better tell him just what happened.”

  “Ma, it’s a long story; but I walked out on them, and it seems they’re mad. Gee, they probably thought I squealed on them. Gee. What did they do anyway?”

  Seed looked at the boy and his mother, then reached for the telephone and called long distance.

  “Seed, what are you doing?” Molly asked.

  “I’m calling Mr. Crocket and canceling the contract. That’s what I’m doing.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Crocket drove up to the farm immediately. The last thing he had said to Seed was, I don’t believe Sycamore was in on it. I’m coming up. Seed was thankful Mr. Crocket believed in the boy. He wanted to, he really wanted to, but he wasn’t going to defend his son if he was wrong. A wrong must be punished. Furthermore, he suddenly had a reason for not liking all the new things that were happening on the farm. He could say it was turning Sycamore bad. It was a good reason.

  The next two hours Seed brooded in silence. Mr. and Mrs. Crocket walked in just after the sheriff arrived. They remained silent while he questioned Sycamore. Sycamore told the story just as it had happened. As he talked he kept looking at his father who was constantly interrupting to put the blame on the new-fangled ideas. Sycamore was shocked that his father would not believe him. It hurt him deeply. He didn’t seem like a father at all.

  Then the sheriff looked the boy in the eye and said:

  “What about the fifty dollars you stole last summer? The boys mentioned that.”

  “Oh, no!” the boy cried. “Oh, no.”

  Seed jumped to his feet, and clutched Sycamore by the shoulders.

  “Did you, Sycamore. Did you?”

  “Yes.” He looked at his mother with burning shame, begging for help. Seed could hardly speak.

  “It’s all right, sheriff,” Molly said slowly, “he borrowed it from me. It had nothing to do with the case.”

  “Stole it from his own mother?” Seed shouted. “Why didn’t I hear about this. Why? Afraid I’d punish the boy? Well, I will. The law can take him and do what they need to. I’m through.” He walked away. Mrs. Crocket laid a hand on him and s
aid softly:

  “Oh, Mr. Lites. Listen to your boy. He’s done nothing wrong.” Sycamore rose and went to his father. Now he wanted to hurt him, for he had needed his father’s faith and had not found it.

  “I took mother’s egg money last summer before the farm was sold or the strips put in or the pond dug; and I’ll tell you why. Because I was going to run away, run away from you and all the hard work and complaining. That’s all I ever heard since I can remember, complaining about this and about that. Did you think I wanted to be a farmer and live like that? No, I was going to run away; far, far away, and never come back, because you never let me play or have any fun at all. Then Mr. Crocket came and told me new things, and farming was fun and interesting. But you wouldn’t let me alone. You kept complaining. All the time something was wrong.”

  The sheriff interrupted. “I don’t want to hear any family argument. I want facts on this case.”

  And Mrs. Crocket spoke: “But here are your facts, sheriff.” Sycamore didn’t look at the sheriff as he went on.

  “And, Pa, I was at the conservation meeting. I’ll call the man right now and he’ll tell you. The boys picked me up to take me home, and when I heard what they had in mind, I jumped out of the car and socked one of them good.