“I’m just . . .” Ereth looked around again to see if anyone else was listening. When he saw no one he said, “I’m just trying to help.”
“We don’t need your help!” Tumble bayed.
Ereth sighed. “Someone had to tell you about your mother.”
“Right. But you just barged in and blurted it out like the stupid animal you are. I mean, it was our mother, not yours!”
Cringing, Ereth struggled to find a reply. “But,” he finally got out, “you needed to know about the traps, didn’t you?”
“I . . . suppose,” Tumble conceded through renewed sobs. “But now that Flip—not you—figured out a way to find them, you’re not necessary.”
“What . . . what about food?” Ereth asked.
“We don’t like vegetables!” Tumble cried. “We like meat! But you don’t hunt. So you’re as useless as . . . as parboiled pumpkin puke!”
Shocked, Ereth’s mouth opened wide but no words came out. The next moment he sputtered, “That’s it. I give up. Do what you want. Drop dead for all I care!” With that, he pushed past Tumble and began to stumble through the snow toward Dimwood Forest.
Tumble did not look around, but continued to stare down at his feet and the exposed trap just a few inches away. Only when he was certain that Ereth had gone by did he lift his head and gaze after the retreating porcupine.
“Goodbye,” Tumble whispered. The tears began to flow again.
“Salamander-sap salad!” Ereth cried as he breasted through the snow in the direction of the forest. Deeply upset, he was breathing heavily, snorting wrath with every trembling step he took. “Try and help idiots and it gets idiotic,” he reminded himself. “Kill yourself for kids, and they’ll kill you first. Ungrateful, spoiled brats! Phooey on all children with a squashed boll weevil on top. Let ’em do what they want. They aren’t my responsibility.”
He paused and looked around to see where he was going. “I’ll go back into the forest the way I came, get myself some decent food, then head right for that log cabin. Gobble up some salt. I mean, why should I care about a bunch of bungling, unappreciative babies . . .” Ereth, swearing all the while, pushed steadily across the field.
From his lookout on the aspen tree branch, Marty the Fisher spied Ereth moving toward the forest. “At last!” he cried, barely able to suppress his excitement. “I knew I was right to wait. And he’s coming in my direction. Well, Ereth, you’re in for one big Marty the Fisher surprise.”
With that, the fisher checked to make sure he was certain of the exact spot where Ereth would enter the forest. Then he scrambled down from his tree and raced for a hiding place. “Now I’ve got him!” he exulted.
CHAPTER 18
Ereth Has Some Other Thoughts
ERETH WAS HALFWAY across the field on his way to the forest when he suddenly came to a stop. “Bouncing balls of beeswax!” he muttered with horror. “The traps! I’m so furious I’ve forgotten all about them. I’m acting blind and brainless. Any moment now I could be stepping right into one of those things. If I do I’ll maim myself. Kill myself!”
Anxiously, he swung about and took a step back along the trail he’d made through the snow. He had been, he now realized, lucky to come as far as he had without harm. It would be best to return. By walking in the same steps he had just made, he could get safely back.
But no sooner did he take one step back than he spied Tumble. The young fox, head low, was walking slowly toward the den. Just to see him filled Ereth with rage.
“Monkey marbles!” he shouted out loud. “No way I’m going back there.” With that he spun about and faced the trees, only to have his nerves fail him again. “But if I’m caught in a trap . . .
“I know: I’ll make a snowball, just the way those idiot kits did. If I have to, I’ll push it all the way home.”
Ereth set about to shape a ball, only to quickly realize his legs were too short for the job.
“Great galloping guppy gunk!” he cried with a rage that brought tears to his eyes. “I don’t know which way to go!” Trembling, Ereth stood in the middle of the field facing the forest. More than anything else, he wanted to lose himself in the trees, then find a way back to his own lovely log. How he yearned to return to his gloomy, stinky home, to wallow in his own muck, to have a soothing talk with Poppy. Oh, to be anywhere but where he was!
And yet, he could not make himself go forward. He was too afraid. Better to go back to the safety of the den. No! He didn’t want to do that either. The kits hated him. Didn’t want him. He turned about. Even as he stood there, a breeze swept across the field, carrying snow. To his horror, the tracks he had just made began to disappear. If he didn’t go back immediately he’d have to break a new trail, with the danger of stepping into a trap.
One moment Ereth was in a rage. The next moment he felt soft and weepy. What was happening to him? His helplessness was frightening. “Oh, sloth-swill soup with bird-drop stuffing!” he shouted to the air. “I can’t go anywhere!”
Then all of a sudden an even more terrible thought came to him. What . . . what if . . . even some of the things Tumble had said were true? Could he really be so dreadful? Was he really a bad creature? Had he, in fact, become old without noticing?
The answer came in the form of a cold shiver that went through his whole body. Yes, it was so. Everything the young fox had said was true. He was an awful creature. He was old. He was bossy. No one bothered about his birthday because he wasn’t worth bothering about. What’s more, there was nothing he could do about it. He was too set
