“Hey, Wayne,” a voice called. “Give me a hand with the snowmobile.”
Ereth heard sounds of pushing, and shoving and hauling.
“Come on, get on. We gotta move.”
Ereth held his breath.
“Yoooooow!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Holy . . . look at that! Porcupine quills! I sat on them! Ow!”
The other man laughed. “Hey, you said you could eat a porcupine alive, didn’t you? Guess he heard what you said and got to you first.”
“Yeah, right.”
Ereth grinned and nodded.
There was a loud roar as the snowmobile’s motor kicked in.
“You going to sit or stand?”
“Hurts too much to sit.”
“Sure, but it’ll hurt a lot more if you stand and fall off. I’ll go as fast as I can.”
The noise rose and fell as the snowmobile roared off. The stench of gas fumes made Ereth gag. Soon the machine—and the humans—were gone. The deep winter silence returned.
From his place on the hill Marty the Fisher watched the snowmobile race away.
Though surprised, he was very pleased. “Good,” he said to himself. “The humans are gone. Now if I can get Ereth away from the cabin, he’ll be an easy target.” He put his mind to finding a way to lure the porcupine back into the woods.
Beneath the cabin, Ereth waddled about sniffing, in hopes of finding something to eat. It was while lifting his nose up toward one corner of the cabin that he suddenly caught a powerful scent. Salt. Such a strong smell could mean only one thing: there was a lot of salt inside the cabin. He began to tremble with excitement.
The next moment Ereth rushed out from beneath the cabin, bounded through the snow drifts, scrambled up the front steps, made his way to the door, then thrust his black nose into the crack where the door met the frame. He inhaled deeply.
“Penguin peanuts,” he whispered in awe. “There must be a ton of the stuff in there.” His teeth chattered with anticipation.
Struggling to contain himself, Ereth examined the door intently. When he realized it was padlocked, he began to shove it with his forehead as well as his front paws. It wouldn’t budge.
Furious, he backed off and studied the walls of the cabin. About four feet off the ground—to the right of the door—was a small glass window. Perhaps he could get in that way.
Since Ereth climbed trees with ease, working his way up the side of the log cabin to the window ledge proved no problem. Once there he pressed his face to the glass pane and peered inside. A small table stood in one corner of the room. It was littered with plates, knives, and forks—even food. In the middle of the table stood a glass jar filled with salt.
“Salt,” Ereth murmured even as he began to drool. “A whole jar of salt.” In a frenzy now, he began to butt his head against the window.
Ereth worked harder, certain that just a little more effort would shove it in entirely. “Pitted potwallopers!” he cried, as he thumped away. “Open up!”
Even as the window began to give, Ereth heard a voice from the woods behind him. “Help!” came the cry. “Someone help me! Please!”
“Mosquito mung,” Ereth grunted angrily as he tried to ignore the cry from the woods. Intent upon his task, he worked feverishly, poking his claws in and around the edges of the cabin window, trying to push it in. “Open up!” he shouted.
“Won’t someone help me?” came yet another call.
“No, I won’t!” Ereth replied out loud. “I’ve got better things to do.”
Butting against the window as well as shoving with his paws, he gave a great grunt of exertion. The window fell in, striking the wood floor with the sound of shattering glass.
The smell of salt saturated the air. “Oh, my, oh, my,” the porcupine crooned with excitement. “A room of salt! It’s heaven. It’s bliss.”
“Help! I’m hurt,” came the wail from the woods, more desperate than ever.
Prepared to leap down into the room, Ereth felt compelled to look back over his shoulder.
“I’m dying,” came yet another cry. “Please. Help me.”
“Donkey doughnuts,” Ereth griped, glaring in the direction of the woods. “Why does everybody have to call on me for help? Used to be, taking care of yourself was what the world was about. It’s not as if anybody cares about my life!” he added with exasperation.
“Please help!” came the cry again.
Ereth shook his head in frustration. “Buckled badger burgers!” he complained. “I’m never going to enjoy eating this salt with that racket in my ears.” Angry and frustrated, Ereth crawled down from the window, tail first.
For a moment he stood at the edge of the porch and gazed furiously at the still falling snow. Every tree and bush was coated with thick white frosting. Branches were bent, small shrubs partially flattened. In the deepening dusk the whiteness seemed to be turning purple with cold.
“Maybe it’s a trick,” Ereth suddenly thought. “Maybe somebody wants to get me away so he can have the salt for himself. Or maybe . . .” it suddenly occurred to him, “somebody is trying to lure me into the woods.”
Ereth considered that notion only briefly. “Anybody messing with me gets a quill up his snoot faster than a diving owl with lead claws.”
With another look back at the cabin and a deep sniff of the salt, Ereth waddled down the steps and plunged into the snow.
The snow had become deeper. To make any progress Ereth had to leap forward by fits and starts. Every few leaps he paused to catch his breath. But now that he had committed himself to finding the creature, the cries for help had ceased.
“I’ll bet anything the dunce who was calling is better,” Ereth muttered. He pushed on almost out of spite. “Catastrophic coyote culls! If it wasn’t for this idiot I could be eating that salt right now. But no. Kind, old Ereth always puts others before himself. Blessed saint is
