In the end though—after all that—Badger was no closer to finding Skunk or a single chicken.
Finally, it was two o’clock and Badger found himself staring at the neon Hot Pie Now sign at the Veg & Egger. He suspected his motives for staring were not purely informational.
And then, he noticed the diner’s name, and thought, Veg & Egger . . . Egger . . . Egg. Yes, egg . . .
He spoke what came to him: “Q-U-egg-L-Y.” Queggly Hill Park!
It’s worth a try, thought Badger.
He got a quick hot paw-pie from the Veg & Egger—Hey, was that waitress a female badger?—and was on his way.
But before Badger headed up the hill, he needed to stop at the brownstone to make preparations.
Chapter Ten
Back At The Brownstone, Badger Unlocked The front door and was greeted by the stuffy fug of skunk spray. “Sludge and slurry!” He waved his paws and held his breath. He would do what he needed to do and do it fast.
In the kitchen, he made a chicken gift and scooped it into a paper sack. Then he jogged to the coat closet where he kept his rock expedition knapsack at the ready. The knapsack contained a hard hat, protective goggles, a tool belt, a utility knife, a chisel, a hammer, specimen bags, a flashlight, a hand lens on a lanyard, a pencil magnet, a compass, two snack bars, a full water bottle, and one waterproof ukulele. Badger tucked his chicken gift into the top of the pack, swung the pack onto his back, and left the brownstone.
As Badger headed up the hill, he ate his paw-pie from the Veg & Egger. Delicious! Badger thought, licking cinnamon apple goo from between his claws. He whistled as he followed the sidewalk. I must get out more. More walks! More pie!
Thirty minutes later, Badger stopped at the top of the hill. The arch in front of him read: Queggly Hill Park. He examined the spelling. Egg—definitely egg. Then he stepped underneath the arch and into the park.
Badger liked Queggly Hill Park right away. Why haven’t I been up here? he wondered. Queggly Hill Park had everything necessary for a good day. Badger took inventory: one picnic table, one swing set with three swings (Suitable for competitions!), one seesaw, one slide, and one paw-pump for pumping water. It had the right trees too: over here, thick-limbed climbing trees; over there, smooth-trunked reading trees with lots of shade. And a boulder! Badger always preferred a park with boulders. He patted the boulder, felt its coolness, and nodded appreciatively. Granite.
But there was a problem. No chickens.
Badger looked around. Worse than no chickens—Queggly Hill Park was utterly deserted. He couldn’t even ask anyone if they’d seen a chicken. Where was everyone?
“Hello? Chickens? Hello? I’m here to say I’m sorry,” Badger called out.
A tickle of wind circled Badger’s ankles.
“Hello? Anyone?”
No birdsong. No chiding squirrels. Not even the sound of anyone kicking up a snack in the leaf litter!
Badger turned slowly in a full circle and realized that he’d now seen the entirety of Queggly Hill Park. It had taken all of, say, three minutes. Queggly Hill Park was officially minuscule.
But Badger wasn’t ready to give up. I have found rocks. I will find chickens. He tugged off his rock expedition knapsack, set it on the picnic table, and unzipped it. He put on his tool belt, the protective goggles, and his hard hat, and got to work.
Badger examined. He scraped and sifted. He sniffed and tasted (tentatively). Light beamed from his flashlight. He poked around leaves, turned over stones, and spoke to pill bugs. (The pill bugs curled.) He appraised bluebells, trillium, and bloodroot through his hand lens. All spiderwebs were scrutinized.
Finally, Badger removed his hard hat and protective goggles and shook out his specimen bag onto the picnic table.
Two twigs and five dirt clumps.
“That’s it?” he said in disgust. But there’d been no signs of chickens: no chicken dander, no chicken fluff, no whistles, no shoeboxes, no storybooks, and no paper receipts from Chicken Books. Badger was about to swipe the entire mess off the boulder when he saw something poking out of a dirt clod. It looked fluff-ish.
He broke the clod apart, pinched it up, and examined it. The fluff glimmered in a way that seemed partial to the color orange.
Could it be? Badger reached for his hand lens . . .
. . . and a puff of wind blew the fluff away.
“No!” yelled Badger, thumping his fist on the picnic table.
He sat down on the picnic bench. He ran a paw through his stripe. Think, think, think, he said to himself.
But to no avail—Badger had run out of ideas. It was over. Badger stood up and slowly packed his rock-finding gear into his knapsack. As he packed, his paw brushed the paper sack.
Badger pulled out the paper sack and stared at it. What do I have to lose?
Not one thing, Badger decided. He pulled on his knapsack and got started. He reached inside the sack, filled his paw, and tossed.
Popcorn flew.
“Here chickie-chickie. Here chickie-chickie-chickie,” he called.
He reached into the paper sack again, and tossed another paw-full of popcorn. “Here chickie!”
He glanced around. No chickens. Not one.
Badger spoke louder: “Here chickie, chickie, chickie,” and tossed another paw-full of popcorn into the air.
He looked. No chickens.
“Chickie? Chickie? CHICKEEE-EE!” He tossed popcorn left and right, right and left. He began to skip. He skipped around the slide and tossed his popcorn. “Chickie, chickie, HERE!” He put his belly on the swing seat and swung, to-ing and fro-ing as he threw. “POPCORN CHICKIE!” He leapt onto the picnic table. “COME CHICKIE!” He surfed the seesaw and threw another paw-full up, up, UP. “CHICKIE-CHICK POPCORN!” He bounced. He vaulted. He twirled. He tossed. He tripped and tossed and skipped off again.
Then the bag was empty. Shake, shake? Shake?
An unpopped kernel hit his right foot.
Still no chickens.
Zip. Zzzttt.
What had he been thinking? Just because there is an “egg” cracked into the middle of “Queggly” does not mean there will be chickens.
Badger walked to the boulder. He dropped to his knees and tore off his knapsack. He flopped onto his back, and lay splayed on the boulder like the letter X.
After quite some time, Badger sat up. He rubbed his knees, and then his shoulder, and thought, Skunk was right—rocks are hard.
Then Badger saw the view. It looked like an illustration, sketched out in pencil and colored in bright greens. There was North Twist wrapped in hills, knotted with trees, and laced with sidewalks and walking paths. A stream meandered through a field on Badger’s left. To Badger’s right were brownstones, then bungalows, then wildly painted Victorians with rocking-chair porches.
Badger wondered what Skunk would say if he were here.
“Har!” Badger knew exactly what Skunk would say. Skunk would point and say, Look, Badger, that is where you were.
So Badger looked as he thought Skunk would look. He found Aunt Lula’s brownstone. He spotted the meadow across the street. He traced part of his route—Chicken Books to the Twisty Hotel to the Double-Dice Game Shop.
The Hot Pie Now sign was still on. Badger thought, I should take Skunk out for some paw-pie!
Then Badger realized this was never, ever going to happen. He was not even going to get to apologize—not today anyway.
The sun was setting.
He had failed.
Badger wiped his eyes and blew his snout. He had behaved badly. He’d said things. He’d done things. He’d not done things. His behavior had revealed things about him that he’d rather not know and now he knew. He should change. But he was a badger set in his ways. It would be just like him to fall right back into his old patterns and not make a single change.
Still, I must try.
He stared at the view of North Twist for a long moment. Then he tugged his rock expedition knapsack to him and took out his waterproof
ukulele. He tucked the ukulele under his left elbow, lifted his right paw, and strummed. Beed-el-lee-bing!
He strummed again. Beed-el-lee-bing!
And then, the power of the ukulele took hold. Badger’s claws began to ricochet over the strings. The ukulele rattled. Badger sang, then bellowed:
E huli, e huli mākou
E huli, e huli mākou
Kou maka, kou lima,
Me kou kino eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . .
It was the C7 chord, the chord heading into the song’s resolve. But Badger did not want to resolve, to finish, to move on. So Badger kept singing the eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, holding on to the note and beating out the C7 chord.
“. . . eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . .”
The sky had gone red with twists of apricot, pumpkin, carrot, and coral. North Twist shimmered in gold.
“. . . eeeeeeeeeeeeee . . . eeeeeeeee . . . eee . . .”
The air drained from Badger’s lungs, but still his claws banged over the strings: C7, C7, C7, and still he sang:
“. . . eeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . . eee . . . eeeeeeeee . . . eeee . . .”
Badger saw one star, then two stars.
“. . . ee . . . ee . . . e . . . eeee . . . eee . . .”
C7 . . . C7 . . . C7 . . .
“E aloha mai! G7! C7! F!” came a yell from behind him.
. . . eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . . . . . eeeeeeeeeeeeee . . . eeeeeeeee . . . eee . . .
Chapter Eleven
“The Ukulele Is The Most Beautiful Instrument In the world!”
Badger knew that voice. He jumped to his feet.
“Skunk?”
Skunk saw him and backed up. “Oh no,” he said, turning and starting the other way.
“Wait! I’ve looked everywhere for you,” Badger called.
Skunk’s back stiffened. Slowly, he twisted back around. He fidgeted, but stood. He stood at a good distance.
In order to make sure Skunk heard, Badger yelled. “I AM SORRY FOR THE WAY I BEHAVED. EVEN THOUGH I DIDN’T SAY ‘VERMIN,’ I CALLED YOU THE DEFINITION OF VERMIN. I AM SORRY FOR THAT. ALSO, YOU DEFENDED OUR GUESTS. I DID NOTHING. I DID NOT EVEN LISTEN TO YOU. I AM SORRY FOR THAT TOO. AND I HAVE NOT WELCOMED YOU INTO THE BROWNSTONE. YOU HAVE AS MUCH RIGHT TO THE BROWNSTONE AS I DO.”
Badger swallowed. What he yelled next was something he’d decided as he lay flat on the boulder: “THE BROWNSTONE IS YOURS. I’M MOVING OUT.”
Skunk’s head jerked back with a shake.
Skunk walked closer. “Would you say that again please, but in a quieter voice?”
“I’m letting you have the brownstone. I’m moving out.”
Skunk marched right up under Badger’s snout. “But the brownstone is your home!”
“And now it’s yours,” said Badger, nodding. He felt lighter. “Har! Har!”
Skunk shook his head. “This is not funny, Badger. You own too many rocks. You cannot carry all of them in a suitcase.”
“Simplicity is good,” said Badger. “I will cut down!”
Skunk held up a paw to think. Finally, with hesitation, he nodded. “Simplicity has its advantages. Yes, it is nice when everything fits in a red suitcase, but it is nicer to have a Moon Room and a good kitchen. Believe me, being without a home is not good.”
He squinted up at Badger. “What about your Important Rock Work?”
Badger blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I will focus on fieldwork. I’ll live in a tent and travel. I’ll discover new rocks.”
“Oh,” said Skunk. He looked surprised. “I see.” He appeared to be thinking, but Badger could not read his thoughts.
Badger waited.
Finally, Skunk laughed. “Ha! Are you wearing pajamas? Yes, you are. Those are the same pajamas you were wearing this morning!”
Badger looked down. “I’ve been wearing them all over North Twist.”
They laughed together, and then Skunk sighed. He looked up at Badger. “Okay, I will move back into the brownstone. I like chickens a lot, but Badger, skunks are not meant to live in henhouses. Still . . .” He shook his head and kicked at a loose rock.
Badger stared in disbelief. “You should be happy. The brownstone is yours.”
Skunk shot Badger a look. “Not everyone is like you, Badger! I do not like living alone. Now I will have to look for a roommate. Yes, the brownstone is better than a henhouse, but all alone? The brownstone is big for one skunk.”
“I’ll be your roommate!” Badger blurted out.
Then he realized what he had said. “Forget it! Unless you want me as a roommate. Which I would like . . .”
That didn’t make sense. Or did it? So Badger added, “I said that because I’ve missed you. Nothing has been the same since you left.”
Skunk frowned at Badger. “I have only been gone since this morning.”
“I know. But I have missed you,” Badger mumbled.
Skunk’s eyes grew round.
Then Skunk nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay what?” said Badger.
“Okay, you can be my roommate. But first we need to discuss things.”
“What things?” said Badger, alarmed.
Skunk leaned forward, looked both ways, and whispered, “The chickens like the rock room too much. Would it be possible to move your rock room out of the living room? Anyway, the living room would be better as a living room—with comfy chairs, board games, and lots of books.”
Badger sighed. “What about the attic?”
“Perfect. But that rock shaker . . .” said Skunk.
“Rock tumbler. I’m a rock scientist—I like my rock tumbler!”
“Okay. Moon Room?”
“Is exactly as you left it. It is yours.”
“If I cook?”
“I clean. Law of Nature.”
“Deal. Roommates!” Skunk stuck out a paw. They shook on it, both of them grinning ear to ear.
Then Skunk pointed. “Look.”
Badger turned. There, on the boulder, a tiny orange poof. The tiny orange hen! She observed the two of them (left eye, right eye, left eye).
“Bock?”
Badger put his head near hers. “I am sorry.”
The little orange hen pecked his snout. Then she did it again.
“Ow.” Badger sat up. “I deserved that. I did.”
“She has been upset,” said Skunk with a chuckle. Then he asked, “Badger, may I play your ukulele?”
Keeping his eyes on the hen, Badger passed back his ukulele.
Beed-el-lee-bing! sounded the ukulele, as the little orange hen hopped onto Badger’s knee.
“Bock,” she said.
“I mean it. I’m sorry.” Badger picked some of the popcorn off the boulder, and put it in the palm of his paw.
Beed-el-lee-bing!
The hen looked at him (right-left-right, blink). Then she hopped onto his paw and chose a piece of popcorn, and Badger understood that he was forgiven.
When Badger lifted his eyes, he saw that chickens filled Queggly Hill Park. There were Orpingtons, Naked Necks, and Dominickers. The Orloff strutted by. The Jersey Giant plonked her feet down on the grass. Tiny bantam hens bantered with long-legged striders. There were many breeds of chickens that Badger had never seen before.
All the chickens ate popcorn. A few brought out their shoeboxes.
Badger looked at Skunk. “How do the chickens suddenly appear like that?”
Skunk smiled. “The Quantum Leap? I told you, chickens are wondrous.”
“Har! Yes, they are!” Then Badger pointed at a chicken who zigged, then zagged, and disappeared behind the seesaw. “Here today, gone to leghorn,” he said.
Skunk laughed. “Ha! That is what I always say.”
Skunk sat next to Badger and the orange hen. Together the three of them watched as the sky deepened into reds and purples, all of it eventually dissolving into evening blue.
Beed-el-lee-bing!
“This is better than fireworks,” said Skunk.
Badger looked at Skunk and nodded. “I am so glad we are going to be roommates, Skunk.”
“Me too. What a relief!”
The Beginning
It Was Breakfast—Sometime The Next Week—When It happened: Skunk set a plate of fried egg, potatoes, and parsnips in front of Badger, and then Skunk stopped.
“Rocket Potato!” he yelled.
Skunk hop-skipped to the corner. Ever so gently, he plucked up the potato and brushed it off.
“Look, Badger.” Skunk held out his cupped paws.
Badger saw a greenish, wrinkled potato.
Skunk pointed at two white horns. “Rocket Potato wants to live,” he whispered.
“Why, look at that,” said Badger.
Skunk nodded. “Let’s plant it and see what it makes of itself.”
So that’s what they did.
Acknowledgments
A Few People And Sources Need Mentioning: In 1997, Jerry W. Dragoo and Rodney L. Honeycutt kicked skunks out of the weasel family, elevating skunks to the level of family thereafter known as the Mephitidae. This explains much family drama. (Find “Systematics of Mustelid-like Carnivores” in the Journal of Mammalogy 78[2]: 426-443, 1997.) Natalie Angier made the chickens’ world a safer place. If I had not listened to the audiobook of The Canon: A Whirligig Tour of the Beautiful Basics of Science, the chickens would not have “the Quantum Leap!” (I always hear this said in Skunk’s voice.) Though I used several sources for the geology, Jim Miller is the geologist who put twenty of us in traffic safety vests so we could stand beside a busy highway and squint up at road cuts. That said, all mistakes (and simplifications) in this book are my own. I’m also grateful to the North House Folk School in Grand Marais, Minnesota, for offering a geology course for enthusiastic beginners. Lanialoha Lee introduced me to the wonders of the ukulele and taught me the song “E Huli Mākou.” My agent, Steven Malk, worked patiently and persistently to find a home for this story. The book you are holding would not exist without him. I’m indebted to my editor, Elise Howard, at Algonquin Young Readers, for taking on and editing this project, and to Jon Klassen, who agreed early to provide his beautiful art. Phil, my husband, reads my work first. This project has been a joy for both of us. Thank you for that, Phil!
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