Vison, the Mink (American Woodland Tales)

by Jean Craighead George

  “The herring’ll run early this year,” he told the men when he had found himself a seat on the stone steps. That he sensed what they were talking about did not surprise Will or Al, for this was another thing about the white-haired Negro: his ability to fall into a conversation already begun. He had once explained this by saying that he heard voices on Red Sand Hill that told him who was saying what, and the river people let it go at that.

  “Why so?” Stacks asked.

  “Well, I just see’d a mink down in Muddy Branch. He was sitting under a shad bush along the stream and, when he ran off, I noticed the bush was beginning to bloom. Now if the shad bush is going to bloom early, the herring’ll run early, too.

  Now, the odd thing about Sam’s predictions was that they were generally correct. It was the way he worked them out that puzzled the old trappers and hunters and fishermen of the Potomac.

  Stacks was more interested in the mink, however, than the deductions Sam had made.

  “Sam, how did that mink look?”

  “Now, he was right beautiful. Good gold-brown color. He should make a fine pelt, but it’s too late now. You should try for him next year.”

  “I know that rascal,” Stacks said, smiling. “Been after him all year. Vison, of Muddy Branch, I call him. He seems to be trap-wise for some reason or another.”

  “Yep, that’s him, that’s him. Vison,” Sam said as he rose to leave. “Well, I think I’ll go down there and see that red fox chase that mink. That’s a good thing to watch.” Sam left the friendly group, fitting his torn coat to his body with a flourish.

  “Now, you let me know, if you’re goin’ herrin’ fishin’,” he called from the crest of the hill. “I’d sure enjoy that trip.”

  “All right, Sam,” replied Will. The two men heard Sam mumble and hum as he disappeared down the hill.

  “Guess, we ought to get those tires,” Will said after a pause. “A trip to Chain Bridge would be good for us.”

  Vison heard a rustle in the leaves as old Sam came down to the water. He looked up from his fishing and dived into the stream. Sam stood still and squeaked like a mouse, hoping to call him back. But Vison was under the water and did not hear. It was Vulpes, sleeping lightly over the rim of the hill in a laurel slick who heard the noise. He got quickly to his feet, stole up the hill and looked down at Sam. He turned and slipped quietly along the hill when he saw the old man. Sam watched him go.

  “There goes that red fox after that mink,” imagined Sam. “But he isn’t goin’ to get him this time.” Sam’s laugh rolled across the stream as Vison lifted his nose for air. The mink slipped back into the bubbling water and swam up the stream and out of sight.

  Sam stood still for several minutes after the mink and fox had vanished. He was idly dangling a steel trap by its chain.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WITH THE NUPTIAL FLIGHT of the woodcock, the Potomac wild animals settled down to rearing and tending their young. Mustela, Vison’s sleek young mate, was hunting food for her small sons; Fulva, the vixen fox, was nursing six bouncing pups. The thrushes and flycatchers had flown in from the South, set up their territories, and were constructing homes in the trees of the forest.

  Hylocichla, and his mate, Mustelina, were back on the shores of Muddy Branch. He opened the dawn with his purling song. It descended through the leaves like the trill of a flute.

  Vison heard the thrush as he left his foot-log den in the shady light of early morning. He stopped to listen, then set out amid a rising melody of bird songs and frog calls to the pond where the muskrats lived.

  Weaving in and out among the bullrushes, Vison swam to the edge of the water lilies now uncurling on the top of the water. Among these plants, latched to submerged cattail stems and twigs, were the masses of salamander eggs. The tiny amphibians were leaving the protection of their gelatinous envelopes to swim freely in the pond. Vison watched them work their way out. They were too small for him to eat, but he crouched in the water and hunted for the life that found them a nourishing diet.

  Vison put his head under the water and perused the forest of stems. Out of the dark bottom rose a shining sunfish. It swirled as it took several salamanders. Vison slipped quietly after the feeding fish. He caught it before it reached the shelter of the underwater garden. He circled back with it to the shore. As he ate, he watched the pond for other signs of life, his pointed head darting to the movement of the wind in the rushes, and the breaking of a ripple against the lily pads. Across the pond Vison saw a muskrat sawing at the oldroots of an arrowhead. Occasionally, she looked up to watch for enemies. The outlaw went on with his fishing. The muskrat turned back to her roots. Another sunfish rose. Vison slipped after it and carried it out into the middle of the pond. He crawled out of the water at the muskrat lodge and walked up the firm dome to eat his food.

  At the edge of the pond the muskrat lifted her ears. Something was not right. She peered over the reeds toward her lodge and saw the slender outline of the mink. He was sitting on the nest where her young lay sleeping.

  She stopped her work and plunged into the water. Her instinct to protect her young against even the powerful mink gave her great strength, and she plowed toward Vison.

  He heard her dive into the water. He watched the water fold back from her head as she swam toward him. He crouched against the reed lodge and prepared to attack the muskrat.

  As she drew nearer and nearer, Vison sensed her scintillating anger. There was nothing sluggish and muskrat-like in her movements. Vison had fought for territory, food, and stream rights; but this was the first time he had met with the savage and incomparable fury of parental love. It was something he could not understand, having left his own offspring to the care of his mate.

  Procyon, Bubo, Vulpes, Hylocichla were all hunting with a purpose and living in constant fear of not only their own lives, but also those of their offspring. Vison would never share this experience.

  The wake behind the muskrat broke in dark ripples. Trembling and grinding her teeth, the mother came toward her home. For a moment it looked as if she were actually going to close on Vison; then she dived and swept through the underwater entrance to the den.

  Vison plunged after her. He found the passageway and followed her into the lodge. As he emerged, he saw the powerful chisel-like incisors of the mother flashing toward him. Only his agility saved him from a slashing as he retreated from his trapped position in the defended passage.

  Out through the underwater garden he swam, through the water lilies and rushes, over the rotting logs where the pollywogs clung, and on toward the edge of the pond where the alders and willows stood. Vison emerged at the overflow where the pond funneled through the rocks and became a stream once more. He took the waterway down through the woods into the wilderness of Muddy Branch.

  The mink spent the day in the valley of the stream, sleeping and dozing in his hidden dens. At dusk the lisping chink of the field sparrows reminded him of their nests and eggs on the ground. Vison slipped off through the underbush toward the field. He was hardly visible as he loped through the jewel weeds and honeysuckle, and wound nimbly across fallen logs and old stumps.

  At the border of the woods he sat up, cocked his glossy head and listened. Mephitis, the mother skunk, was lumbering awkwardly through the May apples and seeding pepper-roots. Her black tail with its long, draping hairs was held slightly aloft. Vison got out of the way of that poised tail and pressed against the roots of an old elm. He was sliding carefully over the bumpy knees of the tree when he detected the scent of young skunks. He stopped to investigate.

  Though Mephitis had her back turned, she heard the almost inaudible scratch of Vison’s nails on the bark of the elm. Instantly, the slow-moving skunk was in action. Vison had hardly stepped toward the den when he saw the angry Mephitis coming toward him. Ordinarily, Vison knew better than to get into a fight with the big skunk whose powerful jaws and sickening scent were respected by all the woodland. But he was momentarily trapped between the elm and the
enraged Mephitis. She came swiftly toward him.

  Now he was looking into a mass of black hair and trembling paws. Above this he saw the open snarling jaws as the mother skunk lunged forward. In a flashing glance he took in her arched tail, snapping eyes and her lips, curled maliciously back from her shining teeth. Vison’s uncanny speed saved him.

  He reared to his hind feet and screamed, then drew back his neck and darted under the charging skunk. As he passed her, he feinted an attack at the vulnerable throat of the big animal. Mephitis slashed at him.

  Now Vison was behind her. He sprang to the left of that lifted tail. He knew the danger of that swinging posterior. In the clap of a hand he was gone. A second behind his retreat came the misty spray of malodorous scent. Mephitis had turned on her protective weapon that gave her the unchallenged right of way on the avenues and trails of the woodland. The air was a cloud of sickly fluid thrown in rage from the anal scent glands. Vison escaped the direct spray, but did not escape untouched.

  Mephitis, still raging, went back to her den and young. She trembled as she hovered over the squirming kits in their home in the elm roots.

  Leaping and twisting, Vison rushed to the stream to relieve his burning eyes and stinging nose from the scent of the skunk. At the water’s edge he burrowed into the sand and rolled over and over, shoving his throat and head along the ground and rubbing his tear-filled eyes with his furry paws. Covered with dirt and sand, he lay still a moment to see if the remedy had worked. Gradually the burning fire returned to his eyes and nose. Vison threw himself into the sand again. For many minutes he relentlessly drove himself over the shore and finally down into the muddy silt at the water’s rim. He stood up and shook, waiting curiously for the fire to return. It did. He dived into the water and swam around and around until he could bring into focus the wavery objects under the stream. He emerged, prepared to start hunting again. A blinding pain brought tears to his eyes, and the odor of skunk upon his fur seemed stronger than before.

  Vison dashed for the shore, sprang up the bank, and burrowed in the mud. Gradually the greasy scent cleared, and he started up the stream bed. From time to time he leapt into the mud and washed his smarting eyes to rid himself of the scent of skunk.

  Vison was angry. His encounter with mother-love had had its effect. He had not learned to beware of this instinct, for had Vison been hungry, it might have been the undoing of the muskrat and skunk. He had, however, learned not to underestimate the rage of a challenged mother. The outlaw loped out to the canal and searched its course for almost a mile. He ducked into a makeshift den as the noon light became too bright and slept in his cloud of skunk aroma until dusk.

  With the fading of the long shadows into one great darkness, Vison was off again to hunt. Passing a cluster of aspen trees, he came to a clearing where a river squatter’s shack was stacked like a bundle of twigs on the shore of the Potomac.

  Around the building were piles of firewood and driftwood, a tumbling shed, and the smell of Norway rats. Vison turned off his trail down the canal and circled the corners of the house. He crossed the yard to the shed, slipped around it, and picked up the trail of a rat. He followed him into the musty woodpile and began a hunt that lasted until the moon had set in the midnight sky.

  Flashing from shed to woodpile, tunneling through openings between the logs and boards, climbing over the litter and debris of the riverside lot, Vison vanquished one rodent after another. He did not stop after his hunger had been satisfied, but fought until those left had taken refuge deep in hidden retreats.

  All during the hunt, Vison was being watched by a pair of warm brown eyes. His graceful leaps and quick attacks were not lost on the sightless wilderness. Old Sam was stretched on the weathered porch of the squatter’s shack. He had been half awake listening to the chuck-will’s-widow crying in the moonlight when Vison came dashing past the porch on his way to the shed. The flutter of leaves as the outlaw slipped by aroused him from his dreams. Without turning his head, Sam had watched the dauntless mink as he dispatched one rat after another.

  As the dashing round-up progressed, Sam felt an attachment for Vison. Here was a fearless animal with courage and the rhythmical grace of a dancer. The old Negro lay on the porch bed and identified himself with the powerful, striking warrior. Lying motionless, he cheered Vison on until the battle was over and Sam and his mink had vanquished the enemies of the river dwellers.

  When the mink had tackled the last attainable rat and had checked the hideouts of the rest to make sure he could not dig them out, he came out into the yard and looked around him. He sat down on his haunches and groomed his fur. Old Sam touched the beautiful guard hairs in his imagination and admired the strong muscles that rolled under them. Then Sam called to Vison, high and whistle-like in the manner of a wood mouse. Vison stopped his grooming, dropped to all four feet and looked up toward the porch. His flat cars were back. In the primrose light of dawn he could sec a long bulky form on the stoop. He lifted his nose into the air, but the wind was blowing off the river and the scent of the man did not come to him. Vison ran forward a few steps. He stopped suddenly and sat back on his haunches as the voice of old Sam floated meaninglessly to him on the air.

  “Come here, Vison, the Mink. I know you, old fellow. You are the plucky mink that Will Stacks can’t catch, and that old Al sees on the river.” Then Sam laughed. Vison boldly darted forward a few more steps and stood up to his full height to see the man better.

  Sam felt a cold chill run through his body as the fearless carnivore stood before him, completely unafraid. He could see the living, calculating eyes of the small woodland bandit. They peered into his own without blinking. It was a thrilling experience to be brought into the life of this wild animal who was seen and known by so few. Sam whistled again, and like a leaf in the wind Vison was gone.

  Sam dropped back on his wooden floor and murmured to himself. Vison, the Mink, had stood before him and wondered about him. Somewhere at this moment in the unlighted woods, perhaps under a stump, or in an unknown den, there was a new friend or an enemy or perhaps just a curious mink.

  Later Sam awoke to see the light washing the riverlands into color and shapes. He rose and quietly walked away from the squatter’s house. The bushes closed behind him, and the old Negro of Red Sand Hill was gone.

  Upon discovering Sam, Vison had loped off through the woods, over the canal, and denned at the foot of the big cliffs. He would not go far from the supply of rats he had discovered. By nightfall others might have moved in to take the place of those he had killed. This food supply might last him several days. He slipped down into a crevice in the rocks and fell into a deep sleep. Vison slept all that day and through the next night. He was well fed and no impulse stirred him to activity.

  About the middle of the following morning a clatter and rumbling exchange of men’s voices rolled off the canal. Will Stacks and Al Starcher were coming down the waterway in a boat. Three tires were stacked in the bottom. Al was seated in the bow pushing against the water with a makeshift oar. An occasional misjudgment on his part would send a spray skipping back over the boat into Will’s face. The trapper would growl and shove the boat forward with a lurch as he pushed with a long pole.

  “This is a good boat,” said Al as he plunged his board into the canal and pulled against the water.

  “Leaks a little,” said Will watching a small puddle spread out over the bottom. Al turned around and looked. The boat careened toward the cattails at the edge of the canal as Will gave her a shove without benefit of Al’s countermovement.

  “I’ll take care of the holes, you keep her out of the bushes,” the trapper roared. The two men got together on their next few strokes and the boat swerved back into the middle again.

  “Wonder how she rolls with this load?” Al said when they had reached the cliffs without mishap.

  “Don’t know,” replied Stacks, “but let’s get her to Muddy Branch before you rock it. This water’s deep.”

  “Oh, I wouldn
’t rock it,” Al said, throwing another spray of water on the trapper. Stacks ducked to one side and the boat rolled with him, gently shipping water. The lunge surprised Al and he grasped both sides with his hands. The boat rocked dangerously and then settled down and floated easily along with the current. Meekly Al smiled at his friend.

  “Guess she rolls all right, Will.”

  They finished the voyage to the stream without further words, each settling down conscientiously to his task. At Muddy Branch they pulled the boat up on the weeds, chained it to a tree and started off toward Will’s shack with the tires.

  As they came out River Road, they saw Sam. He was gathering young poke-weed sprouts at the edge of the road. He was singing and talking to himself. The old Negro slowly straightened up and turned around when he heard the rustle of leaves on the other side of the ford. He saw the men, each carrying a tire on his shoulder, and hurried toward them. A few brief words of animated conversation and Sam went off through the woods to get the third tire.

  That night, Vison passed Stacks’ boat as he came down the canal after a last battle with the rats in the squatter’s yard. The looming shape demanded investigation, and he slipped into it to look around. It held no food, however, and after depositing his mark on the wooden seat, he popped out and leapt toward his stream.

  Rippling along a familiar trail, he caught a movement on the side of a large beech tree. A moth had broken away from its winter cocoon and was trembling as it clung to the bark. Vison bounded toward it, but the tree was smooth and big and the moth was out of reach.

  The wet crumpled masses at the insect’s side unfolded slowly. Vison saw them grow into pale green wings. The nondescript pupa had become an exquisite moth. Its moist wings quivered like filamentous scarves as they tested their strength in the air.

  Vison made a futile leap for the beautiful luna moth. But it floated safely out into the woods. The mink slipped off to the river and that night went out to the islands in the Potomac.