by Galen Winter
“The porcupine is an interesting animal,” Peabody responded, “The Spanish call it puerco espino - spiney pig, but it was the French who named it ‘porc d’epine’. The word “porcupine” is a direct descendent of the French term.” The Major continued to give me unwanted information. “Baby porcupines are called ‘porqupets’. Don’t you find that interesting?”
No, I didn’t find it interesting. My interest in any aspect of the animal was limited - to the point of being non-existent. “Yes. Major,’ I answered, “I find it fascinating. Now, about those wild flowers -----.”
Peabody would not be distracted. “A group of porcupines is called a ‘prickle’. A Prickle of Porcupines! What a great expression. The English language is full of such inventive descriptions. A Pod of Whales. A Gaggle of Geese. A Murder of Crows. An Exultation of Larks. More recently, new ones have been coined. An Incompetence of Bureaucrats, a Posturing of Senators and a Thievery of Representatives come to mind.
“They shoot needles at you, don’t they?” I questioned.
“Porcupine?” the Major asked. “Oh, yes. Yes indeed. They can be quite painful. Let me tell you about it.”
“Wildflowers,” I said, showing a touch of panic. “You were going to tell me about the forest flowers you can find in the fall.”
“You’ve met Mike Stoychoff?” the Major asked, completely disregarding my attempt to change the subject. “I don’t believe you met his hunting buddy Steve. Well, I was hunting with them when Steve got swatted by a porky. Not swatted,” he quickly amended. “The porcupine shot its quills at him - from fifteen or twenty feet, as I recall it. Steve had quills in his head, in his ear, in his cheek - all along the left side of his face.
“A porcupine’s quill is built with lots of barbs along its shank, the Major explained. “Like arrowheads, the barbs all point in the same direction. As they dry, the barbs collapse into the shank of the quill. The collapse of the barbs has the effect of moving the quill forward inside a man’s flesh. If not removed before they begin to dry, it can be a terribly ugly and nasty business.”
Peabody noticed my shudder.
“Yes,” he said, “As you can imagine, Steve was in pain and it was going to be more painful. We had to pull the quills out and it was like removing fish hooks by jerking them out backwards.”
I shuddered again.
“I tied a rope around Steve’s neck and pulled it close to the base of a nearby maple tree. I looped the rope around the tree so tightly that Steve couldn’t move his head. Then I lay down on top of him and, while he yelled in agony, Mike pulled the quills out of his head with a pliers.”
I was aghast. “Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “The poor man! Did he get proper medical attention? Did he live through it? Was the pliers sterilized? Were there any after effects?”
Before the Major could answer, the clock struck twelve. Peabody extended his hand. I gave him the check and left. I didn’t want to hear any more about Steve’s encounter with the porcupine. And I didn’t look forward to next month’s trip to Mike’s cabin.
* * * * *
A few weeks later, Mike and Steve were hunting along a creek bottom near Thunder Mountain in Oconto County. In that part of Wisconsin, the Ruffed Grouse cycle was at its nadir. Only two birds had flushed. They were heard, but not seen.
“Well Steve,” Mike said, “it’s time for us to call it a morning. Let’s have lunch and take a snooze. We’ll try again this afternoon.” The hunters turned and walked back toward Mike’s cabin. Steve was in the lead with Mike close behind. Then it happened. Steve saw movement on the ground and immediately recognized a porky, lumbering toward a tree. He ran to it.
Steve had a purpose. He did not like porcupines He intended to grab it by the neck and give it a good shaking. In the past, every time he tried it, the porky had swatted him and won the fight. This time, the dog believed he would surely win.
The Supernatural
Major Peabody sat silently while his hunting companions enjoyed post-dinner libations and discussed the day’s hunt. At the moment, Doc Carmichael was under attack because of his hint of the occurrence of a supernatural event.
“Oh, come now,” Paul asked him. “You’ve never been here before. This is the first time you’ve been in this camp. You don’t seriously believe it, do you?
Carmichael was adamant, “It’s not a question of whether I believe it or not. I’m only reporting what happened to me. I saw it, and that’s the truth. When we drove in and made the turn just before the cabin, I saw that big rock and I knew I had been here before. The scene perfectly matched something I carried in my head. Every tree, every branch, every fern, every dead leaf lying on the ground - I have seen them all before. I even knew the bird was going to fly from behind the fallen spruce.”
“Come on, Doc,” Paul repeated. “Déjà vu. It’s nothing more than your head playing tricks on you. We’re not living in the Middle Ages. You should know better.”
“Don’t be too hard on him, Paul.” said Lefty, the other skeptic. “I’m willing to accept the concept of the existence of the supernatural. How else can you explain Doc coming back to camp with two grouse. That’s far from a natural happening. He can’t shoot that well. That must have been some kind of supernatural event.”
Peabody came to Doc Carmichael’s defense. “Personally,” he said as he removed the plastic sheath from his cigar, “I, too, once had difficulty in believing in the supernatural.” He lit the cigar, looked at its burning tip and, satisfied, shook the wooden match. When he was sure it was out, he threw it into the wood box beside the stove.
“Everyone has had strange experiences. I am a case in point,” he admitted. “In early November, when the Ruffed Grouse season is coming to a close, I am visited by a terrible sense of foreboding. It frightens me. It is an overpowering and almost tangible feeling of approaching doom - as if I were being warned of a disaster about to occur.
“Some would ascribe it to an extra sensory perception, but I was as much of a skeptic as you two,” and he waved his cigar in the general direction of Paul and Lefty. “I always thought it was nothing more than my sub-conscious warning me the voters might elect liberals to the House of Representatives, but it might have been something else. Who knows? I told you I once had difficult in believing in the supernatural. Now I am a believer.”
“Incredible,” Lefty exclaimed. “You mean to say you actually believe in such patent nonsense?”
“I’d rather not talk about it, Lefty, but I think you should not dismiss Doc’s thesis out of hand.”
“Magic,” Lefty said shaking his head in disbelief. “Would you believe it, Paul? The Major and Doc Carmichael believe in magic.”
Peabody again studied the glowing end of his cigar. He sipped from his drink. Lefty’s sarcasm forced him to respond. He decided to take up the challenge.
“Anyone with friends who have built cabins in the woods has heard stories about driving wells and finding water. Those reports often refer to ‘dousers’ or to ‘water witches’ - men and sometimes women who can tell where underground water can be found. I know it is ridiculous. I know it has the powerful aroma of fraud. I don’t believe it for a second. But I’ve seen it happen. I know it works.
“I’ve seen a douser take a willow switch and walk over open land. I’ve seen the switch turn down, marking a particular spot. And,” the Major added, “I’ve seen the dowser watch the switch bounce and accurately forecasted the number of feet of pipe to be driven before the water source was reached.”
“I guess I’ve heard of that,” Lefty reluctantly admitted.
“Charlie Robbins wouldn’t drive a well point without using a water witch,” Paul confirmed, and the Major continued his argument.
“We’ve all sat in a duck blind on bluebird days, watching rafts of duck feed in the center of the lake. They’d be so far out a hunter would need a deer rifle to endanger them. Nothing else could reach them. Then, for no apparent reason and at the same instant, they would all take off
. Not a few of them. Not half of them. Every single one of them. Why?
“They don’t send notes to one another. One of them doesn’t quack ‘I think I’ll fly away. Anyone want to join me?’ They all take to the air at the same time. Is there some force, unknown to us, that orders them to go? Lefty? Paul? You’ve seen it yourselves, haven’t you? Isn’t than an example of extra sensory perception? Of the supernatural?”
The Major waited for a response from his doubting friends. Yes, they had seen flocks of duck seemingly moving as a single unit, but could give no rational explanation for the phenomenon. The two hunters looked at each other in confusion and were silent.
Peabody concluded his defense. “At one time, I’m sure Doc Carmichael was just as skeptical as you are. I certainly was. But, if you’ve ever experienced the supernatural, your skepticism will quickly disappear.”
“Then you’ve experienced it? Paul asked.
“Tell us about it, Lefty insisted.
Peabody again studied his cigar. “I’m reluctant to talk about it. It was, well, it was unbelievable. Suffice it to say, my experience caused me to accept, without question, the presence of supernatural forces.” Then he was silent. He rattled the ice cubes in his empty glass. Paul refilled it and Peabody tried to change the subject.
Lefty, Paul and Doc Carmichael would have none of it. They pleaded and cajoled and promised not to laugh or tell anyone about it. The Major finally relented.
“It was in Upper Michigan,” he began. “About six years ago. This time of year. We were grouse hunting. I came upon this old woman. She was very old and very wrinkled and had stringy gray hair, but her eyes were bright and lively and dark and somehow penetrating. She was picking fall mushrooms.
“The grouse population was at the bottom of its cycle. The old woman inquired about my luck. I told her I hadn’t had a flush, but had seen a nice patch of honey mushrooms. I led her to the spot and, together, it didn’t take long to fill both her baskets. I wondered how old she was. I didn’t say anything out loud. I just wondered.
“She said: ‘I am one hundred years old.’ You can imagine my surprise. She had answered an unasked question. Then, with those piercing dark eyes, she looked at me and told me she was a witch. Of course, I didn’t believe her. You know how women lie about their age. She looked to be a hundred and five, at least.
“This old woman then said. ‘You have been kind and I will help you. You and your 20 ga. Lefever will have good luck.’ She turned and disappeared into the forest.
“Gentlemen, I had not seen a bird during the morning and there weren’t many birds around. Within an hour I had five Ruffed Grouse in my game bag.”
Lefty and Paul’s skepticism returned. They looked at each other with raised eyebrows and conveyed their unspoken agreement: “It’s getting pretty deep around here.”
“I have a bridge in Brooklyn. Would you like to buy it?”
“But, there’s more to it,” the Major protested. “She said: ‘You and your 20 ga. Lefever will be successful.’ Here’s the strange part. I’ve had good luck with my gun, but no one else has been able to hit a thing with it. It’s like the gun is lucky for me and cursed for everyone else.”
“I’ll vouch for that,” Doc Carmichael interjected. “I’ve used Peabody’s Lefever a few times and have never killed a bird with it. I don’t know how many easy crossing patterns I missed.”
“O K,” Paul said. “How about a little wager. Say a hundred dollars” Lefty nodded in agreement. “Lefty and I will exchange guns with you and Doc. I’ll use the Lefever in the morning and Lefty will use it in the afternoon.”
* * * * *
As they drove back to Philadelphia, Major Peabody kept fifty dollars and gave fifty to Doc Carmichael. He thanked him. “You set it up nicely, Doc. I was sure they’d bite.”
“What did you use when you reloaded the 20 ga. shells? Sand?” Doc asked.
“No. I used sugar. I though sand might injure the barrels.”
Crime and Punishment
On December twentieth, I was helping the lovely Stephanie with her Christmas shopping. That “help” consisted of puppy-dogging behind her as she wandered through posh boutiques and carrying the growing stack of packages containing her purchases. She dawdled in a jewelry store, spent a good deal of time telling me how much she liked a particular diamond broach and then left without buying it or looking at anything else. This seemed like very strange behavior on her part.
The very next day, a clever though occurred to me. I returned to the store, bought the broach and had it wrapped in gold colored paper. I intended to surprise the lovely Stephanie. It was all part of my as yet unannounced brilliant master plan. That brilliant master plan began with a modest end-of-year celebration in Major Nathaniel Peabody’s apartment.
My New Year’s Eve party had to be held at the Major’s apartment because of the provisions of the Peabody Spendthrift Trust. The elder Peabody was painfully aware of his only son’s ingenious ability to rid himself of money. The trust document was very carefully and very strictly drawn. Major Peabody’s monthly remittance was to be delivered to him on the first day of every month. Any change in terms, early distribution or alienation of any kind were specifically denied.
When the Major first learned he could not tap his trust funds whenever he needed cash, he showed his displeasure by insisting the other terms of the document also be strictly observed - including the one requiring the Trustee (me) to deliver his checks. And that explains why I had to be in Major Peabody’s Philadelphia apartment, delivering his monthly Spendthrift Trust stipend when the New Year’s Eve clock struck midnight, ushering in not only the New Year, but also the first day of the ensuing month.
The First Stage of my brilliant master plan, therefore, had to be performed within the Philadelphia apartment of Major Nathaniel Peabody, the place where I had to deliver his check. I had already proposed such a New Year’s Eve party to the Major and he thought it was a delightful suggestion. On the moment of the arrival of the New Year, I would hand Peabody his check, give the lovely Stephanie her diamond broach and find myself standing beneath the mistletoe, being covered with her warm, moist kisses. Stage Two of my plan consisted of a post-midnight private celebration with the lovely Stephanie in my own apartment. And later, what with the champagne and all, who knows?
Then came disaster.
The lovely Stephanie invited me to escort her to one of the most exclusive New Year’s Eve celebrations held in south eastern Pennsylvania. What a disgusting development. I couldn’t be her escort. I couldn’t be at that snooty Main Line party, standing under the mistletoe with the lovely Stephanie and, at the same time; be in Peabody’s apartment delivering his first-of-the-month stipend. I damned the terms of the Peabody Spendthrift Trust. I damned the idiot lawyer who drafted its provisions (me).
In desperation, I reminded the lovely Stephanie of the number of drunks careening wildly up and down the roads and highways. It would be much safer if we celebrated the coming of the New Year in Philadelphia with Major Peabody and, later, perhaps at some other equally safe location. The lovely Stephanie would have none of it. She said “No” in such a firm tone that only a fool would attempt to dissuade her.
I attempted to dissuade her. I told her the ancient Druids celebrated the coming year one week after the winter solstice - which would make it the 29th or 30th of the month. “Wouldn’t it be fun if you and your friends decided to celebrated in the old Druid tradition and change the date of their party?” I ventured.
The lovely Stephanie’s enthusiasm for my suggestion was limited. Her response was immediate and unqualified. She said “NO !!!!!” She had no intention of spending New Years Eve at a time different from December 31 or at any place other than at that fancy Main Line mansion..
In a flash of inspiration, it occurred to me she might be able to wangle an invitation for our mutual friend, Major Peabody. If he were present at her party, I could slip him his check while I was standing under the mistletoe
with the lovely Stephanie. I made the proposal. The lovely Stephanie agreed. Oh, joy. I had solved my problem - I thought.
Ten minutes later the lovely Stephanie called to inform me the Major declined her invitation. Of course, I knew why Peabody wouldn’t go to the lovely Stephanie’s party. Peabody knew I couldn’t escort her to that Main Line party if I had to be in his apartment, delivering the trust check at 12:01 a.m. New Year’s morning. He was getting back at me for my many refusals to prepay his monthly remittances.
When I told the lovely Stephanie it was impossible for me at attend her party, the temperature of the telephone I held in my hand dropped by a full ten degrees. A minute passed without a sound coming from it. Then, in a flat voice, the lovely Stephanie slowly informed me of her intention to go to the party without an escort. She hoped I might find a way to meet her there. Then I heard a click.
I was disconsolate. For the next days I struggled with the problem of being in two places at the same time. Finally, I concluded it was an impossibility. I directed my attention to other solutions. I could pay someone to kidnap the lovely Stephanie and release her at the Major’s apartment a few minutes before midnight. I could burn down the mansion at the Main Line estate. I could kill Peabody. I recognized possible ethical questions involved with each such alternate proposition and reluctantly rejected them.
On the last day of the year, alone, sulking in my apartment, I was not in a cheerful mood. It was apparent the joys of the approaching New Year celebrations were not going to descend upon me. Then, unexpectedly, the answer to my problems flashed across my mind. I could disregard a cardinal provision of the Spendthrift Trust Agreement and deliver Peabody’s remittance before 12:01 of January 1.
Suddenly, all was right in the world. If I got to the Major’s apartment by eight o’clock, I could give him his check and leave. I’d be at the Main Line party by nine and at midnight I’d be under the mistletoe with the lovely Stephanie. I put two bottles of champagne in my apartment refrigerator. They would be well chilled when the two of us returned from the Main Line party.
