“They’re a rodent, like rats,” the first voice says. “They’re pests, and what do you do with pests?”
“Dynamite and destroying the dams doesn’t work. You know a family of them can rebuild a dam overnight.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying. The only way to go after them is put a bounty on them. The council will see reason.”
A bounty? The Township would pay for every dead beaver? No, Jack just said they don’t want bad publicity. But would these men talk the council into it?
A steamy volcano bubbles up inside me. I start marching toward them until Aaron drags me back.
“That’s not going to solve anything,” he whispers, pulling me out of the store where Jack and Lid are waiting.
“I found out something interesting,” Jack says, jiggling the bag. “When I asked the clerk if anyone bought these recently, he laughed and said pretty much every landowner in Willow Grove. He said they’d declared war on the beavers.”
He stuffs the evidence in his pocket and adds smugly, “I told you these shells would work. What did you hear?”
Aaron and I glance at each other. “The same,” I say.
Jack looks a little crestfallen, but nods. “We need a plan.” He eyes us knowingly. “Sounds like it’s up to us to find the poacher.”
“Before they get a bounty put on beavers,” Aaron says.
“A bounty?” Jack asks, eyes wide. “Then anyone can kill more beavers and it won’t be illegal. There’ll be no crime to solve.” He deflates.
“There isn’t any bounty yet,” I say, burning with the need to do something. “So we’re not too late to stop it. Let’s go!”
15
I spin around and run.
Lid bounds ahead.
“Where we going?” Jack asks, feet pounding the sidewalk behind me.
I point to the Township office at the end of the street. When we burst through the doors, the air conditioning hits me in the face.
A lady with soft blond curls looks up from her computer. “I’m sorry, no dogs allowed.” She points to the sign.
Jack tsks and pushes Lid back out. Lid stares through the windows with an incredulous expression, as if he can’t believe there’d be such a ridiculous rule.
“Can I help you?” The lady comes to the counter. Her nametag says CARRIE.
“We’ve got new information about your beaver problem,” I say.
“We don’t have a beaver problem,” Carrie says, unconvincingly.
As we tell Carrie about the landowners and what they plan to do, it occurs to me that I have to be very careful. If anyone from the Township knew I had orphaned beaver kits at home, they’d take them away in a hurry. And then what would they do with them? There aren’t any licensed rehabbers around here since Nana. They’d have to take them far away. Or worse, decide it’s too much bother. It would be easier to just release the kits so they don’t have to deal with them.
But Phrag and Cooler are too young to survive on their own. Kits stay with their families for two years.
Carrie lets out a small sigh. “If the council decides that a bounty is what they should do to control the population, then it’s for the best. They have wildlife experts to consult with. They know what they’re doing. You can trust that they’ll deal with the matter in the correct way.”
I have a bad feeling. It sounds like a quiet solution to the Township’s problem would be to just let the landowners deal with things their way. I’m pretty sure no one will care about beavers dying as long as there’s a flooding problem.
“But, the beavers,” Aaron says. He’s coming to the same conclusions as I am—I see it in his face. “You should meet them. They have these fingers . . . and they talk . . . and they’re nice, and . . . and they’re all going to die.”
Aaron’s so smart when he’s not around strangers. I shoot him a warning look as he scrambles to explain.
“Madi will tell you. She’s an animal whisperer.”
Uh-oh.
Carrie turns to me. “What’s an animal whisperer?”
I shift my feet. “Um . . . it’s just an interest of mine. My nana was an animal whisperer and she taught me how to listen to wildlife. I’m going to save animals like Jane Goodall. When I’m older, of course.”
“Well, that sounds like a wonderful goal. I wish more people cared to learn how to listen to animals.”
I let out a tiny breath, the tension in my shoulders relaxing a bit. She doesn’t have that knowing look that most adults give kids when they don’t believe them. She’s really listening to me.
“Now. All of you should stop worrying about this and spend your summer doing something fun. You’ve got the whole outside to play in. Go be kids!”
So much for listening.
I glance at Jack and Aaron and we have a conversation with our eyes. We leave, more subdued than when we came in.
Outside, Jack kicks a rock. “I can’t believe no one cares about beaver poaching.”
We’re silent as we think about what to do next. A truck goes past with a pile of trees in the back.
Jack perks up. “Wait a minute. Mr. Kang.”
“What about him?” I say.
“Someone went on his private property and destroyed his trees. Still a mystery why they cut his trees,” he adds to himself. “But that’s against the law. You can’t just cut down someone else’s trees. So we have to solve who did.”
“It’s more important to figure out who killed the beavers,” I say.
“It’s the same thing,” Jack says. “Because Lid did the track. You both saw it. We followed the scent trail directly from where the shooter killed the beavers. It led right to Mr. Kang’s trees. That means whoever shot Phrag and Cooler’s parents is the same person who cut the trees.”
“How do you know for sure?” Aaron says. “Lid could’ve just been going for a walk for all you know.”
“No way. You heard him. Lid was on a track. He linked the murder with the tree cutter. And I know Mr. Kang’s pretty upset about his trees. Someone will care who destroyed them. If we solve that crime, we solve the beaver-killing crime at the same time.”
“Okay, so how do we solve it?” Aaron asks, always the logical one.
“I have to think on it,” Jack says, looking uncertain.
But the start of an idea is niggling at me. Something about the way Phrag and Cooler reacted this morning in the tub. When they heard the water draining, they’d freaked out. The animal whisperer part of my brain buzzes.
“I think I have a plan,” I say.
16
After the disappointing Township office visit, we split up for the day.
Aaron had something to do with his family. Jack said he and Lid would investigate. I fed the kits, changed their water, and did more beaver research until Mom came home for supper.
Afterward I convinced her that I had to go do my observations before the end of the day since I’d missed them that morning.
I take the ATV back to Birch Street. Beavers work at dusk, and I think I know where to find them.
I started observations once I learned how Jane Goodall would go out every day and sit and watch wild animals to understand how animals act normally. I’ve learned a lot about the habits of raccoons, ducks, rabbits, skunks, crows, and deer, and once even a fox hunting mice. But beavers are nocturnal—they do most of their activity at night. I haven’t observed them much.
I park the ATV and follow Birch Creek on foot until I come to a beaver dam stretched across the narrowest part. Climbing on the dam, I pull out a few sticks and shove a big log out of the way until water starts to flow through again.
Then I set myself up next to some trees to wait. If these beavers are anything like Phrag and Cooler, they’re going to come to the sound of the water.
I lay out my things around me so I don’t have to move much. That’s key for observing without disturbing the animals. If you sit very still, they’ll ignore you. Or in Jane Goodall’s case, climb all over you. My w
ater bottle is on my left. My logbook’s on my right, and my binoculars I keep around my neck.
While I wait for the beavers to show, I watch a squirrel. He’s so busy carrying pine nuts around and finding places to bury them, he doesn’t take notice of me. His tiny paws dig furiously through the leaf litter on the ground. Once he’s dug a hole, he drops the nut in and shoves the dirt over top of it. Satisfied, he whirls around and runs straight over my shoe on his way to find more pinecones.
My left leg starts to get pins and needles. I shift slightly and the squirrel disappears into the bushes.
Without the rustling of the squirrel, the quiet of the woods descends. When I sit like this, one of my favorite things about being here besides watching the animals is the stillness. It’s peaceful in the woods alone.
I feel the coolness of the forest being released into the summer air. The sharp scent of trees surrounds me. I smell bark and green leaves and sun-heated needles and rotting leaves on the ground. The moss by my shoes has been kicked up. I like the earthy smell of that, too.
I notice the difference from morning. The smells are more pungent. It’s quieter without so many bird calls. There’s a calm settling in and filling me up.
A mosquito buzzes in my ear and I try to remain still and not swat it. I hope the beavers hurry up. I don’t have much time before I have to go.
That’s when I notice the sleek brown head watching me from the surface of the creek.
We lock into a staring contest until the beaver seems to decide I’m not worth worrying about. He turns and makes his way to the dam. When he climbs out of the water and shakes, I see how huge he is. I can’t imagine little Phrag and Cooler growing up to be this size—as big as Lid, but with shorter legs.
The beaver studies the damage I did to his dam, pushes at the log, and seems to think about how to fix it. Then he slides back into the water. Another head appears, carrying a long stick. That beaver shoves his stick into the dam, jiggling it to make it fit.
The first beaver comes back clutching mud to his chest. He waddles carefully, upright on his back feet, looking like a hunched-over old man carrying parcels. He’s muttering to the other beaver.
The beavers work together, going and collecting sticks and pulling up mud from the bottom of the creek. I jot notes in the logbook as I watch them patch up the dam. They pat mud in place just the way I’d seen Cooler do on his box.
I think of the kits I have hidden at home with their funny habits and separate personalities. The more I get to know them, the more urgent it feels that no more beavers die.
* * *
The next day I head to the boat launch with the boat to pick up Jack and Aaron.
“So are you going to tell us this plan of yours now?” Aaron asks.
“I’m still working on it,” I say. “First we need to get to the channel.”
The boys settle into their usual seats, Lid hogging the bow, ready to catch the wind in his ears. I brace my feet on the back transom and grab the pull start. Sometimes this part’s tricky.
Vrrrooom! The motor jumps to life.
We putter across the bay. The motor’s only a four-horse after all. Morning sun dances off the ripples on the water like fireflies. I forgot my hat again so it also beats on my head. The wind in my face feels good.
I think about what Carrie from the Township said about us just being kids and enjoying our summer. We used to do that, back when Jack and Aaron lived next door. We grew up together, catching frogs and having races over our beach all day.
Aaron’s always been obsessed with engineering, building complicated sandcastle villages. Back then, Marley used to play with us too, helping us make moats and dams. We’d build a network of trenches and bridges and then pour buckets of water down it. We’d watch the water follow the channels until the cascade would wash everything away down to the lake.
Then Marley grew into a teenager and wanted nothing to do with us. With me.
Aaron moved away first, into town after his mom quit her job at the bank. Then Jack’s mom wanted a bigger family and they moved into that huge house on Lake Little Hawk. Now, with Jack’s dad gone, they might have to change back to a smaller house. Maybe we’ll be neighbors again.
Once I turned twelve, I was allowed to use the boat and ATV to go see my friends. That was my excuse.
But we don’t have time for frog races anymore. How can we, when we know about the beaver situation? No one else in this town’s going to care about beavers being killed. It really is up to us.
I slow down once we arrive at the mouth of the channel. The small wash from our wake pushes us further in toward a weed bed.
“What are we doing, Madi?” Aaron asks again.
“We need to collect food for the kits.”
“You think they’ll eat wood now?” Jack asks.
“They don’t eat wood. They eat bark off young saplings. But their favorite is usually food that they’ve grown up with. This channel is full of water lilies. They eat the roots of water vegetation, so we’re going to collect them. And we also have to get them some building material.”
“You want them to build a lodge?” Aaron asks, perking up.
“Not quite,” I say.
17
Marley’s boyfriend, Cal, shows up just as we’re hauling our tangled forest of branches to the clubhouse.
She’s taking full advantage of our secrecy pact by having a boy over when Mom’s not home. She knows I can’t tell.
Cal steps out of his truck wearing board shorts, work boots, a plaid shirt with the sleeves ripped off, and a straw cowboy hat. I remember Marley told our parents he works on his dad’s farm. I have to admit I see why Marley thinks he’s cute.
“Planning a really big bonfire?” he asks, giving me a lopsided grin.
“That’s right.” I think fast. “For the party on Friday.”
Cal watches Aaron drag a branch taller than he is. Though most things are taller than Aaron.
“Just a suggestion,” Cal says. “You might want to collect dead wood. It burns better.”
“Oh!” I say, to humor him. I stand in front of the soggy water lilies I’d dropped. “Good tip, thanks.”
Marley appears at the side door. “Hey. You should come in. We’ve been having a rodent problem out there.”
“What?” Cal looks around in alarm. “You have rats?”
“Big ones.” Marley indicates how large with a surprisingly accurate depiction.
“Whoa. You kids be careful out there.” He tucks a strand of sandy hair behind his ear and gives me a wink. He’s much nicer than her last boyfriend.
As they go in, Marley casts me a look over her shoulder. Loosely translated to mean Death if you tell.
We spend the rest of the day transforming the clubhouse into a beaver habitat.
Well, Aaron and I do. Jack keeps busy plotting his investigation.
“Listen,” he says, holding up a list. “Yesterday I did some recon at the store.”
“What?” I ask.
“Recon. It means I hid near the checkout counter and took down the names of everyone who bought ammo.” He seems proud to tell us. I suppose it’s the same as what I did last night. Observation.
“And I think I have a prime suspect.” He circles a name on the list. “Mr. Archer.”
“Holly’s dad?” Aaron asks. Then his face lights up. “Holly lives on Birch Street!”
“Exactly!” Jack says. They smack hands so loud, it startles Lid, who’s busy cleaning my food trays with his tongue. At least it keeps his attention away from the kits. He’s ignored them since that first day.
“So what if he lives on Birch Street?” I say.
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the last beaver to be shot was on the same street as someone who lives there and who bought ammo.”
I leave Jack to his planning and get Aaron to help me with my old kiddie pool from our garage. We cram it inside, folding it in half to stuff it through the door. It takes up half of the
shed.
“Now we need to build platforms,” I say, “so the kits can climb in and out of the pool themselves.”
We use pieces of old planks we find behind the shed. They work like a kind of sidewalk with a wheelchair ramp along one full side of the pool. Inside the pool I place a few pieces of board so the kits can slide in and climb out.
Next we drag in our pile of sticks, willow branches, and lily roots. The branches make horrid screeching sounds on the tin door as we shove them inside. The lily roots were tricky to pull out of the muck while hanging upside down out of a boat. I hope the kits don’t go through these too fast, but I have a feeling I’ll be doing it every day to get them fresh food. Beavers are a lot more work than I thought.
Phrag and Cooler inspect everything with glee. Turning things over in their hands, tasting, muttering their opinions, twirling the willow twigs and peeling the bark off. They hang over the sidewalk and stare solemnly at the empty pool.
We dump the potting soil next to the sticks and then I go out to get the hose. All that’s left now for step one of my plan is to fill the pool.
When I come back inside, the kits are arguing over a stick. It must be an excellent piece because the fight’s getting ugly. Phrag grunts as he tries to yank the stick from his brother. But Cooler is bigger. He curses right back and holds fast to the stick clutched to his chest. They push and pull each other across the clubhouse.
“I can’t think over their racket,” Jack says, waving his notepad at the kits. He gets up from the table where it’s crammed next to the workbench. “I’ll go get us lunch.”
Someone’s going to hear the kits’ squalling. Phrag falls backwards when he loses his grip on the coveted stick. I divert their attention, squeezing the nozzle of the hose. Water gushes into their pool.
I lower the kits in. They swim around, do their business, and then crawl out on their own. I know their routine now. They sit on the sidewalk and groom themselves. A nap will be next.
Jack returns with healthy-looking sandwiches on actual brown bread complete with leafy greens. Marley must’ve made them. Huh. She would never have made them for me.
Rescue at Lake Wild Page 5
