There is magic in all rivers …
Chapter One
Across The Saddle
It was one of those late afternoons in mid summer when nothing seemed more important than just doing nothing. Well, nothing in particular that is.
If anyone had seen the Beaver sprawled by the river bank on his back, they would no doubt have thought him a very lazy creature. Only an occasional swat at a nosy bee betrayed any life in him at all. His ample belly protruded like an anthill from the grass — a reminder, as if he cared at that moment, of the algae diet he had resolved to start that very morning.
Even though his eyes were squeezed shut against the dappled sunlight, however, the Beaver was anything but closed to the world around him. His sharp sense of smell had picked up the scent of rain long before rumbles from above announced the coming storm.
Likewise, he was alert to every sound. The drone of a million insects. The calls of birds echoing through the thicket of sycamore, walnut and willow trees around him. And running through it all, the trickling waterfall that had been his comfort and joy for as long as he could remember.
He thought about getting up and doing something. After all, he prided himself on being an animal who didn’t waste time. There were always errands and jobs to do around his home, and he rarely needed an excuse to take a healthy walk along the meandering path upstream to inspect for litter and other debris blocking the current.
It was altogether too tempting though to surrender to the humid air and leave his nose and ears to keep track of the state of things. And so he sank back into a daydream about the crystal clear pools and endless shoals of fish he’d heard about when he was a cub. Could such places ever have existed? Or were they only the stuff of tales told in a warm burrow on winter’s evenings?
Suddenly, an unfamiliar sound caught his attention — the shrill cadence of a small voice singing somewhat off key — and it did what none of the other sounds had been able to do. It made him sit up. The Beaver rubbed his eyes with his paws and then looked up and down the valley for the source of this strange interruption.
Nearer it came, the high-pitched wailing, until the Beaver thought he might be well advised to dive into the water and head for the safety of home. Just as he was about to make a move he saw a tuft of black and white fur. At first all he could see was this plume bobbing like a headdress along the path between the reeds. And then, emerging from the undergrowth, came a nose even more pointed than his own and two eyes as shiny as slivers of obsidian.
“Hello there,” said the stranger.
“Hi to you too,” the Beaver replied, adding after a pause: “You gave me quite scare with that noise you were making.”
“Well, if a body can’t holler away his troubles,” came the response, “what’s the good of having a voice? A song’s not a song unless it’s sung.”
The Beaver thought it better not to pursue that subject, and sat contemplating the new arrival with his black and white coat so different from Beaver’s own camouflage of brown.
“Don’t see many skunks down this way,” he said at last by way of making conversation.
“You wouldn’t see this one neither,” the Skunk said, “if it weren’t for a near death experience on the other side of that gully over there.”
“Oh, how come?”
“Just minding my own business, crossing over the saddle from the valley yonder. Before I knew it there was a whoosh and a rumble and a grating and commotion like a chorus of owls hooting. Before I could get out of the way, something hard and gleaming thumped into me. It’s no fun to find yourself somersaulting through a clump of cactus, and that’s a fact.”
