63

Not wanting to make things too incredibly difficult for yourself, you brush aside the idea of altering your circadian schedule. Objectively speaking, daytime is clearly the preferable time to be awake—light and heat are both undeniably good. But not everyone gets to play on the big stage. The largest, fiercest, most resilient creatures have that honor—those who are smaller and stealthier must keep the night. Your kind is long accustomed to such an arrangement—you not only perform better at night but prefer it to the brightness of day. There’s little point in rocking that boat now.

You hang out for long stretches at piles of leaves revealed by the spring thaw, waiting for voles, mice, and other small rodents to root around in them for food. Your timing, however, is off; the pain of your torn claw is making ambushes difficult. Your first twelve attempts all meet with failure, and you’re confident you’ve spent the equivalent of well more than one mouse worth of energy just trying to catch one. Things are getting discouraging.

“Calling all rodents!” you croon in a playful half-voice. “I just want to play with you...I’ll only eat you if you annoy me. Come on out and play….”

Seeking a distraction from hunger, you find yourself rolling in the leaves. It’s almost like taking a moist gravel bath, but the texture is softer and the crackling pleases you. You’ve never been around so many dead leaves before.

“Hello?” calls a shy voice from up in an alder tree. You leap to your feet.

“Yes? Who’s there?”

“You were calling for rodents?”

This is incredible. Could there really exist a rodent so gullible as to take you at your word when you said you meant no harm? You feel almost guilty. “Um—yes. But honestly, I was just looking for something to eat. You’d better stay hidden—if you show yourself I might try and kill you.”

“Kill me? Really? Oh, I don’t think so. I can see you, and I don’t think you’d manage.”

You peer with renewed scrutiny into the branches, and laugh when you make out the creature’s form. It’s a porcupine.

“Ah, hey!” you laugh. “No, I guess I wouldn’t be too likely to get through those spines. I was thinking of small rodents.”

“Then perhaps you should have said so,” says the porcupine, venturing into visibility. You’re getting used to this reduced starlight.

“I’m new to this environment,” you readily admit. “If you have any pointers, feel free to let me know.”

“Well, I’m sure I have no idea how to be a meat-eater,” the rodent says. “But just the same, if you’d like a cozy place to sleep, I have a pretty big den.”

You crook your neck. “Are you serious? That’s…amazingly trusting.”

“You seem honest,” says the porcupine. “I’ll take an honest carnivore over a skittish bark-eater any night.”

“Um. Thanks for the offer, but...that just feels too weird. Even for me.” Section 66.

“In that case, I’ll move right in. Where’s your place?” Section 67.

Return