Skunk and Badger Page 4

  “Tumbler,” Badger corrected. “It is loud. Yes.” He scraped at his baked potato, making sure to get some olives and sun-dried tomatoes. Then he frowned. “The chickens call me ‘tolerable’?”

  Skunk chewed his asparagus spear and swallowed. “With chickens, tolerable is good. Chickens get a lot of trouble. You will like the chickens. So down-to-earth! By the way, did you meet a chicken? A Dominicker said she startled you. She said you were one of those animals that did not expect chickens to speak.”

  Badger thought back to the gray-and-white-speckled chicken he had seen two days ago. Was he really supposed to say “bock”?

  Skunk leaned over the table. “Would you like to meet the chickens?”

  “Yes,” said Badger, and he realized he meant it.

  Skunk clapped his paws. “Good, good, good.”

  “Now,” said Skunk, leaning back with a biscuit in his paw. “Tell me the story of the Touring Pegmatic Rock.”

  “Tourmaline pegmatite begins with fire, lava, and magma deep inside our Earth,” Badger began.

  “Fire, lava, magma,” repeated Skunk. He leaned his chin on a paw, took a bite of biscuit, and listened.

  Afterwards, Skunk asked Badger to show him on a map, so they cleared the kitchen table and Badger spread out one of his geological survey maps. Side by side—Skunk on a chair, Badger beside the chair—they leaned over the map. Badger told Skunk how he used maps on rock-finding expeditions.

  Skunk gasped. “Rock-finding expedition? What is that?”

  Badger explained about how he camped out—

  “Under the stars?” interrupted Skunk.

  “Technically yes, but—”

  “With a picnic every day?” interrupted Skunk again.

  “I guess. I do eat outside.”

  Skunk hopped from one foot to the other. “What else? What else?”

  So Badger explained how clues in the landscape led to a particular rock.

  Skunk slapped his paw on the map. “Like X marks the spot?”

  “Sort of . . . yes.”

  Then Skunk turned and said, “Badger, what are we waiting for?”

  “Har!” laughed Badger, because that’s exactly how he felt too.

  That afternoon, Skunk set off to explore North Twist and Badger did the lunch dishes. Badger didn’t mind doing the dishes by himself. He’d had a terrific day. Badger even smiled at Rocket Potato (which he left cradled in Rocket Potato Corner).

  Suddenly, Badger remembered the letter he had sent to Aunt Lula. He stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen floor and thought. He thought for one second . . . for two seconds . . . for three seconds. Finally, Badger snapped himself out of it: Surely, it is for the best! How could this living arrangement ever work out?

  When the kitchen was clean, Badger took the latest copy of Rock Hound Weekly up to his bedroom. He would see if one of his rock discoveries had made it into print.

  Several hours later, Badger awoke with his face smashed on top of his Weekly. He sat up, folded the newspaper, and set it on his desk. Two of his rock discoveries had been written up! He planned to clip the articles out and store them in his publication file.

  Then Badger realized it was quiet. Very quiet. He went downstairs to investigate. Skunk was not in the kitchen. Instead, Badger found a note on the table. It read:

  Badger,

  I will be back after dinner. Do not go anywhere tonight. There will be a surprise!

  Skunk

  A surprise? Badger read it again. It said “surprise.”

  Badger’s eyes widened. He read the note a third time.

  “Oh,” said Badger, wiping at his eyes with the back of a paw. It had been a long, long time since someone had prepared a surprise for him.

  Badger felt a sharp ping. Maybe I should not have written that letter?

  But there was a surprise coming, so Badger pushed the thought aside.

  A surprise! He could not wait.

  Chapter Six

  Badger Did Not Wait Long For The Surprise. First came a sound.

  It was an awful sound. Badger thought a tiny elephant had gotten stuck in one of his ears. It trumpeted! Badger jumped and pounded the right side of his head. He pounded the left. Then Badger realized the trumpeting wasn’t in his ears. Groaning, he followed the sound out of the kitchen and down the front hallway, and jerked open the front door.

  Skunk stood on the stoop’s landing with his back to Badger. He blew into an orange stick.

  Skunk turned around and removed the stick from his mouth. “Hello, Badger!”

  The sound exited Badger’s ears like corks forced from bottles. Pup! EeeePUP! Badger crumpled onto the stone parapet and panted, rubbing his ears.

  Skunk pocketed the stick and skidded to the edge of the stoop. He held a paw over his eyes, surveying the neighborhood. “Any minute now! Any minute any minute any minute.”

  Badger followed Skunk’s gaze, expecting to see red-faced neighbors also massaging their ears. But no neighbors appeared. In fact, the neighborhood looked as it always looked: meadow across the street, sidewalk to the mailbox, brownstones lined up like dominoes ascending Queggly Hill.

  Skunk leapt and pointed to the south. “Ahoy! Orloff!”

  Badger saw an odd, upright bird with feathered breeches.

  Skunk leaned toward Badger and whispered, “Named after the Russian count Alexei Grigoryevich Orlov. But she is not Russian—she is Iranian.”

  Badger stood to get a better look. With every step the Orloff took, feathers shook (muffs, cowls, beard, and shaggy eyebrows). The Orloff slowly turned. Badger felt appraised (left-right, left-right). Then the Orloff fluffed her feathers, stuck her beak in the air, and made a sharp cry, “Rrrrr-RR!”

  “What kind of bird is that?” Badger asked.

  “Chicken! Chickens are the only ones who hear the chicken whistle,” Skunk replied.

  Badger thought of the orange stick and blinked. “You don’t hear anything when you blow it? Not even a little?”

  “Of course not—I am not a chicken.”

  A badger is not a chicken! Badger thought. Badger would have said something but Skunk hopped and pointed. “Look! Over there! And there!”

  “Oh!” Badger’s jaw went slack. The landscape had gone chicken. Under, over, behind—chickens. Across the street, in the park, near the mailbox—chickens. The wattles! The combs! The bright red faces! Oblongs, rounds, tiny, and shrub-sized. (“Jersey Giant,” said Skunk.) There were chickens strolling on stork legs. (“Three Ko Shamos on the right!” said Skunk.) Chickens wearing bell-bottoms, plumed berets, and flippers, all made of feathers. The chickens came in colors. A purple chicken? Some were mottled, some speckled, and some sparkled. Everywhere Badger looked, the earth moved with a chicken beat, syncopated in herks and jerks, and this eye, then that eye, then step-step-step, peer-PECK!

  On the brownstone stoop, Badger swayed on his feet. “Are these all chickens?”

  “Hen chickens,” said Skunk, misunderstanding him. “Hens get things done. Hens work together. I do not like to speak ill of a chicken, but Badger, too many roosters are trouble. A rooster wants all the attention. A rooster fights and claws and pecks. Some roosters do not know when to stop cock-a-doodle-doo-ing! Even the hens think it is best to keep roosters to a minimum. I did tell Larry, though. Larry is different.”

  Badger pointed at a group of four fleshy, sunbaked birds and crossed his arms. “Those are turkeys.”

  “Chickens—Transylvania Naked Neck chickens, Badger.”

  Then Badger noticed that the chickens—all of them—were coming closer. Step-peer-peck.

  And closer. Step-peer-peck.

  And closer! Step-peer. Step-step. Peck!

  Badger stumbled backwards and clutched at the stone of the house. “Triassic-Jurassic sandstone,” he mumbled out of habit, his thoughts firmly on the approaching chicken tidal wave.

  Skunk rushed into the sea of feathers. “Hello! Hello!” he yelled. “So nice to meet you!”

  Ba
dger watched Skunk greet chicken after chicken. Then the Orloff stepped up and apparently told some sort of joke.

  “Orange foot who?” Badger heard Skunk say.

  The landscape had gone chicken.

  “Bockety bock-bock, bockety-bockety-bock-bock?” said the Orloff.

  “Ha! Did you hear that, Badger?”

  Badger had heard. “Bock bock?” Not that funny. Badger shrugged.

  The chickens gathered around Skunk turned their gaze on Badger (one eye, the other eye).

  “Bock,” said a tiny orange ball of feathers.

  “Bock-bock,” said a speckled brown job.

  “BBBooock-bock-bock,” said the Orloff.

  Skunk looked briefly at Badger, then turned to the chickens. “You are right. I do not think Badger understands your dialect.”

  “What dialect?” Badger huffed.

  Skunk gave Badger a concerned look.

  The chickens conferred. The speckled brown job said, “Bock! Bock-bockety-bock.”

  Skunk waved his paws. “No, he is smart enough. Badger knows a lot about rocks.”

  Badger gasped. “Smart enough? For chickens?”

  “Shhh!” said Skunk. “You will speak clearly in no time at all—I promise. The chickens will like you, and you will like the chickens. Chickens are good to know.”

  Then—to Badger’s horror—Skunk pushed past him and opened the brownstone door. “Storytime!” he yelled.

  “Wait!” said Badger. But it was too late. Chickens rushed for the door with the force of a pressure hose.

  It had happened so quickly.

  Badger and Skunk stood in the doorway of Badger’s rock room and gawked. In one flick of a chicken head, the rock room had been overthrown in a chicken coop d’état. This wasn’t Badger’s rock room, this was the Wild West of Chicken, the Saloon at Dead-bug End, the Last Stand at Corncob Corral. The chickens chattered, and then burst forth in a SQUAWK and a clap of wings. The ones that flew took to the air. Some of these chickens perched on the chandelier, which now swung like a swing set.

  Badger’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed.

  Skunk glanced at him. “I do not usually get this many chickens,” he explained. “The most until now was sixteen. That was once—only once.” Skunk looked at Badger and kept talking: “I did not know that chickens liked rock rooms.” He added, “Usually they go into the kitchen first.” Skunk peeked at Badger and hastily looked away. “Yes, chickens continually surprise!”

  “Surprise,” mumbled Badger.

  Skunk kept talking: “But after you have blown the chicken whistle it would be rude not to invite them in for a story.”

  Badger thrust a paw toward the chicken outbreak in his rock room. “Rude? What about this?”

  Skunk nodded. “It is good that rocks are hard.”

  Then Skunk froze. “Oh dear,” he said softly.

  Badger turned. “What?”

  Skunk gave Badger a swift smile. “You do not have any gravel, do you?”

  “Why?”

  “Chickens eat gravel. Digestive aid. Or so chickens say.”

  “Gravel is rock. Chickens eat rocks?” Badger took in the bookshelves filled with boxes of rocks, the rock table, the fireplace mantel—all covered in chickens.

  Skunk took one look at Badger and said, “I will make the popcorn!”

  “AaaaaRRRUUUGH,” roared Badger, as he careened into chickens.

  Skunk popped popcorn. Badger shut, boxed up, and locked. He growled continually.

  Badger ended up spread over his rock table, clamped to his rock stool, batting at the Jersey Giant who seemed determined to perch on the gooseneck of Badger’s rock light. When the Jersey Giant finally gave up, Badger let his head plop on the table.

  Badger stayed like this until Skunk clunked a bowl of popcorn in front of him.

  “For sustenance. You have wilted,” said Skunk.

  Badger lifted his head in time to see Skunk, bearing bowls of popcorn, disappear into a whirlwind of chickens.

  Badger took a paw-full of popcorn, chewed, and sat up.

  He grabbed another paw-full. Then another. That’s when he saw her. The tiny orange ball of feathers stood next to his pencil mug.

  Badger began to spit-polish his rock light, watching her out of the corner of his eye. A yellow foot appeared from the poof of feathers. It extended out, out slo-oow-ly. Quick as a wink, she set the foot down, lowered the other yellow foot beside it, and poofed out her feathers. He put his head next to her tiny poof body. “I’m smart,” he growled.

  The ball of feathers pecked—hard.

  “Ow!” said Badger, patting his snout.

  “Bock-bock,” said the poof of feathers. She slowly extended her head out of the orange feathers and stared (left-right-left, blink, blink). Then she did a two-step, two-step, two-step toward Badger’s popcorn. “Bock!”

  “Har!” Badger laughed. He reached into the bowl and put a piece of popcorn in front of her. Then he sat back and watched.

  The tiny orange hen barely gave him a glance. She stepped up and ate the corn. “Bock.”

  Badger set another piece of popcorn in front of her. “I do rock science.”

  “Bock-bock,” said the tiny orange hen, pecking at the popcorn.

  Badger got a big paw-full and set it in front of her. “Rock science takes persistence, determination, and character. Also, you have to be very, very, very smart.”

  “Bock-bock-bock-bock.” The tiny orange hen tossed a piece of popcorn back and gulped.

  Badger ate several more paw-fulls of popcorn. When Badger saw that the tiny orange hen had finished eating hers, he reached for a paw-full.

  “Bock!”

  Badger stopped mid-reach.

  “Bock!” said the hen again. Badger saw two tiny eyes peer up at him (right eye, left eye, right eye). Then the tiny orange hen hopped into the crook of one of Badger’s arms.

  So light, thought Badger.

  The tiny orange hen sighed, tucked her beak under her wing, and went to sleep.

  “Oh,” said Badger.

  “Cockle-EH-eck. Eck. ECK.”

  A grizzled rooster rose stiffly from the geodes in the fireplace. The bird looked partially plucked.

  Larry? thought Badger.

  “Thank you, Larry,” came Skunk’s voice.

  Badger turned and saw Skunk sitting on the floor, holding a book with an embroidered cover.

  “BoooOOOOck . . . boooock, boooock,” the chickens murmured. The tiny orange hen stirred and adjusted herself in Badger’s arms.

  Skunk opened the book. “Chicken Little the Mighty,” he read.

  He paused, then looked directly at Badger. “To catch you up: Something fell from above onto Chicken Little. It was only something like a leaf, but it frightened Chicken Little and she jumped to the biggest possible conclusion. ‘The sky is falling! The sky is falling!’ she told everyone. A lot of other birds believed her. Those birds followed Chicken Little straight into the den of Foxy Loxy! Luckily, Chicken Little and her friends escaped unharmed, but Chicken Little’s reputation was ruined.”

  Skunk turned to the book. He began to read, his voice filling the room. As Badger listened, the story seemed to unfold in front of him.

  It went like this:

  Humbled by the Sky-Is-Falling Fiasco, Chicken Little left on a journey. She was determined to make up for what she had done. “I will not return until I find Something That Makes a Difference,” Chicken Little said.

  It was quite a journey! Chicken Little traveled through bands of starlings that leapt from the leaf litter and frogs that chorused to lead her astray. She snuck past lines of battling army ants and hid in damp ditches. Finally, she met a wise green parakeet. The parakeet gave her a magic kernel of corn. “Eat the kernel in a Time of Need,” the parakeet told her.

  Traversing the mountain glacier, Chicken Little lost a claw to frostbite. Then a crust of snow gave way with nothing but air underneath it. It was a crevasse, a crack in the glacier, h
alf hidden by blown-over snow. Into the crevasse, Chicken Little fell! She turned in the air, falling, falling. In desperation she flapped the wings that she’d been told were worthless.

  The wings worked!

  Or well enough. Chicken Little skidded onto the other side of the crevasse and dug her remaining claws into the crusty snow.

  The effort about did her in. Chicken Little lay on the ice panting, trying to remember which pocket held her magic corn kernel. Where was it? She could not seem to find it! And here, Chicken Little faced several facts: Bantam hens were not made for mountaineering. Also, a chicken on ice is soon a dead chicken. If it were not for a family of mountain pikas dragging her into their warm straw-filled den, Chicken Little would be no more. The pikas saved Chicken Little’s life. In return, Chicken Little left the pikas three eggs.

  “The eggs confused the pikas. Pikas are small rabbits, and only eat plants. What would they do with three big eggs? There is a story about what happened to the eggs, which we should tell another time,” said Skunk.

  “BOCK!” said the Jersey Giant.

  “Okay, okay . . . Back to the story,” said Skunk.

  Later, Chicken Little would be grateful that she had not used her magic kernel of corn on the glacier. If she had used it on that glacier it would have served only her. By waiting, Chicken Little was able to use it for the . . .

  “. . . Greater Good of All Chickens!” said Skunk.

  More adventures followed. Chicken Little traveled further, and farther . . . and further.

  Use the kernel! Use the kernel! Badger thought again and again.

  Then one day, Chicken Little saw a figure at the far end of a windless lake. It was a woman in hiking shoes and a herringbone-check wool blazer with patches on the elbows. Chicken Little saw the woman write in the sand with her walking stick.

  When Chicken Little arrived at the lake’s far end, the woman was gone, but her markings in the sand were still there.

  It was Chicken Scratch! Yes, that most ancient of chicken languages—words, numbers, symbols. Chicken Little read, “Electron, energy, exponent . . . wave number, unit length, integer . . . electromagnetic radiation in a vacuum . . . principal quantum numbers of the orbitals . . . The Constant!” There were symbols too—divided and multiplied by, infinity, greater than, less than, equal to, coefficients, decimals.