Finnegan's Quest

Chapter 1

Finnegan padded through a field of queen anne’s lace, sunflowers, and chicory, catching their moisture on his fur and feeling he was the handsomest of red foxes, every bit as impressive as these flowers. The warmth of Mama’s farewell kiss had long faded from his cheek. But her advice lingered, tucked into a corner of his mind.

He’d eagerly awaited the day when she would deem him mature enough to strike out on his own. During the last week, she had crammed his waking moments with advice. Do this, don’t do that. Her efforts made as much impression as the breeze batting his ears. After all, he was already grown and restless. At their parting, she told him he wasted time searching far afield for what was under his nose. She was his crone, his fool, his mentor. The crone is wise, the fool is wily, the mentor is a guide. Maybe so, but an itch in his blood chased him into the world to seek another guru. Spirit, he told her, was leading him to search for more sophisticated lessons than Sit up straight, Don’t hit, and Clean up your own messes.

The dark spirit could be leading you, she said.

He didn’t think so. Leaving home was normal when a fox reached a certain age.

Begrudgingly, Mama saw him off by shoving into his grip a list of all she had taught. He shuddered to think someone should see him on the trail and ask him what he was carrying. His face would be as red as his fur. Smile, Pay attention, Don’t talk to strangers. All her rules were ingrained in his fiber. Rules for a kit. Trash for an adult.

As soon as he was out of her sight, he had buried the list under a rock. Perhaps some uninitiated would find the list and consider it a treasure. Fine. His goals were loftier. He sought the esoteric, the extraordinary.

When the pupil is ready, the teacher will appear. And Finnegan felt ready. The secrets of the universe awaited his discovery. What would his teacher be like? An ancient of days inhabiting a mountain top? A temple-bound hermit in a tree or a cave? A mighty hero who fights for truth and justice? In any case the mentor definitely would be wise and mysterious, stronger and bigger than he, perhaps even a bit frightening. Finnegan felt so ready, he expected the teacher to pop up anywhere. Even now the guru might be watching.

Finnegan hurdled wild oats, foxtail, and wild mustard to show what an energetic apprentice he would be. He dropped down and nosed his way through wild radish and goosefoot to display his stealth. His coat flared in the sun, making a fire that did not consume the elderberry bush he shimmied through. Fox fire!

A path wound among cottonwood and oak trees. He leaped onto it in a brief dance; four feet leap, three feet bounce, two feet hop, and one foot skip. The chatter and click of critters in the foliage ceased. He sensed the eyes of birds, insects, and squirrels upon him. Admiring eyes, no doubt.

Beyond a screen of reeds and willows a stream chuckled to the cadence of his trotting. It sang a song too beautiful to ignore, so he broke through the reeds and lapped up transparent water, cold and delicious. Lips dripping, he scanned the opposite shore and noticed a path on the far side, appearing and disappearing among wild grapevines and hinting that it was a prettier path than the one he was on. The obscuring vines gave the path an air of mystery. Surely his mentor lived in that direction. Finnegan poked ahead until he found a broad gravely place that promised a shallow crossing. Here the water flowed without singing. Here, also, directly in the way stood a monster bear, knee-deep, sifting the current with its claws.

Was this his guru? Finnegan couldn’t ask directly. Though he’d buried Mama’s list, her teachings clung like leeches. One in particular mounted the podium of his mind: Don’t talk to strangers.

No problem. After all, the teacher should pick the pupil. He’d make to pass, and the bear would let him know.

He stood by the water’s edge. Cleared his throat. The mountainous critter seemed too engrossed slapping at fish. Perhaps Finnegan should speak. Surely Mama’s advice wouldn’t apply where everyone he met would be a stranger. How could he make friends if he snubbed the new country’s denizens? He donned his best grin. Howdy, Bear. I’m Finnegan, and I’m on a quest. At the moment, I’m fixing to cross. May I ask who you are?

The bear raised its face and rumbled something that sounded like, Duh Fuz. Its red eyes settled on him, as if he were a gadfly, and it tilted its head upstream. Take the bridge.

Finnegan giggled. Thank you kindly.

He trotted upstream, glad to get away from those hot eyes, that humorless mug.

Soon he came upon a log that spanned the river. The log’s end nearest Finnegan was sheltered by a surround of willows, wild plum, and sycamores. From their shade a white wiry critter rose at his approach and met him at eye level, hand extended.

Howdy, Weasel, he said, reaching to shake hands. Name’s Finnegan, and I’m on a quest.

Squeeze, here. The weasel eluded his hand.

Squeeze where?

That’s my name. Dame Squeeze, to be exact. What’s your quest?

Finnegan hadn’t realized he was addressing nobility. She certainly had a lovely white coat with a black-tipped tail. A bit slinky for his taste. And haughty. According to Mama good manners won the haughty over, so he bowed. I’m seeking a guru.

I see. Squeeze held out her hand again. Finnegan reached to take it in a friendly shake when she again eluded his grasp and said, Toll, please.

What?

You aim to cross this bridge?

Yep.

Then you pay toll.

I never heard of such a thing. Finnegan started to go around, but the weasel blocked his way.

I have nothing to give you, he said.

In that case you must wait to make an appointment. Wait over there. She pointed at the edge of the willow surround.

Finnegan slouched into the shade. Above his head a quartet of jays gossiped and quarreled. Their exchange seemed meaningless, so he sat and glumly ignored them. A rabbit hopped into view and dropped something into the weasel’s hand before crossing. She dropped the payment into a straw pouch at her feet. Then Squeeze groomed, combing her white coat from nose to tail. After awhile a raccoon waddled up, paid, and crossed. Squeeze yawned and groomed some more, brushing from crown to toe. Finnegan became restless. Had she forgotten him? He cleared his throat to get her attention.

To simplify this, she said, without glancing at him, I’ll sell you a season’s ticket.

I only want to cross once.

A one-way ticket, then. She calculated on her fingers. Let’s see. There’s the toll, plus dues, plus—

Dues for what?

The worker is worthy of its dues. Plus donation.

Donation for what?

To a worthy cause. Plus initiation fee for first time use. Plus insurance.

Insurance!

At Finnegan’s appalled tone, the quartet of jays fell silent.

In case you stub a toenail crossing, or a hurricane strikes before you’re over, or a flash flood hits. Plus waiting-space rental.

Rental!

That will be twenty grubs.

Finnegan eyed Squeeze’s extended hand. He whirled away. I’ll wade across.

You can’t do that. You must use the bridge. Duh Fuz says.

Who’s Duh Fuz?

The bear.

What bear?

The one nobody dares to betray.

The monster in the river leaped to his mind. Big? With red eyes and a sour look?

That’s the one. Obey him, or else.

You work for him?

Not particularly. We just all pay him protection.

Finnegan frowned at Squeeze’s bossy tone. He frowned at the bridge. He swept his gaze up and down the river. Why should he be forced to use one little bridge when the entire river must have several crossings? Duh Fuz may be big and scary, but he occupied himself elsewhere. He was no threat. Neither was this weasel. Finnegan stalked off.

Thief! Squeeze shrilled.

Thief, the jays squawked.

Stop, Squeeze yelled. You owe me for waiting-area rental.

Finnegan continued on as stately as possible. That weasel could sure scream. The jays didn’t help.

Soon he felt a thumping vibration. It mounted, trembling the ground beneath his feet and rocking through his belly. When the landscape shook against his eyeballs, he looked back at something the size of a boulder bearing down on him. It advanced with the power of an avalanche. He could hear the huff of Duh Fuz’s breath, could smell fish on it. The spatter of foam from Duh Fuz’s lips convinced Finnegan the bear wasn’t in any mood to negotiate.

Finnegan blanked out. Next thing he knew, his legs took it upon themselves to tear out of there, hauling the rest of him along. The behemoth’s breath syncopated against his neck in rhythm to thudding feet.

His eyes took inventory: Meadow to the left of him, stream to the right.

Finnegan leaped right, hitting with a ploosh among reeds and cattails. Before he had time to plumb the depths, Duh Fuz’s belly flop caught him in a wave that landed him, along with a couple of fish, a dragonfly naiad, and clumps of algae, into a stream-side bush.

Finnegan lay among stabbing twigs and listened to thrashing in the stream and bellowing. Where’s the fox? Tell me or I’ll bite your head off. Duh Fuz throttled a carp.

Glub, glub, glub. It was all the carp could say, so Duh Fuz bit its head off. He snagged another fish. Where’s the fox?

Finnegan slipped from the bush and eased below the water’s surface as another fish lost its head. Cold pried against the thickness of his coat, but wetness touched only his nose and paws. He drifted with the current, ears battened against moisture while listening through the whisper of water. He drifted away from the massacre. Drifted beneath the bridge. Drifted until he found the shallow spot where he’d wanted to cross in the first place. He dithered over graveled bottom, pulled himself from the stream, shook himself dry, and ran.

Chapter 2

Critters called her Crookshank. They also called her Crow, for crow she was. Black from toe to crown, indistinguishable from flock mates, except for one glaring trait, her bent-double leg. Daily for ten thousand days, the leg reminded her of how she broke it. Some days it ached. Today it tingled.

Caw, caw.

Crookshank swung her focus to flying with the flock, which shifted and flowed as one.

I’m here, we’re all here together, members cried.

Sun danced blue sparks on black wings of a traveling community, a living history, a future promise. They moved in unity, their shadows keeping pace over a field of curled soil from which rows of green took advantage of the Indian summer and sprouted. Crookshank felt part of a matrix. At the same time, they were individuals. Aunts, uncles, parents, and grandparents. Cousins, siblings of many generations. Sons, daughters, in-laws. Fellow travelers and wannabes. Each precious. Her heart swelled at the sight of them, and a joyous caw released itself from her throat. And because it felt good, she did a slow barrel roll. Life was a field of strawberries.

Caw, caw. I’m here, I’m here, we are all here.

Together they disappeared into dense cloud. Inside it, Crookshank rowed on invisible wing, aware of the flock’s noisy presence. Even so, moisture muffled the sound, and a voiceless something in the cloud whispered in her brain, There could be more.

Spirit! Rarely did Spirit speak. When it did, one listened. Crookshank drew her crooked foot close to her face, hoping it would help her tune in. Her foot throbbed.

The vision of strawberries popped into her mind. She hadn’t thought of them for years. Spirit must have given her the image. Why?

Look to your past, Spirit seemed to say.

The cloud swirled and the past drew her back, back, back. Memories sharpened. She flew into the memories and became her adolescent self of long ago. Foolish with youth and life’s freshness, she accompanied other youngsters on a raid of a dump that had once existed where Squiggly Wood meets the prairie. At the time, she didn’t know what a dump was. Nevertheless she was eager to try anything once. It was only a side trip beyond their normal routes, taking them into country riddled with disturbed ground. The site reeked of sweet, sour, and rancid, and what mostly caught their attention was a splash of colors, sprawling and winking from countless mounds. Reds, blues, greens, yellows, and whites. She settled on the most colorful heap and for the first and only time in her life tasted strawberries with whipped cream.

A shock of pleasure came as it drizzled down her throat. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes in ecstasy, fully expecting a minute of delight. Thirty seconds was all fate allowed. Enraptured by sweet joy, she didn’t heed the cry of her fellows, the beating of their wings. She wanted one more taste. Just one more.

Flee!

Something whizzed by, whipping her feathers. She opened her eyes to see her fellows well beyond her. Froth and bitter breath hit her.

My dump, a furry behemoth yelled, its face almost in hers.

The young crow sprang upward, the whipped cream curdled in her throat. She pulled against the air, throwing her shoulders into rowing through an ocean her attacker couldn’t enter.

But he leaped.

His claw-edged hand toppled her. Somehow she managed to right herself and catch up with her buddies. Only when they sucked in their breaths at the sight of her did she feel the pain and look down to see how her right leg had snapped.

It was her first encounter with Duh Fuz.

Crookshank slipped from her young self into the present and examined the outside of memories. Her leg would never straighten after that. It resembled an arm bent at the elbow, and she had learned to walk on the elbow. Her toes curled like the fingers of a withered hand.

Clouds coiled over the memory, softening and obscuring it. The past had little hold on her. Except for one desirous speck of revenge.

Again the whisper came. Life is more than a field of strawberries.

Sunlight rainbowed through the mist and shimmered off myriad droplets. The flock flew out into the sun. Crookshank emerged with them, outwardly the same, inwardly changed. The sun emblazoned leaves that hinted at autumn, and she noted how the green had begun to leach out of some of the foliage, suggesting an underlying brilliance that waited to reveal itself. What would the change in her reveal? Brilliance, or pain and frustration? Her chuckle came out measured, for the ceiling of her contentment had vanished in just that journey through the cloud. Strawberries had long lost their attraction, but today they seemed again desirable. What could be better than strawberries? Something extra? Like, like whipped cream?

Sweet on the tongue, bitter in the craw.

Crookshank didn’t want to revisit the dump of her memories. Why had Spirit brought them to mind? Did Spirit have a blessing for her? Peeling away from the flock, she reentered the cloud. In whiteness she asked, Spirit, is this whipped cream good, or does it mean another broken leg?

Having asked it, she laughed. The broken leg hadn’t been so crippling. Sometimes it ached when the weather changed, but she could still walk on it. She could still use the toes to grip with. Sure, it made her different, and at first her permanently flexed leg was viewed as an object lesson for youngsters. Be alert. Know your enemy. And Duh Fuz became the acknowledged enemy of all. Nevertheless it really wasn’t a handicap—not even an inconvenience—for it blessed her with special hearing. She no longer remembered when she first became aware that the talon, raised near her face, acted as a receiver. Now she might pretend to scratch or preen with those claws when she was really listening. The mishap had brought her closer to Spirit, as if the Benevolent One, who watched over all critters, had compensated her for it.

Despite the gift, Duh Fuz had no excuse for harming her, for injuring her was his intent. He continued to harm many, and few benefited from it.

Why did Spirit speak to her? Perhaps to bless her with a mission and the power to accomplish it. Perhaps she had received a calling to rid the critters of Duh Fuz. She hoped so.

Tell me, Spirit. What must I do to be blessed?

The answer came, unmistakable. Embrace the leper.

Embrace the leper! What did Spirit mean? She knew of no leper. However, she knew of one as unpopular as a leper. Did Spirit mean she should join Duh Fuz, that terrorist of all critters? To love him? She shuddered.

Chapter 3

Eventually Finnegan quit looking over his shoulder or sniffing the air for Duh Fuz. The bear was probably back to the more important business of fishing rather than stewing over the minor infraction of a newcomer.

Finnegan continued along the river until he happened upon a stone bench at the joining of trails. Subtle odors told him travelers often rested here before continuing their journey. Essence of raccoon, turkey, and porcupine still clung. Most recently a lizard had sunned itself on the granite surface. The bench also served as a marker, for etched on its sides were directions. One arrow had Forbidden City written on it. It pointed south. The young fox had come from that direction, but until now, he had no idea a city existed. Another arrow contained the words, Squiggly Wood, and pointed north. A third arrow with the word, Farm, pointed southeast, away from the river and across grassland to a log fence that bordered a field of drying cornstalks. From the distance came the put-put of a tractor, the crow of a rooster, the bark of a dog. The scent of horse and cow drifted his way. He didn’t care to explore further. Mama said to stay away from farms, and the advice sounded good. A fourth arrow, labeled Maze, pointed northeast into the grassland at a copse of oak and gray pine.

Maze. That sounded intriguing.

He took the maze trail, which was worn in grass but not enough to expose the soil. A half-mile later he entered a tunnel of dense vegetation into the copse. The tunnel ended in a clearing before a tall hedge. Quiet lingered here, except for a slight rustle from within the maze. A shrouded side entrance held a small bark sign upon which was scratched, For Personnel Only. The larger opening in the front displayed a bark sign propped beside it that proclaimed, ENTER FOR AMAZING ANSWERS.

Answers! Inside must be his guru. Finnegan could almost imagine he heard his guru’s breath, slow and measured. Or was that Earth’s heartbeat? Perhaps it was Spirit, connected directly to his guru. He tried to find his guru’s scent among the potpourri of green hedge, dried grass, squirrels, weasel, and woodpeckers . . . too many odors to sort. This wouldn’t be an ancient of days on the mountain top. It could be the hermit, though, or maybe even the mighty warrior. Finnegan trembled with eagerness and a touch of fear. What awaited him?

He stepped into the maze. A white flag, spread between two sticks, read, CUSTOMER SERVICE, CHOOSE RIGHT. JUST PASSING THROUGH, CHOOSE LEFT.

Finnegan moved right and came upon another division. A white flag read, NEW, GO RIGHT. OLD, GO LEFT.

What did that mean? Finnegan wasn’t newly born. On the other paw, he was new to the area. He took the right passage.

The next branch read, SMALL, GO LEFT; LARGE, GO RIGHT.

Small