Marmots are apocryphally known to
use different whistles to communicate different dangers approaching their
colony. Though the types of whistles may vary from group to group, hikers have
long suspected that marmots have a different warning call for when they come
into view as opposed to, say, a badger or bald eagle.
Some of the more sensitive (or
clumsy) hikers also believe marmots’ special whistle for some hikers is akin to
a human calling to another: “Hey, this guy’s walking on scree. I think he’s
going to fall on his ass. Come watch.”
None of that is true – though it
is true marmots do enjoy watching hikers hurt themselves. In truth, marmots
have a varied language that they understandably keep to themselves, and only
whistle or chuck or gurgle when an enemy’s approach is imminent and discerned
as a threat. Many marmots, in fact, will watch other animals, including
predators and man, with an unbounded curiosity. They will then return to their
compatriots – once the threat or lumberer is departed – on what they’ve seen.
But none of this helped the
marmots communicate with the Purdys. At all.
This they already suspected would
be the case – their efforts to speak with other humans as they tried to sell
their goods and warn them of their imaginary shotguns had come to naught. But
as is the case with those who present ideas in a large group setting, it fell
to them to implement their plan.
They fell to other measures.
Aloysius was goaded into stealing
more books, this time going much further afield to find privies where a few
childrens’ books might be obtained so those with the best chances of
communicating – the crows through speech and the raccoons through rudimentary
writing – could learn a bit more of the alphabet and how to put words together.
“I will not come back with folksy
words to make for a laugh,” he screamed at Father Marmot before he set out on
his first such expedition. “But you will take whatever I bring back – if it’s
not what you want, then you go find it. I’m through.”
The crows learned quickly – they’d
already learned a fair bit of quacking from the duck and were natural mimics –
once Aloysisus brought a few books back and the marmots discovered a phonograph
and a stock of records in an ill-used shepherd’s shack.
The duck – whom the crows called
Cecil, as his own name was unintelligible – was ruled out as a communicator.
“They’ll just listen to you and laugh,” Chylus told him.
But they agreed to let him come as
they tried to communicated with the Purdys for the first time. “Maybe seeing a
duck and crows together will ease the tension,” Magda said. “Maybe think we’re
setting up some kind of joke.”
So on a sultry night with the
crickets chirping and thunder rolling on the other side of the valley, Chylus,
Magda and Cecil watched warily form the bushes as pa and Yank sat on the back
porch, idly whittling at sticks and spitting into the growing darkness.
Their earlier plans to march up to
the humans felt cold and distant and foolish. “No use scaring them,” Chylus
said. “They’re not used to dealing with us in groups. Especially when we’re
talking.”
Chylus approached first, boldly
flying from across the field in a slow, meandering flight that guaranteed the
Purdys saw his approach. That he would speak to them – hopefully, with them –
would be surprise enough.
He landed on the porch railing,
hopped nervously, and squawked.
Pa Purdy chuckled and threw a bit
of bread toward the bird. “Put the gun down, boy,” he said to Yank.
Yank scowled, and lowered the
shotgun, which he had started to retrieve from his side.
“What ya gonna do? Blow it’s head
off and splatter the both of us?”
Chylus squawked again. He eyed the
bread. This is going to take some willpower, he thought to himself.
“Hello,” he said.
“Damn bird talks,” Yank said.
“’es! Tak!” He eyed the bread.
Then wrenched his eyes from it, looked at Pa.
“Farm!”
“Hello!” Pa said. “Hello!”
“Farm! Farm! Sayyvit! Sayyvit!”
“They’re clever birds, Yank,” Pa said.
“This one’s a bit loud,” Yank
said, wiggling his finger in his ear.
Chylus leaped from the rail,
grabbed the bread and choked it down. Now, he thought, I’ll be able to con—
Pa Purdy threw an entire slice of
bread on the porch.
Damn.
Damn.
“Help you! Farm! Sayyvit! Sayyvit
Farm!”
He found his beak useless at
pronouncing the W and V sounds. But it was good at eating bread. He leaped
again and took the bread to the railing.
“Hello, crow!” Pa Purdy said.
Despite himself, Chylus said Hello
back.
“Hello!”
Chylus clamped his beak shut. This
was harder than they thought. Maybe they should have used the raccoons. They
were getting pretty good at spelling words.
“Sayyvit farm! Pant cop! Corn!
Corn!”
“You’ve got bread right there at
your feet, you greedy bugger,” Pa said.
Chylus hopped on the rail,
knocking the bread into the dirt.
As the crow squawked and the
humans listened and said “Hello!” back to it, a board in the porch near the
front door slowly rose. Paws pushed a folded bit of grubby paper up through the
crack. The board lowered in place with only a tiny squeak.
“Corn! Car’t! ‘na gar-den!”
“Throw it some more bread, Pa.
Shut it up, or I’ll get the gun.”
More bread on the porch.
“Fah! Fah!” Chylus screamed.
From under the porch, barely audible
chuckles.
Chylus leaped from the rail and
flew off over the field.
“It left the bread,” Pa said. “See
that? Squawked loud as you please for more and left it there. In the dirt. Damn
daft thing.”
“That was weird,” Yank said.
“Think that bird was trying to tell us something?”
Pa laughed. “Yeah. He was hungry.”
They sat on the porch a few more
minutes, as unseen paws grabbed the bread in the dirt and pulled it under the
porch.
Several minutes later, Pa took a
swig from a jug on the table, popped in the cork. “I’m off tibet,” he said.
Yank followed.
At the door, he stooped.
“Pa, look at this.”
Yank handed Pa Purdy a bit of
folded paper. He unfolded it and read, in letters cut from various newspapers
and magazines:
Be WAre tawKING bird!
Tawk only too U.S.
We will TEL how
Sav yor fARm
NEW note 2moro
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