Just Beyond the Very, Very Far North Read online

  “Or I could bring along rope, like the kind I saw on the Shipwreck. We could all hold on to it so that our ice floes don’t drift too far apart. We would stick together and figure things out.”

  “No! Stop it!”

  “Or better yet, before we even step on the ice, we ask C.C., who is very clever, to examine it for safety.”

  “No, no, no!” screamed the visitor in a petulant rage. “Sheesh! The point is that everyone gets along until they don’t get along, okay? End of story.”

  The visitor stomped away in a snit, leaving Duane wondering if he’d ever heard a less satisfying ending to a tale. As far as understanding how the world works, he honestly felt less enlightened than he was a minute earlier. As for the weasel, Duane didn’t know what to think. On one hand, he felt sorry for the visitor, who seemed always angry and frustrated and suspicious. That can’t be pleasant for him, Duane thought. On the other hand, being in the visitor’s company seemed to churn up some of those same feelings in him.

  The weasel was still searching through Duane’s home, darting here and there. He burrowed under Duane’s mattress and rummaged through the drawers of his dresser, and all the while, he cursed and spat and screamed, spinning a dark cloud of discontent out of the air around him. When he finally gave up the hunt, he turned on Duane aggressively. “You!” he shouted.

  “Me?” asked Duane cautiously.

  “Yeah. There’s a large dried crumb in this dump somewhere. I was pretty sure I stashed it in the clock, but it ain’t there. It’s mine, got it?”

  Silently and slowly, Duane nodded his comprehension. That was what all the fuss was about? he wondered. Just for a crumb?

  The weasel gave the polar bear one final sneer, as a way of farewell, I suppose, and then scurried out of the cave and quickly out of sight.

  “And to think he might have enjoyed a whole bowl of breakfast berries with me,” Duane mused aloud. “Oh well.”

  With his home quiet again, Duane could catch his breath. And thinking of berries reminded Duane that he might as well have his breakfast, because the morning was quite present and ready to take the day forward. The polar bear filled a bowl with berries he’d picked the day before, and was sitting at his table about to dig in when he was interrupted by loud stomping and yet more yelling.

  “Have you gone daft, Duane? Did you awake last night with the sudden urge to recreate the sound of an orchestra tuning up?”

  It was Handsome. He was looking none too happy. He did, however, look as if he managed to brush his hair before angrily storming up to the cave, which may account for his delay in arriving.

  “I’m sorry, Handsome,” said Duane.

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it! Your nocturnal mayhem jolted me from my slumber and left me turbulent and aghast! May I remind you that one needs a proper amount of restful sleep or one’s face will cultivate unsightly puffiness. I cannot afford to look ridiculous!”

  Being not fully awake, Handsome had overlooked removing the white wrinkle cream around his eyes. It made Handsome appear as if he were in a never-ending state of shock. Duane felt it best not to mention it.

  “You are absolutely right, Handsome. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I had a horrible nightmare.”

  “Oh… Oh, I see,” replied Handsome, the blustering, angry wind in his sails now subsided. “Then I apologize for my outburst.”

  “But as you are here, and we are both awake, would you care to join me for breakfast?”

  Handsome agreed to the invitation, even though there was next to no advance warning, and the two friends gathered at the table to break bread—or chew berry, as the case may be. Duane considered telling Handsome about the visitor and what the visitor said about how the world works, but he hesitated. It was information he needed to digest on his own, when the unpleasant, churned-up feelings in his stomach settled. So instead, he let Handsome go on about his evening grooming rituals and the ten most important rules for avoiding bags under one’s eyes. Duane was still distracted. He could only nod and smile in response. He was perhaps going through the motions, as one says. But at least they were the motions of friendship, and that would do for now.

  3. C.C. VISITS THE BURROW, TWITCH OVERDOES IT, AND MAJOR PUFF IS GIVEN A SCARE

  DURING THE FALL SEASON, Twitch invited C.C. over to the burrow for an informal get-together with her and Major Puff. For C.C., this was a new experience, and one she might normally have declined, as it did not advance scientific knowledge in the least. More importantly, an informal get-together would involve chitchat. Chitchat baffled C.C. She’d be the first to admit it.

  What possible value can be gained from talking about trivial subjects? she wrote in her Personal Journal of Scientific Inquiry, which is like a diary, but much, much more serious. I have observed that chitchat jumps from one unimportant topic to another, with no goal in mind. It is, scientifically speaking, a waste of breath.

  It is perhaps worth pausing to note how differently some of C.C.’s friends approached the act of chitchatting. Major Puff saw it as an opportunity to bring up one or twelve stories of his brave ancestors battling their dastardly foe, the great black-backed gulls. Magic saw it as a way to insert unbelievable, made-up facts into the conversation. Then, when someone challenged or laughed at them, as someone almost always did, it allowed her to fall on the ground dramatically and sigh heavily until the awkwardness of it all made everyone apologize. But more than anyone, Handsome excelled at chitchatting. He understood that chitchat was the oil that greased the steering wheels of friendships. C.C. would likely point out that friendships, unlike real ships, do not require wheels to steer. Handsome would beg to differ, explaining that friendships are always moving, and if you wish to guide them away from a rocky, hazardous shore of misunderstanding, make sure your friendship is lubricated with enough chitchat to turn on a dime. And if Duane had been listening to this discussion, he would have asked if the subject was still chitchat or if it had moved on to sailing.

  I have observed, C.C. continued, writing in her Personal Journal of Scientific Inquiry, that my life with friendships has been overall more interesting than without them. Therefore, I conclude that an afternoon of chitchat is the required “grease” to keep them in working order.

  With her conclusion reached, and her acceptance of Twitch’s invitation given, C.C. set herself to the task of researching subject matter that could serve useful for chitchat. Inversely to her dislike of chitchat, C.C. adored research, so in that regard, anyway, it wasn’t all useless.

  Meanwhile, back at the burrow, Twitch’s thoughts were less about the chitchat and more about the nibbles. As you may well know, any informal get-together typically includes refreshments such as tea and cake, or tea and pie, or tea and cookies. An informal get-together hosted by Twitch typically includes tea along with cake, pie, and cookies, in several different varieties, as well. I’m sure we would all agree that by any estimation, that is a ridiculous amount of nibbles to have on offer for a small group of three. The reason for this is complicated.

  In matters of food, it is said that for some, “their eyes are bigger than their stomach.” It is the difference between the amount they think they want to eat, and the much lesser amount they actually can handle. With Twitch, one might say it was an issue of her heart being bigger than her friends’ stomachs. She took great pleasure in seeing expressions of joy on everyone’s faces as they bit into a favorite nibble that she had personally baked. But the thought of someone being disappointed because the nibble on offer wasn’t what they wanted caused Twitch distress in equal measure. Unfairly, she felt it a failure on her part not to have anticipated their preferences, and to avoid that feeling, she put in much, much more work in pleasing her friends than she perhaps needed to.

  So, the day before the informal get-together with C.C., Twitch sat down in the communal area of the burrow and planned her menu. A problem quickly became evident. Duane and her other friends always expressed their preferences about nibbles in some obvio
us way. Twitch had taken note of who grabbed what nibble first or who went for seconds or what nibble caused someone to involuntarily say “Mmmm.” But C.C. wasn’t so expressive in such matters. It occurred to Twitch that she didn’t really know what C.C. liked. The arctic hare took a deep breath and didn’t panic.

  “Must have cake,” she said to herself. “Cake is required. Few can refuse a slice of chocolate cake. Or sponge. Or honey. Or Bundt. Especially Bundt! Better make the Bundt. And the other three as well.”

  Within seconds, Twitch committed to baking not one but four cakes.

  “Ooh, but what if C.C. is a cake-hater? Or an icing-avoider? Not likely, but still a chance, a possibility. The world is big, it takes all kinds, just saying. Best to have a pie on hand too. Can’t go wrong with apple. Or cherry. Or apple-cherry. That’s settled, then! Make all three. And a rhubarb.”

  For those of you keeping score, that’s now four cakes and four pies.

  “Yes, a lot of work ahead of me, without a doubt. But that’s the way the cookie crumbles, so best get on with it. Oooh, cookies! Forgot about them! You can’t deny that there are those who prefer les petits bonheurs, excuse my French.”

  “Did you say something, Madame?” asked Major Puff, who had just entered the communal area.

  “Hmm? Oh, the topic was cookies, Major. Not so hard to make, not difficult. A bit of batter, roll into balls, pop in the oven, just saying. Why not make two varieties of cookies if they’re a snap to make? Oooh, gingersnaps! There’s a tasty type. You like those, don’t you, Major? Gingersnaps?”

  Major Puff wasn’t really paying attention as he was now fully engaged in his morning marching practice. “Left, right, left, right, stiff back, Major! Get those webbed toes higher! Left, right, left, right, that’s more like it! Sorry, what was that, Madame?”

  Twitch also wasn’t paying attention as she was now fully engaged in naming cookie varieties. At the same time, her back feet began thumping at a faster and faster pace. “Arrowroot, biscotti, custard cream, hardtack, Florentine, macaroon, and shortbread, chocolate cream, chocolate chip, chocolate dip, chocolate chunk.” By the time she proclaimed the formidable-sounding “chocolate chunky chip dipped in cream cookie,” Twitch had launched herself off her chair and into the kitchen, grabbing an apron and a mixing bowl mid-flight.

  “I don’t know what kind of cookie C.C. likes!” she screamed, very much in a panic.

  For the rest of the day and beyond, through morning until evening, through free time and through bedtime, through the next day’s breakfast time and lunchtime and even through her gentle stretching and cardio-hopping time, Twitch baked and baked and baked. By the time C.C. arrived at the burrow and tapped her beak against the door at exactly three o’clock, the burrow looked less like a home and much, much more like a bake shop. There were square cakes, round cakes, either double-layered or triple-layered. Some were jam-filled, while others were icing-covered. There were cream pies and fruit pies, of apple, banana, lemon, berry, rhubarb, and combinations thereof, all laid out in alphabetical order. As for cookies, it would be easier to state what variety of cookie was not on offer: raisin. There were no raisin cookies. Of every other kind of cookie, there were plenty.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

  “Hello, C.C.,” said Twitch, opening the door.

  “Hello, Twitch,” replied C.C. back, and then added, “Your burrow is pleasant and adequately suitable for habitation.” This was too soon a compliment to pay to her host, being that C.C. hadn’t actually entered the burrow yet. C.C. was perhaps a tad eager to delve into the chitchat using the list of talking points she’d researched and had been practicing.

  “How nice of you to say. Won’t you come in, dear,” said Twitch with a welcoming gesture.

  After thirty-one uninterrupted hours of baking, Twitch radiated a calm and relaxed energy. Her smile was serene. Had C.C. studied Twitch’s face, she might have gone so far as to say that Twitch looked sleepy or exhausted, but C.C.’s attention was drawn to the cloud of flour that filled the air when Twitch’s front paw ushered her inside.

  C.C. scanned the common room of the burrow in search of Major Puff, the reason being that the greater part of her prepared chitchat comments were devoted to the subject of migration. It was, after all, approaching the time of year when the Major left on his own migration—that was in no way a vacation, I should stress. C.C. thought her timing was apt. Her research produced a whole range of migration-related facts and observations that she was sure would grease her relationship with the puffin.

  But Major Puff was nowhere to be seen or heard. What she did observe were three chairs off to the side facing one another in an isosceles-triangular configuration. This is likely where the serious chitchat will commence, C.C. noted to herself. Then she took in, with far less interest, the large, rectangular table completely overwhelmed and straining under the weight of nibbles. C.C. wasn’t particularly curious about the absurd number of pastries until it dawned on her that among it all was Major Puff. Allow me to explain.

  You see, earlier in the day, Major Puff saw the mountain of sweets as an opportunity to hone his camouflage skills. A military strategist of Major Puff’s caliber never discounts the element of surprise. It may be precisely that advantage that makes the difference in battling with his long-time foe, the great black-backed gull, whenever that should be. So just before C.C. arrived, he hopped on the table and stealthily blended in, mainly with the vanilla and chocolate cakes, but for the exception of his orange beak. For that, he thrust his head out just enough to put it in front of the carrot cake.

  “Hello, Major Puff,” said C.C. “I didn’t see you at first.”

  “As was expected,” said the puffin with a smirk of satisfaction. Then he jumped off the table and led the snowy owl toward the set of chairs.

  But before C.C. could actually sit, Twitch, whose eyelids were drooping considerably, came over and joined them. “Won’t you have a nibble,” she offered, gesturing toward the table with a sweep of her arm, releasing another cloud of flour into the air.

  Dutifully, C.C. walked over and studied the nibble-laden table intensely for a solid minute. She scanned the staggering number of scrumptious pies and the monstrously huge, elaborate cakes before deciding upon a single plain arrowroot cookie that she took back to her chair. Twitch was about to encourage C.C. to take some more—to take, in fact, a lot more—but a big yawn forced its way out instead.

  C.C., meanwhile, dived straight into the chitchat. “You should be much fatter,” she said to Major Puff. As you might imagine, the statement threw him off-balance.

  “Oh? Oh! But—uh, wh-wh-why exactly?” the puffin finally asked.

  “In preparation for your upcoming migration. The exertion on your body will be very strenuous. You will lose many calories every day, which is why you need to add weight now before you leave.”

  “I-I do?”

  “Yes. If you don’t, you might wither away until you are just feather and bones.”

  “Oh my, that would be awful,” acknowledged the puffin, absentmindedly rubbing his belly with a wing.

  “Speaking of adding weight,” interjected Twitch, “could I interest you in another nibble, C.—yawn—C.?”

  Showing good manners, and despite barely finishing what she had already taken, C.C. again approached the table overburdened with fancy cakes and tantalizing pies, and again chose a single plain arrowroot cookie. A distressed squeak escaped Twitch’s lips, which then induced in her a yawn so powerful, she nearly fell off her chair. The yawn also caused another puff of flour to expel from her, which lingered in the air, giving Twitch a somewhat hazy appearance.

  “I trust your aquatic skills are up to standard,” said C.C., quickly turning back to Major Puff and continuing on with her next topic of chitchat.

  “Er, my… m-m-my what?”

  “Aquatic skills. Swimming and treading water or floating,” C.C. explained. “As you’ve probably already experienced during past migrations, a powerful
ocean storm might appear suddenly. Storms have the potential to force birds such as yourself into the water, where drowning is certainly an option.”

  Major Puff had indeed experienced a storm during one of his migrations. In fact, it took place on his first migration. It was awful and terrifying and he had purposely blocked out the memory, vowing never to think about it again and never ever to migrate on days in which the weather was even excessively breezy, never mind stormy. He’d kept that promise to himself for all these years, until C.C. reminded him of it.

  “Oh, the sheer horror,” he whispered, the memories flooding back. Major Puff grew very quiet, his eyes took on a blank stare, and his face grew as pale as Twitch’s face, now that the flour dust had settled on her.

  “Speaking of—yawn—drowning,” said Twitch very slowly, with eyes all but closed, “could I—yawn—interest you in some—yawn—saltwater taffy cake?”

  Neither Major Puff’s trauma nor Twitch’s exhaustion made any impression on C.C., who, on the contrary, was judging that the informal get-together was going quite well. She seemed to be excelling at the chitchat. This, in turn, relaxed her and whetted her appetite.

  “I will pass on the cake, but I will indulge in another arrowroot cookie. They are more than the sum of their nutritional values,” C.C. replied, attempting a lavish compliment for her host, which Twitch may or may not have heard. Twitch’s chin had since slumped forward onto her chest, and she was barely moving.

  Unfazed, C.C. stood and walked over to the dessert table with a bounce in her step. She happily snatched her third cookie and returned to her seat. This time, when she turned her attention back to Major Puff, he flinched involuntarily as his eyes met C.C.’s with a pleading look of fear.

  “Major Puff,” began C.C., causing the puffin to scrunch his eyes shut in trepidation of the next round of chitchat. “Will you keep a journal?”

  “Enough, I beg you!—Sorry, what?”

  “Will you take notes of everything you observe on your migration so that you can share them with Twitch upon your return?”