BOOK ONE: SCHERDAL
Chapter 3: Madloch Falls
My Paw always described drowning as the worst, heart-wrenching and agonizing experience one can endure. But something in his manner always had me believing he meant something other than his experience under Madloch Falls. Something greater still that I may never know the fullness of, and pray I won’t.
-Fyest Fox, (from the “Articles of a Watrepaue’s Brood”)
***
Slow and methodical; faithful and monotonous. The milky-brown syrup squeezed into the cedar floorboards like the rising tide of the Glaucus Sea; it smeared over each log, drenched the frayed, red bark, and stung Rasicare’s hairy red toes. As sudden as it had come, it slipped back through the raft’s beams, down, down, down, between crack and unknown crevice. His raft rocked and dipped on the rarely turbulent waves. And again, the milky-brown water bubbled through his aged raft. Slow and methodical; faithful and monotonous. Water, beautiful, in constant, endless, necessary motion; an invariable; perfection; faithful; hope defined. He remembered the Rusalki proverb: “If you want to know the Will of the Wisp, get in Its waters.”
Through the thick, dull firmament, sunlight softened into a wet gray, yellowed blur. Rain held her breath. She would not shower the Scherl yet, as if she were waiting for something—a certain moment to release her storm. Under her budding sky, Rasicare dragged his long paddle across the floor of the river and aimed eastward.
The night before, alone in his den, he had wrestled with thoughts of Peter pouring into him. He was confident the harbourduke hadn’t sent a captain to investigate his raft, and it left him turning in bed. It was a nervousness brought first by the ecstatic, nearly noxious, joy of the Wisp, and then suddenly laden with troubled and tossing imaginations about the fishermouse, like one feels after a drunken stupor and having realized they may have spoken too much or laughed too long at an indecent moment the hour before.
Now, on the Scherl, he ambled upstream, whistling as he passed the outstretched arms of Maidens Forest, thumping his paw in rhythm against the birch-leather satchel on his waist, trying his best to keep his spirit light, though his soul cringed from the premonition that some menace lie ahead.
As he rounded the bend nearest the flotsam, he subconsciously lowered his head between his shoulders and became silent. The water had pushed the wreck into the north bank under the protruding roots of an elm; he saw now that the back end had been torn in half, as if smashed by a large boulder or ripped apart like a rice cake by some monstrous greedy paw.
He shook his head, frustrated that he hadn’t investigated it substantially the day before. “Leave a job to the H.D.’s like asking a beaver to stop chewing,” he muttered to himself.
His raft bumped into the bank and he leaped to shore. He dropped to his knees and clawed at the mud and grass. No sign of footprints; only strange long smooth rubbings like those of a mudskipper or walking catfish scaled to massive proportions. The giant salamanders from the Denemoor came to mind, and he shuddered at the thought of one coming this far north. He hadn’t certainty, for the Scherl’s faithful tide erased any confidence, but the pink stain on the tip of those arrowhead stalks may have been the reduced residue of blood.
The fox stood, closed his narrow eyes, and sniffed the air for anything unusual. The breeze shifted north-eastward, and he felt the rain would come soon. He watched a flock of chickadees bank over the forest and Scherl, cutting southward over the Oppendale; their chatter was short, pervasive and alert. They had seen something alarming.
Taking to the water again, he was careful not to leave sign behind and remain noiseless as he dawdled further upstream. His long paddle dug into the shallow mud and he attempted stealth under the shadow of the brush and cloudy sky. As he rounded the southwest-winding bend, he discerned the guttural moan and muffled yelp of someone ahead.
Spurred by compassion, he abandoned his clandestinity, paddled to midstream, and recklessly drove upriver. As the southeast bend came into sight, he stabbed his paddle hard into the water and snagged a root on the bottom, spinning his raft eastward on itself and sending himself flinging north up the next river segment.
On the far side of the bend, beneath the fuzzy chaos of a weeping willow and upheaval of the filthy, muddy bank, he saw two unexpected frightful sights. The first, a whitetail, most likely a doe on account of her slender haunch, severed in half at the waist and still flopping in the water wildly from dead nerves firing and flaring. The second was the water-demon itself; a great and monstrous warty skull, writhing in the water and gulping the severed carcass between its long rows of sharp, twisted pearl teeth; its red-slit eyes rolled backward into an opaque purple tint as the water splashed against them and slid the animal carcass down its throat. It was the head of the water-demon; the legend of death; the purveyor of drowned souls; Leviathan.
A pregnant moment hung in space and time as a worn leaf shakes and shivers before it flutters to the earth. Rasicare stared in awe at the frozen monster’s omnipotence. It noticed his watchful gaze and wiped its teeth clean with a quick flick of the tongue. The massive head flung sideways into the water, submerging completely beneath the brown muck and filth. An explosion of water erupted, spraying the fisherfox and flopping the deer carcass into the underbrush.
Rasicare reached into his satchel and pulled a small hollowed-out cattail reed, a boom-stick. He grabbed its dangling string and yanked hard, sending a yellow projectile into the sky that exploded into a shower of red mist.
Rasicare leaned on the stern and pitched the bow out of the water; his paddle pummeled the water, and his tail dipped in it, acting as a stiff rudder. He raced upstream, hot on the trail of the V-shaped wave serpentining ahead of him like a spry school of fish. He refused to lose sight of the creature, and his heart thumped in anticipation.
Stroke after appalling stroke, he struggled to keep pace as the wave grew further and further from him. He nearly lost hope when the ripple had turned a bend and disappeared completely, but when he rounded the next segment, he caught sight of the trailing water and thrust himself even harder for its heading. In his heart, he knew it was no use; the thing would outrun him eventually, and his exhaustion would spring upon him powerfully. But he needn’t catch the creature, only keep it in sight for a bit longer.
The V-shaped wave dissolved again around the next winding turn. Thunder roared, but it was not from the Great Forest above. Hearing the sound of pounding water, he recognized the shortening cypress and thick ambling arrowheads on the southern bank. He laughed in delight as he realized exactly where he was.
From there, the river doubled its width before forking. To the southeast, it ran downstream on a straightforward ripple between rollicking hills on the left and the Oppendale’s open prairie on its right. To the north, it traveled upstream to Maiden Loch, filled by the uproarious beauty and maddening velocity of Madloch Falls; the very head and source of the Scherl.
The water roared down a drop of two-hundred fifty paws into the loch; a natural basin with depths of eighty mittans, surrounded by rocky enclaves and cliffs two-hundred mittans apart. The fall was believed to be from where the Maiden Jessamere threw herself to save her rabbit-kin from the Hrothhamber Foxes many seasons ago.
Fifty mittans ahead, Rasicare watched the V vanish at the midmost point of the loch, and he knew the monster had bedded into its depths. Turning his oar on end, he drove himself to a halt. Like a hummingbird, his chest panted wildly; like a red spoonbill, he hovered over the water, scanning for any disturbance.
Presently, he sat on his haunches and cleared his mind of any care whatsoever. He chewed on his paw where a splinter had dug in during his mad flight, watched the zipping warblers, listened to the roaring fall, and drew long, deep breaths with no other concern in the Wood.
It were moments like this that his soul felt most aligned and, to him, made the most sense; as if his very nature longed to be on the edge of chaos or deep in the confines of mayhem. Never did he desire such moments in a twisted or maniacal sense, for he, quite naturally sorrowed the tragedy of what in all probability happened to Peter and, of course, what he saw come of the whitetail doe; nonetheless, the unabashed, savage escapade brought with it an undefinable joy and exhilaration that he relished deeply. His spastic tendencies and forgetfulness for what he considered trivial things suddenly dissipated; this becoming him when he understood once more that the Wood did not need him, nor did it matter what happened yesterday or tomorrow, but only that he accomplished this bizarre and abominable task set before him. And here it was before him!—as if spawned by some divine will and fortunate happenstance; it was the promise of that greatness his soul had longed for every morning and night for too many seasons to count.
He would not do it alone, though; and even with the help, it would be nigh impossible. Yet already he saw, in his imagination, himself victorious and crowned in its glory. He closed his eyes and drew another long breath through his chest, feeling wind run through his hair, tying not to rock his raft too much, and waited, waited, waited for the storm to fall and his support to arrive.
At length, he heard a dim, fluttering, foreign whistle, barely discernible, yet squealing high enough in pitch to pique his ear from the fall and back toward the Scherl; he turned obediently. There, floating at the mouth of the loch, the raft of Mutton and Domino, along with Jands in his yellow canoe.
They were silent and wisely discerned from Rasicare’s posture that they should themselves paddle smoothly and noiselessly into the loch. Until the three mammals were shored against the fox’s raft, they did not say a word.
“What’s a fisherfox to do in Madloch?” The muskrat asked derisively, as if he had saved his little jab for the entirety of his soft paddle forward.
“Saw the boom-stick,” said Jands, his voice barely audible over the fall. “And what’s left of the whitetail.”
“I’m sure he’s still here,” whispered Rasicare.
Jands nodded his head and scanned the loch from end to end, noting that the blackened sky had skirted away the songbirds and insects into hiding.
“It’s Leviathan, mates,” said Rasicare, lowering his voice and receiving the reaction he had hoped for. He smirked at the gaping and uncomfortable fishermates before him.
“You putting us off?” Mutton gawked.
“That’s funny. It sounded like you said, ‘Leviathan’.”
Rasicare’s mouth dropped open, and he panted in ecstasy. “Jands’ll corral the outlet,” said he, pointing at the river fork. “That way, if it makes a run for it, we can stop it.”
“I don’t think it will,” replied Jands. “Any apex is going to protect its loch. That thing is coming to us. But where it hits is the question.”
“I am inclined to agree. But better safe than sorry. Mutton, you jab at the west bank while Domino swims on the east side by the rock wall. I’ll paddle up between the fall and Jessamere’s Rock. That’s where I figure it’s bedding.”
“You think yore the Watrepaue a’ready, fisherfox?” Mutton asked with a scoff.
“No offense to your silly plan, Rascal,” interrupted Domino, with a tone as low as bedrock. “But I ain’t gettin’ my matin’ paws in the water with a breedin’Leviathan.”
Rasicare hesitated, suddenly unsure of himself.
“Take my oar, you chipmunk,” snapped Jands, handing Domino his paddle. “You’d think he’d never swam before. Isn’t that right, Rasicare Watrepaue?”
The fox discretely smirked at the otter’s sly flattery and his red hair grew a shade darker. Meanwhile, the beaver stumbled his round, clawed paws into the bow of the canoe. When Jands was sure he was secured and not going to capsize his vessel, he dropped from its side and slipped into the water noiselessly. A few seconds later, his head popped up, and he muttered angrily, “Well, what are you all waiting for? You think I’m swimming for my own delight?”
The others separated accordingly; Domino taking the duty of covering the outlet of the loch with Jands’ canoe, while Mutton followed Rasicare’s initial plan to search the west end. Rasicare turned about-face and dabbled the vessel up the loch.
Soon, the fall’s misty breeze was blowing across his face and forming droplets on the end of his snout. At his right, the cliff face met the loch’s eastern end. Jands’ bobbing black head and tail surveyed the underwater wall. Rasicare noted that, behind him, Domino had reached the mouth of the loch. He sighed relief knowing the outlet was covered.
As Mutton moved into position under the oak and elm branches on the western shore, Rasicare approached Jessamere’s Rock. The rock was a peculiar monument risen from the depths wharleighs ago. It acted as a barrier between the fall’s brutal current and the rest of the loch, creating a calm, yet steady current through the center. On the far side of the rock, water thrashed and wrestled into white-capped breakers, frothing like cream. This was where the fisherfox assumed the beast had harbored itself to bed—a perfect hide shrouded in dangerous waves that no fishermate would think to traverse. Rasicare’s heart thumped into his throat as his raft knocked against the algae-covered island.
The fall’s waves were relentless, and he questioned his ability to steady the raft past Jessamere’s Rock. He pondered climbing onto it. Perhaps he could see more from a higher perspective and shout to his fishermates for help when he discovered the monster. But that idea produced the possibility of someone else taking down the monster and becoming the Watrepaue.
Would Leviathan take bait like any other fish? How could one coax a lion from its den without a proper meal to offer it—and at last, he realized what must be done. A sacrifice, as it were, given to the water-demon with a result that would most assuredly be death to any other animal. But to him—he could already see himself victorious, and it was more than imagination; it was real. Following the vision in his heart, it could only be victory. The Will of the Wisp had called him to this moment.
It was apparent that Jessamere’s Rock was useless to him, except to steady his raft for a time. He wedged his oar between a crack in the stone and a corner of the raft, and tightened the pouch around his waist. With a prayer and sigh, he prepared to leap into the waters. Yet, just as he was letting his heart take him into the unknown, about to toss himself into the white riveting water, the Great Forest above bellowed, and the heavy clouds retched their sweet storm onto the Wood below.
Like spears and tiny projectiles, the rain streaked across his fur and flicked the surface of the water. Little fountains sprang up everywhere, leaving translucent bulbs in their wake, like glaring haunted eyes emerging from the depths and staring up at him, daring him to venture into the loch’s jaws. The fox hesitated. Already his second time while leading this campaign, and he felt the uncertainty beneath his fur rise.
“What are we waiting for?” Mutton shouted from the northwestern shore, ambling down the bank on Rasicare’s left. “Am I coming home soaked from a blimey storm or are you gonna hunt something?”
Rasicare bowed his head, embarrassed, and tried hard to steady his thoughts. He searched his imagination for the picture of his victory again. It had abandoned him with the rain’s arrival.
“Fisher-wispin’-fox,” Mutton murmured to himself on the west end of the loch. He ambled up the bank, jabbing his oar into the water and stirring up the bottom soot. “Rubb’ the matin’ dog saw a water-demon.” As the muskrat stroked his paddle once more beneath the surface, the oar was snagged, tot against his paws, and then ripped from his claws. He let out a little yelp and curse before his raft was capsized and flung through the rainy sky.
“YAAAARGGGGGHHH!” Mutton shouted, flinging paws over head into Maidens Loch.
A pair of great, yellowed jaws had torn through the port-side of his raft and snapped a third of it into pieces. Several of the logs were in the monster’s mouth, snapping, crushing, biting, ripping, thrashing. Mutton floundered underneath the water in a chaotic myriad of bubbles and foam; behind them, the violent, savage silhouette of the water-demon, writhing and rolling.
He flipped his paddle in his paws and removed a walnut cap from its top-end, revealing the sharped point of a spear. Flapping his haunches through the water, he aimed the spear forward, driving it deep into the belly of the creature. He grinned and laughed at the bloody monster, only to immediately feel the flick of the retaliating beast’s tail against his chest and shot out of the water.
Phwack! Boom! Thud!
He landed haphazardly on the side of his raft, dangling like a rag-doll over its edge, yet somehow still gripping the bloody spear in his paw.
Racing from the north end of the loch, Rasicare arrived and jumped to the poor muskrat’s raft. Coughing in a fit, Mutton had trouble rising to his paws.
“I’m alright, I’m alright,” he cried, grabbing his side and feeling blood trickle between his paws.
The fox kept his eyes up, scanning the surface for movement. The water was an indiscernible mess, saturated with blood and bits of Mutton’s raft, like a macabre oil painting on flotsam.
Hopping back to his own raft, he kicked Mutton’s damaged one away toward midstream.
“Mutton, get paddling,” he ordered. “It’s heading toward Domino.”
The muskrat lifted his eyes to see the steadfast chevron moving away, flecked by harsh rainfall, toward the loch’s mouth. Exasperated, he clenched his paddle and roared like a lion.
The two rafts raced side-by-side toward the Scherl, synchronized at last. All prejudice and dispute between the two fishermates had sloughed away. The only rivalry between them now was the instinctual competition to slay the beast first and take back to Scherdal the title of Watrepaue, Hero of the Scherl.
At the loch outlet, Domino had seen everything that happened, but wisely kept himself steady at his post, refusing to paddle out and help his mate. Now the thing was headed straight for him. He stood erect in Jands’ canoe, paws held high with a cast-net, counting the agonizing milliseconds, forcing upon himself patience, waiting, waiting, and more waiting. The chevron waves rushed toward him, closer, closer, closer to his canoe. One second more, one more second, one more second.
He couldn’t wait any longer; fear of missing, fear of being taken under, and fear of waiting too long overtook him. He tossed the net. It flashed across the falling raindrops. Leviathan barreled to its left. Domino shouted in excitement, thinking he had caught the beast. But the net had landed empty. He screamed like a madbeaver when he realized it. The monster had course-corrected back to the middle of the loch.
Rasicare, a hair-breadth sooner than Mutton, saw the chevron waves shift; he dragged his paddle on his port-side and flung the raft midstream. Mutton followed, cutting a wide angle nearer the southern end of the loch. He shouted at Domino to follow and the beaver dropped into the canoe and paddled after them.
The three vessels spread wide across the loch behind the monster. They were pushing it to the east end, corralling it toward the otter. Far ahead, dancing like a dolphin, Jands leaped and skipped in the frothy water. He was a playful meal flopping for attention—the smart otter had realized, like Rasicare, that they needed bait for the monster. The chevron waves raced toward the bobbing black pelt, and behind it, the three vessels closed in.
As the monster sped closer, Jands floated near the rocky cliff, acting as though he hadn’t seen the monster. When it pummeled in, he leaped and skipped up the rock wall, a mere second before the beast snapped its jaws onto him. He ran along the cliff like an acrobat and flipped himself head over paws into the water on Leviathan’s far end. Without adequate time or space to turn, the rampaging monster rammed its powerful head into the wall, cracking the rock and unleashing a volley of collected rain from the clifftop.
Immediately, the rafts and canoe arrived. Jands leaped from the water and landed alongside Mutton. Domino, with no concern for stopping, drove Jands’ canoe into the wall and cast the net beneath him. It sank over the dazed monster’s jaws, and like a gar caught in a frayed rope, the tangles of reed and rope snagged around Leviathan’s teeth.
All were pulling, straining, and fighting to hold the monster still, shouting at one another with directions.
“Pull there!”
“Loosen!”
“On its flank!”
“Come around the other side of the jaws!”
“Watch your paws!”
Hungry to be the Watrepaue, Mutton released his hold of the net and grabbed his spear. He spun the oar between his paws and aimed the sharp point at Leviathan’s head. He lunged forward while the red-slit eyes, cloaked underneath their purple nictitating membrane, glared up at him; a roar erupted.
The oar recoiled off the hard skull, and the spearhead snapped off. Its painful vibration brought the muskrat to his knees.
“Ahh! Nippin’, matin’, ugly ol’ beast!”
The water-demon thrashed.
“Mutton, get back on the net!”
But it was too late. The ropes frayed and snapped against the sharp teeth. Leviathan submerged instantly, and the fishermates fell back onto their vessels.
Quickly, they gathered themselves up and scanned the loch for any disturbance.
Mutton threw a spare oar at Jands. “Make yourself useful!”
Jands caught it and glared at the muskrat. “I won’t forget you lettin’ this thing get away if it does!”
“Spread out and look for sign!” hollered Rasicare. “Domino, get back to the outlet!”
The group separated their boats. Rasicare aimed north for Jessamere’s Rock, while Domino raced back to the southern outlet, and Mutton and Jands sailed to the loch’s midpoint.
“There!” Domino shouted, pointing toward a small pattern of Vs running south-westward. “It’s heading to the Scherl!”
He shot his canoe through the water for the loch mouth.
Mutton paddled after him, but Jands questioned the shape and size. “Looks too small and oblong. That’s a school of fish.”
“School of fish or not, they’re scared by Leviathan running south. Get your paddle in the water and start pushing! That thing’s gonna be in the Scherl and gone in seconds!”
Jands glanced back to Rasicare, who was shored against Jessamere’s Rock, and too close to the fall to hear them hollering for his help.
Braced against the rock, the fox eagerly searched the northwest end of the loch. Scanning round about, he caught sight of Domino racing southward and waving his paws for help.
“Yiaark!” he growled in frustration and dropped his foot from the rock. Kicking away, he undocked his raft and pushed against the heavy current. But while watching Domino and company race south, he failed to see Leviathan climbing up the other side of Jessamere’s Rock.
Pulling its fat, abhorrent body up over the stone with long, grotesque limbs, the monster bellowed and roared. Before Rasicare had time to react, the beast flung itself onto his raft, blowing it to shrapnel and tackling the fox into the water.
“Fisherfox!” Mutton screamed.
“We are coming, Rasicare!” Jands shouted.
The muskrat and otter watched in horror. Racing with adrenaline, they stormed to Jessamere’s Rock. Amazingly, Rasicare was somehow back on the surface, flailing in a pitiful dog-paddle through terror and his raft’s splintered remains.
The otter and muskrat paddled as hard as they could, shaking their heads and praying to make it in time.
As they approached the paddling, terrified fox, they slowed down. Jands extended his paddle for Rasicare.
“This is why we don’t let foxes on the river, you matin’ redtail!” Mutton hollered.
A rush of wind brought the misty, white spray off the fall into Jands’ black and brown eyes. Rasicare reached for the paddle, desperately treading water toward the raft.
“Come on! Come on!”
Water was rushing down Rasicare’s throat. His mind barely held a thought. All there was left was fear. His black paw reached for the oar. And then he was gone! Snatched from all the Wood and pulled into the depths of the black and blue cavern under a bevy of white-capped waves.
Jands stood up, taken aback.
“RASICARE!” he screamed.
His pawstep stuttered, and he stumbled back into Mutton. Neither said a word as they scoured the relentless waves and waited in a nervous pant. Both were tempted to dive in after him, yet held back by the fears of missing the fox’s sudden frenzied chance for help and the dangerous monstrosity waiting under the surface.
Rain poured down, and each moment felt like a lifetime. Except for the daunting rain and roaring fall, the loch was calm, without sign.
Domino arrived beside them. Driven by confusion and nervousness, he begged to know what had happened.
“He’s gone,” Mutton muttered. “No fox can hold his breath that long.”
***
Beneath the water, a deluge of breathlessness and white, bubbling chaos caved in around the fox. The light grew dim, like frail blue rays, parading as dancers in the distant black cavernous hole.
All Rasicare knew had become mayhem and pounding, pounding agony. His chest turned inside out, and his stomach convulsed in madness. On top of him, the red-slit eyes stared from beneath their opaque, nictitating membrane. A log, ripped from the fox’s raft, had lodged itself between Leviathan’s teeth; the only thing keeping the monster’s jaws from tearing into his flesh.
Under the fall, the water-demon sped, with Rasicare between its mandibles. The monster did not know why it could not crush the fox, but decided to take its meal to the depths of the loch and wedge the drowned body beneath a boulder to wait for decomposition to take hold.
Rasicare kicked frantically, but the jaws had fastened tight around his shoulder and thigh. He begged and pleaded within his soul, panicked and persistent in his bounding hope, like a rabbit runs from the gray wolf on the prairie.
Floating loosely around his waist was his pouch. It brushed the ends of his claws. His eyes rolled backward. He undid the tie. His paws clutched the filet knife. His wrist spun and the blade cut tooth and gum. A gurgle erupted from Leviathan’s throat and his arm lent free.
With eyes sealed shut—though it needn’t matter, for the light had all but disappeared in the abyss—he stabbed pitilessly, maddened by a will to live. Ricochetting off bone and scale, flailing like an upended dog.
The knife found its way to the creature’s eye. It dug into the crevice of the nictitating membrane like one digs to open a shut clam; ripping, pulling, driving, until finally, the second eyelid popped loose, and the creature writhed wildly.
Round and round, the monster beat at him, ramming its head and jaws into the rocks and boulders lining its hellish cave. But Rasicare would not stop. The knife fit into the eye like it had met mulberry jelly. He dug it deep and twisted frantically.
A thought passed through his mind, that he had suddenly crossed from the Wood into the Great Forest. The jaws had released him, and he felt himself floating free.
With his last shred of strength, he squirmed from out of the beast’s teeth and kicked toward what he hoped was the surface.
Rays of light formed around him, and he then realized his eyes were actually open. Light danced on the surface above, tempting and tormenting him. He was overcome by hopelessness, forever out of reach of the distant air above, one stroke too many away.
He kicked and reached for it, praying and begging to have one more beat of air in his crumbling lungs, even if it were his last—but to hold it in his chest and smile in death would be a fit end to a fox not born for the water. Why ever did he come to the river and why ever did he attempt to swim? What sickness drew him to its luster and beauty which hid death and pain beneath its surface? One more stroke. He had one more stroke in him. One more stroke.
***
“He’s gone,” Mutton muttered to Domino as the beaver arrived. “No fox can hold his breath that long.”
“Wait a moment longer,” Jands replied, staring into the rambling wake under the crushing fall.
A spurt of water fountained up behind them, and with it, a meek stir. The three aquatic mammals jostled in disbelief at seeing Rasicare, not twenty strokes away, barely floating on his back and starving for air.
The otter was in the water immediately, throwing his arms around the fox. “I’ve got you, mate,” he murmured, holding Rasicare’s head out of the water. “Breathe, mate, breathe.”
“Get outten the water, you slickhead!” Mutton shouted. “The beast is coming back!”
The muskrat was right. Beneath the otter and fox, a shadow of immense proportion was racing to the surface.
But the otter wouldn’t be deterred. He paddled ferociously, concentrated on keeping the fox’s head aloft and his course toward the raft.
A flume of water rushed up over his head, and a pair of ugly yellowed jaws lifted into the sky. His heart aflutter and his soul acceded, he prepared himself for the inevitable.
But the jaws lie limp, and a milky tongue protruded out of them. The creature was dead. The fox slew Leviathan.
Keith G. Alderman 