The Maw

The Maw

Abigail H. Neff (grade 10)

Christian Educators Academy

Raccoon

Sniffing. Silent steps in the night. Sensory overload coming from the shed like structure. Now to figure out how best to get to it. The tree, yes the tree next to the fence would be quite a good vantage point.

     Ahhh! The tree is proving more productive than he had expected. A branch grows right alongside a smaller one from the sapling inside the pen. He can get right in without making any noise. Lucky him. Going far enough from home to find such a succulent feast, and being slight and sly enough to shimmy in without much trouble.

     Now he is on the ground. Foolish No-furs, they hadn’t yet put a door on the feast zone. He can just walk right in and take his pick!

      He sidles up to the black square, preparing himself.

     A light above the No-furs porch comes on. Cursing in his head he retreats into the shadows. A No-fur girl comes out the door, her two dogs coming out with her.

     Uhg, one of them is big.....and smells him. Right as he thinks she is going to begin barking, the No-fur calls to her.

     “C’mon Bear. Let’s go girl! I’m cold! You to Aimee!”

     You get cold when you’re a No-fur. It is kind of an occupational hazard. But now they were back inside. Time to return to the befeathered dwellers of the board-den who were going to taste so good.

    Peeking in, he sees they are all still asleep. Mmmm there is a nice fat one at the front.

     He grabs her neck in his jaws and drags her towards the opening.

     Shut up, stupid bird. You’re going to die either way. He bites down. Blood fills his mouth and overwhelms his senses. Oh the ecstasy. He now knows why the lack of this had driven others away from the area, not content with just garbage. All those left are the delinquents and hobos of their race. With this he would become the leader. Not to mention fill his belly.
    He hears the distressed calls of the future main courses inside their temporary housing area. But he is up to his mask in chicken. Sweet, succulent, bloody bird. Euphoric crunching of bones.

    Then it is gone. And he is so full. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to make it back over the fence. But he does. And he makes plans to return.

     ****

Four days later

The other racoons had not hailed him as great. They had not even believed him. They had scoffed and said he must have just found a dead bird or a chicken in the trash. So this time he would have to get the stupid bird over the fence and to his fellow delinquents.

    He effortlessly climbs from tree to tree over the fence and into the pen. Such things are generally even easier the second time he muses as he creeps towards the coop.

    Inhaling deeply the scent of feathers and juicy, alive, meat, he scampers into the dark maw of the hut. Once inside he grabs the closest bird and attempts to drag her out.

     She squawks, struggles and scratches at his thick fur. The other birds shriek in their dumb bird speak and either flee or attack him.

    Drat almost lost the bird that time. Ow, the top of the door is there.

     “Hey! HEY!” The big male No-fur. He has come out to check on the little meals. Curses.

     Yet he is determined to take this tiresome, delicious, scratching thing over the fence with him. Until the No-fur gets right to fence and yells at him. Then he just can not take it. He scrambles up the fence, onto the tree and up it as fast as he can.

    ****

Man

So it had been a raccoon that had killed the hen. His daughters had found it, with nothing left but bones, feet, and feathers, but they had been uncertain as to what had done it. Now however they knew and had it up a tree. A somewhat small male raccoon had deprived them of one, almost two, laying hens.

     Now he has the hen, discovered in the jaws of the masked thief in one hand and a small cage, usually used for rabbits, in the other. He strides quickly around the side of the house to the garage. Lifting up the door, he quickly clears a space on top of a folding table and sets a black bin with low sides atop it. After placing the cage inside the bin so as to catch droppings, he examines the bird.

     She appears to have only lost a substantial amount of feathers, but upon being placed in the cage, she only stands rigidly with her eyes half closed.

    The man has no time to worry about her now. He hurries into the house to find his airsoft gun. As he passes through the main living area his wife looks up from her work.

    “What’s going on out there? Did you chase the raccoon off?” she asks rapid fire.

    “The kids are keeping it up in a tree with flashlights,” the man replies.

    “What are you doing?”

    “Going to get my BB gun,” he answers.

    He grabs the gun out of his sock drawer and quickly exits the building. His oldest daughter and his little boy are shining their flashlights at the top of the fence.

    “He’s right there Daddy! He tried to get away and we threw rocks at him so he came back over!” the little boy proclaims proudly.

    The man waits till the raccoon pokes his head over the fence and shoots it with the airsoft gun. The head disappears behind the fence.

****

Raccoon

He flees through the underbrush, ducking under the branches of saplings. He knows that all the other raccoons are waiting for him to bring them their dinner as proof of his chicken slaying, but he now has no intention of showing up. He is running away. Running away from his shame...and BB guns.

     He crosses a street and heads towards a stream. He can hear the water babbling and skipping over rocks and branches. As he approaches he hears a frog plop into the water. Under normal circumstances he would have been tempted to hunt for it. Frogs were tasty, if chewy, but he is not tempted now.

    He wades out into the water and stands there sniffing. The water swishes and babbles around him. His black-ringed tail floats on the ripples. He can detect the scents of fallen leaves, the frogs, moss, bark. He remains where he is and seems to just soak it all in for several minutes.

    Where should he go? He will be a laughingstock if he remains here, but he may face other dangers if he leaves. Then he remembers his home, on the banks of the river. He must go there.

    He slinks out of the water onto the bank, shakes the water from his fur, and begins to scurry his way along the top of the lip of the land.

     He climbs over rocks made slick by the ongoing flow of the water, logs overspread with smooth, mossy or rough bark and pads down the short sandy stretches. He travels under small bridges made for the noisy beasts the No-furs ride during the daylight hours, until he reaches one that is bigger than the others.

     The stream has widened until it is almost a river itself. There is little cover near it, only tall grass that sways gently in the night breeze and in the occasional wind from a passing No-fur ride.

     He is thankful for the cover of darkness, though he still feels exposed without trees around him as a means of escape should trouble arise.

     He still forces himself to begin the trek across the open space towards to shadow that is the underside of the bridge. He is halfway across the stretch, having paused to ponder the scents and images coming to him from all around. Suddenly, one of the roaring riding beasts is deafeningly crashing past.

     The raccoon makes a mad dash, to where he does not know, he just runs as his instincts of prey take over. Then with no warning other than a slight darkening, and a dull roar in his ears, he feels a sudden shock of pain to his skull...

****

Dawn

The light has come. It rose slowly, peeking through clouds and trees as it made its routine ascent over the ever changing world. Beneath a bridge, crossing over a tributary to the river that is not far off, there is a small gray patch of fur. The black ringed tail that lays on the ground twitches slightly in the wind as the cars raging past buffets it.

     A small bird on the other side of the small clearing watches the black masked patch of fur, waiting to see if it will pick itself up. It does not.