Raising Rufus Part 1

Raising Rufus.

David Fulk.

For Marie and Neal.

The hunter would not be denied.

His spear drawn and ready, he crashed his way over, under, around, and through the bushes and brambles in his path. His arms and legs were getting mightily scratched up, but that wouldn't slow him down, not today. He focused on his fleeing prey with a big cat's intensity, determined that it would not escape. He was, after all, the king of the forest, the Master Huntsman.

Of course, Martin wasn't really a Masai tribesman with a spear; he was an eleven-year-old kid with a bug net. And his prey was no swift and nimble antelope; it was a black swallowtail b.u.t.terfly. But somehow the chase was more fun if he let his imagination fly a bit.

Besides, he really needed that swallowtail for his collection. So he summoned his inner warrior and charged after the fluttering bug as it led him deeper and deeper into the woods, a good quarter mile beyond his usual hiking range.

"Come on, land," he commanded through clenched teeth. "You know you have to!"

He wasn't supposed to stray that far from the path, but the longer the chase went on, the more determined he was to make his catch. So, when the crafty b.u.t.terfly found its way to the Kinnewoc limestone quarry and headed down the ramp, Martin didn't slow down to read the sign on the traffic gate: He slid underneath the gate and sprinted down the steep dirt roadway, following the darting, dodging insect all the way to the bottom of the quarry. The work crews were gone, and they had taken all their trucks and digging machines with them. So there was nothing blocking the way as Martin chased his six-legged prey across the quarry floor. He was huffing and wheezing, exhausted by the long chase, and now, for the first time, he couldn't escape the thought that the Master Huntsman might just have to go home, get a sandwich, and try again some other time.

Then, silently, almost right in front of him, the b.u.t.terfly circled in and made a slow, graceful landing on a clump of rock sticking out from the wall. His focus revived, Martin raised his net and tiptoed forward. The swallowtail slowly opened and closed its wings, the black-and-yellow scales glistening in the sunlight.

Closer...closer...that's it, hold steady...

The instant Martin got within striking range, whoosh-whap! He smacked the net against the wall.

But this day would belong to the hunted, not the hunter. The b.u.t.terfly slipped away just in the nick of time, and all Martin could do was watch as it spiraled straight up, up, up, and over the quarry wall, free to flit among the trees and torment other young bug hunters for the rest of its days.

"Aaaaaaaaach," Martin groaned. "How could you be that quick?"

But his disappointment quickly vanished; now an oddly bright glimmer in the wall caught his attention. What was all that ice doing mixed in with the rocks? It seemed to be melting quickly in the sun-water was dripping down across the whole length of the rock face. And what kind of rocks were those? Limestone, right, but other kinds were mixed in with the ice, strange ones he couldn't remember ever seeing before-and he considered himself something of a rock expert.

Martin touched the cold, wet surface of the wall, and a small chunk fell off. He picked it up and brought it close to his face, rubbing his thumb across the flat surface. No, this was definitely not an ordinary piece of limestone. Right there on the smooth face of the stone was the clear outline of...what? A bird's foot? Maybe, or maybe not, but it was definitely something that was alive once-and a long, long time ago.

"Wow. A fossil!"

Martin had seen pictures of fossils before, but he never imagined he would find one just a twenty-minute hike from his own backyard. The quarrymen must have dug straight into an ancient dying ground for creatures that lived millions of years ago.

As he reached over his shoulder and dropped the fossil into his backpack, all thoughts of hunters and antelopes and b.u.t.terflies disappeared from Martin's head. If there was one fossil here, there could be hundreds. Imagine being the only kid in this corner of Wisconsin with his own, personally gathered fossil collection!

Fascinated, he reached for the wall again. But the instant his hand touched it, another rock came loose-a bigger one, higher up. Martin flinched as it hit the ground behind him with a loud thud. Then came a sharp crackle, and he had to duck and cover his head as more rocks rained down around him.

That's it-I'm out of here!

He spun on his heel to make a dash away from the rock face. But before he could take a second step, there was a tremendous RUMBLE and a giant slab of rock came cras.h.i.+ng down from the wall, blocking his way. He gave a loud grunt and took a big hop backward, trying to keep his balance. Then, before he could even think about where to go next, there was an even bigger rumble and crash, and the very ground under his feet gave way!

"Holy mama!" he yowled, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he suddenly felt himself dropping straight down as though a trapdoor had opened up right underneath him, and rocks and boulders and chunks of ice came thundering down, completely burying the spot where he had been standing only a few brief seconds ago.

Then...silence.

Anybody watching what had just happened would definitely think that was the end of Martin Tinker. But as it turned out, that swallowtail was not the only one having a lucky day. Underneath all those rocks and ice chunks, below ground level, there was one really, really small open s.p.a.ce-and Martin somehow had managed to end up inside it.

"Wow," he whispered. "Am I still alive?"

It was just about pitch-black in there, but he was able to move around a little-one of the few times, he realized, when it was actually a good thing to be skinny.

As he took a few long, deep breaths to help settle his nerves, he suddenly remembered something. The other day they'd said on the TV news that the Kinnewoc crew had accidentally drilled into a vein of dark ice, so now the quarry wall was unstable. It wasn't safe to work on, and the quarry would be shut down.

Martin felt like kicking himself for not thinking of that before he went charging down there-but he could barely move, so any kicking was out of the question.

Okay, don't panic, he thought. You can get out of this...

He awkwardly reached around behind his back and unzipped his backpack. It took a good half minute or so of groping, but he finally got his hand around his cell phone. And when he pressed the switch with his thumb and the screen lit up, he felt a surge of relief.

First he reached over with the phone light to check out a nasty sc.r.a.pe on his elbow-by some crazy stroke of luck, his only real injury from the fall. Then, hands shaking, he s.h.i.+ned the light around his rocky cubbyhole. He could see a crack of daylight through a narrow chute above; with determination and a little luck, a short crawl should get him up and out.

"All right...okay. I've got this..."

As he clamped his lips tight and got set to start crawling, he could see in the dim light that there were even more of those mysterious fossils all around him. Even though he knew it was probably not the smartest thing to do just now, he couldn't resist the urge to pick up a few of the smaller ones and slip them into his backpack-no easy maneuver when you're stuck in a rocky, icy s.p.a.ce not much bigger than the trunk of a Buick.

When he had gathered a few handfuls of the fossils, Martin decided he'd better not mess around any longer, and began his uncomfortable crawl toward the opening above. He slithered his way along, holding his breath as he carefully navigated the jagged rock edges. Then, when he was halfway there...his knee banged on something cold.

"Ow!"

He reached down with the glowing phone and saw that he had b.u.mped something very odd-a smooth, oval object, a bit smaller than a football, grayish-brown and covered with...were those speckles, or just chunks of dirt? Hard to tell, because half of the thing was covered with ice, and the other half had a crust of grit and hard clay stuck to it. Martin edged backward a few inches to get a closer look. If this was a fossil, it was nothing at all like the others.

Another rumble in the rocks above sent a new shot of jitter juice surging through his stomach. With no time to wrangle the heavy object into his backpack, he quickly scooped it up with his left hand, tucked it tight against his rib cage, and scrambled the rest of the way up to the narrow opening-and, with one last big push, popped out into the open air. Freedom!

Stooped over from the weight in his hand, he sprinted away from the wall as fast as his spindly legs would carry him. And his escape came not a moment too soon, because now there was an enormous CRASH, and suddenly the whole quarry wall gave way, cascading down in an avalanche of rocks and ice-and totally obliterating the small creva.s.se he had been trapped inside only seconds before.

Having made it a safe distance away, he straightened up and turned to watch the spectacular scene, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. He stood there, his heart thumping, hacking and coughing from the tons of dust, until all the rocks had finally settled. So that's what it's like to almost die, he thought. Then he thought of what his mom and dad might do if they ever found out how close he had come to an early grave. So of course, they would never hear a thing about it.

Realizing his fingers and left side were starting to feel numb, Martin looked down at the frozen stone he had forgotten he was holding. He brushed away some frost and dust, held it to his ear, knocked on it lightly, took a sniff-but it was not a thing that would give up its secrets easily.

He knew what he would do: take it home, set it up in his backyard barn lab, and get going on some serious research.

What he didn't know was that this strange, cold stone was going to change his life forever.

Reep reep deedy bip!

The ringtone wasn't that loud, but Martin was so deep in concentration that it made him jump a little. He reached across his workbench and grabbed the phone.

"Hi, Mom."

"Martin, do you have my cheese grater?"

"Um...yeah." He had the grater, all right. He'd been using it to sc.r.a.pe at the grit and grime that was stuck to that egg-shaped stone he'd found in the quarry.

"What are you using it for?"

"You know. Stuff."

"Honey, I need it back. I'm doing one of those cheesy-noodle things you like."

Actually, Martin didn't much care for the cheesy-noodle thing. But he didn't feel like arguing the point. "Okay."

"Listen, your dad called from work and he can't find his truck keys. Would you be a star and bike over there with the spare set?"

"Oh, um-"

"You're the best, monkey-bean. And bring my grater before you go."

Martin was trying to think of an excuse not to go, but he wasn't quick enough; she was gone. So he took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes, and geared up to venture out of the lab and face the world.

It wasn't an actual lab, of course, with test tubes and weird equipment and that sort of thing. But it definitely worked for Martin's purposes. The land that his family's house was on had once been part of a small dairy farm, and though the house itself was fairly ordinary by Menominee Springs standards, the backyard was huge, and there was a big stone barn at the far end. The good thing for Martin was that his parents never used the barn for anything more than a giant storage s.p.a.ce, so he had talked them into letting him use a corner of it for his own private science lab.

And he spent a lot of time in that lab. Not having any real friends to speak of, he hung out in there pretty much every day after school, and on weekends, too. The lab was where he got to hang with some real friends-friends who always listened to him, who never snubbed him or made fun of him, who were there to support him when things got him down. True, these friends tended to be not exactly living-collections of stones, dried leaves, and dead bugs, all neatly arranged on shelves and in display boxes. But Martin looked forward to hanging out with them every day and, naturally, adding to their numbers on a regular basis. He even had names for his favorite pals, like the perfectly preserved cecropia moth he called Gigundo because it was so-well, gigundo, and a brilliant purple piece of quartz he called Charlie, though he wasn't sure exactly why.

The other great thing about the barn was that the door was only a few steps from the edge of the woods, which conveniently started right where the Tinkers' yard ended. So, on a typical spring day like today, Martin could come straight home from school, make a quick stop in the house to grab a snack, hustle on out to the barn to pick up his bug net and a.s.sorted gear, and head right out into the pine groves for a new day of discovery and adventure. Out there he might catch a few interesting bugs, dig up one or two new rock specimens, maybe skip stones across a pond for a while, sit on a rock and leaf through a good bug book-and never have to cross paths with another human being.

His mom worked in the public library in the afternoons and didn't like the idea of Martin wandering out there alone among the bugs and badgers and bears and lord-knows-what. But his dad had convinced her that it was healthy for Martin to exercise a little independence, so they decided to let him go-as long as he knew the full rules of the road, which she quizzed him on regularly.

"How many leaves on a poison ivy twig?"

"Three."

"You can touch stream water, but..."

"Don't drink it."

"What if it looks like rain?"

"Come right home."

"And if you see a bear..."

"Back away slowly, don't make eye contact, and call nine-one-one. Then start singing, because they hate that."

n.o.body had ever seen a bear in that part of the woods, but it made no difference to Mrs. Tinker; she wanted Martin to be totally prepared for anything. So she gave him a can of Harlan Ziffer's Bear-Away Spray to carry with him on his hikes-just in case. She also insisted he take a sun hat, a water bottle, a first-aid kit, a banana for energy, a pocket knife, a plastic poncho, an air horn, mosquito repellent, and an extra battery for his phone.

Martin knew his mom meant well, but to him it seemed a bit extreme. It was just way too much stuff to haul around. So he generally made it a point to "forget" to take most of it with him on his nature walks.

Martin was pretty grumpy about having to do this errand, and he was eager to get it over with. He really wanted to get back to his lab to study that big, frozen oval stone, and all those fascinating fossils, too. There was one that looked like part of a spiky flounder, and another one that could have been either a very ugly shrimp or a very hairy spider, before it got flattened forever onto a smooth piece of rock. Martin couldn't wait to study them and learn more, but for now, wait was what he would have to do.

As he pedaled his bike across town, the postcard-pretty surroundings and soft breezes took his mind off his lab work and gave his mood a boost. After all, late April was the best time of year in Menominee Springs: the deep chill of winter was gone, flowers were just starting to bloom, the local fauna were making their summer debut, and the swarms of tourists hadn't yet descended on the town. It seemed like everybody was out and about, and smiles were as plentiful as the b.u.mblebees on the spring daffodils.

Part of the reason everybody was so chipper was that they were looking forward to the many dollars the tourists would soon be bringing to town with them. And n.o.body looked forward to that more than Mr. Tinker's boss, Ben Fairfield, who was already the richest man in Menominee Springs. He got that way by being the owner of the Trout Palace, a sprawling house of amus.e.m.e.nts that attracted vacationers from hundreds of miles around. Set on thirty acres of prime wooded parkland, the Trout Palace had, as Mr. Fairfield loved to boast, something for everyone.

Martin rode up and parked his bike next to the big wooden sign at the front gate that said it all: Martin went through the gate and walked past the outdoor rides, which hadn't really interested him much since he was about eight-a mini train, a merry-go-round, a slow-speed coaster, pony rides, and a few other unchallenging distractions-and stepped up to the front entrance of the main building.

The Trout Palace was a big half cylinder of corrugated steel that reminded Martin of a hangar for a jumbo jet, if there were a way to get a jumbo jet into the middle of the woods. The inside was laid out so that anywhere you looked, something would draw you in. Everything promised on the sign was there, and more, though none of it was as modern and thrilling as you might expect. Most of the attractions had been there, unchanged, for more than thirty years.

There were a lot of reasons to visit Menominee Springs in the summer-fis.h.i.+ng, camping, hiking, waterskiing, or just soaking in the relaxing, woodsy atmosphere-but it was the Trout Palace that really brought people in. There was just something about catching your own lunch in a man-made pond or watching a dancing beaver in a tutu that made folks want to pile their families into the SUV and head across the state. And they kept coming year after year, defying all logic-never mind the video games, the Internet, the big-screen TVs, and all the other modern gadgets that usually occupied people's leisure time.

All of which made Ben Fairfield a very happy man. Or so you might think if you were one of the visitors he would personally greet just inside the entrance with a big smile and a firm handshake, his bald dome glistening under the tube fluorescents.

"Hi there! Welcome to the Trout Palace!" he'd say. "Where're you folks from?"

"La Crosse."

"Oh, yeah. My favorite town." Then he would lean down to the kids. "You ready to have some fun, partners?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, don't spend all your dad's money. Ha ha ha ha ha!"

Martin didn't much care for Mr. Fairfield-partly because he always called him Murphy, and partly because of the way he treated the Trout Palace employees, which was nothing at all like the way he treated his customers. The people who worked there were mostly high schoolers on summer break, and Mr. Fairfield never missed a chance to throw off a nasty remark or make them feel stupid. Whenever Martin was in the place, he couldn't help feeling sorry for them.

There were a few Trout Palace employees, though, who were treated quite a bit better by Ben Fairfield. These were the ones with a lot of skills and experience, the ones Mr. Fairfield realized he needed as much as they needed him-like the technical supervisor, Mr. Gordon Tinker. Martin's dad was the man who made sure all the electrical and mechanical contraptions were in top working order at all times. He was the best there was, and Mr. Fairfield knew it.

n.o.body was busier in the weeks before the Trout Palace opened than Mr. Tinker. So as Martin walked up to the building's grand entryway, he was hoping it wouldn't be too hard to find him. He still had that bizarre frozen fossil on his mind, and he just wanted to pa.s.s off the keys and get back home to the lab. Plus, a quick exchange would minimize the chances of running into Mr. Fairfield.

Luckily, just as Martin came in the main door, he ran into his dad-or his dad's legs, actually. He was standing on a ladder with the upper half of his body inside a giant fibergla.s.s fish that hung from wires attached to the ceiling. The fish's gaping mouth had some gear work connected to it, and Mr. Tinker was wrestling with a very stubborn bolt.

"Get loose, you little b.u.g.g.e.r..."

"Hi, Dad. I got your spare keys."

"Huh?...Oh, great. Thanks, buddy." He slipped the wrench into his tool belt and got set to come down the ladder. "Y'know, I had those things when I got out of the truck this morning-"

"Hey, Gordo! Think fast!" a voice boomed out.

Martin's dad looked down just in time to see Ben Fairfield fire a football in his direction. Instinctively, he reached through the fish's mouth and made a smooth catch.

Mr. Fairfield grinned impishly. "Still got those great hands."

"Tell it to this bolt."

"Ha haaa!...Hey there, Murphy! What's the good word?"

"Hi," Martin mumbled. In his head he was bemoaning his bad luck, but even more than that he felt a little embarra.s.sed for his dad, because he knew that football was kind of a sore point for him. Years ago his "great hands" had made him a star wide receiver on the Menominee Springs High football team. He was so good that he had earned a full scholars.h.i.+p to the University of Wisconsin. But it all came cras.h.i.+ng down when a serious knee injury in the last game of his senior year put an end to the scholars.h.i.+p, his college plans, and his dreams of making it to the National Football League. He ended up marrying his hometown sweetheart-Martin's mom-right after high school, and went to work at the Trout Palace.

Luckily, Mr. Fairfield changed the subject. "Come on down. I want to show you guys something."

As Mr. Tinker dislodged himself from the fish and descended the ladder, Martin, hoping for a quick escape, edged backward. "I have to, um..."

His dad quickly shook his head and motioned for Martin to follow. They walked with Mr. Fairfield across the Trout Palace floor, past all the busy workers setting up the game booths, concession stands, and nature displays.