The Beaver’s Door RACHEL BURNS
On the border where the Rodericks’ property met the Worths’, there ran a creek, wide and gold and alive between high clay banks. It never fully froze over in the winter, and in the spring it always ran high, tumbling over itself and occasionally overflowing into the surrounding forest. The summer was the only time that seemed to slow it. The Missouri sun heated it into a sort of lazy lassitude, and it crept like hot honey through the woods lining its banks. It was this creek that they were trying to dam. They were piling old logs and fallen limbs in the water haphazardly in the way that children do things with no real idea of how to do what they are trying to accomplish. It was the product of a few bored summer weeks that had turned into more habit than fun. The day was bright and solidly hot, and the boy was resting on the bank in the ample shade of a sycamore. He dangled a foot from the edge and watched the dragonflies dipping in and out of the shadows. “Sam.” A dragonfly zipped close to his face, hovered in front of his nose for a moment, then zoomed away. He felt the tiny wind of its wings on his cheek. “Sam.” He pressed his toe into the creek’s surface. The heat seemed to put a skin on the water. He imagined that he could feel it bend and shift under his foot. “Sam! Are you listening?” He liked Phyllis well enough for a girl, but there were moments that he wished she could just be less of one. “I found a stick.” Sam didn’t even bother turning around. “Yep. The woods are full of them.” He heard her huff and smiled. “I mean I found a good stick. I can’t lift it though.” “Hang on a second.” He got up and brushed the clay from the backs of his legs, then straightened and looked to where she was standing. Phyllis pointed at a fallen limb covered with a healthy crop of mushrooms. “That one.” The log was easily as big as Sam was, and undoubtedly much heavier. He knew he couldn’t lift it even if Phyllis helped. “Maybe we should leave that one be, Phyll. There’s probably a giant fuzzy-leg spider under it.” Phyllis cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard of fuzzy-leg spiders.” “Giant fuzzy-leg spiders. They’re huge. And they bite. They’re in the third book.” Sam had won Phyllis’ respect through his possession of a trio of dusty old animal encyclopedias that he claimed to have read. It wasn’t a complete lie. He had read the first and second volumes that covered mammals, birds, reptiles, and fish. Insects didn’t interest him, but Phyllis trusted his knowledge implicitly. “Are their legs really fuzzy?”