Ширли Мерфи - The Flight Of The Fox

When he reached the dump, he found Rory and Crispin frantically pulling scraps of wrinkled tar paper up onto the roof of the piano crate. The rain had drenched everything on top the crate, and water was beginning to soak into the plywood. So far, it was dripping down inside the hangar in only one place, but soon it would be dozens. The two animals were half drowned, sputtering and shaking, with their fur plastered down so they looked naked. Charlie unrolled the plastic and pulled one end up over the top of the crate, covering kangaroo rat, lemming, and junk. He shouted directions as Rory and Crispin pulled and straightened the thin sheet, then crawled out. They anchored it with bits of metal, boards and some rods, then Charlie threw the second sheet over the first, and after a lot of wet scrabbling around they had a pretty secure roof. The animals dove for the hangar and Charlie collected some empty cans from the dump to put under leaks, then he crouched down inside the piano box next to the plane. Rory and Crispin sat huddled together on one of the cots. Thunder rolled, and lightning split the sky somewhere over near town.

Rory began to dry himself with a bit of paint-stained rag. Crispin unrolled a long red sock that must have been his pillow and wrapped it around his dripping shoulders.

"Them starlings made a real fuss when the rain started," Rory said. "Acted like they'd gone crazy, squawking and carrying on, wheeling and diving and throwing a regular tantrum. Maybe they thought they could drive the rain away."

"They were that way in town," Charlie said. "Looking for shelter, I guess. Not much shelter in the garbage dump."

Rory gave him a sour look and waved a paw at the mountains of trash. "Half of them are out there," he said shortly. "They pushed into every car body and turned-over tub they could find."

Charlie peered out but could see nothing but a sheet of rain. And now the wind began to shift and to drive rain into the hangar. He crawled outside and went to find something to shelter the door. He found a car hood leaning against some junk, then just as the rain let up, a big piece of plywood that was better. He wrestled this back toward the hangar as the sky turned a little brighter overhead. The rain had nearly ceased. But it was just a lull; heavier clouds were blowing in from the south. By the time he'd reached the hangar again, the wind had risen suddenly so it pushed and twisted at the plywood and hit him hard from behind; a sharp slamming wind—but it was more than wind that hit him! Bodies were hitting him. Hard, flying bodies. Beaks and claws struck him. He was knocked off balance by screaming starlings surging past him into the piano box. They boiled around him into the little hangar, thick as night, until the box was full of clawing birds, fighting for a perch, their voices rasping. Charlie could not see the two animals. He stared around frantically. Finally he glimpsed Rory leaping high among the mass of birds kicking for all he was worth; then the kangaroo rat disappeared. Charlie pushed in among the birds trying to feel fur, was nearly covered with thrashing feathers. He heard the thin paper on the plane tear under birds' claws, heard a strut crack. He swung his hand at the birds that covered the plane and drew his hand back bloodied. He reached back toward the cot where he had last seen the animals, and birds churned and exploded in his face. He heard Crispin cry out faintly. Birds were coming at him with open beaks. He saw Rory leap again and grabbed at him wildly, missed him, grabbed again and felt the kangaroo rat snatch at his fingers. They got hold of each other somehow among feathers and claws, and Charlie lifted Rory out, trying to protect him from the striking birds.

"Crispin's down there!" Rory cried.

Charlie shoved Rory inside his jacket and reached toward the cots, with birds pecking him so sharply they brought tears. He tipped over a cot in his haste, shook off a bird that would not let go—then, at last, he felt the furry little lemming lying beneath the table, quite still.

He cupped the lemming in both hands and lifted him out, then backed away from the hangar and knelt with rain pouring down his neck. Crispin lay very still in his bloodied hands. He bent to listen for a heartbeat but could hear none. He pushed the lemming inside his jacket with Rory as birds flew out at him. He slapped at attacking birds and felt the two animals stirring against his stomach. At last he was able to open his jacket. "Is Crispin all right? Is he alive?"

"He's okay, sonny. I think he just fainted." Rory was bleeding badly.

"Well, hang on tight; I'm going to get rid of those birds!" Charlie dug into the nearest trash heap until he found a good-sized piece of lumber, then knelt once more before the hangar and began to flail right and left, taking care not to hit the plane. He sent birds squawking and flying at him with rage. He had to pull his collar over his face against the storm of beating wings. At last he felt wings begin to brush by him as birds leaped away—but others battled on, heads thrust forward, open beaks hissing, wings spread. The biplane looked terrible. Some flaps of paper hung down, a rib showed. She was so covered with bird droppings he could only guess at the damage. The cots had collapsed and so had the table, and tools were scattered everywhere among droppings and dark feathers and dead birds. Charlie poked with the two-by-four at the remaining clutch of birds so they screamed at him with fury, but finally rose into the rain, their eyes never leaving him. "Go on!" he yelled. "Get out of here!" They circled him threateningly. He swung the two-by-four, and at last they flew away.

And then Charlie heard, down inside his jacket where the two wet bodies wriggled against his stomach, Crispin's little voice saying, "Move over, Rory! There's a button in my ribs!"

Charlie opened his jacket. The kangaroo rat jumped to his shoulder and stood scowling at the damaged plane. He was soaking wet and bloody. His paws were clenched, and his eyes were dark with anger. The lemming crept out too, and when he saw the mess, he began to chitter with terrible fury, his teeth going like triphammers and his eyes flashing. They all stared at the sorry, sorry plane. "Bird brains!" Rory said. "Mindless, no good bird brains. When the Good Lord made the world, he sure didn't have to make starlings!" He turned and spat. "It was dark as sin under them flappin' birds, I thought sure our number was up! And I bet I've got their stinkin' lice all over me!" He glared at Crispin, who was still chittering. "Well what're we waiting for, sonny! Let's get this mess cleaned up. Let's get that plane washed and see what kind of shape she's in!"

CHAPTER 13

the cloud-heavy sky darkened into night before they had scrubbed the plane clean. They worked by the light from Charlie's bike lamp, which picked out harshly the jagged rents in the plane: five long tears where paper had been pulled away from ribs, many rips from sharp claws, two broken ribs. Charlie found some rusty nails and a rock, and they rolled the plane inside and nailed the plywood over the hangar to keep the birds out, leaving a crack so the animals could come and go. "I'll bring out a flashlight," Charlie said, "so you can work in there. It's going to be dark as pitch even in the daytime."

"Afraid you're right, sonny. I hate working shut in like that, but I guess it can't be helped." Then, seeing the lemming's expression as he stared at the hurt plane, "Why, we'll fix her up good as new! What's been done once, youngster, can sure be done again!"

There were no stars, no moon, the clouds must still be thick overhead. As Charlie started home through the pitch black dump, he wondered if Mrs. Critch was waiting up to yell at him for missing dinner. The light from his bike lamp reflected in the puddles and glanced off wet trash, and his tires sloshed through deep water and skidded in the mud. His clothes and shoes were soaking and cold. His stomach rumbled with hunger, and he wondered if she'd try to make him go to bed without dinner. He wished he had the sandwich he'd left on the desk. He pedaled on through the wet night and was pretty glad when he hit pavement at last, and gladder still when he saw the lights of home, even if Mrs. Critch was waiting up for him. He could see her dark, square shape silhouetted against the shade. She'd make some kind of scene, you could bet on it. He wiped his feet, then dripped into the living room soggy and cold and grim.