Story: Chatter, Chatter

 As you can probably tell, I've been rooting through old document folders on my computer and sorting through all the ones I haven't posted on the blog yet. This was an experience I had in Scout Camp when I was about 15 or so, and exhibits the indifferent cruelty of youth and the carelessness of boyhood. I made this for a college writing assignment, but this experience had also led to me making an OHRRPG related to this (with Bunky as a boss and everything), which makes me realize I should really make a post about that as well sometime.

Chatter, Chatter

It seems as though most of my life I’ve been merely a spectator for some of my friends’ more interesting lives, offering feedback and criticism when they’ve asked it, only to not have much of an action-packed life for myself. However, the few moments of excitement worth telling about, occurring at Scout Camp, are probably, at the least, more unique than those I’ve listened to. Any young man with a memory of Scout Camp knows of the comedic and, most of the time, dangerous activities that make the week-long outings what they are. As for those friends who don’t know, I would venture to say that they have never witnessed a mushroom-cloud of ash bursting out of a fire pit, leaving the half-full glass Sobe bottle there only moments prior completely obliterated; the towering inferno of the crackling, angry and thoroughly disappointed dead tree that had fully expected its size to discourage its use as firewood; or, as I’m about to elaborate on, the gruesome demise of a woodland animal that never should have happened.

            It started as a regular week at Cedar Badge Scout Camp up on Treasure Mountain. It was my second year, my year as a Varsity scout. They sorted all of us scouts into groups and sent us on our way to the various troops named after presidents of the United States. I made my way down to the west side of the huge camp area to the Ronald Reagan troop. I met my campmates, one of which, surprisingly enough, was an acquaintance from school. There was the usual group. A couple of guys you could easily get along with, a lazy troublemaker, and a fellow who seemed like he was a polite enough guy until he opened his mouth. The part of my fourteen-year-old self hated the most was the fact that the camp next to us, who shared our fire pit, contained all of the latter type of scout, and they enjoyed blaspheming as a pastime. I wanted to go home, as was typical for the first day of camp.

            We found out rather early on that our camp had a visitor, or more accurately, an inhabitant, who thought we were unwelcome visitors. The first night, as we tried to accustom ourselves to the bumpy rocks on which our sleeping bags were settled, a sharp chattering fluttered around the trees outside the tent. Now, as everyone knows, most squirrels are inherently evil. It is only too well-known that squirrels are the scourge of the pine trees, with their arsenal of rock-hard pinecones and rock-hard rocks, and are eagerly waiting for the perfect moment to use them as well-aimed projectiles. This was rather obvious to all of us, especially at Treasure Mountain, when exposure to numerous campers and hikers every year slowly whittled away the squirrels’ sense of fear, until there might as well be large, walking targets everywhere with no claws or teeth, who have just infiltrated the squirrels’ precious territory.

            This particular devil-rodent had no doubt fired at will at our arrival, but had not gotten its point across, resorting to simply chattering (profanely, I might add, for a squirrel) threats against our entire race in the dead of the night.

            We looked around in the morning for any sign of the nightly nuisance, but found no sign. The squirrel, who I infamously referred to as “Bunky,” was nowhere to be found.

            Later that day, we scouts of the hardworking persuasion prepared lunch under a filtered-sunlight cover. Suddenly, a recognizable sound resonated through the air. The chattering was all around us, and yet seemed to come from nowhere at all. We looked around wildly for the source of the noise, our thoughts racing with vengeance and ways to show our racial superiority. Sticks and fire came readily to mind. Unfortunately, the chattering of Bunky the Squirrel slowly faded away, almost smugly. We had lost our chance again.

            Over the course of the week, Bunky the Evil One plagued us constantly with not only physical tormenting barrages of stones, but its nightly din of challenge as well. We came close many times to seeing the glint of a red eye on a tree branch, or perhaps hearing the rustle of black claws scurrying up a tree, but we were thwarted time and again.

            We began to give up hope. The unearthly quiet roar of squirrel laughter echoing through our scout lectures became a part of everyday life. A couple of the bolder and more dramatic scouts vowed with an oath of blood or the like to defeat Bunky when it reared its hideous face.

            And then the day came, our finest hour; the perfect setup predestined by Providence itself. There we were, around the quietly popping fire, enjoying the rarely-found silence of the forest while throwing random objects into the flames. The regular chattering sound resonated through the woods, and even though we were somewhat numbed, we clenched our walking sticks with defiance. I unconsciously turned around on my tree stump of a seat, and my eyes fell on something that made my pulse quicken. There, standing right in the middle of the path, was a fat squirrel, its body motionless except for its wildly chattering mouth. Chatter, chatter.

            I stood, gaping at our nemesis, the others following my gaze. The squirrel’s expressionless face darkened with hatred. It darted forward a few feet. Chatter, chatter. It darted again, this time to the side. Chatter. The scouts watched its every move, each of our hearts beating, beating with the vengeance we had longed for. In what seemed like a graceful, shadowy arc, the squirrel scurried halfway up a tree, clicked twice with its teeth, and disappeared into a hole.

            This was it! The entire group erupted to their feet, dashing to the hole. “This is our day!” we whooped with excitement. When we realized that the squirrel was trapped in the tree, it was as if a long-awaited unwritten plan sprang into action. We immediately ran to the fire and began to forge weapons of war. We passed flaming sticks with thin plumes of smoke rising from their ends by assembly line to the lead scout nearest the hole. The torch was carefully stuck into the tree’s hollow opening, and the siege began.

            It seemed like hours of careful switching and passing forward sticks of smoke, daring the Evil One to emerge from its lair. Between weapon replacements, we saw puffs of grey smoke issuing out of the hole of its own accord. “It can’t be long now,” we told ourselves. “Vengeance will be ours at last. It has to come out sometime.”

            At last we lowered our weapons, panting, and stared at the smoldering hole in the tree where our adversary lay. As if the entire action was planned out in detail, the oldest in my patrol swiftly retrieved a thin cloth from his tent. He walked solemnly to the tree, others parting to let him pass. Somewhere afar off, a woodpecker drilled a tree. The fire in the pit let out an anticipating snap. The scout placed the cloth over the hole almost ceremonially. We watched closely, our hands clenching and relaxing in anxiousness. And then it happened. A lump dropped with resignation into the cloth. Every scout in both patrols whooped and cheered in victorious uproar. The lump struggled for a few pained seconds, gave one last muffled chattering noise, and fell motionless.

            Our cheers died down and the scout holding the cloth opened it carefully. There lay one of the evil race, its face half blackened by so many charring sticks poked into its home. My eyes focused on Bunky’s body, which I realized was female. Perhaps her young lie in the tree? The corpse was pathetic, really. I felt a pang of sympathy and guilt as I realized why she had chattered us silly. Perhaps she had merely felt threatened by our presence and had tried her best to frighten us away to protect her beloved babies. Many squirrels were evil. Everyone knew that. But perhaps there were a few who weren’t. I felt an emotion whisper inside me that this was one of those squirrels. Its deeds that had annoyed us so greatly were, just maybe, understandable. I drew my gaze to the tree, which was still smoldering quietly wisps of gray smoke. I imagined tiny pink offspring shivering, or perhaps already fumigated to death. Perhaps it was better that way, I thought, eager to rationalize. Less evil in the world meant a better place to live. …But what if they had grown up to be good squirrels?

            The oldest scout stared at Bunky, the others muttering amongst themselves. It was hard to tell if he was thinking the same as I was. As if answering my doubts, he looked up soundlessly, and with a look of indifference, promptly tossed the squirrel into the fire.

            Bunky’s body flopped onto the hot embers and immediately rippled as every sinew in her body swelled with the heat. The cruel flames beneath licked the corpse hungrily, singing her hair and consuming her. The stench of death rose into the air like a vengeful phantom. The other scouts groaned in disgust and retreated. I followed them, looking back as the soul of Bunky seemed to float peacefully in the smoke of the fire. It appeared to look at me one last time, shrug, and then vanish.

            A few hours later, the other scouts absent from my presence, I approached the fire pit, a plastic cup from my pack in my hand. The fire was just a pile of charcoal and ashes now; tiny white plumes of smoke seeped from the wood like unraveling strings in the wind. I lingered, staring at the place where a burned image of Bunky fit together in my mind. I could still see her charred face, those lifeless eyes. Had she died of fear? Of suffocation? Heart failure? I bent down quietly and scooped some of the ashes into my cup. It was all mostly blackened wood, I knew, but I felt as though some organic fragments of Bunky’s carcass still clung to the wood of her grave. My cup full of ashes, I stared into the coals one last time. A curled wisp of smoke, exactly like a squirrel tail, seemed to float into the air momentarily, and then fade into the wind.

            To this day, I have in my bedroom a jar which I believe to hold the last remains of Bunky the Squirrel. The sight of the dusty jar reminds me of the long-expired spirit of an aggrieved pest, and the appalling immaturity of my past self.