Beavers and Gardeners. Aivar Lembit

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      Beavers and gardeners

      A fairy tale for adults

      Aivar Lembit

      Voka, 2013

      Author: Aivar Lembit

      E-mail: [email protected]

      ISBN 978-9916-4-0293-1 (epub)

      Copyright © 2020 by Aivar Lembit

      All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

      may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

      without the express written permission of the author

      except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

      Introduction

      The history of beavers and gardeners had been a history of wars and battles. The dam, which dammed the water and protected the beavers' nests, flooded the gardeners' gardens and carrot fields. The dark water river, both a protector and a destroyer, teared the humans and animals apart.

      Beavers came into conflict with gardeners, gardeners came into conflict with gardeners… Both wanted to protect their property and their homes. It was clear from the beginning that someone had to suffer. In a war without winners, they were not the only ones who fell under the curses of the past.

      In battles with animals, old wounds that had not yet healed from the brutal post-war years were mixed. Not only the neighbours and their children but also the beaver family, who tried to settle on the banks of a dark water river, fell victim to hostile relations between people.

      1

      In spring, after the stream had started to rumble, a young beaver family coming from the gullet of Aedoja downstream, settled down in the shade of Tammiku hill. Here the river made its last major turning and then rushed downwards into a small lake swarming with springs.

      The travelling beavers Mirt and Märt gazed at the brink surrounding the banks of the stream. The sandy loam shores seemed to be suitable. There were adequate alder brush and willow bushes shooting into the sky.

      “We’ll stay here,” Mirt thought being really tired of the journey that had started from Aedoja in the morning, ”we have enough material here and something to nibble at.”

      “Wait a second,” Märt calmed her down. ”We didn’t come here for a year or two. There were alders and birches at Aedoja too.”

      ”Yes, and there were angry gardeners there as well. No such people here, the latest footprints date back five years from now.”

      Märt frowned at the thought as always, when he suspected Mirt of acting too hastily. Haste meant nothing good.

      ”That doesn’t mean anything that they are not here today. We have to investigate it. They are not here today, but may come tomorrow – and then what? On the move again?”

      ”Damn you and your fears,” Mirt shook her head. “This way we’ll not make it anywhere! Keep travelling all the time! Soon the land will dry up and then – no roof above the head and no place to stay with the cubs to hide away from the otter, any stray dog can sink its teeth into them, not to mention the lynx.”

      Märt kept quiet as if he had given in. It was clear that his wife was really serious about the matter. The young about to be born soon needed a home, warmth, food and had to be protected against predators.

      “Gardeners are not always the worst ones. Yes, that was terrible what happened at Aedoja, but here everything is totally different, I can feel it!”

      ”I really want to believe it is so!” Märt agreed. “We’ll stay here; at least now nobody comes here besides stray cats and dogs.”

      “You see what I mean; we have to be protected also against them!”

      Considered and done; it was time to explore the shores hereby more closely. Snow water had been blocked and beavers felt with their guts that high water was going to retreat within a few days, in some time the turbulent flows would be replaced by tiny brooks.

      Märt explored the ground again and was convinced that the hill was made of pure sand. Digging a den and scooping out burrows would be a task of a couple of hours during the night. He was more interested in the ruins made of rotting logs.

      Storm-tattered shed-like buildings seemed as if left for elements to be tangled. Mirt had been right, there were no gardeners here, the wind and rain had even dispelled their smell.

      The ruins definitely meant that gardeners had lived here and not a very long time ago. The building by the river had a door torn off and Märt swam closer to the dark entrance. The floors of the building were bulging due to moisture and smelt of mud and mould. In the next room Märt found a bench made of alder boards, a rusted tin bowl and a lot of traces of dried birch branches. He had noticed such kind of sheds by gardeners’ dwellings already earlier.

      He knew that saunas were places, where gardeners liked to smell birch branches in the hot steam after which they poured cold water on them and then jumped straight into the river with a horrible scream. Märt was not surprised by these crazy tricks any more. Gardeners were really a little bit out of their mind, weird and it was good there was no sign of them over there.

      It actually did not mean anything that this place was neglected now! Märt sensed the invisible danger still hanging in the air. Once some kind of gardeners had lived there, new ones may come there any time. A new war may break out again; old fears that had haunted them at Aedoja may come back again.

      Märt left the shed-like cottage and looked at the brink of the hill. On the background of the dark night the contour of a log house covered with plaster partly fallen off at places, the moss-covered roof and a chimney reaching out of the roof could be seen.

      Life had taught Märt that it was wise to keep away from such silhouettes. Such a house was used by gardeners for sleeping and the distance of the dwelling from the protective river was too far to hide fast in case of danger. Because of that Märt finished his exploration in the settlement of former gardeners and headed back to Mirt, who was impatiently waiting for him on the other bank of the river.

      ”Everything OK?” she glanced towards him questioningly.

      Märt shrugged to let her know about his sceptical attitude to the place chosen by her.

      “Gardeners,” he muttered.

      ”Where?” Mirt shouted with surprise. “There was nobody there!”

      ”But they’ll come. You can be quite sure of it!”

      “Oh!” Mirt gestured and by that the decision was made.

      Being succumbed Märt went to explore the side of the hill, where the streams of the river merged. As predicted, the water level had decreased half an ell. Spring voices were approaching and the arrived ouzels were after wading worms on the surface of the ground. Now it had started and one had to be careful not to miss the moment when the water level was the lowest and the slope nicely loose for digging a den.

      Märt shuddered a little when the wind carried the sound of dogs’ barking from afar. Fortunately, the sound did not come any closers. It was evidently a gardener walking his dog in the forest. Märt thought he had heard the squeak of a leather belt pulled tighter coming through the bushes on the brink of the hill. It was a pleasant sound to his ears. The creature as big as an Alsatian was not allowed to leave the master’s side. Gradually the steps and the dog’s panting moved farther away and Märt could breathe with relief.

      He remembered too well the feverish days at home in Aedoja in March, when two beagles came panting and entered their underground