Chapter 5: The Screaming of the Ants

[The previous chapters of this long piece of dreck may be found here]

Once the skunk fog had begun to dissipate, Sterling could smell Shash. He looked around the meadow and did not see the bear. Despite the darkness, he could see better here than he could inside of Randy’s hole. The outlines of the pine trees were clearly silhouetted against the blue-black sky. The details of leaves and grasses were clear, and he could trace the trajectories of night insects zig-zagging through the air.

The glasses that Randy had given him were still on his face. His newly sprouted snout had saved them, for a long nose provides good purchase for a pair of glasses. He adjusted them, peered around the meadow, and tried to penetrate the darkness at its edges. The smell of fur told him that the bear was there, watching. As he waddled forward he began to make out a large black shape. Shash was laying on the ground, arms crossed, his head comfortably and leisurely resting on his arms.

“I don’t know what happened,” Sterling began. He was calm, much more relaxed than he had been for a while. His barky voice was more plaintive than excited.

“Why was Petunia kissing me like that? I didn’t know what to do. I liked it just fine but, I don’t know, it was kind of awkward and embarrassing. When I felt the spray coming on I began to panic. I embarrassed myself, didn’t I?”

He stopped talking, though his mind raced on. The bear simply looked at him.

“That was worse than the bong hit, wasn’t it? I wish I hadn’t sprayed. I wish I could have controlled it, but I have to say, it felt really good to get that out. It felt like my guts exploded.”

“Older skunks have more control than younger skunks, I think.” said the bear. “Don’t be embarrassed. There is nothing to be embarrassed about. Spraying is natural for skunks. I managed to get you outside in time. Had you sprayed the pigs it would have served them right.”

“What was that about, though?” Sterling asked, conflicted as to whether he should go on and ask about Petunia. The bear had picked his head up off of his paws. He stared at Sterling with a blankness that was inviting.

“It seemed like she was ready to have sex right there in front of everybody. Is that normal?”

“Sure,” said Shash, “Normal as normal can be, but leave it to the pigs to make something normal into something sordid.”

“So it wasn’t OK?”

“It was…” and here the bear seemed to struggle for a word, “… distasteful. The old pig put Petunia on to you, and that part was gross and dangerous.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He was looking for a favor. Pigs love favors.”

“What good could I do him?”

“How much do you know about stock trading?” Shash asked. “Do you understanding margin calls or short selling?”

“No,” said Sterling.

“Currency markets or subordinated debentures?”

“No, not at all.”

“Well, it’s kind of hard to explain your value to the Senator if you don’t understand commodity markets. Conversations like that are better left to Randy. I think the best thing we could do would be to go find something to eat.”

With that Shash began to amble off, walking on all fours, and Sterling followed, also walking on his paws. The bear walked slowly, much slower than he had when he first met Sterling, and he stopped frequently to move his head from side to side.

As he watched the bear, Sterling had an exciting revelation. He realized that he understood almost every movement the bear was making. He could see the scent trails that the bear caught. He could sense the temperatures and breath of the forest. He could feel the ground. He understood intuitively that what he should do was watch and learn from Shash, but he could not help sniffing about and tracking down some scents he had found by himself.

There was information everywhere. He stumbled upon the smell of an old lighting strike in the middle of a patch of ferns. Then he caught the scent of squirrel droppings. He could smell the age of trees and the sex of mushrooms. Each smell was exotic in its own right. He could have sniffed anyone of them forever, but he also felt the movement of Sash and knew that it would be a bad idea not to keep up.

Before long the wisdom of the decision to follow the bear revealed itself. He smelled them before he had any sense of where or what they were. The direction of the smell simply pointed forward. Then he saw Sash stand and sniff deeply into a tree. Sterling’s mouth began to water.

The bear used both paws to pull at the tree. A wall of bark and rotten wood crashed in front of him the moment he put his strength to work. There was a cascade of matter and an powerful cloud of scent. The interior of the tree poured out like water.

“Ants!” Thought Sterling, “Those are ants!”

Thousands of ants. The aroma of their larva hit Sterling like a burst of air.

Shash stepped away from the tree. He pulled off his basketball jersey and folded it neatly. He did this standing up, with the precision and competence of a retail clerk who has spent many years working on the floor of a clothing store.

“I don’t want to get this all grubby,” he said, laughing slightly. Sterling tried to follow suit by taking off his tee shirt, but, unable to fold it properly, he simply crushed it into a ball and left it by Shash’s jersey. Then they set to the eggs and larva.

Shash busted into the very middle of the tree, his huge tongue lapping up ants, larva, and eggs. He made great snorting sounds, and occasionally sat up, his hind legs stretched out in front of him, brushing off the ants on his face, blinking, and spitting out the dirt and humus he had taken into his mouth.

Sterling followed suit, setting his sights on the end of what had spilled out from the tree. He could smell and taste the differences between eggs and larva. The larva was better; nuttier and more substantial. The ants were everywhere on him. The acrid scent of their formic acid provided a condiment to the feast of their young. They bit, crawled, and crunched inside of Sterling’s mouth, but they did not bother him, except when they massed on his eyes. He occasionally took a break to swipe his face. A riot of gustatory pleasure now began to pervade his being. He felt the need to roll. He wasn’t sure why, but rolling, it soon became clear, knocked off a lot of ants. It was during a roll that he was struck by an odd thought that he then put Shash.

“Why don’t the ants talk to us?” Sterling asked, “All of the other animals here can talk. Can’t insects?”

“Insects can talk,” said Shash, “but I have trouble talking to them. I can talk to bees, but I don’t understand ants. I’m not sure they talk. They might only communicate through pheromones, and I don’t understand their smells.”

“Bees communicate the same way as ants, don’t they? How can it be that you understand bees and not ants.”

“That’s true,” replied Shash, “Bees use pheromones, but they dance and buzz too. I have to watch them, and smell them, but I can make out what they are saying. I know their name for me. They call me “brown one”, even though I’m not brown. I can speak the language of many animals, but not many insects. Nobody can talk to everyone. I think the gods made things that way, to make life easier. I’m not sure I want to listen to the screaming of the ants.”

The bear smiled at Sterling. “Not that it would stop me.” He added.

They went back to eating ants, and after another bout of licking and snorting, when they were once again resting in the darkness beneath a canopy of hemlock trees, Sterling asked the bear about one of his previous statements.

“You mentioned gods,” Sterling said, “Do you believe in gods?”

“Sure,” said Shash, “I think everyone believes in gods.”

“Well,” said Sterling. “My parents believe in God, but I don’t.”

The bear was licking the fur on his foreleg. “To each his own,” he said.

“What gods do you believe in?”

“Me?” Answered the bear, “I pray to ducks.”

“Ducks?” Repeated Sterling, “Why ducks?”

“Well,” said the bear, that’s a complicated question. “I pray to ducks because almost everyone else does. I’m not sure why the Duck religion became so popular. I suspect it is because ducks are very strict.”

“So, you converted?” Sterling asked.

“No,” said Shash, “My mother was a very orthodox duck.”

“Your mother was a duck?” Sterling asked.

Shash blew through his nose. The exhale was long and slow. He waited for a bit, blinked, licked the air, and continued.

“No, my mother was a bear. She was a pretty strict follower of the Great Duck. There once was a time when there were lots of animal cults. We all prayed to our own gods. Badgers prayed to badger spirits, wolves to wolves, cows to cows. There were bear gods that the bears prayed to. But bear religion, whatever it was, wasn’t that rigorous. It was no more than some solid advice. Things like, ‘You shall not eat your cubs’ and ‘Don’t leave a fecal plug in the middle of a frequently used trail.’ Nothing more demanding than that.

Ducks are much tougher. They have many rules and dietary restrictions, all written down in the canonical scriptures written by the Great Duck. They fast all the time, they insist on migrating, and they are rigidly monogamous.

I don’t agree with a lot of it. I’m not a very good duck, but I have to say, as individuals go, they are pretty nice. I have lots of duck friends. They can be funny and helpful, and nobody is really threatened by a duck. Their mixture of easy going friendliness and rigid morality make them OK to be around, unless they get upset and start quacking. They have this whole pitch about how it’s nice to be a duck. They will tell you that they’re all perfectly content. They say that if everyone just lived like them the whole world would be a happier place. All we have to do is eat water soaked vegetables in the morning and make the great migration. You buy into that and before you know it you are up to your eyeballs in duck prescriptions.”

“The pigs pray to ducks?” Asked Sterling.

“Fuck yes,” replied the bear, “The pigs are all about following the precepts of the great duck masters. It’s very attractive, that duck talk.”

“Randy Rabbit follows the ducks?”

“No,” said Sash with a smile, “The rabbits keep their own god. They’re as tough as the ducks when it comes to religion, but they don’t give a fuck if anyone else agrees with them.”

“Who are the pigs?” Sterling asked.

“Well, the pigs are the pigs. I would like to answer all of your questions, brother skunk, but we really have left Randy alone with the pigs for too long. We should go back and rescue him.”

“Do you think the pigs are still there?” Asked Sterling.

“Without a doubt,” said Shash. “They won’t leave until I kick them out.”

“Poor Randy,” said Sterling.

“See,” said Shash, “You know more about pigs than you know.”

[Go on to the next chapter.]