The Legend of Thunderfoot (11 page)

Cats always land on their feet. Thunder had heard that someplace . . . from someone. That's why it kind of surprised him when Tess hit flat on her back. She yowled again when a sharp stone stabbed her.

The girl roadrunner was gone. She streaked across the creek and ran for the far ridge. Tess lay still for quite a while. Finally, she managed to roll over and get to her feet. Crows cawed and laughed. Flipping her tail, the bobcat strolled back toward the lower canyon as if nothing had happened. Thunder waited until he was sure she was gone, then he flew back to join his friend.

For the first time in his life, Berland was
speechless. He stood there, mouth agape, staring at Thunder for a long, long . . . really long . . . time. At last he closed his mouth and cleared his throat. “Does the word ‘overachiever' mean anything to you?” he asked.

Thunder shrugged his wings. “Not really. What does it mean?”

“Okay, kid. When I told you about finding the rock to hold on to while you practiced flapping your wings, I meant just make them strong enough to get those big feet of yours off the ground. You know—so you could get away from predators. I didn't say anything about circling around like a buzzard in the sky. Then you do a nosedive like a falcon. On top of that, you attack a bobcat! Roadrunners
do not
attack bobcats or . . . or . . .”

He stopped jabbering a moment to stare. “That eagle the crows were talking about . . . the one that can run faster than a coyote . . . that, ah . . . that wouldn't happen to be you, would it?”

Thunder shrugged again. All Berland could do was roll his eyes and shake his head.

“There you are!”

Thunder and Berland both jerked and looked around. “I knew I'd find you! How dare you call me lazy! I'll have you know that yesterday I caught
three mice. This morning I chased down a kangaroo rat. He was huge and could run and hop like a jackrabbit. No
lazy
roadrunner could do that. Just where do you get off calling me—”

Thunder raised his head crest and flapped. The wind that raced from beneath his powerful wings fluttered her ruffled feathers. “Excuse me,” he interrupted. “Do you realize that I just saved your life? The least you could do is say, Thank you.' ”

Her ruffled feathers smoothed. She stood very straight. “I am sorry. Just because you have no manners doesn't mean I should be rude, too. Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Thunder said with a smile.

“But if you think all that flopping and flying around impressed me, you're badly mistaken,” she squawked. “Carrying that stupid rock around. That's crazy. I bet I could find me a rock or two, and with a little practice I could do just as well as you. Better even!”

Thunder ruffled
his
feathers. “What do you mean no manners?”

“You told me to quit feeling sorry for myself, and get up off my LAZY tail feathers,” she huffed. “That's just downright rude!”

“But when you said you were ugly or homely, I
also told you I thought you were cute. Remember?”

“I remember.” Her feathers ruffled again, making her look almost twice as big. “I bet every girl you meet, you tell
her
how BEAUTIFUL
she
is. With me it's . . . CUTE! Thanks a lot.”

Thunder shrugged his wings. “Well . . . I like cute.”

“Kid's got a temper, doesn't she?” Berland whispered from beside him.

“Sure does,” Thunder whispered back, “but she is kinda cute.”

“That's rude, too,” she snapped.

“What?” Thunder stepped back, almost hiding behind Berland.

“Whispering. You and . . . and your friend . . .” She arched an eyebrow and glared down at the tortoise.

Berland, who didn't appreciate being stuck between the two, had drawn his neck part way inside his shell. “Pardon me for not introducing myself,” he said, sticking his neck out once more. “My name is Berland.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Berland,” she said politely.

“And your name?” he asked.

Suddenly her ruffled feathers began to flatten. She turned her head. “I'm Berland,” the tortoise repeated. “And you are . . . ?”

There was a long . . . LONG . . . silence. The girl roadrunner took a step or two, as if to walk away, then sank to sit on the ground. Ducking her head and not looking at either of them, she answered, “Tripsalot of the Racer Clan.”

“Tripsalot?” Thunder asked.

Still not looking at either of them, she sighed. “When I was little, I was sort of clumsy. My parents didn't think I had a chance to survive. The day of The Naming, I got kind of excited. I was chasing a dragonfly and stumbled over my own stupid feet. They named me the only thing they could. Tripsalot.”

“And what is his name?” Crows cawed from above. “What is
his
name?” Others joined in. “What is his name? Tell us
his
name!”

Thunder didn't look at them. Instead, he stepped right over Berland and sat down beside Tripsalot. “Hi,” he cooed softly. “My name is Thunder of the Foote Clan. It's nice to meet you . . . again. You want to go find something to eat?”

“I don't know.” She gave a little snort.

“His name is Thunderfoot!” The crows screamed as they flew away.

Thunder leaned closer. “We could hang out a little. Get to know one another. Might be fun.”

She snorted again. “Well, first off you're not that handsome. And all that flying around . . . I bet you're just a showoff. And . . . and . . .”

He got to his feet and smiled down at her. “There are lots of dragonflies near the cattails. Come on.”

Finally, she shrugged her wings and stood beside him. “Oh, all right. Guess it's better than sittin' home alone to rot.”

It wasn't much of a compliment.
This might be more of a challenge than learning how to fly,
Thunder thought to himself. He smiled anyway, because she WAS kinda cute. Berland slipped quietly and unnoticed into his burrow.

Still hidden behind the mesquite tree with the wide trunk, Thunder leaned toward his friend. He wanted to ask, again, if the old tortoise remembered. But as their eyes met, the look told him there was no need. Memories of a lifetime had spun through their heads in those few moments. Memories of friendship, and trust, and . . . yes . . . even love, were clear as the blue desert sky.

Berland smiled at Thunder. Thunder smiled back.

• • •

“Some say they still live in their Valley of Paradise,” the father roadrunner continued, his three children listening to his every word. “Others say that a giant eagle tried to steal one of their babies. They chased him to the sky. Chased him past the moon, beyond the sun, clear above the stars. And they are still chasing them to this very day.

“The name of Thunderfoot is sacred. No other roadrunner will ever be given that name, from now until the end of time. The name Tripsalot is also revered. No other roadrunner will ever be given that name.

“The legend of the greatest roadrunners must be remembered. It must be passed down from one generation to the next.”

• • •

“That's it,” Thunder whispered. “Flew past the moon and the sun to chase an eagle. This is the stupidest, most unbelievable story I've ever heard.

“First off, I didn't grab that bobcat and fly up in the air with her. I just kinda nudged her off that branch. And nobody smashed a bobcat with a boulder. Tess came back only three or four more times. The first time, I dropped my rock close to her, and she ran off. The next time, I was sitting on our nest. Tripsalot had been practicing her flying, too. She grabbed her two rocks and dropped both of them. One of them hit Tess, but it didn't hurt her all that much.” He looked at Berland and shook his head. “Where do they get all this stuff?”

“They got it from Tess and Winterfat and
Scruffy. Brisk, Speedette, even Rocket and Agile'eka told. The crows were there, too. Remember? The legend has spread through the entire desert.”

Thunder gave a snort and started to his feet. “I'm gonna put an end to it, right now. I'm gonna—”

Berland reached out and put his foot on top of Thunder's. “Please don't.”

In the fourteen seasons Thunder had known the old tortoise, he had never
asked.
He always told. This time his voice was soft—almost pleading. Even the touch of his foot on Thunder's big toes was tender.

Silently. Slowly. The roadrunner settled behind the mesquite trunk to sit beside his old friend. “Why not?” he wondered.

“We all need heroes,” Berland offered with a gentle smile. “What would this old world be like without legends and folk tales and . . . heroes?”

Thunder took a deep breath and sighed. “But flying beyond the moon and the sun and the stars—that's stupid. It can't be done. It makes me sound bigger than life. All those things . . . all the stuff the father told those kids . . . it's just impossible.”

Berland stretched his neck so far out his nose almost touched Thunder's beak. “The truth is even
more impossible. You and Tripsalot have been together for fourteen seasons. Most roadrunners live only between six and eight. You are no giant. You never were. You're just an ordinary roadrunner. Well . . . ordinary except for those big feet. You had trouble walking, running, and you couldn't fly worth a flip. Every time I asked you, suggested to you, or even told you to do something, the only response I ever got was ‘I can't.'

“Now, even at your age, you run like the wind. You taught your mate about the rocks. How many roadrunners do you know who chase coyotes or drop rocks on bobcats? It's impossible. It can't be done. Right?

“If they knew the truth—the whole story—every time a young roadrunner said, ‘I can't,' his parents would wash his mouth out with Stink Bug juice. ‘I can't' would be like bad words.

“Let the roadrunner tell the legend. Let the roadrunner children listen and pass it on to their children. Let them keep their hope, their belief . . . their hero.”

• • •

“Now that you have heard the Legend of Thunderfoot,” the proud father roadrunner announced, “It is time for The Naming.

“When your mother and I say, ‘Go!' you will race into the desert, find food, and bring it back to show us. We will watch. When you return, a name will be given.

“Ready. Set . . .”

• • •

Thunder and Berland watched as, each in turn, the three young roadrunners raced off into the desert. With their parents watching, facing the other direction, it was the perfect time for the old friends to slip from their hiding place and head back to their valley. They waited until they were far from the roadrunner family before they spoke.

“How is Tripsalot, anyway?” Berland asked.

“She's doing fine. I'm not sure about me, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I left her sitting on our eggs.” Thunder flinched. “I told her I was going with you for a little while. Didn't know we were going to be gone all night.”

Berland smiled back over his shell. “Kid's still got a temper, huh?”

“Boy, does she!” Thunder nodded. “I'm surprised I've got any tail feathers left—the way she's always chewin' on my rear end.”

“Why don't you go on ahead,” Berland suggested. “I'll catch up after a while.”

Thunder smiled back at him. “No. Think I'll stay with you. Haven't seen you in a couple of full moons. Got some visiting to catch up on. Besides, I think she
enjoys
fussing at me. Gives her something to do.”

Berland stopped and gave a little chuckle. “If she gets too mad, we'll just tell her the Legend of Thunderfoot. Surely she won't chew the tail feathers off a living legend.”

Thunder laughed. “With her temper? Don't count on it.”

BILL WALLACE is the author of several beloved books for young readers, including
A Dog Called Kitty, Snot Stew, Goosed!
, and
No Dogs Allowed!.
He has won twenty state awards, as well as the Arrell Gibson Lifetime Achievement Award for Children's Literature from the Oklahoma Center for the Book.

A former classroom teacher, principal, and physical education teacher, he is now a full-time author and public speaker. He lives in Chickasha, Oklahoma, with his wife and sometime writing partner, Carol.

Aladdin

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www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.