The Legend of Thunderfoot (2 page)

Mama and Daddy had told him that rattlesnakes always rattle before they strike. Guess Mama and Daddy never landed on one.

Then the pain hit.

His first thought was to run. He'd landed right on top of the baby rattler, and the smartest thing to do would be escape before it bit him again. Trouble was, the pain in his toes made him mad.

He jumped to the side. Only then did he hear the buzzing rattle. It was a faint sound. The young snake had only one little nub at the tip of its tail instead of a full set of rattles. Still the tail quivered fast as the desert wind in a sandstorm. The snake began to coil.

He and his sister had watched Mama catch a snake before. First she used her wings, one at a time, to distract the thing. When it struck at the moving wing, she dodged and grabbed it by the tail. Then she flung it through the air—over and over against the rocks—until it stopped moving.
“We roadrunners are the only birds who are quick enough and brave enough to eat rattlesnakes. Even so, wait until you are fully grown,” she'd warned them. “And never bite off more than you can chew.”

When they'd asked her what “never bite off more than you can chew” meant, Mama explained that if they tried to catch a snake that was too big or too strong, it would bite them. “If a rattlesnake bites you, you're a goner.”

“Even a baby rattlesnake?” he'd asked.

“The poison from the babies is just as dangerous as the grown-up snake's. Be quick! Don't ever let one bite you!”

He was
not
fully grown. He didn't even have his name yet. But he had already been bitten. Besides that, he was really mad. So before the thing could coil, he grabbed its tail with the tip of his long, sharp beak and yanked!

The jerk was so hard and quick the rattler popped up as straight as a yucca leaf. When the roadrunner let go, it flew through the air. There was a sudden
thud
when it slammed against the round rock. Stunned, it lay perfectly still, but for only an instant. Then its head rose from the ground, mean and angry looking. Quickly its body began to coil. It hadn't even twisted into the second
loop before he grabbed the tail again and yanked.

This time the snake spun through the air and landed on a small branch of the Apache plume. The little limb bowed low beneath its weight. Then when the branch could go no farther, it sprang back. The rattler flew high into the air. Straight and stiff, it spun about three times, then landed in the sand so hard that the dust flew.

“I may be a goner,” the roadrunner clattered. “But so are you. In fact, I think I'll eat you for supper. My last meal.”

The snake had barely raised its head when he grabbed its tail and slung it a third time. This time the thing flew over the round rock and landed on the far side near the cow skull. He chased after it and threw it again, and again, and again. “Yeah! Hurrah! Get him. Tear that mean old rattlesnake up,” the young mice cheered from inside the cow skull.

“Hush, children!” he heard the mother mouse scold. “We live in the desert. It's a harsh place. The plants are few and far between, and in the desert everything eats everything else. That's a roadrunner. They are the quickest and best hunters of all the animals. He would just as soon eat us as the rattlesnake. Be quiet. Don't let him know we're here.”

The roadrunner ignored the mice, determined to do in the rattlesnake and stay true to his word to eat the thing for supper. Trouble was, when the time came, he didn't feel like eating. His feet throbbed—clear up his strong legs and into the pit of his stomach. He hadn't noticed the sick feeling or the pain before. He was too mad. Too busy. But now . . .

Staggering, his head drooping low, he wobbled back across the open toward the creosote bush from where he'd first seen the grasshoppers. There was shade. And even though the sun was low, barely resting on the tips of the mountains to the west, he needed shade. He felt hot. Sick. The pounding in his feet was more than he could stand. He glanced down.

They were beginning to swell. Each foot had four toes—two in the front and two in the back. The snake had bitten him on the right front toe on his left foot and the left hind toe on his right foot. He must have landed with his feet almost together. The rattlesnake bit only once, but each fang sank into a different foot.

He took a few steps, then threw up. A few more steps and he threw up again. By the time he stumbled into the shade of the creosote, there was nothing left
in his stomach. Not even the slightest taste of grasshopper, or scorpion, or lizard. Even the sweet flavor of the skink tail no longer lingered in his beak. He was empty. Sick. Weak.

He fell beneath the branches of the creosote bush. Resting his head on the cool sand, he lay there a moment and closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he could almost see his family's nest. Perched at the top of a young cholla cactus, it was a shallow, saucerlike nest made of sticks. He didn't remember being in the egg, or being born. He did remember his mother keeping him and his sister cool during the day and his father protecting them at night.

Both Mama and Daddy fed them. He remembered feeling crowded, shoved, pushed. There was always noise when his parents came with food. But when he was old enough to be truly conscious of the nest and things around it, he and his sister were alone. They haggled over food, but there was always plenty for both.

Eighteen times the sun rose, then fell behind the mountains to rest in the Great Water, before his mother and father pushed them from the nest. For the next two weeks they brought them very little food. That was because they had to learn to hunt
on their own. They watched. Copied their parents. Learned.

Such a short life! What a waste. I wish they'd given me my name
, he thought.
Without a name no one will remember me. Without a name, there will be nothing left but dust. Dust to be scattered by the wind and forgotten. I don't even know if I can get into the Big Desert in the Sky without a name.

He forced his eyes to open so he could look around. Then he realized he couldn't even lift his head from the sand. This was it. He closed his eyes and waited for the end.

There was a sound. A movement. Something rustling in the dry grass. He opened an eye. It was dark, dark as pitch.

I must be dead
. He opened the other eye. The moon was low in the sky. A few stars twinkled above.
Are there stars and a moon in the Big Desert in the Sky?
he wondered.

Somehow he managed to raise his head. He no longer felt sick to his stomach. His legs no longer throbbed. There was a light glow to the east. It was early morning, before the sun climbed to the sky. In the distance he heard a faint, crunching sound.

He started to stand. The pain shot through his feet. It pulsed and pounded as if any second they would blow up.
I'm still alive. When you go to the
Big Desert in the Sky, there is no pain. My feet hurt—so I've got to be alive.

The sound came closer.
A coyote. No. A coyote would come quicker.
Another crunch. Another scrape.
A bobcat. They like to sneak up on their prey, and then pounce.

He tried to stand. Run. But he knew if he did, his feet would explode.
Just my luck. The rattlesnake didn't do me in. Now I'm going to be breakfast for some bobcat.

He squinted, trying to see into the darkness. The sound was so close that any second he expected to see the tufted, pointy ears, the yellow cat eyes, the sharp teeth. There was nothing. The only thing he could see was a rock. It was smooth as a river stone, so slick that it shined, almost like a pool of water in the moonlight.

The rock moved. At least he thought it moved. He wasn't sure. Maybe he was imagining it. Then it moved again. Less than an inch at a time, it crept toward him. He never knew anything could move so slowly.

“Stop!” he said in the meanest clatter he could muster from deep in his throat. “You come any closer and I'll eat you.”

The rock stopped. Nearer now, he could see it
better. It lay completely motionless for a while. Finally, two clawed feet and a head popped out. They didn't pop out from beneath the rock. They popped out from
inside
the rock. Right in the
middle.
Eyes wide, he leaned his head far to the side.
That can't be. Nothing lives inside a rock. Under a rock, yes. Beside a rock, yes. But not inside a rock. It just can't be! Maybe I AM dead. Either that or the poison has made me crazy.

The head reminded him a bit of the rattlesnake. But rattlesnakes don't have feet. And there were no sharp ridges of scales over the eyes to give the head that evil look of a rattler. Then two more feet popped out from inside the back end of the rock. The head raised and two round eyes looked at him. “I thought you were dead,” the head said. “Figured I'd have to shove my way under you to get to my burrow. Then after a day or so, you'd start stinking so bad I'd have to leave.”

“I'm not dead yet.”

“You should be. You got bit by a rattlesnake, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“Then how come you're not dead?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, since you're not dead—move.”

“Huh?”

“Move. So I can get in my burrow.”

“Burrow? What's a burrow?”

“It's where I live. That hole where you've got your tail feathers parked. Now scoot your hind end out of the way so I can get down where it's cool and shady before the sun climbs to the sky.”

The roadrunner looked one way, then stretched his neck to look the other. There was no hole. “What hole? I don't see a hole.”

“You can't see it, because you're sitting on it. Move.”

The strange rock was inching toward him again. He felt a chill race up his spine to his head crest. “Are you going to eat me?”

The head drew back, part way into the rock. “Good grief, NO! That's the nastiest thing I ever heard. I eat flowers and cactus and grass. Only heathens eat meat.”

Cautiously the roadrunner leaned toward the strange rock. “What are you?”

The head came farther out. “I'm Berland. I'm a gopher tortoise.”

“How can you live inside that rock? Isn't it heavy? Why doesn't it squash you? And how did you get in there, anyway?”

The legs drew in and the rock settled back to the ground. “I do not live inside a rock. This is my shell. It grows with me, protects me from danger and from the sun. It goes everyplace I go. It's probably not much heavier than all them feathers you're lugging around. It's part of me.”

“But how can you—”

“Look, kid,” Berland cut him off. “Enough with the questions! It's getting hot out here. Move your rump so I can get home. Then I'll visit all you want. Just let me inside.”

“I don't know if I can.”

“Try”.

“But my feet hurt and I feel weak.”

“Fine. I'll just tunnel under.”

With that, Berland started digging. His front feet had claws. His legs were strong and flattened—just right for burrowing. Sand and gravel flew in great swoops on either side of the rock . . . er . . . shell.

The thought of those claws or strong feet whacking his sore toes forced the roadrunner to struggle to his feet. All four toes, on both feet, throbbed. They hurt something fierce. Still weak, his normally strong legs wobbled beneath him. Somehow he managed to stand and take a step. Then another.

Suddenly Berland stopped burrowing. His eyes popped wide. “Oh! My! Gosh!” In the blink of an eye, his head and feet disappeared inside his shell.

The roadrunner frowned down at the tortoise. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“Ah . . . er . . . nothing.” The muffled sound of Berland's stammering came from inside his shell. “It's just . . . well . . . never mind.”

“Go on,” the roadrunner urged. “I don't know how much longer I can stand here.”

Berland waddled behind him. The last thing he saw was the hind legs and a tiny tail disappear into a hole in the ground. If he could just get his feet to move—just take another step or two—he could turn and look at the hole while they talked.

Suddenly a familiar cooing sound caught his ear. He glanced toward the noise. It was Mama and Daddy. “There he is, Lithe! We found him.”

Fast as the wind, both rushed toward him. “Where have you been?” Mama scolded with an angry tone. “Young man—you are in
so much
trouble.”

“Yesterday was to be your Naming,” Daddy clattered as he raced along beside her. “You've been gone all night. You were supposed to . . .”

Both birds slid to a stop, looking down at their son. Four eyes flashed wide. Their head crests sprang up so straight they almost touched the other's long beak.

“Oh! My! Gosh!”

Mama and Daddy agreed that the swelling would go down in a day or two. Even Berland—although he was hard to understand, since his voice came from so deep in the ground—agreed. “Don't sweat it, kid,” the muffled voice seemed to echo. “You'll be back to normal in no time.”

When the young roadrunner had first glanced down to see why everyone was screeching “Oh! My! Gosh!” he felt like throwing up. But since his stomach was empty, all he could do was gag and gasp. He sank to the ground and covered the ghastly-looking things with his feathers. Hiding them, not only from his mother and father, but from his own eyes as well.

His once strong, handsome feet looked horrible. They were more than three times bigger than they
were supposed to be. They were as round and bulbous as he imagined the limbs of the giant saguaro cactus his father had told him about.

“Perhaps we could help,” Mama suggested.

“Yesterday was The Naming,” Daddy said. “The girl was there. Her name shall forever be Sprite of the Foote Clan. The boy was not there for The Naming. It is past time and too late.”