The Legend of Thunderfoot (3 page)

Mama puffed out her feathers. “But he doesn't have his name. It's not too late until he has his name.”

“Remember the Rule of Nature, Lithe. We cannot break the Rule!”

There was much talk. Much discussion. They ran a ways to speak in private. Not understanding, and worried, the young roadrunner glanced at the dark hole beside him. “Berland? Berland, you still in there?”

“I'm here, kid.”

“Why do Mama and Daddy have to go talk about the Rule? What rule? If they made the Rule, why can't they break it?”

“The Rule is not your mother's or father's. It's not even a roadrunner rule. The rule is of Nature itself. For hundreds of years, Nature's rule of the
desert has been unchanged—survive. Only the strong can do this. To break this rule—to tamper with it or change it—could mean disaster.”

“I don't get it.”

A scraping sound came from inside the dark hole. There was movement, crawling. When Berland spoke again, his voice seemed a little louder, clearer.

“Let's take you, for instance. With roadrunners, your mother and father fed you when you were little, right?”

“Well . . . me and my sister—right.”

“They brought every bite of food to you. You didn't do anything but sit in your nest and squawk. Then you were fledged.”

“Fledged?”

“They shoved you out of the nest.”

With a sigh, the roadrunner felt his long tail twitch. “I remember that, too.”

“Didn't like it, either, did you?”

“No.”

There was more scratching and scraping from inside the hole. “You probably squawked and yelled when they didn't bring food. But you watched them. Saw how they did things. Until finally you figured you could try it yourself.”

Nodding, the roadrunner preened his wing feathers with his long beak. “I wasn't very good at it,” he admitted.

“Not at first,” Berland said, chuckling. “So they helped out a little. But after a while you got better. They didn't help as much. Hardly brought you anything to eat. You did it for yourself. Up until you had that run in with that baby rattler, I bet you were catching almost everything—all by yourself.”

The roadrunner felt his chest puff out. “I was doing great! Grasshoppers, lizards, almost had a skink, but his tail broke off, and . . .”

“And,” Berland helped him out, “then you got bit. You're weak and hurt and your feet are swollen up something terrible. It was your time. Your time to be on your own. Your time to explore. Your time to meet others of your kind. Your time to grow, mature, find your own territory.

“Nature said it is your time. You can no longer go back to your nest. You can no longer depend on your parents for help and food. But, now—since you're weak and hurt—you need help. Your mother and father are concerned that if they help, they will break the Rule. But they're not sure. That's why they're having such a tough time deciding.”

There was more scraping and scratching. The
roadrunner tilted his head to the side. Berland's head appeared. In the shadows, he could see the front of the tortoise's shell and his two front feet. “You said if they break the Rule of Nature it would be a disaster. Is that a bad thing?”

Berland nodded. “Very bad. The desert does not forgive mistakes or breaking the Rule. As you grow, it takes more and more food to fill you up. More and more food to help you grow big and strong. You roadrunners are the best hunters in the desert. Even so, food is hard to find. No matter how much they love you, or how much they care for you, your mother and father know that if they continue to feed you, there won't be enough food for the three of you.

“You will not grow. You will become weaker and weaker. By sharing their food, your parents won't have enough to keep their strength up, either. They'll become weaker and weaker, too. The time of the Cold is growing near. The time when the bugs and lizards and even the snakes you feed on will become harder to find. If you're not strong or ready, all three of you will either starve or become easy prey for a bobcat or coyote. To what clan do you belong?”

“We are the Foote Clan.”

“If you and your parents are gone, your sister . . . ah . . . er . . . what was her name?”

“Sprite.”

“Yeah, Sprite. She will be the only one left. If something happens to her, there will be no more of your Clan. If she survives, finds a mate, and has a family, and then breaks the Rule of Nature, not only the Foote Clan, but another clan as well, may be gone. Nature does not forgive. To break the Rule could mean the end of the roadrunners. Forever.”

Laying his head against the sand, the roadrunner thought about what Berland said. He felt very scared and a little ashamed.

“Now do you see why their decision is so hard?” the tortoise asked. “Why they must know—for sure—that they are doing the right thing?”

His beak scratched the sand when he nodded his head. When his mother and father returned, Berland was at the very top of his burrow. They nodded to him, then turned their attention to their son. “The decision is made,” his father began. “Only the strong survive.”

The young bird felt his heart sink clear to the very bottom of his throbbing, aching, enormous feet.

“You are strong!” Daddy continued, much to the young bird's surprise. “If you were not strong, you would not have survived the bite of the rattlesnake. The time of The Naming has come. BUT—you do not have your name. There is enough food nearby for two sunrises. We will help you. This will not break the Rule.

“When the sun climbs to the sky for the third time—no matter what—you will be given your name. After that, your mother and I will be with you no more.”

• • •

For two days the roadrunner's parents brought him mice, lizards, grasshoppers, and a skink (which no longer had its tail). The second day, his father even brought a huge collared lizard that was
almost too big for the young bird to swallow. Mama brought a gopher snake the same day.

During the time when the sun was high in the sky, they rested, always watchful. Then they hunted again. At night Mama went a few yards from the bush in one direction and Daddy went in the other. If a bobcat or coyote came, they would make it chase them so their son would be safe.

With each bite, with each morsel of food, the young roadrunner felt stronger. Braver. The first day, his feet still ached and throbbed. He forced himself to stand and take a few steps. The second day, he walked around. Watchful, careful, he left the safety of the creosote bush. The pain was not so bad anymore. It was still hard to walk, but he could do it. Just before the sun climbed to the sky on the third day, he ran to the old cow skull and back. It didn't hurt much at all, and he stumbled and tripped only a couple of times.

Just as the sun peeked above the mountains to the east, Mama and Daddy raced across the sand toward him. Mama leaned forward and handed him a small horned lizard. He gobbled it down. Daddy shot her a look but didn't say anything. Ruffling his feathers, he stood tall and straight. “It is the time of The Naming, my son. There is a fat,
juicy, grasshopper on a weed beneath that mesquite tree,” he said, pointing his beak at the ridge. “When the very bottom of the sun rests on the crest of the mountain, you will stand. Race over and catch the grasshopper, then race back. As is custom, we shall watch. Observe your speed, agility, and alertness. When you return, a name will be given.”

It was an exciting time. He felt the muscles tense in his legs as he watched the sun inch higher.
Almost there. Any second now. Wait for it!
Even Berland poked his head from his burrow to watch the ceremony.

For only an instant, the very bottom of the sun rested on the sharp peak of the mountain. The young roadrunner leaped to his feet. “Whoops!” he heard Berland shriek from beside him. When he glanced down, Berland's head quickly drew back into his shell.

When Mama glanced down, her mouth fell open. Her eyes grew big around as the moon. Daddy's feathers bristled, then smoothed down as his wings drooped. He forced his head crest high and cleared his throat. “Go! Your name will be waiting for you when you return.”

The young roadrunner raced off. Only he didn't
seem to move as fast as he had a couple of days ago. His feet didn't hurt, but they felt heavy. A
thud
and
thump
sound raced with him across the sand. He tripped once but kept his balance. The grasshopper jumped from the mesquite. He leaped to catch it in flight. Although the leap wasn't nearly as high as he planned, he still managed to grab the thing with the very tip of his sharp beak.

He landed on some dried twigs. There was a loud
crack.
The sound was a little strange, but he didn't take the time to think about it or even look down. Instantly, grasshopper in beak, he spun and raced back to his parents. Proudly, he showed it to them, then swallowed it down. Both tried to smile, but their smiles weren't very convincing. They both tried to stand tall and proud, but Mama's wings drooped, and Daddy's head crest was flat. Finally, they looked at each other, nodded, then turned to him. “From this day forward,” they spoke together, “you shall be known as . . .

“Move.”

He heard the voice, but all he could do was sit and sulk. “Move!”

“No!”

Something nudged the right hind toe of his left foot. He didn't budge. “MOVE!!!”

“No.”

There was a long silence before Berland's muffled voice came again. “Your feet still hurt?”

“Huh?”

“Do your feet still hurt?”

“No.”

He felt the breath on his toe when the old tortoise sighed. “Good. Then you won't mind if I just take a bite out of this one that's blocking my burrow.”

He waited a moment, and when there was no
response from the bird he sighed again. “Okay. I'm gonna count to three. You don't move this toe out of my way, I'm gonna bite it. One . . . two . . .”

The roadrunner hopped to his feet and stepped aside.

“About time,” Berland muttered as he crawled out into the late afternoon sun.

The bird glared down at him. Berland stretched his legs and lifted his shell clear off the ground. It made him look taller. Bigger. Then he slowly shook his head and sank back down. “I have lived in this desert for seventy-five seasons. I survived the crows and you roadrunners my first two seasons, when I was small and my shell was delicate. I survived the coyotes, and the droughts, and the three times I got flipped on my back for courting a girl who already had a bigger, stronger boyfriend.

“In my heyday, my shell had nice, hard, sharp ridges. Now it's worn smooth as a wet rock in the arroyo, with age. I've seen a lot. I've done a lot. But in all my years, I have
never
—and I do mean NEVER—met a bird as stubborn, bullheaded, and ungrateful as you.”

The bird just glared down at him. “First off, you survive the rattlesnake. And it wasn't because you
were strong. It was just dumb luck! Molly told me about it when I was walking toward my burrow, that first night we met.”

“Who's Molly?”

“Molly Mouse,” Berland explained. “You know. She and her kids live in the cow skull. She said the thing bit two of her children. The snake used up most of its venom to catch food. When you landed on it, all it had left was half a drop or so at the tip of each fang. Any more than that, and you would have been buzzard bait.

“Then . . . your parents loved you so much they were willing to risk breaking the Rule of Nature, just to help you out. Two days they spent bringing you every morsel of food they could find. Helped you recover. Kept you alive.”

The roadrunner ruffled his feathers. Jaw muscles clamped his beak so tight he could hear the grinding sound inside his head. “But they lied to me. So did
you.”

Berland blinked. “Nobody lied to you, you ungrateful little snot. We thought the swelling
would
go down. And it did. Your feet aren't nearly as big as they were.”

“They're still twice as big as they're supposed to be. They're big as Mama's and Daddy's feet put
together. They're so big and heavy, when I run it sounds like . . . like . . .”

His voice trailing off in surrender, he sank to the ground and ruffled into the sand.

“Like thunder,” Berland finished what he was trying to say. “Got to admit, kid. When I first saw those feet of yours, it startled me. I really did think the swelling would be gone. Then this morning, at the time of The Naming, I kind of backed down into my burrow and . . . well . . . when you took off, the sound of those feet pounding on the ground
did
remind me of . . . it did sound a bit like . . .”

“Thunder!” The roadrunner snarled. He ruffled his feathers. “Thunder of the Foote Clan! It's a horrible name. I wanted a name like Speedy, or Lite, or . . . or Hunter . . . or . . .”

“Thunder is just a name, kid. You don't get to pick your name. Your parents don't even get to pick. Your name has to be what you are—who you are. Thunder is the only thing they
could
have named you.”

Thunder raised up and peeked beneath his feathers at his feet. “They're not only fatter, but longer, too. I keep tripping over them. It's hard to hunt. And if a coyote . . .” His voice trailing off once more, he sank back to the ground.

“It'll just take some getting used to, kid. You'll learn. Give it a while. The more you run, the stronger your legs will be. You'll get used to your feet, too. Quit stumbling over twigs and rocks. The more you fly, the stronger your wings will be. In no time at all—”

“But it's too hard!” Thunder whined, cutting Berland off. “I can't do it!”

The old tortoise glared up at him. Then with a sigh, he moved on his way. “Nobody ever told you life was gonna be easy,” he said as he walked. “If anybody does, they're lying to you. Life's never easy. Life is hard.”