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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item.php/item_id/1684247-The-Turtle
by Shaara
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Animal · #1684247
A sad-hearted boy finds a reason to put aside his grief.
Writer’s Cramp prompt: Write a story or poem including the following items: nap, skeleton key, turtle, fire. Please put the items in bold using and tags so the judge can find them.



The Turtle





I guess I was taking a nap, drowsy from the sun and the sound of the pond water slapping against its banks, and exhausted because my new baby sister had cried most of the night, yet I opened my eyes fully when I heard a noise coming from the nearby reeds. Although most of Oregon’s reptiles are only lizards or garter snakes, there’s always the stray rattlesnake to be watchful for.

But it wasn’t a snake. A small, dark green turtle had come moseying up out of the pond. I ran over to study him. This one was a Western Pond Turtle, native to Oregon. I could see the markings on his head and neck -- splotchy cream and brown mottling.

Dad had said these turtles were losing their battle for survival. First due to heavy trapping as people dined on turtle soup, but later, because too many houses were built in the areas where they made their nests. Then when that huge fire the year before burned all the vegetation, it destroyed even more of their habitat.

Dad had told me lots about these turtles. He and I used to visit the pond every weekend. For the hundredth time I wished he were with me. If only that drunken driver hadn’t . . .

Dad had been a naturalist, an environmentalist, someone who was trying to make a difference. He and I would have enjoyed watching this turtle bravely make a stand against the odds.

I sighed and stood up, stuck my hands in my pockets, and eyed the turtle’s crisscrossed shell. I ignored the tears slipping down the sides of my cheek. I let them fall. No one was around to see. No one except one lone turtle, fighting against his own losses.

“Good for you,” I said out loud and then felt silly.

But Dad would have understood. He’d have told me again that “all creatures responded to kindness.”

“Sure, Dad. I know that,” I whispered, hoping he could hear me up in Heaven.

The turtle stopped and swung his head to look at me. Had he heard my voice? Did he know I wished him well?

Why had the turtle left the pond? If he wanted to bask in the early morning sunshine, why hadn’t he kept closer to the water where it was safer? Perhaps he was heading for the grassy knoll where the tall grasses would give him camouflage.

I sat back down so I wouldn’t frighten him. I didn’t want the turtle to think I’d try to pick him up or bother him in some way.

I edged a stick closer with my foot and then took it up to make a sketch. As I sat in the damp sand studying the fellow, I tried to draw him. Four legs with sharp, pointy claws, a dark greenish-brown rounded shell that draped down on all sides, a snake-like head, and a thin wisp of a tail. I wasn’t an artist, but Dad would have been pleased. He’d always told me that naturalists make sketches to help them see detail.

The little turtle was ignoring my presence once more. Perhaps he’d accepted me as a friend, or at least as a nonthreatening fellow species. He started crawling forward again, his tiny mouth curved into a single line of smile.

The turtle looked neither right nor left and headed straight toward a small hill of sand. His intention remained steady as if the destination was one he’d been thinking about for some time. His front claws raked both sand and dirt out of the way as he passed. His rear claws formed a trail that streamed out behind him in two long streaks of imprint. But the most interesting part was the way his tail pulled up the rear, wagging slightly, as if he was really happy to be taking his hike in the mud and sand.

As I watched, I kept wondering where the turtle was headed with such obvious determination.

I didn’t have long to wait. It turned out that he was a she. I should have guessed. The month was June – late June, and the turtle was at least seven inches long, meaning she was more than ten years old and probably full of eggs. She emptied her bladder onto the ground and then started digging with her hind legs. I knew she’d begun forming a nest.

Dad had once told me that turtle nests can sometimes take as much as ten hours to complete. I couldn’t stay to watch. I’d return later. I'd just remembered that Mom might be wondering where I’d gone, worrying even.

I backed up slowly, not wanting to alarm the turtle mother. Then when I figured I’d retreated enough not to frighten her, I put on a burst of speed and sprinted back home.

As I ran, my right hand dipped down to finger the skeleton key that hung on the chain around my neck. Mom had given it to me, saying that Dad’s antique case full of nature books was mine to do with as I wanted. All Dad’s sketches were inside. His writings, too.

As I reached the driveway, I vowed that I’d pour through Dad’s books and see what else I could learn about the Western Pond Turtle. Maybe I could protect her nest – hadn’t Dad mentioned something about a nest cage that could keep raccoons, opossums, and foxes from stealing the valuable eggs?

I didn’t notice that the gloom on my face had been replaced by a smile, but my mother did. She cried when she saw me, cried and hugged me tightly, saying, “Oh, Charlie. It’s so good to see you smiling again. With that pond mud all over your shoes and pants -- and that look in your eyes, why you look just like your father always did. Just like your father.”



984 words
© Copyright 2010 Shaara (shaara at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item.php/item_id/1684247-The-Turtle