The Trap and the Beaver

A Short Story

Hello! I wanted to try my hand at writing a short story. Please enjoy my foray into this style of writing. Let me know what you think. Comment below, I always appreciate your feedback and your comments. Do not forget to like and share if you enjoyed what you have read. Hitting those buttons helps The Workbox grow!

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In the deep wilderness of the Bitterroot Mountains, a boy walked amongst the tall trees and thick brush on his way home. He grumbled to himself as he thumped the various old-growth trees with a cedar stick.

“No beaver in the traps tonight. I walk all this way to the creek just to have to turn around and walk all the way home. And what’s more, it is getting dark!”

He had been checking the beaver traps since lunchtime and had no luck. The more he walked along the creeks, the more angry he became. He started to doubt every trap. It was as if beaver never existed and these traps were an elaborate punishment made up just for him

Photo by Katie Moum on Unsplash.

“We would be catching more beaver if Dad had listened to me.” He muttered. “These are such lousy spots, we are lucky to be catching water!”

After checking all the traps, he huffed down the trail with a stick in his hand. Closer to home, he saw a crow perched in a pine tree. He stared at it a moment and with a burst of hot anger, threw his cedar stick at it. The startled crow let out a cry as it dodged the boy’s makeshift missile. The crow flew off with a string of disgruntled calls as if it was scolding him for his ill-tempered actions. 

The boy watched it fly away above the trees and out of sight even more upset that he felt reprimanded by the crow, and a little guilty for trying to hurt the bird. He stomped towards the spot where his stick had landed and scooped it up. His walking stick was broken. With a cry of anger mixed with sadness, he flung the pieces farther off the trail. Hot tears formed in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He ran the buckskin sleeve of his jacket over his eyes and face to wipe away the tears, but the dirt on his sleeves only succeeded in turning his tears into smears of mud. 

The boy continued back towards home. The cool dusk air soon brought about a breeze that accented the wetness of his cheeks. He turned the last corner in the trail and came into the clearing where his cabin was nestled. His dad had cleared this land by hand nearly two years ago. The boy was seven then. Now that he was older he had to check the traps and do lots of other chores. 

The boy felt the chill of the wind on his face and more carefully cleaned up the mud and tears. The warm glow from the windows and the sure smells of dinner had little comfort on him tonight. He dragged across the yard making sure he scattered the chicken pecking away at the ground. Up the porch steps he ascended, and carelessly opened the front door.

“Peter,” said his mother without turning her head, “you must be more gentle on the door.” She was cooking dinner over the cast iron stove that was located in the middle of their one-room cabin. “Now wash up, supper will be ready soon.”

Peter let out a sigh and spun around. He flung open the front door and walked back outside. He walked along the porch to the small table where the bowl of water sat which the family used for washing up. At that moment his father came around the corner from behind the house. He was carrying the ax they used for splitting firewood over his shoulder. He leaned against the post on the outside of the porch. 

“What’s eating you up tonight Pete?” He asked. 

“Nuthin’”

“Well, nothing seems to have got you all out of sorts. You slammin’ the door like that makes me think you want to hang a new one on there. How’d the beaver traps go?”

“Got nothing, as usual.” Said the boy as he scrubbed his hands with the boar hair brush. He kept scrubbing till his hands and forearms turned cherry red. He tried to fight back the tears he felt piling up behind his eyes and the lump forming in his throat. 

The boy’s father walked over and leaned the ax up against the wall of the house. He reached down and grabbed his son’s hands. His hands were rough and calloused, covered in a dozen nicks and scrapes. Yet they were capable of being the most gentle hands the boy had ever felt. That helped the lump in his throat go down a little. His father crouched down and looked him in the eye. “‘As usual’, huh? Guess we didn’t catch anything yesterday?” He took his big hand and cleaned some mud that still clung to the boy’s face. “Playing in the mud?” He asked with a glint in his eye. 

“No,” said the boy, turning away. “Hard work checking all those empty traps.” 

“Well." Said his father. “I want you to go check them again in the morning.”

The boy’s face flushed with the red-hot anger of indignation. “After all the useless work I did today, you want me to go down there and check them again?” The boy’s voice quivered as he spoke. His father stood up and put a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Yep. That’s what I am asking you to do.” He scratched his chin through his big bushy beard and some chips of wood fell out. They hit the porch with a soft rattle. The father and his son looked down at them for a moment. The boy’s father chuckled to himself as he swept the wood chips off the porch with his boot. 

At that moment the boy’s mother called from inside the house. “Peter, Joshua, time for supper.” The boy’s father splashed his hands in the bowl and quickly washed his hands. When he pulled them out he flicked the water at his son. The boy did not react. He was already dreading the trip down the trail tomorrow to check the traps. “Come on, son.” Said the father, putting his hand behind his son’s back together they walked inside. 

Inside was a small table with a bench on either side. It served as the dinner table, cooking counter, and anything else they needed to work on. Peter used it to practice his reading and writing. He often read the Bible at the table to his mother while she started to clean things up. 

They all sat down at the table. The boy’s father said a prayer before they began to eat. But Peter’s mind was down at the creekside, picking through empty traps, and getting wet. He was down the mountainside walking back up, hitting tree trunks with a cedar stick. He was feeling the anger begin to rise back up in him. 

“Amen,” said the boy’s father. As they began to eat, Peter’s mother and father talked about how the day went and what their plan was for tomorrow. Peter tried his best to seem disinterested in their conversation. He picked lazily at his food waiting for supper to be over. 

“Pete,” Said his father, “you better eat your supper. You got a fair bit of workin’ to do in the morning.” 

“But I don't want to do it, Father. Besides, there ain't going to be anything in those traps anyway.”

“You don’t know that for certain. The Lord will provide for us. We just have to be faithful in what we do. Tomorrow, you will go down and check all the traps. Okay, son?”

“I don’t want to do it, but I will if I have to.” Said the boy pushing around bits of leftover carrot with a fork.

“Peter,” Began his mother in between bites of carrot and rabbit, “Peter, it is good to listen to your father. He knows what to do, you need to learn to trust his judgment.” She continued after swallowing a cup of water, “You also need to learn to obey with a happy heart. Your father and I love you and what we tell you to do is good and right to listen to. Remember what the Bible tells us ‘Honor thy father and mother that it may be well with thee and thou mayest live long on the earth. Obey your parents in the Lord for this is right.” 

“I know,” said Pete, hanging his head. “It’s just so hard sometimes.”

“That’s why it says to do it ‘in the Lord.” Said his father. “We need to trust in him to carry us on his shoulders. Now, off to bed with you. You have an early start tomorrow.”

Peter got up from the table and changed his clothes. He crawled into his bed on one side of the cabin. He went to sleep thinking about what his parents had told him. He still did not want to go check the traps tomorrow, but part of him wanted to do it because he loved his father and mother. A belly full of food and the warm cabin soon put him to sleep. He drifted off to sleep listening to the quiet tones of his father and mother talking together over the table. 

It was still dark out when he felt the hand of his father shake him awake. “Pete, time to rise and shine. Get dressed, I have breakfast for you on the table.”

Peter put on his buckskin jacket and boots and walked over to the table. Mother was there reading the Bible by candlelight. He could hear the morning birds just beginning to sing their bright songs. Pete ate his breakfast and stood near the door. He paused for a moment, not wanting to relive the disappointment of the day before. 

“Forgetting something?” Said his father.

“No,” said Pete, looking down and scuffing his boot across the floor. 

“Well, you better get ready if you are to be back before dinner.”

“I am ready.” He said. He grabbed his possibles bag and took a step onto the porch. He felt the fear of wasting his whole day checking empty traps begin to creep up inside him. 

“Don’t worry, Pete.” Said the boy’s father coming onto the porch behind Peter. “If you come back empty-handed, we still love you. It is important to check these traps every day. Otherwise, animals can get them before us. And besides, we use them for trading and livin’. Remember the Bible verse your mother read last night. You going down there is the good and right thing to do, even if you don't feel like it.”

With that, Peter left the porch. He wanted to do the right thing, even though he was unsure of how it would turn out for him. He turned and looked across the clearing to the path that led toward the beaver traps. He took a deep breath and began his walk down the mountain. 

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