http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/beaver-winter-frozen-montana/

The river was a slushy mess for ten minutes before he came across the beaver. Water trickled in some parts, stood frozen stiff in others. It had been three hours since he’d seen or heard another living creature. In the forest in the middle of the winter, it wasn’t unusual to go alone for some time. Three hours was longer than he’d expected, and under other circumstances he may not have felt so ill at ease. Alas, these were not other circumstances.

Carefully, the tracker made his way to the water’s edge. He gave the living statue a quick once-over, and nothing seemed untoward. Outside of the poor guy’s frozen state.

The tracker broke off some nearby branches and built a little pyramid of sticks. From his pack, he produced a bundled of dried cuttings and a firestarter. It took a few clicks and some swearing, but eventually the cuttings caught fire. With a deft touch, he coaxed the tripod to crackling life just a foot from the beaver.

Half an hour later, the little creature let out a low groan of relief. His brown fur shook and his nose twitched in pure chaos. Swinging his head around, he set his beady eyes on the tracker.

“Where is she?”

The tracker shook his head. “We don’t know. I had hoped you might help there.”

“I hardly saw her,” the beaver admitted. “Just a flash of red and gold, though which was hair and which was clothes I could not say.”

“Did you see how she froze you?”

“I did not,” the beaver stretched out, circled the fire and stomped his feet. Some life was seeping back into his limbs. “Oh man, I’m going to crush that chick’s dreams.”

The tracked nodded. “We don’t think she sleeps.”

“Then I will crush her daydreams, her reveries, and to be safe, her idle wanderings,” the beaver countered. “I’m going to find the guy she liked in high school, and the girl she hated, and I’m going to force them to fall in love.”

“What will that accomplish?” the tracker asked.

“Mental anguish.” The beaver pulled his fat, flat tail forward and began to pick it clean. “Maybe some horrifying relapses to her awkward, scrawny, pre-Ice Witch youth that will break her spirit.”

The tracker regarded the beaver for a moment. The beaver was still thawing out, but his speech was not slurred. His eyes were alert. This didn’t seem like the ravings of the insane. In fact, he thought that this might just be how the beaver operated.

“For a little guy, you harbor a great deal of animosity.”

The beaver shot him an evil glare. “What did you do the last two days?”

“I sought the Mistress in Ice.”

“Gallant,” the beaver mocked. “I stood, right there, frozen in time, thinking up the most creative ways to tell her father that she’s actually gay, and he’s never getting grandkids barring a drastic change in the conservative nature of human law.”

“I really do think a calm, level approach to this threat is best,” the tracker said, trying to mollify the irate beaver.

“That’s a thought that has never once occurred to me,” the beaver said. “I think the best approach is to find her best friend at work and reveal how often the ice jerk mocks her alleged friend to the other office managers when they’re on a break smoking cigarettes and talking about their boyfriends that used to drive Mustangs before they got kicked out of community college.”

“So you’re upset,” the tracker drily noted.

“I’m upset,” came the snapped reply.

Attempts to reason with the beaver were proving unproductive. He was, perhaps somewhat justifiably, consumed with plots for revenge. From his pack, the tracker pulled some dried fruit and small flower buds that he held in reserve for location spells.

“Here, eat something,” the tracker said, holding out the food. “You seem upset.”

“I’ve been frozen for two days!” the beaver screeched, indignant. But he grabbed the food and chowed down. “I think I have a right.”

“I cannot promise you any measure of personal revenge,” the tracker said. “But the people who sent me are very serious about catching and stopping her.”

The beaver methodically picked through the best flower buds, then ate the mediocre ones, then considered the weakest of the selection. But two days in a chamber of ice works up an appetite and he ate them all. He picked at the dried fruit, unsure but hungry enough to be, at least momentarily, a culinary adventurer.

“And you want my help?” he asked the human tracker.

“If you have any to offer.”

The beaver sighed. “I know she came from the east and left heading west. But that’s an impression from movement and shadow. I really didn’t see very much of her.”

“Thank you.” The tracker stood. “Should I send word when she’s been caught?”

“That would be kind of you, yes. Thanks,” the beaver said. “When you catch her, ask her what book she’s always wanted to read but never got around to.”

The tracker looked down at the brown creature. Under no circumstances did he think this was a serious request, but his curiosity got the best of him.

“Alright. Why am I doing that?”

“I’m going to read it before she can. Then I’m going to deliver her a copy in jail with a little note about how I forgive her for purposefully and callously freezing me out here and leaving me to die.” The beaver’s answer was pregnant with subtext, but the tracker was distracted. Already, he cataloged his knowledge of the area west of this small river. He would need to be ready when he finally overtook the Mistress in Ice.

“Well that’s big of you,” he said.

“Then I’m going to track her progress in the book. And when she’s just getting into that meaty part, I’m going to spoil the ending and smash her copy of the book with my tail.” The beaver boasted with grim determination, gruff and prematurely triumphant.

The tracker resealed his pack. He stood and looked west. Two days. A two day head start was pretty good, but she was alone and hungry and in a place she did not know. He had many advantages. He would find her in four, maybe five days.

He would not send word back this way.

“Beaver, return to your dam. Await my word,” he said to the beaver. “And maybe spend your energy on something other than plots for revenge.”

“Never!” The beaver slapped his tail against the snow, spun toward the gap in the river ice and dove down. He would return to his nearby dam and await word of his tormentor’s capture. Then he would turn the tables.

The tracker would not send word.  It did not do to dwell on schemes of vengeance.