If you've ever been curious about lesser-known corners of the world, this episode of the Online for Authors podcast is your perfect invitation. In an engaging and insightful interview, author Ellis Shuman takes listeners on a journey through his collection of short stories, Rakiya: Stories of Bulgaria—and into the soul of a country often overlooked on the traveler's map.
I sensed it before Max
did. A rustling in the bushes. A snap of a twig. A muffled crackling sound. Max
lifted his head, assumed his full-alert, ready-to-attack mode, and strained at
his leash. A final movement, and then it burst into the open. A porcupine,
determined to escape after encountering Max and me in the dark.
It was five in the morning, our forest path lit by the waning moon and a
scatter of the night’s last stars. I was leading Max on his pre-dawn walk,
necessitated by my having to leave shortly to catch the first train to my job
in Tel Aviv. Max had already done his ‘business’ and we were on the return
journey, back to the streetlights of civilization leading to my home in our
small community outside Jerusalem. And then the porcupine came into view.
With the erect quills on its back, the animal was as tall as Max, a mid-size
mixed-breed dog. We see porcupines nearly every morning. Add that to the
jackals and wild boars we meet from time to time, a bounty of wildlife in the
forested hills near my home rarely seen in daylight. I may be crazy for walking
my dog in the pitch-black hours, but these unexpected encounters in nature
fascinate me. And they thrill Max as well.
I know to stay clear of porcupines; they can attack when threatened. Several
months ago, a man in northern Israel nearly lost his life after being stabbed
in his arms and legs with 41 quills. Porcupines are Israel’s largest rodent and
use their quills in defense. They don’t actually shoot them, I’ve learned, but
it’s best to stay as far away as possible.
There’s another reason the presence of porcupines irks me. I recently planted a
small vegetable patch in my backyard, and had already harvested cucumbers, with
tomatoes soon to follow. At summer’s end, I was excited to plant my first
lettuce seedlings, but overnight, they were eaten down to their tiny stems.
Basel and flowers also lost their leaves, and I assumed nocturnal porcupines
were the culprits responsible for the damage.
Today’s porcupine ran off into the brush, sending Max into a frenzy of barking
as I tightened my grip on his leash. Before I knew it, the creature had
vanished into the dense thicket of hillside undergrowth as if it had never
been. Max and I continued our walk, with him sniffing for traces of the
animal’s scent and occasionally lifting his leg to mark his territory.
More rustling near the path. This time Max saw the porcupine before me. He
struggled to break loose from his leash, to run down the creature just as he
chases the stray cats on our street. Within seconds, it was gone, following the
trail of its partner. Max calmed down, and we headed for home.
Twenty minutes later, I finished my breakfast and filled Max’s water bowl. He
had enough food to get through the day, and I patted his head before locking
the front door behind me. My wife would care for him until I returned from
work, but her walks with the dog would be in bright daylight.
I got into my car and started the motor for the drive to the train station. I
adjusted the mirror and began to pull out of my parking spot when a dash of
movement caught my eye.
A lone porcupine darted in front of the car, disappearing into the bushes on
the far side of the street. Too bad I didn’t have my phone ready to snap a
picture of the wayward animal. No worries. Max and I were bound to meet more
porcupines on our next pre-dawn walk.
Originally published in The Loch Raven Review.
“Buttermilk.”
“Butterfly.”
“Butternut.”
“Bread and butter!”
“But that’s butter at
the end.”
“What if I eat the
butter first?”
“How can you eat the
butter first on a piece of bread?”
“By licking it off!”
It’s a word game we
play, one of the many ways I keep Kira occupied when her mother is gone. I love
spending time with my granddaughter. She’s beautiful, and it’s not just me who
says that. Kira has a keen mind and is wise beyond her seven years. She’s a lot
of fun!
“Buttercup.”
“Butterlicious!”
“Now you’re making
words up.”
“Grandma, you do that
too, sometimes.”
“I would never…”
“What about that time
you tried to convince me that Ant Warp was a place.”
“Antwerp! It’s a city
in Belgium.”
“Have you been to
Belgium?”
“No.”
“So, how can you know
for sure?”
I laugh, push up the
blonde bangs from her forehead. Her face is so pretty. Brown eyes and thin
lips. Dimples you could die for. She gets them from her mom.
“When’s she coming
back?”
I look at my phone.
“Soon. She has some errands to run.”
“Oof, always errands.
Maybe I’m an errand she should run!”
“You’re not an
errand,” I say, stroking her shoulder. “You’re the reason she runs her
errands.”
“Do you think she’ll
buy me that magical unicorn?”
“It’s not your
birthday yet. That’s in two months.”
“Two months is a long
time.”
“It’ll be here before
you know it.”
“We’ve been here a
long time. When can we go home?”
My phone rings, a loud
ring. My daughter insisted on a loud ring because I’m hard of hearing. I’m not,
I argued, although I knew what she said was true. Partially.
“I’m running late,
Mom. There’s traffic, and I didn’t get to the drugstore yet.”
“Kira is getting
impatient.”
“Why don’t you play
one of those word games with her?”
“That’s what we’ve
been doing.”
“Is that Mommy? Let me
talk to her!”
I hand Kira my phone,
lean back in my chair and smile. My lovely granddaughter. Kira talks with her
mother, an exaggerated pleading for her to finish her errands and come back as
soon as possible. The conversation ends and Kira returns the phone.
“She said she’ll buy
me a Snickers bar.”
“Okay. So, what do you
want to play next?”
“I don’t want to play.
I want to go home.”
“I know,” I say. I
can’t promise her that, or anything, for that matter. I look up at the infusion
bag, making sure the drip continues at its slow, steady pace. “As soon as the
doctors say you can go home…” I don’t finish the sentence.
“Oof! Always the
doctors!”
She looks sour for a
minute, eases back on her hospital bed, as if she’s trying to get as far away
from her disease as possible, but then her face lights up.
“Butterscotch!” she
announces triumphantly, and we both giggle.
# # #
Originally published in Emerge Literary Journal.
