Chapter 5
Hieronymus’s
Dilemma
Hieronymus spent
the next few days agonizing over what he should tell the others about the
people. He knew it would inspire panic and wanted to have a plan in place to
combat their unrest. Fear would get them nowhere. If their town were to be
overrun, they would have no option but to move. But he knew that people
measuring land didn’t necessarily mean new people burrows. And a move, by even
a handful of Little Left inhabitants, would put them at risk. Moving a whole
colony would surely lead to lost lives. Yet, if they waited too long to begin a
move, they’d risk being without burrows because they could not dig new homes in
frozen ground. Hieronymus sought Corot’s counsel.
Finding
Corot was never easy. He didn’t have predictable habits or regular feeding
spots like the others. He could be meditating near any of the three safe
borders or on some secret ramble beyond town. He sometimes fed beside other
prairie dogs, sometimes alone. Hieronymus couldn’t even be sure he’d sleep in
the burrow they shared because Corot often slept alone in abandoned burrows he
found beyond the edge of the town. Only once had Hieronymus risked a breach of
clan decorum by asking Corot about his unusual habits.
With no sign of offense, Corot had replied simply. “It makes me
more aware of our continuity with our ancestors, prairie dogs that lived here
before people came.”
After
circumnavigating most of the town, Hieronymus found Corot at the same spot
along the creek where he’d been the day they dodged the hawk. He watched the
rise and fall of his friend’s back, noticing the bit of early grey creeping
into his coat.
“What’s
going through your mind today, my friend?” Hieronymus asked as he came up along
side him.
“What
I suspect has been going through yours,” Corot said, touching his nose to his
friend’s. “I’ve been looking at the water, hoping for an idea.”
“And?”
“Where
the water is shallower, it moves more slowly and maintains its form as it meets
obstacles, as though concentrated volume forces it to adapt to a greater
degree. Of course, it’s misleading because the volume stays the same. I’ve no
idea if there’s a lesson there.”
“What
do you think we should do?”
Corot
shrugged and it seemed as if a heavy weight pressed his slight shoulders. “I
honestly don’t know. We can’t simply wait to see what happens . . . and not all
of us can up and migrate to another place. Either way, the colony risks
annihilation. Our best chance at survival would be for some to stay . . .”
Corot looked up at Hieronymus as though he could not bear to finish the sentence,
“and others go.”
Hieronymus
barely heard the sloshing of the creek over the numbness Corot’s words aroused
in him. Slowly, the import of his friend’s analysis sunk in like rocks pushing
down through soft mud. He knew what this meant: family units torn apart, mates
arguing about the better course, separation depression no matter what. “Who
will go and who stay? Where will we go?”
“Any wanting to go should go.” Corot
etched a map into the dirt with a claw. “As I see it, we’ve two options for
which way, west into the mountains or north toward . . . we don’t know what.”
Hieronymus peered down, impressed by the graphic details.
“One takes us into
unfamiliar terrain with severe weather and rocky ground,” Corot pointed, “and
the other through the place the cattle stray from, where we could get shot . .
. or killed by canines.”
“And
south?” Hieronymus looked left.
“We
know there are more people towns there. My grandfather once said that people
towns are like enormous animals and have to grow or die. The one about to
spread across our town was once quite small and a long way away. Or so he told
me.”
“Which
way then?” Hieronymus felt his despair lift a bit.
“It
may depend on how many of us choose to leave, but let’s think about it and meet
here tomorrow.”