“Go this way, they won’t follow you from here,” old Kart pointed upwards towards the secret passage dug in between roots, covered with a pile of branches on top.
To tell the truth, Märt had been afraid of that. He glanced at the parents, who had frozen at the spot with determined faces and did not say a word. Kart and Kärt had to see that he was ready to stay with them and fight till the end if it was going to be that way.
“Go, go, you are still young, everything is just in front of you and it’s time to start your own life. This lodge has been our home and we have grown old here. We do not intend to leave all our memories gathered here and move away because of the stupid gardeners.”
Märt knew that his parents had been right, their life was there. It was hopeless to convince them. They had not dug an emergency exit from the lodge to the ground because of that.
Beagles’ yelping and the muffled thuds of approaching steps came closer, he knew that a ruthless fight for life was about to start, and if not for life then for honour and respectability, and for the last time he looked back at the ones who intended to stay, and giving in to Kart’s last wordless gesture, started his unbearably difficult journey. It took him a moment to get out of the tunnel and hide himself under the thicket through which he could see blinding rays of light. It was daytime outside.
As he had expected, two gardeners with guns pointing at the entrance of the lodge were standing on the other side. The habitat of eager beavers had somehow happened to be in their way. Märt remained there in order to be the last witness to see what was going to happen at the entrance of the beavers’ lodge.
First nothing else but the yelping of dogs and the weak barking from the lodge could be heard. Contrary to the gardener’s expectations no one came out of the lodge.
Then one could hear the whining of beagles, but not the screaming of beavers, and a dachshund covered with blood crawled out with his hind legs in front towards his master.
“Oh, shit!” one gardener spat angrily and lowered the gun. “Beavers have bitten them, Tuks has no nose anymore and your Pontu’s head has been bitten off, it hasn’t come back!”
“Let me see!” the second gardener reached towards the entrance of the lodge.
”Pontu! Pontu! Pontu!” he called mournfully, but in answer he could hear only the whistling of the sly March wind in his ears.
“Don’t put your hand in the lodge; they’ll bite your fingers off! You know which kind of teeth they have? As sharp as a chisel.”
“Yep!” Pontu’s master scratched his head. ”Seems that we’ve lost our dogs. There is nothing else to do than to throw a dynamite stick in and blow the whole lot up!”
An ear-splitting explosion shook the forest and formed an unmarked grave for beavers, who had remained there because they had felt too old to start their life anew in some other place.
“That’s all for now!” two gardeners sighed with relief. It seemed that they were satisfied with the results of their day’s work. The dachshund with the torn head, which seemed no good for hunting any more, was executed on site by a gun shot. If Pontu had managed to survive despite the beaver’s teeth, it evidently perished together with the beaver family and was buried in the deep lodge, which the explosion had turned into a joint burial chamber for them all.
”Now I have seen which kind of creatures they are – these gardeners, they have no mercy even when their own kind has become useless!” Märt thought with mixed feelings of pain and bitterness.
He waited for a while until the gardeners had gone away and got on the move himself. There was nothing to be done there: he knew that this site was his parents’ grave – he had to put up with that, they had lived there and now it was their last resting place. Märt did not want to spoil the peace of this burial site. His duty was to find himself and Mirt, who was in a family way, a new and better place, build a lodge, found a castle that would protect them against both – the other creatures and the gardeners, who liked to hunt them.
He had seen this last wish in the eyes of old Kart, who had sent him to the secret passage. That was why he became anxious every time he heard the sound of moving dogs and gardeners walking them in the forest. That was why he was worried, when he saw gardeners’ footprints near the deserted dwellings opposite the river bend that had been chosen for the new lodge. The history of beavers and gardeners had been a history of battles and he wanted his home last more than one winter, so that it would be a place, where he, Mirt and the cubs could live peacefully ever after until the end of their days without being afraid of beagles.
The spring weather became warmer and warmer and the water level in the river dropped by a couple of feet. It was not possible to wait longer; Mirt had been strangely withdrawn for the last couple of days. Märt started to dig. The surface consisted of sand and had become soft thanks to the melting snow and the work advanced faster than expected. By the end of the day the entrance into the lodge and the den were ready, but Märt dug a narrow passage from the back of the lodge into the willow thicket, covered it carefully with pieces of moss and rotting timber lying around in big quantities. While preparing this escape route he still heard the approaching yelping of the beagles in his ears, from which he had had to escape already once before, when he had to leave his home behind.
After lining the living chamber in the den, he could invite Mirt in. It was high time. A week later they were not alone in the lodge any more. Two beaver cubs called Karu and Maru - named after the way the surrounding environment had welcomed them on the first day of their arrival.
”Strong and slow like a bear,” said Mirt, following the movements of the first-born cub and that was how the name got stuck to him. His brother on the contrary was boisterous and impatient and tended to fight for every tiny piece of food that had to be divided evenly.
”Restless like a fireball,” said Mirt, but Märt shook his head and did not agree. “That is too long, how are we going to call him? Let’s call him Maru - it’s shorter, and easier to say for us and also for him.”
Days went by and the dropping water level at the entrance of the lodge reminded Märt and Mirt and their fast-growing cubs that it was time to start thinking about how to dam up the stream and prepare the dam site. The entrance into the lodge was a tunnel by which stray otters could easily come in and attack the tiny cubs.
During the first days Märt piled up mud in the narrow part of the river bed and stamped it into a solid bank on the bottom of the river. The water level in the stream started to rise higher and the entrance into the lodge became flooded with muddy sediment water. By the entrance Märt dug a hollow at the bottom of the river to have adequate depth for diving into and coming out of the den.
The corridor leading into the living-room in the lodge ascended in the ground, so it was possible to keep it dry when hustling and bustling and making preparations for nocturnal activities. Märt did not touch the emergency exit that opened on the brink of the hill, being afraid to draw attention or leave any scent for unfriendly creatures to trace.
During the next couple of weeks no rain fell, the days were unpleasantly dry, the water level in the river dropped and the entrance into the lodge above the water level could be exposed. Märt understood that covering the river bottom was not enough.
”It’s time to dam up the stream,” he informed Mirt calmly but seriously.
Mirt nodded without saying anything, ”I’ll come with you.”
They both were aware of the danger building a dam could bring along: the dammed up river started to rise by every day, it would flood the forest floors and the gardeners’ fields and the thick blood running in the gardeners’ veins would make them come and destroy the dams built by beavers.
“Yes,”