The Beaver and the Porcupine

  after Franz Boas 

   Back in the 1800s, when the rivers of the Midwest still ran wild and the prairies stretched unbroken, there lived a beaver and a porcupine who were the closest of friends. They made an odd pair.

   The beaver, sleek-furred and broad-tailed, spent his days swimming the river, felling cottonwoods, and patching his fine lodge in midstream. The porcupine, stiff with quills, lived up in the oak woods, shuffling slowly among the roots and climbing trees with his strong claws.

   When they sat together in the evenings, they laughed over how different they were.

   “You’re always wet,” said the porcupine, “and I can’t stand even a rain puddle.”

   “And you,” said the beaver, “bristle like a fence row in a windstorm. Smooth fur’s more to my liking.”

   “Yet here we are, friends,” the porcupine said, and he meant it.

   The beaver often left his river home to visit the porcupine in the hills, but the porcupine never once came down to the lodge.

   “You’ve heard me say it a hundred times,” said the porcupine one morning as they shared acorns and fresh bark. “If I go in that river, I’ll sink. All it would take is one gulp of water, and you’d be dragging my lifeless carcass to shore.”

   “You don’t trust me,” said the beaver quietly.

   The porcupine’s quills rattled as he shifted. “No, I trust you. I don’t trust the water.”

   One bright afternoon, the beaver swam up to the riverbank where the porcupine sat warming himself in the sun.

   “You’re coming to see my home today,” the beaver announced.

   The porcupine’s dark eyes grew wide. “What nonsense is this?”

   “No nonsense at all,” said the beaver. “You’ll ride on my back. I’ll carry you over.”

   “You know what’ll happen. I’ll drown.”

   “You won’t drown,” said the beaver firmly. “I’ll take care of you. Hold fast and trust me.”

   The porcupine hesitated, then muttered, “If I die, it’s on you.” Still, very slowly, he climbed onto the beaver’s back, wrapping his paws around his friend’s neck.

   The beaver chuckled, though his voice came strained. “Easy now. You’ll choke me before the river does.”

   As long as they stayed on the surface, the porcupine endured the crossing, though his grip never slackened. But when the beaver dove once or twice for sport, the porcupine sputtered and coughed, eyes stinging, nose full of water.

   “Stop that!” he cried. “Do you mean to kill me?”

   “It’s just a dip,” the beaver laughed. “You’re safe.”

   The porcupine gritted his teeth and clung harder, whispering to himself, “Just let me live to see land again.”

   When at last they reached the lodge, he tumbled onto the mud roof, gasping.

   Inside, the beaver busied himself. “You must be hungry,” he said, dragging in a bundle of willow sticks. “Tender bark, the finest I’ve saved for winter.”

   The porcupine eyed the pile. “Twigs?”

   “Not twigs—food!” said the beaver proudly.

   The porcupine chewed in silence, every bite bitter as medicine. He kept his face as steady as he could, for he didn’t want to wound his friend’s feelings.

   “Good, isn’t it?” asked the beaver.

   “Mmm,” said the porcupine faintly, though his stomach groaned.

   The next morning, the beaver burst in cheerfully. “Let’s play a game. Ride on my back again, nose down by my neck. I’ll dive to the bottom four times, and four times we’ll rise!”

   The porcupine’s quills rustled in alarm. “That’s no game—it’s torture.”

   “Coward,” the beaver teased, though not unkindly. “Come now. Trust me.”

   Not wanting to insult his friend, the porcupine agreed. The beaver slapped the water with his tail, sending spray into the porcupine’s eyes. He dove long and deep, each time staying under so long the porcupine thought his lungs would burst.

   When at last they came up the fourth time, the porcupine nearly slid off his back from weakness.

   “Now wasn’t that fun?” the beaver said.

   The porcupine could not answer. His heart was pounding too hard.

   Back in his hills, the porcupine summoned his kin. “I nearly drowned,” he told them bitterly. “He called it play, but it was cruel.”

   One of his cousins grinned. “Then invite him here. Let him try your games.”

   The porcupine’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Let him.”

   The beaver came the very next day, trudging up the valley.

   “Come in, come in!” called the porcupine, tossing a spark from the fire that stung the beaver’s eyes.

   “You must be hungry. Sit and eat.” He placed before the beaver a pile of bark and pine needles.

   The beaver tried to chew politely, but the food was dry and tasteless.

   “Eat faster,” urged the porcupine. “I’m eager for our game.”

   The next morning, the porcupine led him to a tall tree on a frozen slope.

   “The game is simple,” he said. “You climb this tree, let go, and fall. Watch me.”

   He scrambled up the trunk with ease, claws gripping deep. At the top, he dropped like a stone, then rolled to his feet. “See? Harmless.”

   The beaver swallowed hard. “I’ve never climbed a tree. My paws aren’t made for it.”

   “Then ride my back. I’ll take you up.”

   The beaver obeyed, trembling as the porcupine bore him high into the branches.

   “Now hold tight to the trunk,” said the porcupine, setting him down.

   The beaver’s smooth paws slipped against the bark. He looked down and saw the ground spinning below.

   “I can’t,” he whispered. “I’ll fall wrong.”

   “Don’t be afraid,” urged the porcupine. “Just let go. Trust me—it’s the only way down.”

   The beaver shut his eyes. He thought of the river, of the lodge he had built stick by stick, of his friend standing below, urging him on. Then, with a shudder, he let go.

   He struck his head on a stone, and the blow killed him.

   The porcupine stood silent for a long time, then turned and walked home alone.

Moral

   And so it was that two friends, each meaning no true harm, brought sorrow on themselves by asking the other to live against his own nature.

   In the old Midwest, folks would shake their heads at such a tale and say: A beaver is made for the water, and a porcupine for the woods. When you demand your neighbor be what he is not, you may lose him forever.