Robert that he had been wrong about the silence. The nest wasn’t quiet at all. In the darkness there was a drone of tiny jaws, working steadily at the greenery they had locked inside.
Robert started as another sound came up. It was the whistle from his kettle, high and insistent as the water boiled away. When he went inside to quiet it, his hand was trembling.
The morning went badly.
The Torsdales were the first of the campers to rise, at just before seven, and when Jim, their youngest boy, saw the work the worms had done in the night, he screamed like a girl. The scream got Don and Jackie Torsdale out of bed—although their daughter Beth slept until they shook her a moment later—and before seven fifteen, Robert figured, the other two families that made up his camp clientele this morning were also wide awake.
When he came out of the shed twenty minutes later with the canister of insecticide over his shoulder and his coveralls, goggles and filter mask on, he noted wryly that those two trailers were in the process of packing up.
“Hey! That stuff’s harmful!” shouted Mrs. Poole, setting her fists on her wide hips and glaring across the nearly empty campground while her husband disassembled the canopy on their trailer behind her. “Don’t you go sprayin’ it while there’s people here!”
No danger of that, he thought, not for much longer. Then he pulled aside his filter mask to answer: “Don’t worry, Mrs. Poole. I’m following the instructions.”
“They don’t mean nothin’!” she snapped before turning to her husband. “Hurry up! I don’t wanna stay here no longer than I got to!”
Robert slipped the mask back over his face and walked over to the spot where the branches hung lowest. The weave was thick here, hanging deep over the wood pile and casting a uniform grey shadow over the sandy soil. If Robert reached up, he could touch the silk with his hand, and even through the blur of the goggles he saw the dark mass of the caterpillars. They crawled outside the nest too, and as he stood there, they dropped in twos and threes, landing to die in the sand or insinuate themselves into the crannies of the wood pile. Absently, Robert brushed at his shoulder.
Robert unhooked the hose on the end of the canister. It had a long metal nozzle, and he lifted it to the fabric of the nest. The silk felt rough on the end of the nozzle, and Robert hesitated a moment before pushing it through—he was struck by an image of the entire nest bursting, the nozzle a sharp pin to the tree’s balloon, and him trapped, exposed under the weight of a million summer worms.
But the other option was fire. More than a few landowners in this part of Muskoka used that option readily, and Robert had in the past: just hold a lighter to the silk, watch it catch in gossamer embers and black curls of ash. Nature takes care of itself.
But he wasn’t about to burn a nest this big. Any fire that could destroy this nest would take the maple tree, his cabin, maybe even the rest of the campground as well.
The nozzle slid into the nest like a syringe, and Robert squeezed the valve lever. He did it in seven more spots around the tree, until the canister was empty, leaving ragged holes of a size that bullets might make. Finally, he stood back, squinted at his work.
There was nothing he could see, of course—the silk wrapped it, and even in the harsh morning sunlight, the blackness underneath still clung.
Robert pulled the goggles off, wiped the condensation from the inside. He skirted around the tree’s perimeter and hurried up the steps into his cabin.
Robert stripped his coveralls off in the living room, leaving them draped over the sofa, and he ran the water in the shower until it steamed before getting in.
Robert drove into Gravenhurst white-knuckled. As he turned onto Bethune Drive from the highway, he had to resist the urge to yank down his collar, pull out the worms. His stop at the Beer Store was quick, and the girl who
Robert started as another sound came up. It was the whistle from his kettle, high and insistent as the water boiled away. When he went inside to quiet it, his hand was trembling.
The morning went badly.
The Torsdales were the first of the campers to rise, at just before seven, and when Jim, their youngest boy, saw the work the worms had done in the night, he screamed like a girl. The scream got Don and Jackie Torsdale out of bed—although their daughter Beth slept until they shook her a moment later—and before seven fifteen, Robert figured, the other two families that made up his camp clientele this morning were also wide awake.
When he came out of the shed twenty minutes later with the canister of insecticide over his shoulder and his coveralls, goggles and filter mask on, he noted wryly that those two trailers were in the process of packing up.
“Hey! That stuff’s harmful!” shouted Mrs. Poole, setting her fists on her wide hips and glaring across the nearly empty campground while her husband disassembled the canopy on their trailer behind her. “Don’t you go sprayin’ it while there’s people here!”
No danger of that, he thought, not for much longer. Then he pulled aside his filter mask to answer: “Don’t worry, Mrs. Poole. I’m following the instructions.”
“They don’t mean nothin’!” she snapped before turning to her husband. “Hurry up! I don’t wanna stay here no longer than I got to!”
Robert slipped the mask back over his face and walked over to the spot where the branches hung lowest. The weave was thick here, hanging deep over the wood pile and casting a uniform grey shadow over the sandy soil. If Robert reached up, he could touch the silk with his hand, and even through the blur of the goggles he saw the dark mass of the caterpillars. They crawled outside the nest too, and as he stood there, they dropped in twos and threes, landing to die in the sand or insinuate themselves into the crannies of the wood pile. Absently, Robert brushed at his shoulder.
Robert unhooked the hose on the end of the canister. It had a long metal nozzle, and he lifted it to the fabric of the nest. The silk felt rough on the end of the nozzle, and Robert hesitated a moment before pushing it through—he was struck by an image of the entire nest bursting, the nozzle a sharp pin to the tree’s balloon, and him trapped, exposed under the weight of a million summer worms.
But the other option was fire. More than a few landowners in this part of Muskoka used that option readily, and Robert had in the past: just hold a lighter to the silk, watch it catch in gossamer embers and black curls of ash. Nature takes care of itself.
But he wasn’t about to burn a nest this big. Any fire that could destroy this nest would take the maple tree, his cabin, maybe even the rest of the campground as well.
The nozzle slid into the nest like a syringe, and Robert squeezed the valve lever. He did it in seven more spots around the tree, until the canister was empty, leaving ragged holes of a size that bullets might make. Finally, he stood back, squinted at his work.
There was nothing he could see, of course—the silk wrapped it, and even in the harsh morning sunlight, the blackness underneath still clung.
Robert pulled the goggles off, wiped the condensation from the inside. He skirted around the tree’s perimeter and hurried up the steps into his cabin.
Robert stripped his coveralls off in the living room, leaving them draped over the sofa, and he ran the water in the shower until it steamed before getting in.
Robert drove into Gravenhurst white-knuckled. As he turned onto Bethune Drive from the highway, he had to resist the urge to yank down his collar, pull out the worms. His stop at the Beer Store was quick, and the girl who
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