Free When the Cherry Blossoms Fell by Jennifer Maruno

“It’s been freshly cut.” Beside it, in a pile of chips, lay the trunk of a giant cottonwood. “They must be close by.”
    â€œAre beavers dangerous?” asked Michiko.
    â€œNo, they will hide until we pass,” he said. “They know human smell.”
    â€œWhy did they chew down a whole tree?”
    â€œThey have to get at the leaves for food,” he answered. “Then they use the rest for their home.”
    â€œCan we look for their home?” Michiko glancedalong the bank, picturing a small log cabin with a round door and smoking chimney.
    â€œWe’ll probably pass it in the boat,” Ted said.
    They stepped through a patch of bushes, to the water, as the morning breeze pushed the clouds down river. The small beach of firm, damp sand sparkled like a glazed mud pie.
    Jutting sideways from the bank was a giant, mottled trunk. The
Apple
nodded under an archway of bent willow branches. Ted walked along the trunk and tossed his tackle box and rods into the boat. Then he returned and took the
furoshiki
from Michiko.
    She clutched his hand as she climbed onto the trunk. The branches swayed in the muddy water. She didn’t like this part. What if she slipped into the cold water below?
    The croak of an old bullfrog and the chip, chip, chipping sound of a red-winged blackbird drifted across the water. Soon they were gliding past wooden shores strewn with bluebells. Lush grass flanking the banks waved in the breeze, and cedars whispered as they floated by. Michiko trailed her hand in the clear, cold mountain water. She could see right to the bottom. The sparkle of the sun on the ripples made her dreamy.
    â€œLook,” Ted whispered. “There’s where the beavers live.” He pointed to the small stream that led away from the river.
    Michiko scanned the water. “I can’t see any house,” she said, cupping her hand over her eyes. All she could see was a large muddy mound of sticks and branches.
    â€œThey live behind that bridge of branches,” Ted told her.
    â€œWhere is the door?” she asked. “How do they get in and out?”
    â€œThey dive in the water and come up through a door in the floor of their house.”
    â€œLike a secret passage?”
    â€œJust like a secret passage,” he said with a nod.
    A sudden sharp whistle startled them both. Clarence, standing on the grassy bank, waved. “Hey, Millie,” he called out. Then he cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Catch anything?”
    â€œWhat is that boy saying?” Ted asked.
    â€œHe’s from my school,” Michiko told him. She ignored the fact that he had called her Millie. “He wants to know if we caught anything.”
    Ted rowed to where the green turf sloped down to the edge and whistled in answer.
    There was a rustle, and Clarence’s flaming red head peered down at them. “Nice boat,” he called down, “my favourite colour.” His face broke into a wide grin.
    â€œClarence,” Michiko said politely, “I’d like you to meet my Uncle Ted.”
    Clarence saluted, and the string hanging from the end of the long stick he carried over his shoulder bounced. Michiko spotted a half-opened safety pin and a red and white wooden bobber dangling at his knees.
    â€œYou know any good fishing spots?” Ted asked.
    â€œThere’s a place not far downstream,” Clarence told them. He pointed with his rod and said, “Plenty of birds around.”
    â€œWhere there are birds, there’s fish,” Ted responded.“Do you want to come along?”
    â€œSure,” responded Clarence enthusiastically. He scrambled down the side, balanced on a thick root and stepped in.
    As the morning sun moved west, they spotted a pair of loons and a great blue heron. Ted replaced Clarence’s safety pin with a hook and showed him how to swing his rod high across his shoulder, then with a snapping stroke, whip it