After Scout shared the surprising information about his Uncle Willie Weasel having mated and raised kits, an astounded Abigail—along with the groundhogs—gathered closer, eager for more details about this new character, Wiley Weasel, who evidently was Scout’s cousin.

ABIGAIL: “Scout, I’m sure we all want to know more about Wiley. But first, please explain how you—being a skunk—could have an uncle who was a weasel. And now, one of his kits, Wiley, is both your cousin and your best friend?”

SCOUT: “Oh, that… well, you see, skunks and weasels were originally grouped into the same family—Mustelidae. Later on, though, scientists decided we skunks were different enough to have our very own family, now called Mephitidae. So, way back when, we were considered kin.”

ABIGAIL: “Yes, that’s right. Family names for animals are part of what humans call taxonomy. It’s a whole scientific system for classifying animals—and it has a fascinating, though complicated, history dating back to ancient times. The names may change, but the connections remain.”

One of the younger groundhogs whispered, wide-eyed: “So that makes Wiley… what? Half family, half friend?”

SCOUT: “Exactly. And if you know Wiley like I do, you’ll see—he’s got the cleverness of a weasel and the loyalty of a skunk. As far as being my best friend, well, we have history!”

QUINN: “Scout, you and I need to go find Wiley. If he’s as clever as you say, he’s the ally we can’t afford to leave out of this fight. Abigail, you and our groundhog friends should remain here.”

ABIGAIL: “Shouldn’t we all go together? Why do you want us to remain in the apartment?”

QUINN: “We don’t want to overwhelm Wiley. We need to earn his trust, and too many of us all at once might upset the balance needed. Besides, you need to keep searching those records—anything you uncover about dam sites, river crossings, or the beavers’ past work could tip the balance in our favor.”

ABIGAIL: “Hmm. You may be right. There are still some ancient documents in that old cabinet of mine. I’ve always wondered what secrets they hold. Perhaps now’s the time to find out.”

QUINN: “Then it’s settled. Don’t worry, Abigail —we’ll bring Wiley back. He won’t be able to resist joining this fight once he hears what’s at stake.”

ABIGAIL: “Just… be careful, both of you. I don’t doubt Wiley’s loyalty—but clever minds sometimes take daring risks.”

After putting back the quill being used for notes, Quinn met Abigail’s eyes and promised …“We’ll be cautious. And we’ll be back as soon as we can.”

With that, Quinn and Scout slipped out into the fading light, the door closing behind them with a quiet click. For a long moment, Abigail and the groundhogs listened to the echo of paw-steps fading down the hallway.

After a brief hush, Abigail turned toward the large, worn cabinet in the corner of her apartment. Dust filmed its handles, and the faint scent of cedar lingered when she brushed her hand across the surface. Abigail drew a steadying breath.

ABIGAIL: “All right, my friends. Time for us to see what secrets this old thing may be hiding.”

The groundhogs crowded closer, whiskers twitching with curiosity. One scrambled up to tug at the handle in the middle drawer, while another pawed at the drawer at the base of the cabinet. Slowly, two more drawers of the three-drawer cabinet creaked open.

Inside lay stacks of brittle papers, rolled scrolls, and—at the very back of the bottom drawer was a small wooden box with the faint outline of a beaver’s tail etched into its lid. The hinges were mottled with rust, yet after Abigail brushed away the dust with her sleeve, the box yielded, as though it had been waiting for her hand all along. Inside, wrapped in yellowed cloth, lay a rolled fragment of parchment. She lifted it carefully, the paper crackling in her hands. When she unrolled it on the table, the groundhogs leaned in, whiskers twitching.

Inside lay another map, inked in old plant dyes. The streams, sketched in wavering blue, carried Brenston Beaver’s paw-prints at several crossings along with urgent cautions:

‘Strong current—requires double dam.’

‘Seasonal floods—watch spring thaw.’

‘Eastern crossing—unsteady ground. Not to be trusted.’

Abigail ran her finger along the eastern stream, where Brenston had written ‘unsteady ground, not to be trusted.’ Abigail murmured —“Not to be trusted.”

GENERAL BEAUREGARD: “Now, Miss Abigail, Brenston’s tellin’ us plain — the river don’t give second chances. Strong currents, spring floods, unsteady ground … the skunks best choose the crossin’s same as we choose our battles: with caution and conviction.”

ABIGAIL: “General, you are right. Brenston meant this as a warning about the land—something even the beavers themselves might not know about or may have forgotten over time.”

The room fell quiet as the weight of the discovery settled over them.

ABIGAIL: We have to get this to Quinn and Scout.

Stay Tuned For My Next Blog Post