The night dissolves in dawn.
And all at once Ferric Coyote’s thoughts are blown away. Not by his ears, but in his heart. He hears Rachel’s voice, crying horror.
Rachel, crying for her son!
While his father is away Little Benoni has come to consider himself his mother’s protector. Often the pup sneaks out of the den and out of the hole to stand on the tundra, watching.
Rachel is aware of her boy-cub’s courage. He might look like Ferric, but now he’s showing signs of a heart like Rachel’s. Happy days!—they have a bold boy in their midst.
But on this particular morning when, half asleep, she assumes that Benoni has once again skittered topside, she does not know that he has, in fact, traipsed the big stones down to the bottom of the defile.
What brings her fully awake is a wordless twittering outside the den. Some little somebody is frightened and crying as if within Rachel’s ear, Beware!
Rachel frowns, then crawls out onto the ledge.
Why, it’s a plain Brown Bird twitching up on stubby wings. The Bird darts at Rachel, then darts away.
“Good morning,” Rachel says, hoping to calm the brown Bird down.
But the Bird will not be comforted.
Instead, she flies to Rachel’s head and nips a whisker and tugs. She says aloud, “Zicküt!”
Come on, come on, and see what I see!
Then she releases the whisker and spirals in tight circles down into the rising steam, twittering anxiety.
Something’s wrong.
Come down! See what I see!
Rachel follows the Brown Bird down.
“Zicküt!”
The Bird’s voice makes a scratchy, unmusical sound, yet its meaning is clear.
In the moment when Rachel strikes bottom, she too is dismayed. The tip of Benoni’s tail is just visible in the chimney pipe, and the pup is barkin, “Benoni has his eye on you!” Her son is as taut as his papa in freeze.
“Benoni!” Rachel cries. “Come out!”
But Benoni does not come out.
Rachel drives her snout into the black tunnel, her jaws open to snatch the pup’s tail, but only succeeds in bumping him farther down.
Rachel raises howl in horror, “Benoni! Benoni!”
Suddenly pebbles fall, showering her. High above, where the pebbles have been dislodged, she hears, “Tsssssst!”
“Oh, Ferric!” she cries.
The little bird shoots up through the steam.
Ferric’s voice barks, “Yee-ouch!”
Scramblings and thumpings announce his coming. Then he is beside her, the Brown Bird riding his skull and plucking hair with a bill as sharp as a needle.
“What, what?” Ferric dithers.
“Benoni’s in the tunnel!”
Love overcomes fear. Without a thought Ferric plunges into the tunnel. “Benoni! Benoni!”
Then the tunnel is silent, as if it has swallowed both her husband and her son. Rachel holds her breath. The Brown Bird also floops into the tunnel.
Rachel gives voice to her anxiety. “Ferric!”
She hears the scratch of Coyote nails on stone.
First the Bird flies out. Then here comes Ferric dragging Benoni by the scruff of his neck, and Benoni with his eyes as wide as saucers.
Ferric zooms by Rachel and climbs the stony steps and does not stop until he drops his son on the ledge in front of the den.
At once the bony Coyote freezes. Rachel reaches them.
Benoni shakes himself. Saliva sprays his mother. The pup puts his nose to his father’s nose. “Papa,” he says, “I’m as brave as you.”
[Fourteen] In Which Outlanders Gather at the Hemlock
A Jackrabbit appeared. He sat outside the Hemlock and waited, saying nothing. In her peregrinations Pertelote noticed the shock-eared Creature. She went to him and asked if he was hungry.
“Nope,” said the Hare. “Yep,” he said.
“I’ll get some food for you.”
“Nope, nope” he said. “Warrior Weasel told String Jack to talk to Him-What’s-Lord-And-Captain-Of-All.”
Pertelote said, “Chauntecleer isn’t here right now.”
The Hare’s eyes were perpetually startled. His ears stood up like exclamation points—Bang! Bang!—declaring that ease was not a virtue.
“Said a Jack Rabbit should go to straight to the top. Said don’t fuss with other Buggars.”
Pertelote took an immediate liking to the fellow who seemed to believe that he had little to recommend himself, yet he dared the audience nonetheless. Oh, see, she smiled to herself, how courageous a coward can be.
At that moment Chauntecleer came circling down from the clouds and crowing Terce as he came.
String Jack jumped, He rocketed two hundred yards away, abruptly switched directions, and rocketed two hundred yards back again, where he stopped dead and peeped round-eyed up at the crowing Rooster.
“Him,” said Pertelote, “what’s Lord-and-Captain-of-All.”
Finishing Terce, Chauntecleer cast his one eye down upon the visitor. He flew hither and landed, smiled and puffed out his chest.
“I suppose you’ve come for food,” he said.
“Nope. Nope. Yep.” String Jack, nerved, dropped a pile of poop-pellets.
Pertelote said, “John Wesley sent the Hare to us. He warned him to speak to none but you.”
Chauntecleer nodded. It was always so.
“What, my friend,” he said, “do you eat?”
“Sir. Sir. Twigs.”
“Twigs, is it?”
The Rooster glanced around. “Pertelote, who has twigs?”
“We’ve got bark and berries and dried crustaceans. I don’t know about twigs. His name is String Jack. Call him String Jack.”
Chauntecleer thought a moment. Then he brightened and said, “Follow me, fellow. It’s twigs you eat? It’s twigs you’ll have.”
He went into the hall of the Hemlock and threw back his head and crowed. “Ratatosk Bore-Tooth! Come out of your house.”
The shaggy nest five stories high shook as if someone had stamped his foot. “Go swallow sand, for all I care!”
“Come out,” the Rooster crowed. “Rip twigs from your walls and bring them here.”
“Crack your gizzard on a bag of sand!”
“I’ll crack your skull with my beak!”
“Chitter, chitter, chitter.”
In a magisterial roar, Chauntecleer threatened the Squirrel. “I’ll fly at you and tear your whole house down.”
At the Rooster’s thunder poor String Jack bolted and repeated his previous performance, leaping out of the hall, cornering and dodging, then hobbling back. A long-tailed Grey Squirrel was descending the trunk of the Hemlock, bunches of rough twigs stuffed in his jowls.
“And what,” he spat, “is Ratotosk to eat in return?”
“Poop-pellets.”
When the Hen Pertelote returned to her business, walking out of the Hemlock hall, Chauntecleer trimmed his steps to hers.
“I expect we’ll crowd this place before long.”
“I expect you’re right, Chauntecleer.”
“And none will go hungry.”
Pertelote paused. So did the Rooster. His eye gazed proudly into the future. Her eyes regarded him.
“Oh,” Chauntecleer said, “what good days these are.”
For the moment she kept her thoughts to herself.
“And Wyrm,” he announced, “will finally be destroyed.”
This surprised her.
“Haven’t we finished with the monster?”
“Oh, my beloved, no. Feeding the world is just a beginning. Cleansing the world shall be my more glorious feat.”
“Husband?” she asked softly, for she sensed mortal pride in his mood. “No one can cleanse the world of wickedness.”
Chauntecleer beamed graciously down upon her. “Beautiful Pertelote, place your faith in me. I have
been granted an orphic knowledge. Mine it is to grant the whole world peace.”
“Lord Chauntecleer,” Pertelote said, “you look at me with your right eye only. Show me your left.”
“I can’t. It’s blind.”
She was taken aback. “Then you know.”
“Of course I know. Haven’t I always been the master of my own body?”
But Pertelote seemed to have the better memory. No. There were times when Chauntecleer had not been master of his body, let alone of his emotions.
“Chauntecleer,” she said, “How did your left eye lose its sight?”
He laughed a grand laugh. “It’s a long, long story, Pertelote, too long to tell it now. But here’s the gist of the thing. Recently I discovered wisdom in Wyrmesmere. I asked the sea to give me a portion of its treasure. The sea asked for something in return—and for the sake of the Creatures of the world I honored the request. ‘Throw the sight of one eye into my waters ‘and I will make you wise.’ And lo, blindness bought me a path that stretches from my feet all the way to glory.”
Pertelote tried to understand, but failed. His explanation had the effect of estranging him the more from her.
“Chauntecleer, do you love me?”
He boomed with laughter. “Would I devote my life to the thing that very well could take my life, if I didn’t love you?”
“My Lord, I have loved the you that has always been you. No amount of grandeur can increase my love.”
“Faith, faith, dear Pertelote!” the Rooster proclaimed. “Now then,” he said, “I have to go.”
She wanted to ask, “But when will you be back?"—except that he had so swiftly departed.
Animals came. Animals referenced a boisterous Weasel, and came.
Pertelote, the mistress of the community and the receiver of the hungry, lost herself in her duties.
The outside boughs of the Hemlock were sheathed in ice. It soared heavenward like a polished tower. When the wind blew hard, ice crystals struck the ground like tiny xylophones, and though the tree might sway, it neither cracked nor broke, and the frozen interior contained a most comofrting warmth.
There came to the woods near the Hemlock a Creature, a distant cousin of John Wesley Weasel. He was a Marten sleek and long, whose name was Selkirk. He kept himself to himself. It was only the beautiful Pertelote who knew of his presence. This was an Animal who roamed the marchlands alone. He dwelt at the outermost boundaries of every society, in uninhabitable wastelands. It must have been a violent hunger that drew him toward the oppression of too many Beasts all in one place.
What would he eat?
He didn’t answer because to speak words out loud seemed to unsap him. He shot up a spruce and lay on a top limb.
Pertelote moved in and out of the great hall, arranging smaller and smaller meals for the hungry since Chauntecleer’s larders would have to last the long winter through. Pertelote comforted the famished and offered solace to the broken. Yet a piece of the Hen continued to suffer the veil between her husband and herself. What she did, she did very well. But a sensitive soul could perceived the yearning underneath.
When the night arrived without a sign of Chauntecleer, Pertelote flew with two swipes of her wings to the limb she shared with her husband when he was home, tried to compose herself. Think, think: what should she sing to accomplish this night’s ending?
Oh, Chauntecleer!
“Lady Hen?”
Not Chauntecleer. It was a Mouse.
“You up there, Lady Hen?”
Pertelote answered, “I am here.”
“Want some buddies?”
Seven buddies, to be exact. Then, to put a good face on her restlessness, she said, “I never knew that Mouses flew.”
“Hee hee,” said one Mouse. “Hee hee,” the others joined in. “A pretty good joke for a sad Lady Hen.”
Sad? What did they know?
“My dear cadets,” she said, “why do you think I need friends right now?”
“Well"—this was Freitag—"me and my brothers, we don’t want to be botherations. But we see that the Lady Hen is not happy.”
“It’s the night,” she said. “Even our visitors are asleep. You should be asleep as well. I promise you, I can manage.”
So, seven Mice said, “Good night. Good night. Sweet dreams,” and, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
She heard little skitterings below. And soon her little comforters were sleeping too.
Pertelote admired them. She sent her voice like a silver flute abroad.
“The summer’s courtship’s long gone by,
Those evenings when my Lord and I
Were young.
He took my tears on faith and I
Would stroke his neck, and I would sigh
This song:
‘Come peel a straw, a summer’s thistle,
Blow on it and make it whistle
Dreams.’
And I? I never said he couldn’t
Build a world secure with wooden
Beams.”
[Fifteen] John’s Pure Joy
Oh, the Weasel was in his element now!
There was nowhere where the winter was not, nor anywhere where Critters did not worry about their next meals. Vast territories awaited John’s good news. And who didn’t love a Good-News-Bringer?
“Hoopla, furry buggars! Gots vittles? Well, Him-What’s-Lord-and-Captain of All—he gots the vittles!”
Often it was his personal vigor that persuaded the hungry to leave their homes and travel to the Hemlock, where ("Bet on it, Buggars") they would find a hearty welcome.
“An acorn? Bite it. Sarsaparilla? Nip it. Sagebrushes? Stuff you mush-mouths full of it.”
Oh, so many Critters, shivering in their nesty denny houses, in the hollows of trees, in burrows under stone. Some, slack-eyed, had surrendered themselves to dying. John’s pity empowered him.
Those that could go, he asked to help them that could not go.
In a grove of aspen trees he came upon a Stag lying beside his daughter. John made friends by asking their names, always saying his name first: “John Double-u of the Double-u’s, fearsome warrior is he.” Then, fearlessly asking “What’s a Double-u to call a Stag by?”
The Stag answered that his name was Black-Pale-on-a-Silver Field. The child panting against her father’s chest he named The Fawn De La Coeur.
Under other circumstances, Black-Pale would have cut a noble figure. His head was dignified with two eight-pointed antlers, his shoulders glossy and strong, his haunches able to drive him forward by long, sailing leaps.
But his eyes were stricken.
In the day when the earth had trembled the Fawn’s mother fell, breaking her right foreleg. Soon Fimbul-winter had defeated the Doe, who on the third day perished. Now De La Coeur was herself feverish, panting faster than a Rabbit. Her father had gathered the baby to himself as though he would be her last abode.
As soon as he heard their grim tale, John Wesley began to rush around the pair, nattering, barking, thrusting a paw into the air, crying, “Do and do and do!”
Black-Pale remained aground. He murmured that his prayers were for his daughter, that she should meet a swift and painless death.
What did John know of subtleties? Compassion in the Weasel looked like anger. He buffeted the Stag’s snout. He pranced down the Stag’s neck, his back and his butt.
“Papa, he loves his baby? Papa’s what loves is papa’s what saves pretty little Critters!” He smacked the Stag on his chin.
Black-Pale lifted his head, lifted the grand branches of his antlers, and bugled, “Let go. Run away! Leave us to die in peace.”
Rather than frightened, the Weasel was delighted. “See? Papa, he gots him fire! Do and do, Papa! Up and fight him what’s a fearsome warrior!”
Black-Pale heaved himself to standing on all four hooves. Razor-sharp, those hooves could cut a Weasel
in half. But John laughed. “Hoopla!” he cried and danced away. “Fight! Fight, poor bumfuzzled Papa! Fightings and foinings and hoopla! Is a Stag what’s life-ly again!”
All at once the Weasel began to sing. No subtlety this. A garbage can could make such a noise. John’s mind might have been civilized—but his voice was barbarian.
“Gots eatables and sweetables
For babies sad with troubables—”
Then it was not Black-Pale, stamping the ground, intent on bruising a Weasel. It was the Weasel himself who noticed that the Fawn had opened her eyes.
So he threw himself into a louder yell:
“Gots what’s good at roostering,
And Hens what roots and toots and things—”
John Wesley careered through the aspens, dodging the flashing black hooves. The Stag snorted in frustration—but then both battlers stopped and tipped their ears to listen. It sounded as if little bubbles were bursting back of the aspens.
And then it was a bell-like music.
The Fawn De La Coeur, she was giggling at the silly scene the adults were making.
Black-Pale ambled over to her. He lowered his magnificent head and nuzzled her neck with his moist nose.
“Oh, Papa,” De La Coeur said, twinkling, “you are so handsome.”
So, then: on and on John Wesley traveled through the territories, sporting for pure joy, going and coming with goodnesses and with fine solutions for Critters everywhere.
[Sixteen] In Which an Ancient Prophecy is Retold
Once again Chauntecleer was keeping his midnight appointments, each one of which increased the heat in his veins, for the time was at hand.
Above the wide, tarry island that rode the face of the sea, there glowed a gaseous rouge-red light, the ignis fatuus of wisdom.
Quem mittam? sang the sea in the language of the Powers. Whom shall I send?
The sea was teaching Chauntecleer how to answer: Ecce ego, mitte me.
“Here I am. Send me.”
Soon, my son, the sea sang fatherly. “Soon the sign shall be shown to you. Galle superbe, you will hear it in the mouth of the humblest of Creatures. He shall point you to the portal of the cathedrals of Wyrm, and courage shall not shrink from the deed before you.
The Second Book of the Dun Cow: Lamentations Page 7
