The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  Ridley’s heart failed him as he realized the enormity of what he had so innocently and naively and hopefully done. He might, as he had assured Rosabelle, have been able to reason with the yellow cats, and persuade them to ignore himself and Rosabelle and a few others in return for easy access to the rowdies and perhaps a special tribute, such as ale from the Tower Bank Arms or sticky buns from Miss Barwick’s bakery. But if such a firm and forceful person as Miss Potter failed in her efforts to direct the Cat Who Walks by Himself, it was appallingly evident that nothing Ridley could say would have any effect whatsoever.

  And then poor Ridley thought ahead to what now seemed to be the inevitable end of this terrible misadventure. This devil of a cat would establish himself in the attic and rapidly—in little more than a day or two, Ridley was sure—eliminate all of the rowdies and ruffians, even those who were brave enough to stand up against him. It would do them no good, of course, for no rat, no six rats or a dozen rats, not even a hundred rats together, could fight off such a monster. They were doomed, every single rat who lived in the Hill Top attic. And that included Rosabelle and her sister and all Rosabelle’s little nieces and nephews. They would be utterly defenseless against the Cat.

  Ridley closed his eyes and moaned softly, imagining Rosabelle in the clutches of that dreadful demon, her beautiful gray fur tattered and torn, her generous heart’s red blood spilled all over the floor. Rosabelle, who had welcomed him in his hour of need. Dear Rosabelle, she of the unselfish spirit and sympathetic soul, whose hospitality he had so cruelly abused.

  What could he do to save her? What could he do to redeem himself?

  But the answer, Ridley knew to his great shame, was nothing. Some, like St. George, might be so brave that they would fling themselves against a fire-breathing dragon and fight to the death. Others, like Napoleon, might be so powerful and charismatic that they could summon an entire army and annihilate the fiend. And still others, like Merlin the Magician, might be so clever that they could outwit any foe.

  But cleverness had already got him into this fix, and Ridley knew very well that he was neither courageous nor charismatic. Not to put too fine a point on it, he was nothing but a stout, slow-witted middle-aged rat who liked his comforts, a rat without a valiant bone in his body or an heroic whisker on his face. He was a duffer. He was an awful muff. He was a coward.

  Ridley bowed his head, while the ignominy of the word—the disgrace, dishonor, disrepute, and discredit of it—washed over him like a flood of filthy water.

  Coward.

  17

  The Professor Makes a Recommendation

  At the same moment that Ridley was confronting his cowardice, Bosworth Badger was surveying his surroundings with a great deal of understandable pride.

  The badger had always thought that the library was quite the nicest room in The Brockery. He loved the family portraits that hung on the walls, the comfortable leather chairs on either side of the fireplace, and the heavy oak table he used as a desk, where his pencils were laid out in a careful row, and his knife for sharpening the pencils, and his quill pens and inkpot and blotting paper, all very helpful to a badger who enjoys his work as an historian. The fire was especially cheering on damp mornings—and this Saturday morning was decidedly damp, as the badger had noticed when he put his head out the front door to sample the weather.

  Bosworth, however, had no business that required him to be out and about in the wet, and indoors and underground, the weather was as it always was: perfectly perfect. He’d had a letter recently from a badger cousin who lived in the Wild Wood to the south, asserting that underground life was the very best life to be had: “No builders, no tradesmen, no remarks passed on you by fellows looking over your wall, and, above all, no weather.” Bosworth found himself in full agreement with his cousin’s remark. A drizzly morning was exactly the right sort of morning to spend underground, toasting his toes at the crackling fire and looking through the History, as he had promised Rascal.

  Each volume of the History was indexed, so it wasn’t difficult to find the most recent mention of Fern Vale Village, recorded by his grandfather (Bosworth Badger XV) some forty years previously. The badger lit his pipe and settled down in front of the fire to read his grandfather’s entry, and to trace the story of Fern Vale Village recorded in earlier entries. He was so deeply engrossed in his reading that he scarcely heard the clang of the brass bell that hung beside The Brockery’s front door—until, that is, it was rung again, and yet again.

  He cocked his head. The bell had been rung with an unusual insistence, as if the animal who rang—a peremptory sort of creature—meant it to be answered without delay. The third peal had scarcely died away before it was followed by a fourth, even louder and more insistent.

  Bosworth got to his feet, opened the library door, and looked up and down the hall. Seeing no one, he called out loudly, “Flotsam, Jetsam! Will someone please answer the doorbell before that rude fellow rings it off the wall?”

  There was no reply to his call. Flotsam and Jetsam were the rabbit twins whose job it was to answer the doorbell, ask guests to sign the register, and settle them in their lodgings, although it seemed to Bosworth that the girls were always off doing the laundry or having a bit of a sit-down and a chat when they were wanted.

  So when the bell clanged for what must have been the fifth time, Bosworth muttered, “Oh, bother, I’ll answer it myself,” and stumped off down the hallway. He flung open the door and was about to demand, “What’s all the hurry, then?” when he saw that the peremptory person who was ringing the bell was a dear friend of his. He was clearly very wet and was scowling even more sternly than usual.

  And then Bosworth remembered who had promised to drop in that morning, and felt guilty for having forgotten all about it.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said in a careless sort of way, as if he hadn’t forgotten after all. “Do come in and dry off, old chap. It’s very drizzly outside.”

  “Drizzly indeed,” said his caller, “especially at tree-top level, where the clouds all seem tooo be huddled tooogether. My apartment was quite damp this morning. And I have been standing here, ringing and ringing, and getting damper by the moment.”

  Bosworth might have pointed out that if his guest lived underground, clouds at tree-top level would not trouble him, and he could visit many of his friends without getting out into the weather. But the Badgers’ Sixth Rule of Thumb forbade him from criticizing other animals’ living arrangements, however unreasonable they might be, so he held his tongue.

  His caller stepped through the door and onto Bosworth’s cocoa-fiber mat, where he raised his wings and flapped them, shaking raindrops in all directions and drenching Bosworth quite thoroughly. “I should certainly be glad of a cup of tea. Hot, if yooou please, Badger. And one of Parsley’s scones would gooo down nicely.”

  “A cup of tea you shall have, old chap,” Bosworth returned cordially, taking out his handkerchief and mopping his face. He clapped his paws and roared, “Flotsam! Jetsam! Tea and scones in the library, please, chop-chop!”

  It was always an honor when the Professor dropped in for a visit—for it was indeed he who was dripping onto the badger’s welcome mat: Professor Galileo Newton Owl, D.Phil., the oldest, largest, and most important tawny owl in the Land between the Lakes. The Professor had gained wide recognition for his studies in celestial mechanics and astronomical navigation, and could be found from midnight to dawn in the celestial observatory at the top of his beech-tree home in Cuckoo Brow Wood. But his meticulous scholarship in applied natural history was also well regarded. He carried out these investigations on the wing, as it were, from dusk to midnight, and often insisted that two or three of his tastier research subjects come home with him for dinner, for he was also something of a gourmet.

  Between his evening researches and his intimate relations with the District’s smaller residents, the Professor usually knew everything that was going on in the Land between the Lakes, and naturally felt a certain a
mount of responsibility for it. He had, however, been away for several days, attending an academic conference, and had come to catch up on the news. So when the owl was settled in front of the fire with a woolen shawl over his damp feathers and a hot cup of tea and plate of Parsley’s raisin scones beside him, the badger gave him a full report, including what he had heard about the rats at Hill Top Farm and Jeremy Crosfield’s pending apprenticeship. He concluded by mentioning the children’s intention to look for the fairy village that afternoon.

  The Professor shook his head. “I gooo away for a few days, and when I return, what dooo I find? The village about tooo be overrun by unruly rats, and a promising lad forced tooo leave off his studies. I am most troubled by Jeremy’s situation, Bosworth. I admire the boy. I wish I could help him, but I confess I cannot think how.”

  Bosworth could see the gloom, like a dark cloud, settle over his friend. The Professor liked to think that everything that happened in the Land between the Lakes was his own personal affair, and hated nothing worse than feeling he could not control it.

  The owl sighed again. Bosworth, who felt his friend’s sense of impotence as he might feel his own, tried to think whether there was anything at all that the Professor might be able to do, any task he might be encouraged to undertake which would restore his dignity and self-esteem.

  “I expect you could help with the rat problem at Hill Top,” he ventured at last. “I believe you have a taste for rats, do you not?”

  “I certainly enjoy an individual rat or twooo, properly prepared and served,” admitted the Professor. “In fact, I have a recipe for fricasseed rat that is quite delicious. But I dooo not fancy rats by the dozen, as if they were oysters.” He shuddered. “I recommend that Miss Potter obtain the services of a cat. I shall inquire amongst a few of my friends.” He took a notebook and pencil out of his pocket and jotted down a few words, brightening at the thought of being able to do something helpful. But he lapsed into gloom again, muttering, “It’s toooo bad that there’s nothing tooo be done for the boy.”

  A long silence followed, during which Bosworth puffed on his pipe and the owl stared into the fire. Finally, Bosworth suggested, in a tentative sort of way, “We might at least give the children a hand with their fairy project.”

  “Fairies!” the owl hooted scornfully. “The children are no doubt picturing those dainty, wispy-winged creatures whooo are all the rage on the stage and in children’s books. It’s quite clear that the creators of those silly fictional creatures have never met a real fairy.” He gave a disgusted shake of his wings. “There’s nothing dainty about our local Oak Folk. They are elves, although this particular branch of the family got itself mixed up with dwarfs a century or so back, no one is certain quite how, since the Fern Vale family tree is extraordinarily complicated, so that they are more properly called dwelves. A dwelf is smaller than a dwarf but larger than an elf, and his features are somewhat dwarfish. He has a tip-tilted nose, green eyes, six fingers on each hand, and a gingery beard (elves, of course, don’t have beards). However, like many of our native British elves, they are shape-shifters and can take whatever appearance they like. They are good-natured, but impish, rather like the hobthrushes. And they—”

  “Indeed,” said Bosworth, since the Professor appeared to have launched into his lecturing mode. If unchecked, he was likely to go on for the remainder of the morning, pausing only now and then for breath. “I was just reading what my grandfather and others wrote about their antics. Pranksters, these Oak Folk are. Stealing sheep and changing babies. And there’s that business about the Raven Hall Luck, which the Big Folk have got completely upside down,”

  The real story of the Luck, according to Bosworth’s grandfather, was very different from the popular version that was told with such enthusiasm around the village. The truth of the matter was that the Fern Vale dwelves out-and-out lied when they said that the goblet would bring good luck to the Kittredges. They had been outraged when old Mr. Kittredge built his Raven Hall on one of their magical sites. The goblet they gave to the dairymaid on the eve of the eldest son’s wedding had conferred not a blessing, but a curse.

  “A curse,” Bosworth repeated emphatically. “The Oak Folk cursed the Kittredges, and the family remains cursed to this very day.”

  “Exactly,” said the Professor. “I’m not at all sure, then, that the children should be encouraged tooo look for the Oak Folk. However—” He broke off with a thoughtful expression.

  “Yes?” inquired the badger after a few moments.

  The Professor pondered. “On the other hand,” he said after a time, then lapsed again into silence, broken once or twice by a yawn.

  “If you have an idea,” Bosworth said, beginning to be irritated, “I do wish you would tell me what it is, Owl. I have not yet met the girl Deirdre, but Jeremy and Caroline are both worthy youngsters. If they would like to meet the Oak Folk—fairies, elves, dwelves, whatever they may be—I should like to help them.”

  “Yes. Well, it would certainly be a pity for them tooo walk tooo the top of Cuckoo Brow Wooood and have nothing tooo show for their effort.” Yawning so widely that he nearly dislocated his beak, the owl helped himself to a second cup of tea and another of Parsley’s raisin scones.

  Bosworth pulled on his pipe and blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling. “Then, Professor, what would you suggest?”

  The owl closed his eyes. “Give me a moment tooo reflect,” he murmured, “and I shall make a recommendation.”

  And for the next little bit, Bosworth smoked his pipe as the Professor reflected, until at last a wheezy snore revealed that the owl had fallen asleep, tea and scone untouched. Bosworth sighed, knowing that nothing would be gained by waking the fellow, who spent his nights out and about and needed a good nap during the daytime.

  So the badger poked up the fire, poured himself another cup of tea, and went back to the History to read the curious story of the Fern Vale dwelves, a story (he suspected) that was mostly unknown to the Big Folk. Of course, that sort of thing wasn’t at all unusual, for although the human residents of the Land between the Lakes thought they knew everything about their surroundings, and although scholarly books related the history, inventoried the animals and plants, and catalogued the folktales, people were aware of only a fraction of what went on around them. One was not criticizing when one said this; one was simply stating the fact. Humans, by and large, were ignorant of the mysteries of life and land.

  At last, the Professor woke up from his nap, rubbed his eyes, and ruffled his feathers. “Well, then,” he said, with his customary authority. “Where were we?”

  “You were about to make a recommendation,” Bosworth replied. “Regarding the children’s expedition.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the Professor. “So I was.”

  And so he did.

  18

  The Village Goes to a Party

  Saturday morning had been gray and gloomy, and the rest of the day continued in the same fashion. A gray blanket of mist hung over the meadows and forest, tattered veils of fog hugged the streams and low places, and even the spring blossoms—the marsh marigolds and wood violets and pasque flowers—had folded their petals and retired for the afternoon. But the lamps burned cheerfully in the houses and cottages and there was a great deal of unaccustomed bustle as people got ready to go to the Raven Hall reception, where they might finally lay eyes upon the mysterious Mrs. Kittredge.

  At Belle Green, Mathilda Crook had second thoughts about her yellow frock when her husband George told her that she looked “just like a ray o’ glisky sunshine.” Feeling that the dress might be too bright on such a gloomy day, she took off the yellow and put on the navy. Then, when that seemed much too dark, she added a red silk scarf, red belt, and red hat, and went to make sure that George was getting his tie on straight. But George, who usually detested parties, had managed not only his tie but also his fingernails, and had already hitched up the farm cart and was waiting for her at the front gate.

  �
�Navy’s just t’ thing,” he said gruffly, as his wife got in, raising her umbrella against the mizzle. “Tha dust look nice, Tilda.”

  “Thanks,” Mathilda said, very pleased. “Wonder what she’ll be wearin’.”

  “Who?” George said, clucking to the pony.

  “Why, t’ witch, o’ course,” Mathilda said, and settled her skirts. “Doan’t ferget we’re to fetch Mrs. Lythecoe and Miss Barwick.”

  At Rose Cottage, Grace Lythecoe fed her canary, Caruso, put a saucer of milk on the back step in case Tabitha Twitchit happened by, and stirred the pot of soup—beans and a ham bone—on the back of the kitchen range. Then she went upstairs to dress in her very best Sunday suit, a pretty pale yellow with a handsome elbow-length cape, and pinned a yellow silk rose to her lapel. Back downstairs, she put on a gabardine duster, took her umbrella, then went out on the front step to look up Market Street in the direction of Belle Green.

  Ah, yes, they were coming, the Crooks in their farm cart, looking very fine. And there was Sarah Barwick, locking the door of Anvil Cottage behind her and crossing the street.

  Mrs. Lythecoe smiled. She had grown so accustomed to seeing Sarah Barwick in trousers that it was almost a shock to see her in a skirt. It was lovely, she thought, that the villagers were putting on their very best finery to welcome Mrs. Kittredge into their midst. After all the major had been through in the war and after, he certainly needed their support and friendship. One hoped that the worst was behind him now, and that he and Mrs. Kittredge could settle down and have a family and be a part of the community.

  Mrs. Lythecoe put up her umbrella and called to Sarah to join her under its shelter. It was beginning to rain.

  Up Market Street, at Croft End, Hannah Braithwaite was admonishing her eldest daughter to watch the baby carefully, mind that the children stayed well away from the lamps, and keep little Jack from going into the garden and getting his feet wet.