Six Geese A-Slaying

by Donna Andrews

  Werzel shook his head and walked away, scribbling in his notebook. I could tell he didn’t quite believe me. Clearly he’d been in the big city too long. And he wasn’t just avoiding the Salvation Army kettle—he was giving it an ostentatiously wide berth.

  A pity we already had someone playing Ebeneezer Scrooge on the Dickens float.

  Floats. I checked my watch, and realized that the time had flown faster than I realized. I only had thirty minutes until parade time.

  I fought back a moment of panic. I’d spent hours rearranging the cards that represented the various floats, bands, and other participants into the optimal order and then negotiating with everyone to keep as much of that structure intact as possible. But with half an hour to go, I suddenly realized that however useful all that planning had been—if for no other reason than to keep my own sanity intact—it was time to let go of my vision of the perfect parade and let the real thing happen. As long as the Twelve Days of Christmas appeared in the proper order at the beginning of the parade and Santa brought up the rear, no one else would know or care if the rest of the participants weren’t all neatly arranged in the agreed-upon order.

  I headed for what I’d come to think of as the starting line. My nephew, Eric, intercepted me before I’d gone more than a dozen steps.

  “There you are,” I said, reaching out to take the clipboard he was carrying.

  “Aunt Meg,” Eric said. “Can you do something about Cousin?”

  I was about to say “Cousin who?” and was already looking around for a familiar Hollingsworth face when I remembered that Cousin was the name of the donkey Rose Noire had recently adopted. We’d originally named him after a particular cousin whose obstinate personality resembled a donkey’s, but Mother had protested strenuously, and we’d compromised by just calling him Cousin.

  I turned to see that Rob was trying to coax Cousin up the ramp onto the truck for the live nativity scene. Mary, Joseph, and assorted shepherds were standing around looking impatient, waiting for their turn to mount the ramp. What in the world . . . ?

  I strolled over.

  “Why don’t you give it up?” I said to Rob. “Clearly Cousin isn’t interested in being on the float, and I can’t imagine anyone really wants to ride all the way to Caerphilly with an unhappy donkey.”

  “But we have to have a donkey!” Rob said, continuing to tug at Cousin’s lead. “Like all the carols say. ‘The friendly beasts around him stood’ and ‘the ox and ass kept time’ and all that.”

  The elderly ox was already lying down and chewing his cud in a faux rustic pen atop the float, along with two of Seth Early’s spare sheep.

  “Don’t you think you could just let him follow on behind the float?” I asked. “A century ago, Cousin would have had to pull the float, so I’m sure he’d be perfectly happy to walk behind.”

  “It’s just not the same,” Rob said.

  Just then, Cousin suddenly took a couple of quick steps up the ramp. The abrupt slacking of the rope took Rob by surprise, and he fell backward. Cousin took advantage of Rob’s fall to back down almost to the bottom of the ramp. By the time Rob had scrambled up and grabbed the rope again, Cousin once more had all four feet firmly braced, and two of them were back on solid ground.

  “They’ve been at it for half an hour,” said a shepherd who was cradling a live chicken in her arms.

  Half an hour.

  “Rob,” I said. “We don’t have time to fool around with Cousin. He can walk behind the float.”

  “But—”

  “Rob, move your . . . donkey!” I snapped.

  Rob blinked, then slackened the reins and allowed Cousin to back the rest of the way off the ramp. The shepherds and the Holy Family began rapidly filing up.

  “Sheesh. You sounded just like Mother for a minute,” Rob said. “I just wanted him on the float because I knew there’s no way he’d walk all the way to town. What if he stops halfway there?”

  He did have a point. Cousin was notoriously lazy—that and his foul disposition had gotten him expelled from the herd of donkeys the zoo kept for giving rides to children. He’d have been on his way to a glue factory if Rose Noire hadn’t felt sorry for him.

  Inspiration struck.

  “Make sure there’s someone around to lead him home, then,” I said. “He’s certainly not going on the float.”

  I frowned at Cousin, who laid back his ears. Since the rest of the live nativity scene had now taken their places, the ramp was unobstructed. I went to stand in front of it, and crossed my arms.

  “In fact, forget it,” I said. “Cousin stays behind. Take him back to his stall.”

  I pointed dramatically to Cousin and then toward the barn.

  Cousin, his ears still laid back, walked up to me and butted me with his head. I pretended to lose my balance and stepped aside. Cousin trotted up the ramp and into the pen, where he shoved the sheep aside to attack the hay supply.

  “Meg, you’re a genius!” Rob said.

  “Remind me later to see if Clarence does obedience training for donkeys,” I said. “And in the meantime, go find the rest of the leaping lords and bring them to the starting line. And—oh, dear.”

  The Virgin Mary had just winced and clutched her enormous belly.

  Rob followed my eyes and turned pale.

  “Should I get Dad?” he said.

  “No!” I said. “Dad’s Santa, remember? Besides, it’s her first. It could take hours.”

  “But shouldn’t she have a doctor? And head for the hospital?”

  “She will be heading for the hospital as soon as we get the parade on the road. And Dad’s not the only doctor in town. Aunt Penelope’s over at the first aid tent, already on alert. She can throw on a shepherd’s cloak and ride on the float, and Mary will have an actual obstetrician if she needs one.”

  I pulled out my cell phone, dispatched Aunt Penelope to the Nativity float, and went looking for Dad, to make sure he was in his Santa costume and not getting ready to preside over a delivery.

  I finally spotted him running by with his Santa pants and boots on and the red jacket still thrown over his arm.

  “Dad! Where are you going!” I shouted. “And why aren’t you in costume yet?”

  “Meg, you’ve got to come see Caroline and her Uzis!” Dad called over his shoulder as he ran past me on his way . . . somewhere.

  Uzis?

  I ran after him.

  Chapter 13

  “What do you mean, Uzis?” I asked when I caught up with him. “We don’t want any weapons in the parade on top of . . . everything else. Peace on earth and good will to all men, remember?”

  “Not Uzis,” he said. “O-O-Z-I-ES. It’s what you call elephant handlers.”

  “Silly me,” I said. “I thought you called them mahouts,”

  “In India, yes,” Dad said. “But these handlers are Burmese. Mahouts would have been better—the Burmese don’t really celebrate Diwali. But I don’t think anyone will notice. Aren’t the costumes fabulous?”

  We had reached the sheep pasture—now also functioning as an elephant pasture. Yes, the costumes were fabulous—both the oozies’ costumes and the elaborate trappings decking the elephants were a riot of bright, contrasting colors and winking jewels. Undoubtedly fake jewels, but still, I hoped Mother didn’t catch sight of the elephants and their riders until after the parade, or she’d try to desert Dickens for Diwali.

  The fence was solid with tourists snapping photos continuously, like paparazzi on Oscar night, bathing the elephants with the flicker of flashes like heat lightning. Fortunately the elephants seemed oblivious to the tourists. The larger elephant was eating hay, delicately lifting small wisps with his trunk and tucking them neatly into his mouth. The other elephant was having his foot examined by two of the three oozies and an enormous white goose that I assumed was Clarence in one of the substitute costumes. Evidently the geese had won their battle to march into town.

  “Caroline!” Dad called out.

  The sm
aller of the two oozies turned, waved to us, and began slowly walking over. I recognized the woman in the jeweled turban who had brought the elephants.

  “Meg, this is Caroline Willner,” Dad said. “From the Willner Wildlife Sanctuary. Isn’t it wonderful that she could bring both of her elephants?”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  I muttered something, but I was almost inarticulate with surprise. From the tales Dad, Clarence, and Dr. Blake had told of Caroline Willner’s exploits, I was expecting a strapping Amazon in the prime of life. Caroline was under five feet, plump, and probably in her eighties. She looked like someone’s grandmother dressed up to go to a costume party.

  “Of course,” she went on, “Monty will never forgive me for upstaging his camels. He’ll throw a fit when he sees us.”

  Monty? She meant my grandfather. I didn’t recall hearing anyone call him Monty before. And she didn’t look the least bit anxious about the impending fit. When Montgomery Blake lost his temper—usually over some environmental or animal welfare issue, but sometimes over people stealing the spotlight from him—most people tried to be in another time zone.

  I decided I liked Caroline.

  “We should talk later,” I said. “Meanwhile—Dad, you need to get your costume on. I’m starting the parade in about five minutes. And tell Clarence to stop playing with the elephants and change into some other costume. We can’t have a goose driving Santa into town.”

  “Relax.” I turned and saw Clarence’s towering form, now incongruously clad in a bright green Christmas elf costume, complete with green tights and a sporty feathered cap. Evidently it was another larger-than-average SPOOR member ministering to the elephant.

  “Don’t let Dad get lost,” I said. “I know since you guys are bringing up the rear, he’ll have plenty of time to get distracted and wander off somewhere—”

  “I’ll stick to his side and make sure he’s ready to roll by the time you’re down to the last few floats,” Clarence said. “Don’t worry.”

  Reassured, I headed back for the starting line. On the way, I glanced over my shoulder. Dad and Caroline were standing by the larger of the two elephants, patting his trunk and talking away. Dad had apparently put down his red, fur-trimmed hat and coat in his enthusiasm to greet the elephants, and Clarence had picked them up and was hovering nearby like an enormous elfin valet.

  As I passed by the shepherds, I stopped to say a quick word to Rose Noire.

  “Okay, keep your eye on the Nativity float,” I said. “When that takes off—”

  “ ’Rise up, shepherds, and follow!” Rose Noire sang, in her light but beautiful soprano voice.

  “Right,” I said. “And while you’re marching behind the float—”

  “ ’Leave your sheep and leave your lambs,” she sang. “Only we won’t be doing that, of course,” she added, in a normal tone.

  No, more likely the sheep and lambs would be leaving them, given how badly Seth Early’s sheep seemed to be afflicted with wanderlust. A month or so ago we’d found one wedged into the tiny bathroom off our kitchen, drinking from the toilet like a cat. But keeping track of the sheep was Seth’s problem, not mine.

  “I’m afraid Mary may be starting to have labor pains,” I said, getting back to the point.

  “Mary?” I could tell by her expression that she was searching our family tree for a pregnant cousin.

  “What’s-her-name—the girl who’s playing Mary on the float.”

  “Oh, my goodness.”

  “So if we have to haul her off the float and away to the hospital in the middle of the parade, can you step in as Mary?”

  “Of course!” she exclaimed, and immediately threw herself into the role. She closed her eyes, crossed her hands over her heart, raised her chin, and assumed an expression of seraphic bliss.

  “Great,” I said. “When Rembrandt shows up, I’ll tell him you’re ready for your closeup. Meanwhile, keep your eye on Mary and Aunt Penelope. And make sure Seth has enough shepherds to fill in for you if needed.”

  “Right,” she said. “And I’ll concentrate on beaming her good thoughts for a short labor.”

  She planted her shepherd’s crook in the ground and began staring at Mary with the intensity of a Broadway understudy who has heard the show’s star sneeze.

  A few snowflakes floated down in front of me as I returned to the starting line.

  “You’re gorgeous,” I muttered to the snowflakes. “But would you please stay up there in the clouds until I get this show on the road?”

  As if in answer, they drifted down a little heavier. I shivered slightly, then pushed the cold aside and ceremonially uncovered the partridge.

  Mother and the ladies of the Caerphilly Garden Club had done the First Day of Christmas float, building an elaborate and horticulturally improbable pear tree, festooned with both fruits and blossoms along with enough tassels, ribbon, feathers, garlands, and other gewgaws to keep a decorator’s shop supplied for a year. It was done in tones of gold and yellow, with a few accent notes of green. Even the car pulling the float was color-coordinated, a butter-yellow Mercedes convertible with an evergreen-and-pear wreath on the front grill.

  The partridge—a real partridge, chosen for his phlegmatic temperament from among the partridge flock at the Caerphilly Zoo after Dr. Blake had inspected the cage and pronounced it suitable—was resting under a yellow silk cage cover until his moment in the limelight began. I whisked the cover off, and the partridge blinked and looked around curiously. He looked a little incongruous in his glittering environment—had anyone bothered to warn the ladies of the Garden Club that partridges’ feathers were mainly in earth tones? At least they’d had the sense not to suggest dyeing him to match his surroundings.

  One of the junior zookeepers, dressed in a jeweled pear costume, was climbing onto the float.

  “You’ve got the stuffed partridge, in case he gets stressed?” I asked.

  The zookeeper nodded.

  “Okay, let’s get this show on the road,” I said. “Wagons, ho!”

  The president of the Garden Club began waving at the surrounding crowd while her husband started the convertible and eased the float into motion.

  The audience lining the beginning of the parade route set up a hearty cheer.

  I directed a small marching band from the middle school into place behind the float, and they launched into the first of who knows how many repetitions of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

  “Turtledoves!” I shouted.

  The turtledoves followed—Miss Caerphilly County and her boyfriend, in feathered cloaks, sitting before a large heart made of chicken wire and pink Kleenex. Probably destined to become a large, damp papier mâché heart if the snow didn’t hold off, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that. I did scribble a quick line in my notebook suggesting that next year’s Mistress or Master of the Revels insist on water- and snow-proof floats.

  The three French hens rolled by, on their float from the French Cultural Alliance, followed by a fiddler playing “Un Flambeau, Jeannette Isabelle.” Four local auctioneers in blackbird costumes made rather odd calling birds, but the five gold rings were a crowd-pleaser: five local Olympic hopefuls, marching behind a set of interlocking Olympic rings made of hula hoops adorned with Christmas lights. Six Olympians, if you counted the horse one of the humans hoped to ride in the dressage event.

  I was admiring the horse, who pranced and tossed his head as if he thought the whole parade had been arranged just to showcase him, when a whining voice piped up at my elbow.

  “Are you people ever going to find my camera?”

  Ainsley Werzel. Evidently the impending snow had inspired him to don a quilted down jacket, though I could still see the tail of the brown shepherd’s robe hanging down below the jacket’s hem. And he was shivering in spite of the jacket, and hunched against the cold. If I’d seen anyone else looking that miserable, I’d have felt sorry for them. In fact, to my surprise, I did feel sorry for him.
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  I finished shooing the Madrigal Society into place behind the Olympians and took a deep breath before answering.

  “No,” I said. “We haven’t yet found your camera. I’m terribly sorry, but—”

  “How can I cover this stupid, miserable parade without my camera?”

  Stupid? Miserable? I might be biased, but I thought our parade was pretty damned wonderful. I bit back several satisfyingly withering replies. He was a guest, and what’s more, a guest who had the power to make us look like idiots in the Star-Tribune. I looked around and spotted my nephew.

  “Eric!” I called. “Can you do me a favor?”

  He obediently trotted to my side.

  “Can you go up to my office and find my digital camera? Mr. Werzel is going to borrow it—”

  “I don’t want your—” Werzel began.

  “Just until we can find his camera,” I continued, glowering at Werzel as I spoke, and enunciating every word with icy precision. “We understand that he needs the photos in his own camera, but at the moment we’re a little too busy to look for it. I’m sure Mr. Werzel understands that we will do everything we can to find his camera . . . after the parade.”

  “Wow,” Eric said. “You’re getting really good at that Grandma voice.”

  He trotted off toward the house. I winced. Had I sounded that much like Mother?

  I’d worry about that later.

  “Of course, if you’re not interested in taking photos of the rest of the parade . . .” I added, turning to Werzel.

  “No, no,” he said, backing away. “That’s great. I could use your camera, sure. Just as long as everyone knows I really need my camera, too.”

  He backed away for about ten feet, then turned and fled in Eric’s wake.

  “Six geese a-laying,” I called. “You’re up!”

  The six chosen geese stepped out in formation. I thought they looked more festive as white geese than they had as Canada geese, especially since they’d all hung garlands of holly and red ribbon around their necks.