The auction was held in a barn with wooden pens. There were signs: NO LOOSE FOWL. A flashy rooster was out, though, strutting and crowing. As Al left the parking lot he could hear a chorus of moos, bleats, baas, and squeals. The penned cattle stood patiently; the pigs churned about, sniffing worriedly and nuzzling one another for comfort, grunting and squealing. There was the smell of ordure and stale hay.
The auctioneer chanted high and fast, nothing Al could make out at first. Once the auctioneer got some bidding going he slowed down. A herd of milk goats said to be good for cheese went first, then a long parade of goats. None said “Take me!” to Al. It was five o’clock when they shoved the last one into the ring, a stocky little Alpine. “Do I hear five, five, five, five?” the auctioneer bawled. He didn’t hear anything. “Gimme four, four, four, four.” Al began to feel bad for that goat; it was like the child left standing alone after the teams are chosen. His hand went up. Someone hauled in the squalling rooster with his feet tied together. He was a dollar. Al said he’d buy him too. His bill came to $5.30 with tax. It was trading money for life.
The auction people offered to tie up the goat’s feet so Al could carry it like a suitcase. He said no; he’d manage. He sat it on the front seat and untied the rooster. “You guys sit still,” he said. They did. He drove them to the barn.
He tethered the goat to a stanchion so it wouldn’t make the horses nervous. He let the rooster go. When Bernie and the kids arrived the next morning, they found a tied-up goat and a strange chicken. The new rooster was talking things over with Blackie and Coraggio in the rabbit hutch. The goat was stocky and shy, with a steady, unblinking gaze. Its coat was silvery tan with black splashes. It had curving horns, a black beard, mincing feet. The rooster yelled hello and climbed out of the hutch to greet his people like an emperor, stiff and tall with feathered legs and a towering comb of dark coral. He swelled up and let go like a calliope with a five-beat song that was all his own.
“You never know who’s going to show up around here,” Bernie said to the kids. Since the goat had a beard and horns and something down below, they figured it was a male. It butted like the goat in “The Three Billy Goats Gruff,” so they named it William. Ben was for naming the rooster Bronze for his color, but Abby’s hearing was fuzzy that morning; she heard him say “Brahms.” Given the rooster’s talent for music, that became his name. His morning duets with Coraggio got all the neighbors up an hour before sunrise.
Folks in the barn learned to watch and sashay when Willy was around to avoid getting butted. Except for strangers who didn’t belong, he didn’t hit hard. The problem was the surprise of getting run into. It tickled him to put people off balance.
THE GOAT STARED unblinking through the reading session. The Lady had more or less told him the story of Dick Whittington up to where the cat was. Willy didn’t care about reading, but an adventure story he’d stand around for. If you don’t read, you don’t get many adventure stories.
The cat jumped back up to his storytelling place. “Where we left off Dick had just returned to London alone but with the excellent goods he’d bought for Fitzwarren, and his fortune.
“Five years went by. Dick took over a greater share of the day-to-day countinghouse business, scouring the docks, seeing to shipments abroad, packing and unpacking, arranging for credit, settling bills. Fitzwarren spent more time in his garden.
“Dick was sixteen. He was tall and strong with a curious scar across his right cheek. He made a fine figure on the docks, jumping into the lighters and wherries and swinging aboard newly arrived vessels. He had purse money of his own. Although he was enrolled with the Mercers Company as Fitzwarren’s apprentice, he was more partner than apprentice. He was becoming a gentleman of name and fortune.
“One day a messenger from Sir Louis appeared at Fitzwarren’s shop. He carried a letter summoning Dick to the old man’s house at the change of bells that evening.
“Dick went. There were candles on the long waxed table, glasses, a decanter of sherry, and a hard cake that was unlike any Dick had ever tasted. Again he glimpsed the girl he remembered seeing there before, taller now, more woman than girl. He wanted to meet her. Sir Louis gave no opportunity. She did not reappear.
“‘It is time you bought a share in Fitzwarren’s business,’ the old man was saying in his high voice. ‘Here is a note with my name and seal. You may draw against me for what money you need. Buy a quarter or three-quarters, but nothing less and nothing more. By no means ever go halves with any man or you will lose both your friend and your money’
“Dick bought a quarter share in Fitzwarren’s business. Fitzwarren wouldn’t allow him the larger share he wanted because, he said, he was an old man and when he died the firm would be Dick’s anyway. The sum he accepted, he explained, would make his last years easy and provide for the cook, whose knees were bad and getting worse.
“Their trading house came to be known as Fitzwarren and Whittington. Their sign was a dark-striped cat carrying a limp rat.
“Fitzwarren’s motto was ‘Give value,’ and he did. If a customer ordered a pound, he got seventeen ounces; if she ordered a yard, she got three and one-third feet. Any mistake he took to his own account. Dick kept to those rules. Although their prices were not the lowest, the business throve.
“It was now five years since Dick had sold his cat to the king in Tripoli. She would be seven if she was still alive. He thought about her living in the strange, dark palace with the birds. Sometimes he dreamed she was in his room. More than once he awakened, sure she had just jumped on his bed.
“Then one hot afternoon on the wharf Dick spied the captain of the Unicorn. Hobbling behind him was the cat. One of her rear legs was bent and shriveled.
“Dick picked her up as if they hadn’t been apart for a minute. His eyes moistened. At first he couldn’t make his voice work. She began to purr.
“‘What happened?’ he finally spluttered.
“The cat straightened herself in his arms.
“‘The Great Rat took me on.’
“‘He attacked you?’
“‘I attacked him. I’d tracked him for a long time.
He was bigger than me. We met in his escape tunnel. It was dark and tight. He bit for my spine, the way rats do. I swerved. He got my leg instead and severed the tendon. I turned and tore open his neck. He bled to death. I lost some teeth.’
“Dick had noticed that the cat’s mouth was wrinkled, as if she were all the time smiling a puckered smile.
“‘I was dragging myself out of his tunnel when his sons got me. They skinned me; my coat was hanging in strips. I kept to my fight discipline, go for the back of the neck, scratch for the eyes. I didn’t have bite enough to finish them off. My claws worked, though, so now in Tripoli, instead of three blind mice they have three blind rats. When it was over I was almost dead.
“‘A piece of luck saved me. I knew the Great Rat’s escape tunnel must have a detour down into one of the palace wells. I found it. It was stinking water, full of salts. The mud around it was even fouler than the water. I tried to drink. I gagged. In my agony I rolled in the mud. It burned all the places where they’d ripped me. Then the hurt went numb. I got caked in mud. I lay there for days. When I was strong enough, I crawled up to the throne room.
“‘Himself didn’t recognize me. When he did, he called for his doctors and a basin and cloth. He bathed me with his own hands in the cool, sweet water they save for their drinking. I lapped up what was dripping from the cloth. He ordered his own goblet for me to drink from, a thing carved out of rose agate with a handle of gold. It was for his lips only.
“‘His doctors couldn’t do much,’ the cat continued. ‘Himself agreed that since I was now useless as a ratter, I might as well go home. I left the palace in care of my children and grandchildren. Himself has plenty of my line to carry on.
“‘Anyway, I hear you’re for Persia.’
“‘Oh?’ said Dick.
“‘I heard it from the green coat,�
�� said the cat.
“‘Sir Louis? You’ve seen him?’
“‘He met us at Land’s End. The Unicorn is his vessel.’
“‘I see,’ said Dick. A chill went over him.
He asked the cat, ‘If I’m going to Persia, will you go too?’
“She nodded and purred and stretched out a front paw with her toes spread, the way cats do when they’re pleased.”
IT WAS A CRISP, clear April afternoon. Suddenly there was a shadow and the Lady screamed. A moment later the crows swarmed, yelling murder.
The Lady had been bathing in her place in the road. No one was around. The red-tailed hawk hadn’t been seen all spring, so no one was watching for him, not even Gregory, the local watch crow who had chased the Lady and the cat from the crows’ corn party the fall before. Bernie’s barn, the pond, and the paddock were his territory. This afternoon he was dozing. The hawk saw his opportunity and dove.
The Lady saw the hawk’s shadow an instant before he struck. She made a tremendous leap. He missed her neck. His talons pulled out a clutch of tail feathers. As he rose for another strike, she rushed into the barn. Gregory picked up right away what had happened and started screaming. Crows have an ancient enmity for hawks.
The hawk shifted course when the crow took after him. Crows are fearless. A hawk could kill one crow, but suddenly all the crows in the neighborhood were in pursuit. A gang of crows is like a gang of angry women in a street market after a pickpocket—five of them could do in anyone. The crows put the hawk on the run. With his larger wingspan the hawk climbed faster than the crows could, wheeling higher and higher until he disappeared.
Whittington had been off visiting the tabby in heat down the road. The Lady was cowering in the barn when he returned. The horses told him about the hawk, the crows, the Lady’s escape.
Even though it was their favorite thing, the horses had saved some of the molasses grain for her and offered to watch for the hawk if the Lady would come out.
Whittington found her shivering in her nest. She wasn’t cold.
“It’s okay now,” the cat said. “We’ll stand guard.”
“I saw his shadow,” she said. “He almost got me. I felt the wind of his swoop. It was like when he took my brother when we were ducklings. …”
She wanted to come out. She was hungry and lonely. The cat would guard her. She heaved into the paddock, more awkward than usual. Her balance was off. The best part of her bustle lay scattered around her bathing place. It would be months growing back.
The horses and the goats stood by her while the cat watched the sky. The rats crept out to watch the Lady. They were interested in what she’d leave behind.
She ate what the horses had saved for her. Then she went to their bucket and drank in the odd way ducks drink, drawing in a mouthful, then tilting her head up and back to let the water run down her gullet.
Everyone waited for her to say something.
“Oh, my friends …,” she began.
Spooker, Aramis, the cat, the goat, the roosters, the bantams, the rats, everyone but Blackie, settled back and waited. She stalled. The Lady was like the boy on commencement day who was supposed to give the class address but couldn’t get his wind up. He could only whisper, “Honored guests … Honored guests …”
That was the awkwardness in the paddock. After her third “Oh, my friends,” the Old One yelled, “You including us?”
Startled out of her stage fright, the Lady bellowed, “Yes!” and said her thank-you:
“Oh, my friends, I always wanted a family. You are my family. I rule with your loves. Just as I protect you, so you protect me. I am grateful.”
There was a round of cheers. Gregory the watch crow, who thought he’d had a hand in the saving, was disappointed at not being mentioned.
BEN’S APPOINTMENT to observe Reading Recovery was a week before Easter. Folks in town had hung out plastic eggs. He was to meet with a reading coach named Miss O’Brian.
Principal Parker took him to the RR room, where a large-eyed boy with dark lashes was slugging it out with “might,” writing the letters in boxes Miss O’Brian had drawn on a cardboard strip. Some of the boxes had dotted lines, some solid.
“Mmmmmm-iiiiiii-t,” said the boy, sounding it out.
“What do you know about l-i-g-h-t and n-i-g-h-t?” Miss O’Brian was asking. “What do you know about the silent letters in those words?” With her help the boy wrote the silent letters in the boxes with dotted lines. The sounded-out letters got solid-line boxes.
“Okay,” said Miss O’Brian. “Now let’s sort out these b’s and d’s.” Letters were jumbled on a magnetic board. “Good,” she murmured as Keith fumbled to get the b’s in their place and the d’s in theirs. “Now w’s and m’s…. Okay, now the a’s and e’s and p’s and q’s.” As Keith struggled, she guided his hand so lightly he wasn’t aware of it.
“Now the sand tray.” She made it a game. “Draw me a b. Good! Quick now, b, m, w, five, three, two, b, p, q, wm, mw, ddbpq.” The boy’s face got red as he struggled and wiped out, her hand guiding his. His letters were crude but you could make them out.
Miss O’Brian asked the boy to write a story. They sounded it out letter by letter as he wrote: “I might make an egg for Mrs. Wright and Sheryl and Sandy.” This took a while, with erasing and correcting. She copied his story on another strip of thin cardboard, cut the words apart and jumbled them. Keith had to piece them back together to make his story. She jumbled it again. He sorted again and read his sentence aloud, squinting at the hard words. “Nice job!” Miss O’Brian exclaimed as he got up to leave. He smiled and wiped his face.
Ben stared openmouthed. Somebody else had his problem. Somebody knew how to fix it.
“I’m Miss O’Brian,” said the teacher, turning to Ben and putting out her hand. “The kids call me Coach O.” Her hand was small and cool. She had a soft voice. “Let’s spend a minute reading together before you go back to your room. How about reading me this?”
Ben did his best. His reading was ragged. She helped him along, smiling, nodding, making notes. “Okay,” she said. “You saw us writing in the sand tray. As I say them, draw me these letters.”
“Good,” she said after a few minutes. “I think I know what’s going on. I can help you.” She looked at Ben as if she expected him to say something. He said, “Thank you,” and left. He knew which boy would make a face when he got back to his room.
IT WAS A CLEAR spring afternoon. The school bus let Ben and Abby out at the farm road. It was dim inside the barn, brilliant out, but Abby decided they should keep to their routine and work in the old place. Once they’d dropped their books and run up the street to the corner and back to sharpen up, they ate the snack Bernie had left. Today it was Gran’s oatmeal cookies and chocolate milk.
Abby said they should run every afternoon because they didn’t have time for sports after school. She had been pretty good at field hockey. Ben liked baseball. During the winter none of their classmates asked where they went every afternoon. Now there were questions. “To work in the barn,” they’d say. Friends wanted to come over. They couldn’t.
They worked on Ben’s reading for half an hour. Abby watched the time. She didn’t need to. After half an hour Ben was in a sweat. Then it was Whittington’s turn. Sometimes they had to wake him, but he never had to be reminded where he’d left off. He was like a troubadour of old who could continue his story night after night with never a hitch.
“Where we left off,” he said, “the cat had just returned. She’d been in a fight with the Great Rat in the palace and lost the use of her right rear leg. Dick had an idea how it might be fixed.
“He asked around for a surgeon who could tie up his cat’s tendon. The muscle was withered and might not stretch back, but if the tendon could be restrung, maybe the cat wouldn’t have to drag her paw.
“He found a barber who’d done a repair like that for a sailor who’d snapped the cord that runs from your heel to your calf. The sailor’s f
oot flapped. He couldn’t walk. The surgeon pulled the two ends together and tied them with silk thread. The sailor couldn’t put weight on his foot for a long time; then he had months of exercises to stretch it and put on more load until he could walk again in a rough way.
“‘Are you willing to try the operation?’ Dick asked the cat. ‘It will hurt. I’ll have to tie you down and bind your paws because when you feel the knife you’ll fight.’
“The cat nodded. ‘I’m willing. Anything is better than this.’
“There was nothing to give her for pain. The sailor who’d been operated on had got dead drunk beforehand.
The cat couldn’t. Even a little alcohol would kill her.
“They shaved the leg and tied her down. With Dick holding his cat’s head and the cat yelling so loud people out in the street looked around, the surgeon cut open the old wound. Hours before, he’d come upon a stray who’d just been crushed by a brewer’s cart and taken out its right rear tendon. With the best silk thread he stitched a piece of that tendon to the ends of his patient’s severed one. Then he did what he could to line up what remained of the torn muscles.
“Dick treated the cat like the sailor. For the first month her leg was tied to a splint and she hobbled like a tent with one pole too high. For months after that her leg was stiff and useless. Every day the cook applied hot compresses to the leg as Dick pulled and stretched it. Gradually she was able to move it a little, then a little more. It was never right again and the hair never grew back the same color, so that leg looked and worked like somebody else’s leg tacked on, which in part it was.
“One curious thing. While his cat was tied down for the operation, Dick noticed that her rear paws were dark purple, almost black. The sacred cats of Egypt had dark purple paws. They were of a rare breed, gods possessed of special powers as protectors of women and guardians of joy. If a house or temple caught fire, the most important thing was saving the cat. When one of those cats died, it was wrapped like a mummy and buried with jewels and food for the afterlife. Carvings were made of them. You can see Egyptian cat figures in museums.”
Whittington Page 8
