Then the ground began to move, and the astonished Foxes rushed together for safety. Their eyeballs popped. The whole yard slid, shifted, crumbled toward the Coop—until Lord Russel himself, the most ecumenical among his relatives, began to giggle. It wasn’t the ground moving at all, but countless thousands of Ants, like living dust upon the earth, come to the Council. Black Ants marching. Red Ants, fiery Red Ants full of the vicious bite. Hill builders and ground diggers, some as large as a Fox’s tooth, some as small as grass seed, tickering and traveling in such masses that they could be heard—or else the earth itself was whispering. Like flowing sand they closed upon the Coop.
The Foxes had come from the north. The Ants, like thought, had come from anywhere. Now, out of the east and wet with the sticky water of the Liver-brook, Otters tumbled into the yard, scooting chaos into the Antian dignity which had preceded them, snapping left and right like a hundred fish, altogether unrestrained by the gravity of the Council, playing games. So abashed had John Wesley been by his morning mistake that he had swallowed his pride and carried the Rooster’s command even to the Mad House of Otter—relatives of his which he would otherwise have disavowed with a curse and a quarrel.
If John had relatives which he classed below himself, he also had relatives who classed themselves above him. Had he swallowed some pride approaching the Mad House of Otter? Well, verily, then he gagged on pride approaching the Family Mink. But they came, too. Disdainfully they came, carrying their own approved food (enough for a day’s excursion, a sad miscalculation!), their little heads and their bright beady eyes high and distant. They were appalled at the presence of so many Ants; and as for the Otters—on that matter they wouldn’t even deliver an opinion.
And the Weasels themselves appeared, stumbling curiously in the light. Their eyes had been made for the night. Only John Wesley Weasel among them had learned adjustment. But Chauntecleer had called a Council for the afternoon, and they were here.
A deep, menacing buzz—at exactly the height of the treetops—announced the Bees; and they descended.
Rabbits blew out of the forest like cottonwood before a high wind: thumpers, jacks, stringy grey and puffy white; some lop-eared and some with ears like nickels, every ear twitching in every direction to judge the mood of the place.
The Deer walked out in grace.
Sparrows flocked, then settled, unnaturally, upon the ground.
The Pigs lumbered in, breathing heavily,
The Ducks, the Geese, and the Swans took note of one another in various nasal languages (they were a loose-knit family; but they were a family nonetheless, and it was proper for families to take note of one another) and squatted in separate areas around the Coop.
Sheep tiptoed in, and wished nervously that Chauntecleer would hurry up and appear.
Then the easy sequence of the coming was broken. The nice distinctions among families, which had heretofore been maintained, were absolutely shattered.
For now the whole forest raised a careless, stupid noise—a guttural, pleasant, throaty, meaningless chatter so foreign to its regular nobility. Stuttered words tumbled from between the trees, like: “Goo-goo-good!” Inane noises like: “Ge-ge-get a gallop on, my bubble-brother! We’re tardy-dee-dee!” Then a hundred voices chorused together: “Goda-goda-speed the rutabaga Rooster! And goo-goo-good afternoon to him!” And a thousand said: “Galoot!” for no perceptible reason whatever. All of these sounds—constituted chiefly of bumps, burps, and g’s—thumped out of the forest. And then, from the wooded uplands of Chauntecleer’s land, where they did not even know enough to come in out of the rain, but where they learned good breeding and decorum in abundance, here came the Wild Turkeys. Ridiculous heads on ridiculous, tubby bodies with ridiculous, good-natured chatter in their throats, they came. Smiling, nodding, and burping on everyone, from the Ant to the Deer, no matter. Greeting this one and that, they spread out among the company in the yard. Salutations, compliments, well wishes, they sprinkled on every available head as if it were their business—and, indeed, they were convinced that it was: Someone, so their reasoning, must cast a little cheer wherever he goes. There’s little enough of that in the world.
The animals came. Not representatives only—all the animals who dwelled in Chauntecleer’s land.
Animals brown and soft, animals quick and grey, animals ruddy, animals black and melancholy, animals with piercing, suspicious eyes, animals plumed and animals pelted, winged animals and those footed for the ground, the fleet and the contemplative, the leapers and the dodgers and the crawlers and the carriers, the racers and the trotters and the climbers and the fallers, singers, croakers, whistlers, barkers, gabblers, philosophers, orators, and mute—they all pressed into the great yard around Chauntecleer’s Coop; they had heard the word which Scarce had borne to them; they had obeyed.
And having come, what a sight they made! What a jumbled, whichaway, particolored traffic they made as they moiled around finding places for themselves. Heads and ears, noses and eyes, backs of every stripe and pattern—a very carpet of animals. The rest of the land was deserted; but this place boiled with life—obedient and waiting.
It was wonderful that in all this rabbled congregation, no one stepped on another one’s tail. Perhaps there was a reason for that. For it was noticeable, too, that these were every one of them the meek of the earth. They were meek by inheritance. Only John Wesley and his kin were born to meanness; but Chauntecleer had some time ago made them meek by instruction. They were catechized into meekness.
And as he took his position now atop the Coop, Chauntecleer wondered painfully if he should ever have done such a thing, taken blood out of the Weasels’ eyes. For what were these before him? As many as they were, as noisy and as varied as they were, what were these against the evil which now assailed them? Chauntecleer looked out over this enormous company of souls, and he was silent for a time.
One by one, family by family, he recognized all his animals, and his heart rushed out to them. Who was he to command them? A nothing! He was himself weak and filled with fault. He was afraid, as Pertelote knew right well. He was ignorant and foolish.
Yet, what an enemy he must lead them against!
And dear God! Where were their claws with which to fight a fight? Where were the teeth for ripping and tearing? Where among this assembly was the heart to kill an enemy? Look at them! They hadn’t the least idea even of the purpose of this Council. They came only at a command. Then how in God’s name would they battle? Fight? War? Win a bloody war? How can the meek of the earth save themselves against the damnable evil which feeds on them?
All of these things Chauntecleer thought in a tiny space of time. All of this burned through his mind while the noise and the contumely died down and the animals composed themselves to hear him speak.
And then, in a flash before he crowed a greeting, he noticed Mundo Cani far in the rear of the congregation. The Dog had brought no family. He must have none, thought the Rooster.
But the Dog did have a companion; and the moment Chauntecleer recognized her, two separate feelings buzzed his brains: both gratitude and resentment. She was the Dun Cow; her presence stilled the Rooster’s soul. But she was talking—talking low, insistently, into Mundo Cani’s ear, who himself kept his head bowed; and she was not looking at Chauntecleer. In spite of the gravity of the moment; in spite of the importance of his high position and the office which must now demand his whole attention, Chauntecleer was piqued: The Dun Cow hadn’t spoken to him so much as a single word. What was this attraction to a Dog with a bulbous nose?
But almost before he commanded them, his beak opened and his throat crowed a crow of salute to the thousands of animals in front of him.
[EIGHTEEN] The Council has a sting in its tail
“How old are we?” Chauntecleer cried, throwing the crow from deep in his chest. It would be some time before he was through, and he didn’t wa
nt his voice finally to break at any point in his speaking to the assembly. His figure as well as his words, he knew, carried the message. A faltering figure would weaken the message and unsettle the animals. Two messages, really. He must encourage their faith. That first. Without that they would wither before the second message and die helpless before the enemy. And the second message would be to tell them that there was an enemy. Chauntecleer suffered at that thought. He truly did not know how he was going to tell them. He lacked words.
“How many years have we lived in this land? How many years has the land been good to us, feeding our children and keeping us alive?
“Ho, the ancient among you! Count the years and number the generations. We are very old in the land.
“Ho, the mothers among you! Tell me of your children. Do they know how to laugh? Do they run in the daylight, and is the sound of their laughter sweet to you? Do they know how to sleep in contentment? Tell me of your children, mothers! When last did you stand at their beds and weep because they died for want of food? When did you die inside, seeing them sent away to fight in the wars? No, I will tell you. Never! Their laughter and their rest, their fullness and their peace, have been everlasting in this land. The land, and the time, and the children—these are the Lord’s doing!
“Then let the creatures of the Lord say Amen!”
In a thousand separate ways, the animals around the Coop lifted up their voices. They said, “Amen!” They had begun to listen. Good! Chauntecleer had found his rhythm, and the Council had begun. Good, good.
“Ho, the fathers among you! Tell me about your peace. When did you look for food, and it was not there? When, in the summer, did you seek out shade for your family, and there was none? When, in the winter, did you look to build a warm burrow and find neither the place nor the stuff for building? When, in all this age, did you ever begin a plan in joy, then find in sorrow that you could not finish it? Tell me, fathers, of your peace! For these are the things of frustration and despair—and in this land you have never known either one! Food, shade, warmth, and the divine ability to finish what you have begun, these the land has provided, and the land has provided so that you might provide! The Lord has permitted you to be what you were born to be. Then bless the Lord—
“And let the creatures of the Lord say Amen!”
“Amen! Amen!” The animals roared and thundered. “Amen!” They rose up and stood on their feet.
“Listen to me!” Chauntecleer cried from the roof of his Coop. His voice was hard and brilliant, like urgent lightning going out of his mouth. “Sit down and listen!”
He paused. They sat down again. He shot a glance to the Dun Cow. Then he closed his eyes and began to speak as if he were alone. But he could be heard. He told them a story.
“There was once a young Rooster born of hot and dry,” he said, “a choleric, snappish, belligerent youth. He was raised by a gentle, tired, widowed mother in a land far south of this one. And this was long ago.
“A Wolf roamed that land, terrorizing the animals so badly that they shunned one another. They lived in suspicion. By betrayal they dealt with one another. But the young Rooster was unconcerned—because the havoc in the land gave him good pickings. He stole food from deserted homes and treasures from hasty hiding places, took daughters when it pleased him, and turned everyone else’s evil to his advantage. He was equal to the ugliness of the world. And it was, in fact, a wretched, ugly world.
“But then the Wolf moved into the home of this Rooster’s mother, demanding that she feed him and take care of him; and the Rooster was forced to watch while his mother brought meat to the Wolf’s table, was forced to listen to the Wolf’s heavy snoring.
“Now this was something different, and the Rooster was enraged.
“ ‘Fight him!’ he demanded of his mother when the two were alone.
“ ‘I can’t,’ said his mother.
“ ‘You don’t want to!’ sneered the Rooster. And hard though this was on her, it was the truth.
“ ‘It is the will of the Lord,’ she said more than once, and she refused nothing that the Wolf demanded of her. Neither would she join her son when he cursed the beast, but instead she warned her son against displeasing God. ‘It is the will of the Lord,’ she said often, gently.
“So the Rooster hated the Wolf and despised her Lord, both. If she would not, and if God could not, then he would himself fight the Wolf.
“He owned two iron spurs, weapons of his father: Gaff, they were named, and the Slasher. These he strapped to his legs one night, when the Wolf was sleeping. He wanted to wake his mother and send her away, but he couldn’t without warning the Wolf. Suddenly, then, in the middle of the night, he leaped upon the beast, driving a spur into either side of his chest. The Wolf thrashed violently, but the Rooster rode him, screaming curses all the while and thrusting his spurs ever deeper. In his violence, the Wolf killed the mother; and then the Rooster killed the Wolf.
“ ‘The Lord’s will,’ thought the Rooster as he looked at his poor mother; then he laughed at the Lord.
“He laughed even louder when the animals of that land condemned him for his own mother’s death and banished him. He was not at all surprised by their cheap justice: for the world was a wretched, ugly place.
“But the young Rooster would avenge himself on them. He never removed Gaff and the Slasher. Instead he planned to kill the leaders of the land one at a time.
“But during the night, while the Rooster waited in a tree, the Lord appeared to him. The light was so bright that the Rooster fell out of his tree, stunned, full of terror.
“ ‘Get away from me,’ the Rooster cried, ‘or I’ll die!’ In the blinding light he saw himself, and he was a filthy piece of thing. One moment more under such a brilliance and he would be gone altogether. Worse, it seemed to him that the Lord could not but want to snuff so contemptible a life from the earth.
“ ‘Why do you hurt my creatures?’ said the Lord out of his radiance.
“ ‘Your creatures!’ moaned the Rooster.
“ ‘Why do you hurt me?’ The light was a blaze. The young Rooster felt his heart afire. He answered nothing. He waited to die.
“ ‘Get up,’ said the Lord. ‘In the north you will find a land in need of a leader. I will give the land to you.’
“ ‘I can’t,’ said the Rooster. ‘I’m nothing.’
“ ‘It is my will that you go,’ said the Lord.
“ ‘But I am the least of all your creatures,’ said the Rooster.
“ ‘You are mine,’ said the Lord. ‘Go!’ So mighty, so glorious was the force of that final command that the Rooster both died and got up at once.
“When he came, he found the northern land in sad shambles. But by the power and the will of the same Lord—for the Rooster still was nothing—he saw peace made in this place. Craven animals came together and became strong. Aimless lives, and days without purpose, began to smile and to work and to live with resolution. Order came to this land, because the Lord was worshiped and welcomed daily, seven times a day, by seven crows which the same Lord taught his Rooster. And as evidence of the Lord’s labor here, the bandit Weasels, who once had lived for their own sakes only, turned and began to live for others. Not the Rooster—the Lord did this thing: And the animals produced; and the land provided. . . .
“By the Lord was a Rooster transfigured!
“By the Lord was a land made good!”
Chauntecleer’s eyes were open again. Again he was standing full figure on the top of the Coop, sweeping his gaze all across the animals around him, while the animals sat in wonderment.
“Some of you know this from your own experience; but none of you has known it so well as you do now. That’s why I tell you my story: I am a witness! The Lord loves you with an abiding love. He will not leave you desolate—or else why did I come to you out of the south
by his will?”
A rumbling rolled through the congregation. Chauntecleer’s story was like a rock dropped into a lake: It took time for the swallowing and for the waves to settle into knowledge. Chauntecleer gave them that time and stared away at the Dun Cow while he did. Now she was looking at him. Now her eyes shone like suns, and he was greatly relieved: Someone here knew the effort it took to tell that story. But in the daylight he noticed, again, how lethal her long horns looked.
As the rumbling began to die—but before the yard was quiet—Chauntecleer seized the wonder of the congregation and drove it in his own directions, crying in a loud voice:
“Now that time is come which one day had to come. God breathed faith into us so that today we might be faithful. For generations God won trust from us so that today we might trust him. Years and years of providence had this purpose: that for one day we might not faint, but believe in him—and fight—stouthearted, fight—and win—and live!
“O my beloved: but the odds are terrible!” Chauntecleer said in another voice. “And therefore I called the Council.”
Fight? New rumblings passed over the congregation. Heads bobbed and turned to one another. Only the members of the Coop held still, as if transfixed, because, though they knew little, they knew more than these others. Fight? Whenever before have we had to fight? Why fight?
“The Beautiful Pertelote,” Chauntecleer said quietly, as if he were finishing the story which he had started before—and the assembly instantly hushed, straining to hear his words. “The Beautiful Pertelote was a mother like you, once.”
Was?
“Her children ran and laughed in the daylight, slept with contentment, ate and were healthy.”
The Book of the Dun Cow Page 13
