The Turkeys, of course, pretended not to notice that they were up to their necks in the sod. The most wonderful pout of all is the kind which is snooty. It notices nothing at all—and so is noticed by all, as it were, by accident. It says—all unintentionally, to be sure: “You don’t care about me, world. Well, then, go your way. Don’t bother to notice how much you don’t care about me. I don’t care two sniffs for you. Tit tat. Tit tat. Tit for tat.” The entombed Turkeys held their heads high and won a second victory by not noticing the streams of Red Ants which marched over their eyelids, bearing food to the animals within.
Chauntecleer believed that, since Red Ants were mighty tiny, they would be in less danger than anyone else outside of the camp. Therefore he sent them to gather food. The enemy might see a corn kernel moving across the ground. But who could see the tiny Red Ant underneath it?
There is an ancient saying concerning foxes which Lord Russel was glad to quote to anyone who had the time to hear it. It went this way:
Foxes detest
The odor of rue;
Therefore they guess
That others do too.
Lord Russel himself most particularly detested the strong, bitter scent of the rue plant. For that particular reason alone he rubbed his paws vigorously in its oils; and most generally, when he was going about his foxing trade, he stank of the plant.
Now, because Chauntecleer believed in Russel’s stealth, he and the others of his breed had duty as sentries. The foxes crept through the plain which divided the dirt wall from the flooding river and they kept watch against the enemy. Chauntecleer also believed in their inbred sense of personal safety. He knew that in the moment when these foxes spied an enemy outside of the camp, they would be inside looking out.
As he scrambled from bramble to bush, now, Lord Russel, the Fox of Good Sense, stank fearfully.
But Turkeys have a most impartial sense of smell. The Turkey Fry noticed nothing unusual about Lord Russel, when he took up his pout next to this Fox, except that Russel’s movements were somewhat unpredictable:
Lord Russel hid behind a bush.
And then he hid behind a bramble.
And then he hid behind a Turkey.
And then he hid behind a bush—
Back in a flash to the Turkey! That was the best cover he could find and it cast the best shadow.
When Lord Russel observed that his present cover was alive, he considered what to do and decided upon giving the creature a proper greeting.
“It is, or so I would say it is and I would, er, suppose that the majority of clear-thinking individuals would be inclined to, er, agree that it is—which I say with the understanding that you are a clear-thinking fellow—a fine day.”
Zip! The Fox was away to a bramble. Zip! The Fox was back to the Turkey. Both bramble and Turkey were brown; but the Turkey was immeasurably the better company.
Slowly the Turkey Fry turned his head around to look upon this wonder.
“Galoot,” he said in a wounded voice, referring to his tail feathers, for these Lord Russel hid behind.
“To the point!” the Fox exclaimed. “I am my, er, self of the same trenchant, not to say, incisive, and, or, trenchant opinion.”
“Galoot,” said Fry, turning fully around and pointing to the bruise on the top of his head.
“A modification not to be, ahem, ahem, dismissed.”
Lord Russel did not notice the bruise. Nor did he speak to it. Rather he took the time to quote at length for Fry a short poem about Foxes and rue. And then the two of them entered upon a stimulating conversation, and one Turkey lost his pout. He became polite again. He had found, among the thousands of animals, a kindred spirit.
But another Turkey, the magnificent Ocellata, was not so wishy-washy in his pout.
The magnificent Ocellata, let it be known, made an art of superb politeness. Ocellata had manners. He excused himself even to the trees—when he could be sure that it was he, and not the tree, who had bumped into the other. And what a mannerly excuse he made of it! First the great loop of flesh which drooped over his beak began to shiver with pounds of humility. Then his chest puffed out like a pillow, all so that he could bow to the tree. And then, as he bowed, the little beard which grew out of that chest would brush the ground. All the world said: “What a bow the magnificent Ocellata can make!” “A-polo-polo-pologies,” Ocellata would gabble to the tree.
But let this same Turkey consider himself to be insulted, let him feel that he had been injured in his dignity, and then woe! He made an art of the pout!
Fourteen times—he had counted them—fourteen times last night a Dog with an enormous nose had booted him high into the sky. Ocellata had tried to reason with the creature, for that was only in his nature. In his politest voice he had said, “Galoot.” But what good did it do? When one says “Galoot” from ten feet up in the air, with his head down and his feet uppermost, who is able to hear that one thinks someone ought to apologize? And then when one has hit the ground with a twenty-pound thump it is very hard to say anything at all. His conversation has come to an end, cut short! That is, without a doubt, an insult to one’s dignity. A Dog might at least have said, “Excuse me, Ocellata,” But no Dog had said such a thing (never minding the fact that Ocellata was stone deaf). And that is, without another doubt, excellent grounds for a pout.
The magnificent Ocellata pouted, and that right at the source of the indignity.
After a long investigation, he found out where this Dog was lying in the camp, and he took up his pout nowhere else but there.
“POUT!”
Mundo Cani heard a noise. He raised his sorrowful eyebrows without moving his head and noticed that there was a Turkey in his neighborhood. This Turkey was scratching furiously at the ground as if the ground were hateful. He was muttering to himself violent, unseemly words: “Galoot! Galoot!” He was shaking the loop of flesh which overhung his beak. And he was eating pebbles as if they were berries.
“Oh, some food! Galoot food!” the Turkey muttered. “Oh, some day! Galoot day! Oh, some company! Galoot company! Oh, some world! Galoot world! Galoot, galoot, galoot world!”
Mundo Cani was inclined to agree with this speculation about the world. He heaved an everlasting sigh, which blew seven Bees out of range without his meaning to, and rolled his eyes to watch the Turkey. The sight alone caused him untold guilt. But he looked at Ocellata anyway.
“One does one’s work in the galoot heat of the galoot day. Without complaint! Oh, some day! And who has bruises all over his body? And whose poor muscles ache? One’s!”
Such fine chest hairs this blessed creature has, thought Mundo Cani to himself.
Then it dawned on the Dog that the Turkey was eating all the pebbles which lay in a straight line to him: If the Turkey continued as he was going, he would soon be at Mundo Cani’s tail.
“Then I am in the way,” Mundo Cani sighed. “Always I am in the way.” These words brought him very close to tears. But he controlled the impulse and moved his tail so that it stuck straight out behind him.
Without a blink and without a pause—as busy as the next one in the yard—Ocellata changed directions and continued to aim for the tail, swallowing pebbles and mumbling.
Mundo Cani thought that perhaps he should say something to announce his presence in this place. But the Turkey was so busy that he was ashamed to interrupt him.
He moved his tail again. Again the muttering Turkey changed directions. And he was getting closer.
There was nothing left for the Dog to do but to pretend that he was not there. So he pretended with all of his might that he was not there. And he watched while the Turkey swallowed up the last pebble before the tip of his tail. The Turkey, being so busy about his work, did not stop. His next mouthful was a tuft of Mundo Cani’s hair.
“Oh, some food
! Galoot food! Foul, hairy food!”
Great tears rolled out of Mundo Cani’s eyes and made pools in the dust on either side of his nose. But he was pretending that he was not there, so he only sighed and was quiet and watched the oblivious Turkey.
The Turkey took a mouthful of tail hair. He ripped a mouthful of rump, he pulled a mouthful of back, a mouthful of withers, a mouthful of neck. The water streamed from Mundo Cani’s eyes and nose. But he lay still and said nothing. He was very, very sad: a Turkey on his back.
Master of the Universe, why did he always have to be in the way of everybody?
The muttering Turkey took a bite of hair from the top of his head—and then, suddenly, he was eyeball to eyeball with the Dog. He stopped and gave Mundo Cani a piercing stare directly into his left eye. Mundo Cani looked back and wept.
“Oh!” cried the magnificent Ocellata without moving an inch. “Are you here? I di-di-didn’t notice you!” he shouted.
“On account of I am not worth the notice,” said Mundo Cani Dog.
“But by goo-good manners,” shouted Ocellata, “I, for one, know that someone should say excuse me.” The Turkey then pealed: “EXCUSE ME!” at the top of his lungs.
“You’re excused,” said Mundo Cani.
But the Dog spoke to Ocellata’s rear because the satisfied Turkey was already waddling away. It had been a most admirable pout. Pebbles rattled in his crop as he waddled.
Then Mundo Cani couldn’t help himself. The word came out of him altogether on its own: “Maroooooned!” he wailed piteously.
Several hundred animals in his area stopped work, looked, and then wondered at the hairless stripe up his back. And Chauntecleer, who had been overseeing the creation of the animal camp, walked over.
“It’s shaping up, Mundo Cani Mutt,” he said cheerfully. “There’s a place for everyone, a job, and every family is settling in. And the food is coming and the stink is going and I’m right pleased—”
He stopped. He glared at the Dog. Mundo Cani was weeping without an end.
“What’s this?” the Rooster hissed.
Mundo Cani shook his head.
“Why, you’re a pump! You’re a running pump! Who flushes you every time I look around?”
“Ah, pump,” the Dog managed to say; and then he delivered himself over to heavings of the breast and sobs.
Chauntecleer glanced quickly around. Two Turkeys were waddling over to begin new pouts. The Rooster flew at them and aimed them elsewhere in the yard. He returned to the Dog.
He put his beak to Mundo Cani’s nose.
“Weep yesterday!” he hissed. “Weep next year. Weep with your fat head beneath the river. But don’t weep here and don’t weep now!”
“Ow-oooooo!” Mundo Cani’s chest convulsed. It had finally happened. The dam had broken loose inside of him; sorrow burst out everywhere; and nothing in this world could plug it.
“Of all the—” Chauntecleer choked. And then he jammed his wing down Mundo Cani’s throat.
“Dog, do you have any idea what’s going to happen tomorrow? A war! A violent, bloody, murderous war! Serpents are going to fling themselves against our wall. They’re going to reach into this place to kill what lives here. And this poor squad of animals is going to have to fight. Do you think they’ll fight tomorrow if someone panics them today? They need great hearts. But you! You’ll bleed dry every heart in the yard! I don’t want it, Mundo Cani. Do you hear me? I don’t want to hear drip out of you. Is that clear? Let them eat today. Let them sleep tonight. And then tomorrow we may have something to say to the enemy.”
Chauntecleer looked closely at Mundo Cani. He held his gaze steady for a long time. Then, when he spoke again, his voice was less thorny, more level, and much more kind.
“Mundo Cani Dog. You saw, and I saw, and no one else saw, what is to come. You saw the damnable vipers, the slick candy shapes. You saw them nip Thuringer unto his death. And did you hear the name given to the deep root of this evil? His name is Wyrm.”
The Dog closed his eyes. He struggled mightily against his sorrow. His mouth was dry. Feathers make a mouth dry.
“We alone have seen this thing,” the Rooster said. He tested the Dog: Slowly he began to withdraw his wing. “Mundo Cani, I need you. You know what nobody else knows. You witnessed the death and you did not run away, but you became salvation for a flock of fools. You have a great heart, Soul of Mine; and I need you. Who else can run like the wind? Who else possesses such a talent? One day, years and years ago, God tossed a blessing to that nose, and that nose was big enough to catch it.”
When the wing was pulled all the way out of Mundo Cani’s mouth, many long sighs followed after. Little feathers puffed out with the sighs and curled through the air. But no weeping came out. All of the sobs had gone home into the Dog’s breaking heart.
“Good, good, good, Mundo Cani,” Chauntecleer encouraged him. “Good, Soul of Mine. Hush. Be at peace.”
He stood up, wiping his wings together like towels. And then he saw the Dog’s back.
“Who bit you?” he demanded.
Mundo Cani turned his head away.
“Do serpents bite? Who bit you!”
Mundo Cani looked back to the Rooster and shook his head. He did this because he could not talk, yet. He also did it because it really didn’t matter who had bitten him, serpents or otherwise.
Chauntecleer was about to lay his head back and crow for the Weasels, now his police force. But before he could, Mundo Cani placed a paw on the Rooster’s back and beseeched him with his eyes. The Rooster reconsidered, stood still, and waited.
It was a main struggle, for his throat was lodged full of lumps. But when he could finally speak, Mundo Cani put his eyes down and said: “A Dog came here. A Dog brought you evil. A Dog is going away.”
At first Chauntecleer was going to laugh. But in a rush laughter was drowned in irritation, and he became instantly angry. “One lout of a Dog!” he said.
“Will my Lord look at himself?” Mundo Cani said woefully. “Here are two eyes that should have gone to sleep two years ago. Are they sleeping? Instead they spend time on a Dog of no value. Here is a voice that one night hallowed a lonely Dog when he cried outside the door. How does this voice sound today? It has worry in it. The worry makes it hard. It has sorrow in it. The sorrow makes it break. And it is as tired as the two eyes. A Dog saw these members when they were God’s miracle. But a Dog brought God’s curse into the Coop. Curses are maybe stronger than miracles. Such a Dog should be dead. He is going away.”
Chauntecleer was dumbfounded. “Listen,” he said, stamping the ground compulsively, “you go away and I’ll follow you! I’ll wart your nose. I’ll break it! What damn-fool talk is this? You think you caused all of this? Are you the father of Wyrm? You blithering nincompoop! You utter fool!”
Mundo Cani said it softly, looking into no one’s eyes: “The Master of the Universe is embarrassed that he made such a mistake as this one—”
“Cock-a-mamie!”
“—and he wants to cover it up.”
“Cock-a-balderdash!”
“It is my fault, my Lord.”
“BULL! BULL, YOU PLUG-HEADED DOG!”
Mundo Cani sighed. He shook his head and sighed again. He tried to speak, but failed miserably. He waved a paw in front of his face as if that would say what was on his mind. And then he spoke in a baby’s breath, confessed: “On account of this Dog—here is evidence, my lord—on account of this Dog, a beautiful Turkey, banded and brown, died last night. Ah, this Dog did not save him. And he died.”
“That’s your evidence? That! Why, you alone—”
Suddenly Chauntecleer threw himself away from Mundo Cani. He strutted up and down the camp, jerking his head and flaring his neck feathers. He was swearing. Little animals scurried out of his way. Other animals wh
o had been taking a rest leaped up and hurried back to work. John Wesley Weasel, who was about to report a quarrel between the Ducks and the Geese, looked at the Rooster and immediately decided to report nothing at all. Chauntecleer came to the wall, then spun on his heel and raced back to the Dog—a thought in his brain.
“What has that Cow been saying to you?”
Mundo Cani said, “My Lord has a right to laugh at me.”
“Your Lord! Your Lord has a right to stuff you! What did that Cow say to you yesterday? Did she saucer your mind? Did she convince you of guilt? Is that how she explains an evil?”
“Yesterday evening there was a Turkey—”
“Yesterday, Dog, there was a Cow standing next to you in the back of the assembly. Once she sat with me, but then she said nothing at all. She talked with you. What did she say to make a miserable fool the more miserable?”
“My Lord must be right about something. When did he ever make a mistake? But Cows don’t take the time to talk with this Dog. There was a Cow?”
“There was a Cow!” Chauntecleer exploded. “I thought her something good. But now I think—”
All of a sudden, Chauntecleer sat down. His wings hung loose to the ground. His neck sagged. His eyes showed an infinite exhaustion. A trembling Rooster faced a sad, sad Dog.
“Hear this, Mundo Cani Dog,” he said. His voice was like sand. He put his two wings on either side of the Dog’s great nose. “If it is God’s curse which a Dog brought with him into this Coop, then a Rooster needs the curse of God. Can you believe this? If it were a bushel of fleas which a Dog brought with him, then this Rooster would be happy for a bushel of fleas. A Rooster needs a Dog. A Rooster has come to love him. Stay.”
The Book of the Dun Cow Page 15
