Where the Red Fern Grows

by Wilson Rawls

  “I don’t want any breakfast, Papa,” I said. “I’m not hungry and I have a job to do. I’ll have to bury my dog.”

  “I tell you what,” he said, “I’m not going to be very busy today, so let’s have a good breakfast and then I’ll help you.”

  “No, Papa,” I said. “I’ll take care of it. You go and eat breakfast. Tell Mama I’m not hungry.”

  I saw a hurt look in my father’s eyes. Shaking his head, he turned and walked away.

  From rough pine slabs, I made a box for my dog. It was a crude box but it was the best I could do. With strips of burlap and corn shucks, I padded the inside.

  Up on the hillside, at the foot of a beautiful red oak tree, I dug his grave. There where the wild mountain flowers would grow in the spring, I laid him away.

  I had a purpose in burying my dog up there on the hillside. It was a beautiful spot. From there one could see the country for miles, the long white crooked line of the river, the tall thick timber of the bottoms, the sycamore, birch, and box elder. I thought perhaps that on moonlight nights Old Dan would be able to hear the deep voices of the hounds as they rolled out of the river bottoms on the frosty air.

  After the last shovel of dirt was patted in place, I sat down and let my mind drift back through the years. I thought of the old K. C. Baking Powder can, and the first time I saw my pups in the box at the depot. I thought of the fifty dollars, the nickels and dimes, and the fishermen and blackberry patches.

  I looked at his grave and, with tears in my eyes, I voiced these words: “You were worth it, old friend, and a thousand times over.”

  In my heart I knew that there in the grave lay a man’s best friend.

  Two days later, when I came in from the bottoms where my father and I were clearing land, my mother said, “Billy, you had better look after your dog. She won’t eat.”

  I started looking for her. I went to the barn, the corncrib, and looked under the porch. I called her name. It was no use.

  I rounded up my sisters and asked if they had seen Little Ann. The youngest one said she had seen her go down into the garden. I went there, calling her name. She wouldn’t answer my call.

  I was about to give up, and then I saw her. She had wiggled her way far back under the thorny limbs of a blackberry bush in the corner of the garden. I talked to her and tried to coax her out. She wouldn’t budge. I got down on my knees and crawled back to her. As I did, she raised her head and looked at me.

  Her eyes told the story. They weren’t the soft gray eyes I had looked into so many times. They were dull and cloudy. There was no fire, no life. I couldn’t understand.

  I carried her back to the house. I offered her food and water. She wouldn’t touch it. I noticed how lifeless she was. I thought perhaps she had a wound I had overlooked. I felt and probed with my fingers. I could find nothing.

  My father came and looked at her. He shook his head and said, “Billy, it’s no use. The life has gone out of her. She has no will to live.”

  He turned and walked away.

  I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t.

  With eggs and rich cream, I made a liquid. I pried her mouth open and poured it down. She responded to nothing I did. I carried her to the porch, and laid her in the same place I had laid the body of Old Dan. I covered her with gunny sacks.

  All through the night I would get up and check on her. Next morning I took warm fresh milk and again I opened her mouth and fed her. It was a miserable day for me. At noon it was the same. My dog had just given up. There was no will to live.

  That evening when I came in from the fields, she was gone. I hurried to my mother. Mama told me she had seen her go up the hollow from the house, so weak she could hardly stand. Mama had watched her until she had disappeared in the timber.

  I hurried up the hollow, calling her name. I called and called. I went up to the head of it, still calling her name and praying she would come to me. I climbed out onto the flats; looking, searching, and calling. It was no use. My dog was gone.

  I had a thought, a ray of hope. I just knew I’d find her at the grave of Old Dan. I hurried there.

  I found her lying on her stomach, her hind legs stretched out straight, and her front feet folded back under her chest. She had laid her head on his grave. I saw the trail where she had dragged herself through the leaves. The way she lay there, I thought she was alive. I called her name. She made no movement. With the last ounce of strength in her body, she had dragged herself to the grave of Old Dan.

  Kneeling down by her side, I reached out and touched her. There was no response, no whimpering cry or friendly wag of her tail. My little dog was dead.

  I laid her head in my lap and with tear-filled eyes gazed up into the heavens. In a choking voice, I asked, “Why did they have to die? Why must I hurt so? What have I done wrong?”

  I heard a noise behind me. It was my mother. She sat down and put her arm around me.

  “You’ve done no wrong, Billy,” she said. “I know this seems terrible and I know how it hurts, but at one time or another, everyone suffers. Even the Good Lord suffered while He was here on earth.”

  “I know, Mama,” I said, “but I can’t understand. It was bad enough when Old Dan died. Now Little Ann is gone. Both of them gone, just like that.”

  “Billy, you haven’t lost your dogs altogether,” Mama said. “You’ll always have their memory. Besides, you can have some more dogs.”

  I rebelled at this. “I don’t want any more dogs,” I said. “I won’t ever want another dog. They wouldn’t be like Old Dan and Little Ann.”

  “We all feel that way, Billy,” she said. “I do especially. They’ve fulfilled a prayer that I thought would never be answered.”

  “I don’t believe in prayers any more,” I said. “I prayed for my dogs, and now look, both of them are dead.”

  Mama was silent for a moment; then, in a gentle voice, she said, “Billy, sometimes it’s hard to believe that things like this can happen, but there’s always an answer. When you’re older, you’ll understand better.”

  “No, I won’t,” I said. “I don’t care if I’m a hundred years old, I’ll never understand why my dogs had to die.”

  As if she were talking to someone far away, I heard her say in a low voice, “I don’t know what to say. I can’t seem to find the right words.”

  Looking up to her face, I saw that her eyes were flooded with tears.

  “Mama, please don’t cry,” I said. “I didn’t mean what I said.”

  “I know you didn’t,” she said, as she squeezed me up tight. “It’s just your way of fighting back.”

  I heard the voice of my father calling to us from the house.

  “Come now,” Mama said. “I have supper ready and your father wants to talk to you. I think when you’ve heard what he has to say, you’ll feel better.”

  “I can’t leave Little Ann like this, Mama,” I said. “It’ll be cold tonight. I think I’ll carry her back to the house.”

  “No, I don’t think you should do that,” Mama said. “Your sisters would go all to pieces. Let’s make her comfortable here.”

  Raking some dead leaves into a pile, she picked Little Ann up and laid her in them. Taking off my coat, I spread it over her body. I dreaded to think of what I had to do on the morrow.

  My father and sisters were waiting for us on the porch. Mama told them the sad story. My sisters broke down and started crying. They ran to Mama and buried their faces in her long cotton dress.

  Papa came over and laid his hand on my shoulder. “Billy,” he said, “there are times in a boy’s life when he has to stand up like a man. This is one of those times. I know what you’re going through and how it hurts, but there’s always an answer. The Good Lord has a reason for everything He does.”

  “There couldn’t be any reason for my dogs to die, Papa,” I said. “There just couldn’t. They hadn’t done anything wrong.”

  Papa glanced at Mama. Getting no help from her, he said, “It’s getting cold
out here. Let’s go in the house. I have something to show you.”

  “Guess what we’re having for supper,” Mama said, as we turned to enter the house. “Your favorite, Billy, sweet potato pie. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

  I nodded my head, but my heart wasn’t in it.

  Papa didn’t follow us into the kitchen. He turned and entered his bedroom.

  When he came into the room, he had a small shoe box in his hand. I recognized the box by the bright blue ribbon tied around it. Mama kept her valuables in it.

  A silence settled over the room. Walking to the head of the table, Papa set the box down and started untying the ribbon. His hands were trembling as he fumbled with the knot. With the lid off, he reached in and started lifting out bundles of money.

  After stacking them in a neat pile, he raised his head and looked straight at me. “Billy,” he said, “you know how your mother has prayed that some day we’d have enough money to move out of these hills and into town so that you children could get an education.”

  I nodded my head.

  “Well,” he said, in a low voice, “because of your dogs, her prayers have been answered. This is the money earned by Old Dan and Little Ann. I’ve managed to make the farm feed us and clothe us and I’ve saved every cent your furs brought in. We now have enough.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful,” Mama said. “It’s just like a miracle.”

  “I think it is a miracle,” Papa said. “Remember, Billy said a prayer when he asked for his pups and then there were your prayers. Billy got his pups. Through those dogs your prayers were answered. Yes, I’m sure it is a miracle.”

  “If he gave them to me, then why did he take them away?” I asked.

  “I think there’s an answer for that, too,” Papa said. “You see, Billy, your mother and I had decided not to separate you from your dogs. We knew how much you loved them. We decided that when we moved to town we’d leave you here with your grandpa for a while. He needs help anyway. But I guess the Good Lord didn’t want that to happen. He doesn’t like to see families split up. That’s why they were taken away.”

  I knew my father was a firm believer in fate. To him everything that happened was the will of God, and in his Bible he could always find the answers.

  Papa could see that his talk had had very little effect on me. With a sorrowful look on his face, he sat down and said, “Now let us give thanks for our food and for all the wonderful things God has done for us. I’ll say a special prayer and ask Him to help Billy.”

  I barely heard what Papa had to say.

  During the meal, I could tell that no one was enjoying the food. As soon as it was over, I went to my room and lay down on the bed.

  Mama came in. “Why don’t you go to bed,” she said, “and get a good night’s sleep. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  “No, I won’t, Mama,” I said. “I’ll have to bury Little Ann tomorrow.”

  “I know,” she said, as she turned my covers down. “I’ll help if you want me to.”

  “No, Mama,” I said, “I don’t want anyone to help. I’d rather do it all by myself.”

  “Billy, you’re always doing things by yourself,” Mama said. “That’s not right. Everyone needs help some time in his life.”

  “I know, Mama,” I said,” but, please, not this time. Ever since my dogs were puppies, we’ve always been together—just us three. We hunted together and played together. We even went swimming together.

  “Did you know, Mama, that Little Ann used to come every night and peek in my window just to see if I was all right? I guess that’s why I want to be by myself when I bury her.”

  “Now say your prayers and go to sleep. I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  I didn’t feel like saying any prayers that night. I was hurting too much. Long after the rest of the family had gone to bed, I lay staring into the darkness, trying to think and not able to.

  Some time in the night I got up, tiptoed to my window, and looked out at my doghouse. It looked so lonely and empty sitting there in the moonlight. I could see that the door was slightly ajar. I thought of the many times I had lain in my bed and listened to the squeaking of the door as my dogs went in and out. I didn’t know I was crying until I felt the tears roll down my cheeks.

  Mama must have heard me get up. She came in and put her arms around me. “Billy,” she said, in a quavering voice, “you’ll just have to stop this. You’re going to make yourself sick and I don’t think I can stand any more of it.”

  “I can’t, Mama,” I said. “It hurts so much, I just can’t. I don’t want you to feel bad just because I do.”

  “I can’t help it, Billy,” she said. “Come now and get back in bed. I’m afraid you’ll catch cold.”

  After she had tucked me in, she sat on the bed for a while. As if she were talking to the darkness, I heard her say, “If only there were some way I could help—something I could do.”

  “No one can help, Mama,” I said. “No one can bring my dogs back.”

  “I know,” she said, as she got up to leave the room, “but there must be something—there just has to be.”

  After Mama had left the room, I buried my face in my pillow and cried myself to sleep.

  The next morning I made another box. It was smaller than the first one. Each nail I drove in the rough pine boards caused the knot in my throat to get bigger and bigger.

  My sisters came to help. They stood it for a while, then with tears streaming, they ran for the house.

  I buried Little Ann by the side of Old Dan. I knew that was where she wanted to be. I also buried a part of my life along with my dog.

  Remembering a sandstone ledge I had seen while prowling the woods, I went there. I picked out a nice stone and carried it back to the graves. Then, with painstaking care, I carved their names deep in its red surface.

  As I stood looking at the two graves, I tried hard to understand some of the things my father had told me, but I couldn’t—I was still hurting and still had that empty feeling.

  I went to Mama and had a talk with her.

  “Mama,” I asked, “do you think God made a heaven for all good dogs?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m sure He did.”

  “Do you think He made a place for dogs to hunt? You know—just like we have here on our place—with mountains and sycamore trees, rivers and cornfields, and old rail fences? Do you think He did?”

  “From what I’ve read in the Good Book, Billy,” she said, “He put far more things up there than we have here. Yes, I’m sure He did.”

  I was thinking this over when Mama came up to me and started tucking my shirt in. “Do you feel better now?” she asked.

  “It still hurts, Mama,” I said, as I buried my face in her dress, “but I do feel a little better.”

  “I’m glad,” she said, as she patted my head. “I don’t like to see my little boy hurt like this.”

  XX

  THE FOLLOWING SPRING WE LEFT THE OZARKS. THE DAY WE moved I thought everyone would be sad, but it was just the opposite. Mama seemed to be the happiest one of all. I could hear her laughing and joking with my sisters as they packed things. She had a glow in her eyes I had never seen before and it made me feel good.

  I even noticed a change in Papa. He didn’t have that whipped look on his face any more. He was in high spirits as we carried the furniture out to our wagon.

  After the last item was stored in the wagon, Papa helped Mama to the spring seat and we were ready to go.

  “Papa, would you mind waiting a few minutes?” I asked. “I’d like to say good-bye to my dogs.”

  “Sure,” he said, smiling. “We have plenty of time. Go right ahead.”

  Nearing the graves, I saw something different. It looked like a wild bush had grown up and practically covered the two little mounds. It made me angry to think that an old bush would dare grow so close to the graves. i took out my knife, intending to cut it down.

  When I walked up close enough to
see what it was, I sucked in a mouthful of air and stopped. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There between the graves, a beautiful red fern had sprung up from the rich mountain soil. It was fully two feet tall and its long red leaves had reached out in rainbow arches curved over the graves of my dogs.

  I had heard the old Indian legend about the red fern. How a little Indian boy and girl were lost in a blizzard and had frozen to death. In the spring, when they were found, a beautiful red fern had grown up between their two bodies. The story went on to say that only an angel could plant the seeds of a red fern, and that they never died; where one grew, that spot was sacred.

  Remembering the meaning of the legend, I turned and started hollering for Mama.

  “Mama! Mama!” I shouted. “Come here! And hurry! You won’t believe it.”

  In a frightened voice, she shouted back, “What is it, Billy? Are you all right?”

  “I’m all right, Mama,” I shouted, “but hurry. You just won’t believe it.”

  Holding her long skirt in her hand and with a frightened look on her face, Mama came puffing up the hillside. Close behind her came Papa and my sisters.

  “What is it, Billy?” Mama asked, in a scared voice. “Are you all right?”

  “Look!” I said, pointing at the red fern.

  Staring wide-eyed, Mama gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. I heard her say, almost in a whisper, “Oh-h-h-h, it’s a red fern—a sacred red fern.”

  She walked over and very tenderly started fingering the long red leaves. In an awed voice, she said, “All my life I’ve wanted to see one. Now I have. It’s almost unbelievable.”

  “Don’t touch it, Mama,” my oldest sister whispered. “It was planted by an angel.”

  Mama smiled and asked, “Have you heard the legend?”

  “Yes, Mama,” my sister said. “Grandma told me the story, and I believe it, too.”

  With a serious look on his face, Papa said, “These hills are full of legends. Up until now I’ve never paid much attention to them, but now I don’t know. Perhaps there is something to the legend of the red fern. Maybe this is God’s way of helping Billy understand why his dogs died.”