Alice's Farm

by Maryrose Wood

  Meanwhile, the tomatoes had barely survived an attack of cutworms. It was pure luck that they had. Cutworms feed at night, so the rabbits had caught them in the act and put a quick end to it. Alas, the victory was short-lived. A population of small striped beetles had come out of dormancy to lay their eggs on the underside of every leaf they could find. The nibbling of the hungry newborn larvae promised to be fast and brutal, and Alice wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Thistle, I’m starting to think that coming here every night is not enough,” she said, flicking yet another cluster of the tiny orange eggs into the dirt. “What if those baby beetles hatch at dawn? By the time we arrive to stop them, the damage will be done.”

  “Do you mean we ought to come during the day, too?” Thistle combed his whiskers as he pondered it. “It would be pleasant to work in the sunlight. But what would happen if the farmer-people saw us? And, not to sound lazy—but when will we sleep?”

  Alice had wondered the same thing. “I honestly don’t know,” she said.

  Too tired to zigzag, their ears limp with worry, the farmer-rabbits hopped wearily to the gate. Doggo was waiting for them.

  “Buck up, you two. The night’s not over yet. There’s someone here to see you, and I don’t want you to get so frightened you fall over,” he said, before adding, “It’s a bird.”

  “Doggo, honestly! Do you think we’re afraid of sparrows?” Thistle rallied enough energy to give his friend a playful nudge. “We’re not as bad as all that.”

  “He’s no sparrow, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. He’s a friend of Foxy’s, and he’s given me his solemn word he won’t eat you. He wanted me to tell you that before you saw him. To avoid—you know.” Doggo mimed playing dead.

  “It can’t be an owl, can it?” Alice exclaimed. For a cottontail to speak peaceably with an owl was nearly unthinkable. If it were an owl, she’d be half dark in a second, no matter how many solemn promises were made beforehand.

  Doggo climbed back onto his feet. “Not an owl!”

  “It’s a hawk, then,” Thistle declared, full of dread.

  “He’s bigger than a hawk, so get a grip on yourselves,” Doggo said. “All right, bird! Might as well show yourself, or they’ll worry themselves to death with guessing.”

  John Glenn appeared from the shadows and spread his wings wide. “Hello, rabbits,” he said.

  Three things happened in rapid succession, then.

  First, the rabbits bolted for cover into the nearest shrub, which happened to be the old lilac bush.

  Second, there was a yelp, a crash, a suspiciously human-sounding sneeze, followed by a scramble and a rush of lilac-perfumed, boy-people-scented air.

  Third, the rabbits flew out of the lilac bush even faster than they went in.

  The fox, the eagle, and the incredulous cottontails turned toward the quaking shrub.

  “What,” Alice panted, too astonished to even be afraid, “was that?”

  * * *

  Foxy couldn’t stand it another minute. Those darling rabbits were outside, Doggo was outside, even John Glenn was outside—Foxy couldn’t see the garden from the kitchen windows, but she could see the sky, and the great swoop of wings descending across the face of the moon couldn’t be missed.

  Most maddening of all: Carl was outside! What was her boy doing outdoors in the middle of the night? It had been all she could do to feign sleep when he’d tiptoed through the kitchen. She assumed he’d come downstairs for a glass of milk and a cookie, as he did far more often than his parents realized. If she’d had the slightest expectation that Carl possessed the moxie to sneak out for a late-night adventure, she would have bounded right after him!

  Alas, it had all happened so quickly, too quickly even for her alert Shiba reflexes to anticipate. Now she was inside, and he was out. The rabbits and other animals could take care of themselves, but Carl? That child hadn’t a clue how to manage things. He was completely reliant on Foxy, even though he didn’t know it.

  Foxy paced and panted. The situation was unbearable. Unbearable! She had no way of knowing precisely what was happening out there, in the dark, away from her direct supervision. It’s a dog’s powerful inclination to bark at such times, but Foxy couldn’t let herself bark. Barking would wake up the Harvey parents for sure, and the less they knew about the outdoor shenanigans of her boy, the better.

  Foxy panted harder, as if her hot, anxious breath could somehow force the door to open. No such luck. What to do? Turning a doorknob required hands that gripped, a type of appendage that Foxy did not possess.

  Then she thought of it.

  Marie.

  Marie was reasonable. A dog could talk to Marie. Best of all, Marie had two chubby fists with a small but functional set of opposable thumbs.

  Careful not to let her toenails click on the steps, Foxy made her way upstairs to Marie’s room. The baby was asleep in her crib, and the baby monitor was on, as shown by a small green indicator light on the front. Using her teeth as gently as she would to lift a pup by its neck scruff, Foxy tugged the cord from the wall outlet until it came free. The monitor light flickered and dimmed. Poor humans, with their practically useless ears! They had to use little robots to do their listening for them.

  She tipped her head upward, toward the crib. “Marie, Marie! Wake up,” she whined, softly.

  Being what her parents called “a good sleeper,” the baby snored.

  “Marie!” Foxy stood on her hind legs with her front paws on the crib railing. She snuffled near the baby’s face. “Marie! Smell my breath, wee thing. Wake up to a blast of minty freshness!”

  Marie stirred. “Ahhhh,” she cooed, dreaming.

  Foxy wedged her snout through the bars of the crib and stuck out her long pink tongue as far as it could reach, until the very tip of it f licked Marie’s nose.

  The baby’s face scrunched as she inhaled deeply to cry. Then her eyes f lew open. There was Foxy, inches away. The incipient wail blossomed into a laugh.

  “Quiet, you cutie-pie baby, you,” Foxy scolded, though she couldn’t help being charmed. “It’s nighttime, and we don’t want to wake your parents, as they’re getting on in years and need their sleep. Otherwise they’ll be cranky all day tomorrow, and you know how stubborn they can be about taking naps, even when they clearly ought to. Understood?”

  “Nite! No ma, no pa,” the baby agreed.

  “Clever girl! Now, Marie, I need you to come downstairs with me. Adventure calls! Are you willing?”

  “Vencha, ya!”

  Foxy proceeded to toss stuffed animals from the toy bin into the crib until there was a big pile, enough for Marie climb up on and slip over the railing. Foxy stood underneath to catch her, and Marie chortled as she clung to the dog’s back, her fingers and toes gripping the thick fur like the little primate she was.

  Foxy grunted and made for the top of the stairs. This was no lightweight rabbit on her back. Marie weighed more than the dog herself. Still, Shibas are a sturdy breed, strong for their size, and Marie could crawl downstairs on her own by going backward, a recently mastered skill of which she was justifiably proud.

  They reached the kitchen without incident. The doorknob was too high for Marie to get a proper grip, so together they pushed one of the chairs across the floor, slowly, so it wouldn’t squeak on the “vintage linoleum,” as Sally liked to call what was clearly just an old kitchen floor.

  The chair solved it. The baby clambered onto the seat and reached, reached, reached, until she got both chubby hands around the knob and gave it a mighty twist. With a well-oiled click, the door opened.

  “Such a brilliant child,” Foxy praised, helping the baby down again and nudging the chair out of the way. Thoughtfully, she grabbed a fleece blanket from her own dog bed and gave it to Marie. “Wrap yourself in this, you sweet furless creature. It’s chilly outside. Now, let’s go—but quietly!”

  “Go!” Marie whispered. “Ahh, vencha!”

  * * *

  What happened then was not
something Carl could ever fully explain. Even years later, when it was a story he told his own children and grandchildren, it had the feeling of a fairy tale about it, or a magical fable from an old storybook with yellowed pages and a faded ribbon sewn right in.

  But it wasn’t so hard to understand, really. What happened was simply this: In a moment’s time, and much to their mutual surprise, a few well-intentioned creatures came to discover that they’d woefully underestimated one another.

  The two cottontails had bolted into the lilac bush and landed in Carl’s lap. They looked at him; he looked at them. Now doubly startled, they bolted out again at top speed. Carl scrambled to his feet, lost his balance, and toppled into the shrub. Lilacs have no thorns but they sure do smell nice, and the strong wash of perfume made the boy sneeze and started his eyes watering. He stumbled away from the fragrant shrub in self-defense and found himself face-to-face with an enormous bald eagle, a small fox, and two tiny rabbits, all of whom held still as statues and stared at him as if he’d just dropped in from another planet.

  And before any one of these furred or feathered or pajama-clad beings could move or make a sound, good old Foxy came trotting unsteadily through the darkness from the house. Marie rode belly-down on the dog’s back, gurgling with joy.

  “Oh my, oh my!” Foxy said as she arrived, breathless. “It looks like we’ve made it just in time. John Glenn! Alice and Thistle, my dear rabbit friends! And faithful Doggo, too! Oh, how I’ve missed you all. Being under house arrest is no picnic, I must say. It’s good to breathe the wild night air. How it stirs the blood, and kindles ancient canine fires!”

  Marie grinned as she slipped from Foxy’s back and onto her feet. If she kept one hand firmly on the dog’s head, she could stand up with only a tiny bit of wobbling.

  “Hi, cham,” she said to Carl. It was her way of saying champ.

  “Marie!” Carl kept his voice low, but he was gobsmacked. “What are you doing outside?”

  The baby pointed at the animals. “Ja Glan! Bun bun! Doggo!” By Doggo she meant Foxy. When she got to the fox she stopped. “Who?”

  “That’s Doggo, too,” Foxy explained. “I know it’s confusing.”

  “Doggo Doggo!” the baby said in delight.

  Foxy sniffed. “Doggo, something around here smells minty fresh, and I do believe it’s your breath! I heartily approve. But what am I saying; first things first. John Glenn, have my friends been able to help you with your tangled thingamabob?”

  “My tracker? No, not yet. We’re all just getting acquainted.” The bird looked wary. “I wasn’t expecting a human to be here. He’s not”—the eagle paused, and his voice dropped—“a scientist, is he?”

  Foxy laughed. “Hardly. Carl is more the comic-book type. He’s a good boy, though. Clever, in his way.”

  Remember that Carl could understand none of this, except for Marie’s baby talk. But it seemed to him that the animals were conferring with one another. He thought he ought to try to say something.

  “Um, hi,” he ventured. “I’m Carl. You’re John Glenn, right?”

  The eagle stared at him with those fearsome yellow eyes, and blinked.

  “I know your name from the website,” Carl explained, trying not to feel foolish. “And you two rabbits—I watched you through my binoculars. I saw you taking care of the garden.”

  The cottontails’ whiskers quivered, but they stared at him bravely, and didn’t bolt or freeze.

  Foxy’s tail waggled with pride. “I told you he was clever,” she said.

  Carl turned to his sister. “Marie,” he said, his voice shaky, “do you understand what’s going on here?”

  “Sa vee dent,” she burbled.

  “It’s self-evident to everyone but him,” Doggo scoffed.

  Thistle leaned close to Alice and whispered, “Do you suppose the boy-farmer will figure it out?”

  “I don’t know,” Alice whispered back, “but if he does, maybe he’ll be able to help with the pea-vine stakes. Look what a giant he is!”

  “Okay,” Carl said softly. “Maybe I’m crazy, but I think you rabbits planted this garden, and now you’re taking care of it. I think the fox stands guard while you work. I saw how he jumped up to protect you when the eagle arrived. I’m not sure what John Glenn is doing here”—he turned to the bird—“but it’s not the first time you’ve come, so it’s probably not an accident. Foxy, I bet you know everything. You dumb dog! If only you could talk.”

  Foxy whimpered and nuzzled the boy’s hand. The other animals held still, quiet and expectant. Carl felt like he was dreaming, but he also felt suddenly spacious inside, like a parachute near his heart had bloomed wide open and was longing to rise.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to tell anybody what you’re doing. They’re already suspicious. At least, Farmer Janis is. I think I can keep her from finding out the truth. But it means I’m going to have to come down here every day and pretend to do stuff in the garden. Don’t be scared of me, okay? I promise I won’t mess it up.”

  The animals gazed at him calmly, as if they understood.

  On impulse, Carl dropped to the ground, to his knees. He held his hand out to the rabbits. The smaller one shrank back, but the larger one hopped once, twice, three times. She touched her tiny nose to the boy’s fingertips.

  Foxy woofed quietly to Marie.

  “Alice,” Marie said clearly. “Alice bun bun!”

  “Alice? Is that your name, little farmer?” he said. The rabbit looked up at him, her white tail wriggling. “Okay, Farmer Alice. I’ll do my best to help you. But you’re in charge.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tend your garden well.

  The morning after a miracle is a rare and curious thing.

  A person’s liable to wake up extra early, with a powerful appetite and a fresh outlook on life. All things seem possible on such a morning, even things that aren’t. Or weren’t. Or shouldn’t be, but nevertheless. It made you want to laugh and cry and yell “Merry Christmas!” out the window, like that reformed old miser did in the Christmas story Carl’s parents liked to read aloud at holiday time, about the three ghosts and Tiny Tim.

  That’s how it was for Carl, anyway. He bounded out of bed to bid “howd’ya do” to that wonderful, bright yellow sun the moment it peeked above the treetops, shining its happy beams through his bedroom window and right onto his pillow. He dressed in a hurry and made a beeline for Marie’s room. This wasn’t his usual routine, as he’d always tended to think of Marie as his parents’ job. However, he’d acquired a whole new respect for his baby sister now that he knew she, too, was capable of daring escapes and late-night adventures. A kid who couldn’t yet use the bathroom! It was impressive, to say the least.

  Even her knack with the animals made sense to Carl, once you considered that she was still a four-legged creature herself half the time. It was a shame she was so bad at conversation. He would have liked to talk over the previous night’s events with someone, and she was the only human witness he had. But when Marie saw her big brother was the one to come in her room and take her out of the crib, her face lit up like a small, chubby-cheeked version of that morning sun. She started babbling “bun-bun” and “Ja Glan” and “Cham, Alice, yay!” and that’s when Carl knew for sure it hadn’t been a dream.

  By the time Sally came downstairs, a good three-quarters of an hour later than usual, Carl was feeding Marie her breakfast applesauce. The high chair buckles were too childproof for Carl to figure out, so they’d made a picnic in Foxy’s dog bed. Marie sat on the little sofa, a perfect size for her, and Foxy curled around the baby’s bare pudgy feet to warm them, as Carl hadn’t thought to bring a pair of her absurdly small baby socks downstairs.

  Sally was stunned. “Well, would you look at that,” she said, when the power of speech returned. “Good morning, early birds! What brought this on?”

  Carl squirmed and avoided eye contact. “I got up early because … it was morning, I guess? And Marie was alr
eady awake, so…”

  “So you got her up and made breakfast. And you even unplugged the baby monitor to let me and Daddy sleep in? It’s—I don’t know what to say, honey. It’s like a miracle!” She felt her own forehead, as if checking for fever. “I can’t believe you thought to do all that.”

  Carl frowned. “I didn’t unplug the baby monitor.”

  “Woof.” Foxy gazed inscrutably at Carl. “Woof, woof.”

  “I mean, yeah, I did,” he went on, smooth as milk. “I unplugged it. The monitor. Like you just said.” Carl spooned more applesauce into his sister. “I didn’t want the noise to wake up you and Dad, since I was already taking care of Marie. You two deserve to sleep in for a change.”

  Sally looked ready to weep with joy. “A miracle. There’s no other word for it.”

  “Di di di di di,” Marie growled, yanking at the seat of her pajamas.

  “Wait; was I supposed to change her diaper?” Carl asked innocently. Feeding Marie breakfast was one thing, but diaper chores were a whole other category of big brotherdom.

  “No worries, I’ll do it.” Sally smiled and reached down for the malodorous Marie. “I’m glad you two had a fun morning of brother-sister time. Although part of me thinks I must still be dreaming! Come on, baby girl.” Child in her arms, Sally practically skipped upstairs for the diaper change, a real spring in her step. Amazing what a little extra sleep can do for a hardworking mother!

  * * *

  The miracles kept piling up. The next came a short while later, after Brad, too, appeared downstairs, and he and Sally had enjoyed their morning coffee. This marked the official start of the Harvey household day.