by John Crowley
“Well!” he said. “What’s up? Any word from August?” They didn’t answer, and he held up to show them four fat speckled trout neatly strung. “Supper!” he said, and for a moment they were all motionless, a tableau, he with the fish, they with their thoughts, the rest only watching and waiting.
No Catching Up
The cards had altered in their time elsewhere, Violet found, though just how she couldn’t at first define. What meaning they had once had seemed to have clouded over, to have become powdered or dusty with obscurity; the patent, even funny quadrilles of meaning the figures had once joined hands in whenever she laid them out, the Oppositions and Influences and so on—they would have none of it any more. It was only after she and Nora had investigated them for a long time that she discovered that they had not lost power but gained it: they could no longer do what they had done, but they could, if interpreted correctly, predict with great accuracy the small events of Drinkwater daily life: gifts, and colds, and sprains; the itineraries of absent loved ones; whether it would rain on a picnic—that sort of thing. Only now and again did the deck throw up anything more startling. But it was a great help. They would grant us that, Violet thought; that gift in exchange … In fact she supposed (much later on) that to bestow this diurnal exactness of her deck was why they had taken it from her in the first place, unless they just couldn’t help bestowing it. There was no catching up with them, no, not ever.
August’s offspring would in the course of time be settled around the five towns, some with their mothers and grandmothers, some with others, changing names and families as they moved, as in a game of musical chairs: when the music stopped, in fact, two of the children (by a process so charged with emotion, and so complex in its jointure of shame, regret, love, indifference and kindliness that the participants would never be able to agree later on how it had happened) had changed places in two different dishonored households.
When Smoky Barnable came to Edgewood, August’s descendants, disguised under several names, had come to the dozens. There were Flowers, and Stones, and Weeds; Charles Wayne was a grandson. One though, left out in the game, had found no seat: that was Amy’s. She stayed at Edgewood, while in what she called her tummy there grew a boy, recapitulating in his ontogeny the many beasts, tadpole, fish, salamander, mouse, whose lives he would later describe in endless detail. They called him John Storm: John after his grandfather, but Storm after his father and his mother.
CHAPTER TWO
Hours and days and months and years
go by; the past returns no more,
and what is to be we cannot know; but
whatever the time gives us in which
to live, we should therefore be content.
—Cicero
Jolly, round, red Mr. Sun lifted his cloudy head over the purple mountains and cast long, long rays down into the Green Meadow.” Robin Bird read it out in a proud, piping voice; he knew this book almost by heart. “Not far from the Stone Fence that separates the Green Meadow from the Old Pasture, a family of Meadow Mice awoke in their tiny house in the grass, Mother, Father, and six pink, blind babies.
Robin Bird’s Lesson
“The head of the household rolled over, opened his eyes, twitched his whiskers, and went out to the doorstep to wash his face in the dew caught in a fallen leaf. As he stood there looking out at the Green Meadow and the morning, Old Mother West-wind hurried by, tickling his nose and bringing him news of the Wild Wood, the Laughing Brook, the Old Pasture and the Great World all around him, confused and clamorous news, better than any Times at breakfast.
“The news was the same as it had been for many days now: the world is changing! Soon things will be very different than you smell them today! Prepare yourself, Meadow Mouse!
“The Meadow Mouse, when he had learned as much as he could from the coy Little Breezes that travel in Mother West-wind’s company, scampered along one of his many paths through the long grass to the Stone Fence, where he knew of a place he could sit and see but not be seen. When he had come to this secret place, he settled back, thrust a grass-spear between his teeth, and chewed thoughtfully.
“What was the great change in the world that Mother West-wind and all her Little Breezes talked of these days? What did it mean, and how was he to prepare himself?
“To the Meadow Mouse, the Green Meadow could not have been a better place to live than it was just then. All the grasses of the meadow were pouring forth their seed for him to eat. Many plants that he had thought were nasty had suddenly unfolded dry pods of sweet nuts for him to gnaw on with his strong teeth. The Meadow Mouse was happy and well-fed.
“And now was all that to change? He wondered and puzzled and thought, but he could make no sense of it.
“You see, children, the Meadow Mouse had been born in the Springtime. He had grown up in the Summer when Mr. Sun smiles his broadest and takes his time to cross the blue, blue sky. All in the space of that single Summer, he had grown to his full size (which wasn’t very great), and had married, and had babies born to him; soon they too would be grown.
“Now can you guess what the great change was, that the Meadow Mouse couldn’t possibly know about?”
All the younger children called out and waved their hands, because unlike the older children they thought they were actually supposed to guess.
“Okay,” Smoky said, “everybody knows. Thank you, Robin. Now let’s see. Can you read for a while, Billy?” Billy Bush stood up, less confident than Robin, and took the battered book from him.
The End of the World
“Well,” he read, “the Meadow Mouse decided he had better ask someone older and wiser than himself. The wisest creature he knew was the Black Crow, who came to the Green Meadow sometimes in search of grain or grubs, and always had a remark to make to anyone who would listen. The Meadow Mouse always listened to what the Black Crow had to say, though he stayed well away from the Black Crow’s glittering eye and long, sharp beak. The Crow family was not known for eating mice, but on the other hand they were known to eat almost anything that came to hand, or to beak you might say.
“The Meadow Mouse had not been sitting and thinking for very long when out of the blue sky came a heavy flapping of wings and a raucous call, and the Black Crow himself landed in the Green Meadow not far from where the Meadow Mouse sat!
“ ‘Good Morning, Mr. Crow,’ the Meadow Mouse called out, feeling quite safe in his snuggery in the wall.
“ ‘Is it a good morning?’ said the Black Crow. ‘Not many more days you’ll be saying that.’
“ ‘Now that’s just what I wanted to ask you about,’ the Meadow Mouse said. ‘It seems that a great change is coming over the world. Do you feel it? Do you know what it is?’
“ ‘Ah, foolish Youth!’ said the Black Crow. ‘There is indeed a change coming. It is called Winter, and you’d better prepare for it.’
“ ‘What will it be like? How shall I prepare for it?’
“With a glint in his eye, as though he enjoyed the Meadow Mouse’s discomfort, the Black Crow told him about Winter: how cruel Brother North-wind would come sweeping over the Green Meadow and the Old Pasture, turning the leaves gold and brown and blowing them from the trees; how the grasses would die and the animals that lived on them grow thin with hunger. He told how the cold rains would fall and flood the houses of small creatures like the Meadow Mouse. He described the snow, which sounded rather wonderful to the Meadow Mouse; but then he learned of the terrible cold that would bite him to the bone, and how the small birds would grow weak with cold and tumble frozen from their perches, and the fish would stop swimming and the Laughing Brook laugh no more because its mouth was stopped with ice.
“ ‘But it’s the End of the World,’ cried the Meadow Mouse in despair.
“ ‘So it would seem,’ said the Black Crow gaily. “For some folks. Not for me. I’ll get by. But you had better prepare yourself, Meadow Mouse, if you expect to stay among the living!’
“And with that the Bla
ck Crow flapped his heavy wings and took to the air, leaving the Meadow Mouse more puzzled and much more afraid than he had been before.
“But as he sat there chewing his grass-blade in the warmth of the kindly Sun, he saw how he might learn to survive the awful cold that Brother North-wind was bringing to the world.”
“Okay, Billy. You know,” Smoky said, “you don’t have to say ‘thee’ every time you say ‘the,’ t-h-e. Just say ‘the,’ like you do when you’re talking.”
Billy Bush looked at him as though for the first time understanding that the word on paper and the word he said all day were the same. “The,” he said.
“Right. Now who’s next?”
Brother North-wind’s Secret
“What he thought he would do,” Terry Ocean read (too old really for this, Smoky thought), “was to go around the Great World as far as he could go and ask every creature how he intended to prepare himself for the coming Winter. He was so pleased with this plan that he filled himself full of the seeds and nuts that were so sadly plentiful all around, said goodbye to his wife and children, and set off that very noon.
“The first creature he came to was a fuzzy caterpillar on a twig. Though caterpillars are not known for being clever, the Meadow Mouse put the question to him anyway: What would he do to prepare himself for the Winter that’s coming?
“ ‘I don’t know about Winter, whatever that may be,’ the caterpillar said in his tiny voice. ‘A change is certainly coming over me, though. I intend to wrap myself up in this lovely white silken thread I seem to have just learned how to spin, don’t ask me how; and when I’m all wrapped up and stuck well on to this comfortable twig, I’ll spend a long time there. Maybe forever. I don’t know.’
“Well, that didn’t seem like much of a solution to the Meadow Mouse, and with pity in his heart for the foolish caterpillar, he went on with his journey.
“Down at the Lily Pond, he met creatures he had never seen there before: great gray-brown birds with long graceful necks and black beaks. There were many of them, and they sailed across the Lily Pond dipping their long heads beneath the water and eating what they found there. ‘Birds!’ said the Meadow Mouse. ‘Winter’s coming! How do you intend to prepare yourselves?’
“ ‘Winter’s coming indeed,’ said an old bird in a solemn voice. ‘Brother North-wind has chased us from our homes. There the cold is already sharp. He’s at out backs now, hurrying us on. We’ll outfly him, though, fast as he is! We’ll fly to the South, farther South than he’s allowed to go; and there we’ll be safe from Winter.’
“ ‘How far?’ the Meadow Mouse asked, hoping perhaps he could outrun Brother North-wind too.
“ ‘Days and days and days, flying as fast as we can,’ said the old one. ‘We’re late already.’ And with a great beating of his wings he arose from the pond, tucking his black feet neatly against his white stomach. The others rose up after him, and together they flew off honking toward the warm South.
“The Meadow Mouse went on sadly, knowing he couldn’t outrun the winter on broad strong wings like theirs. So absorbed was he in these thoughts that he nearly stumbled over a brown Mud Turtle at the Lily Pond’s edge. The Meadow Mouse asked him what he would do when the Winter came.
“ ‘Sleep,’ said the Mud Turtle sleepily, wrinkled like an old brown man. ‘I’ll wrap myself in the warm mud deeper than Winter can reach, and sleep. In fact I’m getting sleepy now.’
“Sleep! That didn’t sound like much of an answer to the Meadow Mouse. But as he continued on his way, he was to hear the same answer from many different creatures.
“ ‘Sleep!’ said the Grass Snake, the Meadow Mouse’s enemy. ‘You’ll have nothing to fear from me, Meadow Mouse.’
“ ‘Sleep!’ said the Brown Bear. ‘In a cave or a strong house of branches. Sleep for good.’
“ ‘Sleep,’ squeaked his cousin the Bat when evening came. ‘Sleep upside down, hanging by my toes.’
“Well! Half the world was simply going to go to sleep when Winter came. This was the oddest answer the Meadow Mouse heard, but there were many others too.
“ ‘I’ll store nuts and seeds in secret places,’ said the Red Squirrel. ‘That’s how I’ll get by.’
“ ‘I’ll trust the People to feed me when there’s nothing left.’ said the Chickadee.
“ ‘I’ll build,’ said the Beaver. ‘I’ll build a house to live in with my wife and children, down beneath the frozen stream. Now may I get on with it? I’m very busy.’
“ ‘I’ll steal,’ the Raccoon with his burglar mask said. ‘Eggs from the People’s barns, garbage from their cans.’
“ ‘I’ll eat you,’ said the Red Fox. ‘See if I don’t!’ And he chased the poor Meadow Mouse and nearly caught him before the Meadow Mouse reached his private hole in the old Stone Fence.
“As he lay there panting, he could see that during his travels the great change called Winter had grown more evident in the Green Meadow. It was not so green now. It had grown brown and yellow and white. Many seeds had ripened and fallen or flown away on little wings. Overhead the Sun’s face was hidden by grim gray clouds. And still the Meadow Mouse had no plan to protect himself from cruel Brother North-wind.
“ ‘What will I do?’ he cried aloud. ‘Shall I go live with my cousin in Farmer Brown’s barn, and take my chances with Tom the cat and Fury the dog and the mousetraps and the poisons? I wouldn’t last long. Shall I start off to the South and hope I outrun Brother North-wind? Surely he’ll catch me unprotected and freeze me with his cold breath far from home. Shall I lie down with my wife and children and pull the grasses over my head and try to sleep? Before long I’d wake up hungry, and so would they. Whatever will I do?’
“Just then a glittering black eye looked in at him where he sat, so suddenly that he jumped up with a cry. It was the Black Crow.
“ ‘Meadow Mouse,’ he said, as gaily as ever, ‘whatever you do to protect yourself, there’s one thing you should know which you do not.’
“ ‘What is it?’ asked the Meadow Mouse.
“ ‘It’s Brother North-wind’s secret.’
“ ‘His secret! What is it? Do you know it? Will you tell it to me?’
“ ‘It is,’ the Black Crow answered, ‘the one good thing about Winter, which Brother North-wind wants no living creature to know. And yes, I know it; And no, I will not tell it to you.’ For the Black Crow guards his secrets as closely as he guards the shiny bits of metal and glass he finds and saves. And so the ungenerous creature went laughing off to join his brothers and sisters in the Old Pasture.
“The one good thing about Winter! What could it be? Not the cold or the snow or the ice or the flooding rains.
“Not the hiding and scavenging and deathlike sleep, and the running away from enemies desperate with hunger.
“Not the short days and long nights and pale, absentminded Sun, all of which the Meadow Mouse didn’t even know about yet.
“What could it be?
“That night, while the Meadow Mouse lay huddled for warmth with his wife and children in their house in the grass, Brother North-wind himself came sweeping across the Green Meadow. Oh, what great strides he took! Oh, how the brown, thin house of the Meadow Mouse rattled and shook! Oh, how the grim gray clouds were ripped and torn and flung from the face of the frightened Moon!
“ ‘Brother North-wind!’ the Meadow Mouse cried out. ‘I’m cold and frightened! Won’t you tell me the one good thing about Winter?’
“ ‘That’s my secret,’ Brother North-wind said in a great icy voice. And to show his strength he squeezed a tall maple tree till all its green leaves turned orange and red, and then he blew them all away. Which done, he strode away across the Green Meadow leaving the Meadow Mouse to tuck his cold nose into his paws and wonder what his secret was.
“Do you know what Brother North-wind’s secret is?
“Of course you do.”
“Oh. Oh.” Smoky came to himself. “I’m sorry, Terry, I didn’t mean to make yo
u go on and on. Thank you very much.” He suppressed a yawn, and the children watched him do so with interest. “Um, now could everybody take out pens and paper and ink, please? Come on, no groaning. It’s too nice a day.”
The Only Game Going
Mornings it was reading and penmanship, the penmanship taking more time since Smoky taught them (could only teach them) his own Italic hand, which if done right is supremely lovely, and if done even a little wrong is illegible. “Ligature,” he would say sternly, tapping a paper, and its frowning maker would begin again. “Ligature,” he said to Patty Flowers, who through the whole of that year thought he was saying “Look at you,” an accusation she couldn’t reply to but couldn’t avoid; once in a fit of frustration at this she drove her pen-point through the paper, so fiercely it stuck in the desk like a knife.
Reading was a pickup affair with books from the Drinkwater library, Brother North-wind’s Secret and the rest of Doc’s tales for the younger and whatever Smoky thought appropriate and informative for the older. Sometimes, bored to tears with their halting voices, he simply read to them himself. He enjoyed that, and enjoyed explicating the hard parts and imagining aloud why the author had said what he had. Most of the kids thought these glosses were part of the text, and when they were grown, the few who read to themselves the books Smoky had read to them sometimes found them lean, allusive and tightlipped, as though parts were missing.
Afternoons was math, which often enough became an extension of penmanship, since the elegant shapes of Italic numbers interested Smoky as much as their relations. There were two or three of his students who were good at figures, perhaps prodigies Smoky thought because they were in fact quicker at fractions and other hard stuff than he was; he would get them to help teach the others. On the ancient principle that music and mathematics are sisters, he sometimes used the anyway somnolent and useless butt-end of the day to play to them on his violin; and its mild, not always certain songs, and the stove’s smell, and the winter foregathering outside, were what Billy Bush later remembered of arithmetic.
