The Cottage in the Woods (30 page)

“What do you mean, ‘sound true’? Is it true or not?”

“Just repeat it a few more times: The locket is in the jade vase in the drawing room. The locket is in the jade vase in the drawing room. Doesn’t that seem true to you now? You can do the same thing with numbers. Try: Two plus two equals five.
Two plus two equals five. Two plus two equals five. Two plus two equals five. When you say it again and again and again, it seems true, don’t you think? Just try it.”

“Mirror, you are driving me to distraction. I don’t believe for one minute that my locket is inside the jade vase in the drawing room!”

“You really must keep saying it, you know. Get all your friends to say it too. Get
everyone
to say it! Before you know it, it will seem really true, and that’s just as good as truth. The locket is inside the—”

“Stop that!”

“Or you could try writing it! Anything written must be true.”

“Stop!” I cried, banging my fist down on the top of the bureau.

“Two plus two equals f—”

“Stop it right now!”

“All right, but your locket is in—”

“I’m leaving now! Go back to sleep!” Instantly, the mirror went black, and once again I turned away in frustration. I knew the mirror was lying, but I couldn’t stop myself from going down to the drawing room and discerning for myself whether the locket could be there inside a jade vase. Just in case. It took only a minute to determine that there was no jade vase in the drawing room. I buried my face in my paws, and gave in to despair. I felt it was time I accepted it: I would never see my locket again.

It was two weeks later, as I was resting in my chamber after a tiring day, that Mr. Vaughn sent a message by way of Fairchild
that the men’s choir would be gathering in the basement at sunset, and that I was welcome to attend. I was thankful they had included me as part of their organization, but such a welter of angst and indecision was precipitated by this friendly invitation! With my whole heart I desired to go, but I had managed to avoid Mr. Bentley altogether for the past six weeks. Was I ready to face him again? I wondered if it were possible for us to have a simple friendship when it would always mean so much more than that to me. I imagined spending the evening hiding out in my room instead, while the meeting went on without me, and quickly rejected the idea. Refusing to think about it anymore, I decided to go. Momentarily forgetting I was in mourning, I tried to decide what to wear, then admonished myself for my vanity.

At the appointed time, dressed in my plain black mourning frock, I followed Fairchild to the lower cellar, only to find Mr. Vaughn and many other familiar faces gathered around the new printing press, which was now assembled and functional. The editor, Mr. Weatherby, was explaining that this was a Stanhope press, made entirely of iron—small and squat, but capable of producing 250 copies per hour. He was giving a demonstration, cranking out copies of the last page of our new newspaper, the
Plain Truth
, as others collated and folded them. Spotting Mrs. Snover among some of the other wives there, I went to stand with her. I couldn’t help looking around furtively for Mr. Bentley. At first I could not see him. Our numbers had grown so that there was quite a crowd in the lamp-lit cellar, but when Mr. Weatherby began passing out printed pages, Mr. Bentley stepped forward and began to speak. My tears welled up involuntarily at the sight of him, with his deep, bright eyes and his noble demeanor, and I stepped behind the large gentleman
standing next to me so that my distress would not be seen while I mastered my emotions.

“I’ve just learned that the society is pressing the town fathers to enact a curfew,” he informed us. “No Enchanted animals on the streets after sundown. It’s said to be for our own protection. Of course, all the town meetings are after sundown; this is just another tactic to silence us. With the Enchanted out of the way, they can pass any law that they like.”

“They think they can stifle our voices while they legislate away our rights,” said an outspoken pig in a dapper suit. “Most of you know me. I’m Edgar Pig. I’m the sole survivor of three brothers, and the head of my own masonry company. I’ve been around a long time, and it ain’t hard to see where this thing is heading. If they pass this curfew, it would be just a matter of time before they make it illegal for humans and the Enchanted to mix at all.”

“Surely most humans wouldn’t go along with the society if they understood their agenda,” Mrs. Snover objected. I thought of what such a law would mean to the Vaughns and Goldilocks, let alone the whole parish. Such a thing mustn’t be allowed to happen!

“We can fight back!” cried Edgar. “Let the whole countryside know what’s going on! And you can bet I’ll be at the next town meeting, curfew or no! Babcock and the Anthropological Society won’t have it all their own way!”

Exclamations of hearty agreement erupted among the assorted creatures and menfolk. “Here we have it,” Reverend Snover announced. “ ‘A few honest men’!”

“Ah, yes,” Reverend Wright spoke up. “ ‘A few honest men are better than numbers.’ Lord Cromwell, I believe. Is it a war, then?”

“It is a challenge,” answered Reverend Snover gravely. “We could, of course, contest the legality of such a curfew; we might even win. The greater battle is for the sympathy and good opinion of our ordinary citizens. Perhaps we can change some minds at the next town meeting. Let’s make sure there’s a good turnout!”

“I’ve got the notice right on the front page,” pointed out Mr. Weatherby, “here in bold print: ‘Big Doings at the Next Town Meeting!’ I haven’t said what the doings are; everyone will have to come and find out for themselves.”

“That will suit our purposes quite well, thank you,” said Reverend Snover while the members of the men’s choir and the wives admired the notice on the front page. Much discussion followed as to possible stories for their next edition, and Mr. Vaughn asked me if I minded telling their reporter the story of the fight I had witnessed in town, saying that they would like to run a rebuttal of the version told in the
Town Crier
.

He assured me that they would not use my name, but only describe me as a bystander, and so I agreed. I was taken off to a desk in a corner and interviewed by a fast-talking raccoon with a piercing gaze, who asked for the “who, what, when, where, and why” of the story and recorded it with great dexterity. I was fascinated by his proficiency with words, and even thought I should like to try my hand at writing for the paper someday.

The gathering continued for some time after that. Many beasts and men had their say, but whether I would or no, my eyes followed Mr. Bentley. His observations seemed always full of discernment, courage, and reason, and I allowed myself to revel in being able to look at him and hear him without being noticed. As the meeting drew to a close, I was most sorry to tear myself away from this pursuit. At last we were all sworn to
secrecy as to the location of the printing press, and each stouthearted member of the group went carrying his bag of newspapers into the night to be delivered. As I turned to leave, I was detained by Mrs. Snover’s hand on my arm.

“We haven’t seen you at our Saturday-night gatherings since before Christmas,” she said. “Won’t you come tomorrow? Mother Hubbard will be there, and I’ll be making your favorite roly-poly pudding.” How could I explain to her how loath I was to encounter Mr. Bentley face to face? He had always walked with me to the Snovers’ on Saturday nights. Would he even come if he knew I would be there? Was he avoiding me as well? I had given up my only entertainment in order to evade all such questions, but now I rebelled at the thought that I must hide from him. In the end I resolved to take the risk—to go to the Snovers’ and let things unfold as they may.

On Saturday evening I lingered by the door with the ever-faithful Harry and his musket, trying to concentrate on breathing in and out as I waited to see if Mr. Bentley would appear. A footstep sounded on the stairs promptly at six o’clock, sending my pulse into wild glissandos of elation. I looked up to see him, to determine what his manner was, whether formal or friendly, so that I could quickly match it with my own. He was polite as ever, if a little subdued, and neither of us quite met the other’s eyes as we said our brief hellos. Falling into step with a careful distance between us, we set off for the Snovers’. Before long Mr. Bentley began a light conversation about the weather, remarking on how lovely the snow looked on the evergreen trees, and pointing out signs that it would soon be spring. It required very little response from me, but it comforted me to hear his deep voice, and served to smooth over the awkwardness between us. By the time we reached the vicarage, the strain had dissipated, regardless of the river of emotion streaming just below the surface.

Reverend Snover greeted us with open arms. Though the white-haired little man only came up to my chin, he gave prodigious hugs, which warmed the heart and welcomed the soul. The assembled guests gathered about us while he made the introductions. Peter Pumpkin-Eater and his wife were there, as nice a pair of hedgehogs as you could ever hope to meet. Mother Hubbard, who helped me with my coat, informed me in an undertone that it was the first time Mr. Pumpkin-Eater had let his wife out of the house in years—that it was all due to the patient counseling and influence of Reverend Snover.

I was pleased to meet the Snovers’ other guests: Edgar Pig, who had spoken up at the meeting of the men’s choir the night before; Reverend Wright, treating me to his usual admiring stare; and a Mr. Drood, a mysterious man, new to the area.

Once we had gotten acquainted, and had our pleasant conversations over dinner, we adjourned to the parlor, where Mother Hubbard was the first to say, “You’ll never guess what I found on my doorstep this morning! A newspaper! Not the
Town Crier
, but a new one. It’s called—What was it? Oh yes—the
Plain Truth
! Imagine! Someone’s gotten up a new newspaper, and it seems to be a whole different viewpoint, speaking out about some of the outrageous goings-on in town. It’s certainly time somebody did!”

“Yes, it was delivered to me as well,” stated Mr. Drood. “It seems to me like stirring up a lot of trouble. There will be some dire consequences when the Anthropological Society finds out who’s publishing this paper.”

“Maybe things need stirring up!” squeaked Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater, surprising everyone with the vehemence of her opinion. “Maybe if females had the vote, things wouldn’t have come to such a pass!”

At this her husband appeared mortified and irate, and Reverend Snover, who was sitting next to him, placed a calming hand on his prickly back, and said, “We’re all entitled to our own point of view, now, aren’t we?” Mr. Pumpkin-Eater looked up at Reverend Snover’s reassuring smile and took a deep breath as if he were trying to relax. Mr. Bentley, Edgar Pig, and Reverend Wright kept silent, as it had been agreed upon at the meeting the night before that everything about the paper was to be kept secret, with mail to be held at the Post Office until called for.

The talk quickly turned to the Anthropological Society, and its manipulation of local politics. The gossip about Constable Murdley’s attempt to intimidate the Vaughns had spread over half the countryside by this time, with several melodramatic touches added in. When Mrs. Snover asked me if I could corroborate the story, I replied that contrary to what they had heard, neither Constable Murdley nor Mr. Vaughn had actually thrown any punches, and that the children and Mrs. Vaughn had not been reduced to tears.

“Let me commend you, my dear,” said Reverend Snover. “I could use a great many more like you, dousing inflammatory rumors and innuendos. I’ve found that no situation is so bad that gossiping tongues can’t make it worse.”

“But it’s not all idle gossip, Reverend, is it?” Mother Hubbard asked.

“No. The threat is quite real, but we must meet it with logic and justice, not hysteria and vengeance.” Just then there was a knock at the door. A moment later Maggie entered the room, telling Reverend Snover that he was wanted urgently—that Constable Murdley’s young daughter was ill and had taken a turn for the worse.