The Second Book of the Dun Cow: Lamentations (7 page)

For Rachel, everything is good and nothing is bad.

Ferric Coyote has terrible suspicions regarding the stone chimney at the bottom of their rocky defile. It is as a “rocky defile” that he thinks of the tundra-hole in whose wall his pups were playing. To him the stones below led into a sewer pipe.

But Rachel? She says, “See what we have? Enough for all of us.”

She was referring to the water droplets which was the steam’s condensation on the facings above the ledge, water to quench five thirsty throats. And, moistened by the water, there sprouts a green shrub through a crevice in the rock. And, smiling on the slender branches of the shrub, there dark purple berries hung in the shapes of tiny apples. And all over the snouts of her three children are smears of purple juice.

What can Ferric do but streak south into the northern forests and watch for the dangers that love persuades him must lie in wait to endanger his family?

Forth and back. Forth and back—and, once before he dashes away, Rachel nuzzles him and says, “O Ferric, my unquiet defender. I pray that your son and your daughters live more tempered lives than yours.”

But Rachel does not know what Ferric knows: that there
are
bad Creatures skulking throug the forest!

A White Wolf roams the frozen bracken.

Ferric hides and watches.

It could be that someone of more bulk and bravery might consider taunting the Wolf, maybe challenging the Wolf. But the Coyote’s backbone is as thin as a zipper. His coat is rusty red, his cheeks retracted in a baleful grin, his black gums evident.

This Wolf foots the ground with stiff-legged threatfulness. He lifts his nose to the vagrant breezes. (Hide downwind, Ferric!) His white eyes flick the forest quicker than lightning. (See and not be seen, Coyote!)

For the love of his family, Ferric heaps courage upon courage and follows the White Wolf where he goes.

Forth and back. Then comes the night when the Wolf sits on his haunches in a small clearing, points his muzzle heavenward, narrows his slant eyes, rounds his lips, and howls.

Ferric’s hot blood freezes.

The great White Wolf wails a long, long note. That note ascends by several harmonics until it finds a higher pitch.

The Coyote hides, his skinny butt bunched like a carving. Retreat is impossible. He grits his teeth.

Then the Wolf’s ululation falls by a slow yodel into silence. Ferric too knows how to howl. He hears in this one an enticing invitation. Suddenly it breaks off. The Wolf stands up, his ears like cups turned to listening.

Another howl, a second howl, now echoes in the distance. Two howls. Two Wolves! Merciful heavens, must Ferric hide from a
pair
of Wolves? The Coyote’s instincts battle inside his spirit. Run from the danger. Stay close to witness the danger.

The White Wolf raises his tail. He paws the ground in anticipation. Then, out of the trees and into the clearing a
Black
Wolf arrives, her eyes shining like red fires in small lanterns. The Black Wolf walks to the White, grovels before him, and looks up into the face of the White Wolf, who lays the wrist of his forelegs across the other’s neck, receiving her companionship. Both Wolves wag their tails. They nuzzle each other, making strange, squeaking sounds. Joy. This is a Wolvish joy. What does Ferric know of joy? The Black Wolf greets the White Wolf: “Boreas.” The White Wolf answers, “Nota,” and they begin to frisk like children.

Ferric searches his soul and finds two advantages. The predators do not know that he knows them. And he knows their names, but they don’t know his. Knowing a name grant one some little power—if he has the fortitude to
call
that name aloud.

The night dissolves in dawn.

And all at once Ferric Coyote’s thoughts are blown away. Not by his ears, but in his heart. He hears Rachel’s voice, crying horror.

Rachel, crying for her son!

While his father is away Little Benoni has come to consider himself his mother’s protector. Often the pup sneaks out of the den and out of the hole to stand on the tundra, watching.

Rachel is aware of her boy-cub’s courage. He might
look
like Ferric, but now he’s showing signs of a heart like Rachel’s. Happy days!—they have a bold boy in their midst.

But on this particular morning when, half asleep, she assumes that Benoni has once again skittered topside, she does not know that he has, in fact, traipsed the big stones down to the bottom of the defile.

What brings her fully awake is a wordless twittering outside the den. Some little somebody is frightened and crying as if within Rachel’s ear,
Beware!

Rachel frowns, then crawls out onto the ledge.

Why, it’s a plain Brown Bird twitching up on stubby wings. The Bird darts at Rachel, then darts away.

“Good morning,” Rachel says, hoping to calm the brown Bird down.

But the Bird will not be comforted.

Instead, she flies to Rachel’s head and nips a whisker and tugs. She says aloud, “Zicküt!”

Come on, come on, and see what I see!

Then she releases the whisker and spirals in tight circles down into the rising steam, twittering anxiety.

Something’s wrong.

Come down! See what I see!

Rachel follows the Brown Bird down.

“Zicküt!”

The Bird’s voice makes a scratchy, unmusical sound, yet its meaning is clear.

In the moment when Rachel strikes bottom, she too is dismayed. The tip of Benoni’s tail is just visible in the chimney pipe, and the pup is barkin, “Benoni has his eye on you!” Her son is as taut as his papa in freeze.

“Benoni!” Rachel cries. “Come out!”

But Benoni does not come out.

Rachel drives her snout into the black tunnel, her jaws open to snatch the pup’s tail, but only succeeds in bumping him farther down.

Rachel raises howl in horror, “Benoni! Benoni!”

Suddenly pebbles fall, showering her. High above, where the pebbles have been dislodged, she hears,
“Tsssssst!”

“Oh, Ferric!” she cries.

The little bird shoots up through the steam.

Ferric’s voice barks,
“Yee-ouch!”

Scramblings and thumpings announce his coming. Then he is beside her, the Brown Bird riding his skull and plucking hair with a bill as sharp as a needle.

“What, what?” Ferric dithers.

“Benoni’s in the tunnel!”

Love overcomes fear. Without a thought Ferric plunges into the tunnel. “Benoni! Benoni!”

Then the tunnel is silent, as if it has swallowed both her husband and her son. Rachel holds her breath. The Brown Bird also floops into the tunnel.

Rachel gives voice to her anxiety. “Ferric!”

She hears the scratch of Coyote nails on stone.

First the Bird flies out. Then here comes Ferric dragging Benoni by the scruff of his neck, and Benoni with his eyes as wide as saucers.

Ferric zooms by Rachel and climbs the stony steps and does not stop until he drops his son on the ledge in front of the den.

At once the bony Coyote freezes. Rachel reaches them.

Benoni shakes himself. Saliva sprays his mother. The pup puts his nose to his father’s nose. “Papa,” he says, “I’m as brave as you.”

A Jackrabbit appeared. He sat outside the Hemlock and waited, saying nothing. In her peregrinations Pertelote noticed the shock-eared Creature. She went to him and asked if he was hungry.

“Nope,” said the Hare. “Yep,” he said.

“I’ll get some food for you.”

“Nope, nope” he said. “Warrior Weasel told String Jack to talk to Him-What’s-Lord-And-Captain-Of-All.”

Pertelote said, “Chauntecleer isn’t here right now.”

The Hare’s eyes were perpetually startled. His ears stood up like exclamation points—
Bang! Bang!—
declaring that ease was not a virtue.

“Said a Jack Rabbit should go to straight to the top. Said don’t fuss with other Buggars.”

Pertelote took an immediate liking to the fellow who seemed to believe that he had little to recommend himself, yet he dared the audience nonetheless.
Oh, see,
she smiled to herself,
how courageous a coward can be.

At that moment Chauntecleer came circling down from the clouds and crowing Terce as he came.

String Jack jumped, He rocketed two hundred yards away, abruptly switched directions, and rocketed two hundred yards back again, where he stopped dead and peeped round-eyed up at the crowing Rooster.

“Him,” said Pertelote, “what’s Lord-and-Captain-of-All.”

Finishing Terce, Chauntecleer cast his one eye down upon the visitor. He flew hither and landed, smiled and puffed out his chest.

“I suppose you’ve come for food,” he said.

“Nope. Nope. Yep.” String Jack, nerved, dropped a pile of poop-pellets.

Pertelote said, “John Wesley sent the Hare to us. He warned him to speak to none but you.”

Chauntecleer nodded. It was always so.

“What, my friend,” he said, “do you eat?”

“Sir. Sir. Twigs.”

“Twigs, is it?”

The Rooster glanced around. “Pertelote, who has twigs?”

“We’ve got bark and berries and dried crustaceans. I don’t know about twigs. His name is String Jack. Call him String Jack.”

Chauntecleer thought a moment. Then he brightened and said, “Follow me, fellow. It’s twigs you eat? It’s twigs you’ll have.”

He went into the hall of the Hemlock and threw back his head and crowed. “Ratatosk Bore-Tooth! Come out of your house.”

The shaggy nest five stories high shook as if someone had stamped his foot. “Go swallow sand, for all I care!”

“Come out,” the Rooster crowed. “Rip twigs from your walls and bring them here.”

“Crack your gizzard on a
bag
of sand!”

“I’ll crack your skull with my beak!”

“Chitter, chitter, chitter.”

In a magisterial roar, Chauntecleer threatened the Squirrel. “I’ll fly at you and tear your whole house down.”

At the Rooster’s thunder poor String Jack bolted and repeated his previous performance, leaping out of the hall, cornering and dodging, then hobbling back. A long-tailed Grey Squirrel was descending the trunk of the Hemlock, bunches of rough twigs stuffed in his jowls.

“And what,” he spat, “is Ratotosk to eat in return?”

“Poop-pellets.”

When the Hen Pertelote returned to her business, walking out of the Hemlock hall, Chauntecleer trimmed his steps to hers.

“I expect we’ll crowd this place before long.”

“I expect you’re right, Chauntecleer.”

“And none will go hungry.”

Pertelote paused. So did the Rooster. His eye gazed proudly into the future. Her eyes regarded him.

“Oh,” Chauntecleer said, “what good days these are.”

For the moment she kept her thoughts to herself.

“And Wyrm,” he announced, “will finally be destroyed.”

This surprised her.

“Haven’t we finished with the monster?”

“Oh, my beloved, no. Feeding the world is just a beginning.
Cleansing
the world shall be my more glorious feat.”

“Husband?” she asked softly, for she sensed mortal pride in his mood. “No one can cleanse the world of wickedness.”

Chauntecleer beamed graciously down upon her. “Beautiful Pertelote, place your faith in me. I have been granted an orphic knowledge. Mine it is to grant the whole world peace.”

“Lord Chauntecleer,” Pertelote said, “you look at me with your right eye only. Show me your left.”

“I can’t. It’s blind.”

She was taken aback. “Then you know.”

“Of course I know. Haven’t I always been the master of my own body?”

But Pertelote seemed to have the better memory. No. There were times when Chauntecleer had not been master of his body, let alone of his emotions.

“Chauntecleer,” she said, “How did your left eye lose its sight?”

He laughed a grand laugh. “It’s a long, long story, Pertelote, too long to tell it now. But here’s the gist of the thing. Recently I discovered wisdom in Wyrmesmere. I asked the sea to give me a portion of its treasure. The sea asked for something in return—and for the sake of the Creatures of the world I honored the request. ‘Throw the sight of one eye into my waters ‘and I will make you wise.’ And lo, blindness bought me a path that stretches from my feet all the way to glory.”

Pertelote tried to understand, but failed. His explanation had the effect of estranging him the more from her.

“Chauntecleer, do you love me?”

He boomed with laughter. “Would I devote my life to the thing that very well could
take
my life, if I didn’t love you?”

“My Lord, I have loved the you that has always been you. No amount of grandeur can increase my love.”

“Faith, faith, dear Pertelote!” the Rooster proclaimed. “Now then,” he said, “I have to go.”

She wanted to ask, “But when will you be back?"—except that he had so swiftly departed.

Animals came. Animals referenced a boisterous Weasel, and came.

Pertelote, the mistress of the community and the receiver of the hungry, lost herself in her duties.

The outside boughs of the Hemlock were sheathed in ice. It soared heavenward like a polished tower. When the wind blew hard, ice crystals struck the ground like tiny xylophones, and though the tree might sway, it neither cracked nor broke, and the frozen interior contained a most comofrting warmth.

There came to the woods near the Hemlock a Creature, a distant cousin of John Wesley Weasel. He was a Marten sleek and long, whose name was Selkirk. He kept himself to himself. It was only the beautiful Pertelote who knew of his presence. This was an Animal who roamed the marchlands alone. He dwelt at the outermost boundaries of every society, in uninhabitable wastelands. It must have been a violent hunger that drew him toward the oppression of too many Beasts all in one place.

What would he eat?

He didn’t answer because to speak words out loud seemed to unsap him. He shot up a spruce and lay on a top limb.

Pertelote moved in and out of the great hall, arranging smaller and smaller meals for the hungry since Chauntecleer’s larders would have to last the long winter through. Pertelote comforted the famished and offered solace to the broken. Yet a piece of the Hen continued to suffer the veil between her husband and herself. What she did, she did very well. But a sensitive soul could perceived the yearning underneath.

When the night arrived without a sign of Chauntecleer, Pertelote flew with two swipes of her wings to the limb she shared with her husband when he was home, tried to compose herself. Think, think: what should she sing to accomplish this night’s ending?

Oh, Chauntecleer!

“Lady Hen?”

Not Chauntecleer. It was a Mouse.

“You up there, Lady Hen?”

Pertelote answered, “I am here.”

“Want some buddies?”

Seven buddies, to be exact. Then, to put a good face on her restlessness, she said, “I never knew that Mouses flew.”

“Hee hee,” said one Mouse. “Hee hee,” the others joined in. “A pretty good joke for a sad Lady Hen.”

Sad? What did they know?

“My dear cadets,” she said, “why do you think I need friends right now?”

“Well"—this was Freitag—"me and my brothers, we don’t want to be botherations. But we see that the Lady Hen is not happy.”

“It’s the night,” she said. “Even our visitors are asleep. You should be asleep as well. I promise you, I can manage.”

So, seven Mice said, “Good night. Good night. Sweet dreams,” and, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

She heard little skitterings below. And soon her little comforters were sleeping too.

Pertelote admired them. She sent her voice like a silver flute abroad.

“The summer’s courtship’s long gone by,

Those evenings when my Lord and I

Were young.

He took my tears on faith and I

Would stroke his neck, and I would sigh

This song:

‘Come peel a straw, a summer’s thistle,

Blow on it and make it whistle

Dreams.’

And I? I never said he couldn’t

Build a world secure with wooden

Beams.”