The Cottage in the Woods (24 page)

“You mean they’re not?” quipped Reverend Snover, winking at Mrs. Snover. She gave him an enigmatic smile and handed him an apple, which he cheerfully bit into. “Am I a frog yet?” he asked, looking about the table. “No? How disappointing.”

Wallace cleared his throat. He stood at the table’s edge, his companions the dog and the cat sitting in chairs on either side of him, and the rooster perched on his back. “It’s not just old ladies who are maligned, you know. My comrades and I were each about to be destroyed by our former masters, whom we had served so well! And for what? The great crime of growing old!” Zeke, Tallulah, and Ernest all cried out in assent, making a perfect chord of alto, tenor, and baritone. Wallace chimed in with a resounding bass, and the rest of us listened, entranced.

“There is music in us yet!” Zeke intoned, then Wallace drew them to a close with a dramatic swish of his right ear. I had expected some cacophony of howling and braying, crowing and caterwauling, but it was obvious that the musicians were capable of making their own, eerily sweet style of music.

“Oh, I do hope you will sing for us this evening,” Mrs. Snover effused. “Tell us, how are you faring, all of you? We’ve been terribly concerned about you since the night your house was burned. Are you quite safe in Farmer O’Dell’s barn? Are you still getting threats?”

“Oh, dear lady,” said Wallace, “if you only knew the half of it. You’d think folks would thank us for driving that gang of thieves out of the house, but it seems some preferred the thieves living in their midst to a troupe of Enchanted musicians. The abuse has tapered off now that we’re living in a barn—like good animals. It’s a nice barn, as barns go, but not as good as our little house was. Still there are those who hurl insults, or sometimes stones, when we go through town. Even children can be cruel to us. There’s a disreputable-looking gang of them that all seem to use us for target practice!”

I was appalled at this disclosure, not realizing that things were so bad in town.

“It’s only a minority that are stirring up trouble,” Zeke interjected, “but they’re a loud minority indeed! Too much in love with the sounds of their own voices to listen to what the good reverend tries to teach on Sunday mornings. ‘Humans only!’ is their slogan. I know, because we’ve heard them chanting it, and it was written on the bricks they used to throw through our windows. I don’t believe the malcontents will rest until they have silenced us all.”

“Silenced us all!” Ernest repeated, rustling his feathers and bobbing his head up and down for emphasis.

I felt great sympathy for the musicians, and wanted to apologize to them for the way they had been treated, though it was not really my place to do so.

“Ah, yes, of course,” sighed Reverend Snover. “Silence, like blindness, allows evil to flourish. A certain miserable faction of our citizenry thinks that they can make themselves less miserable by being cruel to others. They seek to silence the Enchanted while they deprive them of their rights and jobs and property, and reduce them to living in the wild, or as unpaid laborers—or as targets for their sport.”

“Sport!” squawked Ernest. “Sport! Ha!”

“Things are getting ugly,” Tallulah fretted. “One gang of rogues asked me why I wasn’t wearing a collar—and offered to put one on me! People can be so rude! I’m almost afraid to speak out loud in public these days. Safer just to act like an old stray cat.”

“That is precisely what they want,” the reverend responded.

“They are no gentlemen!” Mother Hubbard exclaimed.

I had the thought that our own newspaper could not come soon enough. More people needed to hear the stories of those like the four musicians, but since the new printing press and its location were to be a secret for now, I refrained from bringing it up.

“Why do they call themselves the Anthropological Society?” I asked.

Unable to resist playing Devil’s advocate, Mr. Snark spoke up, quavering in his little crooked voice. “Anthropology, after all, is merely the study of man and his culture. The society is simply a fraternal organization for humans who wish to preserve their human heritage. What’s wrong with that? Why, they’ve been known to make donations to widows and orphans, and hand out Bibles to Sunday schools. You’re all being alarmists!” Mr. Snark sat back to watch the effect of his declaration, as if he had just poked a stick in a beehive and stirred it around. There was only a troubled hush.

“Even if all you’ve said is true,” Reverend Wright spoke up, “it is easy to mask evil with a few good works.”

“They take care to keep their surface appearance respectable,” Zeke added. “Babcock and all his followers! Perhaps it cannot be proved that they sully their own hands with the dirty work, but at the very least they incite a lot of weak-minded ruffians to do it for them.”

“Weak-minded ruffians!” Ernest interjected.

“Not only the weak-minded ruffians,” Reverend Snover put in. “Many of them are educated men who should know better. In fact, I am ashamed to say that some of them are clergy. They’ve tried to recruit me more than once.”

“Surely not!” I cried.

“Pray, how can that be? Men of conscience?” Mother Hubbard demanded, giving voice to my own question. How
could
a clergyman be such a hypocrite?

“A conscience can be twisted to suit just about any deed or dogma, my dear. Many of the constabulary have joined as well. I’ve found that even the lowest criminal may justify his crimes with a skillful contortion of his morals, so that he counts himself as a righteous and misunderstood man.”

This revelation sobered us, and we all fell silent. Perhaps the others pondered, as I did, just how elastic their own principles might be if challenged.

“Well, enough of darkness and disillusionment,” Mrs. Snover interjected at last. “We can buoy one another up through anything the future might bring; for the present, let us do as the Good Book instructs us: we shall think on that which is lovely, and that which is admirable. I do believe the time has come for some music, my friends, if you would be so kind.” Wallace, Zeke, Tallulah, and Ernest, seemingly happy enough to change the subject, graciously acceded to this request, regrouping themselves about the fireplace in the cozy parlor and treating us to a medley of sentimental ballads.

I had not heard them perform before, so I could not tell how this night’s artistry compared to their usual fare, but it seemed to me, as I listened to their poignant refrains, to be singularly stirring. Indeed, when they sang the haunting melody of “The Blue Hills of Home,” it struck me forcefully that this band of weary old pilgrims, betrayed by their masters, could never go home again. As I felt a lump growing in my throat, I glanced about and saw many a glistening eye.

That night stood out in my memory long after it was over.
Though I had become accustomed to older people failing to take me seriously because of my youth, that night I felt befriended by them. That night, the mantle of fellowship that had enveloped us all through the evening seemed to cling to each of us as we bade one another farewell and went our separate ways. How thankful we would be in times to come for such good and faithful company.

The last cold weeks of fall were upon us. Up in the schoolroom, Teddy—and Nurse—and I kept busy as the world outside turned white, and frost etched diamond-bright patterns on the windowpanes. The days grew shorter, the nights grew colder, and even we Enchanted ones were not totally removed from our animal instincts. Though we did not hibernate, the household retired by eight, and slept past sunrise.

My duties, already stretched to include afternoon lessons for Goldilocks, and my evening Latin instruction from Mr. Bentley, were now condensed into even less time, so that I went from one task to the next with scarcely a breath in between. My letters home to Papa became hastily scribbled notes assuring him I was well, but Papa, generous as he was, responded with long, colorful missives, filled with love and encouragement, which inspired me to persevere through many a demanding day.

In truth, I was grateful to be busy. Latin lessons with Mr. Bentley were, as I had feared, proving to be a hazard to my peace
of mind. My moods were unquiet, alternating between confused melancholy and a tenuous euphoria, depending upon whether I felt that he was indifferent to me, or was developing a fondness for me, or was merely trifling with me.

The hours I spent with the fractious Goldilocks strained my abilities to the fullest. She was completely untutored, capable of communicating only through spontaneous hand signals and facial expressions. I found that she could count, for example, but only up to three. Three fingers held up seemed to stand for every number larger than two, whether it was five or one hundred—a common enough limitation among many here in the Enchanted Forest, where things are so often counted in threes. We practiced counting fingers, chairs, stockings, and anything else at hand. I also tried the button games that had worked with Teddy, but Goldilocks had a habit of absconding with as many buttons as she could hold in her little fist and refusing to give them back.

Communication being the most urgent issue, I impatiently awaited the arrival of the specialist the Vaughns had called in to evaluate the child’s mute condition. This was the distinguished Dr. Bernhard Ehrlichmann, who, intrigued by Dr. Robinson’s description of the patient, had agreed not only to come out of retirement and take the case, but to travel to the Cottage in the Woods to examine her. Mrs. Vaughn informed me that they had decided that a human doctor would be most suitable for this little human patient, and that Dr. Robinson had vouched for Dr. Ehrlichmann’s trustworthiness and his disdain for all forms of interspecies prejudice.

The doctor arrived one cold, clear day in December, a wizened little man with an air of courtly authority and great intellect. What hair he had was white, and his monocle gave him the
aspect of a one-eyed owl. I was assigned the task of introducing him to Goldilocks. However, the child’s reaction upon his entering her chamber was to produce one of her little incoherent cries and retreat behind her hiding chair. This was fortuitous, in that he was able to hear for himself the only sound that she seemed capable of producing, but it was clear that his first task must be to win the little girl’s trust.

“You spend a great deal of time vith the child?” he asked me.

“Several hours a day, sir—as much as I can manage.”

“Und vat are her faforite toys, her faforite occupations?”

“Oh, by far her favorite thing is to be read to. She listens attentively and seems quite thrilled by the illustrations. Her favorite toy is that doll you see her with just now.”

“Very goot. I think it best if I am left qvite alone vith her for a time so that she might depend on me for her entertainment, und become accustomed to me. Iff you vill excuse us, please? Und perhaps iff you vill haff sent up some small portion uff her faforite dessert from the kitchen?”

Mrs. Vaughn looked a little doubtful, but the doctor treated her to his wrinkled smile, rich with the warmth of a lifetime of gentle good humor, and reassured her that he would only try to win the child’s trust with kindness. Mrs. Vaughn’s concern melted away; she rang for Betsy, then she and Mrs. Van Winkle and I retired to the little sitting room next door in case we should be wanted, and Dr. Ehrlichmann spent the afternoon sequestered with Goldilocks. We could only speculate whether his befriending of her might take days, or whether she might accept him more quickly because he was human.

He emerged from her chamber several hours later, and reported that while she did finally come close and look over his
shoulder, he did not want to alarm her by trying to examine her as yet. Plans were made for him to spend the night and continue on the morrow. This proved to be propitious, as he related the next day that Goldilocks’s initial gesture to him upon his entering her apartment was to hand him her favorite book to read, and that after a little coaxing, she had seated herself by his side. He felt that she was ready now to accept his touch, and enlisted our help for the examination itself. In the beginning, I thought he intended for us to hold her still for him, and worried that this might damage the trust she had built up in us, but I soon realized he had something else in mind. His stratagem was to first examine Mrs. Vaughn, Mrs. Van Winkle, and me in front of Goldilocks, all of us making it seem like a great deal of fun. And so he proceeded, first to check on our general health, then to test our hearing with a series of tuning forks, followed by a contest to see who could open our mouths the widest while he looked in our throats. In a bit of inspiration, the doctor asked Goldilocks if he might inspect her doll. The request was at first met with reluctance, but with a little entreaty success was achieved, and the much-loved toy was handed over to his care. The distinguished doctor solemnly proceeded to give the doll a thorough going-over, and, pronouncing her fit, returned her to her owner. Finally, Goldilocks all but insisted on her turn, plunking herself down in front of the doctor and opening her mouth wide. He scrutinized her with gentle efficiency, talking softly to himself as he went along—“Mmm … aha … yes”—but we dared not question him.