The Second Book of the Dun Cow: Lamentations (11 page)

Ferric Coyote has fallen into a deep, reproachful sleep.

“Reproachful” because this is the first thing he did after suffering the sight of his wife’s and his son’s tortured bodies. Horror kept him from touching their corpses. Horror dizzied him. Suddenly he could not hold his water. Wetness puddled the stones beneath him.

Finally horror drove the hyper-strung Coyote out of the defile, onto the blank tundra. And now, in spite of all, he has fallen asleep.

Ferric refuses to wake. If he did wake up, he would have to endure impossible desolations. O God! What Ferric has feared for most of his life, it has happened. In the end wasn’t able to protect his Rachel. He proved himself inadequate. Those he loves have perished. Ferric has become a wretch he cannot look upon.

So: sleep.

But in his sleep he dreams what in fact he saw and heard: the
Tock
of a Stag’s hoof.
Tock, tock,
the hoof-sounds descending the rocky defile. And then other sounds: a
Huff-huffing,
and then the bugling of despair.

Ferric dreams that the Stag is whacking his antlers against the stone wall. The tines splinter and crack. Then the great Stag delivers such a hit to the wall that one entire antler breaks from his head, like a timber axed. The hole that was made now begins to bubble blood. Black-Pale collapses. He releases one final, receding sigh and then he too breathes no more.

Ferric dreams another sound:
Yip, yip! Papa!

The poor Coyote, fearing to dream a dream of his daughters, burrows deeper into his torpor, until he is hiding so profoundly that he becomes a nothing in a nowhere.

The Wolves pad softly through the woods, drawn by the coppery scent of blood. Their tongues loll. Their jowls drip saliva.

The White Wolf leads the other two. Therefore, he is first to see the commotion ahead and the first to halt.

A foolish little Hen clucks encouragement. A listless Fawnis weeping. The Hen begs, “Come, child. Dasn’t remain. Oh, come with Chalcedony, and take your rest under the Hemlock.”

A Weasel seems to be floating away without the benefit of feet.

“Oh,” said Boreas, understanding.

It is a wide carpet of Black Ants that carry the Weasel bodily away. And a Hen with browning feathers at her thoat follows them, funereal.

The Hen pauses and turns, and the White Wolf is seen.

“Boreas?” she says.

The White Wolf tingles, so to be found out and named.

The Hen says, “None of you should roam the hinterlands alone. Come. It would not be wrong to walk with me. There is room.”

Nota and Eurus retreat into the shadows.

Boreas murmurs, “Room. But I think there are too many Creatures for our liking.”

He thinks that he has spoken privately.

But the Hen hears him. “As you please,” she says, then spreads her gracious wings and sails away.

Pertelote has seen the Wolves’ eyes as three pairs of lanterns: one pair white, another fire-red, and the third pair as yellow as Wasps.

When the Fawn De La Coeur returns to the hall of the Hemlock, the entire community is borne down by her mood. They close their mouths and walk softly. Mourning requires respect.

The Fawn brings the taint of death.

Then comes John Wesley home again, wounded and dispirited. Those who ask after Chauntecleer, those who want to know how the mission was concluded, receive no answer. It wasn’t that the Weasel refuses to answer. Rather, he is as hollow as an Eagle-bone whistle. The Animals have only the Weasel’s body by which to reckon events. And this is torn, the eyes barren. Clearly, John Wesley has not returned triumphant.

“Step-Papa?” The Brothers Mice pat John’s back. “We are happy to see you. Aren’t you happy too?”

But all his fur from the neck to his tail is a tangled mess. Little Mouse-claws cannot comb it clean again.

The entire community loses strength. Tasks are left unfinished. Foodstuffs are only half-eaten. Good relationships dissolve.

Pertelote does her best to provide some hope.

She walks among the Animals singing their names.

“Ratotosk. String Jack. Honey-Queen and your Family Swarm! Tick-Tock. The Mad House of Otter.” And, outside of the Hemlock hall she says to one Ewe Sheep, “Baby Blue!”

Oh, Pertelote wears herself out, trying to lift the spirits of her benumbed community.

And wears herself out the more because she cannot know the state of her husband. John Wesley’s condition has destroyed her last shred of confidence. All her guessings lead only to calamity.

So her worries concerning the Rooster are fast becoming anger. Who does he think he is, abandoning his Animals? It never
was
his calling to save the world. Save
these,
Chauntecleer! For
this
were you appointed by the Creator. Save the Keepers who save the world Wickedness and Hatred. Maintain
their
unity.

Oh, the proud fool, off to make himself a her, but reducing the divine “We” to one only: He!

Chauntecleer, Chauntecleer, why do you not come home again?

Oh, how Pertelote yearns to gather the Animals like Chicks under her wings.

And so it was that in the wee hours of the morning, the Hen begins to sing a sorrow-song:

“For safety I commend my friends,

Their spirits, sleep, and all their ends

To God.

And he whose life myself I live,

His name Sweet Singer, most I give

To God.”

Ferric Coyote may have slept for a month, or else for one fathomless night. He slept in a place of no time, and in a time of no place.

And then he wakes to find himself drinking a rich milk.

A low voice says, “Your children, Ferric.”

The Coyote opens his eyes. A dun-colored bulk overspreads his vision. Ferric’s snout is straight up. When he is able to focus, he realizes that he has been drawing milk from a soft, consoling udder.

At once he jumps backward and begins to shake his head as if he’s just pulled it out of a pool of water.

Ferric realizes that he is being watched. Brown eyes, compassionate eyes; a brow furrowed with the truth of the Coyote’s grief; nostrils that breathe forth the scent of sweet timothy and a motherly cud; one rangy horn that sweeps the air like a scythe—and the entire Cow covered with a coat the color of dun.

The causes of his grief exist in her as well, but her aspect does not judge him. His mourning has become her mourning, and her lowing gives voice to his heart’s inarticulate pain. They grieve together. The reproach that sent him to sleep she has taken into herself, and the water than spills from her eyes may be tears of suffering, or the tears of a heavy repentance.

Now the Cow begins with her tongue to wash the Coyote. And finally he, too, begins to weep.

The Cow lows, “Twill.” And she lows, “Hopsacking.” And then she drifts away.

Ferric knows. He has been given a job to do. Two jobs, as he understands it.

First he betakes himself to the ledge outside their den. He enters and finds his daughters lying pressed together as if sleeping. But they are not sleeping. They are starving.

He nuzzles them. They both speak with scarcely enough strength to add thanksgiving to their words. “Papa. Here you are.”

Ferric says, “I know where food is. I will take you to the food.”

His second job is the weightier one.

The rust-red Coyote walks down the steps, half-way to the stones below. His wife and his son should have appropriate graves.

But when he has descended to the level where he last saw them, he finds that the grievous deed has already been accomplished.

Who?

There are three vaults in the wall, each one sealed with a well-cut, elaborate stone door.

And upon the doors have been carved three names.

“Rest in peace, Rachel Coyote.”

“Rest in peace, Benoni Coyote.”

“Rest in peace, Black-Pale-on-a-Silver-Field.”

Who?

Ferric smells the scent of sweet timothy and a benevolent cud.

So, then: interment was not necessary. It is mercy. It is the shriving of all his iniquities.

In the ancient ages there was a Creature named Leviathan who sported in the ocean waters. Eyes lidded had the Creature, like the closings of the day. His breath could kindle coals on the surface of the waters. His heart was as hard as a millstone. And when the behemoth swam, he left a hoary wake behind him.

Once, so the legend goes, a flock of Swans, wearied by their long migrations, spied an island midway between the northern shores and the southern shores of the global ocean. It was a bald land. It offered nothing more than a place to rest. The sea was too briny for the oils in their feathers which kept them afloat, for it dissolvedthe oils and soaked their plumage, bidding fair to drown the great Birds. Therefore, they were forced land and to rest on that island.

After the Swans had regained strength, they flew on, telling every ocean-going Bird of the island in the middle of the sea.

Through the years that followed, then, generations of itinerate Birds took advantage of the dry ground. Their guano piled up. Seeds in the guano germinated and sprouted. Grasses and reeds, bushes and, finally, small trees graced its land .

Why, the Birds asked themselves, should we leave this so fruitful an island?

So they spend their broody seasons right where they nest and hatched their helpless chicks, feeding them until they were fully fledged and able to fly.

They came and they stayed.

Ants arrived. Butterflies, Bugs, Beetles, and soon a goodly society populated the place. Peace prevailed. They did not hurt nor destroy on all this holy, oval land.

But then, in the perfect month of Creaturely fellowship, when Chicks could cheep but could not fly, the entire island rose up, seawater sluicing down its sides, tsunamis rolling like foothills in ever widening circles. For from the beginning the island had been the monster Leviathan.

And now Leviathan, wearing the green and breathing laurels of victory, plunged down into the deeps.

And they, good Creatures all, drowned.

Chauntecleer’s return was inauspicious. He came soundlessly in the night. The wakeful Pertelote heard a small
Tink
outside the Hemlock. With the second
Tink
she knew its source. It was the tip of a spur touching ice.

Chauntecleer!

She wanted her husband all to herself. Therefore she muffled her flight like the wings of Owls and went out to meet him.

“Chauntecleer?”

He stood stupidly, avoiding her eyes. When she reached for him, he moved away.

“My Lord?”

He turned his back.

Even in the darkness she saw that his pearl eye was gone. Pertelote could see this because something else was glowing amber in the socket. And look: something amber was hanging from his nostrils. Chauntecleer shook his head:
Get away from me.
And amber tendrils dropped to the ground.

Pertelote felt a kind of horror, watching the ghastly discharge.

“Chauntecleer? Won’t you speak to me?”

He shook his head,
No.

“Please tell me what happened to you.”

No.

“I will give you my heart, if it could heal you.”

But the Rooster began heavily to move toward the Hemlock. He could not so much as raise his head. He was fat with grease.

So then: the world was lost. All the Creatures were all lost if Chauntecleer had lost bravura.

Oh, my soul, what sadness has come upon us now?

So the Rooster had come home. Hope was extinguished. He spent his days and his nights crouched of his roosting limb.

The Black Ants grew aggravated. Dizziness
ain’t work, sir! Blast you for
your—oh shit. Forget it.

Pertinax Cobb chose to keep inside his burrow.

“This time, Mrs. Cobb, I don’t mind saying: I
am
complaining.”

“This time you have every right.”

“The dismal Rooster makes a powerful stink.”

“Mr. Cobb, you speak my very thoughts.”

Mrs. Cobb said, “The stink could suffocate an unwary Squirrel.”

“Indeed.”

“No need to share our food no more.”

“You are a thoughty one, Mr. Cobb.”

“They
pee
on food, the stupid Animals.”

Even Pertelote had no will for housecleaning, nor the strength for song. Her single consolation was the abiding Beetle, Lazara.

“My Lady.”

“My Lady.”

Nothing deterred the Dung Beetle from her duty. The floor of the hall might be covered in a thick mat of waste. The smell might burn Pertelote’s eyes. But Lazara never protested. Devoutly she rolled it all into balls and rolled the balls away.

The Brothers Mice, on the other hand, did not doubt the possibilities of healing. They loved their Rooster. They believed that laughter could lighten the deepest darkness.

There came the day, then, when Chauntecleer developed a double—a tiny self behind himself.

For here came Freitag, hopping like a Bird on two legs, his forepaws clasped behind his back, his little face scrunched into the lines of desolation.

The big Cock stepped. The little one stepped.

In circles went Chauntecleer. In circles, Freitag.

“Hum,” said the Mouse, overcome with melancholia. “Hum, hum, hum.”

Suddenly six more Mice lined up in front of Chauntecleer intended to go. They began to clap.

Chauntecleer stepped over them. So they ran ahead and lined up again. “Look,” they cried. “Watch Freitag, dear Chanty-cleer.”

Again the Rooster stepped over the line of Mice. Again they scrambled forward and lined up directly in his way. Samstag jumped up and kissed the Rooster on his beak.

Chauntecleer stopped. He blinked. The Mice cried, “Hoorah!” and Freitag commenced the best part of his act.

“Heh,” he said. This was a sigh. He mopped is face and rolled his eyes to the skies and said: “Oh, ‘tis a monumental sad thing, to be alive.”

Freitag folded his paws and began to pray: “If only a body could walk the world another way than alive! Heh and heh, and mercy me.”

The little Mouse bent down and delivered a truly tragic moan, moaned until there wasn’t another scrap of air left in his tiny lungs, and, the best thespian of the seven Mice, looked crushed by misery.

Well! Then his brothers broke into a wild applause. “You got him, Freitag! You got him to a T!”

Freitag began to pump his small head up and down. In perfect solemnity he spun both forelegs like propellers. He leaned back and opened his mouth, and his brothers cried: “It’s Chanty-cleer! It’s Chanty-cleer, getting ready to crow!”

Freitag made a
Crick
sound, then yelled, “Stop, sun! Halt, moon! Don’t none of you clouds go potty on me. I’m gonna tell you of times and the time!”

Then, throwing back his head the Mouse crowed:

“Kicky-kee-diddle-dee-dee!

I make the laws up for ye!

And here’s the main one

To kicky your bum:

Shut up! And leave-a-me be!”

Oh, what a crow! Straight from the good old days!

The Brothers beat each others’ backs and roared with laughter until they collapsed, tears of happiness running from their eyes. They beeped and blew their noses.

“Oh,” they sobbed. “Oh, dear Rooster, wasn’t that the most wonderfulest thing?”

But Chauntecleer stepped over them all as if nothing had happened, and walked away.

He left the Mice feeling ashamed.

Freitag, little Freitag, their second youngest Brother, fought with all his might to keep his lower lip from trembling.

That night Chauntecleer returned to his roost and took his place by Pertelote. She could not bring herself to be grateful, yet she chose to stay beside him. He did not touch her, nor was there warmth in his body. There were, instead, those incomprehensible worms.

But he spoke.

“No one,” he said as if to no one, “knows failure as I know failure now.”

And that was all he said, and she suffered his cold silence.

Watch Lazara. Try to take comfort in Lazara.

“My Lady,” the Beetle said on the tick of midnight.

But tonight Pertelote could not respond.

Come morning and Chauntecleer heard the Hens cackling,
fighting
together. Their cries grew louder and angrier Chauntecleer dropped to the ground.

He landed poorly. His first steps faltered.

The Hens had formed a nattering circle. Inside it two Hens raced at breakneck speeds, one chasing the other. Fat Jasper nipped at Chalcedony’s heels. When Chalcedony tried to break through the circle, her sister caught her and pitched her back aat Jasper.

Immediately Jasper leaped onto Chalcedony’s back. Jasper forced the skinny Hen to lie flat on the ground. Then began to peck the flesh behind her comb. The pink skin was already freckled with old scabs. Jasper was biting new wounds, her furious beak pinking Chalcedony’s skull with blood.

Chauntecleer roared, “By God, stop this!”

The whole community was stunned. For an instant
everything
stopped. The Hen’s circle fractured.

Chauntecleer hissed, “Jassss-per.”

The fat Hen jumped up. She ruffled her feathers and puffed her wattles with contempt and superiority. A hiss for a hiss: Jasper spat, “Not my fault!”

“Whose fault then?”

Jasper aimed a fat claw backward. “Hers! The rag that’s lying there! Her that took it on the lam soon’s the war was over. Pretending to be a
dead,
miss Good-for-Nothing, is what
I
say.”

Chauntecleer whispered: “Started what?”

“Stealing food.”

“The rule is, Share.”

“Don’t I know it! And you, bleeding itty bitty pary-sites! Mealy worms crawling in great Lord Rooster’s brains!”

Chauntecleer raised a wing. Jasper ducked. But he only meant to cover his hollow socket.

That duck on Jasper’s part, that compulsive defense increased the fat Hen’s indignation. “Mister Cock-of-the-Poop-Walk,” she snapped. “Hey, Mister Piss! You gonna come and tell
us
the rules?”

She aimed a savage peck at his head. “Mister Fake! You
cancel
rules!”

Then, forlornly, Chauntecleer stumbled out of the Hemlock hall.

Now Pertelote flew from her roost and swooped at the Fat Hen. Pertelote’s claws became deadly weapons. She slashed the back of Jasper’s neck, then ripped the feathers out by their roots. But then Pertelote too sank to the ground. The fight went out of her. For she saw an amber maggot sticking to Jasper’s tongue. The fat Hen closed her beak and swallowed the maggot down.

Chauntecleer had gone to seek sympathy from the sea.

Once before its rolling breakers had thundered the rhythms that eased him. Father ocean. Booming lullabies. Oh, receive me now, and I will never leave you again.

His legs ached. His wings drooped. His toes were crooked. His walk was crippled. His feathers were oily. They could not keep out the cold.

Where else could he go but to Wyrmesmere?

Prop me up, great sea. Prop me up in all my leaning places.

He stopped and cocked his good eye forward. The ground had been disturbed. The Rooster saw distinctly a rupture on the battlefield.

“Oh, no.”

His heart began to beat. Emotion arose within him. He raised his head on a long stalk and peered at the ravaged earth.

“No!” he snarled. “Not that!”

Chauntecleer’s legs were empowered by a fresh vexation. He ran. For he had seen that Russel’s grave had been destroyed!

Damn it! Bones and Fox teeth lay scattered about. A thighbone had been cracked and the marrow sucked out of it. And water swirled in the bottom of the hole that Lazara had digged.

“Wyrm!” screamed Chauntecleer.

He opened his wings and flew, unaware of his renewed strength. Rage enabled him. He stroked the air across the wide, lifeless scar, then landed on the white salt beaches of the sea.

“Wyrm! Bastard! What have you done?” Wyrm was dead. But his mind must be alive!