Kneeknock Rise (2 page)

“I guess you’re pretty scared,” suggested Ada hopefully.

“Don’t be silly,” said Egan. “I’m not afraid of anything.” But he shuddered just the same.

“Here’s Egan, Mother,” said Ada when she had pulled him into the house. “Here he is at last. Isn’t he a mess? Sweetheart scratched him.” She giggled and put the end of her pigtail into her mouth.

Aunt Gertrude put aside a bit of sewing and came forward. She was as thin as her daughter and her narrow face was fringed with pale yellow hair. “Welcome to Instep, Egan,” she said. “Dear me! You look exactly like your father! I never could understand how my own sister could marry such a man. So big and cheerful and noisy. I do hope you won’t be noisy. You’re awfully large for your age, aren’t you? Dear me! You really do look just like him. And aren’t you dusty! Heavens, look at that scratch. Whatever shall we do about Sweetheart? Such a disagreeable cat!” Still talking, she led him away to a small room at the back of the house.

Egan felt better when he saw the room. There was a cot against one wall, with pillows and a pile of worn and comfortable quilts. The corners of the room were cluttered with little heaps of books and papers, and on a large table, besides the usual pitcher and bowl, there were quills and ink and an old pipe. The cloth on the table was stained with blots and pen scratches. It was all very untidy and interesting.

“This will be your room, Egan,” said his aunt. “You’d better wash yourself. I do hope you’re not feeling too bad after your trip?”

“I’m feeling fine, Aunt Gertrude.”

“What a brave, good boy!” she exclaimed. “Of course you’re feeling wretched and exhausted. Why don’t you lie down? No, you’d better wash first. This is Ott’s room, you know—did you know he’s disappeared again?”

“My mother told me,” said Egan.

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know what to do,” said Aunt Gertrude, sitting down on the cot and wringing her hands. “Ott’s been away for three days, and just before the Fair, too. Not that it isn’t easier without him, you know, but he’s a good man in his way, a gentle man, and I’m so afraid he may have gone—up there. That would have been a dreadfully foolish thing to do!” She dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her apron. Egan watched her and decided that she was enjoying the excitement very much, in spite of her nervous manner.

“You’re a bright and clever boy, I can see that,” she said, and Egan made another decision: he was going to like Aunt Gertrude. “Yes,” she went on, “you’re intelligent. You get that from our side of the family. Well, wash up and then take a rest. I’ll try to keep Ada quiet, but she’s such a stubborn child. I’m sure I don’t know what to do with her.” She stood up—and there was a sharp yelp from under the cot.

Aunt Gertrude shrieked and jumped aside. “Good heavens! Ott! Is that you, Ott? What are you doing under there?” She went down on elbows and knees and peered under the cot while Egan waited, round-eyed. “It’s only Annabelle,” announced Aunt Gertrude in a normal tone. “I thought it might be Ott, but it’s only Annabelle.” She stood up and brushed the dust from her elbows. “Poor old Annabelle. She loved him so. How could he have gone away and left her? Come, Annabelle! Come out now, dear. I’m sorry I stepped on you. Well, she won’t come out. I hope you don’t mind, Egan. She seems to want to stay there.” And Aunt Gertrude left the room and closed the door behind her.

Egan stood quite still in the middle of the little room and wondered, somewhat nervously, who—or what—this Annabelle might be. He waited, hoping that something would happen. He had the distinct feeling that Annabelle was waiting, too. However, after a few minutes, the sound of gentle snoring filled the room. Annabelle had stopped waiting and had obviously gone to sleep. “It ought to be safe to look now, anyway,” he said to himself, and he crouched down and peered under the cot. In the dusty gloom that hung there, the special cozy gloom that keeps to itself under every bed, he saw what at first appeared to be the round stomach and tapering legs of a whiter-than-average pig. “Strange to keep a pig indoors,” he thought, and then, “But it seems too frazzy, somehow, to be a pig. Perhaps it’s some kind of animal I’ve never seen before.” He pondered the dim white shape for a moment and then said, experimentally, “Annabelle?” The snoring stopped at once. In its place came a soft thump-thump and then silence.

“Well, there’s only one thing to do,” said Egan. “I’ll have to move the cot.” He stood up and dragged the cot carefully away from the wall and out into the middle of the room. There, exposed at last to the blue and peaceful twilight, lay Annabelle—Annabelle who had dearly loved his Uncle Ott but had been left behind. She was a dog—a dog with graceful white feet and ankles, a thick white chest, and a bulging stomach that hinted pink where the hairs were sparse and coarse. Across her back and hips were large, irregular brown spots, and her head, which was really too small for her body, wore several shades of brown that arched over her eyes, giving her a surprised and interested expression. Around her neck a thick roll of extra flesh fanned out soft fur into a deep, inviting ruffle and her ears drooped like rich brown velvet triangles. She was old and fat and beautiful and Egan was instantly enchanted. “Hello, you good old Annabelle,” he said, and dropped to his knees to pat her. She looked up at him, her brown eyes sad and misty, and then as if she had said to herself, “Well, well, perhaps…” her eyes cleared and seemed to smile. She rolled heavily onto her broad, flat back and, four legs akimbo, presented the meager hairs of her stomach for scratching. Egan scratched and after a moment she lifted her head awkwardly and licked him on the knee. They were friends.

Uncle Anson came home not long after, at suppertime, with a large package under his arm. “I’ve done it, Gertrude,” he said solemnly to his wife. “It’s finished. It will be the wonder of the Fair.”

“Say hello to Egan,” said Aunt Gertrude.

“Hello, Nephew,” said Uncle Anson. “Welcome to Instep. Gather round, everyone. Come and see what I have here.”

Ada was sitting on the floor in a corner of the room, playing with Sweetheart. “It’s just another clock,” she guessed without interest. “I’ll see it later.”

“Just another clock?” cried Uncle Anson in an anguished tone. “No, indeed, not just another clock. The clock. The only one of its kind in the world.”

Egan came to the table eagerly. “My mother told me to be sure and see the clocks you make, but there’s not a single one in the house,” he said, watching as Uncle Anson opened the package tenderly.

“He keeps them all at the shop now,” said Aunt Gertrude. “We used to have his clocks all over everywhere, but I can’t stand it any more. All they do is sit there and tick you away into old age and rheumatism. And the striking! Bong! Time to get up. Bong! Time to do the washing. Bong! Time for lunch—and so on and so on till you’re half crazy. Oh, but Anson!” she gasped as the paper fell away at last, “that’s a very beautiful clock indeed!”

Uncle Anson, having unveiled his masterpiece, lifted it and hung it from a peg on the wall. Then he stepped back dramatically and sighed. The clock was handsome. It looked like a big figure 8 set against a rectangular back and wreathed with twining wooden twigs and leaves. The lower half of the 8 was the clock face itself, but the upper half was a cleverly carved bird’s nest containing a large wooden egg, while two more eggs did for the weights. It was all fresh and bright with new paint and a very pretty thing to see.

“Now,” said Uncle Anson, “wait till you hear it strike!”

“Oh dear,” said Aunt Gertrude. “Does it strike? Yes, I suppose it has to.”

“But not like any other clock you ever heard!” warned Uncle Anson, his mild face beaming with pride. He wound it carefully and set the hands near twelve. They stood and listened as the clock began to tick toward the hour. Even Ada, with Sweetheart in her arms, came up to watch. Suddenly there was a whirring and a click. The egg in the nest opened like a door and out came a little bird. Jerkily it spread its wings, wings made of real red feathers tipped with black.

“Good heavens!” shrieked Aunt Gertrude, her hand flying to her heart. “It’s a kneeknock bird! Anson! You dared to make a kneeknock bird!”

In Ada’s arms, Sweetheart stiffened and the tip of his tail began to twitch.

“Listen!” cried Uncle Anson. “Listen!”

The wooden bird miraculously opened its beak and began to sing. “Awk-awk weep!” trilled the bird. “Brrrr weep-weep!”

A rust-colored blur shot from Ada’s arms and in a tangle of fur and red feathers the clock bounced off its peg and fell to the floor. There was a crash, a confused metallic sound of liberated springs and spinning gears, a last protesting “Weep-weep!” and then silence. And in the middle of the smashed debris sat Sweetheart, his yellow eyes glowing, and in his jaws the broken wooden body of the little bird.

“But I don’t understand,” burst out Egan at supper. “Why didn’t you
do
something to that cat? Chase him out of the house or
something!
” He looked over at the hearth, where Sweetheart sat contentedly washing his face.

Uncle Anson sighed heavily. He had been silent since the smashing of the clock and he was silent now.

“Well, why not tell him, Anson?” said Aunt Gertrude. “He ought to know these things if he’s going to be visiting in Instep.”

“I’ll tell him, Mother,” said Ada importantly. “Papa put a kneeknock bird into the clock, Egan. I guess he forgot about Sweetheart.” (Uncle Anson made a strangled noise.) “Sweetheart thought it was real. Cats are supposed to kill kneeknock birds. The Megrimum wants them to.”

Egan stared.

“Don’t be such a big dumb, Egan,” said Ada with a superior frown. “Don’t you know about kneeknock birds? They live in the trees at the top of the Rise. All the cats go up and kill them and bring them down. That’s how Papa got the feathers, I suppose. The Megrimum likes cats. He keeps the kneeknock birds up there just for them. We can’t go up to the top of the Rise, but the cats can. He likes them. And if people are mean to a cat, the Megrimum comes down and eats them up.”

“What about dogs?” asked Egan, slipping a bit of meat to Annabelle where she sat under the table, her warm chin heavy on his knee.

“Dogs! Pooh!” said Ada scornfully. “Dogs are nothing special. They never climb up the Rise. Annabelle couldn’t if she tried. She’s too old and fat. No, cats are what the Megrimum likes. Just cats.”