The Book of the Dun Cow (12 page)

“How old are we?” Chauntecleer cried, throwing the crow from deep in his chest. It would be some time before he was through, and he didn't want his voice finally to break at any point in his speaking to the assembly. His figure as well as his words, he knew, carried the message. A faltering figure would weaken the message and unsettle the animals.
Two
messages, really. He must encourage their faith. That first. Without that they would wither before the second message and die helpless before the enemy. And the second message would be to tell them that there
was
an enemy. Chauntecleer suffered at that thought. He truly did not know how he was going to tell them. He lacked words.

“How many years have we lived in this land? How many years has the land been good to us, feeding our children and keeping us alive?

“Ho, the ancient among you! Count the years and number the generations. We are very old in the land.

“Ho, the mothers among you! Tell me of your children. Do they know how to laugh? Do they run in the daylight, and is the sound of their laughter sweet to you? Do they know how to sleep in contentment? Tell me of your children, mothers! When last did you stand at their beds and weep because they died for want of food? When did
you
die inside, seeing them sent away to fight in the wars? No, I will tell you. Never! Their laughter and their rest, their fullness and their peace, have been everlasting in this land. The land, and the time, and the children—these are the Lord's doing!

“Then let the creatures of the Lord say Amen!”

In a thousand separate ways, the animals around the Coop lifted up their voices. They said, “Amen!” They had begun to listen. Good! Chauntecleer had found his rhythm, and the Council had begun. Good, good.

“Ho, the fathers among you! Tell me about your peace. When did you look for food, and it was not there? When, in the summer, did you seek out shade for your family, and there was none? When, in the winter, did you look to build a warm burrow and find neither the place nor the stuff for building? When, in all this age, did you ever begin a plan in joy, then find in sorrow that you could not finish it? Tell me, fathers, of your peace! For these are the things of frustration and despair—and in this land you have never known either one! Food, shade, warmth, and the divine ability to finish what you have begun, these the land has provided, and the land has provided so that you might provide! The Lord has permitted you to be what you were born to be. Then bless the Lord—

“And let the creatures of the Lord say Amen!”

“Amen! Amen!” The animals roared and thundered. “Amen!” They rose up and stood on their feet.

“Listen to me!” Chauntecleer cried from the roof of his Coop. His voice was hard and brilliant, like urgent lightning going out of his mouth. “Sit down and listen!”

He paused. They sat down again. He shot a glance to the Dun Cow. Then he closed his eyes and began to speak as if he were alone. But he could be heard. He told them a story.

“There was once a young Rooster born of hot and dry,” he said, “a choleric, snappish, belligerent youth. He was raised by a gentle, tired, widowed mother in a land far south of this one. And this was long ago.

“A Wolf roamed that land, terrorizing the animals so badly that they shunned one another. They lived in suspicion. By betrayal they dealt with one another. But the young Rooster was unconcerned—because the havoc in the land gave him good pickings. He stole food from deserted homes and treasures from hasty hiding places, took daughters when it pleased him, and turned everyone else's evil to his advantage. He was equal to the ugliness of the world. And it was, in fact, a wretched, ugly world.

“But then the Wolf moved into the home of this Rooster's mother, demanding that she feed him and take care of him; and the Rooster was forced to watch while his mother brought meat to the Wolf's table, was forced to listen to the Wolf's heavy snoring.

“Now this was something different, and the Rooster was enraged.

“ ‘Fight him!' he demanded of his mother when the two were alone.

“ ‘I can't,' said his mother.

“ ‘You don't want to!' sneered the Rooster. And hard though this was on her, it was the truth.

“ ‘It is the will of the Lord,' she said more than once, and she refused nothing that the Wolf demanded of her. Neither would she join her son when he cursed the beast, but instead she warned her
son
against displeasing
God
. ‘It is the will of the Lord,' she said often, gently.

“So the Rooster hated the Wolf and despised her Lord, both. If she would not, and if God could not, then he would himself fight the Wolf.

“He owned two iron spurs, weapons of his father: Gaff, they were named, and the Slasher. These he strapped to his legs one night, when the Wolf was sleeping. He wanted to wake his mother and send her away, but he couldn't without warning the Wolf. Suddenly, then, in the middle of the night, he leaped upon the beast, driving a spur into either side of his chest. The Wolf thrashed violently, but the Rooster rode him, screaming curses all the while and thrusting his spurs ever deeper. In his violence, the Wolf killed the mother; and then the Rooster killed the Wolf.

“ ‘The Lord's will,' thought the Rooster as he looked at his poor mother; then he laughed at the Lord.

“He laughed even louder when the animals of that land condemned him for his own mother's death and banished him. He was not at all surprised by their cheap justice: for the world was a wretched, ugly place.

“But the young Rooster would avenge himself on them. He never removed Gaff and the Slasher. Instead he planned to kill the leaders of the land one at a time.

“But during the night, while the Rooster waited in a tree, the Lord appeared to him. The light was so bright that the Rooster fell out of his tree, stunned, full of terror.

“ ‘Get away from me,' the Rooster cried, ‘or I'll die!' In the blinding light he saw himself, and he was a filthy piece of thing. One moment more under such a brilliance and he would be gone altogether. Worse, it seemed to him that the Lord could not but want to snuff so contemptible a life from the earth.

“ ‘Why do you hurt my creatures?' said the Lord out of his radiance.

“ ‘Your creatures!' moaned the Rooster.

“ ‘Why do you hurt me?' The light was a blaze. The young Rooster felt his heart afire. He answered nothing. He waited to die.

“ ‘Get up,' said the Lord. ‘In the north you will find a land in need of a leader. I will give the land to you.'

“ ‘I can't,' said the Rooster. ‘I'm nothing.'

“ ‘It is my will that you go,' said the Lord.

“ ‘But I am the least of all your creatures,' said the Rooster.

“ ‘You are mine,' said the Lord. ‘Go!' So mighty, so glorious was the force of that final command that the Rooster both died and got up at once.

“When he came, he found the northern land in sad shambles. But by the power and the will of the same Lord—for the Rooster still was nothing—he saw peace made in this place. Craven animals came together and became strong. Aimless lives, and days without purpose, began to smile and to work and to live with resolution. Order came to this land, because the Lord was worshiped and welcomed daily, seven times a day, by seven crows which the same Lord taught his Rooster. And as evidence of the Lord's labor here, the bandit Weasels, who once had lived for their own sakes only, turned and began to live for others. Not the Rooster—the Lord did this thing: And the animals produced; and the land provided. . . .

“By the Lord was a Rooster transfigured!

“By the Lord was a land made good!”

Chauntecleer's eyes were open again. Again he was standing full figure on the top of the Coop, sweeping his gaze all across the animals around him, while the animals sat in wonderment.

“Some of you know this from your own experience; but none of you has known it so well as you do now. That's why I tell you my story: I am a witness! The Lord loves you with an abiding love. He will not leave you desolate—or else why did I come to you out of the south
by his will
?”

A rumbling rolled through the congregation. Chauntecleer's story was like a rock dropped into a lake: It took time for the swallowing and for the waves to settle into knowledge. Chauntecleer gave them that time and stared away at the Dun Cow while he did. Now she was looking at him. Now her eyes shone like suns, and he was greatly relieved: Someone here knew the effort it took to tell that story. But in the daylight he noticed, again, how lethal her long horns looked.

As the rumbling began to die—but before the yard was quiet—Chauntecleer seized the wonder of the congregation and drove it in his own directions, crying in a loud voice:

“Now that time is come which one day
had
to come. God breathed faith into us so that
today
we might be faithful. For generations God won trust from us so that
today
we might trust him. Years and years of providence had this purpose: that for one day we might not faint, but believe in him—and fight—stouthearted, fight—and win—and live!

“O my beloved: but the odds are terrible!” Chauntecleer said in another voice. “And therefore I called the Council.”

Fight
? New rumblings passed over the congregation. Heads bobbed and turned to one another. Only the members of the Coop held still, as if transfixed, because, though they knew little, they knew more than these others.
Fight
? Whenever before have we had to fight? Why
fight
?

“The Beautiful Pertelote,” Chauntecleer said quietly, as if he were finishing the story which he had started before—and the assembly instantly hushed, straining to hear his words. “The Beautiful Pertelote was a mother like you, once.”

Was
?

“Her children ran and laughed in the daylight, slept with contentment, ate and were healthy.”

Were
?

“I was a father. I provided for my family. I knew peace. To every one of their questions I had an answer. Every one of my plans had a good ending—”

Why does he say “had”? Why does he speak in “was”
?

“But now Pertelote weeps beside three empty beds. And I have learned that the best of plans can die before they are done. My children are dead.”

Dead!
The entire congregation froze at the word.

Now Chauntecleer had to speak very fast, but very clearly—before the calm exploded:

“If the murderer were from among us, I would not tell you of the murder. It wouldn't concern you. But he's from another place, another land. And the death of my children is only his first word to us—to us all. This is the day which had to come. The enemy is frightful and full of power and hateful and of a mind to murder all the children, to ruin all the land, to slaughter this place with the next, to leave no soul alive. We've got to be one as we have been one! For he is many. We've got to prepare! We will have to fight him when he comes. But we can! In the name of God we can—and by God triumph!”

But it so often happens that first words steal from the last words; and at this particular moment, the animals were stunned rather than encouraged. “Murder,” “enemy” rang in their ears. “Triumph” they hadn't heard at all. And the explosion which Chauntecleer expected—that never came.

For so many animals to be in one place, the silence was astonishing. Here, there, and yonder back to the forest, the eyes stared at Chauntecleer as if there were so much more to be said. He had opened them up. Now they wanted filling—and suddenly the Rooster was lost, exhausted. Mouths drooped open, because every creature had forgotten himself. Ears stood up, twitching, reaching for a sound, some other sound besides the lonely note of peril. And Chauntecleer didn't know what else to put in those ears. Had they heard nothing of his first important message? What did they think—that he was just dithering when he spoke of God's faithfulness to them? So much preparation for this moment, and their ears had been stone!

Chauntecleer's stomach hurt as if he had been kicked there. He had said it all, all the comfort that there was to say, and the animals silently awaited
first
words of comfort! But he was dry. One part of him wanted to scream: “But the almighty God loves you, will never leave you to be orphans!” while another part of him wanted simply to damn the pack and send it home. As a result, the Rooster said nothing, stared limply at them in disbelief, and became fearfully conscious of his stomachache.

Then, from down below him, from somewhere near the Coop, a voice began to sing a song.

The song was beautiful, a new thing in this place and unexpected. The voice was like a single shaft of cool light through so much gloom. It sang “Ah.” It was sure of itself. It wound like a purely silken thread around all the thousand animals in the yard. It rose high and yet higher, singing no more than “Ah.” “Ah” to the hearts of the thousand. “Ah” unto their Lord. “Ah” as clear and beautiful as the limber sky.

For one wild moment Chauntecleer thought that this was the voice of the Dun Cow, though he had absolutely no reason to think so. He stared out over the assembly to find her. And he did, at the very back, underneath the trees. No, it wasn't her voice. But once again he saw her eyes with a strange clarity, and he perceived where she was looking. The Dun Cow was gazing directly at the singer. Chauntecleer followed her gaze and saw that it was the Beautiful Pertelote who had begun to sing. The lady had found her voice.

And all the company of the animals was listening.

Chauntecleer sat down upon the top beam of the Coop and found that he was bone weary.

When she had risen to a region of crystal beauty, Pertelote turned her song into “Turalay,” and it became a ballad. What a shining and peaceful ballad! It settled the entire multitude and, listening, they closed their mouths.