A Taste for Rabbit Page 10

  But what to do about Gerard? And what of Elton? Could he be a part of Isaac’s devious plan? Harry had to know. He’d simply ask Gerard, perhaps circuitously at first. Then, depending on the weasel’s response, he’d question him more closely.

  “My brother, Isaac, thinks highly of you,” Harry would say. It would be a statement, not a question that Gerard could avoid answering. Gerard would look surprised, then try to disguise his reaction by elaborately lighting a cigarette.

  “Indeed.”

  “Your work for him has been so consistently excellent,” Harry would continue. “You must be gratified to know he trusts you with such delicate matters.”

  “So you know all about it,” Gerard would respond. “Funny that Isaac never mentioned he’d told you. Don’t you agree?”

  Harry could go no further. He had not the slightest idea what Gerard’s relationship was to Isaac, or what Elton’s relationship was to Gerard, and the more he tried to imagine the conversation, the more it went in circles, with Harry probing, Gerard evading, and Elton replying in infuriating monosyllables.

  Much later there was a knock at the door.

  Harry, who had been dozing in front of the fire, leaped up from the rocker. Good, he thought. I’m ready. They will be exhausted and cold; I have eaten, rested, and am refreshed. There will be a certain amount of verbal sparring, but now that I know Gerard is definitely working for Isaac, and Gerard doesn’t know that I know, I have the advantage. Elton will probably lose interest and go to sleep; I can question him later. By the end of this evening I will know where I stand.

  But Elton stood at the door, alone. “Where is Gerard?” Harry asked as he let the badger in. Elton was carrying a small lantern lit by a candle that flickered behind its protective glass. He looked tired; his spectacles were nearly covered with frozen snow.

  “Turned back. Hurt knee. Try tomorrow.” He slipped the backpack off his shoulders and dropped it and the sample case against the far wall.

  “Tomorrow? Where will we meet him?”

  Elton shook his head. “Didn’t say.” He looked at Harry, searching his face through his spectacles, which had now fogged over and were covered with moisture. “Problem?”

  Harry was furious but tried not to show it. “No. Not a problem.” Only an opportunity lost, perhaps not to come again. Then he understood. This must be part of a larger plan, something that had been in the works for a while. Gerard wasn’t spying on Harry. There was something else, there had to be. He’d never intended to come to the cabins. He needed to carry out the errand he’d agreed to do for Isaac. Harry had played right into his paws.

  Now Harry would be spending time with Elton, trying to make conversation, if you could call it that. He’d have to find out if Elton was a part of this scheme. And the confrontation with Gerard he’d been anticipating would have to wait.

  Elton inspected the cabin and noted the facilities in the back. When he returned, he reached into his large satchel, removed a small whisk broom, and attached a short wooden handle. In a few minutes, he had swept the floor of both rooms clean. Then he opened the door and briskly brushed the pile of dirt and crumbled dead leaves onto the porch before dismantling the broom and returning it to the satchel. Pulling a sandwich out of his pack, he sat down in front of the fire, then went outside and returned to melt some snow in the pot, as Harry had done. He knelt again in front of the fire and held out his paws, rubbing them.

  “Good fire.”

  Harry had watched Elton distractedly, his mind racing. He had to know what Gerard was up to. But there was a good chance he’d never see the weasel again. He would never know what that note was all about.

  Into the long silence, Elton said, “What now?”

  “What? What do you mean?” Harry had almost forgotten the badger was sitting beside him.

  Elton reached into his pack and pulled out a small leather pouch. He gestured to Harry and they sat down on the floor. Elton carefully emptied the pouch in front of them.

  “Don’t tell me you believe in this stuff!” Harry said. On the floor in a neat pile were about two dozen small shells and several smooth stones of different dark colors. There was one small translucent quartz crystal and a larger one, blood red.

  Elton looked up. “Why not?”

  Harry was disgusted. Fortune-telling was a fraud.

  Elton pointed to the stones. “Pick.”

  “No, not me.”

  “Pick.”

  Harry stood up. “No. I don’t want to. I don’t believe in it.”

  “Pick.”

  The fire was dying and the room had cooled. Harry walked out the back door and returned with more firewood. He built up the fire again and when it was spitting and snapping, turned back to Elton, who sat, unmoving, on the floor, looking at the stones and shells. Elton looked up. “Pick.”

  The stubbornness of the badgers.

  “All right,” Harry said with a sigh of impatience. He picked up a smooth, dark stone, almost a perfect oval, recalling for a moment his long-lost collection. “This one.”

  Elton nodded. “Ask question.” He removed his spectacles and wiped them on his pants, then carefully replaced them. “Shake.” He lay back on the floor, his head on his bulky pack, and closed his eyes. “Throw. No hurry.”

  Harry stuffed the stones and the shells back into the leather pouch. It was very soft and thin, and he could feel the edges of the shells inside as he squeezed the pouch in his paw.

  Think of a question. Fine.

  What is the connection between Isaac and Gerard?

  He untied the pouch and shook it violently, dropping the stones and shells onto the floor with a clatter.

  The shells scattered across the floor and the oval, black stone rolled into the darkness and hit the wall. The blood red crystal, smaller and more jagged, continued to tumble until it stopped, touching the black.

  Elton sat up and peered over his spectacles.

  “This is nonsense,” Harry said. “I don’t believe in moochy-poochy stuff.”

  “Not moochy-poochy.” The badger looked up, offended.

  “Well, then, what’s the answer to my question?”

  Elton was silent for a moment. “Not good.”

  “Just tell me, for the gods’ sake.”

  Elton pointed to the two stones against the wall. “Danger. Close to you. Path you follow. Dead end.” He started to gather up the scattered stones and shells.

  “What danger? What dead end? Is that all?”

  Elton nodded, his face expressionless.

  This is nonsense, Harry thought. “The only thing close to me is you, Elton,” he said, scooping up the distant stones and handing them over.

  “Not me.”

  Harry looked at Elton’s calm, bespectacled face. I believe him, he thought. “And besides, it didn’t answer my question.”

  “Sure?” He took the stones and shells from Harry. “My turn.”

  “Which piece is yours?”

  Elton held up the translucent quartz. He put everything back into the pouch and held it in his paws for a moment, his eyes closed. Then he smoothed a spot on the floor, shook the pouch, untied the leather cord, and poured out the contents in front of him.

  This time the shells formed an irregular circle on the floor; a few appeared to radiate from the center. Harry’s black stone had stopped next to the translucent quartz near the center of the circle; the red had rolled far off into the darkness along with some other shells.

  “What did you ask?” What urgent question could Elton need to have answered? Harry thought. Will I sleep soundly tonight? Will my customers place big orders? Will I ever speak in complete sentences?

  “Weather,” Elton said. He looked at the floor for a moment, then pointed to the circle. “Sun tomorrow.” He collected the shells and stones, put the pouch back into his sack, and turned to Harry. “Need sleep. You?” He gestured to the top bunk.

  Harry had no idea if there was even a mattress there. He climbed up and saw that i
t was in the same condition as the one below. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll take the top.”

  In a few minutes they had doused the candles. The cabin was very dark, the fire slowly dying once more. Elton had placed his pack beneath the bed after withdrawing from it a pair of soft, faded red slippers and a matching nightcap, both of which he donned with obvious relief and pleasure. He wrapped his coat around him, carefully placed his spectacles on the floor next to his bed within easy reach in the dark, and fell asleep almost immediately. His snores, quiet and rhythmical, had an odd buzzing quality, as if he were a bee or a fly.

  Harry climbed to the top bunk, taking the brown blanket with him and keeping his coat on. He had put his boots back on because of the cold. Did he even own a pair of slippers? He decided to buy some as soon as he returned home — lined with rabbit fur, in different colors, one for each day of the week. With the money he’d have, he could buy a dozen pairs if he wanted to.

  He thought about the stones and Elton’s words. Where could the danger come from? Isaac? Of course, Isaac — Harry had always suspected his brother was capable of anything. But Isaac was miles away. Gerard? More likely.

  Harry stared up at the ceiling, close to his head, his eyes now accustomed to the dark. The mattress was small and too soft. He noted he could now touch the ceiling, which was laced with spiderwebs, with his elbows and his knees.

  * * *

  The sound of dripping water awakened him the next morning. Harry opened his eyes and saw the cabin filled with sunlight, the snow melting from the windows, and Elton standing in the open doorway.

  Sun?

  He leaped down from the bunk bed and joined Elton at the door. The air was warm, and the sound of dripping, running water was everywhere. The snow melted from the trees, which now glistened as if their branches were covered with glass, and the icicles that had formed from the roof of the cabin dripped regularly onto the deep snow beneath, leaving small, deep pockmarks. The shadow of the cabin in the morning light was purple-blue. It was a long time since Harry had even seen a shadow outdoors.

  Down the road in the distance he could see the other cabins clearly; the field in the center of the large, rough triangle of the encampment was still deep in snow; behind them, the jagged profile of the pines and firs, dark greenish black against the bright blue sky, was clear and sharply outlined.

  “Stones right,” Elton growled. “Nice day.”

  Harry took a deep breath of the warm air. “You can say that again.”

  Elton looked puzzled. “Stones right. Nice day.”

  Harry laughed, ignoring the comment about the stones. Pointing out the likelihood of coincidence was not going to get him anywhere. “Yes, it is.”

  Elton closed the door with apparent reluctance. “Hungry,” he said. He’d already dressed in his walking boots and several heavy sweaters; the slippers and nightcap were nowhere to be seen.

  “So am I. Anything left?” he asked, pointing to Elton’s pack beneath the bed.

  “No.”

  “We’ll have to hunt, then.”

  Elton nodded.

  In a few minutes, they were outdoors again, Elton carrying a small tool that looked like a hammer with a head made of stone, Harry with just an empty sack he’d found beneath the bed. Elton had had an extra cap with a visor, which made walking through the blinding snow-covered field much easier, and Harry had accepted it with a grunt of thanks.

  They agreed to separate and meet back at the cabin by noon. Harry looked up at the bright blue sky. He had about an hour to find food and return. Elton started in the direction of the other cabins along the lake, working his way back to the main road. Harry decided to try the near arm of the triangle, heading away from the lake and toward the woods behind the clearing.

  That last summer with his family he had explored these cabins and the woods on his own many times. Inevitably Isaac would be lounging pathetically on the porch swing, as he did almost every day, lovingly attended to by Mama.

  Now, as he walked slowly through the snow, Harry thought, I could have accepted my role as the older, stronger sibling, protectively caring for my fragile, sick brother — if Isaac had been a different kind of fox. Mama and I could have taken care of him together. Dad would have come to me for advice on how to handle Isaac’s mental state; they would have turned to me for guidance.

  … “Harry,” his mother said. “I’m concerned about your brother. He doesn’t seem to be eating. Do you know what could be bothering him?”

  “Perhaps he’s just tired, Mama. Let me try to feed him. I’ll tell him a story to distract him.”

  “My darling child!” Mama replied. “How could we manage without you?” She turned to Dad. “Don’t we have an unusually kind and caring son?”

  “I’m so proud of you,” Dad said. “But you need to go out and play. We can take care of Isaac.”

  “No, no,” Harry said. “Let me do it. I don’t care about playing with friends. My brother’s health is much more important.”

  Dad and Mama hugged him, and Mama kissed him tenderly.

  “No one could ask for a finer son,” Mama said….

  Harry approached a cabin, deserted and blanketed in snow, with icicles dripping from the roof. He walked around the back, peering beneath the foundation where wood was normally stored. Holding on to the sack, he got down on all fours and crept slowly toward the base of the building.

  Sure enough, he picked up the scent of mouse. It was very strong, which suggested a colony, perhaps several, living together under the cabin for warmth and shelter, foraging for smaller bugs and whatever dead vegetation could be found. They wouldn’t be fat but they’d be alive, and if there were enough of them, they would be filling.

  Harry was slender enough to crawl under the cabin, which he did slowly and silently. Some snow had drifted around the perimeter but it was otherwise dry. When his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he saw what he was looking for: dozens of bony adults and a number of their young, equally thin, all asleep. He pounced on the adults, breaking their necks with his paws; the babies squealed and ran; some in their panic ran toward him, which made it easy to kill them. Harry simply swept the dead and dying into the sack. When he crawled out from under the cabin it was bulging and lumpy with the dead mice; blood began to soak through the thin burlap, and the slightly bitter scent of fresh-killed mouse made his stomach growl in anticipation.

  Should he eat one now? Why not? He was very hungry; the scent was very strong, and it was impossible to imagine when he might eat again. Sharing with Elton would mean less food for Harry. Elton could take care of himself.

  Harry reached into the sack and pulled out one mouse after another. The first mouthful, still quite warm, was incredibly good. Had he forgotten how much he’d always enjoyed mouse? They were so delicious that by the time he reached the bottom of the sack he was gulping them down whole. That’s the thing about mice, he thought. You can’t eat just one.

  Suddenly, he choked. Harry coughed and gagged until the tears ran down his face, trying to swallow a bone that had lodged horizontally in his windpipe. He doubled over, reached for some snow, and filled his mouth. The melting snow cooled his throat and gave him something to swallow, and in a few moments he could breathe again. He wiped his face and mouth with snow and finished the last few mice, this time chewing slowly. He sighed with satisfaction.

  Harry buried the bloodstained sack in a snowdrift and trotted back to the green cabin. He’d explain to Elton that he’d been unable to capture the mice, which had escaped from under the cabin into a dozen small and inaccessible holes in the flooring, leaving him with nothing. He’d pretend to be hungry and frustrated. Maybe Elton will have something to share — in which case, Harry thought, I will eat again.

  On his way back to the cabin, Harry felt the air become cool, then cold. He looked up. Large gray clouds floated in front of the sun, which was now a shiny white disk in the overcast sky. In a few minutes it disappeared completely; the quickly moving clouds, blowi
ng in from across the lake, were darker gray, and the horizon vanished. It smelled like snow.

  Elton was already inside, having made a fire. He’d thrown some brown and surprisingly fragrant leaves into the iron pot, which he had scrubbed clean, along with some melted snow, and was in the process of chopping several dark and intimidating root vegetables — Harry hoped they were vegetables — with his hatchet. Elton gestured to the limp gray bodies on the countertop.

  “Vole,” he said. “You?”

  “Good work,” Harry said. “I found some the other day on my way to the Inn. Tasty.” He tried to look discouraged. “Unfortunately, I was not as successful just now. ” He explained about the mice.

  Elton looked him up and down from behind his spectacles. “Too bad. Sack?” he asked.

  Harry thought quickly. “Oh. Must have dropped it on the way back. I’ll look for it later.”

  Elton skinned and gutted the voles deftly and dropped them into the pot along with the vegetables, then placed it on the fire in the hearth, where it teetered unsteadily.

  The badger wiped his paws on his shirt and walked over to his pack. He reached in and withdrew a small, flat piece of wood hinged in the middle like a book, opened it, and placed it on the floor.

  What now?

  It was a checkerboard, the squares faded to gray and rose.

  “You like games, don’t you?” Harry said.

  “Pass time. You play?” Elton asked. He opened a small wooden box and carefully placed a number of oddly shaped objects on the floor.

  “I think so,” said Harry, reluctantly. “But what are those?”

  “Badger checkers. Easy.”