A Taste for Rabbit Page 3

  When the rabbit finally stopped, Quentin looked up. Standing under the streetlight, pounding the club into his paw, the rabbit seemed to tower over them; his eyes, deeply shadowed by the overhead light, were hidden. The snow fell like a curtain around him and settled on his military hat and shoulders. “Next time it will be worse,” he said, and turned and disappeared into the darkness.

  Quentin lay on the ground, stunned, his back throbbing. “Zack — are you all right?”

  Zack groaned. “My arm,” he said. “Gods, that hurt!” He struggled to a sitting position. “What about you?”

  A door opened and two rabbits holding lanterns walked slowly toward them, their boots crunching in the snow.

  “We heard,” the older one said. “Here — let me help.” He held out a paw, and Quentin pulled himself up. Zack grabbed onto the arm of the younger rabbit and stood with difficulty.

  “Thanks,” Quentin said. “I think we’ll be all right now. Can you walk?” he asked, turning to Zack.

  “Yes. I can’t believe what just happened, though. We weren’t doing anything wrong!” he said to the two rabbits. “It was a snowball fight! It’s just one more law that has nothing to do with the real problem,” he said, brushing off the snow with his good arm. “Nothing!”

  The older rabbit held up his lantern and Quentin could see his faded brown fur and gray-white face. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’re welcome to come in for a moment and sit by the fire if you need to.”

  Quentin shook his head. “I think we should get home.”

  The two rabbits started back to the house, then the older one turned. “I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he said, “but I don’t believe this one officer’s action represents the entire system. And you were breaking the law…. Listen,” he went on, his brown eyes sad. “I have grandchildren. We can’t protect them alone. And if there’s even a chance that these methods might work …”

  The younger rabbit walked back to stand beside him. He had the same brown fur and eyes. He nodded in agreement. “I hate the restrictions too,” he said. “Especially the curfew. But rabbits continue to disappear and no one knows who’s responsible. What else can we do? I agree with my dad. At least it’s something!”

  “But don’t you ever ask yourself if this is really helping?” Zack said, rubbing his arm. “Guard duty? Identity cards? The draft?”

  “Yes,” said the older rabbit. “I think it is. The surveillance will allow us to notice anyone who acts peculiarly, who stands out — like you, for instance,” he added, gesturing to Zack’s black jacket and scarf.

  “Me?” Zack said. “I’m a student! I’ve lived in Stonehaven my whole life!”

  “So you say,” the younger rabbit said, and seeing Zack’s expression, added, “and I believe you. But these days, it’s risky to look different from everyone else. You know that.”

  Quentin took an instant dislike to him. “You could be next,” he said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We believe this is the right direction — and so do many of our friends,” the older rabbit said. “You have a right to your opinion, but I think you should know you are in the minority.”

  They stood in awkward silence for a moment. “Well, good night,” said the younger rabbit, and the two walked back to the house, closing the door firmly. In a moment, the lights inside were turned down and Zack and Quentin stood alone under the street lamp, the snow falling around them.

  * * *

  The next evening, Quentin climbed the tower staircase with difficulty. The stairs were steep, and his bruised back ached with every step. He opened the door at the top and stood looking out at the length of the narrow path stretching before him to the distant tower. There was the low guard rail, the only thing separating him from the fall that would surely kill him.

  A voice from high overhead shouted, “Is that the guard reporting?” The supervisor was supposed to have met Quentin on the ground when he arrived, but there had been no one there when he lit the torch. Now, looking up at the guard tower through the snow, he could barely glimpse the rabbit’s face looking out and quickly withdrawing. No wonder — it was cold up here.

  “Guard reporting, sir,” Quentin shouted back, as required by the training manual. There was no further word from the supervisor, so he started down the path, holding the torch low to get the best possible light.

  After a while, he stopped and peered over the edge. Maybe I can do this, he thought. Maybe I’m over it. He stood as close to the low guard rail as he could and leaned over cautiously, holding the torch at arm’s length. The ground was so far away, the light didn’t reach it; the tops of the distant trees that surrounded the old fortress were below eye level; the snow fell in a funnel-like descent to the distant forest floor. His vision blurred and his heart beat faster. He stepped back.

  Quentin took several deep breaths of cold air and felt his balance return. I’ll never try that again. He stomped along, trying not to notice the ache in his back and the shooting pain in his knees. His boots crunched on the path, which, he realized, would soon be smooth and slick from his footsteps and even more treacherous.

  He reached the far tower, turned — in what he hoped was an appropriately guard-like manner — and began to walk back. There are many worse things than walking on the perimwall in the freezing cold, he told himself. Cauliflower juice? Premature baldness? Fleas? Unpleasant, inconvenient, and socially unacceptable, in that order, but not as bad as this.

  What would I do if I actually saw something suspicious? The training guidelines said: Alert supervisor by sounding the alarm bell at the base of the tower — he could just imagine the panic — and draw weapon, which happened to be a standard-issue knife. The supervisor would bang the gong, made of brass and suspended from the top of the tower. The sound alone could cause temporary hearing loss — Quentin had noted the guidelines provided no further details about that — but the volunteer militia (or would it be the newly drafted army?) would be at the wall in a few moments, with torches, clubs, and arrows at the ready. And then what?

  Maybe Zack’s right — maybe we should join the rebels. But how would that work, exactly? And what about my friends, and my classes? I’ll be graduating in a few years — could I simply leave, after all my hard work, and just throw everything way? No. Things will change for the better, sooner or later. They have to.

  Now, as he came to the end of the walkway, Quentin noticed the snow had stopped and the stars were suddenly bright. His face was numb from the cold, and he could hardly feel his feet. Stomping the snow off his boots, he looked up and called loudly, “All clear, sir!”

  The supervisor’s face appeared again, leaning forward, and this time Quentin could see it clearly. “Password?”

  The face was familiar.

  It was Wally.

  Wally, his nemesis from childhood.

  * * *

  Quentin’s first real encounter with Wally had taken place almost nine years ago, on a midsummer afternoon when the heat had been intense, the sun high in the sky, and there was little shade. He had walked, reluctantly, to the swimming hole at the encouragement of his mother.

  “It will do you good,” she’d said, handing him a towel and a neatly wrapped sandwich of lettuce and squash — his favorite — in a faded blue cloth sack. “They’re going to cover up that swimming hole someday,” she called out to him, “and then you’ll regret you didn’t spend more time there!” She ran after him and handed him a straw hat with a visor. “Wear this.”

  “I won’t regret it,” Quentin had responded, “and I don’t need a hat.” But his mother paid no attention. Since his father had died of lung congestion three years earlier, Quentin’s mother had been even more protective than usual. There was no point in reminding her how old he was. It would not have made the slightest difference. All his other siblings from previous litters were grown and had started their own families. Quentin had been the rare only child. His mother hovered over him.

  �
��You are my youngest,” she’d say. “My last. My baby. I can’t lose you.”

  Quentin would much rather have spent his time reading under the huge elm that shaded his backyard. But when Mother made up her mind, she was like a badger. There was nothing to do but go along. Maybe it would be fun — at least he’d cool off. Maybe, he thought hopefully, the threatening clouds on the horizon will bring a thunderstorm and I’ll have to come home.

  He’d walked the dusty road, holding the hat, his bare feet kicking up brown clouds. It was hot. Flies circled slowly over a drying mud puddle. Dead weeds and wildflowers baked in the sun alongside the road. As he approached the swimming hole, he saw a small group of females clustered ahead.

  “Hi, Quentin!” It was Beth, from his class in school. She had large gray eyes; her fur was completely white. She wore a pink straw hat that shaded her face, and a long pink shirt that covered almost all of her. Quentin thought she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

  “Hi.”

  Beth left her friends and joined him. They fell into step. “It’s hot.”

  “Sure is.”

  “I have to stay covered. I’ve got albino blood. Sun isn’t good for me.”

  “Oh.” He’d wanted to talk to her for weeks. Now he had an opportunity and he couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “Want to walk home together later?” Beth said.

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll wait for you, then. Bye.” She left him to rejoin her friends, who had been watching. They whispered and laughed, and one of them nudged Beth and glanced back at Quentin.

  Females were strange, but very, very interesting.

  At the swimming hole, the others had already been splashing and fooling around. Just ahead of him, a big brown rabbit named Clovis had jumped from the rocky ledge above the pond, pinching his nose and yelling the traditional cry when jumping from a high place: “Rackjabbit!” Except it always came out like “Ra-a-ackja-a-a-a-!” with the last syllable lost as the falling body hit the water.

  Quentin left his stuff near a tree already crowded with towels and shoes, and climbed up the hill behind the pond to the stony ledge. Below him, rabbits splashed and swam in the dark water, forcing the green algae that had covered much of the surface to the grassy edges of the pond.

  “C’mon, Quentin!” a voice called. “The water’s perfect!” It was Beth. She and her friends had walked into the pond, shrieking with delight over the cold and the antics of rabbits who were jumping up and down and doing headstands in the water nearby.

  “Yeah,” someone else called. “It’s freezing. Jump! You’ll love it!”

  Quentin stood near the edge of the rock, looking down. From up here, the water seemed far below; the hill on which he stood was covered with small boulders and scrubby weeds. A hummingbird whirred near his head and he turned to look.

  “You’re not scared, are you, Quentin?” Wally asked. A minute earlier, he’d been splashing noisily in the pond. Now he stood behind Quentin, his brown paws planted at his hips. Quentin smelled the cold water that dripped from his shoulders. Wally’s icy blue eyes were lined with red. “Are you?”

  Quentin was not afraid, but Wally had been teasing him in a nasty way at school. How far would he go? If only I’d seen him first, he remembered thinking, I could have jumped and avoided this. “What’s the matter?” he said, stalling for time. “Is the water too cold for you?”

  “No,” Wally said with a sneer. “Maybe it’s too cold for you!” He smirked at his own wit. He moved toward Quentin, and Quentin backed away, closer to the edge.

  Desperate, Quentin said, “You know, they say that really cold water on a hot day does permanent damage to your …” He looked up at Wally’s ears. “ … you know.”

  Wally grabbed his ears. “What do you mean? What damage?” He pulled at one ear and tried to look at it, but it was too short to reach his eye level.

  “See what I mean?” said Quentin. “They’ve shrunk already. Cold water does that to blue-eyed rabbits. They’ll never grow now. Didn’t your dad ever mention it?”

  “What? What are you talking about?” Wally had said, looking alarmed. He twisted around, trying to see first one ear, then the other.

  Quentin tried not to laugh. Everyone knew it was impossible for a rabbit to see his own ears, unless it was in a mirror. It was like trying to lick your elbow.

  Wally recovered. His face got red. “You’re not a rabbit,” he said in a loud voice. He walked to the edge of the rock and shouted down to the pond. “Hey, look, everybody! Quentin’s afraid to jump. He’s a vole! A little baby vole!”

  The swimmers stopped splashing. Quentin could see Beth’s white face beneath her hat, looking up at him. Wally began to sing, “Vole, vole, jump in the hole,” and in a few moments some of his friends took up the chant.

  “Well, little baby?” Wally moved closer again and poked Quentin on the shoulder hard.

  I am not going to let him get to me, Quentin thought. He’s stupid. “Maybe the cold water won’t be a problem for you, after all,” he’d said loudly, his voice wobbling in spite of himself. “Maybe you never had much to worry about to begin with.”

  “You …weasel!”

  Quentin felt a hard shove on his shoulder and was suddenly falling backward. Taken by surprise, he’d had no time to hold his breath. In seconds he slammed into the pond on his back. He gasped for air, a second too late, inhaling the icy water.

  Quentin was an adequate swimmer — good enough to enjoy splashing around — but the shock of having breathed the water into his lungs was terrifying. He panicked. His feet touched the slimy bottom of the pond as he flailed and struggled to reach the surface, trying not to breathe at all but needing desperately to expel the fluid from his lungs. I’m going to drown, he thought. For a moment he was aware of the silent, murky green water, the distant legs and arms of the others, the floating debris — the algae, the twigs and branches — the layers of dark brown leaves that covered the bottom. Then there was a roaring in his ears and a pounding as he gave a sharp kick with his legs, struggling upward. His effort finally brought him to the surface, where he gasped for air.

  Quentin swam weakly to the edge of the pond and stumbled onto the grass. He stood next to a tree and bent over, trying to breathe without coughing and wheezing. Finally, he looked up.

  The sun was shining, hot. Rabbits shouted and splashed. Wally was back in the pond, surrounded by a noisy circle along with a few of his buddies, trying to prevent themselves from being ducked below the surface.

  Beth stood still in water up to her waist, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up to her elbows. She looked at him briefly, and turned away. Quentin found his towel and dried himself off. He sat down under the tree, breathing shallowly at first, then more deeply as he saw he could. It felt wonderful to breathe, wonderful.

  He began to imagine what he must have looked like: pushed off the ledge, unprepared, splashing into the water on his back (he felt it now), sinking to the bottom and rising to the top, coughing and choking and gasping for breath like a beginner who’d never swum before. Looking like a fool with Beth watching.

  “Hey, Quentin. Are you all right?” It was Zack, standing next to him, his pale brown legs dripping.

  “I didn’t know you were here,” Quentin said. He stood up. “I guess you saw?” He wiped his face again with the towel to cover his embarrassment.

  “You landed on your back,” Zack said, “and I noticed Wally up there, so I figured he had something to do with it. What happened?”

  Quentin told him. “I hate him.”

  “I know. I do too. But you got him to try to see his ears,” Zack said. “That was great.” He patted Quentin on the shoulder.

  “Yeah. But now my back is killing me, and Beth …” He gestured. “I’m sure she saw me looking like an idiot.”

  Zack looked surprised. “Why does that matter?”

  Quentin shook his head. It was too hard to explain. “Never mind. She wanted me to wait, b
ut I’m going home.”

  “Going to say good-bye to … Small Ears?” Zack nodded toward Wally.

  Quentin smiled weakly. “No, not today. See you.” He picked up his stuff and left.

  But that was not the end of it. Wally hadn’t left him alone. All year he called him Vole-hole and the name stuck. On the court he mocked him when he dropped the ball or threw badly, which happened a lot. Quentin saw Wally’s buddies nudge one another and laugh, happy that Wally had found a target other than themselves.

  Quentin and Zack privately referred to Wally as Small Ears, then just S.E. It helped a little. Some time later, Wally had abruptly moved away.

  Since then, Quentin had sometimes found himself at a high place — a ViewPoint, perhaps, with the lake and valley far below, or looking out over the vast Black Mountain Range and forest to the North. While his friends ran to the edge, or stood against a low retaining wall, or climbed a tall tree on a dare, Quentin would find a shady spot and pull out a book, trying not to think about the swimming hole, and Beth, and falling like an idiot. He’d been able to hide his fear from everyone.

  * * *

  Now on the perimwall, Quentin thought, Of course it would be Wally up here, stuffed into a military uniform. He could see that the older Wally had put on weight: The military gray jacket fit snugly. His fur had turned prematurely white, his paws were encased in heavy mittens, and his familiar expression of mean stupidity was now mixed with something else — a sense of his own great importance.

  “I know you,” Wally said slowly, looking down. His voice was a deep growl. “I know you…. It’s Quentin, isn’t it! It’s old Vole-hole! Well, well, well.” He began to laugh. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  Quentin felt a surge of anger as all the old memories flooded back. I won’t let you scare me now, he thought. “Do I know you?” he said.