The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 2

by Donald Harington

  She was so happy to be getting clean and so delighted by the feeling of the bar of homemade soap running over her body that she became not just overjoyed but intensely excited, so much so that she had to slide the bar of soap down to her groin and move it around there for quite a while. The sensation of the wet slathery bar of soap, her own handiwork, rubbing against her poody lifted her higher and higher in her feelings. She gasped. She knew that Adam was probably watching her, but he had been watching her for so long that she felt not the least bit self-conscious; on the contrary, the idea of his watching made all of this even more exciting.

  “The soap works,” she said to him, wherever he was. “Oh, the soap works!”

  She felt tingly as well as soapy all over, and the tingle spread from her hair to her toes and changed from being just a tingle to a ripple, and then a tremor, almost as if an electric current was starting to pass through her body. She jiggled the bar of soap against herself so rapidly that she was sloshing water out of the tub. She’d never felt anything like this before. She felt a sense of certainty that something she couldn’t avoid was about to happen, a sense of expectation and anticipation that was all the more thrilling because it also scared her just a little. But it didn’t stop her. She was all out of breath and the sweat of her body was mingling with the water of the bath. She searched for a word to name what she was feeling, but all she could come up with was reach. She was reaching for something, and the reach was about to happen.

  And then it happened! It was as if she’d been turned inside out or, like Sheba, shed her skin, or like Adam taken leave of his whole body: she shivered and shook uncontrollably, not reaching anymore but getting there, and there was the most awesome and intense feeling she’d ever had. It went on and on for nearly a minute and left her exhausted but happier than she’d ever been. She could only lie perfectly still in the water, marveling at what had happened. She felt so good and so peaceful that she might have easily fallen asleep and drowned herself, but the bathwater was beginning to grow cold, and she climbed out. Realizing all her towels were hanging on the line, she shook the water from herself like a dog and then went outside to dry herself in the sunshine. She resumed her song, with her own words:

  That was the way we washed ourselves,

  And that was the way we reached ourselves,

  That was the way we reached ourselves

  So early in the morning.

  “Adam, sweet honey, is there a mulberry bush anywhere around here?” she asked.

  As was often the case, there wasn’t any immediate answer. But couldn’t she hear his breathing? Or rather his panting? He seemed to be breathing real hard. What was he doing? Had he been running around his haunt? Did he really run? What did he do for exercise? Finally, with his voice still out of breath, he said, They’s only one mulberry I know of, but it aint a bush. It’s a full-growed tree yonder on the east edge of the meader.

  “Why are you panting so, Adam?” she asked. “What are you doing?” But there was no answer.

  For most of the summer thereafter, Robin took a bath nearly every day. Imagine that. Usually when the weather was warm she bathed by swimming in the beaver pond, but she had learned long ago that the beaver didn’t like for her to use soap in their pond, so she didn’t use the beaver pond very much any more, except to visit it to say hello to her friends.

  Toward the end of that summer, not long before she was going to have her twelfth birthday, there was a drought. She didn’t know that word, although she’d encountered it several times in the Bible, but she knew that it was getting harder and harder to draw the water from the well for her frequent baths. And then the well dried up entirely! Adam instructed her on how to roll one of the shed’s barrels up to the corner of the house where it could be connected to the downspout to make a rain barrel. But it didn’t rain. Not for the longest time. The spring at the springhouse dried up too, which not only removed that source of water but made the springhouse useless for cooling leftovers or keeping anything cool. It was very hot, as well as very dry. The animals didn’t suffer too much; they could always get a drink from the beaver pond, which was too far for the chickens to hike, so she had to haul water in buckets from the beaver pond to keep the chickens from dying. Robin wouldn’t drink the pond water herself without boiling it first, but that at least gave her drinking water.

  Baths were out of the question, and she missed them terribly. For a little while she tried simply to soap her poody, but without water to wash the soap off it wouldn’t work, and she couldn’t reach at all again. In frustration she tried to make herself reach without the help of the soap, and was shocked to see that her fingers became covered with blood!

  She had probably done something terribly wrong. She couldn’t ask Adam to explain it to her. He probably didn’t know, anyhow.

  The bleeding went on and on slowly day by day. She wiped it up with rags. She needed water to clean herself, but had none. The beaver pond was beginning to dry up, and what would she do if there was no water at all anywhere? And no rain came? How would she live? How would any of them live? The beaver too would die.

  “Adam!” she cried. “I think I’m dying. Please help me!”

  I’m here, he said. I reckon I’m allus here.

  She frankly confessed to him what she had done to herself, although she knew he had probably witnessed it anyway. She was really and truly sorry that she had done it. She should have known better. She should have realized that anything which felt so good must be wrong. She had done a terribly wrong thing, and now she was bleeding, and the bleeding wouldn’t stop, and she needed to see a doctor, but there was no way she could do that. Was there nothing Adam could do that would help? Or tell her how to stop the bleeding? Or something? Anything? Adam? Adam?

  You’ve got me all afeared now. I caint imagine what could be wrong with ye.

  Chapter thirty-six

  His mother told him that, yes, there was a possibility that Mistress was dying, but that did not excuse him from his responsibility to assist in, and perhaps even direct, the task of locating and taking possession of a bear cub for Mistress’ twelfth birthday. It was an awesome obligation which had given him much thought, search, practice and discussion with his lieutenants, only one of whom, Ralgrub, had anything to contribute, because she claimed that she was cousin to the bears and understood their habits and their ways…not to mention that she was the only one of them other than Robert who could climb trees.

  What if they went to all the trouble to capture a bear cub and bring it home and even put a red ribbon around its neck as a birthday present, and then Mistress died of whatever was ailing her and causing all that blood? What would they do with the bear cub then? Just set it free, and say, Sorry, pal, but we don’t need you after all? Well, of course they could eat it, but Hrolf didn’t have much appetite these days, what with having to eat the chickens as they died. The drought was killing off the chickens, although Mistress each day brought a bucket of water from the beaver pond just to give the chickens some water, but that wasn’t enough to keep them from dying, and his mother had decreed that it was now permissible to eat a chicken if it was clearly dead, and Hrolf would be just as happy if he never saw another chicken again, he’d eaten so many of them.

  Hrolf realized that the only way to get out of the responsibility of bringing home a bear cub would be for Mistress to die before her twelfth birthday. He hated to see that happening, but she was bleeding, and it wouldn’t stop.

  It was a long hike to the beaver pond for a sip of stagnant slime. And then the beaver pond went completely dry. The beaver disappeared, without a word to anyone. Nobody knew whether the beaver had simply died or had gone elsewhere in search of water. Hrolf’s campaign to teach the beaver how to communicate in dog language had not been successful. The beaver were too ignorant, or too stubborn, or perhaps even too proud, to attempt to master the easy rudiments of dogtalk. And thus they had not said anything to anybody before departing. Hrolf considered it one of his failur
es. He had been proud and triumphant in his campaign to teach dog language to all the other creatures of their acquaintance, except of course Sheba, who had her own mysterious language that was unfathomable. But Ralgrub spoke a passable tongue, and Robert from a very early age had been quick to pick up on the language, although he never had learned to bark and still said “WOO! WOO!” as his primary exclamation. Hrolf had taken it upon himself to stress to everyone the superiority, nay, the nobility, of canine communication, and his efforts to dogize the other creatures, at least in dogese, were rewarding. They were all noble.

  Thus, when he gathered them around him, in the presence (the omnipresence) of the in-habit, Adam, he knew that they could all (except Sheba) understand him when he declared, Friends, we’re going to have to go on an expedition. Our main objective is to find water, somewhere, anywhere. But our secondary purpose is to honor Mother’s request to find a bear cub for Mistress’ forthcoming birthday. I’ll take with me only the following: Mother if she wants to go, Hroberta and Robert and Ralgrub. And Adam.

  You’uns know I caint leave the haunt, Adam declared.

  Sorry, I forgot Sir, Hrolf said. He’d never called the boy “Sir” before, but he felt it was needed in this context.

  Why can’t I go too? Dewey asked in his still fumbling form of dogtalk. Dewey wasn’t a mere fawn any more, but a young buck. He was growing up, and before long he’d start sprouting antlers.

  Well, I suppose you could, Hrolf allowed.

  I can find water as good as any of the rest of you can, Dewey boasted. And I bet I could find a bear even better.

  All right, Hrolf said. Let’s go. Adam, Sir, would you explain to Mistress where we went, and that we may be gone more than a day or two. Don’t mention the bear cub.

  The expedition set out, the six of them romping abreast across the meadow but changing to single file as they reached the dry beaver pond and the old path that was known as the South Way. I’m real proud of you for doing this, son, Hrolf’s mother said to him.

  Ma, we’d all die of thirst if we didn’t.

  But they were perishing of thirst by the time they’d gone a mile or so through the forest. They hoped that the creek which fed the waterfall would slake their dehydration, but they discovered it was bone dry, as was the waterfall itself. Peering over the precipice, Hrolf could see a dog’s skeleton in the dry bed of what had been the pool at the base of the waterfall. He realized that must be poor Hrothgar. He nudged his mother aside to keep her from peering over the precipice.

  I can’t go another step without a drink, Hroberta declared.

  They all sat around panting and moaning in the torture of extreme thirst. And before the sun set on that day of the expedition, Hrolf said apologetically, I’m sorry I brought you’uns out here. But we can’t go back. There’s nothing to drink anywhere.

  Woo, Robert said, there’s got to be some way to get off this fucking mountain and find a creek.

  Ralgrub said, Whatever creek you found might be dry too.

  As night fell, several of them chewed on grass to get just a little moisture.

  The next morning, it was Dewey who found the spring. It wasn’t much of a spring, and hard to reach, a trickle seeping out from beneath a rock on the cliff side, but it was genuine water. Each of them had to wait their turn (Hrolf insisted that his mother go first) to dip their tongue into the seep and lap a bit, and then wait a minute for more water to seep out for the next creature. Hrolf was sad to realize that even if he got Mistress to bring her bucket to this place, it would take hours or days for the bucket to fill.

  But they’d each had enough water to sustain them through another day of searching. As they traversed the forests of Madewell Mountain, and Ledbetter Mountain too, everywhere they saw the effects of the drought: the carcasses of birds, animals, and reptiles who had perished. They came across the bodies of whole families of mice, squirrel, rabbit, possum, porcupine, skunk and coon. Some of the creatures were sprawled out full length on the ground as if they had used the last of their strength to try to reach water somewhere.

  It was Robert who found the bears. There was a cave mouth mostly concealed by leaves and brush, and he burrowed through the camouflage, went into the interior of the earth, and came back in a little while, saying, Come and look! There used to be a little stream of water in there, but it’s dried up now. There’s a dead bear sow lying beside it, with one of her dead cubs. The other cub looks like he’s still alive.

  They all went into the cave to investigate. It was much cooler in there, which was a relief, but the cave’s stream of water was nothing but drying mud. There was a stink from the bodies of the dead sow and the cub. The other cub was unable to move, and his eyes were closed, but he was still breathing. He was scrawny and pitiful and his black fur was matted and grungy.

  Ma, I’m doubtful that he would be much of a birthday present, Hrolf observed.

  We’ll have to take care of him one way or the other, as long as he’s still alive, she said. First we have to figure out how to get him home.

  They tried nudging the cub into a walking or crawling posture, but the cub could not keep himself righted. If they could get him out of here at all, the first thing they’d have to do would be get him to that little trickle of a spring and get him to drink as much water as he could.

  Hrolf’s mother took charge. Dewey, she said, would you mind lying down on top of the bear sow and rolling around?

  For heaven’s sake, why? Dewey wanted to know.

  So you’ll get her scent on your own body. So the cub won’t be so afraid of you.

  With a look of disgust, Dewey lay atop the dead sow and squirmed around, getting her scent onto his own hide.

  Now, Hrolf’s mother said, let’s see if we can’t get the cub up onto Dewey’s back. Lie down, Dewey, and when we’ve got the cub on your back, stand up, but don’t bump the cub on the ceiling of the cave.

  They all cooperated in tugging and pushing the cub into position along Dewey’s spine, with the cub’s paws on either flank.

  When Dewey stood up, he yelped, Yeoww! He’s sinking his claws into me!

  Good, Hrolf’s mother said. He’s trying to hold on. Let’s get out of here.

  Hrolf and Hroberta walked on either side of Dewey to make sure the cub wouldn’t topple off, and thus they made their way slowly back to the cliff side where the tiny trickle of springwater had been found. There, Dewey knelt and they gentled the cub off of Dewey’s back and led him to the spring. But he would not drink.

  Maybe he was still nursing, Hrolf observed. Maybe he hasn’t learned how to drink.

  No, Hrolf’s mother said, he’s too old to be nursing. He’s probably weaned. Let’s hope so. Our next step, if we can get him to drink, is to find something for him to eat.

  Hrolf’s mother crept to the spring and lapped up a mouthful of water and put her mouth to the cub’s mouth and spewed or sprayed the water into the cub’s mouth. The cub shook his head in rejection of the dog-smelling water. But Hrolf’s mother kept at it, and finally got the cub to swallow some water. Then she put her paw on the cub’s head and forced his head down to the spring’s trickle, and the cub got the idea and began to lap at the water.

  When the cub had drunk all the water he could hold, they each slowly took a drink, and then they got the cub up onto Dewey’s back again and headed out in the direction of home.

  Ralgrub, Hrolf’s mother said, what would your cousin like to eat, do you think?

  Mast, Ralgrub said.

  Come again?

  Mast. Acorns and nuts.

  Eww! said the dogs.

  Okay, gang, let’s round up some mast.

  The drought had cut back the trees’ production of fruit, and few of the nuts had yet fallen this early in the fall, but both Ralgrub and Robert were able to climb some trees and knock down a few acorns and nuts. The hickory nuts were hard to crack, but the pecans cracked easily enough in a dog’s powerful jaws, and Hrolf’s mother directed them to masticate enough nut
meat to make a mess that might appeal to the cub despite its scent of canine saliva. As it had at the spring, several attempts were required before they could get the cub to eat the masticated nutmeats. And in the process all of them grew powerfully hungry themselves. Ralgrub could eat some of the mast herself, but for the others there was only the carrion of drought-slain animals, which, if they could find a freshly deceased bird or rodent, sufficed. Lucky Dewey could survive on twigs and brush and what little grass had survived the drought.

  The food and drink restored the cub’s spirits to the point where he could put up resistance to being abducted. He began to growl in his whiney little voice, and more than once attempted to escape from Dewey’s back, but the vigilant expedition crew kept him in place. Before they reached home they had to stop again to gather mast, masticate it (Hrolf wondered if mast got its name from being masticated), and feed the cub, although no further water was found for any of them. After the second time they fed the cub, instead of resuming his perch on Dewey’s back for the continued journey home, he snarled and climbed a tree. The dogs impulsively barked at him, their instincts being to bark at anything which is treed, and that didn’t help. Ralgrub and Robert had to go up after him, and perhaps Ralgrub knew enough of bear language to assure the cub that they were all his friends and had no intention of eating him, and besides, didn’t he want the comfort of Dewey’s back, which smelled like his mother? Somehow Ralgrub and Robert got him to come back down out of the tree and resume his perch on Dewey.

  As they neared home, Hrolf conferred with his lieutenants about how they would keep the cub until it was time to present it to Mistress on her birthday. They didn’t know just when her birthday was, and the exact date didn’t matter, but they did have to decide on a day, and maybe they should wait a few days to give the cub time to fatten up and regain some of his health and strength. While Ralgrub had the manual dexterity to tie a red ribbon around the cub’s neck when it came time to make the presentation, she could not tie a rope around the cub’s neck to restrain him until the birthday. They needed some place to keep him until the presentation.