by Cyrus Fisher
As I was watching, the bushes parted. A boy about my age, stockier and heavier possibly, and not quite as tall, came out into the clearing. He saw me. He gaped at me and stopped dead.
He had red hair. It was violent red hair. It was the reddest hair ever to exist, I think. He had a freckled face and blue eyes and a wide mouth and the rest of him was covered with one of those ratty old sweaters I’ve seen Frenchmen wearing, the bottom so long it came almost down to his knees. He had patched baggy trousers and no stockings or socks. In his hand he had what I suppose he thought was a bow. It was no more than a stick with a piece of string tied to the ends. Any boy back home in Wyoming could have constructed in one minute, with his eyes closed, a better bow than that. Any boy at home would rather have been dead than be seen with a bow like that one.
He took a breath. He advanced, pointing to his arrow I was holding. He reeled off a whole flow of words, ending by putting his hand to his mouth and shouting, “Va-hoo, Va-hoo,” like as if he actually thought he was an Indian over here in France and probably expected me to fall over on my back in mortal terror.
While he was jumping around in that silly style, the bushes opened again. This time a girl came out. She had red hair, too, but its color wasn’t such a violent red as the boy’s. Where his was an orange-red, hers was more a brownish-red. It hung down long, old-fashioned style. Some leaves were caught in it, and a piece of bark, too, from where she’d passed under the trees.
When she noticed me, she stopped quick. She gave her head a shake. She snatched away the leaves, trying hastily to smooth her hair the way girls probably do anywhere in the world the instant they think anyone’s looking at them.
Her brother stopped dancing. He aimed his arrow at me. He said, “Peau-rouge,” a couple of times. That was too deep for me.
The sun was sliding down the sky and the light was dimming. I had the sense once more of something waiting and watching me, and I didn’t want to be stuck up here with a French boy and a French girl and get caught by a German. After the first surprise of finding them the astonishment wore off and I became more anxious. I started down the montagne. The boy and girl came along with me. I said, impatiently, “Look, I need help,” even though I knew it wouldn’t do any good to try to talk to them. I was desperate.
I was afraid I was lost.
“German,” I said. “German!” and pointed.
That didn’t catch any fish either.
The boy stopped. He scratched his head perplexed while the girl calmly looked on as if she considered all boys were strange articles and she’d been taught to put up with them and not complain.
Finally the boy pointed to himself. “Charles,” he said. “Charles Meilhac.” He pointed to the girl. “Suzanne Meilhac.” He waited.
It was like having a great illumination break through the forest. I should have realized sooner. This was Charles Meilhac! The boy mon oncle had told me about! He could be a friend. He could be somebody who might help after all. I grabbed him in my excitement and he didn’t know what to make of it. I shouted a couple of times, “Jean! Jean Littlehorn!” pointing to myself.
Then Suzanne understood. She became excited. “Jean Littlehorn!” she exclaimed. “Tu est le neveu de Paul Langres! Ah!” She snatched at her brother’s sleeve and jabbered at him. Charles’ freckled face seemed to open. His eyes became blue as the sky. He laughed and danced around me and shouted and was pleased and I guessed he’d heard about me from somebody.
Then I worked back to what I was trying to say. I said, “German—” and realized that didn’t make sense to them, so I said, “Nazi!” and that was a word they both understood. “Nazi!” I said again, pointing.
They nodded. Charles solemnly said, “Oui, un Nazi,” and looked ferocious and took hold of his bow and arrow and began stealing around the clearing, as if he were an Indian looking for a Nazi.
Well, I could nearly have cried out of vexation. Yes—they had understood when I’d said, “Nazi.” But they had been playing at Indian and now they figured I was playing along with them, playing we were all Indians—peaurouges, in French—and we were hunting Nazis!
The sweat sprung from me. I could imagine us all walking square into that grinning Monsieur Simonis before any of us ever had a chance to get to le village for help. The afternoon was waning. It grew darker. I asked at last, “Où est le village de St. Chamant?”
Probably they thought it was time to quit playing and I wanted to go home.
Charles pointed southwards, through the trees. “Là.”
It was wrong of me, I know, but I didn’t let on I understood, because I wanted their company all the way to le village. Finally he took my arm and showed all his white teeth in the friendliest smile imaginable, as if he’d forgotten ten minutes ago he was an Indian trying to hunt a play-Nazi. He indicated he’d go along with me to St. Chamant. Nothing could have pleased me more. His sister followed after us. He stopped. He motioned her back and ordered, “Suzanne, reste là!” Well, that order was clear enough to be luminous.
She answered back, “Non, je viens avec Jean et toi.” She was saying to Charles, “No, I come with John and you.” “Toi” wasn’t anything more than “you,” and “moi” was me.
“Viens,” Charles told me, and marched off.
I did as he told me: I came.
Suzanne repeated, “Je viens avec toi et Jean,” and came along, too, just as she said she was going to do. That “viens” was easy as falling off a log, nothing to it—“come”—“I come with you and Jean” was what she’d said.
When we happened to enter another montagne clearing, Charles suddenly halted and pulled me back. I thought it was the German, sure enough. “Sh-h,” he whispered. He motioned to Suzanne and said, “Viens,” and waited until she’d done as he told her to do, and had to come to us. She sat down quietly between us. “Tu vois?” he asked, meaning, “You see?” and pointed through the bushes in front of us toward the clearing.
On the other side of the clearing was a fat rabbit. It was bigger and rounder than our own rabbits. At the same time it wasn’t as big as our jack-rabbits. Charles whispered, “Nazi,” to me, smacking his lips as if he was confusing Nazis and Indians and cannibals in his mind. He rubbed his stomach hungrily. He said, “Très bon. Très bon.” He crept forward, fixing his arrow. He meant to get that rabbit.
Now, with everything else pressing in my mind I wouldn’t have thought another second about that furry rabbit if I hadn’t happened to glance at Suzanne. She was regarding that rabbit as intently as if she hadn’t eaten for weeks and was seeing a whole Sunday dinner before her.
The hollows under her cheeks showed. She stretched out her skinny arms without realizing what she was doing, wanting to grab that rabbit. I sighted at Charles. He was going forward with the same intentness. It might be, for my benefit, he was pretending he was an Indian shooting—but it was more than that to him. That rabbit meant food.
I’d heard how the French had starved during the war and how poor they were now, with very little food. But this was the first time I actually had it brought up smack to me how important food was to these people. Charles took another step, getting closer, the rabbit staying where it was, wriggling its ears. I found I was becoming just as interested and intent on what Charles was doing as Suzanne was. I wanted him to get that rabbit.
Of course, I should have realized he never had a chance—and so should he and Suzanne. He lifted his little bow and shot the arrow. It wobbled across the clearing. Before it was halfway across, the rabbit took notice of it and without any great hurry ducked into the bushes. The arrow hit against a tree, over six feet to the left of where the rabbit had been. The arrow broke. Suzanne made a sad little cry. “Oh, Charles,” she said. That was all. She clenched her fists tightly together and twisted her head away so nobody could see her face.
Charles stood. He threw down his bow. It wasn’t ever a good one, anyway, but he must have cherished that bow and thought a lot of it—and it showed how crushed he wa
s for him to throw it away. He made an effort to smile. He went to his sister, giving her a clumsy sort of half punch and half pat. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, with a queer embarrassed look at me. Charles shrugged his shoulders. “Eh bien,” he said. I didn’t know what that meant; I didn’t have to. He’d lost a good supper.
He nodded at me. “Viens,” he said wearily.
Even as he spoke, that blasted rabbit again poked its head from the bushes. It wriggled its ears. It ducked back in. All three of us considered each other. I think, for a minute, I was just as sorry and disappointed as Charles and Suzanne were. That rabbit acted like it was taunting us. We saw another group of bushes move, off by the tree, as the rabbit passed under them.
I don’t know what came into me. I don’t want anyone to tease me and say I was showing off in front of Suzanne, because I wasn’t—at least, not this time.
I was sorry for both of them. On an impulse I pulled out that big German pistol from under my jacket. Charles’ eyes opened. “Oh!” he gasped.
Suzanne stepped back. “Un gangster!” she exclaimed. Maybe I ought to tell you that because of our American movies Frenchmen have the idea America is filled with gangsters and Indians and cowboys and movie stars and nobody else and the word for “gangster” in French is precisely what we have. Any other time I might have laughed.
I went after that rabbit with the big pistol. I could see the movement of the bushes. It was like shooting a coyote in chaparral. I lifted the pistol and cocked it, this time. I waited. I aimed low down on the bushes. The next time the bushes rustled—I pulled the trigger.
There was an almighty bang from the pistol. It had a tremendous kick. It nearly knocked itself out of my hand. Suzanne yelped. After her yelp, that rabbit in the bushes made the oddest sound ever to come from a rabbit. It let go with a grunt. After a grunt it squealed. It continued to squeal and it was still squealing, only not as loud, when it staggered out from the bushes and laid down in the clearing and stopped moving. Charles took one look at it. He put his hands to his head, rocking his head back and forth as if he’d become afflicted by a sudden splitting headache. “Ai! Ai!” he groaned.
Suzanne ran into the clearing. She looked down at what I had shot. She had eyes big as saucers. “Ah! Ah!” she exclaimed, absolutely horrified. “C’est le cochon de Monsieur Capedulocque!”
And so it was.
Instead of shooting a rabbit for Charles’ and Suzanne’s supper I’d gone and let fly at that conceited, trained, truffe-hunting pig belonging to the mayor of St. Chamant. I wanted to sink right down through the earth and never viens up again.
Suzanne gasped, “Oh, j’ai peur. J’ai peur.”
Charles had one more look at the pig and muttered, “Moi, aussi. J’ai peur. J’ai peur.”
I didn’t know what that “J’ai peur” meant, but from the way they said it anyone could see they were nearly scared to death. A mayor of a French village is an important object in France, much more important than in our own towns. I wasn’t happy, myself. I was scared, too; and if “J’ai peur” meant “I’m scared,” that was what I was, aussi. A lot. Afterwards I learned it almost meant that. Only the French say, “I have fear” instead of “I am afraid.” “Je” was “I” and “ai” was “have” and “peur” was “fear”; and when Charles was saying, “J’ai peur,” he was saying, “I’ve fear.” But right then I didn’t take time to do any cyphering of what he was saying.
Charles pulled my arm. “Viens!” he said, and ran across the clearing, Suzanne following. “Viens!” they called. “Viens vite! Vite!” You didn’t have to hear that “Vite!” more than once to know it meant “quick!” And, je viens vite, too. But not vite enough. Before I reached them Monsieur Capedulocque stepped through the bushes and saw his dead cochon and began to roar at us and groan and tear at his whisper with his hands.
8
LE TROUBLE VIENT
I can understand a man losing his temper because his prize cochon had been shot but I never witnessed a man go on about a cochon as much as that mayor of St. Chamant did. He collared Charles and Suzanne. He shook them. He yelled at them as if they were murderers. I stepped across to explain it was my fault. That didn’t help any—because Monsieur Capedulocque didn’t understand what I was saying.
I realize now that neither Charles nor Suzanne tried to unload the blame on me, either. Just as easy as anything, they could have told the mayor everything happened because of me, when I didn’t know what they were saying. But never once did they point at me as you might think foreign kids would’ve done.
The mayor was panting and shouting. Charles was active, limber enough to slip away. But the mayor hung on to Suzanne. He shook her some more. I could see her biting her lips to keep from crying out loud. I shoved closer, forgetting my leg. Loudly as I could, I said, “I did it.” That didn’t even dent the mayor. He’d shake Suzanne—he’d look at that cochon in the grass—he’d yell—he’d groan and pull at his beard and rage. It was an awful thing to see him carry on as he did.
I figured a dead cochon wasn’t nearly as important as the fact a live Nazi was probably hanging around somewhere right now, listening to all the commotion that angry little fat mayor was making. To distract him away from Suzanne, finally, I waved the German pistol at him. I wanted him to see the pistol and to realize what it was. But do you think he understood what I was driving at? Not at all. I’m hung if he didn’t gawk at that pistol, as if he hadn’t noticed before I was holding it.
His little eyes widened. His white beard sort of flared out. He let go of Suzanne. He stumbled back, waving his hands at me, shouting at me. Once more, I tried to persuade him to take the pistol and see for himself what it was. He let out another yell. He grabbed a knife in his belt and brandished it at me.
Automatic pistols are different from revolvers. Once an automatic pistol shoots, it cocks itself—and it’s ready to fire again. So, when I happened to grab more tightly on to the pistol, I must have accidentally pulled the trigger.
The pistol went off a second time with a tremendous bang. It knocked itself out of my hand. The bullet slammed through the mayor’s hat, lifting his hat right off his pink bald head.
For nearly a whole minute afterwards, there wasn’t a sound in the clearing except the echo of that shot. The pistol fell at my feet. I was so pulverized by what had happened I didn’t budge. The mayor opened his mouth; his face turned scarlet. He didn’t say a word. He felt himself all over. He touched his head. He found his hat was gone. He looked around. He picked up his hat and he eyed the hole in his hat made by the bullet. He pointed his finger at me. “Assassin!” he shouted. “Tu es un assassin!”
The mayor rushed at me. He slammed me to the ground. Charles promptly tackled him. Suzanne tried to bite him. He grabbed all of us. He sputtered. He pointed down the montagne. “Descendez!” he ordered, drawing himself up like a judge speaking to three criminals. “Charles, Suzanne et Jean! Descendez la montagne! Vite!”
We must have taken about half an hour. We descended right down through the forest and across the vineyards on the lower slope until we came into la rue entering le village de St. Chamant.
By now, all three of us, Charles, Suzanne et moi, were pretty much scared. My leg hurt. I can’t tell you how much it hurt. I don’t believe it had hurt that much since Monsieur Simonis had dug his fingers into it. I’d never have made it to le village de St. Chamant if Charles hadn’t helped on one side and Suzanne on the other.
We came into le village, the mayor walking behind us, puffing and roaring, letting everyone know what had happened, waving his hat, pointing to the hole in it. Before we reached the workshop mon oncle heard the noise. He ran to us. I’d fallen down a lot. I was scratched. Probably I was pretty much of a sight to behold. He took one look at me. He gave a jump. Although I was nearly as big as he was he picked me up. The mayor rushed at mon oncle, again shouting I was an assassin.
Mon oncle swung around. He took one hand from me. He gave the mayor such a sho
ve that the mayor fell backwards and rolled into the ditch. He got to his knees, all covered with mud. If that man had been angry on top of the montagne, it didn’t compare with what he was now. He was so out of temper he didn’t even have time to take himself from the mud. He shook his fist at mon oncle. He started swearing and cursing and shouting and shoving at the people who tried to help him.
Mon oncle carried me to the hotel where Madame Graffoulier met him. They loaded me on the bed upstairs. I began explaining. Charles and Suzanne came right in, too.
Charles kept saying, “S’il vous plaît,” apologizing for interrupting. Mon oncle said, “S’il vous plaît” meant, “If you please—” and Charles was asking please let him give his version.
Mon oncle listened to Charles. I gathered Charles was taking on the blame. According to mon oncle Charles claimed it was his fault because he asked me to shoot the rabbit.
I said that wasn’t anywhere near the exact truth. I said, “S’il vous plaît,” to Charles and explained I’d wanted to shoot the rabbit.
Mon oncle’s face sort of lightened. “You didn’t try to scare the mayor by shooting at his hat?”
“Oh, no!” I said.
Mon oncle couldn’t help it. He broke into laughter. He said he wished he’d been there. He told me, “Bien fait! Bien fait!” and laughed some more and said “Bien fait!” was French for, “Well done!” and by and by became more serious and admitted he shouldn’t have laughed. He wrinkled his forehead.
“Ah, oui. I zink perhaps this is more serious than you understand, Jean.” He paused. From downstairs we could hear the sound of men’s voices. Every now and then we heard a louder roaring noise. That was the mayor.
Evidently, he had at last hauled himself out of the mud and followed us to the hotel. A couple of times Madame Graffoulier stuck her angular head in through the door and spoke to mon oncle and pulled her head back into the hall, again, shutting the door.