Escape from Baxters' Barn

by Rebecca Bond

  “Fools rush in!” exclaimed Tug.

  Suddenly, Burdock noticed something. The latch on each pen, he saw now, was nothing more than a big rectangular block of wood, nailed straight through the middle with one strong spike. Turn the block horizontally, and the gate wouldn’t budge. But turn the block vertically, and the gate could easily be pushed open.

  The block latch on Figgy’s gate, for example, looked like this:

  “Wow,” breathed Burdock.

  “Wow, what?” asked Figgy.

  “I see how Nanny might be able to get you all out,” answered Burdock.

  He pointed out the blocks to her.

  “Couldn’t you turn those?” he asked. Nanny stared at them for a few moments.

  “I see what you mean,” she said.

  As everyone watched, Nanny walked around so that her body was parallel to the wall that fronted the pens. She took a few steps, bucked up with her hind legs, and lightly butted underneath Figgy’s block latch. The block rotated fully upright and then continued to turn more, like the hand of a clock moving backwards from its original position at three, to vertical twelve, back a smidge farther to eleven. Nanny had knocked it just a touch too hard, swinging it past the open vertical position, again to locked.

  “Try from the other side,” offered Burdock

  Nanny came around to the other side of the block and repeated her efforts, only now she tapped the block ever so slightly. It pivoted to the right a notch and rested, perfectly upright.

  “Push, Figgy!” she exclaimed. “Push your gate!”

  Figgy did. The gate swung easily open, and Figgy dashed out into the wide open aisle too. She spun in a circle, reveling in the unexpected freedom of it.

  Nanny had gotten her out!

  “I’ll be darned!” said Pull, leaning forward.

  “Far out!” exclaimed Fluff.

  “You’re a bright spark, Burdock!” said Tug. “And you’re a Jack-be-nimble, Nanny!”

  “If that doesn’t beat all!” said Figgy, drawing out each word and looking at first at Burdock and then Nanny in a way she never had before.

  Burdock sat back on his haunches, enjoying the feeling.

  Under the pressure of a terrible situation, the barn animals were turning out to be thinkers and doers.

  7

  Dreams

  The piercing, rusty creak of the barn doors could be heard clearly above the rain.

  “Dewey!” whispered Figgy.

  In a flash, the pig trotted back into her pen. Nanny nudged Figgy’s gate closed, but there wasn’t time to turn the block latch before she hurdled over the fence into her own pen. As she did this, Burdock scurried around the far corner, the raggedy brush of his tail disappearing just as an unshaven Dewey appeared.

  In the gloom of the stormy morning, Dewey loomed large. He clomped down the aisle with a three-legged stool tucked under his arm, milk pail in one hand, a glistening hunk of sausage in the other. He opened Mrs. Brown’s stall and let her out into the aisle. Stuffing the remainder of the meat into his mouth and chewing, he sat down on the stool to milk Mrs. Brown.

  It was only after, as Dewey was grouching about the increasingly foul weather and hurriedly feeding the animals since it was too wet to put them out to pasture, that he noticed the block latch on Figgy’s pen.

  “Huh,” he grunted, staring. “Must of forgot to close that one. Course, you didn’t notice.” He looked Figgy in the eye. “Could have been out with your nose in the feed all night, having yourself a fine feast, if only you had a noodle in your noggin!”

  Dewey spent the morning in the garage attached to the back of the barn.

  The garage had once housed the Baxter brothers’ second tractor, but that had been sold long ago. Now it housed Dewey’s baby—an antique car, inherited from his uncle.

  It was a 1930 baby blue Ford Model A roadster. Splendidly outfitted with a four-cylinder, two-liter engine, a three-speed gearbox, and state of the art brake design, its mechanics were top-notch.

  While Grady had often tried to convince Dewey to sell his heirloom automobile when the brothers started to slide on their bills, Dewey would not hear of it. He was forever hunting down parts for his “Baby Blue,” and his dream was to restore the car to her original glory as closely as possible.

  Today, Dewey pulled the overhead cord to illuminate the garage, switched on the ancient radio that sat on the upper shelf, and did a little tidying. It was a rare thing to see Dewey organizing, but he busily began boxing up his piles of tools, automotive parts, and garage equipment.

  Meanwhile, lying on a pile of empty grain sacks in the feed room, Burdock thought about cream. In his opinion, he didn’t get nearly enough. Occasionally Grady had given him a straight-from-the-cow warm dish of it, but never as often as Burdock would like. And with Dewey in charge now, Burdock doubted there was cream in his future.

  Under the rhythmic tumble of water on the roof, Burdock’s mind drifted. Thoughts of warm cream led to images of warm sun, then woolly beds, cozy stoves, and cooking pots whose bubbling chicken juices perfumed the air.

  Burdock’s mouth watered, and now he pictured himself in a kitchen on a thick, braided rug next to a wood stove. It was not so unlike the Baxters’ cookstove, but here Burdock was not squirreled away beneath it, hiding. Here, he was out in the open, basking in the warmth, in the freedom of belonging. Here, he had just finished a bowl of moist chicken parts and was meticulously licking his whiskers clean before curling up to sleep.

  The vision was so real, so right, that Burdock would have willed himself there if he could have. Far away from this damp, doomed barn.

  8

  Figgy

  While Burdock slept, Figgy was thinking.

  Contrary to what Dewey had said, Figgy did have a noodle in her noggin. Her mind worked like a puzzle, fitting pieces into place until a whole picture emerged.

  After snuffling about in her trough for any last scrap of potato peel, bread crust, or tangy cheese rind, Figgy lay down, closed her eyes, and let out a sigh. The howl of the wind was louder now, and the rain hitting the barn was heavier. The deluge of water crashed into the building in waves as fierce squalls drove the storm sideways.

  Figgy stretched herself out. Some of her best thinking came while lying down. She thought about what she knew:

  Nanny can get out of her own pen.

  Nanny can get us out of our pens.

  The barn doors are locked.

  The only one who can get outside is Burdock.

  There’s no way Burdock can open the barn doors.

  There were some good and some bad things here. The sticking point of any escape plan, it seemed, was getting out of the barn—or, in other words, finding a way to open the locked doors. Figgy’s mind went back over exactly how Burdock had described the wooden bar. Clearly, Burdock wasn’t big enough or strong enough to lift it and open the doors.

  But wait, what about Nanny? Could she push the bar up and open the doors? Despite her kind, motherly demeanor, Nanny was strong. And clever. Hadn’t she just jumped the fence and turned the block on Figgy’s pen by butting it with her head? What if—Figgy started to sit up—Rats! she remembered, Nanny’s locked in too.

  So here was the real question: How could Nanny get out of the barn and at least try to open the doors for the rest of them? She wasn’t that big, really. Could she squeeze through anywhere? Was there any, any way?

  There was the door to the garage, but Dewey always kept that locked. The barn had a couple of decent-size windows, but they were so high up on the walls, even Tug and Pull couldn’t see out of them. And—well, that was it. Figgy tried to think if there were any gaps between or under the outside boards. She couldn’t remember having seen any. Figgy opened her eyes and looked at her own outside barn wall.

  The Baxter barn had been built over a hundred years ago, in 1892. It was simply one big space with a half loft, intended as a holdall for animals, equipment, and hay. There was no foundation and originally, simply a
dirt floor. Sometime in the early 1930s, a floor had been added to most of the barn, all except the sheep, goat, and pig pens, which ran along the west side and remained dirt.

  The barn was well built and had stayed in good shape, with only minor repairs now and then. Five years ago, when an old maple tree fell on the barn and an expensive new roof was needed, Grady convinced Dewey that they needed to take out some insurance on the structure. Dewey grumbled but finally agreed. They were already so deep in the hole, really, so what the heck?

  Figgy looked at a small puddle of water seeping under the wall.

  Suddenly she was on her feet, pawing at the puddle. A little chunk of sandy mud came up. Quickly, she pawed with both front hooves, scraping back the water and the dirt. The hard-packed earth had been softened some by the soaking rain. Figgy pushed her snout in and carved out a groove. She dug furiously with her hooves, scraping back an inch of dirt, then an inch more. A jolt of energy surged through her. She clawed harder, deepening the hollow at the base of the wall. She poked her nose in again and pried up. Dug more. Pulled back the dirt and stopped. Wow, thought the pig. This might work.

  “Nanny,” whispered Figgy.

  9

  A Plan Takes Shape

  Dewey wasn’t really listening to the radio. But when the broadcast was interrupted by three loud beeps, he put down the box of waxes and polishes, went over to the radio, and turned up the volume.

  EMERGENCY ALERT. HURRICANE-FORCE WINDS MOVING RAPIDLY INTO THE LISTENING AREA. WINDS GUSTING TO EIGHTY MILES PER HOUR. DAMAGING CONDITIONS IN EFFECT THROUGH SUNDAY MORNING. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER.

  “Oh, ROT!” cried Dewey. He burst through the garage door, ran down the barn aisle and out the front doors, slammed and barred them, and raced up the road.

  The rain coming down now was torrential but he didn’t even stop for a coat.

  “Pssst! Sleepyhead!” Nanny called out to Burdock. With Dewey gone, Nanny had quickly gathered the group for a meeting. Everyone was there except for Burdock, who was in the feed room on top of a box of grain sacks. By leaning her head over her pen’s edge, Nanny could glimpse just a ruffle of gray fur slowly rising and falling.

  Except for his slow, even breathing, Burdock didn’t move an inch.

  “Burdock!” called Nanny again. “Burdock, love!” There was excitement in Nanny’s voice. “BURRR-DOCK!”

  “What? Where?” Burdock awoke with a start, flipping over to face the disturbance, his one eye opening wide. “Is the barn on fire?”

  “Oh, no dear,” said Nanny. “We’re having a meeting. We need you.”

  Burdock flopped back onto his side, stretched out his gray arms, and languidly kneaded the air with his broad mitteny paws. “I was dreaming about chickens . . .” His voice trailed off and he yawned again, his tongue unfurling like a glossy pink ribbon. “Don’t any of you ever sleep?” He closed his eye, pulled his paws up under his chin, and turned over.

  But Nanny urged him again. And soon, Burdock arrived and settled himself on his coil of rope. His sour expression and crumpled whiskers said he was bristling slightly to be awake. But in truth, Burdock was curious. What was going on now?

  “Before Dewey gets back,” said Nanny, “let’s talk. Shall I call roll?”

  “We’re all here!” exclaimed Figgy. “Just talk!”

  Nanny hadn’t dared to jump into the central aisle in case Dewey should suddenly reappear, so she was again standing with her front hooves propped on the middle board of her pen. The other animals gathered around as best they could.

  “Figgy believes,” began Nanny, “that she can dig a tunnel under her wall to the outside. Big enough for me to fit through. She’s already started to dig and it seems possible. Right, Figgy?” Nanny looked to Figgy.

  “As far as I can figure,” explained Figgy, “it’s the only way out. And I think it could work.”

  As she began to talk, Burdock noticed a glister in Figgy’s eyes, the kind you get when you have latched on to a major idea, or a major idea has latched on to you.

  “And if she can get me out,” continued Nanny, “the hope is that I can knock that big bar off the barn doors. Unlock them.” She paused. Nanny was far from sure she really could do this, but what other chance did they have? “And then I can open your stalls, and we can all get out.”

  “I’ll say!” said Tug. “Aren’t you a clever clog!”

  “There’s one thing,” said Figgy, jumping in. “If I dig out all that dirt, we need somewhere to put it, some way to hide it. Because of course Dewey will notice if my pen suddenly fills up with a great mound of dirt . . . but I think I can push some of it to you, Fluff, under our shared wall, and some of it to you, Nanny and Tick, under our wall, and can you distribute it around your pens? You know, spread it about under the straw to get rid of it?”

  “Yes, yes!” cried Tick exuberantly. “I can help! I can do that! Can’t I, Mama?” He bounded lightly up and down on his little black feet.

  “That would be an enormous help, love,” said Nanny with a nod.

  Unable to contain himself, Tick gamboled a few enthusiastic laps around the pen.

  “And Fluff, you on board?” asked Figgy.

  “Absolutely!” said Fluff. “My wish is your command!”

  “Uh, don’t you mean . . . well, point taken,” said Figgy.

  “How long do you think it will take you?” asked Mrs. Brown quietly.

  “I don’t know,” said Figgy. “A day or two? I will say this: as dreary as all this rain is, we should at least be grateful that Dewey can’t burn down the barn when it’s this wet.”

  “Absolutely true,” said Pull. “At least it’s giving us a little time. But wait—” He paused as a thought came to him. Leaning forward, he asked, “Won’t Dewey see the hole?”

  “Not if I can help it,” explained the pig matter-of-factly. “I’m going to cover it with hay when I’m not digging. Easy-peasy.” She looked pleased. Just as much as Figgy loved a chunk of buttermilk cornbread or a dollop of beans baked with maple syrup, the pig could appreciate a well-designed strategy.

  “Marvelous,” said Pull. “We have a plan.” Cautious relief could be heard seeping into his voice. “An escape plan.”

  The wind bashed the barn suddenly and the whole structure trembled. It made the animals feel momentarily unmoored.

  “But, Mama,” came the small voice of Tick, “if we can get out, then, where will we all—go?” Tick didn’t think he was asking a big question. He was young enough to assume that his elders had that part figured out.

  But none of them (except maybe Burdock if you count his dreaming) had even let themselves imagine that far.

  Fluff was lying in her pen nervously listening to the relentless pummeling of wind, when she saw a ghost. It swooped down through the murky dark at the top of the barn and hovered for a moment, not even ten feet above her head.

  “Help!” she bleated. “Help! Figgy, look!”

  Figgy was digging at the hole, snout and hooves scraping and gouging, but at Fluff’s cry, she turned and looked up just as a white, feathery shape glided a silent half circle, flickered out the window, and was gone.

  “Oh!” Figgy breathed, her voice hushed with awe. “A barn owl!”

  “I’ve never seen an owl in this barn,” whispered Mrs. Brown, who had been listening. “There’s an owl here?”

  “Apparently,” said Figgy, “there was. Though why he would go out in weather like this, I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

  10

  Fear

  The wind that night was a thrashing wind, a bellowing wind, a prying wind. It battered trees, blasted through glass, and ripped away anything it could get its grip on. Burdock crawled under a cabinet in the tool room and took note of every appalling noise.

  And the tempest wasn’t just at the Baxter farm.

  In town, in the middle of the night, the gazebo on the village green was wrenched loose from its wooden base and tumbled down the hill to lean affectionately against the informati
on booth.

  In the morning, the swings at the elementary school were found wrapped tightly around and around the top bar, as if by a troublesome child.

  And Mr. and Mrs. Cavanaugh’s wrought iron bench disappeared off their front porch, only to be discovered upright in their garden, on the other side of the house. “Oh, I like it there,” said Mrs. Cavanaugh. “It’s poetic.”

  In the Baxter farm kitchen, Dewey slammed around.

  Early this morning, he had run down the road to check again on the crop of sunflowers. The fields of towering flowers had been only days away from harvest, and Dewey had been counting on this crop to pull him through the year financially.

  It had been somewhat of a gamble to plant sunflowers in the first place, especially this far north, but the brothers had been told that the market for sunflower oil was growing. They were led to believe that if they could turn a decent harvest, there would be a sizeable profit.

  But any earnings were all gone now. The storm had taken care of that.

  In the fields, sunflower stalks lay strewn about like giant matchsticks. Overnight, the entire crop had been devastated.

  Dewey was steamed.

  “This PLACE!” he bellowed at the empty kitchen, kicking the leg of an old dresser and catapulting dishes to the floor.

  Darn Grady for leaving! Darn him for getting out. Dewey kicked a fallen jar and stood there, practically snarling in his anger. Maybe he should do the same thing: leave this joint. But then he would need a chunk of cash to get started doing something else.

  Dewey laid his palms down on the counter, thinking back over his arguments with Grady and with the man who had come just after to collect their money.

  “Well, Grady, I don’t know where you are!” yelled Dewey, “but I’m calling the shots now!”