The Woodlander

by Kirk Watson

Rollie rolled back over. “So, why are you telling me now?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because my sister is still out there somewhere. I need you to promise me something, Rollie. If anything should happen to me, promise me you’ll find Violet.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Lisa. You’re the toughest of us all, including those damned haakönen.”

  “Just promise me, Rollie.”

  “Okay, okay. I promise.”

  “Thank you. Now you should try to get some sleep.”

  Rollie pulled the tarp up to his chin and rolled over. “Good night, Lisa.”

  “Good night. And Rollie?”

  Rollie looked back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

  “If you ever repeat that story, I’ll kill you.”

  Chapter 19

  THE SHADOW ON THE MOON

  Expectant father-to-be John Grey paced up and down the hallway of his three-bedroom tree, wringing his paws in worry. Earlier that morning, Sharon had wakened him in their master bedroom.

  “Honey,” she said, shaking him gently as he slept beside her.

  “Just a few more minutes,” John mumbled, “then I’ll deliver the papers.”

  Sharon laughed softly. She shook him again, a little harder this time. “Honey, it’s time.”

  “Time?” John opened one eye. “Time for what?”

  “Time for the baby.”

  John sat bolt upright in bed. “The baby’s coming? Now?”

  Sharon smiled and nodded. John hopped out of bed and fell flat on his face. He quickly picked himself up.

  “I’ll go get the doctor!” he said, fumbling around the dark bedroom. “Where are my trousers? Where’s my shirt? Ah, there you are!”

  Sharon lit the bedside lamp, revealing John had put his shirt on inside out.

  He cursed lowly as he pulled it back over his head, falling back down in the process. “Dammit!”

  “Slow down, honey,” Sharon said, “there’s plenty of time.”

  John threw on his coat and headed for the bedroom door. His fur was disheveled and his shirt untucked; he looked as if he had been sleeping on the street. “I’ll be right back! Don’t start without me!”

  “Honey!” Sharon called after him.

  John poked his head back through the door, his fur sticking straight up on his head. “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”

  “Come here,” Sharon said. “I can’t let you go out looking like that. What will the neighbors think?”

  “But the baby’s coming—”

  “Shh… there’s plenty of time. Come here.”

  John reluctantly walked over to his very pregnant wife. Sharon took the lamp from the bedside table and stood in front of him. Despite her prodigious bump, she had never looked more beautiful to John. Her fur was more lustrous than ever, and her face was so radiant that she seemed to outshine the lamp.

  “Fix your shirt,” she said, and John tucked in his shirt. She smoothed the fur down on his head with her paw. “Now take a deep breath. Just breathe, honey.” She took a long, deep breath, and John imitated her, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. “Everything’s going to be fine, John. Do you hear me?”

  John nodded, trying his best to relax, but his twitching tail betrayed him.

  Sharon looked at him skeptically. She rubbed his arms with her paws, then looked him in the eye. “Say it after me: everything’s going to be fine.”

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” he repeated, taking another deep breath.

  Sharon smiled. “That’s better. Now go find Dr. Mosely. We’re going to have a baby.”

  John spun around and shot out the door like a bullet. He flew down the stairs and out the front door, sprinted across the yard and leapt over the hedges, then sped down the path towards town, nearly knocking over the postal carrier in the process.

  “Slow down, you hooligan!” the postal carrier yelled after him.

  “Sorry, Mr. Fields!” John yelled back without slowing. “We’re having the baby!”

  He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, past the neighbors’ trees and into town. The sun was just coming up over Langley as he approached the barbershop on the edge of the commercial district. A few of the old-timers had already gathered outside, setting up their rocking chairs on the sidewalk (as they did every morning) to play chess and comment on the people coming and going. They spotted John running towards them and watched in amusement as he drew near.

  Mr. Greely, a silvery otter, called to him as he sprinted by. “Hey, John! Where you running to?”

  “The baby’s coming, Mr. Greely!” John called back.

  “Go, John, go!” the barbershop regulars cheered, standing from their rocking chairs and waving their paws in the air.

  When he was nearly out of sight, Mr. Greely sat back down. “Look at that fool go,” he said to the other regulars, “it must be his first baby.”

  “Mm-hmm,” the old-timers agreed, nodding their heads and chuckling.

  Mr. Greely pushed a rook to the edge of the chessboard. “Check,” he said triumphantly, and his opponent, a sour-looking possum, scowled.

  John reached the two-story brick building where Dr. Mosely kept an office. He tried the door, but it was locked. He banged on it frantically, yelling, “Dr. Mosely, the baby’s coming!” but no one answered. Eventually, it dawned on him that it was far too early for the office to be open, and Dr. Mosely would still be at his home, not far from John’s own. Fortunately, John knew the address from his days as a paperboy. The barbershop regulars spotted him coming as he flew back up the street.

  “Look, here he comes again,” Mr. Greely said.

  The regulars stood and chanted, “Go, John, go!” as he raced by. When he was gone, they sat back in their rocking chairs, chuckling.

  “Say, fellas,” Mr. Greely said, “now that I think about it, do you suppose that fool’s running to or from that baby?”

  The other regulars hooted and slapped their knees. Mr. Greely’s frivolity came to a sudden end as his opponent pushed a bishop across the chessboard.

  “Check-mate,” the sour possum said with a smile, and this time it was Mr. Greely’s turn to scowl.

  John sprinted to the Foothill Estates, a rolling meadow where many of the prominent moles of Langley kept homes. Wishing he still had his bicycle, John ran up and down the hilly terrain, all the way to 82 Hillside Drive, and pounded on the wooden door set into the side of the molehill.

  “Dr. Mosely,” he called, “the baby’s coming!”

  After a good deal of pounding, the door swung open. Dr. Mosely stood there in his nightshirt and cap, rubbing his tiny mole eyes. “Confound it, what’s with all this racket?”

  “Dr. Mosely,” John said, “thank goodness you’re home. The baby’s coming!”

  Dr. Mosely put on his spectacles and squinted at his visitor. “John Grey? Is that you? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Mosely, but the baby’s coming! The baby’s coming!”

  “Settle down, John. I know the baby’s coming. I’m Sharon’s doctor, remember? She should be due any day now.”

  “No, you don’t understand. The baby’s coming right now!”

  Dr. Mosely placed a paw on John’s shoulder. “Take it easy, son. This is the third time you’ve come running to me this month, and every time it’s turned out to be a false alarm.”

  “But—”

  Dr. Mosely held up his paw. “You can’t keep rushing over every time the baby kicks, or Sharon gets the hiccups.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me—when the time comes, Sharon will know. Even then, I’m sure we’ll have several hours, if not days.”

  “But—”

  “Tell you what, John. I’ll come by your tree after I’ve had some breakfast and check on Sharon myself. How does that sound?”

  “But there’s no time! The baby’s coming now!”

  “Son, how many babies have you delivered in your lifetime
?”

  John kicked at the ground. “Well, none—”

  “Exactly. So why don’t you leave it to the professionals? Go home to your wife and try to relax. Sharon will know when it’s time.”

  “But Sharon’s the one who sent me!”

  Dr. Mosely’s eyes widened. He knew Sharon was a no-nonsense gal—not as easily excitable as her frantic husband. “Sharon sent you?”

  John nodded vigorously.

  The mole narrowed his eyes. “What exactly did she say?”

  “She said it’s time for the baby.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? Quick, help me find my medicine bag. And my pants! The baby’s coming! The baby’s coming!”

  Dr. Mosely quickly got dressed and grabbed his medicine bag, then did his best to keep up with John as they ran back to the Grey residence. John burst through the front door.

  “Sharon!” he called. “I’ve brought the doctor!”

  “I’m in the bedroom,” Sharon called back down. “Bring Dr. Mosely up.”

  The doctor followed John up the stairs and into the master bedroom, where they found Sharon sitting in bed, calmly drinking a cup of tea.

  “Dr. Mosely,” she said, “it’s so good of you to come.”

  “Sharon, dear,” Dr. Mosely said, “how are you doing?”

  “I think the baby’s coming, doctor,” she said, wincing slightly. “And right soon.”

  Dr. Mosely set down his medicine bag on the bedside table and began removing his instruments. “Yes, yes, of course. Now, don’t you worry, dear. We’ll have that baby delivered in no time.”

  John stood behind the doctor as he examined Sharon, peeking over his shoulder and wringing his paws. His tail twitched wildly behind him; he looked as if he would faint.

  “Doctor,” Sharon said, noticing her husband’s anxiety, “maybe John could assist you in some way?”

  Dr. Mosely peered back over his shoulder, surprised to find John standing so close behind. “Yes, of course. John, I have a special assignment for you. I need you to gather all the clean towels you can find and boil a pot of water.”

  John nodded and bolted from the room, and the doctor shared a knowing smile with Sharon.

  John sprinted through the house, scrounging through all the cabinets and hampers for towels, and when there were no more towels to be found, he grabbed any other piece of cloth he could find. He returned to the bedroom carrying a tower of linen.

  “Will this do, doctor?” he asked, panting furiously.

  Dr. Mosely turned, and his eyes widened in surprise at the stack of laundry John had gathered so quickly. “Yes, John, that should be just enough. Set them down next to my bag over there.”

  “Oh, honey,” Sharon said, “not the tablecloth. And are those our drapes?”

  “Right,” John said, pulling a checkered cloth from the pile. “I guess I panicked.”

  Sharon motioned him to her bedside and took his paw. “Relax, John. Breathe.”

  John took another deep breath and smiled weakly at his wife. She patted his paw and smiled back.

  “How’s that boiling water coming, John?” Dr. Mosely asked.

  “The water, right!” John said, sprinting back out of the room.

  “Be careful, honey!” Sharon called after him. “Don’t scald yourself!”

  John ran to the kitchen and filled the largest pot they had to the brim. He lit the stove and placed the pot on it, then leaned against the counter and stared down at the pot, tapping his fingers impatiently. He glanced back at the hallway, then the pot, then the hallway again. Several minutes passed.

  “Come on, you stupid pot, boil!” He paced back and forth in front of the stove, his impatience growing. “Oh, for crying out loud, aren’t you even warm yet?”

  He stuck a finger in the pot—it was more than warm.

  “Yow!” he howled, sticking his finger in his mouth. He hopped in circles, whimpering as he sucked on his throbbing finger.

  “Honey?” Sharon called from down the hall. “Are you all right? You didn’t burn yourself, did you?”

  John stuck his finger in the butter dish and sighed in relief.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” he called back. “The water’s just getting warm; I’ll be there in one minute.” He paused for a moment before adding, “How are you?” He winced, immediately regretting it.

  “John Grey, I told you to be careful in there!” Sharon admonished. “There’s a butter dish on the kitchen table; put some on whatever you burned and try to settle down. Breathe, honey. Please.”

  With his finger still throbbing in the butter dish, John took a deep breath. As he exhaled, the pot began to boil. Finally, he thought, grabbing the pot with both paws—it was more than warm as well.

  “Yow!” he howled again, quickly setting the pot back on the stove.

  “Honey,” Sharon called, “use the oven mitts!”

  John shot a frustrated look down the hall before grabbing the oven mitts from the counter and slipping them over his paws. He picked up the boiling pot and ran towards the bedroom, hot water sloshing from the over-filled pot onto his bare feet with each step. He tried to muffle his whimpers so Sharon wouldn’t hear:

  “Eep… oop… awp…”

  When he finally made it to the bedroom door, Sharon looked at him with pity. “Oh, honey, you’re all wet.”

  John stood dumbstruck in the doorway as he took in the scene. His wife lay in bed with her knees up while Dr. Mosely knelt down with a reflector on his head, looking as if he could be mining for gold. John blinked several times at the surreal scene; he began to feel woozy.

  “Honey?” Sharon asked.

  The water in the pot began to slosh as John tottered back-and-forth on his feet.

  “Doctor,” Sharon whispered, “you better do something.”

  Dr. Mosely turned and saw John looking as if he were about to faint. The doctor covered Sharon’s lower half with a sheet and went over to him, placing a paw on his shoulder. “Excellent work on the water, John. Why don’t you just set it down over there on the table?”

  John nodded, still unable to speak. He slowly set the pot down and just stood there, looking rather shaken.

  “Come here, John,” Sharon said, motioning him to her bedside with a paw.

  John took a few shaky steps and kneeled beside her.

  “Breathe, honey,” she said. “Everything’s going to be fine. Now, let me see your paws.”

  John removed the oven mitts, and Sharon took his paws in hers.

  “Oh, honey,” she said, “you did burn yourself. Does it hurt?”

  John shook his head, but after Sharon gave him a skeptical look, he nodded.

  Sharon raised his paw and kissed his burned finger. “Mmm… I see you found the butter,” she said, and John chuckled. “Feel better?” she asked, and John nodded. “Good. Now, why don’t you wait outside? You’ve done everything you can in here, honey. The doctor will call you if we need you.”

  John nodded again, still unable to speak. Sharon gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and he stood up.

  “Don’t worry, son,” Dr. Mosely said, placing a paw on John’s shoulder and guiding him to the bedroom door, “she’ll be fine. Here, take a towel and dry yourself off.”

  The doctor closed the door behind him, leaving John alone in the hallway holding a curtain.

  The next few hours passed slowly as John paced up and down the hallway outside his bedroom door. His heart leapt into his throat at Sharon’s every cry, but Dr. Mosely would occasionally stick his head out to assure him everything was fine; the delivery was just taking a little longer than expected. But as day turned into night, Dr. Mosely seemed more and more disheveled.

  First, the doctor told John to have a drink and relax. Then he asked John to bring him more boiling water. John noticed a significant amount of blood on the doctor’s rolled up sleeves.

  “Doctor, how’s my wife?” John asked when Dr. Mosely popped his head out the door.

  “Oh, she’s fi
ne, just fine,” the doctor said. “The first baby is always the most difficult, you know. Just relax, and get those cigars ready.”

  The hours passed, accompanied by Sharon’s near-constant wailing. John slumped to the floor with his back to the wall. He held his knees as he rocked himself, twisting his wedding band and staring at the bedroom door.

  Around midnight, the house grew very quiet. Dr. Mosely opened the door and stepped into the hallway with a grave look on his face. He removed his spectacles and wiped them with a handkerchief. John noticed the doctor’s paws were shaking.

  John stood slowly, his fur on end. “What’s happening in there, doctor?”

  Dr. Mosely tucked away his handkerchief and took a deep breath. He looked John in the eyes. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, John.”

  John swallowed hard. “The baby?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I did everything I could, but she never took her first breath. I’m so sorry, John; the baby’s gone.”

  John felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. His head grew light and the hallway seemed to spin around him. He had to steady himself against the wall before his legs buckled beneath him. Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked up at the doctor. “I… I have to see my wife.”

  He began to push by, but the doctor stopped him with a paw on his shoulder. “There’s more, John.”

  John noticed the doctor’s eyes were filled with tears as well, and his lips were quivering.

  “Sharon?” John asked.

  The doctor looked away and nodded.

  “What is it, doctor?”

  “There’s been a complication. She’s bleeding internally. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

  This time, John’s legs did buckle, and he fell to the floor. He felt like he was going to be sick. The doctor placed a paw on his head.

  John looked up at him. “She’s dying?”

  Dr. Mosely nodded. “I’m so sorry, John.”

  “Does she know?”

  Dr. Mosely nodded again.

  “How long?”

  “Not very, I’m afraid—”

  John stood and steadied himself against the wall. He pushed past the doctor and stepped into the bedroom. Sharon lay on the bed, crying, her fur matted with sweat. Upon seeing her husband, she reached out to him. John ran to her side and embraced her.