by Kathi Appelt
She witnessed the truck drive away. She witnessed the dust, the mean and swirling cloud of dust that curled around the back tires and filled the air.
She witnessed the trees shivering as the truck disappeared from her sight, carrying her mother and brother. And as if all that wasn’t enough for one tiny kitten to witness, then she watched Ranger tug against his chain and howl as if his heart was breaking; his heart was breaking, she knew. She witnessed it. Saw him pull and pull and pull against the chain. Saw him yelp and cry and howl until he had nothing left, until his neck was raw and bleeding where the chain dug into the skin, rubbed the fur away and left it bleeding, raw, sore, until he had no voice at all, until he couldn’t utter a single sound.
She witnessed Ranger as he dragged himself back underneath the house, the house that tilted to one side, the house that smelled of bones and flesh and something rotten. Underneath. And all she could do, all that was left, was to curl up beside him, beside the hound, her beloved hound, the one who had sung to her even when she was still inside her mother. She curled up beside him, licked his silky ears, and purred. That was all she could do.
Her mother was gone. Her brother was too. But she had Ranger. And she knew that they had to get away from this place, the only place she had ever known. Even in her smallness, she knew that Ranger would not last much longer tied to that chain.
49
MEMORY IS A slippery thing. When something terrible happens to you, like the loss of someone you love, like the loss of a mother or a father, or perhaps a twin sister or an old hound, memory can turn into a soft blanket that hides you from the loss.
But this was not the case with Puck. No. He remembered. Soon, he would have to figure out how to keep his promise to his calico mama. Soon, he would have to find Ranger and Sabine. Soon, he would have to eat!
His belly rumbled. He had not eaten anything for a whole day and night. All he had ingested was water, lots and lots of water. He sat up and stretched. He licked the fur on his left side and got a mouthful of dried mud. He spat it out. His coat was caked in it. All at once, he felt trapped by the dried bottom of the creek, encased. He had to get it off.
For the next hour, he tugged and licked and rolled. The mud was like concrete in his fur. When he pulled at it, tufts of fur came out with it. Ouch! He started to panic.
He tugged and licked and rolled some more. Finally he began to cry again. His skin itched, his mouth was dry, and he was still a mess. He lay down in a heap and wept. Wept for his silver fur, coming out in patches. Wept for his missing mother and sister and hound.
At last, spent from so many tears, he pulled himself up and looked around. He had cried so hard that now he was full of hiccups. Puck had been hungry before, but now he was starving. Mouthfuls of dried mud do not satisfy a hungry cat, especially one who is growing despite his travails.
Everyone knows that a cat is built for stalking, for tracking its prey and pouncing. He wished that he had paid better attention to the advice of his mother when she had brought home the mice and lizards and voles for himself and his sister to practice on. “You’ll need to know how to catch your own one day,” she had told them. Sabine had taken her seriously.
But for Puck, they had been a game. Lizards especially provided hours of amusement. He loved to bat them into the air and catch them with his front paws. It had all been loads of fun. But now, his belly rumbling, his skin itchy, he was not interested in playing. Trouble was, the key to stalking any kind of prey is silence.
Hiccups are not silent.
He tried holding his breath.
Hic!
He tried lying on his back.
Hic!
He felt like crying again, but he knew if he did, he’d simply have more hiccups. A cat with hiccups cannot sneak up on anything. A cat with hiccups is a sorry sight.
50
IN THE WELL-kept records of trees, would you find the joining of Hawk Man and Night Song a thousand years ago? Yes, the magnolias and blackjacks and beautyberries, they would tell you that here were two who had turned their backs upon their own kind.
Together these two searched for a place to settle. They walked on their unfamiliar legs and feet until they were weary. They followed the paths through the woods, paths made by deer and bears and bison. They camped along the sluggish bayous. They traipsed all the way to the edge of the forest and beyond, where they gazed upon the wide and beautiful river to the east. It was lovely, and for a while they thought they might stay there, along its sandy shores. But without the shelter of their beloved trees, they felt vulnerable.
More than anything, they felt alone. Humans are designed to be with other humans, even those with mixed blood. They need each other’s laughter. They require each other’s sorrows. They are made to swim and cook and hunt and gossip together. Mostly, they need each other’s stories, stories of love and wisdom and mirth. Hawk Man and Night Song needed other humans. And so they turned away from the slow-moving river with its open skies and the tall grasses that grew beside it and walked back through the forest, back across the open meadow and all along the animal paths to the village beside the creek. The Caddo village.
Once there, the people welcomed them as their own, as Caddo, and they sang and danced and celebrated this new arrival, made Hawk Man and Night Song members of their tribe. There are mysteries about the Caddo, but one thing is known. They were a welcoming people, open and friendly. The young couple found a family. And right there, in the village alongside the creek, they built a hut of branches and mud, a home.
• • •
Ask a tree and it will tell you about homes. Ask the old loblolly pine and it will talk about how it offered up one small den for one small cat. And deep below, trapped in its dying roots, one beautiful old jar for an old, old snake.
51
HAPPINESS WAS THERE in that small hut beside the creek, and soon enough Hawk Man and Night Song bore a baby, a little girl. All babies have a glow about them, but Hawk Man was certain that his daughter glimmered. The trees welcomed her right away, just as they do all babies.
And Hawk Man?
When a young man becomes a father, the sky above him, the ground beneath him, the rising and setting sun, all become something new, as if he’s never seen them before, as if this little daughter has turned everything all at once into a huge and wondrous Hello. When Hawk Man held his baby girl against his chest and looked into her tiny round face, he felt a love so deep he thought he might drown. It scared him a little, this new kind of love. It was different from the love he felt for Night Song, not more or less, just different, protective and humbling.
When he looked down into his daughter’s dark eyes, she squinted at him. Then, in an action he’d never forget, she raised her tiny arm, uncurled her fingers from her plumsized fist, and touched his chin. She looked at him with such seriousness that Hawk Man was certain that she was trying to tell him something. He could only wonder what it was. Then all he could do was kiss her tiny fingers and smile.
52
NIGHT SONG ALSO loved her little daughter. She held the baby close, just under her chin, and nuzzled the girl’s fine silky hair. She breathed in her baby-girl smell. Rubbed her fingers along her baby-girl skin. On her baby-girl head, Night Song planted a million kisses, maybe more.
Even though Night Song was still new to the village, the people there had welcomed her. If you could know the Caddo, you would know that they were master potters, and it didn’t take long for Night Song to learn this craft. While her daughter slept, Night Song made bowls of wonder, jars for keeping seeds and nuts and corn, bottles for water, for crayfish, for juice made of the small black dewberries that grew in the open meadows. She even made jars for burials, funerary jars meant to accompany the dead to the other side so that they’d have something for carrying their food and water, something to present to their relatives waiting for them, a gift.
On these jars, she always drew a hummingbird. For it was well-known, even then, that the hummingbird was t
he one who took the dead to the other side and then came back. Night Song knew this. And so did the villagers. And also the trees.
If you could see the jar that held Grandmother, you would not find a hummingbird etched on its side. You would not.
53
IF IT WEREN’T for Ranger, Sabine might have left, might have waited until the dark rolled under the house and over it and slipped away, into the woods beyond the yard where she had noticed the yellow eyes of others blinking in the dark. She did not know who or what those yellow, blinking eyes belonged to. Perhaps they were simply fireflies, for fireflies tend to hang along the edges of woods. A less rational being than Sabine might say they were haints with their dim lanterns, blinking on and off. These woods were full of haints, or so it was said. Sabine did not truck with old ghost stories. She knew that haints kept to themselves.
She looked out at the blinking eyes, for that’s what she knew they were, not fireflies or haints, but simply the other animals of the piney woods, the night animals, the raccoons and foxes and rabbits who came just to the edge of the filthy yard, and she dreamed of walking away with them, of leaving this awful place.
But she would not leave Ranger. One day she would figure out how to unfasten the chain, and they would leave this Godforsaken house with its terrible tenant and never look back.
54
GAR FACE ALSO knew about haints. Ever since he had seen the Alligator King, he wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. Had he really seen a hundred-foot-long alligator? Did such a creature exist? The possibility of it ate at his insides.
Night after night, he pushed his old pirogue up and down the Bayou Tartine, his kerosene lantern threw a circle of yellow light atop the muddy water. It was impossible to see more than a foot below the surface of the whisky-colored drink; the murkiness made a silty curtain that hid the inhabitants below.
Nevertheless, the warm light was inviting, especially to mosquitoes and moths. It wasn’t unusual for a small brown bat to wing into its circumference, snapping up the insects. Gar Face had no quarrel with the insects and the bats. He brushed them away from his face as he peered into the brackish stew. Where was the beast?
Gar Face had come a long way from that unskilled boy who shot the deer so long ago. He was no longer a terrible shot, but a good one. He could trap and skin anything, even snakes. Only the bobcat had escaped his predatory skills, and that was the dog’s fault. Not his. But it was the alligators that drove him. Only the alligators challenged him, matched him wit for wit, only the alligators gave him a run for his money. The other animals were no match for his scheming and riflery. No, the gators were a different story. Fierce and cold. Worthy opponents.
As well, it was alligators that paid the biggest price, the skins of their bellies turned into purses for women who attended plays in New York and London, turned into supple boots for men who wore silk socks and did not tramp through the marshes and woodlands, turned into briefcases for executives who sat at satin-finished desks and looked out onto taxi-choked streets. Alligators, same as gold.
But it wasn’t gold that interested Gar Face. It was something bigger than gold. It was seeing their faces, the men who looked away when he walked through the door of the old tavern on the hidden road. The men and their stories, each trying to outdo the other.
Faces. He sneered. Their faces would be as ugly as his when they saw the skin of his hundred-foot gator. He knew they’d curl their lips in an ugly shock of surprise. Greed and jealousy made people ugly. Yes, he thought. It was bigger than gold.
He drew deeply from his bottle, felt the warm liquid slide down his throat and settle into his stomach. He knew that the alligator was here. He could feel him. Could feel the old creature lurking, just beyond the cast of his light.
“I’ll find you, brother,” he said, under his breath. “Count on it.”
A hundred feet below, the Alligator King smiled. And when he did, a million bubbles floated to the surface, rocking the pirogue above. Gar Face reached down to catch the edge of the boat with his hand. He looked over the side into the water.
If he had looked instead at the lantern hanging on the bow, he might have seen the hummingbird hover there, just inside the light. Might have seen her. He might have been even more surprised than he was already by the rocking of the boat. Since when did a hummingbird fly through the night?
Something big was beneath his boat. He was sure of it. He took another swallow from his flask.
55
PUCK.
Itchy.
Frustrated.
Hungry.
Sad.
Hic!
Could life be any worse? As if it could, he felt a flea on the tip of his right ear. He scratched it with his back paw.
He couldn’t seem to stop the itching, the sadness, the frustration, or the hiccups, but he could try to stop the hunger. He stepped to the opening of his little den and looked out. It had been a long, lonely night. The sun was just coming up. Ahh, the sun. For a brief moment, he remembered its goldy gold. Sunk into its warmly warmth.
But just as quickly, he remembered the trap he had walked into. He looked out at the gentle rays, sifting through the treetops. How could something so sweet be so dangerous?
Stay in the Underneath. You’ll be safe in the Underneath. He retreated back into his dark den.
Fear washed over him. The sun was so inviting. Just as it had been the day before. All glittery and warm. All cozy. But hadn’t the sun betrayed him? Hadn’t it lured him out from his safe space and led him right into a trap?
Suddenly a new emotion entered the picture. Anger!
From somewhere deep inside him . . . hissssss!!! Then it happened again. Hisssss!!! All that hissing made him feel better.
At once he knew what to do. He would scare the sun! He took a deep breath and let out his most ferocious HISSSSSSSSS!!! All the fur on his back stood up. He looked back out the opening. The sun had not budged. It was still gently casting down its rays, warming up the trees that surrounded him. How could one small cat with matted fur scare the sun? He plopped down on the dirt and peered out. He could almost hear Sabine laughing at him. Sabine. Where was his sister? Where was Ranger?
He took a deep breath.
Then he took another.
What was this? It seemed the hissing had undone his hiccups. For a tiny moment, he felt a little proud of himself. At least he had conquered the hiccups. He sat up a little straighter and took another breath to be sure. No hiccups. But the moment of satisfaction was swift. His belly still ached. And all that dried mud had also made him thirsty.
He lay there for a long time. As he did, the sun grew brighter, his stomach grew emptier. He began to feel dizzy from hunger. Soon, he knew, he would have to leave this den and find something to eat, and he did not think he could wait until it got dark again. He gathered up as much courage as he could muster and stepped outside. Sunlight bathed him from top to bottom. It sank into his matted fur. Maybe this sun, this warm and goldy sun, wasn’t so bad after all, and for a second he felt a little sorry about hissing at it. Just a little. He took another deep breath, without a hiccup, and was glad for those hisses.
Once outside the den, his ears filled up with strange noises. When he had lived beneath the tilting house, there were only the noises of his familiars—Sabine’s purr, his mother’s voice, the stomping of the man’s heavy boots, the grinding of the old pickup’s motor, Ranger’s howl.
Where was Ranger? Why didn’t he howl? Where was the voice that could lead him back, back to the Underneath? He listened as hard as he could for Ranger’s howl. He had no idea how far away he might be, or even in which direction to listen. But surely Ranger would call for him?
He sat very still. New sounds filled his ears. Cheeps and chirrs, chatters and clicks, all the normal sounds of a forest. His mother had told him about them, about the birds and insects and chattering squirrels.
He listened. But then he heard something else . . . was it wind? The breeze in th
e treetops? He looked up, but the trees were still and quiet. He turned toward the sound. What was it? He walked toward it. Then he froze.
The creek. Of course! The creek was only a few feet away. A small jolt ran down his matted back.
It wasn’t the sun who was the enemy. It was the water! He should go as far away from the creek as he could! But then he stopped.
The creek!
The creek was the answer. Somehow he knew that the creek had something to do with his way home.
Home. Puck looked over his shoulder at his small, dark den. It was safe and dry. There was plenty of room for him to sleep, and it had a fresh smell to it that the tilting house did not. But here was no mama. Here was no Ranger. Here, no Sabine.
On ginger paws, he crept out. Out into the light. Then he stepped closer to the edge of the creek. Just below him was the salty Little Sorrowful, tumbling by. He looked across the water to the other side. From his sunny spot on the bank, the other side looked dark, unwelcoming. Sabine and Ranger were over there. How he knew, he couldn’t tell. He just did.
Go back. Go back. Go back.
His stomach grumbled.
You have to break the chain.
He closed his eyes and listened to the water rolling beneath him.
Promise you’ll go back.
• • •
Deep beneath the old tree, Grandmother tucked her nose underneath her long body. Ahhh, promises, she thought. She knew about promises. Ssssssttttt . . . she had made one long ago. She spun in her jar. Spun a web of promises. She knew about promises. There was always a price.
56
LET THE TREES take you back. A thousand years, to the deepest, darkest part of the forest, the forest on the other side of the Little Sorrowful Creek, where the big and little bayous brewed in their marshy beds. Go there and see Grandmother Moccasin, see how she simmered in her anger, year after year, day after day. After Night Song ran away with Hawk Man, Grandmother’s vitriol grew along with her girth. Years passed, and she grew. The poison in her mouth became more toxic. Finally, on the tenth anniversary of that fateful day, the day that Hawk Man had taken Night Song from her, she made a decision, a decision that had been growing for ten mean years. “I’ve waited long enough,” she said out loud.