by Kathi Appelt
She screamed, “Yeoooowwww!”
103
ROLLING IN THE mud beside his food bowl, Ranger had failed to hear Gar Face sneak up on his little cat. But one sound leads to another. When Ranger heard Sabine cry, a new sound filled the air, the high-pitched growl of a furious hound.
Hear it. Like the low whine of a chain saw biting into tree bark.
Hear it. A hound gone wild with fury.
Hear it. A hound grown crazy with anger.
Ranger didn’t know how many days had passed since he had watched Gar Face stuff the calico cat and her boy kitten into that burlap bag, had thrown them into the back of the pickup truck, the one that leaked a dark puddle of oil onto the ground beside the tilting house, but to him it was like yesterday, like it was only yesterday, that day when he had strained against the chain, pulled at it so hard, cried so long and so hard that his throat became tattered and raw, too raw to sing, to yelp, to bark. Like it was only yesterday since he had uttered anything beyond a whisper to Sabine, or beyond a coarse rasp when the steel-toed boot met his sore ribs. No more than that, a whisper or a rasp, had come from Ranger in all that time.
But when he saw Gar Face lift up his one and only Sabine, the one he loved more than sunlight, more than soup bones, more than the scent of the trail, when he saw the fish-faced man grab her with his rough hands and begin to shake her, Ranger’s voice split the air.
His deep snarling and yelping cracked open the wet morning, sent a shiver up the spines of the elms, the oaks, the sycamores.
Caught Gar Face by surprise, and in that moment of surprise, Ranger lunged.
Gar Face stumbled backward, and when he did, he let go of the silver cat. Sabine fell to the ground and gasped. If Ranger had not been snarling and growling, he would have told her to run, run, run. Get away from this evil place, this house with its sorry tilt, this man with his rough hands. But he did not have to say it. Sabine ran. She ran and ran and ran, until she found a lowlying yaupon bush, surrounded by a thick stand of palmetto. The palmetto scratched her face, her sides, her legs, as she darted through it to the yaupon. It was just beyond the terrible yard but far enough away. She would stay there for now, surrounded by palmetto. Hidden from the hideous man.
She did not see Gar Face swing the old board at Ranger’s back and miss, did not see him slip in the grimy mud, did not see him hit the ground. She did not see Ranger sink his teeth into Gar Face’s leg. But she heard the pain in the man’s voice. She also heard the anger. “You’ll pay, you blasted dog.” She heard the screen door slam. She heard Ranger stop growling. Then, for the first time in a very long time, she heard her old dog lift his head and howl.
Arrroooooooo!!
Sabine listened, clung to his beautiful, strong voice.
Arrroooooooooo!!!
It filled up the piney woods.
Arrrrooooooooooo!!!
She closed her eyes. She had missed his howl for so long, all she wanted to do was sink inside its pure and simple clarity; but then she realized, this was not the howl of his lullaby or even of the blues. Here was a cry of anger. Here was a cry of sorrow. Here, right here, was a howl of pain.
Sabine slumped deeper in her hiding place. Nothing good could come from this.
104
NOT FAR AWAY, one wet Puck sat on the bank of the creek all alone and watched the water rise. The creek was twice as wide as it had been the day before. He was still sore from his attempt at squirrel imitation, but he felt better, especially after a breakfast of voles, a pair of them, found beneath a clump of leaves near his den. With the rain slowing down, all the little animals had crept out of their watery nests. Perfect for a sore, hungry cat.
There was hardly any light, so gray was the morning, and the sun was still tucked well inside the clouds. He licked his wet paws. Licked the long scratch on his side. He tucked his paws beneath him and watched the growing creek. He would never get across it now.
As if the creek could hear him thinking, he thought he heard it murmur.
Sister! Sister! Sister!
It was almost as though it was calling to him.
Sister, sister, sister.
Yes. He had a sister. But Sabine was not here. He closed his eyes and remembered her, his twin, his match. He missed her.
Sister, sister, sister.
The Little Sorrowful rolled by. He opened his eyes and looked toward it. A distant crack of thunder rumbled through the treetops. It seems that electricity beckons electricity, for just then a nearby bolt of lightning zipped through the clouds and sizzled right behind him. The air crackled. His whiskers buzzed.
And then, as if the lightning had created a door, an opening, Puck heard a sound he had not heard in such a long time, a howl, a howl that rolled through the charged air.
Arrroooooooo!!!
Puck shook his head.
Aroooooooo!
There it was again!
Could it be? Could it? Was he sure?
Arooooooooo!!!
Puck knew only one hound who had this howl. Rolling through the woods, splitting open the rainy air, drifting onto the banks of the creek where he sat, the howl came right toward him. He cocked his ears. It could only be Ranger!
A huge and sacred Yes surged through Puck’s body.
Arooooooooo!!!
There it was again. He cocked his ears to get a better idea of the direction from which it came.
Arrroooooooo!
Just as he had always known, it came from the other side of the creek. Puck did not think it was far. If he could get to the other side, he knew he could find them. He would take them away from the man with the rough hands, Gar Face. How? He had no idea. Only that he had promised. He cocked his ears again. Puck stood on his back legs, like a rabbit, and waited.
The creek rumbled by, louder now with its rising water. Puck walked in a circle and stood again on his hind legs, as if he could sniff the noise out of the air. He strained his ears.
But there was only silence. He sat down. He heard the creek run and the rain fall, but no more howls, no more songs.
No matter! He knew the direction. If he walked in that direction, east and a little north, he would surely find them. He knew he would.
Arrrrooooooo!!!
Puck heard it again. Then he realized this wasn’t the same howl that he had heard when he was a baby. This one was urgent, serious, filled with anger. The answer flew at him again. Something awful must have happened.
Arrrrooooooo!!!
He had to go.
Go back, Puck. Promise you’ll go back and find your sister.
Arrooooooo!!!
There it was again.
Go back. Promise you’ll break the chain.
They were in danger. Puck knew it. Knew it as a solid truth. Suddenly his nostrils were filled with the old smell of those rough hands. The odor washed over him, those hands that smelled of flesh and bones and something ancient. The smell of the burlap bag, the smell of the gasoline, the smell of the metal truckbed. He could smell it all.
And then, as if to seal the deal, arrrooooooo!!! slipped through the pouring rain. Puck looked out across the creek, he panted, his sides heaved in and out, his need to get to the other side was urgent. He knew now exactly in which direction he needed to go, set his cat radar to the sound of Ranger’s howl.
105
SABINE SHIVERED BENEATH the yaupon bush. She knew that Ranger was in trouble. She could smell it, smell the pungent odor. Trouble. She shook herself as hard as she could to try to repel it. Trouble. It fell onto her back as hard as the drenching rain.
Almost as punctuation, she felt a flash of lightning strike nearby, followed immediately by a loud clap of thunder. It charged her wet fur, made it stand straight up. Trouble. It cornered her.
How long, she wondered, before she could return, could go back to Ranger, crawl under the tilting house, curl up beside him? Surely Gar Face would leave that night, he always did. But night was a long way off. She tucked her paws underneath herse
lf. I’ll wait, she thought. But as she wrapped her tail around her face, she felt a huge wave of loneliness wrap itself around her too. She and Ranger had never been so far apart. Even when she hunted for mice and crawfish, she hardly ever went more than a hundred feet beyond the yard.
And what about Ranger? Chained to the corner of the house?
She sat straight up. She should go back. She swished her tail from side to side.
What about Ranger?
What about him?
Chained?
What about Ranger?
Trouble.
Trouble.
She could smell it.
What about Ranger?
The question turned into a continuous loop. She knew she could not return until the evening. It was too dangerous. Another bolt of lightning struck only yards away, the thunder cracked the sky wide open. Rain came down in buckets. And only yards away, Gar Face stomped out of the house and grabbed the rusted chain, dragged the snarling dog out from under the tilting house. He had wrapped a dishtowel around the leg that Ranger had bitten, but the blood was seeping through. The pain seared through his calf, added heat to his anger. He pulled at the chain, pulled the dog, twisting and snarling, from the dark, dry Underneath. “Stupid, stupid dog!” he yelled. “I could have used the cat as bait.”
Ranger growled. He bared his teeth. But Gar Face laughed, laughed his hideous laugh. “But a dog will work just fine.”
And with that, he yanked the terrible rusted chain with one hand, pulling Ranger down into the mud. Then he grabbed the old board that Sabine had sat on only moments before, the one where she cleaned her silver coat, where she reached out and licked Ranger’s silky ears. Gar Face grabbed that rotten board, swung it over his head, and brought it down on Ranger’s face. Whack! The sound was sickening.
Ranger felt the white-hot pain jolt through his jaw, his eye, his ear. The whole side of his face burned. He yelped in pain, but the yelp only made it worse. He tugged against the chain, he tugged and tugged, but Gar Face was a large man, his chest was broad from dipping the pole of his pirogue into the muddy bayou night after night, his legs were strong from years of slogging through the boggy marsh. His arms were thick with muscles from dragging the heavy alligators out of the water and pinning them to the shore.
When Ranger was a young dog, he would have been a match. He would have grabbed the board in his powerful jaws and snapped it in two. He would have lunged for Gar Face’s throat and been done with him.
But Ranger was an old dog, a dog who had not had a decent meal in years, a dog whose ribs showed through his skin, whose fur fell out in patches.
He tasted the blood that filled up his mouth and nose, dripped on the ground. His legs trembled so that, beaten and defeated, he crashed into the mud. The mud was cold, but he could hardly feel it. His nose was so full of blood, he could barely breathe. He panted, gasped for air, but his tongue was so thick there was hardly any room for the air to slip past.
Gar Face pulled at the unforgiving chain and dragged the old dog to his feet. “Come on,” he yelled, throwing the splintered board across the yard and pulling Ranger toward him. Ranger could feel his eyelids begin to swell shut. He panted for air.
Then he saw Gar Face do something he hadn’t seen in years. He unfastened the rusted chain from the corner of the house. A small amount of courage streamed through the beaten dog. Despite the pain, he rose up as tall as he could.
Gar Face yanked on the chain. Ranger walked. Once, he had been the finest bloodhound in the piney woods, on this side of the Sabine River, the silver Sabine that wandered to the sea. Once Ranger had tracked a painter, one of the last in the forest, cornered him against a farmer’s fence. He was not afraid of the beast with its yellow eyes and its terrible claws. Ranger had held him there and bayed and bayed and bayed until at last Gar Face had caught up with him and shot it.
Before the incident with the bobcat, there was nothing Ranger couldn’t track. And then came that night, that long-ago night when he had paused and Gar Face shot him, shot his own dog in the leg. The wound healed, but his master had forsaken him, chained him to the corner post and left him, left him to walk in interminable circles day after interminable day.
As Ranger limped along behind the man, he thought about all those times when he had found the scent, found the prey. Then he realized: He was a good dog. He was.
Here was a dog who had been faithful all along. Here was a dog who had lifted his voice into the air and sung his heart out. A dog whose silvery notes filled the forest and wrapped itself around the handsome trees, settled on the silent water of the marsh, filled up the humid air of the swamp. Here was a dog who had done his best his whole life.
He sucked in air, choked. Yes, he had done his best. But here also was a dog who had promised to protect a small mother cat and her kittens, who had slept while Gar Face scooped up the mama and her boy cat. Took his very best friend. Took her away, the one who had loved him fully and completely, had entrusted her kittens to his protection. And he had promised, promised, promised. The only one left was Sabine. What had he done for Sabine? He would not have lasted this long without her small offerings of mice and crawdads. Many was the morning when his food dish was left unfilled and she had scampered into the nearby woods to find something for him to eat, a five-lined skink, a fresh frog, even insects. Once she had even brought him a tough old grackle. Nothing had ever tasted better. And he had been grateful, for without them, he would not have eaten on those days. Sabine. And then, in a single unguarded moment, he had failed to protect even her, the one he loved the most. He hoped that she had run far away from this terrible place and this terrible man.
He started coughing, leaving a trail of blood on the muddy ground. Here was a dog with nothing left, nothing except a large and generous heart, a heart that was cracking down the middle with every difficult breath.
He heard the chain rattle in his ear. The chain. He had hated that chain for such a long time. And now Gar Face was pulling him with it, pulling him along the rain-soaked banks of the Bayou Tartine. He lowered his head, just as he had done when he had been on the hunt so many years ago. His broken nose was so battered, he could barely smell anything but the mud, slippery and thick from the rain.
Barely smell anything, not even a small silver cat, a little girl cat, who watched as he passed by and silently slipped behind him, followed him as Gar Face pulled him toward the Bayou Tartine and the hundred-foot beast he dreamed of.
106
THERE IS NOT much a tree can do besides stand still under the sun and stars, or bend back and forth in the wind. But here and there, perhaps once every thousand years, those who know trees agree that a tree can, if it chooses, take matters into its own branches. So when the loblolly pine, this pine, saw its kitten, bruised and scratched from his earlier fall, his small ears cocked to the bay of the old hound, the one that sang the blues, whose silvery notes had filled the nighttime air so many times, it knew longing for what it was, an ache that reached right into the very marrow of its thick trunk.
So much water makes the ground softer than soft, so soft that an old tree, one that has stood for centuries, one that was struck by lightning and has dwindled down to less than half its greatest size, whose limbs fell to the earth with a crash, whose long and lovely needles turned coppery red and settled on the mossy ground, whose upper stories cracked off one after another and dropped away, whose trunk split in two and made a nest for one lost kitten, this old tree, this singular loblolly pine, the one that has held an ancient jar in its web of tangled roots for a thousand years, held it deep underground with its even more ancient inhabitant, this very tree finally let go of the soggy earth that had held it all these years and leaned over.
CRRAAACCKKK!!!
SPLLIIIITTTT!!!
BOOOMMMM!!!
The tree swayed and rocked, and finally, finally fell. And when it did, the roots, like a million fingers, pulled the old jar to the surface, pulled it up, up, up into the dark gray
of the wet morning.
And as the jar rose through the silty red dirt, Grandmother Moccasin awoke from her long slumber, leaned against the side, pushed against it until at last the pot tipped over and rolled down the side of the bank. She curled herself into a tight knot and tucked her head into it. CRAAAACKKK!
Ahhh, she whispered, at last!
After a thousand years of solid dark, a small sliver of light slipped into her cavern. A crack, a crack that formed a V, a perfect wedge. She slithered through it, leaving her old layer of skin behind, for it was already too small for her. She had lived in it for all that time, for so many years we hardly know how to count them, just waiting to scrape it off, left it in the old jar, her ancient prison. For the first time in years too numerous to count, rain, cool and sparkling, spilled over her blue-black skin, skin as black as night, so black it seemed blue, so black it gleamed. She paused to look back at her ancient skin and the broken jar and then quietly slipped into the salty water of the Little Sorrowful Creek.
She did not see the silver furred cat, running, like a gray blur, away from the tree. Puck had slipped out of the den just in time to turn around and, in the dim light of dawn, see the old tree that he had called home fall onto its side.
CRRRAAAASSSHHHHHH!!!
He did not notice the jar or the snake. He did not notice that the rain was slowing down. He did not notice the way the tree rocked and swayed, back and forth, before it finally fell. All he noticed were his own four legs running beneath him as fast as they could go.
107
THE RAIN FALLING into his fur was cold, cold, cold, like the creek. For a moment Puck was frozen. And then he ran, ran, ran as hard as he could, away from the old dead tree, away from the creaking and cracking, away from the deafening noise.