Mockingbird
in Mark Twain’s Hat
Excerpt
#3
Kaia
Alexander
(Goes
with illustration for chapter 3 by Elaina Scott)
CH.
3
The
Grey Cat
Fryday.
Possum woke us up before the first rays of
sunlight struck the church steeple out beyond the woods. “There’s something
down there in the bushes!” he said, jumping up and down on the nest.
We
all sat up and peered over the edge. It was hard to make out anything but
shadows in the thin light.
“What
did you see, Possum?” asked Mother.
“Raccoon!”
he squealed.
“There
are no coons in this part of the Willem Woods,” said Sissy. “Now go back to
sleep.”
That
was when I saw it, too. “What’s that?” I pointed at a ringed tail in the grass.
My
father drew a quick breath. Then he hopped up to a higher branch to take a
look. That was when the little girl came, fiery braids swinging as she skipped
up the trail to the schoolhouse, and the tail disappeared into the brush.
“Probably just a squirrel,” said Papa. “No need to
worry.”
The
girl sang a beautiful song about an old fisherman wading in the river, and I
wanted to learn that song so I could write it into my story. Her voice was
lovely and soothing.
“Wynne,
you knock that thought right out of your head,” said Papa, seeing what I was
thinking. “We do not sing human songs.”
“But
it’s such a catchy tune,” I said. “Why not just this once?”
“Because
there’s nothing more dirty and rotten than humans!” said Sissy.
“Nothing
except the Grey Cat,” said Earle.
“Earle!”
said Mama.
“What’s
the Grey Cat?” asked Possum, his voice trembling. “Is that what I saw in the
bushes?”
“You
saw a raccoon,” said Father. “A big raccoon is what you saw.”
“But you said it was a squirrel,” I said.
Just
then there was a rustling in the bushes nearby and we all gasped and held our
breaths, but it turned out to be a flying squirrel just coming out of the bush
and climbing up the Old Oak across the hill. She leaped from one tree to the
next, then soared down a few branches to settle on a clutch of acorns. She saw
us, gave a little smile, and then nuzzled her mate who appeared from under a
mane of leaves.
“You see? A squirrel,” said Father.
“What’s
the Grey Cat?” I whispered to Earle.
“I
ain’t supposed to say,” he said.
“An
old nonsense tale,” said Mama. “That there was a grizzly old cat in this wood
who was blind in one eye, but he was the most terrible hunter of birds that
ever lived.”
“But
what if it’s not a nonsense tale?” I asked.
“Of
course it is,” said Mama. “It’s just a tale the old folks of the wood told to
keep us in the nest at night.”
Father
sat us down. “Maybe it is and maybe it’s not.”
We
trumpeted all at once.
“Either
way,” he went on, “it’s why you always have to look before you land. And never
go near the porches of humans. They are dangerous places filled with dogs and
cats and alligators and other terrible creatures. So long as you stay far, far
away from any humans, you will have avoided the greatest of troubles.”
My mother sighed. “It’s true, but you best add to your
list of avoidances all beavers and raccoons. And foxes, too.”
My father whistled and nodded in agreement. “Raccoons and
foxes might make a meal of you, but beavers are simply the scum of the wood.
Stupid as logs, and good for nothin’. And dirty. We don’t associate with
beavers.”
“But why?” I started to ask, but the words got garbled in
my throat. I knew they wouldn’t answer me anyway. Instructions like these were
meant to be taken and not questioned.
I took my faded photograph of Mark Twain, rolled it up
and slid it under my wing. My dreams were looking far too lofty today, so I
thought it best to get some sleep. Maybe I would see new possibilities in the
morning.
Sundy.
None
of us slept for a week for trembling in fear over the Grey Cat. The crows had
left us for now to invade the corn fields, but we were not relieved because in
our minds there lurked this new terror. We each took turns watching the dark
patches of shadows on the forest floor around the crepe myrtle tree. That was
the week Earle learned to fly. He hopped all the way to the top of our tree and
swept his wings open and glided right over to the Old Oak.
“Just
like a flyin’ squirrel!” cheered Sissy.
“Oh
boy! You’re a real mockingbird now!” said Possum.
I
held Mother’s wing and cheered for him. Even Father cheered. By the end of the
day, Earle could turn circles in the sky over our tree, dive to earth and lift
off again.
“That
boy is a real natural,” said Papa.
“He
takes after you,” said Mama, and snuggled against his feathers.
I lifted one of my wings in the moonlight and looked at
the underside where the flight feathers should have been and vowed to stop
plucking them.