Lamentations (Walter Wangerin Jr.) by Walter Wangerin Jr

Author:Walter Wangerin Jr.
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: FICTION/General
Publisher: Diversion Books
Published: 2013-05-27T22:00:00+00:00

[Fifteen] John’s Pure Joy

Oh, the Weasel was in his element now!

There was nowhere where the winter was not, nor anywhere where Critters did not worry about their next meals. Vast territories awaited John’s good news. And who didn’t love a Good-News-Bringer?

“Hoopla, furry buggars! Gots vittles? Well, Him-What’s-Lord-and-Captain of All—he gots the vittles!”

Often it was his personal vigor that persuaded the hungry to leave their homes and travel to the Hemlock, where ("Bet on it, Buggars") they would find a hearty welcome.

“An acorn? Bite it. Sarsaparilla? Nip it. Sagebrushes? Stuff you mush-mouths full of it.”

Oh, so many Critters, shivering in their nesty denny houses, in the hollows of trees, in burrows under stone. Some, slack-eyed, had surrendered themselves to dying. John’s pity empowered him.

Those that could go, he asked to help them that could not go.

In a grove of aspen trees he came upon a Stag lying beside his daughter. John made friends by asking their names, always saying his name first: “John Double-u of the Double-u’s, fearsome warrior is he.” Then, fearlessly asking “What’s a Double-u to call a Stag by?”

The Stag answered that his name was Black-Pale-on-a-Silver Field. The child panting against her father’s chest he named The Fawn De La Coeur.

Under other circumstances, Black-Pale would have cut a noble figure. His head was dignified with two eight-pointed antlers, his shoulders glossy and strong, his haunches able to drive him forward by long, sailing leaps.

But his eyes were stricken.

In the day when the earth had trembled the Fawn’s mother fell, breaking her right foreleg. Soon Fimbul-winter had defeated the Doe, who on the third day perished. Now De La Coeur was herself feverish, panting faster than a Rabbit. Her father had gathered the baby to himself as though he would be her last abode.

As soon as he heard their grim tale, John Wesley began to rush around the pair, nattering, barking, thrusting a paw into the air, crying, “Do and do and do!”

Black-Pale remained aground. He murmured that his prayers were for his daughter, that she should meet a swift and painless death.

What did John know of subtleties? Compassion in the Weasel looked like anger. He buffeted the Stag’s snout. He pranced down the Stag’s neck, his back and his butt.

“Papa, he loves his baby? Papa’s what loves is papa’s what saves pretty little Critters!” He smacked the Stag on his chin.

Black-Pale lifted his head, lifted the grand branches of his antlers, and bugled, “Let go. Run away! Leave us to die in peace.”

Rather than frightened, the Weasel was delighted. “See? Papa, he gots him fire! Do and do, Papa! Up and fight him what’s a fearsome warrior!”

Black-Pale heaved himself to standing on all four hooves. Razor-sharp, those hooves could cut a Weasel in half. But John laughed. “Hoopla!” he cried and danced away. “Fight! Fight, poor bumfuzzled Papa! Fightings and foinings and hoopla! Is a Stag what’s life-ly again!”

All at once the Weasel began to sing. No subtlety this. A garbage can could make such a noise. John’s mind might have been civilized—but his voice was barbarian.

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