Montauk is a horse, an aging chestnut, who spends most of his days watching the grass grow. I doubt that he’s ever won a race or earned a blue ribbon, but I know that there’s never been a friendlier horse on four legs anywhere in the world.
Before moving to Cranberry County, Peter had very little exposure to animals, except the house pet varieties, and so when he was first introduced to Montauk, he was, he admitted to Anna, not just a little afraid of the horse.
“Up close he’s so much bigger, so much more imposing, than, well, than horses in the movies,” Peter had observed, quite accurately.
Determined to defuse his fear, Peter made a point of getting to know Montauk better. Every so often the Wensleydale’s compost pile needed an infusion of manure, so Peter made a deal with the horse: occasional manure in exchange for occasional grooming. The only problem with that arrangement was that it meant getting close to the animal, very close, and, in the beginning, Peter was afraid to do so.
What if he crushes me, Peter thought with trepidation, as he held the comb and brush at arm’s length, barely skimming the horse’s flesh.
“Peter, this isn’t going to work,” Montauk finally observed. “If you don’t come in closer, and press harder, you’re only going to tickle me, and then, if I lose control, I just might step on you!”
My very dread, Peter thought.
Over time, what came to impress Peter most about Montauk was how gentle a being so immense and so powerful could be.
“I’d have thought,” Peter said to his new friend one day as together they watched the grass grow, “that with your size and weight, not to mention those hoofs, you’d be pushing everyone around.”
“Why would I want to?” Montauk replied. “The exercise of great strength, Peter, lies not in doing but in not doing. Thus, for most, it is far more difficult, and more stressful, to watch grass grow than to grow grass.”
Peter did not always understand the horse, but he learned never to question his wisdom.
“I am going to attend town meeting,” Pilikia announced to those assembled in the Roomey’s hayloft above the horse’s stall, after she had delivered her pitch for the speed bump. “On this question, we will need every vote we can get.”
Present, besides Pilikia, were Tancredi, Cantachiaro, and three of the hens. Purrfect, too, was there. Montauk and the sheep were just below, in or beside the horse stall, where they could hear and participate in the proceedings. There were also several chickadees, a pair of downy woodpeckers, and a raucous blue jay. And Selene. (“Someone’s got to keep you lunatics from landing yourselves in the pound,” was her explanation for being there, although everyone knew she loved it.)
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Selene responded to Pilikia’s announcement.
“Selene’s right, Pilikia,” one of the sheep observed. “While I agree with you that a speed bump would be a nice addition to our environment, it is also true that only humans are allowed at town meeting. I know because someone told me.”
“I know that, too,” Pilikia said, without hesitation. “That’s why I’m going as a human.”
“As a human?” Tancredi asked, his confusion apparent.
Pilikia nodded. The blue jay squawked with delight.
Selene was not amused. She hissed at the jay, who flew up to the rafters, and then she turned to Pilikia. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you.”
“Yes, I am,” Pilikia responded.
“How do you propose doing so?” Selene asked.
“Ah, well,” Pilikia admitted, “I hadn’t gotten to that part yet.”
“No, I don’t suppose you had,” Selene said, with evident disapproval, “and you probably wouldn’t have until you were already in the warden’s clutches.” She turned to the others. “Look at you,” she said to them, “When will you learn not to follow someone who isn’t going anywhere?”
At that, Selene walked to the edge of the loft. Everyone present expected her to jump down to the ground, and leave for home, and they would not have blamed her. Instead, turning back around, she spoke again. “However, if we are going to do this …”
As soon as the other animals heard Selene use the collective pronoun “we,” they all released an audible sigh of relief. It meant that Selene truly was in, after all, and all of them knew that if Selene was in, the plan would be sound.
“… we might as well do it right. But,” and here Selene spoke forcefully, “this is the last harebrained scheme…”
“Hey!” shouted out a squeaky voice. It came from a snowshoe rabbit seated atop a bale of hay in the corner.
“What’re you doing here?” Tancredi asked, his tail beginning to wag furiously. Tancredi loves chasing rabbits. He has no interest in catching them, you understand, just chasing them. He particularly loves the way they disappear into holes.
“We have to cross the road, too, you know,” the rabbit said.
“Fair enough,” Selene allowed. “And, Tancredi, get a handle on your tail. This is a business meeting.” Turning back to the rabbit, she asked, “So, what’s this about hay?”
“Not hay, hey,” the rabbit replied. “I say ‘hey!’ to the expression ‘harebrained.’ How would you like it if we said ‘catbrained’? It’s the thoughtless use of meaningless labels like that which …”
“Point taken,” Selene observed. Then, picking up where she had been interrupted, she continued. “This is the last of your senseless schemes” (here, she looked questioningly toward the rabbit, who nodded graciously) “that I’ll take part in. Agreed?”
This disclaimer was a ritual Selene invariably observed. She always said it was the last time, and everyone always knew she never meant it.
“The last time,” Pilikia intoned, ceremoniously.
“The very last time,” the others murmured in unison.
“All right, then,” Selene said, “Let’s get to it. Outrageous as it may seem, your proposal could be made to work. However, there are some potentially sticky wickets …”
“What’s a sticky wicket?” Cantachiaro whispered to a chickadee who had perched on the rooster’s head.
“A species of summer bird, I think,” the ‘dee responded. “They’ll all be flocking back from Florida any day now.”
“Problem areas, Cantachiaro,” Selene said, in an effort to hush the two of them. “A sticky wicket is a difficult or particularly demanding situation. It comes from a silly game humans play to entertain each other.” Then, she returned her attention to the group as a whole. “All the same, considering the general appearance and the dress code of the ruffians that inhabit these parts, passing you off as a human being may not be so difficult after all. There is the question of two-leggedness though.”
“Two-leggedness?” Purrfect asked, moving a little closer to Selene.
“Yes,” Selene replied. “Humans only have two legs. Pilikia’s got four legs. So, if she is to pass as human, she’s got to appear to be two-legged.”
“I’m two-legged,” Cantachiaro offered.
Selene eyed the rooster carefully. “Umm,” she said to him, “so you are. You could be her two legs. Are you game?”
“No, I’m poultry!” Cantachiaro roared, bursting into laughter, puffing out his chest, and flapping his wings.
It was a bad joke, of course, but Cantachiaro didn’t care. Neither did the other animals, evidently, for they all reacted vociferously, with hoots and groans. All except Selene, that is, who simply watched the lot of them perform, while thinking to herself, “One of these days, I’m going to have to raise a tent over this circus.”
When calm finally returned, Selene spoke again, addressing Tancredi, Pilikia, and Cantachiaro. “You three work on a suitable disguise. And let’s try to stay within the realm of the believable, shall we, Pilikia?”
To that, Pilikia did not respond, except to make a face.
“What about my legs,” Cantachiaro asked.
“We’ll have Pilikia sit on your shoulders. That’ll give her some height, and, with the right disguise, only two legs showing. But those feet,” Selene said, indicating Cantachiaro’s long, sharp talons, “have got to go.”
“Go?” Cantachiaro asked, tremulously.
“She means hide them,” Purrfect noted, adding with a little uncertainty, “don’t you?”
Some questions Selene felt were too absurd to address, and this was one of them, so she ignored it. Besides, better it is, she thought to herself, that they don’t fully understand me. A little mystery about oneself is not necessarily a bad thing. “Now, the next issue,” she said, without so much as a nod to Purrfect’s question, “is, how do we get into the building?”
“We need a ringer,” Montauk suggested.
“Yes,” Selene agreed, instantly, “a ringer.”
Everyone could hear the question forming in Cantachiaro’s brain. It was Montauk who took the initiative to answer him. “A ringer,” the horse said to the rooster, “is an imposter. A person whose identity or circumstance is intentionally made to seem other than what it is. For example, on television you’ve seen scenes of screaming teenagers awaiting the arrival of a rock idol at an airport? Well, often they’ve been hired to do that, simply for effect. Or, a magician might place an accomplice in the audience unbeknownst to the public with instructions to behave or react in a certain way that will lend credibility to the magician’s act. That’s a ringer.”
“A plant,” Cantachiaro said, proud that he knew a synonym.
“Yes,” Pilikia added, “plant could be another word for ringer.”
“I think I’ve got our ringer,” offered Ruffles, one of the sheep. “This morning, Claire told me her class is going to bake cookies, and sell them at town meeting, to help finance their seventh grade class trip.”
“Where are they going?” Montauk asked.
“Some place called Graceland,” the ewe replied.
“GRACELAND?” squawked the blue jay, excitedly, taking flight among the rafters. “All right! Far out!! Get down!!!”
“What’s with you?” Montauk asked the bird, as it flapped about overhead.
“The king, man,” the jay replied, alighting in a tuft of hair between Montauk’s long ears. “We’re going down to Graceland, going down to see the king!”
“What king?” asked Ruffles, who was following the bird’s acrobatics with interest.
“What king? I’ll say, what king!” squawked the jay, “What king, indeed!”
“Don’t encourage him, Ruffles,” Selene said, motioning to the ewe to get on with her report.
“Well,” Ruffles continued, “Claire said that she had been elected chairman of the cookie committee, which means she’ll be at town meeting for sure.”
“Wonderful,” Selene remarked, “that decides it.” Then, turning toward Purrfect, she observed, “Claire will do almost anything you ask of her, won’t she?”
Purrfect nodded, and then, very softly, very quietly, he purred, “Would that she were you.”
“Then you must convince her,” Selene said, seeming to ignore Purrfect’s obvious pass. But those who were especially observant noticed that, very discreetly, Selene shifted her tail ever so slightly, letting it fall alongside Purrfect’s, just barely touching. Certainly, Purrfect noticed; but he said nothing. “Now,” Selene continued, “all we have to do is get our conspirators there on time, but without leaving here until the humans have gone. The difficulty there is, to accomplish it, we’ll have to move faster than any of us can travel.”
“Except me,” Montauk said. “I’ll provide the transportation, to and from. If someone can open the gate for me, that is.”
“Yessirree, folks, horse and riders are at the gate,” intoned one of the downy woodpeckers, mimicking a racetrack radio announcer, “as an anxious crowd awaits a strong beak to release the catch!” At that, she turned to her mate, and boasted, “There’s not a lock or latch we can’t pick, is there, Billy?”
“No, Billie, there surely is not,” agreed the other.
“Then it’s done!” exclaimed Selene, forcefully. “Town meeting is Monday evening at half past six. Pilikia and Cantachiaro should arrive just a minute or two before that. Late enough so there’s no time for anyone to engage them in conversation, but early enough so that people are still milling about and less likely to notice them. That means they must leave here precisely at …” Here, the cat paused, deferring to the horse.
“Six fifteen,” Montauk said.
“Six fifteen,” Selene repeated. “Any questions?”
At that, a chickadee piped up from a ledge by the loft window. “Before we leave, would it be out of order to raise the matter of a more varied selection of seed in the bird feeder outside the Wensleydale’s kitchen window?”
“We are not here to discuss corn chips,” Selene grumbled, and then, dismissing the question, she proclaimed, “There being no further important business, this gathering is adjourned.”
On town meeting day, the third Monday in April, at about six in the evening, the animals began to gather again at the Roomey’s barn.
As Selene walked up the driveway, she noticed with relief that the Roomey’s new station wagon was missing, which almost certainly meant Wendell and Susanne had already left, a fact Purrfect confirmed when he landed at her feet from the oak in which he had been keeping watch.
“Claire’s gone, too,” he said, “she left earlier, on her bike.”
“Was that a good idea?” Selene wondered out loud. “It is still a little cold out for a youngster on a bicycle, especially after dark.” Within Selene, the eternal cynic, there resides also Selene the infinitely compassionate. The presence of these two conflicting, even apparently mutually exclusive characteristics in this cat is an endless source of confusion for Peter and Anna. Indeed, “Will we ever understand this one?” is a question often heard in the Wensleydale house, and one which may never be satisfactorily answered.
“Perhaps she’ll come back in the car,” Purrfect offered.
“I hope so,” Selene said, adding, “And you’re sure she’s with us?”
“Oh, yes,” Purrfect confirmed, “enthusiastically.”
“Good. You know,” Selene said, her pleasure in this intrigue beginning to show, “we just might pull off this caper … if, that is, you-know-who will stick to the plan.”
“Umm,” Purrfect replied, thoughtfully, and then asked, “Where is Pilikia, anyway?”
“Peter and Anna were just getting ready to go when I left,” Selene explained. “I told Pilikia and Cantachiaro to wait until the car had cleared the driveway. So, they should be right along.”
“The Wensleydale’s don’t know, then?” Purrfect asked.
“Haven’t a clue,” Selene replied. “Actually, they’d probably love it, but those two are not yet ready to allow all that they could love.”
“Funny, isn’t it,” Purrfect observed, “how reluctant humans are to permit themselves to be themselves.”
At the barn, Selene was pleased to see Billy and Billie, the downy woodpeckers, perched on a railing.
“You’ve checked out the gate catch?” she asked them.
“Piece of cake,” replied Billy.
“Easy as pie,” echoed Billie.
Just then, Pilikia and Cantachiaro arrived on the scene. With them was Tancredi, a large, brown supermarket-type paper bag in his mouth.
“The disguise?” Selene asked Tancredi.
The dog nodded.
“And what else?” Selene said.
Tancredi lowered his head almost to the ground, and shifted his gaze to one side, a posture he invariably took when caught at some mischief.
Selene reached into the bag, and drew out an old, rotting soup bone.
“What’s this?” she inquired. “Is Pilikia posing as a cannibal?”
“Just something to gnaw on to pass the time,” the dog explained. “Tonight could last for hours.” After that first meeting in the Roomey’s barn, the animals had decided that Tancredi should accompany Pilikia and Cantachiaro to town meeting, and remain there hidden, out of view but in reserve, just in case they should need help.
“There will be no gnawing,” Selene said, dropping the bone with disgust.
“It’s nearly time,” Montauk announced.
With those words, the sense of excitement in the barn mounted. Pilikia leapt onto the horse’s back. Cantachiaro flew up, landing behind her. With some difficulty, but refusing help, a red squirrel carried the paper bag containing the disguise up a post, then tossed it over to the cat. All the while, the other animals offered Pilikia and Cantachiaro words of encouragement for the mission ahead.
“All right, you two, let’s go over it one more time,” Purrfect said, repeating the instructions he and Selene had already given several times. “Montauk will carry you to the building, where Claire will meet you at the side door. She will accompany you upstairs to a back row seat next to a window that looks onto the fire escape. She will have opened the window just enough for Tancredi to get in, should that become necessary. He’ll be outside on the landing, alert for your signal. After dropping you off, Montauk will wait behind the old schoolhouse. When the meeting’s over, you are to leave immediately and quickly, but not so quickly as to draw attention to yourselves. Once outside, go directly to Montauk, and return home.”
“You are to say absolutely nothing,” Selene stressed, picking up the briefing from Purrfect, “not when you get there, not when you leave, not to anyone. Your only function is to raise your hand during the affirmative vote on the speed bump question. Nothing else. Is that clear?”
“As crystal,” Pilikia replied. “It was clear the first, second, third, and fourth times, too.”
“It’s clear,” Cantachiaro agreed.
“Well, then, remember it,” Selene insisted. She turned to Purrfect, and whispered, “It’s hopeless. They haven’t heard a word.” Turning back to Montauk, she ordered, “Now, go,” adding, “and good luck.”
The rooster and the cat, the brown paper bag between her front paws, saluted confidently as the horse walked out of the barn toward the gate.
“It’s open,” the downy woodpeckers sang out in unison.
“We’re gone,” Montauk said, as he trotted down the gravel driveway, waiting to pick up speed until he had reached the paved road. Running comfortably alongside the horse was the dog, tail wagging furiously. Firmly clenched between his jaws was the soup bone.
“The Cranberry Tales” is
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