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“Oh, yes,” Joy Pristine replied, “I really do.”
“I take it that he’s agreed?” Anna asked.
“Oh, yes,” Joy Pristine answered.
“Okay, then,” Anna said, finally, “how can we help?”
“That’s really what we need to talk to you about,” Mimosa replied, indicating to Joy Pristine that this time she should speak first, which she did.
“Cantachiaro and I would like you or Peter to perform the ceremony,” Joy Pristine said.
“I see,” Anna said, thoughtfully.
She did not speak again for some moments. This time, it was she who looked about her to ensure they were not being overheard.
“You know, ladies,” Anna said, “Peter is extremely fond of you. He even thinks of you as his hens, and I daresay he fusses over you almost as much as Cantachiaro does.”
And it is quite true, he does. Perhaps even more so. Peter is constantly devising ways to improve the chickens’ lot, at least as he sees it. The preceding growing season, for example, he set aside a special patch in the vegetable garden for a variety of herbs, assorted greens, and several kinds of squash that, after harvesting, he dried, cured, and stored, to be served to the chickens during the winter. “Don’t forget, they turn all this green stuff into healthful yokes,” he will insist to whoever asks, thus proffering an unnecessary defense for his actions, being still a little unable to admit to others, and perhaps even to himself, that it is enough to do these things simply because he enjoys doing them. And, certainly, these must be the only chickens in Cranberry County whose yard is shoveled by hand after every snowstorm. Plus, Peter has moved or rebuilt the hen house several times, to provide more shade, or less shade, or a better view. He even purchased and planted a weeping willow, as if there were not enough trees already in Maine, to provide the chickens a full set of branches under which to find protection from winged predators overhead.
“Yes,” Mimosa and Joy Pristine said in unison, “we’ve noticed.”
The two hens exchanged a funny look, and giggled.
“But we know he means well,” Mimosa opined, “and so we appreciate all his backing and forthing. Really, we do.”
This time, all three laughed.
Then, Anna said to Joy Pristine, “There is nothing Peter would rather do than perform this ceremony for you. And it would mean the world to him if he thought you had asked for him in particular.”
“I see,” Joy Pristine said. “Then, let it be so. But only, Anna, if you will agree to give me away.”
“It would be my privilege,” Anna promised.
Later that day, when Anna explained to Peter what Joy Pristine and Mimosa had talked to her about, he was, as she had predicted, delighted.
“Now then,” he said, taking charge, “I’ll have to arrange to have a talk with them. About the nature of relationships, and the responsibility of parenting, and so on.”
“I wonder if that’s such a good idea,” Anna mused. “After all, they are a different species, with their own ways.”
“Well, yes, there is that,” Peter said.
When the rest of the inhabitants of Meekum’s Hill, wild and domesticated, learned of the impending marriage of Joy Pristine and Cantachiaro, gifts began coming in from all over. Even a pair of fiercely independent American bald eagles, a couple who every summer flies high over the Wensleydale’s place, their new offspring squeaking frantically as it in turn learns to fly, deigned to land inside the chicken yard to deliver their offering, a wing feather from one and a tail feather from the other.
“It is these that take us aloft,” the majestic birds explained, “and these that keep us on course. It is our wish and our prayer that they might serve as well for you.”
Still another gift, this one from a human couple who lived just beyond Cranberry County, had actually originated at the Wensleydales. You see, some months previously, once again short of funds, Peter and Anna had held a yard sale, a common device in Maine employed by anyone hoping to earn a few dollars while avoiding a trip to the dump in the bargain.
“It’s a good way to offload a lot of the stuff we brought here with us but now never use,” the Wensleydales had agreed. Included were a twelve place setting in Lenox china, a variety of long stem glassware, some fancy clothes, and assorted other items suitable to life in the diplomatic circles whence Peter and Anna had come but singularly out of place in their new life in the Maine woods.
In addition, they offered for sale some surplus foodstuffs they had made here, things like jams and jellies from their apples or local berries, pickles and relish of different kinds, and a case of home-made elderberry wine. Since coming to Cranberry County, Anna had become very, very good at making wine, so that now she successfully makes all kinds, including, besides elderberry, blueberry, celery, apple, maple, yellow birch, and others.
Anyway, at that yard sale, a rather urbane, young couple happened by, and, as they were cultivating an interest in all things vinous, they asked about the elderberry wine. Anna described its taste and texture for them, and then, as they seemed to be about to make a purchase, she added, “However, I should warn you that elderberry wine is known to have restorative, even rejuvenative, powers, particularly, shall we say, of a most intimate nature.”
“Isn’t that charming,” the couple responded, apparently not much impressed by such backwoods wisdom, “but, just for fun, we’ll try a bottle anyway.”
Then, early the following morning, the Wensleydale’s telephone rang.
“Who is it?” Anna asked after Peter had answered.
“It’s the young couple who bought your elderberry wine,” he replied.
“What do they want?” Anna asked.
“As many bottles as you will sell them!” Peter replied.
Now, this same couple returned to Cranberry County to give Cantachiaro and Joy Pristine a wedding present.
“What did they bring?” Peter asked of Anna, who had taken charge of keeping track of the gifts.
“They said they couldn’t think of anything more appropriate for a young couple about to get married than a bottle of my elderberry wine,” she replied.
The day before the wedding, Cantachiaro decided that he should talk to Peter and Anna about the ceremony. He asked Joy Pristine to accompany him, and as the two were walking across the yard to the house, they came upon Selene, who asked what they were up to. On hearing Cantachiaro’s response, the cat said, “If I were you, I’d wait a bit before going in. They’re in the midst of one of their senseless arguments.”
Peter and Anna argue infrequently, but when they do, they do so wholeheartedly, not to mention noisily. Happily, they do no physical violence to one another, but they can become sorely abusive nonetheless. In the early days of their marriage, their arguments were too often interrupted by one or the other walking out of the house to seek some place private in which to stew and lick wounds, undisturbed by discomfiting reminders that in relationships there are no one-way streets. Recently, grown wiser with age perhaps, they have agreed no longer to permit themselves that narcissistic luxury, with the result that far more noise is generated over longer periods of time, but at least now when it’s over, it’s over.
“What are they arguing about?” Cantachiaro asked.
“Which side of a piece of toast to butter,” Selene replied, making no effort to hide her disgust. Cantachiaro grimaced. “I suppose we should not be surprised,” the cat continued. “After all, it was not that long ago that humans learned to speak, so it is little wonder they have not yet fully evolved into using the skill wisely.”
Cantachiaro nodded, and smiled. “They’re an amusing species.”
When the two humans and the two chickens did come together later that afternoon, the subject was, as the rooster intended, the wedding ceremony.
“Just what religion are you, anyway?” Peter asked, as the conversation began.
“Religion?” Cantachiaro replied.
“He means,” Anna offered, “Buddhist, Christian, Hindu, Islamic, Jewish. That sort of thing, don’t you, Peter?”
Peter nodded, and said, “So that we can decide on the appropriate procedure to follow. Yesterday, I went to the public library, and got a whole stack of books about marriage ceremonies in most of the world’s religions.” Peter had several of the volumes in his hands. “Here,” he said, opening one of them, “see.”
Cantachiaro did not look into the book. Instead, he said, “Sit down, Peter.”
Already the others were seated, but Peter had begun to pace about a bit. Now, he did as he was bidden.
Cantachiaro spoke again. “Permit me to tell you something about marriage.” Neither Peter nor Anna had ever heard the rooster speak with such intensity and authority. “In the beginning, there is One. Some call that One, God. By the act of creation, the One becomes many. We are the many, all of us here and all the others everywhere else. In the end, the many become once again one. Marriage is a symbol of that process, of two becoming one. The marriage ceremony represents a statement of intent, the first step of a long and difficult journey, an occasion for the two to state publicly to one another, to the assembled many, and to the One Itself, We seek union. We seek to be one.” Here, Cantachiaro paused. Turning first to Peter, then to Anna, he asked, “Do you understand?” Neither spoke.
Cantachiaro continued. “Good. Your function at the ceremony, Anna, is to represent creation, or the many. It is you who must give up or release the couple into marriage leading to union. You must let them go.”
Almost imperceptibly, Anna nodded.
“Peter,” Cantachiaro said next, “you are to represent the One. Your function is to do absolutely nothing, but to be there, waiting, encouraging, loving.”
Like Anna, Peter nodded.
Cantachiaro became silent. It was apparent that he had finished.
Peter looked at the books in his hand. “I guess we won’t be needing these,” he said, setting them on the floor alongside the others.
At that moment, the telephone rang.
“I’ll get it,” Peter said.
Peter rose from his seat, and walked into the study.
A few moments later, he returned, clearly distressed.
“What is it?” Anna asked.
“That was Claire Roomey,” Peter replied. “Montauk’s down. I’m going up there. She asks if we will locate Susanne or Wendell on the phone. Claire says they may be at his father’s. If not, he may have an idea where they are.”
“I’ll find them,” Anna promised.
Peter ran up the road to the Roomey’s place. When he arrived at their barn, he was panting for breath. Montauk was in the stall, lying on his side in the straw. Claire was seated on the floor beside the horse.
Looking up at Peter, Claire said, “He’s dying.”
“No, he isn’t,” Peter replied. “I won’t let him.”
“Hello, Peter,” Montauk said.
Peter sat down next to Claire, beside the horse he had come to love so dearly.
“Anna’s calling around for your parents,” he said to Claire.
As he spoke, they could hear the telephone ringing from the house.
“That may be them, now,” Claire guessed, coming to her feet. “I’d better get it.”
Montauk waited until Claire had left the barn, and then spoke. “I do not need your permission to die, Peter,” he said, sternly.
“I only meant …,” Peter said, lamely, finishing the sentence with an empty gesture.
“I know what you meant,” the horse said. “You meant well. But you spoke without thinking, without recalling all that you know, all that I have taught you.”
“But this is different,” Peter complained, “you’re dying.” Then, after a moment, he said, “Claire’s right, isn’t she? You are dying, aren’t you?”
Peter wished he had not asked the question, because he did not want to hear the answer.
“Yes, I am,” Montauk affirmed.
Peter could feel a lump developing in his throat, and tears on his cheeks.
“Is there nothing anyone can do?” he asked.
“Why should anything be done?” Montauk replied.
“Because you’re dying!” Peter insisted.
The horse looked at the man, whose face was now running with tears, and smiled.
Neither of them said anything. Peter knew the horse was right; he always was. But still.
For a long time, Peter sat there, his hands moving about on the horse, touching him. Peter loved the feel of Montauk’s skin, his dark chocolate color, the smell of him and of the stall. Finally, he said, nearly choking on the words, “I am going to miss you.”
“Your body will miss my body,” Montauk replied. “As for the rest, painless.”
“I don’t care what you say,” Peter answered, “I’m going to miss you.”
“Claire will be back in a minute,” Montauk said, “and her parents will be here shortly. I am their horse, so you should go now, to leave me alone with them.” Peter did not want to go, and it showed. “I am not asking you, Peter,” Montauk insisted, “I’m telling you.”
“I understand,” Peter replied. “I don’t like it, but I understand, and I will obey you.” As he stood up, he observed, “I will never be the same for having known you.”
“No, you won’t,” Montauk agreed, adding, “nor will I.”
Presently, Claire returned from the house. “Anna’s found mom and dad. They’re on their way.”
Reluctantly, but as instructed, Peter turned to go, then stopped, and turned back. He leaned over, and kissed the horse. Then, he left.
As he walked down the Roomey’s driveway, Peter saw Tancredi seated by the road, waiting for him.
“If you ever die on me,” he said to the dog, “I’ll kill you.”
Tancredi looked up at the man, wagged his tail, and said nothing. Peter felt as if he had swallowed a rock, and he wondered, as he and Tancredi headed home together, when, as Montauk seemed to have promised, the painless part would come.
At four o’clock the following morning, only a few hours before Cantachiaro and Joy Pristine would be married, Wendell Roomey called to report that Montauk had died.
Peter and Anna walked out the sliding glass door that led from the living room to the deck. It was barely daybreak. To their considerable surprise, they noticed that it had snowed during the night. Not much, but just enough of a sprinkling to cover the ground lightly. Later, they would learn from the television news that this was only the second time since such records have been kept that there were reports of snow in Cranberry County as late as June 24.
For now, Peter and Anna Wensleydale remained there quietly, together, saying nothing. Presently, as the sun began its rise, the woods surrounding their home filled with the calls of waking birds, seeking mates, establishing territory, or just stretching. Chickadees, wrens, and robins. Blue jays, gray jays, yellow grosbeaks, rose-breasted grosbeaks, purple finches, redwing blackbirds, and slate gray juncoes. Sparrows of all kinds. The steady drumming of a pileated woodpecker against a rotting log. The rush of a darting hummer. Then the mellow, haunting whistle of the wood thrush. All punctuated by Cantachiaro’s extended crow. The Cranberry County symphony orchestra in full ensemble.
Peter turned to Anna. “Thank God we have come here,” he said. “Where would we be if we hadn’t?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Anna replied. And she’s right, it doesn’t matter.
The weather for the marriage of Cantachiaro and Joy Pristine was perfect, sunny and warm under crystal clear skies. The ceremony proceeded just as the chickens intended, simply and without circumstance. In honor of the occasion, Peter wore a tie, the only tie he had left from the world, and the first time he had worn it since coming to Maine. Anna wore a hat. Not a gardening hat or a parka hood, but a dress hat, pale green and lacey. The high-powered stereo system that had been purchased at a diplomatic discount in another world, many years, even a lifetime, ago, resounded with the “Ode to Joy” from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, a piece personally selected by Cantachiaro and Joy Pristine. All the Wensleydale animals were there, washed or dusted, brushed or preened. Pilikia insisted on taking photographs, and did so, of everyone from every angle, with the 35 millimeter camera Anna uses for her art. Later, there was a reception on the lawn, attended by friends of various kinds from all over, with an assortment of refreshments suitable to every species, a provision thoroughly ignored by Tancredi, who nibbled freely from each.
By the time it was over, the sun had set. The guests, animal and human, went home, or to wherever they needed to be. Cantachiaro and Joy Pristine retired to a new structure Peter had built especially for them, a nursery to accommodate the coming chicks, attached by a connecting corridor to the existing hen house. In it, there is only one nest, for brooding. It has a high perch for the parents, and beside it, a lower one for the youngsters. The unit boasts a private doorway that opens onto a planked porch equipped with a brass bell on a string, a small mirror on a stand, and several other devices Peter hoped would amuse the chicks. Above the door are painted the Italian words, Qui Si Sana, which, loosely translated, mean “Here are we made whole.”
On the lawn were left only Peter and Anna, one seated on the grass, the other on an outcropping of rock. They sat in silence for some long time, until finally, prompted to move indoors by the chilly evening air, Peter stood up, and walked over to Anna.
“Let’s have a cup of tea,” he said.
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