Here it is, the full chapter one of The Moonhound, my forthcoming novella and the planned first book in the Wakerobin Hollow series! (The chapter may change a bit since I'm still editing and revising the book.)
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CHAPTER ONE
The house was perfect. Alan jumped down from the carriage while staring at it, so that he stumbled and almost fell into the overgrown holly bush next to the mailbox. The house—and the holly, and the mailbox—were all perfect, and they were all his.
He opened the mailbox door. It gave a rusty little squeak. Before long that squeak would become an everyday sound, but this was the first time he’d heard it and it too was perfect. The mailbox was empty. On its side, the white paint still glossy underneath a coating of dust and pollen, the name “COX” was painted in awkward letters. Alan wondered if he should leave it or paint it out to add his own family name, Green.
“Your bags, mister uh Rabbit,” said the driver, a young fox whose cap was too big for him. He’d clearly forgotten Alan’s name.
“Thank you.” Alan took some coins from his vest pocket, remembered the length of the drive from Bird Gap, and added another coin. The fox mumbled his thanks and jumped back into the driver’s seat.
The pony clumped away on the dirt road, leaving Alan standing at his front gate with his luggage.
For a moment he felt overwhelmed. He didn’t know a soul here. He had never visited Wakerobin Hollow before, only heard stories of its charms from his grandparents. He had bought the house without viewing it, relying on the reports of the houseagent he hired.
But the house was perfect. He picked up his bags and carried them to the front door.
Before he could unlock it and see inside for the first time, he heard the labored tread of hooves on the road again. A wagon drawn by two mules stopped where the carriage had stood only a few minutes before.
Alan set his bags down and hurried back to the road. “You made good time,” he said to the weasel who climbed down from the driver’s bench.
“We left before dawn.” The weasel touched his cap—technically a gesture of respect, but his expression was so dignified that he seemed like an ancient lord bestowing an honor. “We’ll get everything loaded in, just tell us where you want it.”
The weasel was skinny, his partner a remarkably stout groundhog, but they were as strong as horses. Alan had no time to savor the viewing of his home’s interior, and instead kept hopping out of the men’s way as they carried in furniture and boxes. Their speed and strength discombobulated him, so that he felt he should make his decisions quickly too. At every “where do you want this’un?” he pointed almost at random. He could move things around later.
“That’s all of it,” the weasel said at last. “We just need you to sign.”
Alan followed him back to the wagon. The weasel climbed up to retrieve a clipboard, and spent far too long writing on it while Alan waited next to the towering mules. It was absurd to be so nervous of simple animals, but their hooves were the size of platters. A single kick would send him flying.
Finally the weasel presented the clipboard and a grease pencil. Alan scanned the page, barely taking any of it in, and scrawled his name at the bottom. “Thank you. Here, split this between you and have a drink on me.”
The weasel gave him a toothy grin. “We’ll do that, once we’re back in civilization.”
Alan waited until the wagon was gone and silence fell again. It was late morning and getting warm, and his ears kept twitching at spring birdsong. He wished he knew which box he’d packed his bird identification guide in.
He walked around the house to look at the yard. It was overgrown but he saw promise everywhere, from uneven ground that had once obviously been tilled to patchy grass under windows that cried out for flowerbeds. Honeysuckle vines climbed on the vertical board fence separating his house from his nearest neighbor’s, the boards gray with age but still sturdy.
The ground behind his house sloped down toward a creek. He noted the presence of old apple trees and a huge willow. Beyond the creek were more trees and a glimpse of someone’s roof through the mostly bare branches. And all around, as Alan leaned his head back and turned slowly to view his new home, the softly rounded tops of the Appalachian Mountains rose into the blue sky.
“Hello there.”
Alan jumped straight up. When he landed a split second later, he was already embarrassed at his reaction.
The cat leaning on the fence smiled. She was a gray tabby with white whiskers, her arms folded on the fence. How long had she been standing there, watching him unnoticed?
“Sorry to startle you. I’m Sarah Boone. It looks like we’re neighbors.” She had a light country accent, just like his grandparents.
“I’m Alan. Alan Green. Nice to meet you.”
They shook paws. Sarah wore a faded blue dress with its sleeves rolled up, like a caricature of an old mountain woman. There was humor and intelligence in her green eyes, though. Alan noted a basket of weeds and a trowel on the ground behind her.
She said, “What brings you to Wakerobin Holler?”
“My grandparents lived here as children. Jack Green and June Crossnoe. Probably before your time.”
“I knew the Crossnoes. They’ve all died out or moved away by now. Well, well.” Sarah regarded him with interest. “Are your grandparents still living?”
“Unfortunately not. I think they’d be happy I moved here.” Alan gestured at his house. “This wasn’t where either of them lived, but I like it.”
“Yes, this is a good street. It’ll be nice to have a young person around. So many of our young people have moved to cities. Are you married?”
“Not yet,” Alan said, embarrassed as always when he was asked the question. He hoped Sarah wasn’t going to pester him about why he hadn’t settled down yet. His parents were bad enough.
Instead she just said, “Can I help you unpack? I used to help old Mr. Cox when he lived here. He was awful weak at the end and couldn’t do much for himself. He was a rabbit too, taught me near everything I know about gardening.”
Alan almost refused out of politeness. But if she didn’t want to help, she wouldn’t have offered. “I’d appreciate it if you could help me get the kitchen set to rights.”
***
Two hours later, Alan and Sarah not only had the kitchen completely unpacked and decorated, they’d done the same for the bedroom. Despite her age—she was older than Alan’s parents—Sarah had unstoppable energy. “I like finishing a job once I’ve started,” she said finally, “but it’s well past lunchtime and I know you don’t have any groceries yet. Come over to my house and we’ll eat.”
“Thank you so much,” Alan said. He was famished and wanted a break anyway.
Sarah’s house was larger than Alan’s, with an upper story and a big front porch. He noted with approval that the ceiling of the porch was painted haint blue, to keep ghosts away. His grandparents had told him about it.
“We’ll eat in the kitchen,” Sarah said. “Give your paws a wash.”
The kitchen was spotless, with gleaming pots and pans hung on hooks. Even the cast-iron stove looked freshly polished. Alan pumped water into a scrubbed enamel sink and washed his paws, and dried them on an embroidered hand towel that was soft with age.
“Have a seat. It’s just leftovers but I think we can fill you up.” Sarah set a basket on the table and unfolded a cloth to reveal half a dozen biscuits, their tops golden brown. Alan felt his nose twitch uncontrollably from the smell. And when she opened a mason jar full of peach preserves, his paws shook with eagerness to grab the spoon from her.
“Made this myself last summer,” she said, slathering preserves thickly on two biscuits. She set them on a plate and slid it in front of him. “Go ahead and eat.”
The preserves tasted of long, sun-drenched afternoons. Even cold, the biscuits were flaky but firm, the perfect vehicle for the preserves. Alan sighed with satisfaction after the first bite.
“Tea.” Sarah set a tall glass in front of him, with a generous portion of ice chips in it. She had her own glass too and sat across from him to drink it and nibble one of the biscuits.
“This is perfect,” Alan said. “Thank you so much.”
“Have more if you’re still hungry. Help yourself. It’s been a while since I had young ones to feed, but I still use the same recipes. I get tired of day-old biscuits, to be honest.”
Alan took a swig of the tea. It was sweet and cold, and tasted freshly brewed. “Do you have a family?”
“Three grown children. They moved away as soon as they could and only visit over the holidays. My husband I’ve outlived.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Alan stopped stuffing himself for a moment out of respect.
“It was over ten years ago now,” Sarah said. “Hard to believe. He got mixed up with the moonhounds up on Cooter’s Ridge, owed them money he couldn’t pay. I didn’t know anything about it or I’d have fixed it up, but the old knobhead didn’t think women needed to worry about money.” She sounded sad, not angry. “They tried to take it out of his hide and he never recovered. Died a month later. Then they visited me.”
Alan stopped chewing again, shocked at her words. He didn’t know what moonhounds were and had never heard of Cooter’s Ridge, but it sounded terrifying. “What did they do?” he asked hesitantly, once it was clear she was waiting for him to respond.
“Told me what the debt was and that it was my debt now. Oh, I was mad! I’d just buried my man and my kittens were still half-grown. I gave the hounds what for, you bet. Told them how stupid they were, trying to beat coins out of a man’s hide, as if that ever worked. I had enough money saved to cover the debt, but I never gave them all of it. I gave them half, and said if they came near me or mine again I’d show up at their doorstep with my claws out.”
“Did they leave you alone after that?”
“Yes, but I locked my doors every night for a year after that.”
Alan regarded the old cat with respect. She wasn’t very big but she had a wiry look, and he already knew she could move furniture almost as easily as he could.
Sarah finished her tea and set the glass down with a thump. Its sides were beaded with moisture that had dripped onto the table, which was scratched up and stained from a lifetime of use. Alan noticed the name Jim carved into the edge nearest him. A white cotton doily decorated the middle of the table, a yellow glass bowl sitting on it.
Sarah said, “If you’re done, I’ll walk you to the town center and show you around. You can put a grocery order in and Otto’s boy will deliver it.”
“That sounds good. I’d like to see everything.”
“There ain’t much to see.” Sarah took his plate and empty glass and set them in the sink. “You’re from a big city, right? I can tell by the way you talk. You’ll be bored here, I bet. What do you do?”
Alan followed her into the back yard through a wooden screen door that banged shut behind him. He wasn’t sure what question to answer first. “I used to work at a magazine in Foxville, the Mountain Review.”
“That’s nice. I can’t say I’ve heard of it,” Sarah said. She cut across the yard to the road.
“No one much has and it closed a few months ago. But my grandfather left me some money when he died.” Alan hesitated, then said shyly, “I decided to move up here and write a book.”
“A book! Well, that’s exciting. We had a writer living here a while back, Frank Nolan, but he only wrote about his childhood growing up in Bird Gap. He paid a company to print up copies and used to sell them every chance he got. I’ve got a copy on my shelves, of course.”
“Ah,” Alan said, trying not to wince.
“It’s called Too Wet to Plow. His grandson drew the cover. Thank goodness Frank died two years ago because it’s a terrible book and you shouldn’t have to buy one from him.”
Alan laughed and relaxed. He was lucky to have a neighbor with a sense of humor.
“I used to teach school,” Sarah said. “That was before I had my own kits.”
“Do you miss teaching?”
“Sometimes, but I don’t have the energy to keep up with young’uns these days.” Sarah pointed at a house across the road from hers. “That’s the Ridenour house, although there’s no Ridenours left these days. The Fosters moved in after Old Man Ridenour died, but that was years ago and it’s just Cleta Foster left. She’s getting a bit frail.” Sarah pointed at the next house along as they walked, this one set well back from the road and surrounded by trees. “The artist lives there, Margaret Dove-wah.”
Alan realized Sarah must be trying to say Dubois, although from the cat’s tone, she might have been mispronouncing the name on purpose. Sarah continued, “I’ll not say much about her since she’s a rabbit. You can decide if she puts on airs. Her roses are beautiful, though, I’ll give her that.”
Alan noted the mailbox, painted with a lifelike spray of pink dogwood blossoms, and decided he would visit Margaret Dubois soon.
The dirt road curved through the trees, with houses at irregular intervals. Some yards were neatly kept, some weedy and overgrown. Sarah kept up her commentary, dropping names Alan struggled to impress into his memory, and recounting the misfortunes of the families associated with each house.
It was interesting, and a beautiful walk through the spring sunshine, but Alan wished Sarah would tell him about more cheerful events. Before long he wanted to hear about so-and-so’s marriage or talented children.
“We’re almost there,” Sarah said at last. “I’m sure it’s nothing compared to Foxville, but we’ve got a post office and a bank and a grocery store. That’s more than most towns up this way.”
The road widened and turned into a brick-paved square. The bricks were weathered and weeds straggled up between them, but overall it looked tidy. The post office was a tiny wooden building to the left, the bank a larger stone building to the right, and the grocery store straight ahead was a mix of stone and wood, and was bigger than both of the other buildings put together. It had a long covered porch with several mismatched chairs, and a faded sign in the front window that read “Special Today Apples.”
A bell jingled when Sarah pushed the door open. It was dim inside and smelled of overripe fruit, and at first Alan didn’t see anyone. Sarah announced, “Yoo-hoo, Otto, Alan Green’s just moved in and needs a bunch of groceries.”
A voice from the nearby counter said, “Hello there, Mr. Green. You moved into old Mr. Cox’s house, right? I heard tell from purt’near everybody that it was sold. You kin to the Coxes?”
Alan’s eyes had adjusted to the lower light by then and he finally made out the speaker, a short, plump groundhog whose fur was speckled with gray. Alan said, “No, but my grandparents grew up here.”
“Green, Green. Oh, that’d be Charlie Green’s boy. Let’s see, what was his name? Paul?”
“Jack, actually. He married June Crossnoe.”
“Did he, now? Well well. And here you are.” Otto tutted to himself for a few moments, apparently lost in thought.
Sarah said, “He’ll need a lot of groceries. Is your boy around?”
“Somewhere. I’ll run him down soon.” Otto didn’t look as though he’d run anything or anyone down for decades. He shuffled around behind the counter and produced a grubby notebook and a pair of spectacles, which he perched on his short muzzle. Then he peered up at Alan with his pencil poised over the paper. “All right.”
Alan realized with dismay that he would have to dictate what he needed to the groundhog. He barely knew where to begin. “Um, flour. Sugar. Baking soda—”
“Wait, wait,” Otto muttered. Alan watched him laboriously write FLOUR at the top of the page.
Sarah said, “I’ll see you later, Alan. Welcome to Wakerobin.”
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