Free The Third Book of the Dun Cow: Peace at the Last by Walter Wangerin Jr. Page A

never did flex a muscle to work up a sweat. And a tail as naked as a snake, and ears as naked as leather purses shed heat quicker than a sticker. Worse than that, fat old Mizz Possum’s fur was coarse and unpettable. And whew! what a stink!
    Gross Mizz Opossum was no coquette, I’ll tell you that. Would never win the affections and the warmth of a suitor. When she opened her long mouth and humped her tongue and hissed, her teeth looked like a crocodiles’. Bet your bottom dollar, the woman was a throwback.
    Failing for suitors, Mizz Possum made a deal with a hobo Snake. Said if he’d work for her the summer through she’d give him her coal when winter came.
    So the old hobo Snake would wind through Mizz Possum’s rocks and bring her food, then would wind on out again with her drippings and her droppings. He braved her killer odor. He sucked up and spat out scads of fleas. And sorry he was he didn’t have eyelids to blink with, or tears to wash away the sting of Mizz Possum’s stink.
    Now, I’ll bet you little Mice have already guessed it, right? Yessir. Mizz Possum was a cheat and a liar. Never did plan to give her little hotbox away.
    So when winter blew down hard and cold, and when the hobo Snake said, “Okay, it’s time,” well, Mizz Possum said, “Wait just a little longer. Wait till it’s zero outside.” She said, “Then my coal will be worth the wait.”
    Hey, hey, hey, my tiny little Brothers Mice, fussing and fuming. I’m guessing you’re on the Snake’s side, right? And I bet you think you know what’s coming.
    Snake, he went on and slaved for Mizz Possum till winter hit zero.
    He came to her and said, “Now.”
    Mizz Possum said, “I got a better idea. Let’s cuddle.”
    Snake said, “You make an insalubrious stink!”
    Well, he didn’t really say “insalubrious.” I’m a language hound, you know. I play with words.
    Possum said, “I’m too old to have children. Come and be my baby boy.”
    Snake said, “Watch out for me, y’old witch!”
    The old witch opened her mouth, all fifty teeth marching back to her gullet. “You,” she hissed, “watch out for me!”
    Threat for threat and tit for tat.
    Snake was streamlined. Possum was fat. Snake rammed his head into her pouch, snapped up that coal, swallowed it down, and slithered off.
    I don’t know. Maybe Mizz Possum is sitting there still, frozen as cold as a statue.
    Well, look at this. My little Mice with heavy eyes.
    Mrs. Pertelote, I believe your family’s mostly asleep. I’ll pick up my tale tomorrow night.
    Soon the whole band of Animals knows what the Hens have known. The proof is in their shortness of breath, in how often they have to stop on the way, resting, rubbing their muscles, preparing to go again. In a sense, the land is against them. The are climbing.
    The Doe De La Coeur is a woods walker, unused to heights. The thin air causes lights to dance before her eyes.
    Again the poor Hens require rides. The Otters oblige.
    The Mice and the Cobbs are fine. So is Least, the Plain Brown Bird. Ferric Coyote has almost no meat on his bones, but happy living has given his daughters heft, and they don’t climb well. The White Wolf’s energy is bottomless. Wachanga’s intensity is her strength.
    At times Pertelote soars as high as she can fly, trying to mount above the clouds to see what might lie on the other side, but it’s no use. They boil up to the very threshold of heaven, and though Wachanga’s word for their future is “Home,” Pertelote has no word of her own. Her future, her band’s future, remains a mystery. And how can living souls prepare for a mystery?
    But the snow below affords her some comfort. It seems to pillow purity and poverty. It covers the sins and the sorrows of the world. And the little freckling of her Animals on the snow below her strikes the Hen with affection. Strikes her too with disquietude. They are so small. Little Creatures unconcerned, waiting for her return in order to set out again. Oh,