The Second Book of the Dun Cow: Lamentations

By Walter Wangerin

From National Book Award-winning author Walter Wangerin, Jr. comes the thought-provoking sequel to The Book of the Dun Cow, with new and revised content.

“[A] profoundly imagined and beautifully stylized fable of the immemorial war between good and evil.” –The New York Times

“A beautifully written fantasy anchored starkly in reality.” –The Washington Post

Seeking peace and respite after their devastating battle with the Wyrm, Chauntecleer and his wife Pertelote again lead the animals of the Coop. But their quest is interrupted when Wyrm once again insinuates himself into the lives of the animals. To defeat this ancient evil for good, Chauntecleer will have to face Wyrm again, not on the battlefield, but deep within the serpent’s lair, risking his very soul to ensure the safety of the animals under his protection.

“[A] fine book about the way evil enters the world, and this newly told story of Chaunticleer is one that details the loss of his innocence, of his love and of his God.” –The Houston Chronicle

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diversion Books
• Release date: Jun 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626810709

Walter Wangerin

Walter Wangerin, Jr. is a literary scholar, theologian, performance storyteller and best-selling author. He is the author of over 30 books, which encompass a wide range of fiction, non-fiction, children's books, poetry and short stories and have become favourites of people in all walks of life and of all ages. Wangerin's first book, The Book of the Dun Cow, won the National Book Award in 1980 and was The New York Times' Best Children's Book of the Year. Wangerin's was also awarded the Helen Keating Ott Award for Outstanding Contribution to Children's Literature (2000) . His vibrant retelling of the Bible as an epic novel - The Book of God - was acclaimed as a literary masterpiece and has now been published in over 20 languages worldwide and recently reissued. He is writer-in- residence at Valparaiso University. He and his wife live in Valparaiso, Indiana, USA.

Book preview

Something Unresolved

CHAPTER 1

Pertelote

Two Hens, white in a brown field, walk with that thrust of the head which suggests that they are going secretly, on tiptoe, as spies, or as comic exaggerations of spies, placing their claws down with infinite care—

Two Hens, made all the whiter by a deep blue sky, go east across a field of dry grass, walking and pausing by turns. They seem two separate tears trickling down the face of the field.

The first Hen keeps her eye dead-level at the land ahead of them. She goes with a purpose. The feathers at her throat are a crimson fire, and her motion is altogether graceful. The second Hen follows, muttering complaints. She is, she thinks, too stout—not to say too fat—for the journey. Her purpose is nothing more than to accede to the first Hen’s request. They are sisters, after all.

There, says the first Hen. Can you see it?

Where? See what?

Straight ahead and a little to the left.

That tree? It ain’t no more’n a tree, Missus.

No. Below the tree.

It’s a very big tree.

You’re looking at a willow, Jasper. We wouldn’t have come so far for a willow. We’ve willows enough at home.

Medicinals enough, to my way of thinking.

"It’s the vegetation under the tree we want."

That? says Jasper with a cluck of distaste. Them weeds? That ugly tangle?

Whether ugly or no, Jasper, it’s what we need. Lord Russel’s snout will never heal without it. The beautiful Hen opens and sweeps her wings in order to go with greater speed.

Jasper huffs and puffs and sighs and quits.

A little rest, Missus? I’m winded, I am. She plops on the brown grass, looking like an unhappy pillow.

The other Hen turns and bursts into laughter.

Jasper glances to see if it’s a mocking laugh. Her weight gives her little liking for herself. Therefore she generally assumes that everyone else holds the same low opinion of her, and always suspects mockery. Laughing isn’t loving, and mocking wants a pecking, for pecking commands a certain respect, if not a certain fear.

But the Hen’s laughter is not scorn. She has a great affection for her sister.

Jasper, Jasper, you uncomplaining Hen! You’re such good company. Besides, who else could carry a load of hyssop home again?

Hmph!

The bright Hen laughs like a necklace of bells and continues forward at a faster step.

Jasper muttered, Butt pimples. This is the way the fat Hen swears. Chicken dribbles. But Pertelote has put some distance between them. Missus Pertelote! Jasper calls. Wait for me!

The two Hens continue forward, the fat one with but a thin, pink comb and no ornament at all. But Pertelote’s comb is a crown so sultry-red and lovely that it troubles the soul just to look on it.

In the time it takes to reach the stalks and the evergreen leaves of the vegetable patch—not a patch, really, but a hedge-like thicket that spreads wide to the left and the right of the willow—Pertelote distracts her sister by relating her initiation in the arts of healing.

I used to sing for a Grey Goose, once, an ancient Goose, swollen in all her joints, and a beak so lumpish she couldn’t close it properly. But Madame Guérisseuse was well skilled in the virtue of every plant and healing herb. She would nod when I sang and weep, as old Birds do. Then she’d show me her gratitude by teaching me simples, by teaching me their strange and invigorating faculties. Jasper, she taught me the goodness in ugliness. A weed is a weed only if you don’t need it or want it or like it, and a Hen doesn’t like what she doesn’t understand. Learn it. Know it, and suddenly it’s not a weed, but a medicine. And if a medicine, why then it’s the grace of God. Ah, Madame Guérisseuse, Pertelote says wistfully. My dear old friend was killed by the bite of a Basilisk.

It is early autumn, the weather cool and clean. The sun slants behind the Hens, whose feathers are now white in a golden field. Blue, green, golden, and two Hens as white as snow. A lovely afternoon withal, waiting for the evening to come. And then they are at the thicket.

Pertelote moves in among the tall stems, dividing them with her breast

Jasper stops. Wait!

Pertelote turns. Are you tired, sister?

"No more’n seventeen miles tired!"

Well, now you have but two steps to go. Take them as slowly as you wish.

But it’s not so much the weariness that has stopped Jasper as it is her fastidiousness.

Jasper tweaks her nostrils and pouts. Ack! It stinks!

Pertelote laughs and pushes deeper.

Missus, Missus, it ain’t right. It ain’t fittin’, draggin’ a sister into thickets.

Ah, Jasper, you’re a bold sort, you are!

"A clean sort-a Hen that hates stinks and stickingnesses. And lookee here, Missus, how dark it’s getting. Time to go home."

Jasper receives no answer and sees no Hen. Instead hears a whipping in the thicket. The stems and their evergreen leaves sway, jerk and snap. The poor fat Hen feels panic in her breast.

There comes a ripping sound, then all is as still as the sea.

Missus? Jasper hops at the fringes of the thicket, patting her wings. Missus?

Pertelote’s head appears, smiling. Hyssop, she calls, then drops down again and the stems repeat their thrashing and their ripping.

Pertelote shows her head again. "Two good bunches of Hyssop, sister mine. Exactly what we need for Russel’s healing."

With enormous dignity Jasper turns away, showing Pertelote her puny tail-feathers and her great butt.

The beautiful Hen regards her. Pertelote’s next words are sharper. Miss Priss, is it your plan to shirk your duty?

Me, I ain’t never in all my borned life come on so reeky a weed!

Hyssop offends you?

Don’t know why my Missus drug me out here.

Pertelote steps out of the thicket and plants the two bunches of hyssop, stems and green leaves and all, to Jasper’s butt feathers.

"Awk!"

Drag them home, Miss Turkey Snipe. Don’t sit down on the way. Pertelote’s tone softens. Sister, I brought you along for the companionship. I love you, don’t you know?

That undoes the fat Hen. She drops her head and says, Now don’t go all gawky on me.

Pertelote smiles. One more medicine to go, and for that we have to climb that hill.

Jasper narrows an eye. "That hill?" She points beyond the hyssop hedge to the dark green carpet beyond.

It’s juniper, sister. I need the juice of the juniper berry. Are you going or coming?

To be loved is all well and good. But to mince one’s way through a horrid thicket and up a hill, well, that’s plain unsocial.

Whew! Jasper works worry into her voice. Ain’t it a bit peaky out? Whew! Such a shiver just passed through my bones. And ain’t I already got a burden on my butt?

Now, the beautiful Pertelote, Hen of an excellent flock and wife to the loud, renowned Rooster Chauntecleer, possesses wonderful powers of persuasion. But she takes pity on her laggard Jasper.

Ah, let my sweet beast of burden trundle home and tell the Coop that I am coming soon.

"Well, I did feel a chill. Fat Birds, thin blood, you know."

Don’t belittle yourself, sister. Go home. Be warm.

Well—not by my own inclinations, you understand. Jasper, she generally finishes what she starts.

Go with my love. But go.

Yes, Missus! To be sure, Missus! God bless your pretty little beak, Missus! And Jasper takes off with more alacrity than she’d shown before, and makes her way home, the hyssop dragging behind her.

Pertelote climbs the hill and moves among the dense juniper. There she begins to pluck the blue-black berries, humming to herself. She’ll be fine. She can find the path back even after dark.

Suddenly, ahead of her, she hears a rustling and a small squawk, Oh, no.

Pertelote holds still.

Hello?

The silence that follows is as loud as a shout.

Another soft rustling draws her attention. This time she sees a flash of dreary, off-colored feathers, and she knows.

She whispers, "Ah, my hiding heart. Is this where you have gone, and this the wilderness in which you’ve been abiding?"

The sky—the whole dome of the firmament—is as deep and translucent as amethyst. The sun has set. Purple has overcome the heavens. But the evening can carry a song like the melodious ringing of a bell, as though one stood within the bell and the sound came down from all around. Sweet Pertelote is the tongue of the bell, and it is the great round firmament that rings.

"One Lady, she left for the night.

All right.

She considers herself impolite.

All right.

Now the evening is better without her.

"Another, she left us in sorrow,

Poor sparrow!

We craved her return with the morrow,

Black laurel.

And our weeping is bitter without her—"

Pertelote still chooses not to move. She wants to seem no threat. She waits in patience.

As tiny and weak as a peep the other says, Could my Lady maybe go away?

Pertelote whispers, Which are you, Chalcedony? She of the night or she of the sorrow?

Silence lies on the land.

All at once a blue-black berry the size of a pea rolls out between the juniper roots. It dribbles downhill and stops at Pertelote’s feet.

Please know that I didn’t come looking for you, sister, she says. I trust how much you treasure your privacy.

Another berry, then two berries roll to Pertelote’s feet, until there are ten in a little heap—all accomplished without a sound.

Pertelote is inclined to weep. Ten, she says. Oh, my wise Chalcedony. You guessed the reason for my coming. Ten. Ten exactly. Do you know how much I love you?

Slowly, like a poor flag brought sadly to half-staff, the skinny head of a Hen appears above the gorse. And so it is that Chalcedony is looking at Pertelote.

Do you think, Chalcedony says, that you could go away now?

"Because I have what I came for? Well, I could go away. But how can I carry ten berries on my own? I can take only two at a time."

Chalcedony considers this, blinking in bewilderment. There are no feathers around her eyes, but pink flesh only, making the Hen seem vulnerable and undernourished—and sad. She is so gaunt that her eyes are too huge for her head.

She murmurs, ‘Tis a puzzle, surely. Maybe the Lady needs only two?

Aye, but then I would have to come back and back—four times back, Chalcedony. I would like that, but would you?

Four? The mathematics pains the timid Hen. Well, but there’s never no need you should come this far in again, is there? Never no need to creep close to Chalcedony, is there?

Never no need.

Ah, sister, Pertelote says. I do have a need right now.

Ooo. Tears moisten the poor Hen’s voice.

My need is to comfort you, and maybe to kiss the miserable you.

Ooo-hoo! Chalcedony breaks into tears.

Pertelote says, Are you indecent?

Oh, Lady, I hope I am never that.

Of course not. But sister, you are hiding. You’ve been hiding for a whole month now. We looked. We searched for you. Chauntecleer sent the Weasel abroad to find you. We said that Chalcedony must have lost her way. We said, ‘Maybe she will show up one day.’ But you didn’t, and we had no body to bury.

Hoo, hoo, hoo.

Oh, my child, my child, what are you doing here? Why are you the Lady of sorrows?

Pertelote begins to move carefully through the juniper toward the weeping Chalcedony, who drops a glance at something below.

So the evening deepens while a skinny, bare-feathered Hen spends her tears but not her sorrow.

Finally she sighs. I’m sorry, Lady Pertelote. That I am. I didn’t never cry like this before—not till now and I seen you.

Well, now you may cry, child, and with all your heart. I will sit and cry with you.

It is enough. Chalcedony’s sobs soften and she becomes willing. She steps back and gazes with reverence at the ground. See?

Pertelote bends her eyes and does see: a faint whiteness lying in the gloom.

Why, Chalcedony, an egg.

Perfectest little egg.

Lovely. Unblemished.

Aye.

But why is it here, Chalcedony? So far from home. If we’d known, we would have celebrated its appearing.

Well. Well, and you see…I couldn’t make another one since the Rat killed my first, and that the first ever I made. She takes a quick glance at Pertelote, then speaks swiftly. But I had the understanding, what with the war and all, the dyings of little children churnin’ up my innards. Wasn’t no peace in me for making eggs. Chalcedony heaves a long, long sigh. But t’other Hens went to laying again, and brooding again, and hatching young ones again. But not Chalcedony. No motherhood for Chalcedony, and that caused such a nasty cackling around the Coop. And the things that Jasper said…

The poor thin Hen looks with a deep appeal into Pertelote’s eyes, searching mercy for such a tender revelation.

"But in my soul I said, ‘Why mayn’t Chalcedony also be laying an egg?’ And I said, ‘Why mayn’t Chalcedony get a

Reviews for The Second Book of the Dun Cow

[lostinalibrary · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Like the previous two books in the Book of the Dun Cow series, Peace at Last continues the fight between good and evil. Now that evil has entered the world and infected many animals, the world has become a very dangerous place for those who would follow the path of righteousness. The disparate group of animals, this Band of the Meek, finds itself trapped between a huge mob of vicious killers intent on destroying them and the promised sanctuary which is hidden at the bottom of a steep ravine. It will take a leap of faith for them to enter but, if they can make this leap, rest and freedom from the sorrows of the world will be their reward even to the Least of them.I have seen this series compared to books like Animal Farm and The Lord of the Rings. To me, it more resembles Pilgrim’s Progress both in style and in content. Despite its modern language, there is something archaic in its telling. There is an elegance and lyricism to the prose which is so rarely seen in modern literature outside of poetry which I found an absolute joy like reading a hymn of praise by Bach. One word of warning, however. There is some use of swearing in the tale. Personally, I felt it fit the narrative, sort of like a dissonant note in a concerto meant to jolt the reader and move the story but I suspect that some readers may be offended by this.