Hardrock Rooster of Rose-nose Mound

By Donald Anderson

Narrated by a mysterious figure named Druber, this is the story of a morning when things did not go as expected. The blame seems to belong to a rooster who didn’t do what he was supposed to do. But is it his fault? He has a good reason. And, just maybe . . . what happens is better than anyone could have imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donald Anderson
• Release date: Oct 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780988199330

Donald Anderson

Donald Anderson is the director of the creative writing program at the US Air Force Academy. He is the author of Gathering Noise from My Life: A Camouflaged Memoir. He is also the editor, since 1989, of War, Literature & the Arts: An International Journal of the Humanities.

Book preview

The Hardrock Rooster

Of

Rose-Nose Mound

Donald Anderson

Illustrations by

Michelle Crowe

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons is pure coincidence.

No part of this book can be reproduced without the written consent of the author.

You can contact Donald at [e-mail].

This book is also available in print: 978-0-9881993-2-3 (soft cover),

978-0-9881993-4-7 (hard cover)

Copyright 2017 Donald R. Anderson

CKBooks Publishing

PO Box 214

New Glarus, WI 53574

ckbookspublishing.com

Illustrator • Michelle Crowe

[e-mail]

Interior design • Christine Keleny

ckbookspublishing.com

For Gianna and Tristan,

§

for their friends today

and

for those to come

I

The Discovery of a Sleeping Problem

I am known to many as Druber. It’s like the sound of a sneeze going backward, I think—and you may think so too, if you wish. If I knew why I’m called Druber, I would surely tell you. But I don’t, so I can’t. And, therefore, I won’t.

I spend much of my time on Rose-Nose Mound. That’s an unusual name, too, but this one I can explain. In fact, it was just this morning that I experienced such a shock I heard the name in my head. For the very first time. When I came onto the mound, the sun was already quite high in the sky. Right up there! And I knew just what that meant. Trouble! Our very own rooster hadn’t cock-a-doodled, and because of that, The Dreamer had not woken up. And I was certain to burn my nose. The sun was poking me on the exact end of it. It would be a rose-nose for sure. And I don’t mind saying I have a decent nose under most circumstances. As noses go, that’s good to know. As I stood within the stillness of the mound, I thought right away of the lines to a song I had taught myself:

I suppose

Without a nose,

We’d have to sit,

Because, to wit ...

We couldn’t go,

We couldn’t crow,

And worst, my friends

We couldn’t blow!

It’s quite pretty when set to music.

And that, of course, made me wonder: what did happen to the rooster. A rooster without a cock-a-doodle might as well be doodle soup, wouldn’t you think? And The Dreamer? The Dreamer would not be happy, I was certain of that.

Right next to where I stood, wondering, was The Dreamer’s chair—made from slats of wood going in all kinds of odd directions—one direction never quite matching another. Like pick-up sticks and a little glue. And draped over the back of the chair … The Dreamer’s shawl. Let me describe it: how it looks for all the world—or the world of Rose-Nose Mound, at least—like it’s made from the filaments that spiders leave in quiet spaces, coming from right inside themselves with no help from anyone else. And amaranth flowers that cling to it with no threads or anything. It would have been tempting to touch the shawl to find out what it actually felt like, but, frankly, I was afraid to. I didn’t know for certain, but I was pretty sure I shouldn’t do that.

What did seem right, though, was to start with the rooster. Then if he could wake The Dreamer, I might be able to ask about the shawl—and touch it if I was careful. There might be no harm in trying that approach.

But I imagine I should describe myself, since you’re going to have to hear me telling this story, if you want to know what happens. First, I never know quite what I will see when I glance down to discover what I am wearing. So I suppose you can call me a casual dresser. Today I seem to be mostly in shades of green, reaching right to the ground. On other days I lean more to reds, or brown and charcoal, or the fancy color of cucumber blossoms. Usually I wear a cap—though most any kind will do. On this occasion it is made from fiddlehead ferns, woven together like ninety-nine violins. I like to carry a flute to entertain myself—and, if I am fortunate, to entertain others. There is a large log on Rose-Nose Mound that looks like my flute blown up a thousand and one times. It usually doesn’t make music you can hear, but it doesn’t matter. Usually. I’ll be pointing it out to you in a while, so it would be good to pay attention.

The flute might have helped me begin to find the rooster, but I didn’t think of that at the time—and I doubt many of us know what tune a rooster might respond to. So I tried shouting instead:

Rooster!

I listened for the ruffle of feathers, or the flapping of wings, or the sound of snoring … when it stops. But nothing.

So, again—and this time a little louder. Rooster!!

Then once more with a question mark added for good measure: Rooster!!?

But all remained quiet. Very quiet. Like the falling of thistle fluff. Until, that