Leslie Silko - Gardens in the Dunes

Indigo had seen cattle before — thin, wild-eyed, rangy creatures, but never such a fat beauty as this white bull; two white cows emerged from under the apple trees and more cattle followed until a small herd was gathered around the coach. Aunt Bronwyn climbed down and took a small pail from the coachman and began to hand-feed rolled oats to the cattle. Edward thought at once of Mrs. Abbott’s complaints about the old woman and her animals; it certainly was odd to delay travel-weary guests in order to pet the cattle. Hattie’s mother recalled that during their last visit, a door was not firmly latched and they had returned from shopping to find white cattle wandering in the front room. Quite at home, she added, proof that the old woman allowed them to roam at will when no visitors were present.

When Aunt Bronwyn got back into the coach, the cattle seemed to know the treat was over, and they slowly moved back to their grazing under the apple trees. But when the coach reached the front of the house, four more cows stood on the driveway near the front step. At the approach of the coach they stared hard at the horses but stood their ground; this meant a difference of only seven or eight feet farther to walk, but Edward felt impatient with the old woman.

The old stone walls of the cloister were handsome indeed and had been modified very little over the years. The windows were narrow and high; though it was early afternoon, small oil lamps flickered from their brass sconces in the walls. Indigo was delighted with the odd shadows cast on the bare stone walls.

In the library, Hattie noted the odd placement of the bookshelves, three feet above the floor. Aunt Bronwyn laughed and pointed out the high-water stains faintly visible on the gray stone wall a few inches short of the bottoms of the bookshelves. Edward vowed to himself “a hotel, only a hotel,” if they ever stopped there again.

Indigo slipped the cover off the parrot’s cage and lifted the cage.

“See,” she said, “you’re in England now.” The parrot looked around the room then began preening its feathers.

“He won’t comb his feathers with his beak unless he’s happy,” she said as she carefully set the cage on the window ledge, then neatly folded the cage cover.

The stone masonry of the old cloister did not tolerate casual renovation. Here and there were indications someone had walled in a doorway or failed an attempt to remove a stone partition wall. Long ago workmen on the old cloister complained that stones loosened and removed by day were found in their former locations the following day. Edward smiled at Aunt Bronwyn’s tale.

“So the fairies replaced the stones at night,” he said.

Aunt Bronwyn shook her head. The stones themselves had moved without any aid from brownies or fairies. Indigo’s eyes widened. Aunt Bronwyn nodded her head decisively.

Oh yes indeed. This is the land of the stones that dance and walk after midnight. Tomorrow she would take them to the giant stones at Stanton Drew.

While Edward and Hattie unpacked, Indigo sat on the stairs with Rainbow in his cage beside her to watch the coachman carry buckets of hot water from the big kitchen stove for their baths. The coachman’s wife brought an armful of clean towels and gave Indigo a little round cake of soap that smelled of roses. Rainbow became very excited and flapped his wings with loud squawks at the sound of water splashing as Indigo rinsed the soap from her hair.

The coachman’s wife baked a rabbit pie, served with fresh greens, baby carrots, and peas from the kitchen garden. Afterward, Hattie complained of fatigue; she and Edward went upstairs to rest while Aunt Bronwyn showed Indigo the baby calves.

The instant she moved toward the door behind Aunt Bronwyn, the parrot began to screech and frantically flap his wings in the cage. He was afraid she was abandoning him; she could tell.

“Don’t worry. You can come along.” She opened the cage door, then knelt with her right shoulder next to the open door.

“Come on, little rainbow bird, sweet Rainbow, come on!” The parrot nervously shifted his feet on the perch and looked at Aunt Bronwyn, then at Indigo. Indigo sighed impatiently and started to stand up to go when the parrot climbed out of the cage and clung to the side before he climbed onto her shoulder.

“Good Rainbow! Good bird,” Indigo whispered as they followed the old cobbled drive to the dry rock wall of the orchard. All sorts of sparrows and small birds were chirping in the tops of trees above them; Rainbow listened but made no sound; he tightened his grip on her shoulder as Indigo knelt to search for dry pods under a clump of marshmallows.

The sun was low above the trees, and its golden light shifted to leaf green as they climbed the stile’s narrow stone steps up and over the old wall that enclosed the apple orchard. No gate was as good as a stile, Aunt Bronwyn explained; gates got left open. The cattle could push gates open, but cattle would not climb over a stile. As it was, the cattle found other clever ways to escape the orchard to browse the willows along the river. More than once the white cattle strayed down Bath Street before dawn, to taste the petunias and geraniums from the hanging planters while they splashed bright green manure outside the shops.

Aunt Bronwyn called the cattle in tones that might have been a song. The calls were lovely and made Indigo think of the old gardens and Grandma Fleet and Mama and Sister Salt. They sat on the steps of the stile in the green-golden light to wait for the cattle to come. Indigo smelled the river nearby and felt the cool air currents move around them. With her eyes closed she imagined for a moment that she was with Grandma Fleet and Sister. The parrot shifted his grip on her shoulder and watched curiously as the tears rolled down her cheeks. Indigo hated the big lump she felt in her throat.

Aunt Bronwyn did not see her face, but she seemed to sense Indigo’s sadness. She pointed up at the small green fruit on the branches overhead and began to tell Indigo about the white cattle.

The white cattle belonged to the moon — see the shape of the crescent moon in the cow’s horn? Indigo nodded. The sun was only partially visible now through the trees, but in the last shafts of light the cattle appeared to be shimmering white, almost silver, as they emerged from the apple trees. The bull in the lead approached Aunt Bronwyn, who walked slowly to meet him.

At the rear of the herd Indigo saw the cream-colored calves frolicking together; the mother cows stared at Indigo with wide dark eyes, blowing air through their nostrils, wary of any danger she might pose to the calves. Aunt Bronwyn scratched the bull between the horns and spoke softly to him. Gradually the cows came forward to sniff Aunt Bronwyn’s shoe or her hat or the hem of her skirt. The calves raced about their mothers, tails held high over their backs, bucking and leaping on one another. They were fond of their mistress, and the bull moved protectively between Indigo and Aunt Bronwyn, who was petting the calves. Slowly Aunt Bronwyn worked her way back through the herd, petting or speaking to each cow. The young bulls watched from under the apple trees at a distance and Aunt Bronwyn went over to greet them as well. As the sun dropped behind the trees at the curve in the river, Aunt Bronwyn pointed at the sky to the southwest, where Indigo saw the thick white horn of the moon.

Hattie watched Aunt Bronwyn and the child with the parrot on her shoulder walk hand in hand up the drive to the house. Hattie’s heart felt so full of love for them at that instant tears sprang into her eyes, but she quickly brushed them away. Edward was upstairs with his notebooks. He seemed in much better spirits now that they were on their way. He had an appointment in London later that week at the Kew Gardens.