Orin Notere was, by all accounts, a miserable rabbit. If you got to know him, he was a reasonably friendly chap, but there always seemed to be a vague haze of melancholy that filled the air around him. There were, of course, reasons for this, and being familiar with them may help you understand him vis-a-vis the story I wish to tell.
As a child, he always dreaded the idea that he’d have a family like the one he grew-up in – five brothers, eight sisters, aunts, uncles, grandparents, all living under one extremely crowded roof. There was little room for privacy among so many bodies, which is probably why he had become infatuated with books, particularly writing his own; the only peace he truly had was in his own mind, and that peace was something he craved. Of all his relatives, the one that he truly enjoyed talking to the most was his Grandpa Leopold. Orin loved hearing Leopold’s war stories and tales of dazzling adventures during his time overseas.
“If you want to see the world, really understand it, the best way is in a uniform,” advised Orin’s Grandpa. A retired officer that served in Her Majesty’s Legions, Leopold was respected in the community, highly decorated, and – from all outward appearances – lived a supremely comfortable life.
The moment Orin was old enough to sign up for the military, he did.
It was nothing like his Grandpa Leopold said. It was vile, dirty, and deadly work. The adventures his Grandpa recounted were nothing like the trenches of Bunnderberg and Ribbelsmeltz. Orin saw so many horrors, that even as an old rabbit he’d still wake up with his foot stomping uncontrollably on the ground – warning his phantom platoon of an incoming charge that happened decades prior. Writing was, again, his only escape. While in his youth, he wrote of knights and kings, as a soldier, he wrote about the war.
When his fight was done, he returned with a mind full of memories, a heart filled with trauma, and a satchel full of poems and prose. While he won praise through the years, earning a measure of success, he never seemed to find happiness. He thought he had a shot at it once, but she left him after she found out Orin would never be able to give her the children she craved.
Now, in the autumn of his years, Orin settled down in a small, rural community built around the Tumbledown River called Gleefield. He bought a modest house, planted roses in his front yard and a garden in the back, and was for all intents and purposes a quiet neighbour. He kept to himself, never made waves, and generally faded into the background of the lives of those around him.
Our story begins, as stories seldom do, on a Tuesday morning. It was about a month before Christmas, and Orin was bundled up in a tweed suit, muffler, and driving cap that squished his ears back. He was walking to the village centre, intent on a simple hair cut, lunch at the pub, and maybe to see the decorations as the young gents of the village went about hanging them. He had considered leaving his cane behind, but he needed it more and more everyday.
“Morning Mr. N,” called out Mrs Cranfell, the pudgy hedgehog that lived two doors down from him. She had a thick coat, mittens, and wore a kerchief wrapped around her head to keep her unruly quills in order.
“It is Notere, if you please Mrs. Cranfell,” he corrected in a friendly tone. It had been an on-going joke between them since she had called him ‘Mr. Nutter’ in error, relentlessly, for a year. Mrs. Cranfell sighed a faux apology and begged forgiveness.
“I really am sorry, Mr. Nutter. I ought not forget it after all these years, but you can’t hold the wind,” she joked.
“True enough,” Orin chuckled, “Are you on your way to the village centre? I’d like to hear about how your manuscript is coming. I really liked that piece you wrote for Jameinton’s Journal about the season’s turn. I’m excited for more.”
Mrs. Cranfell closed her front garden gate and fell into step with Orin. He could tell that she was moving slowly just so he didn’t have to feel rushed, and it made him feel bad.
“I’ve been trying to work on a new poem. It is about, and forgive me for being so odd, this delightful bowl my Dewey brought home after work last year. He had seen it at Wattleford’s and thought of me. There’s just a lot of things to unpack around such a simple thing.” explained Mrs. Cranfell.
“Interesting. It sounds very domestic. The world needs feminine voices, Mrs. Cranfell.” replied Orin, feeling his hip muscle start to tighten and seize. He was happy to have his cane.
“I don’t think sentimentality is exclusively a feminine domain, Mr. N,” she remarked wryly, “let us not forget that one about your boots, what was the name? ‘They Carried Me Anon?’ That’s the one. Just because it is outdoors doesn’t make it more – uh – masculine.”
Orin grit his teeth from his pain, but continued walking, having heard roughly half of what Mrs. Cranfell said through the waves of discomfort.
“You have me there, Mrs. Cranfell. What would you call it, if not domestic?” asked Orin as he stopped walking. They had gotten as far as the bridge over the Tumbledown River, and he decided to use the railing and scenic view to hide some of his suffering.
Mrs. Cranfell leaned her hip against the rail. She was a decade younger than him, but there was power in her words as she explained.
“I call it Romantic Realism. It is seeing the meaning behind and beyond things, and sharing them in a context of their emotional value. Taking the everyday and finding the divine glory in it.”
The young Otterstein twins were out on their father’s boat, casting lines into the water and talking quietly with one another, occasionally breaking out in fits of laughter that were not at all conducive to catching fish. Meanwhile, in their little shack near the shore, Mrs. Beanerie was scrubbing a white sheet against her washing board as her eldest daughter Francie wrung out the water from a plain shift. Elerie, the youngest, romped about on the shore, tossing pebbles into the river while Suze was probably huddled inside with her school books.
“There is a lot of glory out there, Mrs. Cranfell, but it is all so very fleeting. I remember when I was about the age of the Otterstein boys. We lived upriver in Buckington in a cramped cottage. I spent all my time outdoors, just to get away from my sisters and brothers for a while. I’d sit by the river and read for hours or hike through Glover Woods with Bertie – he was my best friend growing up. Died in the war though,” Orin recounted.
“Bless his soul,” offered Mrs. Cranfell, along with her handkerchief.
Orin had hardly noticed his tears, and was uncertain if their provenance was his emotional or physical pain.
“I truly miss him, but he would scold me for waxing nostalgic. He said, ‘do not remember me when I die – simply forget because I would certainly not remember you in my grave,’ or something along those lines. It is one of his wishes I could never grant, you know.”
Mrs. Cranfell patted Orin on the shoulder, offering him some comfort.
“Something about the season makes me wistful and melancholic, Mrs. Cranfell. I’m sorry to burden you with an old rabbit’s woes.”
“We all have something we carry, Mr. Notere. We all can use someone to help shoulder that load. No sense in carrying it on your own when many hands make little work.”
Mrs. Cranfell’s smile and large, compassionate eyes eased Orin’s mood. He took a deep breath and sighed, “The unfortunate thing about help is that the more you take it, the more you need it. Leaning on others is addicting, and it can end poorly if you aren’t careful. I trust very slowly, Mrs. Cranfell, but you have earned that trust over the years. Your kindness and compassion are appreciated.”
“Oh Mr. N., it isn’t much more than my nature. Also, you are a fine neighbour,” said Mrs. Cranfell gently. “We should get moving though; I need to get to Wattleford’s before they’re out of rutabagas. My Dewey will be in a foul mood if he comes home to harvest stew without a rutabaga in it, and he’ll be even more incensed if I spend the dosh Cristoff’s asking at his stand these days.”
“Your Dewey is lucky; I make all my own stews and soups, and none are as fine as yours. How are things at the agency for him? Does he own the place yet? I know he was moving up like a crocus in spring,” asked Orin as he pushed his weight off the bridge’s railing, feeling the shooting pain in his hip rise anew.
“He is doing well enough, but not as well as he’d like. He had some great ideas for the Fulton Soap campaign, but the peon from Fulton Soap couldn’t understand the slogan ‘Get mean to dirt, get clean with Fulton.’ The company wanted to have a masculine ad campaign – something that made men feel like cleaning themselves was like a war on dirt. So that is what was pitched, and it fell flat. It was the fifth go that the agency had, and they put Dewey on it because he is just stellar, but the peon from Fulton said no and walked off to find another agency.”
“Sounds like a case of a head filled with cotton. Was there much fall out? Losing a client like Fulton Soap must be a blow to the agency,” inquired Orin, trying not to pry too much, but intrigued by the world of advertising executives. He didn’t know much of how businesses worked, having gone from being a soldier to working in Thatcher’s Mill.
“He took it hard and personally. He’s been prickly, though with Christmas around the corner, it’ll fade fast enough. Once he’s making dinner for the kids his pride will be restored.”
A bitterly cold wind blew down Cordie’s Way as all the naked branches above swayed, filling the air with a dry, rustling applause. Orin felt the wind pushing at the brim of his cap and slapped his hand atop his head to keep it from blowing away. Mrs. Cranfell tucked her nose into the high collar of her coat and the pair stood in place as the wind blew past aggressively.
“Egads,” observed Orin in the wake of the wind’s passing.
“Indeed, sir,” agreed Mrs. Cranfell, readjusting her kerchief. “Where were we?”
“You were talking about Christmas dinner. How are the wee ones? Dewey Junior must be at university by now.”
“Oh, Dewdrop is doing well. He’s second year at Brixton, studying Archeology. He’ll be going abroad next year. He’ll be coming down and staying through the week. Chester and Maisie are working at Wattleford’s so they can save up to attend the Shalvot School.”
“Artists and an archaeologist? Sounds like you raised a fine litter if I do say so myself. Maisie has had a few shows already, hasn’t she? Ceramics, right?”
Mrs. Cranfell beamed, “Yes, and Chester has been working on landscapes. I think he will find himself at the agency like his papa, but maybe in the art department. He is far too, how would you put it? Domestic? He likes ease and comfort too much to struggle, which is fine. I can see Maisie heading for the city and making a go of it. I hope she makes it.”
“I’m sure she’ll find some dashing fellow that will sweep her off her feet and care for her,” assured Orin, wincing as another cold breeze blew past. It was nearly as cold as the icy stare he was getting from Mrs. Cranfell.
“You are a very old fashioned rabbit, Mr. N, and that is one of the things I find so delightful about your company,” she said in a sarcastic sing-song.
“Well Mrs. Cranfell, it has worked for me so far. A salmon cannot be stopped from swimming upriver, no matter how shallow the waters get,” Orin replied obliviously.
Mrs. Cranfell rolled her eyes and gave out a sigh as her shoulders scrunched up towards her neck, fending off the cold.
“Speaking of wee ones, I haven’t seen your nephew about,” observed Mrs. Cranfell, changing the subject as tactfully as she could.
“His pa and I got into a bit of a row,” said Orin, watching the village come into view.
The heart of Gleefield was a huddled mass of cottages, winding roads, and stores that had grown organically over the past three centuries. While the newer homes were further afield – products of farms that had been inherited, subdivided, sold off, and developed – the homes in what the natives referred to as The Village were crammed one on top of another without much room for gardens or other luxuries.
“And at Christmas time,” said Mrs. Cranfell, her voice filled with concern.
“Yes,” grumbled Orin, glancing over at the barbershop to surmise how big of a crowd had already gathered for a cut by Junior.
“Do you mind my asking why?” Mrs. Cranfell pried.
“The same as it has always been between brothers, Mrs. Cranfell. I’m the eldest, he is somewhere in the middle, lost as to where he really stands. Jealousy from his first opened eye all the way through to the last breath he’ll draw, simple as that. My ma and pa never much liked the chippie he married, and liked less so that he adopted a child rather than having one the old fashioned way. He, of course, thinks I think the same way. While I’m a very traditional rabbit, Mrs. Cranfell, not all traditionalists are bigots,” explained Orin.
“That is quite true, Mr. N. Though it always bears remembering that one cannot see their nose clearly without looking in a mirror,” offered Mrs. Cranfell.
“This is the truth, Mrs. Cranfell. Perhaps I will stop in at Wattleford’s and buy a mirror for Ewin for Christmas so he may see what he has become,” replied Orin. “Well, Mrs. Cranfell, the walk has been a pleasure. I hope your expedition is fruitful, and best of luck on that new manuscript. I’m sorry that we never managed to discuss it much, and doubly so to have spent so much time dwelling on my own issues.”
“It is fine Mr. N. Would you like to come over for tea on Wednesday? Chester has the day off and has promised to do some baking. His jelly rolls are rather splendid nowadays.”
“I would adore it, Mrs. Cranfell. Perhaps I can inquire about the purchase of some of his work. Every young artist loves a purchase, do they not?” chuckled Orin.
“Even old artists enjoy the occasional payday,” laughed Mrs. Cranfell.
With that, and a few more goodbyes, wishings of a happy day, and other such pleasantries, Mrs. Cranfell was on her way, leaving Orin to his day. He always enjoyed spending time with Mrs. Cranfell. If he were pressed to admit it, she was probably his closest friend. Opening the door to the barber shop, he made a mental note that he should probably pick-up something small for her for Christmas. Nothing extravagant – perhaps a nice pen and a journal?
“Good morning Mr. Notere!” called Junior, a crow with shining black feathers that were a stark contrast to his crisp, white, high-collared shirt. He looked up from up from the head of Galveston Pepperidge, a beaver whose sparse scalp hardly required any form of scissors to prune and gave a kindly nod to Orin.
“Morning Junior, Galveston,” replied Orin, “How’s your Pa? I heard he took ill a few weeks back.”
“He’s fine Mr. Notere, but his hands ain’t what they used to be,” reflected Junior.
A scent of powder, disinfectant, leather, and wood filled Orin’s nose – the tell tale scents of a barbershop. He loved the scent, but more so the atmosphere. Ancient washing basins hung from the walls along with dozens of photographs of Gleefield and its residents, many of whom he remembered from childhood. Galveston Pepperidge’s voice, like a wind through the reeds, broke Orin’s reverie.
“Mornin’ Orin,” he said with all the gusto of a bedridden corpse. The beaver’s buck teeth were long and stained – too much coffee and too little fibre assessed Orin as he hung his hat on a rack and walked to the welcome comfort of a cushioned leather chair.
“I’m just wrapping up here, Mr. Notere. Mr. Flanders just stepped out to grab a coffee, and after that, I’ll take care of you. Sound good?” asked Junior, preening the few strands of wispy hair that clung to Galveston’s scalp with the patience and grace of a bonsai master..
“He’ll be fine with it if he knows what’s good for him,” remarked Herbert Flanders, a shrewd shrew that owned a small antique store that was more of a hybrid of a charity shop and landfill for every unwanted thing in Gleefield. For a small chap, he walked very heavily, and as he thudded along the bare wooden floor, he waved around a thermos of coffee and a half-eaten chocolate donut.
“How do you do, Herb?” asked Orin, picking up the paper and rustling it loudly. He could feel the tension in his hip release when he crossed his legs, but knew that it wouldn’t be long before some numbness began to grow in his foot.
“Fine, fine. Christmas is coming, and with Christmas comes shoppers. I had this sow from Chelmsfjord come up, and she bought up a dozen coins from Queen Augustina’s reign. She spent enough to pay my electric bill for six months, I tell ya,” answered Herb.
Orin was not particularly fond of Herbert Flanders, though he did his best not to show it. The shrew threw himself into a chair next to Orin. Smelling of dust and sandalwood, the shrew leaned in too close to Orin, his beady eyes intent upon the paper in his hands.
“Did they report the score from the Coleridge game? I need to know if my Bulls won or not. It went so late that I fell asleep listening to the radio. QRZ didn’t report the scores this morning, and I’m dying to know,” said Herb, practically pawing at the paper.
“I remember when I played on the Bulls. It was for a season. Fresh out of college, I was,” reminisced Galveston.
“You played for the Bulls Mr. Pepperidge?” asked Junior, his voice filled with awe.
“He was a waterboy for the Bulls, boy. Don’t think old Galveston was a real sportsman. Now me? Back in my day? I had a try out, and-” prattled on Herbert, waving around his donut and spraying a fine, chocolatey dust on Orin’s fur.
“Coach said that everyone’s job on the team was what sent them to the championships that year,” boasted Galveston.
“Trying out for a team doesn’t help a team win,” commented Orin, unable to contain himself.
“It was their loss,” said Herbert, harrumphing and shoving what remained of his donut into his mouth before slugging down some coffee with a series of gulps and glugs.
Junior dusted off Galveston and removed the smock that was covering him with a flourish.
“How do you like it, Mr. Pepperidge?” he asked.
“Fine job as always my boy,” said Galveston.
“You put your old man to shame, Junior,” offered Orin, “Even on his best of days, he could never get Galveston to look so good.”
“You flatter me with every word, Mr. Notere,” responded Junior, reaching for the broom to sweep up the fifteen or twenty hairs he managed to cut from atop Galveston’s head. “And it was one-nil, in favour of the Westfield Wombats, so you know Mr. Flanders. It was a rolicking game. It went until quarter past midnight – fifth overtime, Gordon Gobrowski with the ball, then that was all. Defence crumbled like one of Mrs. Marsh’s tea cakes.
“Here’s a fiver, lad,” said Galveston, holding out a wrinkled bill that might have been in Galveston’s pocket longer than Junior had been alive.
“Thanks sir, but you know I give the vets a discount,” protested Junior.
“That’s why Orin comes in,” jibed Herbert.
‘It’s Christmas laddie. May God bless you and your family,” said Galveston, pushing the aged bill into Junior’s hands.
“Well, thank you and God bless Mr. Pepperidge. A happy Christmas and a wonderful new year to you,” responded Junior helplessly.
A chorus of merry Christmases and happy new years rang out between them all as Galveston pulled his coat from the rack besides Orin..
“Hey, uh, Notere,” whispered Galveston, “did your pension check come in yet? Mine is overdue.”
Orin shook his head. There had been talks of government cutbacks, budget agreements, and shut downs, and with the coming holidays, it was unlikely that anything would get resolved. Orin was certain that the checks were on the way, so he just shrugged.
“Hope it comes soon. With the new year comes new bills and all that,” muttered Galveston as Herbert and Junior boisterously recounted the previous night’s game.
“Faith in Her Majesty, my friend. It is what got us through the war,” said Orin.
“It’s what got me signed up,” smiled Galveston.
Orin nodded in agreement.
“Happy Christmas everyone,” called Galveston, and once again the air filled with their voices crying, “Merry Christmas and a happy new year!”
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