Harrod's Bend - or - Otterly Narnia

[EveningStar]

- 1 -​

The Inventor

​

Milford Pond was sitting at the dinner table struggling with paperwork. The otter was grumbling under his breath. “Blasted form! Who designed this thing??”

“Dinner’s getting cold,” Daisy said gently. “Can’t you leave work at the office?”

“Sorry, dear. I have to finish this…thing…before the Crown Clerk comes by.”

Municipal audits were one of the pains of running a business in Cair Paravel. Another was being assigned a young auditor trying to make a name for himself. While Old Moe the badger would vet him for having an honest face (which he did), Arrow the Ferret would cite him for problems like writing a debit in black ink (which he also did). Those petty irritations were Arrow’s proof to his superiors that he paid attention and did not play favorites.

“Emoluments and Chattel??” Milford pounded his paw on the tabletop, “This is the stupidest form I’ve ever filled out! I’ve been in business all my life, and I’ve never heard of emoluments, and I’ve never even seen a chattel!”

“I’m sure Arrow will explain it when he gets here,” Daisy said gently.

“After he fines me for it!” Milford grabbed a roll and bit it aggressively. “Face it, love, my bookkeeper died at the worst possible time.”

“That wasn’t very nice of him,” Daisy agreed. “Why don’t you get Rip to help you?”

He looked up, annoyed. “I have enough problems without his help.”

“He’s your son who loves you, and he’s bright. You know he is—you’ve seen his work…”

“Oh he’s good with figures, but dear, but I have seen his work…”

Just then, Ripley Pond showed up, a barely veiled edge of panic in his voice. “Uh, father, I need a bucket of water.”

“You know where the well is. Why don’t you…” Mill Pond saw the look on his son’s face. “What do you need it for?”

“If I said I needed it to put out a fire, would you be very angry?”

“Well, I won’t be surprised. Go ahead. Take it.”

Rip rushed out to put out his fire, letting in Arrow who was intent on lighting a few of his own.

“Milford Pond, I presume?”

Rip hurried back to the workshop, an outbuilding that used to be the guest cottage. “Garn and garbage!” he cried, tossing water on the burning model airship and, quite by accident, his notes. Ink on the pages bled into unreadable blobs.

***​

Rip thought of himself as an employee of Pond Mercantile, but his efforts did the firm little good, Rip dreamed big but he had no head for practical matters.

Ripley Pond spent his days looking for answers to questions folk weren’t asking. He was a clever inventor, but his creations were utterly useless, making his father a bit of a laughingstock. Some folk started calling impractical ideas “rips,” and even the polite folk would drop by the mercantile asking if the lad’s perpetual motion machine had would put all the laborers out of a job yet.

“No,” Mill would tell them with a slightly cross tone. “He’s working on flight now. And I must admit I’ve seen his models and they show promise.”

“Flight indeed,” would come the usual reply. “If Aslan had meant otters to fly, he’d have given them wings.”

***​

Rip had always believed the stories he heard of the intrepid hare whose Altivator was said to sail over the Great River and visit the dome of heaven. But the stories became much more real to him when putting out one of his many fires. He saw the leaves of paper and ash floating upward from the flames.

He thought if he could catch enough of this “caloric gas” in a bag, he might be able to carry something…or more precisely SOMEONE…into the heavens. He would explore the freedom of the open sky.

In this quest, he built a small model, Altivator II, and one magic morning lit its supply of bitumen. The small gas bag filled, and the ship lifted off the ground. Never mind that it drifted into the drapes and caught them on fire. Great quests require great sacrifices, and a set of drapes, even expensive ones in brocade, is a relatively small one.

That moment was more than rediscovering the secret of lighter-than-air travel, it was the moment his father put an arm around his shoulder and told him how proud he was.

Rip said, “I’ll need a bigger one if I’m going to cross the Great River…”

“That will require a large investment,” Milford said.

“Or many small investments from folk who want to fly like the birds,” Rip said, “which is everyone I know.”

Milford was about to speak again when he saw the light of joy and wonder in his son’s eyes. Finally, he said, “I’ll buy the first share.”

 

[EveningStar]

- 2 -​

Flights of Fancy​

The first public flight of the model attracted a lot of attention. Even though it landed on a thatched roof and nearly caught a house on fire, investors came forth in droves, paying for what might be called shares but which were actually tickets for a once-in-a-lifetime journey.

A week after the demonstration turned “Altivator” into a household word, a wagonload of wood, cloth, varnish, and bitumen showed up at Pond’s Mercantile and disappeared into the back lot screened off by a tall fence.

The workmen admitted to the mysterious inner sanctum were sworn to secrecy and well paid to ensure their loyalty.

A few brave souls scaled the fence to sneak a peek over the top, and many more claimed the courage though they were only embellishing the rumors already going around.

“It’s as big as a house!”

“It has huge wings like an eagle!”

“The ropes are made of spun gold!”

“It’s armed with crossbows to rain down death on the Calormenes! Good enough for ‘em!”

There were even rumors that the King himself would show up for the inaugural flight and would possibly ride above his kingdom on the first go.

***​

When the big day came for the unveiling, the crowd was buzzing with excitement. True, the King had not shown up, but Narnia had many kings in its history. There was only one Altivator.

The rope holding the front of the fence up was slid out the eye bolts and the wooden curtain came crashing down.

After this theatrical unveiling, the folk looked with wonder on the enormous gas bag painted with sun, moon, and stars. It had no internal structure but held its shape by the hot air rising from the bitumen flame.

“It’s a fire breathing dragon!” shrieked one young squirrel.

“Nonsense, it’s just a machine!” her father said.

***​

Trembling with excitement, Rip climbed into the gondola, a rather luxurious affair built like a small ship in case the craft went down over the Great River. It had the necessities like fuel, a shovel, and a brazier to hold the bitumen, but it also a small table and chair with a hearty lunch provided. Who knew how long he might fly!

“Father, release the ropes!”

“Be careful, son.” Mill Pond went about the gondola with a mixture of pride and worry, slipping the belaying pins out of their sockets and letting the bonds drop away. “Bon voyage!”

Problem is, the balloon did not rise. It didn’t so much as scrape across the ground.

“Too much weight in the gondola, son. You should have stuck with the wicker basket.”

“Oh well,” Rip said, tossing out the lunch, the table, and even the comfortable chair. He would stand during his sail among the clouds.

Except the balloon still did not rise.

The gondola was a splendid affair, yet it was way too massive for the gas bag.

Rip was faced with an executive decision. He could tell everyone to go home and come back when he had the basket ready. He looked at all those faces and heard the first few snickers in what would surely become a great guffaw.

“I’ll stoke the fire,” Rip said, putting another couple of shovels full of flammable bitumen into the brazier. Then he added another for good measure.

The balloon did rise a little. The brazier flame rose a lot more.

After breaking the altitude record for crewed flight in Narnia, a whole twelve feet, the varnished cloth felt the ardor of the flame and returned its warmth. In less time it takes to describe it, the flames climbed the sides of the varnished gas bag and reached the top, a second sun in Cair Paravel. The angry sphere was soon consumed, leaving in its place a column of smoke that rose in a despondent mushroom of ashen flakes.

Even before the gray snowflakes began to fall, astonished—then angry—many of the townsfolk looked at their tickets and either threw them down in disgust or raced forward brandishing them like a weapon. Others went home having witnessed the Great Fire and lived to tell about it.

Rip, who suffered a loss of face but was otherwise intact, made a dash for the house with his father in close pursuit.

He closed and bolted the door then shuttered the first-floor windows. Outside an angry mob began to form. “We want our money back! Fake! Brass farthing!”

Rip looked out of the upstairs window. “It’s not a fake. I just need to change it around a bit and rebuild! You saw the model! Please! I’m not a failure! Really, I’m not!”

The crowd only chanted louder until Mill came into view and shouted, “I’ll make good on the loss!”

Just then the fire vigilance committee showed up with the bucket brigade and a few constables of the peace. These city officials were allowed in and spoke at length how lucky the Ponds were than no one was injured, and how important it was to keep it that way.

There would be fines…be sure of that…and there would no doubt be a new law or two to address this whole sorry incident.

Peace was restored…for the moment.

***​

It took most of Milford’s fortune to stave off a riot. He went through the list of investors written so optimistically a few weeks ago checking off the last names and sums.

Milford looked at the small number of coins left over. “That’s all we have to live on for the rest of the month, Daisy. I hope you like beans and flatbread.”

“Oh Mill!”

“And I’m going to have to talk with your son.”

Her eyes narrowed. “He was your son till the Altivator caught on fire.”

“Our son,” Milford said with a sigh. He put his head in his paws. “The folk will need some sort of assurance that things like this won’t happen again or I’ll lose all my customers. Maybe our home. I’m afraid that workshop is going back to a guest cottage. And Rip…”

“What about Rip?”

“He will have to face new realities. Or should I say the same old realities he skipped in favor of great dreams.” Mill pounded the table with his paw. “Thunderation, Daisy, there’s nothing wrong with dreams, but he can’t afford them anymore. Neither can we. Not dreams like his.”

“It will break his heart.”

“I know. It has already broken mine.”

To put this into perspective, Narnians loved their families as folk, yet most families also saw their younglings as an investment in the future. To the Ponds, Rip was more like a hobby, deeply cherished but quite impractical.

Mill Pond’s dream of retiring early and entrusting Pond Mercantile to Rip crumbled along with his emotional reserve, and he sniffed back tears. No doubt the new owners would want to change the name above the door.

 

[EveningStar]

- 3 -​

The Letter Edged in Black​

The tension at Pond Manor could be cut with a knife. Ripley was upstairs, having locked himself in his old nursery so he could sit among the trappings of happier times. Milford and Daisy were sitting glumly downstairs at the kitchen table.

“We must be careful how we phrase this,” Milford said. “You don’t kick a bloke when he’s down. He has a sensitive spirit and I don’t want to crush it.”

“Isn’t there another way?” Daisy asked, a hint of desperation in her voice. “Our little lad…”

“I’ve thought and I’ve thought. We’d need a blooming miracle to come knock at our door right about now.”

Oddly enough, there was a knock at the door…

Mill went to answer it. “Who’s there?”

“Letter for you,” came the cheerful reply. He recognized the familiar voice and unbolted the door.

A hare wearing the tabard of the Royal Mail stood holding a letter.

“Oh, it’s only you…”

“Should I have brought some friends?” The messenger handed over the letter. “I’ll need your X, sir.”

“I can write my name,” Mill said, ears back. “Garn, it’s edged in black! I wonder what’s in it?”

“How should I know. They don’t pay me to read them, just to deliver them.” At this, he held out a paw and cleared his throat.

“Oh yes,” Mill said, taking a single silver crescent from the small pile of coins and giving it to the hare.

“Well, ain’t I a blooming millionaire! This tip is life changing.”

“Do finish your rounds,” the otter said with a scowl, “before your life changes again.”

***​

Milford looked at the paper edged in black. “I hope it’s not a summons.” He unfolded it and began to read. His expression was hard to decipher.

“What’s it about, Dear?”

“It’s my sister Violet.”

“I hope she’s not coming for another ‘short’ visit. The last one was a month long and we don’t have the money now.”

“Don’t worry, Daisy. She’s in Aslan’s Country.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Daisy was flustered. “I liked her, really I did. Just not for months at a time.”

“Same here, dear heart. She would have made some lucky buck a good wife. I hate to think how lonely she was living all alone in daddy’s house.”

“Have arrangements been made? Is the house going to be sold?”

Mill looked up from the letter. “No, it’s passed on to her favorite nephew…Ripley.”

***​

Rip was indeed her favorite nephew. During her long visits, which covered much of Rip’s youth, she treated him as the son she never had, and she encouraged him to dream big, filling his head with stories of Narnia’s golden past. In return, he kept up hopes that one day the knight in shining armor she waited for would read her poetry under the apple tree and toast a bright future. Rip and Violet were more alike than they dared admit.

The one sad note in this otherwise cheerful tale was Violet’s slow realization that a fierce dragon must have devoured her knight or, more likely, he found another fair damsel first leaving her to wither in a garden of broken dreams. Alas, poor Violet! And it began to look like Rip would also be left among the ashes of his failed ambitions. Odd how their paths crossed at such a moment of dire necessity. How closing the door on her sad life may have opened a new one for Rip.

***​

After thinking a moment, Daisy said, “This might finance some of his inventions. And we might see our way to charging him rent.”

“Not a bit of it, love. It’s a house, dear. A HOME, if you take my meaning… Nothing sadder than an old empty house without the sounds of life inside…”

“Oh!” She found herself struggling to hide a relieved smile. She had rehearsed a thousand times what she would say to Rip when the time came, and now this changed everything. “I’m sure we shall miss him terribly.”

To be clear, they would miss him terribly when he left, but at that moment their tears were of relief and joy.

 

[EveningStar]

- 4 -​

The Estate​

Harrod’s Bend wasn’t in the middle of nowhere. That honor, locals say, went to a town five miles down the road. It wasn’t on any maps, and the last turn off the last good road did not have a sign, only the advice to turn left where the McGinty’s barn used to be.

Rip’s instincts as an inventor led him to keep a written record of every turn and distance so he might find his way back to Cair Paravel someday.

The otter hopped off the hay wain, thanked the driver, and started down the final stretch on foot. Used to city life, Rip had trouble adjusting to the miles and miles of miles, the seemingly endless stretches of cultivated fields, verdant copses, whispering hedgerows, and horizon to horizon sky.

Along the way, long dormant parts of his mind woke as if for the first time. The smell of dew, the rustling of leaves, the splash of untamed water dancing beneath an azure sky. His sense of time passing gradually slowed even as his perception of the countryside sped up to take in all the new sounds and feelings. To an otter used to the city’s frenetic pace, the gentle rhythms of sun, moon, and wind were a welcome to a home he had never seen.

Harrod’s Bend was so-called because it dwelt in the round cul-de-sac formed by a loop of the River Toney.

Rip paused by an elderly badger working on his fence. “Hi ho there, I’m looking for the Pond Place.”

“There’s a pond right near here,” the badger said, scratching behind his ear.

“Pond Place is a house in Harrod’s Bend. By any chance do you know where that is?”

“Sure do,” said the badger with a hint of a smile. “Can’t grow up in these parts without knowing that.”

“Good show,” Rip said indulgently. “And might you point it out to me?”

“Keep heading on this way. If you get your feet wet, you’ve passed it. River all around, you know.”

“Thanks much. My name is Ripley.”

“Ripley,” said the badger, turning his attention to the fence post. “Fine name for an otter.”

Rip opened his mouth to say something else, but thought better of it, waved, and walked on.

***​

Harrod’s Bend was like any number of tiny beastie hamlets scattered through the length and breadth of Narnia. The roads and buildings were comfortably cozy without being cramped. There were some wattle and daub buildings, but many of the homes—comfortable though they looked—were made of sawtimber and topped with shake shingle roofs.

He stopped a passing vixen. “Hi ho, madam, would you happen to know where Pond Place is?”

Her right ear twitched. “Can’t say it rings a bell.”

“Violet Pond?”

“No, I think not. But you may try Longshanks Dry Goods store. They make deliveries and know most everyone.”

Rip had no idea how important that advice would become in the near future.

***​

The otter saw a large building with a sign that read, “Longshanks Dry Goods: If We Don’t Have It You Don’t Need It.”

He stepped inside. Immediately the manager greeted him, an older hare.

“You’re new around here. Thistle Longshanks at your service. We have a sale on zucchini if you’re interested. Or perhaps you are looking for something else.”

“Violet Pond,” Rip said.

Thistle took off his cap. “Oh, you must be family.”

“She was my aunt.”

“Well, I’m sorry as I can be, laddiebuck. She passed days ago. I’m afraid you missed the funeral.”

“Actually I inherited her house. I was hoping you could tell me how to get there.”

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll take you there myself Riptide.”

“Ripley…but you may call me Rip.”

“Now that’s what I like. All gussied up like a Paraveller, but not proud and stuck-up. That goes a long way here to making life worthwhile.”

***​

Thistle led Rip past a number of small cottages and a number of impressive ones. There was one imposing wattle and daub house with a genuine slate roof and the hare seemed to linger there a moment. Just as Rip’s hopes were lifting, Thistle led on.

A bit further down the road, Thistle stopped, straddling and expanding. “Welcome to Harrod’s Bend, Riptide! Your new home!”

“It’s Ripley. And I don’t see it.”

“It’s due to the wisteria and ivy, no doubt. Use your imagination.”

Rip stared at the mass somewhat further from the road than the other houses. It was roughly rectangular, covered in wisteria flowers at one end and ivy on the other. Between these two opposing armies was a bit of no-mans-land where the sawbuck siding, once painted sky blue, showed through. The otter felt he had interrupted a slow-motion war between two fierce armies of plants.

His heart sank as he drew closer. There was indeed a sign by the front door. “Pond Place, No Solicitors.”

With fear and trepidation, Rip went onto the porch.

“Watch that loose board, laddiebuck!”

“What loose board? Ow!”

“That loose board.”

The otter rubbed his sore nose, then his paw reached for the doorknob and turned it. The door swung open with a loud squeak.

“The house has good bones,” Thistle said. “It’s a fixer-upper but well worth it.”

 

[EveningStar]

- 5 -​

The Fixer Upper

​

Thistle had kindly agreed to help clean out the house in exchange for a few items he could resell. The wardrobe was still packed with Violet’s old belongings which went either to a panier for the poor or the skip.

The bedroom furnishings were another matter. Violet did not like to throw things away, so she had numerous fine blankets and sheets, far more than Rip needed. There were also pendants, bracelets, jeweled hatpins, and furnishings too feminine for Rip’s taste.

***​

The kitchen looked like a war zone, complete with blood—fish blood in the sink where her last trout gave its life shortly before Violet collapsed into her favorite overstuffed chair and expired.

And of course, Rip wasn’t going to sit in that chair. Ever. Nor were any of his friends. Ever.

“Do you want it, Thistle?”

“Oh yes, fine workmanship. It will fetch me a few handy crescents.”

The hare glanced up at the back wall. “Now there’s a poser, mate. Something doesn’t line up here.”

“Doesn’t line up?”

“Oy, that wall!” He punched the wall and his paw sank into the plaster. “That ain't a wall, it's termites holding paws! And look how it leans!”

“Leans? Are you sure?”

Thistle had a nail in his vest. He tied it to a length of string and hung it next to the wall. “Gravity never lies. See how off kilter that wall is? That’s a load bearing wall, and at best you are one good windstorm away from having an excellent view of the back yard. Listen how it sounds when I press it…”

Thistle leaned against the plaster and it made a deep groan from rotting wall studs.

“One good windstorm,” Thistle said, shaking his head.

It seemed Violet had not spent any of her money on upkeep, but left it all to her brother Ted.

***​

Thistle stepped lightly on the floor, listening to the alarming noises his footfalls made, and he avoided sitting on any of the chairs or leaning against the walls.

“You’ve been generous with the salvage rights, so I can sell you the goods you need at wholesale, though my nephew Hopscotch deserves a fair wage for handy work, ay wot? Not sure what should go first, the floor or the wall?”

“I’m not sure I can afford to.”

“You can’t afford NOT to! Get up one night and trapse across this floor and all of a sudden find yourself a couple of feet shorter…in more ways than one. And that back wall…garn!”

Rip sighed. “I’ll sleep on it.”

“No argument from me. I’ll let the house do the arguing for me. Just you wait and see. Only don’t wait too long. I’ll level with you governor, you’re young and I’d like a customer for life. Then there’s the wife and younglings—you’re not exactly mud in the eye to look at… You need a roof and four walls, and I aim to see you get them. It’s an investment in the future.”

The hare may have been known as “Hard Sell Thistle” among the locals, but his words rung true and Rip could remember some of his own father’s strong sales pitches. There was nothing wrong with being a good seller as long as certain lines were not crossed.

“I’ll level with you,” Rip said quietly, “Violet left her money to Uncle Ted. I’m here because my personal fortune was lost in a fire. It almost bankrupted my folks, and I can’t go home a failure. When my purse gives out, I may have to sell this place just to buy food. I’m educated and work hard. If Aslan wills, I’ll hire you on as I can to fix her up. Till then, I’ll have to pray away that windstorm.”

The Altivator had nearly cost his family one home. Now he stood in peril of losing a second one.

Thistle took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Laddiebuck, I’m a good judge of folks. I want you for a neighbor and a customer. I’ll fix up the place, and if worse comes to worst and you can’t make a go of it, I’ll sell it and split the proceeds with you. That’s something you can sleep on, alrighty?” The hare held out a paw.

Rather than taking it, Rip put his arms around Thistle in a crushing hug and heaved soft otter sobs.

***​

Rip was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He hopped into Violet’s bed which was still comfortable though it squeaked loudly. It had something in its favor—Violet did not die in it, and Rip was careful not to ask if Seth died there.

At least he’d have a place to rest his weary head. He lit a lantern and took up his well-worn copy of Swept Away. He was taking refuge from one great adventure in reading about another.

It was Rip’s first night in the countryside, a time when the world is quiet with all the wrong silences and noisy with all the wrong sounds. While everyone else lay snug in their beds as a lazy moon sailed through the sky, the otter tried to make sense of the things that went bump in the night.

Suddenly outside his window great gray paws of cloud snatched the moon’s brightness away and the hush became a shush. With alarming speed, wind began to pick up, banging branches on the roof, the trunk of the ancient tree creaking in the wind.

The wind sped up. The shutters banged against the wall alarmingly. Rain fell like the tattoo of tin drums, and the bed Rip had pushed back against the wall had to come back to the center of the room away from the awful drip.

Ripley put a pail under the leak, wondering how long it would take to fill and require him to empty it.

Back in bed, he set the book aside and blew out the lantern. There was no sense trying to concentrate.

Just then, lightning flashed outside. The burst of light cast huge menacing shadows of clawed branches searching for a victim.

He put the pillow over his head to drown out the horror show. Unfortunately, there was a loud boom, crackle and crash.

He threw aside the pillow and jumped out of bed. The back wall was still there, but he kicked over the pail. Startled, he bolted across the room in the dark. Looking out the window he saw an unfortunate old elm tree that had crashed across his backyard. There would be no more shadow claws coming for him. He felt sorry for the tree but was grateful for the house.

On his way back to bed he discovered why that squeak in the floor was so loud. The weak spot in the floor gave way and left him two feet shorter in both senses of the term, standing in mud.

“Garn and garbage!!”

He climbed out, stumbled over to the bed and got in, pulling up the covers timidly. Only his face was exposed, which is why whatever fell off the ceiling and crawled across his face had nowhere else to land.

“Aaaaugghh!” He batted at whatever it was, then by touch his trembling paws relit the lantern. In the bright light, he saw a rather sizable spider scuttling away.

***​

The next morning Rip showed up at the dry goods store red eyed and yawning. “Thistle, you were right. Let’s do this thing.”

“Bad night, eh?”

“The worst. I don’t know if I could take another night like that.”

“Till we get a tarp on that roof I could put you up in Dodger’s old room.”

“Your son?”

Thistle sighed. “He was.”

 

[EveningStar]

- 6 -​

A Little Help​

To say Pond Place needed a little help was putting it mildly. The first couple of steps were not as obvious. Even before the roof and floor, the wisteria and ivy had to come off. That wasn’t a house with plants, it was plants with a stand.

Despite his initial misgivings, Rip felt relief at seeing the huge swaths of vegetation coming off. The organic mound he saw on the first day took on straight lines and flat surfaces and began to look like a house.

The overburden was piled into a huge mound in the backyard and the plume of smoke that rose from the bonfire of the vines reminded him of the Altivator fire that had started all this.

The freshly revealed surface had to be scraped and sanded, washed down with a concoction Hopscotch mixed that was a closely guarded secret. And this pulling back of the curtain revealed remarkably less damage on the front and side walls than expected. That was the good news. The back was a different story.

***​

The job was too much for one overworked hare and a couple of foxes. Old badger Snuffle was brought in with a work crew. He brought planks, and before long the back wall was shored up with new piers and top plates. The sag in the back roof went away and the windows were freshly reframed.

The lads were quick at their job, wasting little time and taking short lunch breaks. The way they worked together was like a wonderful dance. And before long there was a back wall worthy of the name.

Rip, who was very considerate, saw how hard the lads were working and offered them a spot of lunch. He was not the sort of folk that calculate good deeds as investments, but his friendly smile and generosity did make the work much easier and was greatly appreciated.

It made him both happy and sad. It was great to see the old house coming to life, but how was he going to pay for it all? Maybe he could sell the house to make back the cost of repair, but even that might not cover it.

He went to a corner and bowed his head, paws clasped. “I never succeed at anything. Please, please let me make a go of this.”

That’s when he remembered the small lock box that was pulled out of a wall cavity and tossed aside as junk. He picked up the box, and it weighed a lot more than he would expect.

He noticed it was closed with a nice lock. But no key could be found. Lucky for Rip, he found a wrecking bar sitting around. He used it on the box and easily broke the hasp. The lid swung open.

“Oh wow!” It was full of coins; gold lions and silver crescents. It was a small fortune. It seems after all that all of Violet’s money did not go to others. And there was a note:

“Rip, I didn’t want you to spend it all at once, so I hid it where you would find it at a moment of greatest need. Think of this as my last hug and kiss, dear heart. Your Violet.”

Eyes brimming with tears of relief, he kissed the note and held it to his heart. “I love you too, Vi.” And he did.

***​

The next morning the lads showed up bright and early. They painted the walls a clean white.

Not fond of the smell of whitewash, and anxious to see the town, Ripley Pond went out to take in the sights…all three of them. Actually, it wasn’t that bad. He had already visited the dry goods store, and he took in the greengrocer, smithy, sawmill, and the one room schoolhouse.

There was one other stop he had to make. With no one looking, he took a few jonquils from a riotous golden display in front of one house. Jonquils were Violet’s favorite flower.

The spot where she lay was serene and lovely, looking over the river that circled the town. He sat the flowers on the still-wounded earth and listened to an old but treasured memory.

“The world is full of naysayers. They will tell you what’s wrong with your plan until the moment you succeed. And succeed you shall, for you have the makings of greatness. I may not be here to see it, but somehow I’ll know.”

Rip rested a trembling paw on the flowers and murmured, “So help me, Vi, if it takes every last crescent, every last breath, every last bit of my strength and cleverness, I’ll make a go of this. I’ll not listen to the naysayers. I will succeed.”

He rose from the grave, took in a deep breath of the fresh air, and let it out. “Well, let’s do this thing!”

***​

The house, though still topped with a sad and sagging roof, looked much improved. Rip headed down the path that passed for a front walk—he must attend to that presently—and passed through the front door.

He was met by Hopscotch, Thistle’s nephew. “Now that you have something to sit it on, you’ll need a new roof.”

“Well then, let’s get cracking! And in case you’re wondering, I will give everyone an advance on their fee to help morale.”

“Yes sir, sir!”

Rip would have what he needed most, the outer shell of the house to stand firm against the elements, a roof that did not leak, and a floor that did not fall through. The rest of the remodeling would come later.

***​

Rip himself scrubbed out the bloody sink and threw the fly bait into a sealed can. The oppressive window curtains were pulled down unceremoniously and the panes were wiped down. This stirred up even more dust, so the floor was swept, the furnishings dusted, and the spiders that dwelt in corners were evicted without a by-your-leave.

Finally he rearranged the furniture to suit his tastes. That included the bed which, by now, could live by the wall without benefit of rainwater.

He sat down and sighed with relief. Progress was being made and the house was starting to feel like a home. He’d do it himself! After all, how hard could it be?

As if to answer his question, a leg broke on the chair, sending him tumbling.

 

[EveningStar]

- 7 -

The Open House

​

Rip was grateful to Thistle for his hospitality, but he was even more grateful to move back into his own home, a place that was not haunted by the undisturbed belongings of Dodger and which now with its freshly painted rooms and potted plants was no longer haunted by Violet.

The remodeling of the old eyesore attracted a lot of attention. Just as Rip determined to make the rounds and know his neighbors, they came to know him. He finally held what the locals call “open house,” and wondered what he should prepare for them.

Thistle would have been glad to supply the “larder,” for a reasonable price, but said, “They will bring things. It’s another local custom we call ‘potluck’.”

A large table set up in the front yard could barely contain the food that was brought, just as the house could barely contain the curious visitors anxious to see where the “maiden lady” spent her last years. Apparently, there were interesting rumors.

The hedgehog twins Teeter and Totter summed up the general consensus. “I always wondered what the house looked like,” Teeter opined. “I wondered what color it was painted,” Totter added.

***​

The Bounders, a rabbit family with their eight younglings, gave the place a festive atmosphere as the sons climbed trees and the daughters played a game of hide and go seek punctuated by merry giggles and cries of, “Gotcha!” Rip, who spent his entire life with a childlike sense of wonder, enjoyed their company.

Pappy Bounder looked at the hedgerow. “This place needs a good pruning and trimming,” he said matter of fact but friendly. “If you live here alone, you’ll need help you can trust. I’d be honored if you’d let me earn that trust.”

Rip was taken aback. Such offers and their details involved stacks of paperwork back in Cair Paravel. Yet when Pappy offered a paw, Rip took it and felt in the firm grasp that somehow this was all on the level.

“My wife Glory, our sons Daniel, Cleo, Flash, and Stretch.” The buck looked up at a nearby tree. “That old widow maker is about to break off! Flash! Down! Now!” He returned his attention to Rip. “And if the Missus will do the honors…”

It was, as Rip would learn later, a rural rabbit custom for the father to introduce the sons and the mother to show off her daughters. He had a lot to take in of the local customs.

Glory curtsied sweetly with her ears laid back. “They are cleverly hidden but within hearing range…THEY’D BETTER BE!!...are Daphne, Zephyr, Lucy and Clover.”

Rip counted on his paws. “I hope there’s not an exam. I’m poor with names, so I expect you to come by often with your dear family and help me learn you right and proper.”

It was a charming reply, and Glory’s nose twitched as a smile of approval spread across her face. “Why aren’t you the gentlebuck!”

***​

Storm and Misty Barkley showed up next, an elderly fox couple. “Poor dear Vi,” Misty said, wiping her eyes with a paw. “She didn’t have many friends, but I loved her, and I remember this house back when Seth Pond was alive. It was such a happy place then…” The vixen’s voice trailed off. “I don’t think she was very happy at the end, the poor dear.”

“Do you remember what was planted here?” Rip asked.

“Oh yes. I used to play here when I was a kit. I remember the front walk and the window boxes, and the tall elm that used to stand in the front yard. Right where that huge stump is.”

“Would you be so kind as to describe it to me? I’ll write it down, and as I can I’ll try to restore things to their former glory.”

“Violet loved you,” Misty said, giving Rip an unexpected but pleasant hug. “I can see why.”

Ripley smiled. He had never been hugged by a strange Paraveller before. Harrod’s Bend was a welcome change from big city life.

***​

The "Widow Fisher" shows up bringing a “hospitality” (hot meal) with her two "eminently" marriageable daughters Misty and Valerie in tow.

“The old Pond Place is looking much better. I’m sure it’s in good paws.” She turned to Rip. "You're cute. Oy, if I were a bit younger, I might give them daughters of mine some competition...."

Not to mention that Mrs. Fisher was a fire breathing dragon of a doe who told heroic and patently false stories about how her husband died and never got the facts straight. Did he die when his warship sunk? Did he die in battle surrounded by a dozen Calormene markaans? Finds out later that he fled to parts unknown.

The mother was anxious for her daughters to show off their taste and refinement. Misty stood dramatically recited a poem with all the usual gestures, attracting a small crowd:

Mid battle’s swash, the lonely hare
Surrounded by a haughty hoard
Did draw his blade to sell his life
And none too cheaply ere his sword
A swath did cut for glory’s flame
And writ in blood his honored name….

"Wow. Just wow." Rip politely clapped.

"There are three more stanzas…." Misty said.

"Not before refreshments, I daresay. Can’t have raspberry tarts looking too bloody…"

Mrs. Fisher added, "Oh, but of course! Silly me! Well, my other daughter Valerie can play something suitable for us on her harp."

"I don’t have one."

"That’s alright. I’m sure Val wouldn’t mind running home spit spot to fetch it up."

“A harp?”

“Oh not a floor harp, you silly boy! A small chanter’s harp. Shan’t be a moment.”

 

[EveningStar]

- 8 -​

Oh, For the Love of Fish!​

After his open house, Ripley Pond found himself in love with the whole idea of small-town life. In Cair Paravel he only stood out because of his outlandish claims and spectacular failures. Now he stood out because of his warmth and humility, and the hope that the old Pond Place would be restored to its former glory and level of hospitality.

Seth was remembered fondly by the villagers because of his extravagant lifestyle, giving away kindness and gentle encouragement, hoarding relationships and exercising the power of kindness.

Folk had hoped Milford would follow in his father’s footsteps, but the lad went to the big city of Cair Paravel to pursue his dreams. Ironically the very father who upbraided Ripley on his grand schemes and grandiose ideas was himself a visionary. Only Milford’s visions did not play out in a small town.

Rip wondered if his father ever missed the old homeplace.

Now Seth’s grandson had returned, and the silent, solitary days of Shrinking Violet, as she was sometimes called, would give way to a renewed hope of picnics on the front lawn and the laughter of younglings.

Thistle smiled with genuine glee when Rip walked into his dry goods store. True, Thistle was always looking to make a sale and had been known to “exaggerate” the fine quality of his merchandise, but he was drawn to this callow, friendly youth. His nephew had nothing but good to say about Ripley Pond who treated him and his workers as invited guests rather than laborers and even provided them lunch when the wagon came late. Thistle smiled at most folk with coins to spend, but his true respect had to be earned, and Rip had earned it.

“I do extend credit to my preferred customers,” Thistle said. “May I set you up a tab?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Rip said with a smile, putting a bunch of sugar cracklers on the counter. “Sweets to sweeten the disposition.”

“As if you needed them,” Thistle said with a smile. “That will be two crescents.”

***​

When he left the dry goods store, he saw the Kelsey Brothers who had shown up at the open house.

“Hi ho, Rip!” Ed called. “We’re going fishing. Want to join us?”

“Sure! I have no fishing tackle, but if you have an extra set in the boat...”

"Tackle?" said Ed...

"Boat?" said Fred...

They began to laugh. Rip was used to people laughing at his ideas, and he understood why even when he didn’t agree with them. But he didn’t say something funny.

“What’s the jape, you blokes?”

“What self-respecting otter takes a boat out like a rabbit?? Sittin’ there with a pole hoping some stupid fish will find the bait. I catch the smart ones, the ones that skipped the hook and growed up bit, and I'll show you how. We'll make a country buck out of you yet.”

***​

Ed and Fred ran to the riverbank and jumped in with a huge splash. "Come on in, the water's fine!"

Ripley was elated. He dashed forward, jumped high, and plunged in.

"WHOOOOAAAH, cold, cold!!"

"Gets the old blood pumping, don't it mate?"

Rip struggled to keep his head above water. Gasping and spitting. “I never thought…”

The Kelseys may have had rough manners, but their swimming was refined grace. Rip tried to emulate them, but his efforts only invited more laughter.

“That’s not swimming, it’s hardly moving from place to place.”

Otters are not born knowing how to swim. Never had that point been made more clearly.

Rip stuck it out while the Kelsey brothers made a good catch. There was nothing in the shallows where he could stand up to breathe except a crayfish that fastened a painful claw to the end of his sensitive nose.

When Rip’s head broke the surface and he let out a whoop of pain, Ed and Fred fell back in the water laughing. “Well ain’t that a jolly lark!”

***​

After Rip’s painful, chilly comedy of errors, they said their goodbyes at the riverbank. After the Kelseys left, Ripley stood there rubbing his sore nose, looking out at the water longingly, but filled with shame that otters can’t fly, but neither can he swim.

Just then he was startled out of his sad reverie by an old beaver. “Ho there, young buck!”

Rip looked around, startled. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t see you standing there. What…did you see?”

“Enough,” the beaver said. “I came here happy for my morning swim. Now I’m all sad.”

“I’m sorry,” the otter replied, looking down. “I have that effect on folks.”

“Don’t be sorry,” the beaver said. “Take sad and turn it upside down. Make it glad. That’s what I always say.”

“I’m Ripley.”

“Sam Barkby,” said the beaver, holding out his paw.

Rip took that paw to shake it, but the beaver latched on to him and led—or pulled—him into the water until it went halfway up on them.

“Now sit on the bottom,” Sam said, going down first. All that stuck out of the water was his face. “Come on, you can do it.”

Rip sat as well. He remained like that for a few moments, enjoying the flow of the river around his body and watching the occasional leaf go by or water skimmer darting between them.

“Here’s where you must have faith, lad. Lay back and put your feet up. I want you straight and narrow.”

Rip was nervous, but he did so. And he discovered to his great joy that he could lay like that and breathe the good air in and out unfettered by splashing and gasping.

Sam floated next to him. The two of them began to slowly move downstream.

“Otters got two mothers,” the beaver said. “One bred and raised you. The other is the river that feeds your body and soul. Right now, she’s rocking her child in her arms.”

Rip smiled at the wonderful mental image, looking up at the clouds floating lazily in the sky the way he floated in the river. “That’s beautiful, Sam. But I can’t catch fish on my back.”

“The rest comes later. Is your sad now glad?”

“Yes indeed.”

“Good. Love your momma and she’ll love you right back. That’s true about most things in life.”

 

[EveningStar]

- 9 -​

Handy and Hardy​

Since subsistence fishing wasn't really his thing, and he liked a varied diet, Rip tried his paws at construction. He had watched the workers performing repairs. With his fabricating skills, he understood what they did and why. He was hampered by his lack of technical knowhow and was flustered when he was asked to fetch up a framing hammer and instead brought a cross peen hammer. He had the same trouble with ripsaws and crosscut saws.

The frustrations of having no practical training surged again, and for a while—only a moment, though it seemed longer—he felt the way he did when dad tried to teach him the mercantile business. His whole life had pushed him ever closer to the cliff edge of despair. He had two choices…fall into the abyss or do whatever it took to push back.

Rip composed himself and focused. He saw the challenge before him from another angle and determined to turn it into an opportunity. He eased into carpentry the way he eased into swimming, starting with small steps and working up. To begin with, he identified scraps of wood that would only be burned and cached them away. As he could, he borrowed tools and tried his paws at mallet and chisel, crosscut sawing, rip sawing, and brace boring. Then out of kindness, but also to better himself, he offered assistance to the workers. When asked to hand up the speed square, he got it on the first try without asking for a description or a pointing out. Snuffle began to notice the young otter and appreciate his enthusiasm. The badger lent him books and even gave him a couple of extra tools—an extended loan, but still his first ever—and did not treat him like a pest.

In time Rip could perform certain tasks by himself.

Evenings he forewent the adventures of Swept Away and threw himself fully into mastering the names and uses of different tools in Hedgeley’s Helpful Handbook. And since tools were left on the premises overnight, he would stay up till midnight by lantern light forming mortice and tenon joints, calculating rafter angles, and making holes without split-out.

While he had always been curious about Natural Philosophy and even built a static generator that could give his paw a substantial jolt, the combination of math and practice in making a perfect dowel joint nearly intoxicated him with joy. “I thought it was just manual labor,” he muttered to himself. “It is performance art! It is drama written in wood!”

He stood at the crossroads between his old habit of answering new questions no one was asking and answering old ones people needed to know. And having decided that craftsfolk ate better than philosophers, he chose to work for a living. He took the plunge and joined the construction crew at student’s wage in order to get experience.. His advance study went a long way to help him, but his work ethic and ability to take constructive criticism went even further.

For a change he wasn’t leaking money, he was earning it.

His skills with tools finally come to rescue him as he became a handyman. With his woodworking skills, knowledge of gear and pinion principles, and ironmongery, he was actually quite good.

Folk hired him to do odd jobs because they were curious about Violet’s nephew, the big city otter. They asked him back because he did good work and radiated sincerity when he shook paws on a deal. He only realized how far that went when he did a repair of Pappy Bounder’s porch swing, reinforcing it to stand the rough play of his crowd of younglings. “It’s not just like new, it’s better than new!” Pappy smiled. "I think you've found your calling."

Another buck might have felt he was scaling back his expectations. Rip felt a surge of pride. He had an accomplishment. He was good at something. He could look his parents in the eye and say he no longer needed an allowance, but if there was any favor he could do, they had but to ask. And though he did not rank himself alongside his distinguished father, he appreciated how much training it took to make goods, and how little it took to sell them.

A warm feeling filled his heart, and life felt exactly like what it was—a miracle.

***​

It wasn’t just his way with tools that was improving. He also improved the tool that was his own body. His daily trips to the river with Sam Barkby shaped him and built him firm and majestic. He found with a casual flip of his arms and powerful legs he could soar like a bird through a sky of crystal water, turning gracefully with the help of his long rudder-like tail. He no longer needed the Altivator to glide unfettered through open space.

One day he looked out of the water, shaking the drops from his head and laughing with the joy of living, loud and clear. Nearby a rabbit sat in a rowboat trying to fish.

“What’s so funny?”

“Folk are! They said if Aslan meant otters to fly, he’d have given them wings!” He waved his strong arms. “Behold!”

“Well ain’t that a rum tugger! But don’t scare off the fish, aye mate?”

He laughed again, took in a breath and dove back into the free current. He had achieved his dream of free flight. The inventor had reinvented himself.

That very evening he went outside where Violet’s sign still hung by the door. “Pond Place: No Soliciting.” He repainted it. “Pond Place. Welcome, Friends.”

 

[EveningStar]

- 10 -​

The Manor​

The royal mail came to Pond Place. Rip was delighted to see Pappy Bounder bringing him the letter. “How’s Glory and all the little Bounders?”

“Right as rain, Mr. Pond. I’ll tell ‘em you asked.”

“Please call me Rip.”

Ripley got a crescent to tip Pappy, but the rabbit shook his head. “I’m paid well.”

“At least have some cool water.”

“Don’t mind if I do, Rip.”

While the rabbit had his refreshment, the otter opened the note.

“It’s from Bobber Angle. He has creaking floorboards in the guest house. Do you know him?”

“Garn!” said Pappy. “You’re coming up in the world, son! You know the big house you passed on your way into town? The one with all the gardens and the picket fence?”

“You mean the one that looked like it ran away from town and got lost here?”

“That’s the one. Ol’ Bob usually has his own lads do the work, or gets his workers from Grimby, sometimes from Cair Paravel. The only time us locals get a call is to paint the fence or build a flowerbox.”

“I wonder why he chose me?”

Pappy smiled. “I’d choose you.”

***​

Rip stood before the imposing wattle and daub house, cap in one paw and toolbox in the other. Strangely, he felt more nervous at that moment than he did when he climbed into the Altivator and asked dad to pull the ropes.

Indeed, there was a sign by the door, “Angle’s Drift”. Clever name, that.

He knocked on the door. A young doe otter came to the door, smiling sweetly. “Are you the handy help? I’ll tell papa.”

Papa was the prestigious Bobber Angle. He came to meet Rip and gave him a very strong paw shake. “Call me Bob, laddie.”

“Yes sir, Bob.”

“Just Bob. Not Sir Bob. Haven’t won my spurs.” He laughed heartily.

Something seemed odd. For such a fine manor house, one would expect only the best craftsfolk and only with great recommendations. Rip was intimidated, afraid of messing up for such a wealthy client.

***​

The guest house was only a little less opulent than the manor house. The polished oak floor, obviously expensive and well made, did squeak a bit.

“Sir…Bob…do you have any burlap bags?”

“Well, I’m sure I do. What do you need them for?”

“I’ve been around Cair Paravel, and this is as fine a floor as I’ve seen outside of the castle. It probably needs a few cushion strips. I’ll cut them from the bags and pad the floor joists. Shouldn’t take too long or cost too much. No reason to lose this fine oak floor.”

As he was working on the floor, he accidentally struck his paw with a mallet. Shaking it and closing his eyes tightly. “Saints be!!”

Daughter Rose was watching and she laughed.

Yes, that was stupid of me.

“That wasn’t stupid. You just looked so cute, holding your paw and yipping like a little youngling. It made me feel motherly.”

He smiled shyly. “Thanks, Mom.”

She smiled back. “Are you alright?”

“I am now.”

***​

Bob came in to check on the work. The boards were silent as a stone as he tread across the floor. There was Rip filling a knothole in the floor with a carved plug and some glue.

“Now that’s a good lad. Can’t stand to leave the hole, eh?”

Rip looked up. “My father wouldn’t like it. Neither do I.”

“Hmm, and what is that concoction you’re pasting it with?”

“It’s a special glue. I use sawdust from the wood mixed with the glue so the color is an exact match. Then I’ll plane it and sand it to a nice finish. The hole will disappear.”

Bobber nodded. “You’re a real catch for the community. The Longshanks are good at framing and lathing, and not half bad at plastering. But you are a craftsman, an artist. I think you have the makings of greatness.”

Caught off guard, tears welled up in Rip’s eyes.

Bob was taken aback. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No sir, not a bit of it!” Face in his paws, he said, “That’s what my Aunt Violet used to say, but I couldn’t do anything right! I ruined the family business!”

Bob bent down and looked Rip in the eyes. “Son, I could have hired the Longshanks and they would have done a reasonably good job for a reasonable fee. And they would have replaced every last floorboard. You saw my wealth, you knew what I could afford to pay, yet tried to save me money. The only reason I hired you to see what kind of work you did. Yet you treated me with respect, and you earned my respect back. Son, when skill is built on a foundation of respect, it stands like a mighty castle. Let’s take a break and talk about your future with my firm.”

***​

Rip waited nervously in the rose garden, seated at an expensive cast iron table. “My future with his firm,” he muttered to himself. “I wonder what he had in mind.”

Rose came out and brought him the meal.

“Well, they saved the nicest rose for last,” Rip said with a smile.

“Your best big city manners on display. I bet you have a great quote for every occasion.”

At this, Rip became all flustered. “No, actually. Please don’t think that! You mustn’t, really! I hate it when folk don’t say what they mean.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she said soothingly. She sat across from him. “You have kind eyes, the eyes of a dreamer that sees not what is but what could be…and should be.”

“My dreams are what got me in trouble in the first place.”

“Oh Ripley, never EVER give up on your dreams! There was a cherry tree in the back yard. Every spring it would flower in lovely pinkish white blossoms. I would pretend it was a dryad and tell it things…things I’ve never told another living soul.”

“Even your folks?”

“Especially my folks. Oh, I love them, but it’s not the same.”

“How about me? Could you tell a fellow dreamer?”

She looked at him and smiled. “I bet you ask all the girls.”

“You mean the Fishers?”

She laughed prettily. “They are about as subtle as tossing a rock through a pottery shop.”

“That they are.” He looked serious. “I met them at the open house. I learned all the many ways all their father died. Too bad you weren’t there…it would have been perfect.” He looked down at his feet and shuffled uncomfortably. “And in case you were wondering, I haven’t asked anyone.”

“Asked anyone what?”

“About their dreams. But I’d love to hear about yours.” He smiled warmly. “My mistake was dreaming about clever things when I should be dreaming about beautiful things.”

She took a sip of her tea. “The best part of dreaming about beautiful things is they might dream about you.”

Rip took a big hot gulp to finish his tea and set the cup down with a click. “You are as wise as you are beautiful. There, I said it. Now laugh at me…everyone does. Rip the kooky inventor. Burned any good books lately, Rip? How’s the view from on high, professor?”

“I’m not laughing,” Rose said, in almost a scold. “No matter what happened back in Cair Paravel, you have new friends here, and new chances.”

He saw the slight smile on her lovely face. “I’m going to take the chance that you’ll see me again. May I call on you?”

“I’d like that.” She got up to excuse herself. “Daddy’s coming.”

“How do I look? I want to make a good impression…”

“You will.”

 

[EveningStar]

- 11 -​

Talking Points​

Rip was lost in a wonderland of geometric bliss, hunched over a drafting table with a pair of dividers and a straight edge. He had gone beyond the basic shapes he learned in the early chapters of Hedgley’s Helpful Handbook and was creating perfect triangles, swirls, and snowflakes and inscribing Arabesques with great precision.

He was startled by a paw resting on his shoulder.

“Oh, hullo Rose!”

“That’s pretty. What is it?”

Rip smiled proudly. “It’s an elaborate corbel. One of those thingies that holds up a shelf. If I can cut this pattern on the jigsaw twice and get them to match right and proper, Snuffles will move me from apprentice to journeyman!”

“A promotion? That will mean a better salary. Maybe you can plant some of those flowers you wanted on your front walk.”

“It isn’t about the money,” Rip said rapturously. “It’s about being good at something. It’s about being better than I was yesterday, and worse than I’ll be tomorrow.”

“I don’t see how you can get much better than you already are.”

Rip turned and looked Rose in the eyes. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

***​

Bob always had lunch by himself or with his daughter. That’s why Rip was surprised when he was invited to join his boss on the veranda and talk over simmer and sing stew.

“Well, son, how are you enjoying life in Harrod’s Bend?”

“It’s an adjustment, to be sure. But the folks are friendly, they say what they mean, and they show how they feel. I only have one regret.”

“And that is?”

“That I didn’t come here while Violet was alive. She loved me, and she believed in me. Those two things don’t always go together, but when she was around, I felt like I could do anything.”

“Poor Violet,” Bob said, sipping a glass of expensive Archenland red wine. “I knew her before you were born. I want to give you some memories that will help you understand many things you have experienced.” Bob took in a breath, held it a moment, then let it out slowly. “I loved her very much.”

“So did I,” Rip said.

“Not in the way I did. I was desperately in love with her.”

“Oh!” Rip took a gulp of his wine, coughed, and set the glass down. “Did she return your feelings?”

“Yes, very much so. We were all set to be married. All the arrangements had been made and the guests invited. It was going to be a grand affair. Then, without telling me why, Vi sent one of my letters back unopened. Written on it was, ‘not accepted by addressee’. And from that moment on she refused my visits and would not even speak to me. Not a note, not a word, not a glance. I never found out why.”

“Garn…”

“She never loved another buck. When Seth died, he left her the house but not a lot of money to cover expenses…not that you’d understand that, right?. I had my advocate send her a letter claiming that Seth was knighted and had a stipend which was now hers. She wouldn’t accept money from me, but every month I had ‘petty cash’ on the books for 10 gold lions, and she received a payment of 10 gold lions. Interesting coincidence?”

“I wondered how she got by. Bless you, Bob! Bless you!”

Bobber took another sip of wine. “I won’t let that fate happen to my dear daughter. Rose is all the best things of my wife and I wrapped up in one sweet natured and idealistic doe. Just the sort to cherish one love till death, just like Violet.”

“Is she in love??”

“Yes, Rip. With you. She adores you, practically worships you, and would do anything for you. That includes raising your younglings and growing old at your side.”

“I knew she liked me, but I thought it was sisterly, you know, friendship.”

“Some friendship! The question is, how do you feel about her?"

“Garn!” Ripley said. “She had me from the moment she said, ‘Are you the handy help?’ I love her, Bob. I just never thought I had a chance.”

“Well, you do. Just remember, you’ll lose all the chances you don’t take.”

“Understood. And yet…”

“And yet?”

“I have to make something of myself, first. I have to be worthy of her.”

“Worthy??” Bob leaned forward. “I’m asking you on bended knee if you would be my son-in-law. You’re the buck every family wants for their doe.”

“But I’m a laborer. Not even a master, just getting ready to be journeyman. I don’t want her eating fish I caught in the river each night.”

Bob nodded. “As of today, you’ll be my estate manager. That’s one step down from me. I think you’ll find your compensation will keep you and her in the style she’s accustomed to, and the guest house will be your love nest. She won’t be disappointed.”

Rip gasped. “Well, I’d be disappointed! With all due respect, I’ve lived in a guest house before. I’ve had an allowance before. I’ve had a job I wasn’t qualified for. Please, I have to live with myself! If I’m not qualified, the business will die with you, and then where will that leave Rose?”

“My word, Rip. This isn’t charity, it’s a great opportunity. I knew you weren’t after my money the day you put burlap under my floor.”

“I need Snuffles to work me through my master’s license and teach me. He only plans to work two more years. Make him estate manager and let me learn from him! For once in my life, I want to earn something on my very own. Anything else and I couldn’t look the lads in the face. I’d be ashamed to walk down the street. I couldn’t even look Pappy in the face to get my mail. Sorry if that’s inconvenient, but that’s the son-in-law you’re asking for. I hope you’re not too disappointed…”

Bob sighed and finished his wine in one gulp. “Disappointed?? It’s an honor to know you, Ripley Pond. I’ll pay off your mortgage and help you restore Pond Place to its former glory, summer picnics and all. That’s as much for Rose…and me…as it is for you. The rest is up to you. Is it a deal?”

“It’s a deal…”

 

[EveningStar]

- 12 -​

New Beginnings​

It was early on a most important day at Pond Place. Thistle the Dry Goods seller was there with a rented formal jacket for Rip.

“Stop squirming,” the hare said, trying to fasten the cravat around his neck.

“Stop trying to strangle me,” the otter said, exasperated.

“You wanted to look good on your special day. And this will do you. But garn, you must hold still! I want this wedding to go off without a hitch! Everything must be perfect!”

“What is it to you, Thistle?”

“I want you and Rose to get married and have me lots of new little customers. The more the merrier.” At this the hare nodded and winked.

“You old codger you! I knew you’d find a way to squeeze another coin out of this.”

“Well, there’s that. But I was thinking about my Dodger. I never got to tie his cravat.”

“But you can tie mine.”

“If you’ll hold still.”

***​

Just as Rip’s formal look was coming together, there was a knock at the front door.

“Odds bodkins, who can THIS be?” Rip said, hurrying to the door, his cravat draped over one shoulder.

The door opened. Rip gasped. “Mom! Dad!”

“Thought you could get married without us catching wind?” asked Daisy, giving him a crushing hug as tears streamed down her face. “We’re losing our little buck!”

“We’re not losing a buck, we’re gaining a doe…at least.” Milford warmly embraced his son.

“Welcome! What a wonderful surprise!”

“I bet you were surprised to see us,” Milford said, arms akimbo. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I was afraid to see you till you could be proud of me.”

“Until I’m proud of you?? What’s this??” Milford boomed. “Store be hanged, I live for my family! I’m proud to be a husband and a father! The two greatest accomplishments of my whole life are here in this room. My dearie and my son!”

“Don’t forget your daughter.”

“Oh yes. I’ve seen her, Rip. She’s so beautiful.” He looked around. “So is home. I’m delighted to see the old place looking so good. I grew up here, you know.”

“And you may grow old here if fortunes change. I’ll keep an extra bucket of water in case you set fire to something.” Rip started to laugh, but his chin trembled and tears streamed down his face. “Welcome home, dad!”

***​

The bells were ringing at Town Hall as they gathered for the ceremony.

Milford said, “How do you feel, son? You look unsteady.”

“It doesn’t feel real somehow. I mean, in a few moments she’s going to be Rose Pond!”

“I know. I was a bit weak in the knees on my big day.”

Daisy elbowed her husband. “Second thoughts?”

“Not about you. I prayed to be worthy of this great gift. I still do.”

Right as it seemed Milford would cry in public, he saw Bobber and ran to him. “Binky!”

Bob caught him in a warm hug. “Chance!”

Rip is surprised. “Binky? Chance? Really??”

Bobber says, “I haven’t seen your daddy in years! We were best friends growing up!”

Milford smiled. “We were inseparable. We would do anything for each other.”

“Anything?” Rip’s eyes narrowed. “Written any good letters lately, dad?”

“Could be,” Milford said with a hearty laugh, “I asked Binky to keep an eye on you. Nothing special. Well, I might have mentioned you’re handy with tools.”

Bobber said, “He has a better sales pitch than Hard Sell Thistle. Nothing that wasn’t true. You realize that after today, you can call me Dad, or Bobber. Maybe even Bob. But ‘Binky’ doesn’t leave this room, young buck.”

“No sir. My lips are sealed.” He shot a glance at his father. “Aren’t they, Chance?”

Milford harumphed. “There’s a story behind those names. I might tell you someday… Squeaky.”

Bobber looked at Rip with his best straight face. “Let’s bury the past and go build a future. Right, Squeaky?”

***​

They stepped into the main hall. There Rose stood in her white lace shawl, looking lovely as an angel. Rip went and stood by her, overcome by the wonder of his greatest dream coming true. He smiled a bit and nodded. She smiled back, taking his paw and giving it a little squeeze.

The eight little Bounders linked paws forming a ring around them, and Sam Barkby and Thistle Longshanks held the canopy over the bride and groom. The room practically shimmered with love.

At the other end of the room stood the Vicar. He nodded and a vixen with a harp began to pluck a lovely rendition of The Red and White Rose.

“Well,” Rip said quietly, “let’s do this thing.” They, the honor guard of younglings, and the canopy bearers slowly started forward into the next chapter of the Pond Family.


= THE END =