4. Ridgeway Farm
The ultimate goal of farming is not the growing of crops, but the cultivation and perfection of human beings.
-Masanobu Fukuoka
Anthony Ridgeway pulled himself up onto his elbows in bed when he heard the rusty growl of his father's truck as it pulled into the dooryard.
Swinging his feet out from under the warm patchwork quilt draped across his bed, the ten-year old boy set his feet on the hardwood floor of his bedroom, shivering as a chill instantly leeched into the skin of his soles.
Ignoring the cold, Anthony pushed himself up, thin hands gripping the edge of the mattress, and stood swaying for a moment before taking the eight steps to the window.
Peering out through the whorled glass panes, the boy watched his father cross the yard, walking slowly, one arm raised against his chest.
For a moment, Anthony's heart gave a painful jolt- had his father been hurt out there on the downs- before he realized that it looked as though the man was cradling something in his jacket and not favouring an injured arm.
Now the boy's heart began to beat rapidly, not from fear but from excitement and he hurried to the door of his bedroom, barely feeling the coolness of the hardwood planks beneath his feet.
Opening the door, Anthony rushed into the narrow landing and down the steep staircase, disregarding to hold the railing.
"Anthony! Where are you going?" Mary Ridgeway called from the kitchen as her only son rushed past in a patter of bare feet on stone floors- smoothed by generations of Ridgeways travelling back and forth- and towards the door.
"Dad has something for me!" Anthony called breathlessly, all ready feeling his lungs begin to tighten in response to the activity of running downstairs, "I know he does!"
"Put something on your feet before you go outside!" his mother called from the kitchen followed by a soft shuffling as she approached the doorway, "And your coat; you'll catch your death of cold."
Stepping from one foot to the other impatiently, Anthony pulled his wool-lined coat from the hook beside the door and shoved his chilled feet into his yellow galoshes.
Dressed, the boy yanked the front door open and dashed out into the yard, scattering a group of brown speckled chickens with a series of indignant squawks.
"Dad! Dad!" Anthony called as he headed towards the barn.
"Anthony! What are you doing out here?" Wilbur asked as his son appeared in the doorway of the barn, drawing in ragged breaths.
"Did… you get… something for… me?"
Wilbur Ridgeway turned and his son saw he had the door to the old rabbit hutch open. It was small and old; the family had a larger one, which they kept outside, along with a half-dozen rabbits.
"What did your mama say to you coming outside in this weather?"
Anthony stepped into the barn, "I'm wearing my galoshes and coat."
The father squinted at his son for a long moment before he spoke again, "Yeah, you are."
"Come here, son," Wilbur held out an arm and beckoned his son forward.
The ten-year old did as his father asked and stepped up beside him, old straw crunching beneath his boots and the smell of cows in his nostrils.
Peering into the open door of the rabbit hutch, Anthony saw five kits curled up in his father's handkerchief.
"I found them out on the downs," Wilbur said, laying a hand his son's shoulder, "Abandoned, it looked like, and none too healthy. Thought you'd maybe like to take care of them 'til they were old enough to put in with the others."
Anthony stared down at the squirming pink infant rabbits and suddenly felt his throat squeeze. His father rarely let him help with duties on the farm; even feeding the chickens was something his parents insisted was too much for him.
"Really, Dad? I can look after them on my own?" the ten-year old asked.
Wilbur nodded, "They're your responsibility now."
Feeling tears well up in his eyes, Anthony reached out and hugged his father.
Wilbur's hand moved from his son's shoulder to his back, patting the boy gently.
Pulling away, Anthony swiped a hand across his face, smiling for a moment before doubling over in a fit of coughing.
"Anthony," his father said concernedly but the boy shook his head, straightening and smiling again, "I'm all right, Dad."
"Come inside," Wilbur said but Anthony shook his head, "Can I stay out a little longer? Please?"
Sighing, his father nodded, "A little while."
Turning his back to his father, Anthony carefully closed the door to the hutch before looking through the chicken wire on its sides at the young rabbits nestled inside.
WDWD
Curled together, Safflower's kittens mewled for their mother, the pungent scent of manure and the sharp tang of men invading their delicate noses.
Wriggling past his siblings, Walnut laid on his side, his back pressed tightly against his brother's, one dark brown eye peering up at the strange ceiling overhead.
Something was wrong; Walnut could no longer see the blue sky and the beech branches that had formed a crude roof above the hollow were gone, replaced by flat, rough wood boards that allowed for no light from the sun to shine through.
The young rabbit tried to remember what had happened for his brother and sisters to be in this unfamiliar place.
"Mulberry," Walnut whispered and twisted round to face his brother.
Mulberry opened one black eye and stared at his sibling, nose twitching.
"Where are we?" Walnut asked, fearfully.
Mulberry, first-born and slightly larger than Walnut and their sisters, seemed the one to know what was going on, if anyone was to be asked.
"Are you daft?" Mulberry asked, "It was a man. He took us away from Mother. He took us away in his hrududu."
Walnut said nothing for a moment, than whispered, "Where are we?"
It was Mulberry's turn for silence. He chewed his lip for a long moment before responding, "I don't know."
Walnut sighed and returned his gaze to the roof of the hutch, lost in thought.
WDWD
Anthony unlatched the lid of the rabbit hutch and carefully reached inside. He closed his hand gently around the rabbit kit that was lying to the edge of the group and lifted the squirming creature.
"It's all right," the ten-year old murmured, "I'm not going to hurt you."
He drew his arm close to his chest and with his free hand moved the eyedropper filled with cow's milk close to the infant rabbit. At first the kit turned its head this way and that, refusing the milk and Anthony was afraid that if it didn't drink it would starve before the rabbit's tiny pink tongue poked out and it lapped at the milk beaded at the dropper's end.
The ten-year old smiled as he carefully fed the baby rabbit and it slowly stopped trying to wiggle out of his grip.
Dutifully, Anthony fed the other four kits before putting them back into the hutch and closing the lid. Instead of heading back inside, however, he stared through the side of the hutch and watched the infant rabbits for a while, feeling a sudden sense of pride that his father trusted him with the care of the kits.
"I don't have any friends," the ten-year old confided in the rabbits, unaware that to them, his words came out as the slow, deep speech of Men and had no meaning to them.
"I can't go to school," Anthony continued, "Or very far from the farm."
"But I'd like to have a friend," the boy whispered, his nose pressed to the chicken wire that made up the side of the hutch, "I suppose you will be my friends."
Anthony smiled and stood up when he heard his mother calling his name from the house.
"I'll be back later," he promised and walked quickly to the house where Mary Ridgeway held the front door open for him, the scent of dinner spurring the boy to jog in anticipation of the meal.
"Wash your hands before you sit down," the farmer's wife told her son and Anthony nodded as he slipped off his coat and galoshes.
Walking into the kitchen where his parents were already sitting at the table, the ten-year old went to the sink and washed his hands in icy water, rubbing them with a bar of coarse, yellow soap before drying them on the tea towel hanging from the old wood-burning stove the Ridgeway's still used.
Coming to the table and sitting down, Anthony frowned at the sight of the roasted rabbit sitting on a platter, surrounded by carrots and potatoes.
"Dad?" the boy glanced at his father as Wilbur cut into the roasted meat, "We're not going to eat my rabbits, are we?"
Wilbur placed the slices of meat onto his plate and squinted at his son.
"Not right now," the farmer said, "They're only kits."
Anthony swallowed hard, "I mean when they're grown."
Mary glanced at her husband as she took her portion of meat. Wilbur sighed and raked a hand through his thinning hair.
"Well now," he began, "You know every animal on the farm has a purpose; the cows give milk, the chickens lay eggs, the cat catches mice and the rabbits are for meat."
"But not my rabbits, right?" Anthony insisted. Although he had only had the kits for a few hours, the ten-year old felt responsible for them.
"Mayhap we will, mayhap we won't," Wilbur told his son, "They're pretty small. They may not even grow as big as our other rabbits; they may not be good for eating."
Anthony let out a breath, "All right."
"But if they turn out," Wilbur pointed at his son with his fork, "You best not say anything about it."
The ten-year old nodded and asked his mother quietly to pass the basket of rolls.
Author's Note:
Thanks to Chipster-roo and Guest for reviewing.
Please take a moment to review, they mean a lot to me.
