June 05, 2018

PodCastle 525: Rabbit Grass

43 minutes

* Author : Kelly Stewart

* Narrator : Julie Hoverson

* Host : Summer Fletcher

* Audio Producer : Peter Adrian Behravesh

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Originally published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies.

Rated PG-13.

Rabbit Grass

by Kelly Stewart

Mama says, “Never let Rabbits into the garden, Aril, or they’ll eat up everything.”

This makes working in the garden troublesome because there is almost always a Rabbit sitting just on the other side of the fence. The fence isn’t nothing fancy, just old dry timber trussed up with wire.

But Rabbits won’t come in unless they’re invited. No one would invite them, except they have their ways of smoothing things over with the folks around here. For one thing, you’d hardly know them from any old Person, except for the long ears perched atop their heads, all covered with velvety fur and turning this way and that to listen for things. They dress nice, too. They can be real charming. That’s how folks around here get their gardens et up.

This Rabbit at the fence is talking to me the whole time I’m out in the garden. Lots of different Rabbits visit the garden, try their luck. Today it’s Picket. Picket’s around a lot. When Rabbits have been sneaking around the fence at night, I can tell them apart by their shoeprints. Picket’s pretty big for a Rabbit. He’s as tall as me. Seems to me he don’t need no more garden food. He’s wearing a purple waistcoat today, maybe satin with a diamond pattern quilted in. It looks brand new and very costly.

There’s a nice breeze blowing the sting off the sunshine. Robins are singing their challenge-songs in the woods. Crickets are humming their daily devotions out in the fields. And then comes Picket’s shy little voice, just sitting on top of the breeze like he don’t mean to be no imposition.

“Please, Miss, I promise I won’t eat much. Just a leaf or two. Maybe a flower. I am a Rabbit, after all. I eat so very little, you would hardly notice anything missing.”

I don’t even look at him. I just look down at the rich, dark soil I’m patting down around the Potatoes. Their pretty five-pointed flowers wave a soft scent under my nose. “You may be one Rabbit, but the trouble is there’s more of you. If you all et a leaf or two, there’d be no leaves left.”

“Do the leaves matter?” Picket says. “It’s the flowers that are so pleasant and colourful, like the ones on your hat that bring out your eyes so well.”

“Don’t you try flattering me, Mister Picket!” I snap at him, catching his eyes now so he knows I mean it. “I’ll tell the whole village and all the other Rabbits what a rascal you are, and you’ll be chased right out of the valley.”

Picket shrinks back with my dressing-down, with his ears all flat.

I shouldn’t have called him “Mister”. Addressing them like a gentleman or a lady makes them get all important, makes them bold and harder to shoo away. Mama taught me my manners too good.

“And besides,” I add, “it’s the leaves what catch the sunlight and make the flowers grow, so of course they matter.”

I stand up and stretch my back, and wipe my grimy hands on my apron. I have to attend to the Carrots next, and they’re near to the fence. I don’t want to go near the fence, but I tell myself to march right on over and ignore that Rabbit.

I haul my basket over to the stand of flowers that look like ladies’ lacy handkerchiefs. While I’m digging in the soil with my trowel, sure enough,

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