Short Fiction · The Dreadful Rabbits (2/2)

“I see,” said Pitts softly. “I see; and these other rabbits⁠—are⁠—hunting Mr. Ransome!”

It was hotter than they had thought, as they pushed through one more clump of brambly growth, and came to where hunters and hunted had met.

They had not the time nor the wish to read more than the essentials of the story written in large tracks and small upon the soft, spurned earth. Pursuivant began talking swiftly, pointing here and there.

“Look! Ransome stopped and, probably, aimed his gun. He was looking yonder, perhaps at that dark hollow place among those vine-grown saplings. The rabbit must have stopped there.” He crossed over and peered. “Yes⁠—see! The tracks were turned toward Ransome. It stopped and turned on its heels, to look at him.”

“Like it was mocking him,” said Pitts, and swallowed hard.

Pursuivant looked at the leaves behind the tracks. They were cut to pieces by shot⁠—Ransome must have fired both barrels at that rabbit as it sat up to gaze at him. And then⁠—

Pitts was down on one knee. “They swarmed over him as he fired!” he cried shakily. “Look, Judge⁠—they rushed him from behind, right here!”

Pursuivant made a step and bent to pick up something from a patch of leafy weeds. “His gun!” he said, and snapped open the breech. “Both barrels were fired⁠—he must have thrown it at them. Then he was unarmed.”

He returned to where Pitts kneeled. The flurry of tracks seemed to say that Ransome had fallen, as under the impact of many missiles; what those missiles were could be deduced from the strength of certain hind-leg marks, telling of how rabbits had sprung straight upward and at the face or chest. The gun still in his hand, Pursuivant stooped to make out what had happened to Ransome then.

Here were hand-prints, deeply driven, as though weight had been supported upon the palms. Here was the scrape of a dragged knee, and another, with repetitions beyond⁠—yes, Ransome had crept upon his hands and knees, stunned, wretched, driven. For at either flank of his trail were the trails of his little adversaries, herding and harrying him, toward the dark opening among the vines where he had seen and fired upon the quarry that was really a decoy.

“Poor Mr. Ransome,” Pitts was saying. “He should have obeyed the law⁠—you got to respect things like that, or⁠—”

“Stay behind me,” commanded Pursuivant, and bent, thrusting with the muzzle of the shotgun into the space among the vines.

Within was empty gloom, for here the hill rose abruptly under a masking of herbage, and in it was a cave.

“Gontolah⁠—the Hungry Hill,” remembered Pursuivant. Yes, as Pitts had said, this place looked like an open, starved mouth, a lune-shape hole with a flat rim of rock above and another below, like gaping lips. And something was wedged in that mouth-like cavern.

He forced himself to touch it. His fingers closed on a slack, damp wrist. With a heave and a scrape, he dragged the body into view.

Yes, it was Ransome, or what had been Ransome. Pursuivant knew him by the contours of that pounded, lacerated head, by the leanness of the blood-boltered body inside chopped-up rags.

Pitts whimpered as the thing came into the light.

“Poor Mr. Ransome,” he said again. “Now I know how⁠—oh!”

Pursuivant whirled like a top at that final gasp of horror. He saw, too, what Spencer had seen.

The spaces among the bushes along their back trail were full of rabbits, all lean and gray with black and white blazings on legs and ear-tips, and all a trifle larger than ordinary. Every eye in that horde was turned upon the two men, and the eyes of meat-eating animals. They were an army, moving concertedly and purposefully upon the judge and Pitts, who stood cut off with their backs to the cave.

Pursuivant’s big fists tightened on Ransome’s shotgun. He would not throw it, he told himself at once⁠—clubbed, its metal-shod butt would smash these little assailants to rags. But Pitts was trying another weapon.

With eyes and outstretched hands he addressed himself to the foremost of the rabbits, the one that moved cautiously but steadily ahead of the press, like an officer leading troops in an orderly advance. He spoke, audibly and with a tremble of fear:

“H‑howdy, Mister Rabbit!”

There was a momentary pause in the oncoming torrent of fur. A little eddy showed, then a parting in the ranks. They were making a way for Pitts to retreat through them, and he needed not a moment to make up his mind. He fairly darted along that open lane, which closed behind him. The expanse of fuzzy backs and upturned green eyes resolidified, and above it Pitts looked back at Pursuivant.

“Better say the words,” he advised huskily. “They’re closing in on you.”

They converged slowly and smoothly, flowing like a puddle of grease⁠—but grease scummed over with fur and green-black eyes, sprouting a meadow of ears. Pursuivant lifted the clubbed shotgun and set himself to strike. The leader-rabbit sprang suddenly at him. Pursuivant swung the gun, as a batter strikes at a ball. He could not miss⁠—but the weapon swished thinly in the air, and the little sinewy body struck him at the base of the throat. A moment later more rabbits were springing at him⁠—a dozen, a score, hundreds. His flailing with the gun did not find a single mark. He swayed under the bombardment, but kept his feet⁠—he was stronger and bulkier than Ransome, he would take more battering to bring down⁠—

“Say the words. Judge!” Pitts’s voice pleaded with him from beyond. “They ain’t real rabbits⁠—they’ll finish you!”

Fighting, clawing at the rain of buffets, Pursuivant found his mind turning from the struggle to consideration of something else. What had the Indian, King Mosh, called the rabbit? Ototemon. Strange word. But with a familiar sound⁠ ⁠… suddenly he saw blue expanse, fringed with green. The sky among the treestops looked into his face, for he had come down upon his back. The rabbits had felled him. They were swarming around and upon him, their feet striking like great raindrops, incessantly and with precision⁠—a rhythm that sapped his strength and his consciousness⁠—again and again, on the same places.

How could he escape these airy blows and kicks? There seemed one way to crawl along⁠—but it would lead to the cave, where Ransome had been. And once caught there, they’d have him. They’d dance upon him forever and forever, until he died, torn and bled to death by uncountable strokes⁠—it would be like the falling of water upon a Chinese victim of the old drop-death⁠—

“Say the words!” beseeched Pitts tearfully, his voice faint as an echo. “Say the words⁠—howdy⁠—”

Ototemon⁠—the term meant something sacred to the Indians. And the minister, Mr. Horton, had gone on record as saying that the honest faith of savages could be respected, must be respected⁠—

Somehow he got upon his feet, and lifted his hands as Pitts had done.

“Howdy,” he mumbled thickly. “Howdy, Mister Rabbit.”

And he stumbled and staggered away. Nothing prevented him. Pitts’s hand caught his arm, supporting him. He was safe, being led downhill.

“Who’ll believe?” he was saying to himself. “Who’ll believe?⁠ ⁠…”

“Don’t worry. Judge,” Pitts replied. “We’re all right now. And this has happened before⁠—all the folks say that the rabbits kill people near that cave. When some stranger drops out of sight, the folks go look for them and bury them⁠—it ain’t thought strange any more⁠—I’ll get a couple of men from town to help me bring back Mr. Ransome⁠—”

Pursuivant was content to leave it at that. Later he would write and make an inquiry of Dr. Trowbridge, de Grandin’s friend and fellow-scholar of the occult.

Trowbridge’s letter came after the judge had returned to New York.

My Dear Pursuivant:

The meaning of the word ototemon should betray itself because of the familiarity of its corruption⁠—totem. It’s Algonquin and, as well as I can establish, means a local sacrosanctity, generally embodied in some animal. A tribe or clan or community would claim that such animals were in reality the reincarnated spirits of dead ancestors, and full of supernatural power for good or evil.

I was sorry to hear about Ransome’s death. Why are you so mysterious? De Grandin joins me in inviting you out to Huntingdon, to tell us about it. We have a strange story or two of our own that might intrigue you.

And Trowbridge’s almost indecipherable signature wound it up.

Pursuivant laid down the letter and reasoned himself out of any sense of defeat. He had wanted to respect the custom from the first, had blamed Ransome for defying it. Mr. Horton, the long-dead minister of Crispinville, had felt the same. “We had precedent in that the first Missionaries to Britain did respect and observe certain festivals.⁠ ⁠…” It might be heathen to greet a rabbit, yet it was part of formal and sincere religion. And when you were in Crispinville, you should do what the Crispinvillagers did.

Judge Pursuivant decided not to feel fouled by his experience. Only he would never look at a rabbit again, and keep his heart from thumping nervously.