It All Began with a Rabbit

It All Began with a Rabbit, Chapter 1

 It all began with a rabbit.  Well, more exactly, “it” all began with an apple and a young couple who were more interested in knowledge than they were afraid of dying.  But our story begins with a little bunny.  He had been taught by his mother that the forest would provide everything they would ever need.  She also taught him that crossing the road to try the tempting cabbages in the farmer’s field would mean risking death.  But when the wind blew across the fields of cabbage past the soft nose of the little rabbit, he could not contain himself.  He watched, He waited.  Then he crossed the road.

  The farmers young daughter was becoming a woman.  She had been taught by her father how to work.  “The farm will provide everything we need, Abri.  Stay as close to the land as you can.”  The young woman had begun carrying her father’s musket with her to work in the fields.  “You may shoot the small animals that come into the fields to feed.’  He told his girl, “but you mustn’t ever hunt in the forest.  The game there belongs to the Lord and we may not take it.”  

  So it happened one day that the young woman was leaving the fields at last light.  

She had finished the row she was hoeing, shouldered the rifle, and started for home.  The last light of a bright day is often golden, casting long shadows.  In this light, the young woman saw the rabbit munching a cabbage leaf.  She stopped cold and swung the musket to take aim.

  The rabbit saw the young woman and immediately froze as his mother had taught him.  Any motion would catch the eye of a dog or fox.  The young woman had better vision than these, but the musket had not been properly sighted, so the ball went a little to the right and down, striking the bunny in his left haunch.  He screamed in pain and ran for the safety of the forest.  

  Mother had told him (when she realized that he would not resist the temptation of the cabbage), “The Lord’s hunters will not come for you.  They are only interested in big game.  The farmer will not cross into the forest for you.  Run to the forest.  The forest is your mother’s loving arms.”  And the bunny ran, filled with pain and terror.

  The farmer’s daughter also ran.  She had seen a puff of fur in the golden last light, and she had heard the scream, so she knew she had hit the rabbit.  As she ran she saw the white tail disappear into the brush on the forest side of the road.  

  Now, the girl didn’t forget what her father had told her about the forest and the Lord and the taking of game, but her blood was racing with adrenaline and she was taken by the primal instinct of the hunter.  She leapt the fence at the road side and came at the rabbit’s hiding spot from the forest side, hoping to frighten him back into the road where he could be taken legally.  

  The bunny, bleeding and frightened, relied on the rabbit’s last defence.  He froze.  

  A quick search revealed the hiding spot, and the farmer’s daughter reached in and took him, screeming.  Her knife ended the squall.  

  A third party entered the scene at this point.  The Lord’s nephew and a riding companion were coming up the road, returning home after a long day of recreation.  

  “Isn’t that peasant poaching your uncle’s game?” said the riding companion.  The nephew might have otherwise ignored the incident, being uninterested in rabbits or farmer’s daughters.  But a show of manliness was required now.  A response must be given.  

  “Hey, you!  Peasant.”  

  Tables can turn, sometimes just that quickly, and Abri knew that she was not the hunter any longer.  She froze.  “You belong to that good-for-nothing farmer, don’t you?” shouted the nephew.  

  Abri wanted to run.  A few years ago she would have screamed.  But she froze.  “Never look a lording in the eye.”  Her father had taught her.  “They will take it as a challenge, and that means they will feel bound to humble you.”  Abri looked at the ground, and hated herself for doing it.  She had no brothers who might have taught her the submissive ways of womanhood.  And her mother had died at her birth.  Father needed her in the fields, and so had raised her like a son.  

 “He was eating cabbage in the fields.  I shot him.  He ran for cover across the road here.  I think it no harm that I took him.  I’m allowed to shoot the small game that enters the fields.”  All this was the truth.  Large game had to be shooed back to the forest, but small game could be taken.  

 “Shut up!” shouted the nephew.  “We’ll see what Lord Gillingham has to say about it.”  And as he road off at a gallop, “I’ll see you at the great house at noon tomorrow.”