Category Archives: post-apocalypse fiction

The Monday Book: THE BOOK OF THE DUN COW by Walter Wangerin, Jr.

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wyrmI don’t, as a rule, like enigmatic books, so it’s kinda weird that I liked this one. I also tend to hate books where bad things happen to sweet little fuzzy creatures–but, well, okay, the creatures in Wangerin’s book are not all that sweet, but a lot of them are fuzzy.

What cracks me up is that this book, full of sex, violent, anarchy, anti-christ characters, and really bad things happening to animals, was classed a children’s fantasy novel when it came out in 1978. Because, you know, it’s about animals. Like Animal Farm, or Firmin. So it must be for kids.

Prepare for nightmares, then.

The book is about a pre-human Earth with two countries divided by a river, each run by roosters (yeah, it’s that kind of world) but while one is a strong–if flawed–hero, the other is weak and easily manipulated. This old bird falls for an empty promise made by the evil dragon that lives at the center of the Earth and is always trying to get out and end the world (the plot of about 97 different fantasy novels AND some really scary prophecies handed down by storytellers in multiple cultures; think Armageddon with Satan cast as a worm).

The betrayal of this promise sets off the terrible war that results between the real animals led by Chanticleer the Rooster, and the army of basilisks created by Cockatrice, aka the dragon force-breeding with every breathing thing on the other side of the river.

Children’s book. . . . Yeah, right.

The writing is antiquely beautiful (what some people might call stilted, if you don’t like that kind of thing), and while the book is definitely Christian, it’s less allegory than full of symbolism–like about the dun cow, herself. Here’s a section just before the big battle:

The dark land everywhere held still, as if on purpose before such a ringing, echoing cry. The dark sky said nothing. The Rooster, with not an effort to save himself, sagged, rolled down the roof, slipped over the edge of the Coop, and fell heavily to the ground. Wind and sobs together were knocked out of him; he lay dazed.

And then it was that the Dun Cow came to him….

Horns strangely dangerous on one so soft stood wide away and sharp from either side of her head. Her eyes were liquid with compassion – deep,deep, as the earth is deep. Her brow knew his suffering and knew, besides that, worlds more. But the goodness was that, though this wide brow knew so much, yet it bent over his pain alone and creased with it.

…. Nothing changed: The clouds would not be removed, nor his knowledge plenished. But there was this. His grief had become her grief, his sorrow her own. And though he grieved not one bit less for that, yet his heart made room for her, for her will and wisdom, and he bore the sorrow better.

And one more reason to love The Book of the Dun Cow comes in the form of a depressed dog who, in the trope of tragic fools everywhere, actually gets in the end to do the deed that needs doing. I really enjoyed Wangerin’s work, with its mythological, old-world language feel, its enigmatic storytelling, and its pack of beasts ranging from cute to terrifying. It’s fantasy at its finest.

But I would never, ever, read this book to a kid.

Fifteen Adults Laughing very hard Together

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We’d been plotting the Cards Against Humanity game for a long time. Susan and David Hamrick, some of our favorite people on Earth, had recently lost Hazel, the beloved eldercat who sparked public outrage in Southwest Virginia when her owner surrendered her to the shelter at the age of 20; Hazel’s plight birthed a webpage for eldercat advocacy.

David and Susan also adopted Mal, the high-expense, high-care kitten with the cleft palate who crossed the bookstore lawn about a month before. So planning the CaH game was a chance for Hazel’s ashes to return to her hometown, Mal to see his adoring public now his feeding tube was out, and us to see David and Susan.

The participant list grew. Local doctors looking for a fun weekend (I work with regional medical recruitment); our sainted vet Beth, who diagnosed both Mal and Hazel free of charge; her husband TNB (we call Brandon That Nice Boy Beth Married, TNB for short); and a plethora of others, most of whom have adopted a cat from us. Being adult professionals, we had salad and vegetarian curry, black bean chili, and – in honor of Beth’s recent birthday – Peanut Butter Chocolate Reese Butterfingers Eight-Layer Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting.

Health care professionals know how to party.

And then the CaH came out, with the expander pack. Beth put bottles of her homemade Merlot on the table, and David set out his carefully hoarded Ben Nevis single malt.

But the fun started before the drinking, because the first card out of the gate was something like “How do you get laid?”

After Brandon won with a card that suggested certain specific activities in very precise anatomical locations, I turned to him and said, “I’m never calling you ‘That Nice Boy’ again.”

It all kinda took off from there.

There is something wonderfully healing about 15 adults sitting around a table acting like adolescents who have a deep background in politics. People literally snorted whisky out their noses, we laughed so hard.

And about every 15 minutes, someone shouted “Kid!” and the room went silent as the four young boys hanging out downstairs in the children’s room, playing with kittens under the supervision of a teen, came up and helped themselves to soda.

(Susan and I sent David and Jack to the store for children’s drinks before the party. They returned with a bottle of Mountain Dew. We sent them back for ginger ale.)

In the silence of an early “not in front of the children” moment, David said, “Did everyone enjoy the lovely weather today?” and we all died laughing again.

And again a minute later, when the winning response to “What are Jack and Leroy doing in the basement?” (there are blank cards for making up your own question) turned out to be “Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth II.”

Jack’s praying for Scottish Independence, come September. He and Leroy were downstairs sorting a quick plumbing problem before joining the game.

Yeah, it’s raucous and raunchy and irreverent, but CaH is such good steam-valve-release fun. We play by the “everybody gets one veto” rule. Donald refused to play a Holocaust card; I put back “The Blood of Christ”; Kelley doesn’t allow the one about a pool of children’s tears. Everybody has limits.

But few and far between, for the most part, and sitting there watching 15 adults return to high school in their brains while eating vegetables and drinking responsibly, laughing themselves silly in good company, I couldn’t help thinking, “This is why Jack and I started a bookstore.”

Sitting around that table: two cancer patients, the mother of another, a cancer survivor, three medical professionals who make life-and-death decisions every day, a government employee, two professors, a couple trying to get pregnant, four people who lost parents this year, and two newly-fledged adults launching into the world. This world.

To have these moments, this place, where you can stop being the Responsible Adult, cut loose, and enjoy life is a rare and wonderful thing. We’re so lucky to be able to do this.