Phoenix and Ashes

'Well,' he said looking into his glass, 'Seems to me pretty unfair of them to expect us to know things without being told them. Seems to me it's pretty unfair to expect us to figure things out from a couple of hints not even King Solomon could guess at.'

'Aye,' Michael grumbled, tossing back his pint.

That was about as close as he dared come to his own grievance, and eventually someone ventured an oblique guess as to the likelihood of rabbitting come fall.

Now Reggie felt a bit more comfortable. 'You know,' he said, thoughtfully, and with an artfully casual manner, 'My manager says that the rabbits are multiplying something awful this year. Three years now, no one's been thinning them out with shooting. I think a few snares wouldn't come amiss.' He looked around the pub, as if he didn't know very well that every one of these men had been poaching 'his' rabbits for generations. 'Any of you fellows know someone that might be willing to put out some snares in the Longacre woods? Proper rabbit snares now, not something to catch a pheasant by accident.'

Slight smiles. 'Might,' Ross offered.

After all, everyone poached. Especially now. But no one wanted to admit he knew how to.

'Now mind,' Reggie went on, carefully not meeting anyone's eye, 'He'd have to be careful of the season. We wouldn't want any orphaned bunnies. Not unless there were youngsters who knew how to catch them and raise them on goat's milk or something of the sort.'

'Orphaned beasties is a sad thing,' Michael Van agreed. 'But the kiddies do like to make pets of 'em. Wouldn't hurt for 'em to go looking, now and again, just to make sure. No one'd set a snare this early, or at least, I misdoubt, but there's other things that make orphan bunnies. Dogs.'

'Cats,' put in Albert.

'Stoats,' offered Ross, who Reggie knew for a fact kept ferrets. 'Even badgers, can they catch 'em.'

Reggie had a long pull on his beer, hiding his smile. That was settled, then. They knew that he would tell his gamekeeper not to pull up proper rabbit snares, and he knew that anyone that caught a doe out-of-season would send his children, or a neighbor's to look for the nest. And he'd probably lose a pheasant or two; some temptations were too strong to resist.

But he'd have lost a pheasant or two anyway, probably more than one or two. When you worked vigilantly to keep someone from doing something he felt he had a right to do, he often felt justified in taking a little revenge.

Giving tacit permission, on the other hand, was likely to make them more honest.

He'd never felt very comfortable about telling people they couldn't snare rabbits on Longacre property, anyway. After all, what did he ever do with them except in that they kept foxes fed for the autumn hunts? And smart foxes would steal the caught rabbits from the snares anyway. Oh, there was some rabbit shooting in the fall, or there had been before the war, but most gentlemen felt that rabbits were poor sport compared to birds. When meat was getting hard to come by, and hideously expensive, even with the illicit pigs in the woods, a rabbit was a welcome addition to the table.

Besides, you have to wonder how many of my generation are going to be particularly interested in shooting things for span, when all this is over. . . .

He sighed, and signalled another round, while the talk drifted amiably to other shifts for keeping food on the table. Pigeons were being considered, though with some doubt. As Ross said, 'Once you get the feathers off, hardly seems worth the time.' With the river so near, and plenty of free grazing at the road's edge, geese were popular, but the problem was sorting out whose belonged to whom. Goats were not highly regarded. Having eaten goat on occasion in France, Reggie fully understood why.

Tonight there had been no bad news from across the Channel to stir up melancholy, good spring weather here and summer coming, and the school treat and fair so fresh in everyone's mind, the conversation stayed relatively light. 'Relatively,' since no one really had the heart for games of darts or shove-ha'penny in this pub. When Reggie left, it was in an even temper, and not the same unsettled state he'd arrived in.

So when, just past the last house in the village, a black mood descended on him—it made no sense.

It came down on him like a palpable weight, and it wasn't grief. It was bleak, despairing anger. It made him shift gears with a harsh disregard for the complaining clatter his motorcar made in protest. It made him want to strangle his grandfather—or hang himself, just to show the old man. Or both. It made him want to find that baggage of a girl and—

And that was where his good sense finally overpowered his mood, because the images that began to form in his mind at the thought of Eleanor were so vicious that they shook him, shook him right out of his mood. He looked sharply around, having even lost track of where he was, only to find that he was on the driveway of the manor and didn't recall actually turning in through the gates.

What is wrong with me? he thought, aghast. And, now with a frisson of fear,