Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

Ree shook his head, unable to speak. To make things worse, Jem had wandered away, still wrapped in the quilt, and now there was a creaking sound from the kitchen.

“Don’t you worry none. It’s the water pump. I guess he was thirsty,” the old man said, and rasped in a slightly louder tone, “I could use a cup of water meself.”

When Jem came back into the room carrying a water cup, the old man was giving Ree very odd instructions. They started with: “You get yourself out there and around the side of the house. The lean-to has ... a lot of stuff. There’s a wheelbarrow there. Bring it in.”

Ree left the old man sipping water and went to the lean-to—trying to ignore the desperate animals that surrounded him—and got the wheelbarrow, a sturdy thing with a big wheel, back into the room.

The old man was talking to Jem in almost confidential tones. “Brothers, are you?” Ree heard him say, as he pushed the door open.

“Uh, no. We’re ... friends,” Jem said, and that clear skin of his betrayed a raging flush.

Ree’s stomach tightened, but the old man only said, “Ah. My brother—” Then he saw Ree and said, “Ah, you got the wheelbarrow. Good.”

Thus started the strangest few hours of Ree’s life. Outside it was snowing hard, but the old man, wrapped in the quilt, sitting as comfortably in the wheelbarrow as the combined efforts of the three of them could make him, only said, “You might as well get snow on your fur now as later. It’s going to get much worse before it gets better this winter.”

“Go to the barn there,” he said. “That’s where their food is.” He gestured at the animals who surrounded them as soon as they were outside. Although he ignored the cows and the goat, he patted the horse’s head with his gnarled fingers, and his eyes looked almost wistful.

Ree pushed the wheelbarrow to the barn, where he opened a door that ran on some sort of track and required much less effort than he expected. Then he pushed the old man in.

Like a king on a throne, the man barked out despotic orders.

“Pump water for them now, then hit them on the nose if they drink too much.”

Ree pumped water from the biggest water pump he’d ever seen, which poured clear, cool liquid onto a trough. “Now, hit them on the nose. A cow will drink till it bursts, boy.”

So Ree hit them on the nose, all of them, even the maybe-goat, It tried to bump him back, causing the old man to unleash his cackle once more. But the respite didn’t hold. “Now up that ladder. Can those paws of yours climb ladders?”

Ree, whose arms already felt like they would fall off their sockets from pumping the water, could only nod. “Good. Up the ladder. There’s sacks of feed up there. Pour about half of one of them into the hopper.”

This was easier said than done. The sacks weighed enough for Ree wonder if the animals ate lead, but what poured into the hopper seemed to be some sort of grain.

“Now get your arse down here and milk the cows.”

Ree, sweat pouring down his body, under his fur, came down the ladder on legs that felt like they’d fall out under him. He’d walked for whole days and not been this tired. No wonder the farmers he’d seen in town were both muscular and cranky.

“The milking stool’s there,” the old man said, pointing with a finger that looked like the end of a branch, all brown and gnarled. “Milk the cows into that there pail. The cows, you fool, not the bull.” This as Ree tried to sit next to a cow who, on second look, displayed a rather prominent pair of balls.

“I guess he wouldn’t like it if I tried to milk him,” Ree said, weakly.

“I bet he wouldn’t. That’s right, sit there where Spotty can’t kick you. No, what are you doing? You don’t squeeze the udders like that.” The old man showed Ree the motion. It was simple, and yet harder work than it looked. His fingers ached by the time he was no longer getting any milk out of the teats. He retreated from the stall, shaking his hands to try to loosen his fingers. And people thought doing this was romantic and good?

He walked up to the second cow and almost cringed as the old man’s voice cracked out like a whip, “No, wait up.”

What had he done wrong now? Was this another type of cow that couldn’t be milked? He looked wearily at the old man.

“My hands ain’t broken. Just wheel me up to where I can reach the teats.”

Ree wondered if it was meant kindly, but he couldn’t tell with that gruff voice. Perhaps the man just thought he’d done it wrong, which he was sure he had. But then the almost-for-sure goat came bumping against his knee and the old man said in what was unmistakable amusement, “You milk Jesse. She never liked me. Was my boy’s pet.” Then in a more serious tone, “Goat milk is good for sickly young ones. We’ll warm up some for your friend, shall we?”

Ree didn’t like the emphasis on friend, but the old man looked as calm or as irascible as ever, and he seemed to want Jem to get better.