Here it is, the full chapter one of The Moonhound, my forthcoming novella and the planned first book in the Wakerobin Hollow series! (The chapter may change a bit since I'm still editing and revising the book.)

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CHAPTER ONE

The house was perfect. Alan jumped down from the carriage whilestaring at it, so that he stumbled and almost fell into the overgrownholly bush next to the mailbox. The house—and the holly, and themailbox—were all perfect, and they were all his.

He opened the mailbox door. It gave a rusty little squeak. Beforelong that squeak would become an everyday sound, but this was thefirst time he’d heard it and it too was perfect. The mailbox wasempty. On its side, the white paint still glossy underneath a coatingof dust and pollen, the name “COX” was painted in awkwardletters. Alan wondered if he should leave it or paint it out to addhis own family name, Green.

“Your bags, mister uh Rabbit,” said the driver, a young fox whosecap was too big for him. He’d clearly forgotten Alan’s name.

“Thank you.” Alan took some coins from his vest pocket,remembered the length of the drive from Bird Gap, and added anothercoin. The fox mumbled his thanks and jumped back into the driver’sseat.

The pony clumped away on the dirt road, leaving Alan standing at hisfront gate with his luggage.

For a moment he felt overwhelmed. He didn’t know a soul here. Hehad never visited Wakerobin Hollow before, only heard stories of itscharms from his grandparents. He had bought the house without viewingit, relying on the reports of the houseagent he hired.

But the house was perfect. He picked up his bags and carried them tothe front door.

Before he could unlock it and see inside for the first time, he heardthe labored tread of hooves on the road again. A wagon drawn by twomules stopped where the carriage had stood only a few minutes before.

Alan set his bags down and hurried back to the road. “You made goodtime,” he said to the weasel who climbed down from the driver’sbench.

“We left before dawn.” The weasel touched his cap—technically agesture of respect, but his expression was so dignified that heseemed like an ancient lord bestowing an honor. “We’ll geteverything loaded in, just tell us where you want it.”

The weasel was skinny, his partner a remarkably stout groundhog, butthey were as strong as horses. Alan had no time to savor the viewingof his home’s interior, and instead kept hopping out of the men’sway as they carried in furniture and boxes. Their speed and strengthdiscombobulated him, so that he felt he should make his decisionsquickly too. At every “where do you want this’un?” he pointedalmost at random. He could move things around later.

“That’s all of it,” the weasel said at last. “We just needyou to sign.”

Alan followed him back to the wagon. The weasel climbed up toretrieve a clipboard, and spent far too long writing on it while Alanwaited next to the towering mules. It was absurd to be so nervous ofsimple animals, but their hooves were the size of platters. A singlekick would send him flying.

Finally the weasel presented the clipboard and a grease pencil. Alanscanned the page, barely taking any of it in, and scrawled his nameat the bottom. “Thank you. Here, split this between you and have adrink on me.”

The weasel gave him a toothy grin. “We’ll do that, once we’reback in civilization.”

Alan waited until the wagon was gone and silence fell again. It waslate morning and getting warm, and his ears kept twitching at springbirdsong. He wished he knew which box he’d packed his birdidentification guide in.

He walked around the house to look at the yard. It was overgrown buthe saw promise everywhere, from uneven ground that had once obviouslybeen tilled to patchy grass under windows that cried out forflowerbeds. Honeysuckle vines climbed on the vertical board fenceseparating his house from his nearest neighbor’s, the boards graywith age but still sturdy.

The ground behind his house sloped down toward a creek. He noted thepresence of old apple trees and a huge willow. Beyond the creek weremore trees and a glimpse of someone’s roof through the mostly barebranches. And all around, as Alan leaned his head back and turnedslowly to view his new home, the softly rounded tops of theAppalachian Mountains rose into the blue sky.

“Hello there.”

Alan jumped straight up. When he landed a split second later, he wasalready embarrassed at his reaction.

The cat leaning on the fence smiled. She was a gray tabby with whitewhiskers, her arms folded on the fence. How long had she beenstanding there, watching him unnoticed?

“Sorry to startle you. I’m Sarah Boone. It looks like we’reneighbors.” She had a light country accent, just like hisgrandparents.

“I’m Alan. Alan Green. Nice to meet you.”

They shook paws. Sarah wore a faded blue dress with its sleevesrolled up, like a caricature of an old mountain woman. There washumor and intelligence in her green eyes, though. Alan noted a basketof weeds and a trowel on the ground behind her.

She said, “What brings you to Wakerobin Holler?”

“My grandparents lived here as children. Jack Green and JuneCrossnoe. Probably before your time.”

“I knew the Crossnoes. They’ve all died out or moved away by now.Well, well.” Sarah regarded him with interest. “Are yourgrandparents still living?”

“Unfortunately not. I think they’d be happy I moved here.” Alangestured at his house. “This wasn’t where either of them lived,but I like it.”

“Yes, this is a good street. It’ll be nice to have a young personaround. So many of our young people have moved to cities. Are youmarried?”

“Not yet,” Alan said, embarrassed as always when he was asked thequestion. He hoped Sarah wasn’t going to pester him about why hehadn’t settled down yet. His parents were bad enough.

Instead she just said, “Can I help you unpack? I used to help oldMr. Cox when he lived here. He was awful weak at the end and couldn’tdo much for himself. He was a rabbit too, taught me near everything Iknow about gardening.”

Alan almost refused out of politeness. But if she didn’t want tohelp, she wouldn’t have offered. “I’d appreciate it if youcould help me get the kitchen set to rights.”

***

Two hours later, Alan and Sarah not only had the kitchen completelyunpacked and decorated, they’d done the same for the bedroom.Despite her age—she was older than Alan’s parents—Sarah hadunstoppable energy. “I like finishing a job once I’ve started,”she said finally, “but it’s well past lunchtime and I know youdon’t have any groceries yet. Come over to my house and we’lleat.”

“Thank you so much,” Alan said. He was famished and wanted abreak anyway.

Sarah’s house was larger than Alan’s, with an upper story and abig front porch. He noted with approval that the ceiling of the porchwas painted haint blue, to keep ghosts away. His grandparents hadtold him about it.

“We’ll eat in the kitchen,” Sarah said. “Give your paws awash.”

The kitchen was spotless, with gleaming pots and pans hung on hooks.Even the cast-iron stove looked freshly polished. Alan pumped waterinto a scrubbed enamel sink and washed his paws, and dried them on anembroidered hand towel that was soft with age.

“Have a seat. It’s just leftovers but I think we can fill youup.” Sarah set a basket on the table and unfolded a cloth to revealhalf a dozen biscuits, their tops golden brown. Alan felt his nosetwitch uncontrollably from the smell. And when she opened a mason jarfull of peach preserves, his paws shook with eagerness to grab thespoon from her.

“Made this myself last summer,” she said, slathering preservesthickly on two biscuits. She set them on a plate and slid it in frontof him. “Go ahead and eat.”

The preserves tasted of long, sun-drenched afternoons. Even cold, thebiscuits were flaky but firm, the perfect vehicle for the preserves.Alan sighed with satisfaction after the first bite.

“Tea.” Sarah set a tall glass in front of him, with a generousportion of ice chips in it. She had her own glass too and sat acrossfrom him to drink it and nibble one of the biscuits.

“This is perfect,” Alan said. “Thank you so much.”

“Have more if you’re still hungry. Help yourself. It’s been awhile since I had young ones to feed, but I still use the samerecipes. I get tired of day-old biscuits, to be honest.”

Alan took a swig of the tea. It was sweet and cold, and tastedfreshly brewed. “Do you have a family?”

“Three grown children. They moved away as soon as they could andonly visit over the holidays. My husband I’ve outlived.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Alan stopped stuffing himself for amoment out of respect.

“It was over ten years ago now,” Sarah said. “Hard to believe.He got mixed up with the moonhounds up on Cooter’s Ridge, owed themmoney he couldn’t pay. I didn’t know anything about it or I’dhave fixed it up, but the old knobhead didn’t think women needed toworry about money.” She sounded sad, not angry. “They tried totake it out of his hide and he never recovered. Died a month later.Then they visited me.”

Alan stopped chewing again, shocked at her words. He didn’t knowwhat moonhounds were and had never heard of Cooter’s Ridge, but itsounded terrifying. “What did they do?” he asked hesitantly, onceit was clear she was waiting for him to respond.

“Told me what the debt was and that it was my debt now. Oh, I wasmad! I’d just buried my man and my kittens were still half-grown. Igave the hounds what for, you bet. Told them how stupid they were,trying to beat coins out of a man’s hide, as if that ever worked. Ihad enough money saved to cover the debt, but I never gave them allof it. I gave them half, and said if they came near me or mine againI’d show up at their doorstep with my claws out.”

“Did they leave you alone after that?”

“Yes, but I locked my doors every night for a year after that.”

Alan regarded the old cat with respect. She wasn’t very big but shehad a wiry look, and he already knew she could move furniture almostas easily as he could.

Sarah finished her tea and set the glass down with a thump. Its sideswere beaded with moisture that had dripped onto the table, which wasscratched up and stained from a lifetime of use. Alan noticed thename Jim carved into the edge nearest him. A white cotton doilydecorated the middle of the table, a yellow glass bowl sitting on it.

Sarah said, “If you’re done, I’ll walk you to the town centerand show you around. You can put a grocery order in and Otto’s boywill deliver it.”

“That sounds good. I’d like to see everything.”

“There ain’t much to see.” Sarah took his plate and empty glassand set them in the sink. “You’re from a big city, right? I cantell by the way you talk. You’ll be bored here, I bet. What do youdo?”

Alan followed her into the back yard through a wooden screen doorthat banged shut behind him. He wasn’t sure what question to answerfirst. “I used to work at a magazine in Foxville, the MountainReview.”

“That’s nice. I can’t say I’ve heard of it,” Sarah said.She cut across the yard to the road.

“No one much has and it closed a few months ago. But my grandfatherleft me some money when he died.” Alan hesitated, then said shyly,“I decided to move up here and write a book.”

“A book! Well, that’s exciting. We had a writer living here awhile back, Frank Nolan, but he only wrote about his childhoodgrowing up in Bird Gap. He paid a company to print up copies and usedto sell them every chance he got. I’ve got a copy on my shelves, ofcourse.”

“Ah,” Alan said, trying not to wince.

“It’s called Too Wet to Plow. His grandson drew the cover.Thank goodness Frank died two years ago because it’s a terriblebook and you shouldn’t have to buy one from him.”

Alan laughed and relaxed. He was lucky to have a neighbor with asense of humor.

“I used to teach school,” Sarah said. “That was before I had myown kits.”

“Do you miss teaching?”

“Sometimes, but I don’t have the energy to keep up with young’unsthese days.” Sarah pointed at a house across the road from hers.“That’s the Ridenour house, although there’s no Ridenours leftthese days. The Fosters moved in after Old Man Ridenour died, butthat was years ago and it’s just Cleta Foster left. She’s gettinga bit frail.” Sarah pointed at the next house along as they walked,this one set well back from the road and surrounded by trees. “Theartist lives there, Margaret Dove-wah.”

Alan realized Sarah must be trying to say Dubois, althoughfrom the cat’s tone, she might have been mispronouncing the name onpurpose. Sarah continued, “I’ll not say much about her sinceshe’s a rabbit. You can decide if she puts on airs. Her roses arebeautiful, though, I’ll give her that.”

Alan noted the mailbox, painted with a lifelike spray of pink dogwoodblossoms, and decided he would visit Margaret Dubois soon.

The dirt road curved through the trees, with houses at irregularintervals. Some yards were neatly kept, some weedy and overgrown.Sarah kept up her commentary, dropping names Alan struggled toimpress into his memory, and recounting the misfortunes of thefamilies associated with each house.

It was interesting, and a beautiful walk through the spring sunshine,but Alan wished Sarah would tell him about more cheerful events.Before long he wanted to hear about so-and-so’s marriage ortalented children.

“We’re almost there,” Sarah said at last. “I’m sure it’snothing compared to Foxville, but we’ve got a post office and abank and a grocery store. That’s more than most towns up this way.”

The road widened and turned into a brick-paved square. The brickswere weathered and weeds straggled up between them, but overall itlooked tidy. The post office was a tiny wooden building to the left,the bank a larger stone building to the right, and the grocery storestraight ahead was a mix of stone and wood, and was bigger than bothof the other buildings put together. It had a long covered porch withseveral mismatched chairs, and a faded sign in the front window thatread “Special Today Apples.”

A bell jingled when Sarah pushed the door open. It was dim inside andsmelled of overripe fruit, and at first Alan didn’t see anyone.Sarah announced, “Yoo-hoo, Otto, Alan Green’s just moved in andneeds a bunch of groceries.”

A voice from the nearby counter said, “Hello there, Mr. Green. Youmoved into old Mr. Cox’s house, right? I heard tell from purt’neareverybody that it was sold. You kin to the Coxes?”

Alan’s eyes had adjusted to the lower light by then and he finallymade out the speaker, a short, plump groundhog whose fur was speckledwith gray. Alan said, “No, but my grandparents grew up here.”

“Green, Green. Oh, that’d be Charlie Green’s boy. Let’s see,what was his name? Paul?”

“Jack, actually. He married June Crossnoe.”

“Did he, now? Well well. And here you are.” Otto tutted tohimself for a few moments, apparently lost in thought.

Sarah said, “He’ll need a lot of groceries. Is your boy around?”

“Somewhere. I’ll run him down soon.” Otto didn’t look asthough he’d run anything or anyone down for decades. He shuffledaround behind the counter and produced a grubby notebook and a pairof spectacles, which he perched on his short muzzle. Then he peeredup at Alan with his pencil poised over the paper. “All right.”

Alan realized with dismay that he would have to dictate what heneeded to the groundhog. He barely knew where to begin. “Um, flour.Sugar. Baking soda—”

“Wait, wait,” Otto muttered. Alan watched him laboriously writeFLOUR at the top of the page.

Sarah said, “I’ll see you later, Alan. Welcome to Wakerobin.”

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