Chapter 1: The Falcon

Peregrine was a carefree lad. In fact, he really had nothing to care about. It had been that way all his life, which he cared so little for, he didn’t even know how old he was.

His friends would have called him Peri—would have, if he had any friends. Oh, he knew many people, but only a bit. He met them as he wandered about the countryside, working a little here and there as was needed to receive food or to buy clothing. As a hard worker when called upon, he developed into a strong lad. He was fair of face, not growing more than a few foolish wisps of beard, which he plucked out as an annoyance. Lately, people had begun to notice him for more than his strong back and ability to talk to animals.

Peri, however—we’ll assume we are friends—was never lonely. It seemed wherever he lay his head, this animal or that would cuddle up next to him for warmth and company. They would have excellent conversations.

“Br’er Fox,” Peri might ask one night as he lay on a bed of pine needles, “I think I will turn toward the south for a while. What think you of that?”

“My home lies that direction. If I might accompany you so far, perhaps I can persuade your help in a certain matter.”

“My friend, you have only to ask. My arms and legs are yours.”

And so, Peri began traveling south with the fox. Of course, the fox had a proper name, but it is irreproducible by the letters on a keyboard, so we’ll forget about that.

“Tell me what it is that has you in need of my help.”

“For many years, my family has lived peacefully near the farm of Old Mik Dohnel. He’s a kind old man and in the depth of winter has overlooked an occasional missing chicken, which has served to keep my own kits alive.”

Now, if Br’er Fox had to make all those words with his mouth, he would have been as hopeless at communicating as if we tried to type his language. But Peregrine had always—as long as he remembered—been able to talk to most animals and to understand what they said in return. For this reason, he was called upon to help one poor animal or another as often as he was called upon to help a person.

“Farmer Dohnel is a kind man,” Peri said. “I would love to pay him a visit.”

“He is getting very old and his son is doing much of the farming now. I fear the son is not as kindly as his father. He has actually been out hunting my family and one of my kits narrowly escaped this fall. Can you speak to him? Plead for him to leave us alone?” asked the fox.

“I will certainly do my best,” said Peregrine. “Perhaps if I agree to help bring in the harvest, he will listen to me.”

And so, they traveled companionably until they reached the lands of Old Mik Dohnel. Fox went to his den and Peri went to the farmhouse to inquire after the old man.

“Ah, Peregrine! Come in and have dinner with us,” the old man said when he saw the wanderer nearing his house. “Tell us the news of the world as you sup with us.”

And so, Peregrine sat at table with the farmer and his wife, the son and his wife, and their small child.

“I hope I can repay your kindness by helping with the harvest,” Peri began.

“Yes!” the son responded before his father could answer. “There is more to be done in the fields than ever. We need to build a new storehouse for grain because the mice are infesting the old one. My father is too old to do the work he once did and it all falls on me!”

“How does it come that the grain house is infested with mice? I thought the cats were taking care of them,” Peregrine asked.

“Cats! Worthless excuses for animals. Won’t obey. Won’t come when called. Can’t eat them. They scratch if you pet them. Vicious little pests. What are they good for?” the younger Dohnel growled.

“I’m afraid the cats have all left,” the farmer said. “My son, Maks, got in the habit of throwing stones at them. You know, they don’t stay where they aren’t appreciated.”

“If we build a better storehouse, we won’t have need of such nonsense,” the son shook his head. “We’ll make it so strong the mice can’t get in.”

“That’s an expensive proposition,” the farmer said. “And to be that strong, there would need to be no holes or gaps anywhere in the grain rooms. Without air, the grain will compost and you know rotting grain is explosive. We could lose everything.”

“There is a way to reduce the mice problem without building a new storehouse,” Peregrine ventured.

“And without cats?”

“Yes. But you would need to allow the fox into the grainery.”

“The fox!” exploded the young man. “Miserable vermin. Took a chicken last winter. I’ve been hunting for them. Almost got one last week.”

“We’ve never suffered from the fox’s occasional theft of a chicken,” Old Dohnel said. “He has to feed his family just as we do. And there is plenty to feed our family and his.”