Roderick. "Millicent was completely oblivious." They were in the chancel, seated together at the base of the lectern, dining together on a selection of crumbs and a smear of apricot jam, all of it salvaged from the kitchen wastebasket.
Roderick delicately cleaned one whisker with a paw. He sucked some jam from one of his big front teeth. He and Hildegarde chose different dining places each day, and although the base of the lectern was a favoriteâit was pleasant to lean back against the polished woodâit had the disadvantage of no napkins. When they dined in the sacristy, with all of its stored vestments, there was always an alb or a stole handy for wiping one's mouth and whiskers. He tidied himself as best he could without a napkin. Then he said, echoing Hildegarde, "The time of year."
(Roderick didn't have any idea what she was talking about. But he had found that sometimes, to avoid sounding stupid, it was wise simply to repeat.)
She nibbled her final crumb, and said meaningfully, "The church calendar."
"Yes," Roderick repeated. "The church calendar."
"The Feast of Saint Francis," Hildegarde said meaningfully.
"Of course." Roderick licked a little jam from his paw. "I do love the word
feast,
don't you?"
"Roderick! You do remember Saint Francis, of course? Look
up,
would you?"
Oh, dear. Hildegarde was using her extremely exasperated voice. And she was
pointing.
He tried very hard to recall what she meant. He looked up. Oh, yes. Stained-glass windows. Saints.
He chose one at random, gazed at it ruefully, and hoped he was correct. "Arrows in the stomach! Dreadful. Absolutely dreadful."
She gave him a withering look. "That's Saint Sebastian."
"I knew that," he said hastily. He looked around. There were numerous windows depicting people in
pain of various kinds. But he followed Hildegarde's pointing paw, and suddenly there he wasâhow could Roderick have forgotten?âSaint Francis, the one smiling, with a bird on his shoulder and another eating from his outstretched hand.
"Dear Saint Francis," Roderick said reverently.
"Lover of animals," Hildegarde murmured, gazing at the window where the saint, in his simple brown robe, was depicted in translucent shades of colored glass. Then she shook herself. "Anyway, his feast day is October fourth. You surely knew that."
Roderick smiled politely, hiding his ignorance.
"It's a terribly dangerous time for us. We've had some very narrow escapes on October fourths in the past," she reminded him. "Especially if it rains."
"Indeed. Very narrow."
"Oh, Roderick, you old fool. You don't have any idea what I'm talking about! And," she added, "you have jam on one whisker. Tidy yourself, please, at once."
He did so, and then held his head for her inspection. He so hoped Hildegarde would find him, well, attractive.
But she simply nodded in approval that the jam had been removed. "It's the Blessing of the Animals," she explained impatiently.
Roderick gulped.
Now
he remembered. How could one forget such a frightening event? "Oh my goodness," he said with a shudder. "Cats."
"Exactly. We must pray."
"Now?"
"Now wouldn't hurt. It's probably a good idea to start well in advance."
Roderick nodded, brushed a crumb from his belly fur, bowed his head, and cleared his throat. "Heavenly Father," he began in as humble a tone as possible, "this is a church mouse speaking. We are understandably fearful of cats."
Hildegarde, beside him, murmured her own version, and together they explained the dangerous situation coming up and asked for heightened security and a day with bright sunshine. "If it be Thy will," Hildegarde added politely at the conclusion.
"Yes, of course," Roderick said. "Amen."
***
The Blessing of the Animals took place every year at Saint Bartholemew'sâoutdoors, in the churchyard garden, if the weather was good, and fortunately it had been, for several years now. Rain? The whole thing moved inside. For the church mice, a rainy October fourth was much
Roderick delicately cleaned one whisker with a paw. He sucked some jam from one of his big front teeth. He and Hildegarde chose different dining places each day, and although the base of the lectern was a favoriteâit was pleasant to lean back against the polished woodâit had the disadvantage of no napkins. When they dined in the sacristy, with all of its stored vestments, there was always an alb or a stole handy for wiping one's mouth and whiskers. He tidied himself as best he could without a napkin. Then he said, echoing Hildegarde, "The time of year."
(Roderick didn't have any idea what she was talking about. But he had found that sometimes, to avoid sounding stupid, it was wise simply to repeat.)
She nibbled her final crumb, and said meaningfully, "The church calendar."
"Yes," Roderick repeated. "The church calendar."
"The Feast of Saint Francis," Hildegarde said meaningfully.
"Of course." Roderick licked a little jam from his paw. "I do love the word
feast,
don't you?"
"Roderick! You do remember Saint Francis, of course? Look
up,
would you?"
Oh, dear. Hildegarde was using her extremely exasperated voice. And she was
pointing.
He tried very hard to recall what she meant. He looked up. Oh, yes. Stained-glass windows. Saints.
He chose one at random, gazed at it ruefully, and hoped he was correct. "Arrows in the stomach! Dreadful. Absolutely dreadful."
She gave him a withering look. "That's Saint Sebastian."
"I knew that," he said hastily. He looked around. There were numerous windows depicting people in
pain of various kinds. But he followed Hildegarde's pointing paw, and suddenly there he wasâhow could Roderick have forgotten?âSaint Francis, the one smiling, with a bird on his shoulder and another eating from his outstretched hand.
"Dear Saint Francis," Roderick said reverently.
"Lover of animals," Hildegarde murmured, gazing at the window where the saint, in his simple brown robe, was depicted in translucent shades of colored glass. Then she shook herself. "Anyway, his feast day is October fourth. You surely knew that."
Roderick smiled politely, hiding his ignorance.
"It's a terribly dangerous time for us. We've had some very narrow escapes on October fourths in the past," she reminded him. "Especially if it rains."
"Indeed. Very narrow."
"Oh, Roderick, you old fool. You don't have any idea what I'm talking about! And," she added, "you have jam on one whisker. Tidy yourself, please, at once."
He did so, and then held his head for her inspection. He so hoped Hildegarde would find him, well, attractive.
But she simply nodded in approval that the jam had been removed. "It's the Blessing of the Animals," she explained impatiently.
Roderick gulped.
Now
he remembered. How could one forget such a frightening event? "Oh my goodness," he said with a shudder. "Cats."
"Exactly. We must pray."
"Now?"
"Now wouldn't hurt. It's probably a good idea to start well in advance."
Roderick nodded, brushed a crumb from his belly fur, bowed his head, and cleared his throat. "Heavenly Father," he began in as humble a tone as possible, "this is a church mouse speaking. We are understandably fearful of cats."
Hildegarde, beside him, murmured her own version, and together they explained the dangerous situation coming up and asked for heightened security and a day with bright sunshine. "If it be Thy will," Hildegarde added politely at the conclusion.
"Yes, of course," Roderick said. "Amen."
***
The Blessing of the Animals took place every year at Saint Bartholemew'sâoutdoors, in the churchyard garden, if the weather was good, and fortunately it had been, for several years now. Rain? The whole thing moved inside. For the church mice, a rainy October fourth was much
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