A Nest for Celeste.

A Story About Art, Inspiration, and the Meaning of Home.

by Henry Cole

CHAPTER ONE.

The Basket Maker.

She was weaving a basket from blades of dried gra.s.ses. Above her head was a shelf full of the baskets she had made, some with dried wildflowers or colored threads woven into them. Several had long shoulder straps, which made the baskets perfect for carrying bits of food or sc.r.a.ps of cloth. All of the baskets were skillfully made, with perfect knots and minuscule braids and weaving so tight the baskets could hold several thimblefuls of water or honey.

Celeste's newest basket was going to be of a design she hadn't tried before, with a side pocket and a fold-over flap to keep things from spilling out. Her nook was dim, but Celeste was used to it. From her pile of dried gra.s.ses she pulled another long blade and, using her teeth and nimble fingers, began twisting and weaving.

"Over, under, around, through, left over right..." said Celeste to herself as the gra.s.ses sang. The blades smelled sweetly of sunshine, of summertime.

As she wove them together she pondered over where the gra.s.ses may have grown. She had nearly forgotten what a sunny day was like. She spent her time under the floorboards, or upstairs in the dining room, furtively darting about in the shadows, searching for bits of food, plucking strands of horsehair from the dining-room chairs' seat cushions, or searching for bits of gra.s.s that had been tracked into the house on the shoes of humans. And always at night.

And lately Celeste had been finding something else on her expeditions upstairs: feathers. This was something new; she had never seen any before. Some were as small as her ear; others, long and pointy. Some were soft brown, others vivid green, still others brilliant blue and white. More often than not, after a venture to the dining room or crossing the hallway, she would return with a feather.

Finally, her paws a bit numb, Celeste tied off the last knot and sat back to examine the completed basket. "Goes quickly, once you have a rhythm going," she mused.

Her nose twitched, and she brushed dust from her whiskers.

She heard the deep gong of the dining-room clock resonate through the floorboards above her head.

Then she heard a rustling sound, and she glanced nervously down into the darkness of the tunnel between the musty floor joists.

Two gray rats emerged from the shadows and crowded into Celeste's nook.

No, it wasn't living in the darkness under the floorboards that Celeste minded. But these two, they were a different story.

CHAPTER TWO.

Illianna and Trixie.

The first rat, Illianna, had small, narrow-set eyes like a pair of black pepper-corns and a tongue like a lancet.

"Honestly, Celeste, another of your precious baskets?" she hissed. "Don't you have anything better to do than this silly pastime?" She brushed the remaining gra.s.ses off the table, then slumped in a chair.

The other rat, Trixie, began pilfering Celeste's food stores, searching through her baskets, helping herself. Celeste felt defenseless against the two marauders, who frequently bullied their way into her nook, ransacking and filching.

"Hmm...bread crust...more bread crusts..." Trixie said, her raspy voice wheezing between bites. "This bread is moldy! Where're the good bits, missy?"

"Um...what good bits, Trixie?"

"'What good bits, Trixie?'" In an instant the rat whirled around and nipped Celeste on the back. Celeste squealed. The pain was sudden and intense. In an instant the rat whirled around and nipped Celeste on the back. Celeste squealed. The pain was sudden and intense.

"You know what good bits!" Trixie screeched. "The really tasty bits...the bacon sc.r.a.ps and the sausage bits and the biscuit pieces.... You've hidden them from us, haven't you?"

"N-n-no, honestly," Celeste stammered.

"Try looking in her bed." Illianna squinted at her.

Trixie yanked the oily sc.r.a.p of rag off Celeste's bed.

"Nothing!" she hollered. "There's nothing here! Well, then, you'd better get to it, missy. Take one of those baskets to the dining room and bring back something good. And mind you. No eating along the way! I'll smell your breath when you get back just to make sure."

"But I hear humans in the dining room.... It's still early yet."

"Well, I'm hungry!" Trixie snapped, and she made a sudden move, as though she were about to bite Celeste again.

"Me, too," Illianna chimed in. "Just keep to the shadows. Keep track of where the food is falling. And watch out for the cat."

Celeste obeyed the two rats. She knew if she didn't, the shoving and biting and insults and bullying would only increase. She skittered down the dark pa.s.sage.

CHAPTER THREE.

Mr. Audubon.

Celeste sat in the shadows beneath the sideboard, listening and watching. She was worried about being seen, even a glimpse. Once she had clumsily let her tail protrude from the shadows, and a lady had screamed and dropped a dish. She wouldn't let that happen again.

She watched for the cat, a silent ma.s.s of gray fur that roamed the dining room. She saw five sets of shoes around the dining-room table. This meant that there were guests dining.

Two pairs belonged to the ladies of the house; she had seen them before and knew them well, remembering their silk shoes beneath the rustling skirts and petticoats.

Another pair of shoes at the head of the table belonged to the master of the house. Celeste had seen him before, too. He had a fuzzy set of graying whiskers on each cheek and a red nose. Celeste noticed a napkin fall as he scooted his chair back and stood up.

"And now, Mr. Audubon," he said. "May I formally welcome you and your young a.s.sistant to Oakley Plantation and wish you a happy stay here." There was a clinking of gla.s.ses.

"Merci...ah, thank you, Monsieur Pirrie," boomed another deep voice. "Both Joseph and I are so very grateful for your hospitality. Your good wife, Madame Pirrie, is a most charming hostess. And your daughter, Miss Eliza, is a delight; I look forward to instructing her in the art of dancing, of drawing, and of painting. She looks to be someone...mmm...light on her toes? And she is now at the age to have dancing with many beaux beaux, yes? Outgrown the dolls, yes? I have the latest gavottes and cotillions from Paris for her to learn."

"Excellent, Audubon," said Mr. Pirrie. "That sounds fine, mighty fine. I can't have my daughter right on the verge of bein' courted by every buck in the parish and not knowin' the proper way to dance. That Mr. Bradford over at Bayou Sara has taken on a fancy teacher for his daughters, and I won't give Liza anything less. I'll leave you in charge of all the drawin' and the dance steps."

"Thank you, monsieur monsieur."

"And I understand that you'll be studyin' the birds around here? And paintin' their pictures?"

"Their portraits, monsieur monsieur. Yes, I will be collecting specimens of as many different species as I possibly can when not instructing Miss Eliza here. It is my intent to paint the portraits of every single species of bird in North America. And to paint the birds in their natural surroundings, and as lifelike as possible."

"Quite an undertaking!"

"Yes, it is indeed. And this evening I have brought along an example of what I am trying to achieve." He held up the large sheet of paper. "Voila...a canvas-back duck."

Celeste could see a painting of a beautiful bird.

"Very nice, very nice indeed, Audubon," said Mr. Pirrie.

"It's quite large," commented Mrs. Pirrie.

"Yes, it is. It is life-size. I have much to do. It may take many, many months. My a.s.sistant here, Monsieur Joseph, is but a lad but is quite capable as an artist himself. He will be helping me with backgrounds perhaps, yes, Joseph?"

Celeste heard another voice, younger and softer. Still keeping to the shadows, she very carefully peeked up at the table.

"Yes, sir," the boy answered. He looked much younger than the other men. His hair was the color of a chestnut, and his face was smooth. His eyes were wide and pale blue; Celeste noticed something melancholy in them.

"Parents alive, son?" Mr. Pirrie asked.

"Yes, sir. In Cincinnati, sir," Joseph replied.

"Cincinnati? That's quite a ways from here...several weeks' journey! You're a long way from home, young fella."

Celeste watched Joseph as he ate. That explains the lost look on his face, That explains the lost look on his face, she thought. she thought. He's a long way from home. And lonely, too. He's a long way from home. And lonely, too.

"Monsieur Joseph has been a student of mine," Audubon explained. "The training and experience he receives as my a.s.sistant is invaluable. His mama and papa see that he has talent; he may at some point be quite capable at the botanicals."

"Botanicals, eh? That's plants and such, am I right?"

"Yes, sir," said Joseph. "Mr. Pirrie, I noticed that you have several magnificent magnolia trees in your yard...in full bloom. I've never seen such beautiful trees. And some outstanding specimens of tulip poplar, as well. Perhaps we can use those in our paintings?"

Mr. Pirrie looked pleased. "That'd be fine, son, just fine," he said.

The conversation turned to the weather, to the crops, and to horses as Celeste watched carefully for crumbs dropping to the carpet. Eventually, the candles and oil lamps were snuffed out for the evening. The dining room was dark and silent. Celeste prepared to venture out from beneath the sideboard to gather the remains of the meal.

CHAPTER FOUR.

A Sudden Departure.

Celeste felt a shove as Illianna and Trixie suddenly appeared behind her.

"Where've you been?" Illianna whispered. "We're practically starving, and you're here dawdling. I tell you, Trix, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself." She sniffed the air. "Mmm. Something smells good." Her nose told her that with guests in the house, the spoils under the table were improving; and she was anxious to take advantage of things and sample every morsel.

She turned to Celeste. "You wait here," she said. "I don't want you getting all the good pieces first. Keep an eye out for the cat. Come along, Trix!"

The two shadows paused beneath the sideboard. Their noses waved back and forth as they studied the field of carpet and the forest of table and chair legs. They listened. Except for the ticking of the hallway clock, the only thing they heard was the galloping of their own heartbeats.

Trixie's nose sniffed the air. "That's piecrust," she whispered.

"Yes, indeedy, it is," replied Illianna.

"And is that spoon bread?"

"Last one there is a rotten egg!"

"Don't make me drool!"

And the two rats scampered out from under the sideboard, carefully hugging the wall, following their noses to the broken piece of fallen piecrust.

No one saw the cat, seated on the needlepoint cushion of a dining-room chair, as it suddenly stop licking between two back toes. It peered into the shadows, pupils darkening, eyes as wide as those of an owl on a moonless night, watching the two shapes scurrying along the baseboard. It raised its rear haunches slightly, careful to use only the necessary muscles, with only barely detectable movement. No blinking of the eyes, or flicking of the ears. No twitch of the tail.

The shadows made a sharp turn, away from the wall and straight to the table.

The cat grinned. Its back feet shifted ever so slightly, tensed and ready to pounce.

Illianna, whose favorite thing was day-old piecrust, suddenly stopped. "Wait!" She sniffed again. "That's piecrust...and something else."

A moment too late.

There was a ripping sound of claws on carpet as the two rats split paths, Trixie racing hysterically toward the front screen door and Illianna attempting to rapidly circle back to safety under the sideboard.

But in an instant the cat predicted Illianna's turn and cut her off. There came a terrible, frantic, high-pitched squeak for help, then a sound like wet fingers on a candle flame.

Frozen under the sideboard, Celeste squeaked in horror.

"Illianna!"

The cat ignored Celeste's piteous cry. Trixie, in a frenzy, scrambled and wiggled through a crack under the screen door and ran out into the dark evening.

Except for the soft ticking of the hallway clock, the dining room was again quiet, though Celeste's head echoed with the sound of Illianna's death cry.

She was alone.