Momma Says (part 5)
Momma says they found Old Maple, our cow, at another farm that didn’t have people anymore. She says the house was falling in on itself, the fields choked with weeds, but in the barn, they heard her crying. She wasn’t alone, her calf was with her, calling back, the two of them making such a racket that Momma says she thought the whole world would come running.
It was hard to bring them home. Cows don’t understand quiet the way we have to. They bellowed and stomped, and their voices carried out across the empty land like bells. Momma says that night, the mean people followed the noise. Dad had to fight them off while Momma pulled me close and tried to hush the calf. She doesn’t tell me what happened to those people. She just says they didn’t follow anymore.
Momma says it was worth it, even with the danger. Old Maple gives us milk every day, filling our bellies when there isn’t much else. Momma makes butter, cheese, and even yogurt, which she says feels almost like the old world, when you could buy anything you wanted from the store. Walt doesn’t care about that. He just loves Old Maple. He feeds her treats from his hand and laughs so loud you’d think he’d forgotten we’re supposed to be quiet.
Not long ago, Dad found Old Maple’s husband wandering alone in the woods. He brought him back and Walt named him Mr. Muffin. I don’t know why he picked that name, but Momma didn’t argue. Mr. Muffin is bigger and louder than Old Maple, his hooves striking the ground like thunder. Walt thinks he’s funny, but Dad says we can’t pet him. He’s not tame, not like her.
The problem is, they both make noise. Too much noise. Every moo, every stomp echoes out into the trees, bouncing around like a signal. Sometimes I imagine the mean people lying out there in the grass, their ears searching, waiting for sounds like these to guide them.
That’s why Dad always goes first to the barn. He crouches low, moves quiet, and scans the edges of the fields before waving us forward. Walt doesn’t like waiting. He shifts from foot to foot until Dad finally nods. I keep hold of his hand because if I don’t, he’ll run ahead, eager to feed Old Maple, eager to laugh again.
Dad says the cows are the only reason we can live here. “They keep us strong,” he tells me. “Strong enough to work, strong enough to fight, strong enough to stay.” He says protecting them is the most important job after protecting each other.
Sometimes, when the barn falls silent at night, I hear other sounds in the distance. Shouts, maybe, or screams, and sometimes, low moans that could be voices or could just be the wind.
I never ask Dad about them, but I see his face when he pauses in the doorway, listening. His shoulders go stiff, and his hand finds the handle of his weapon.
I know then what he’s thinking.
The cows keep us alive, but the noise they make might one day be the end of us.
