The Tale of Applebeck Orchard

by Susan Albert

  And I daresay Bosworth is right. Holly How is a rocky hill not far above the village of Near Sawrey. Wilfin Beck curls like a silver ribbon around its foot and Cuckoo Brow Wood rises darkly at its back, climbing the steep slope of Claife Heights and spilling over the top and down all the way to Lake Windermere. From Holly How, Bosworth can look in several directions, toward the neat green pastures of Holly How Farm, where Jeremy Crosfield lives with his aunt (when he’s not away at school, that is) and toward the darker shadows of Tidmarsh Manor, where Caroline Longford lives with her grandmother. He can’t see Near or Far Sawrey, for they are tucked away behind other hills. But he knows the hamlets are there, for he’s visited them many times on the nocturnal journeys that badgers like to take in search of brambles and gooseberries, unguarded hens’ nests, and apples. As a matter of fact, Bosworth is well acquainted with Mathilda Crook’s gooseberries, Bertha Stubbs’ chicken coop, and Mr. Harmsworth’s apple trees, although he always tries very hard not to take the very last of anything. He feels bound by the Twelfth Badger Rule of Thumb, you see: When helping oneself in someone else’s garden patch, one must not be greedy but mindful of others who depend upon the same food. It is only good manners to leave a little for the gardener.

  At the moment, though, Bosworth is not thinking of nocturnal adventures in the gardens of the twin Sawreys. He is drinking his tea, nibbling his scone, and trying to solve a problem—a very large and perplexing problem. We might even call it a conundrum, unless you’re getting tired of that term, which seems to be coming up rather often in this story. If you are, we shall have to think of another word for it.

  The puzzle is this. Bosworth is getting on in years, you see. His muzzle is graying, he is slowing down, and he is becoming more and more forgetful. Whilst he is still able to fulfill his basic obligations as host of The Brockery and official clan historian and keeper of the History of the Badgers of the Land Between the Lakes and its companion Genealogy, he knows that the time is coming when he shall have to turn these important responsibilities over to a younger badger. The trouble is that he is the very last badger in the long lineage of Holly How badgers. There is no younger badger to whom he might hand the task.

  For this grim situation, Bosworth knew that he had no one to blame but himself. Things might have been very different if he had obeyed his parents’ wishes, stayed on at The Brockery or settled nearby, and fathered a family. But as a youth, he had been restless and even a little reckless, eager to fare as far afield and enjoy as many adventures as any young badger could, giving no thought to having a family. He had returned from his journeys only when his father wrote that he was dying and wished to pass on the Badger Badge of Authority to his eldest son.

  This Badge authorizes the holder to carry on the work of the badgers of Holly How. It is a round wooden disk suspended from a blue-and-gold woven ribbon and brightly emblazoned with the Badger Coat of Arms, twin badgers rampant on an azure field, with a shield inscribed in Latin with the family motto:

  De Parvis, grandis acervus erit.

  In English: From small things, there will grow a mighty heap. Or as the local badgers put it: Many littles make a mickle, Many mickles make a mile. It refers, Bosworth understood, to the badgers’ habit of excavating their burrows inch by inch, foot by foot, one generation after another generation, until there was a mile or more of intricate underground tunnels and great heaps of dirt piled outside the various doors. Which is why badgers inherit dwellings that are much too large for them, and feel obliged to share with others.

  On official occasions, Bosworth wore the Badge proudly around his neck, and looked forward to passing it on to the next generation. But therein lay the rub, for Bosworth had no eldest son, no son, nor any children at all. Now, personally, this was not an issue for him. He did not feel the lack of a family, for he was affectionately viewed as a pater fa milias by the many animals who called The Brockery home, and he fondly considered all of them—even the rabbits and spiders and occasional vagrant fox—to be his true relations and friends. But he deeply regretted the lack of an heir where the Genealogy and the History were concerned, for it was unthinkable that these important documents—which consisted of some two dozen leather-bound volumes shelved in The Brockery’s library—should come to an end for want of someone to maintain them.

  However, there it was. Unthinkable it might be, but he had to think it. He had been putting it off for months, ignoring the nagging voice at the back of his mind reminding him that he had failed in one of his most significant duties: to identify a young male badger worthy of wearing the Badge of Authority and carrying on the great work of the History and the Genealogy.

  This is not to say that he hadn’t tried. Oh, no, not at all! For a time, Bosworth thought he had found exactly the right badger: Thorn, a strong, promising young fellow with a great intelligence and a willing heart, who had seemed to be all the things a badger could want in a son and heir. But Thorn, like Bosworth himself, was restless (this is in the nature of young male badgers, I suppose), and at the beginning of the year he had gone off to see the Wide World. He had promised to keep the badgers of Holly How (his mother, Primrose, The Brockery’s housekeeper; his sister Hyacinth; and Bosworth) informed of his whereabouts, for he knew that all of them would worry.

  But nearly nine months had gone by and nothing at all had been heard of Thorn. No penny postcards, no wish-you-were-heres, no reassuring words brought by nomadic animals who had happened to meet the intrepid explorer deep in a tropical jungle or in an exotic foreign bazaar. Not a single word, which was very unlike young Thorn, who felt a strong tie to his mother and a great affection for Bosworth. If he had been able to communicate, he would have, and that was that.

  The badgers tried to keep their spirits up, but their hopes were rapidly fading. All three were well aware of the Thirteenth Badger Rule of Thumb: Animals are prone to accidents, and there are many traps and snares in this dark and uncertain world. After all this time, they had to accept the sad truth. It was quite likely that they would never see Thorn again.

  When confronted with such a hard truth, animals find it of no use to whine and complain—that is a human habit. So as Bosworth drank his tea and looked out over the green velvet valley of Wilfin Beck, he was trying to formulate a strategy for dealing with the vexing matter of the Badge, the History, and the Genealogy. He had thought of a solution, a rather creative solution. It had popped into his mind a few days ago whilst he was making an index of the last three dozen entries in the History.

  But the solution was a radical one, very radical. Such a thing as Bosworth imagined had never before been attempted (or if it had, he had never heard about it), and he wondered what the other animals might think. What he needed was some expert advice. He should have to take up the matter with a certain learned friend who had a very good head where things like rules and precedents and so forth were concerned. His friend would no doubt be able to make a suggestion.

  Bosworth closed his eyes for a closer examination of this perplexing problem (badgers always think better with their eyes shut). A moment or two (or perhaps a half hour) later, he found himself jolted awake by a rush of air and a solid THWUNK.

  “Gooood mooorning, Badger,” said the owl, for it was he who had just dropped down out of the sky: Professor Galileo Newton Owl, D.Phil., one of the largest (and certainly the wisest) tawny owls in the whole of the Land Between the Lakes. “And how are yooou this fine mooorning?”

  The badger blinked. It was rather unsettling to be thwunked awake. “I am well,” he said, and picked up the teapot, which seemed to have grown a bit cool in its cozy during his nap. “Do you have time for a cup, Owl? There is a question I should like to ask you.”

  “B’lieve I dooo,” agreed the owl, and pushed his daytime flying goggles (the ones with the dark lenses) to the top of his head. The professor had a wide reputation among the animals in the Land Between the Lakes and was known by a great many of the Big Folk, as well. He lived in a great hollow beech tree
at the top of Cuckoo Brow Wood, where he studied the stars. He enjoyed an international reputation for his scholarship in celestial mechanics, and this with very good reason, for he spent the hours from midnight to dawn in his treetop observatory, searching the sky with his telescope and making notes in his celestial logbook. He was also an enthusiastic naturalist, taking a special interest in the nocturnal habits of the scaled, winged, and furred creatures who frequented the fells and dales. He carried out his investigations from dusk to midnight, generously inviting his research subjects to be guests at his table. He therefore spent a great deal of time on the wing above the Land Between the Lakes, and since his eyesight was very sharp, there was not much that escaped his notice.

  The professor took his cup and held it delicately in his wingtips. (I hope someday you will have the opportunity to see an owl do this, for it is quite an amusing sight.)

  “Before you ask your question,” he announced importantly, “I have news.”

  “Of Thorn?” Bosworth asked eagerly. This was quite natural, I suppose, since he had been thinking of that dear boy shortly before the professor dropped in.

  “Nooo,” the owl said, with a look that said he was very sorry. “It is about the fooootpath throoough Applebeck Orchard.”

  Bosworth sighed. If Thorn were anywhere in the district, the professor would know. So he must be elsewhere, or dead. “What about the footpath?”

  “Mr. Harmswooorth has closed it with wire and wooood and tar. The villagers are deeply disturbed. Some—the Ramblers, particularly—are threatening to take the matter intooo their own hands. I predict perturbations,” the professor added gloomily. “Violent perturbations.” He was fond of big words.

  Bosworth sat up straight. “Closed the footpath!” he exclaimed. “That’s very bad news, Owl. Very bad news indeed.” He shook his head, remembering other footpath controversies, at Ambleside two years before, in the Wythburn Valley, and at Keswick much earlier, where hundreds of people had come out to protest, owing to barricades that landowners had placed across the paths, all of which was recorded in the History. “Any idea why Mr. Harmsworth is doing this?”

  “Why, tooo keep people off his land,” the owl replied, and sipped his tea.

  “I understand,” Bosworth said impatiently. “But why? People have been using that path for . . . well, centuries, I suppose.”

  “Ah,” said the owl. “Yes. Well, I overheard him tooo say that he’s lost apples tooo the children and a haystack tooo fire, caused by a Rambler. ‘Enough is enough,’ he says.”

  Bosworth looked away, thinking guiltily of the apples he had enjoyed the previous week. But surely he had not taken enough to—

  “But those are not the real reasons,” the professor went on in a knowing tone.

  “Really?” asked Bosworth. “Well, then, what is?”

  “It’s very simple. He intends tooo sell Applebeck Farm, and the prospective purchaser has told him that there’ll be more money if the public access has been cut off.” The professor peered over his beak at the plate at Bosworth’s elbow. “Are those raisin scones, by any chance?”

  “I’m sorry,” Bosworth said apologetically. “I should have thought. Yes, raisin scones. Parsley’s finest. Do help yourself, old chap.” Parsley was known far and wide as an excellent cook, and many animals stopped at The Brockery just to sample her cuisine.

  “Thank yooou,” said the professor, and did so forthwith. “Of course,” he added, munching, “Mr. Harmsworth does not intend for anyone tooo know about the sale until the papers have been signed.”

  “Then how do you know?” inquired Bosworth.

  “I have my methods,” the professor replied tersely.

  As there was no point in inquiring further along those lines, Bosworth asked instead, “And who is the prospective buyer?”

  “I don’t knooow,” said the owl regretfully. “Yet.” He bit into his scone. “I dooo know, however, that the haystack fire was not caused by a careless Rambler. I saw the culprit myself.”

  Bosworth put down his cup. “Who was it?”

  “It was,” said the owl importantly, “a female person. Or a male person wearing a cloak and a bonnet and carrying a candle lantern. All very old-fashioned.”

  Bosworth stared. “You actually saw this person set fire to the haystack?”

  “If you mean, did I catch her—or him—in the very act, the answer is nooo. I noticed this person, as I say. But I had other things on my mind—specifically, a tender young vole whooose acquaintance I was eager tooo make. When the vole and I flew back toward my home, I saw that the haystack was burning. It is logical tooo assume, is it not, that it was she—or he, impersonating a she—whooo set it ablaze.”

  “But who?” Bosworth asked blankly. “Who would have done such a thing?” And then a possibility occurred to him. “I wonder if Auld Beechie might’ve done it. He worked for Mr. Harmsworth until last winter. They did not part on good terms. At least, that’s according to Miss Potter’s Herdwick ewes, who heard them quarreling when they were working on the stone wall between Applebeck Orchard and Hill Top. Nearly came to blows, I understand.”

  “Auld Beechie?” the owl asked. “That would be Thomas Beecham? The fellooow has a ship on his shoulder.” He looked skeptical. “The lantern I understand. I suppose it was the source of ignition. But why would he disguise himself in a cloak and bonnet?”

  “A chip,” the badger amended.

  “A cloak and bonnet,” the owl repeated. “I asked: why would he disguise himself in a cloak and bonnet?”

  “I mean, it’s a chip that people have on their shoulders,” the badger said gently.

  “A ship,” the owl insisted. “A miniature, I suppose, like a ship in a bottle.” He smiled. “I have always thought it a picturesque expression.”

  Bosworth sighed. When the professor felt he was right, there was no arguing with him. “Auld Beechie has certainly been nursing a grudge since he was turned out of his cottage. I can picture him putting a torch to that haystack, out of pure spite. But somehow I can’t picture him wearing a disguise. So why the cloak and bonnet?”

  You and I are eager to know the answer to that question, aren’t we? But I fear that we must wait for an answer, for the professor, while he is quite wise, does not know everything.

  “I cannot say.” The professor’s tone was irritated, for he always hates to admit to not being fully informed on a topic of some importance, as he had been required to do twice in the last few sentences. “It was dark, and I was flying quite high overhead. It is fair tooo say that I have spectacular vision, but even I cannot be expected tooo see through a cloak and bonnet, into a

  person’s heart.” He fluffed his feathers crossly. “You wished tooo ask me a question?”

  “What? Oh, yes.” Bosworth recovered himself. “I’ve been thinking about the Genealogy and History. I need to name a successor to wear the Badge of Authority and manage everything after I’ve gone. I thought it would be Thorn, but he seems to have . . .” Bosworth swallowed the harder word. “He seems to have disappeared.”

  “Ah, Thorn,” the owl said regretfully. “A very fine lad. Yes, well, dooo gooo on, dear fellow. Whooo are you thinking of as a successor?”

  “Hyacinth,” said Bosworth, and found as he said her name that he was quite happy with the idea, even though it was a radical choice. She would bring a female’s insight to the historian’s task, which was all to the good. And of course, she would be right at home managing The Brockery.

  “Whooo?” the owl asked, turning his head to gaze at Bosworth and opening his eyes very wide. “Whooo was that yooou said?”

  “Hyacinth. Thorn’s sister,” Bosworth explained. “She is a very intelligent, diligent, thoughtful badger, and—”

  “But she is a female,” the professor said definitively.

  Bosworth shifted in his chair. “Yes, of course,” he admitted. “But as I say, she is intelligent and diligent. There’s no question that Hyacinth can do the work. It’s only a matt
er of precedent and—”

  “Far be it from me,” the professor intoned in an authoritative voice, “tooo make pronouncements concerning the way yooou badgers dooo business.” (That’s exactly what he was doing, of course, but the owl was never one to shirk an important task.) “However, the History is not just a history of badgers, as yooou know. It documents all that goes on in the Land Between the Lakes. Hence, it must be compiled by the best qualified animal.”

  “But what if Hyacinth is the best qualified?” Bosworth asked, perplexed. “I’ve searched all through the History, and I can’t find anything that says that the historian must be a male.”

  Bosworth could not find a rule excluding females because nobody had thought to put one there. For the most part, badgers are open-minded animals who value the contributions of both sexes equally. In fact, the Tenth Badger Rule of Thumb states that all badgers, regardless of sex, age, and state of health, are important to the well-being of the badger clan and must be honored for the roles they play in maintaining a stable and productive community life. It would not have occurred to the badgers to even mention the issue of gender. But the professor saw it differently.

  “It is not mentioned,” said the professor grandly, “because it is tacitly assumed. The question has not come up, yooou see, because it does not merit examination.” He put down his cup and settled his feathers. “This is because, as the French novelist Guy de Maupassant has said, ‘The experience of centuries has proved tooo us that females are, without exception, incapable of any true artistic or scientific work.’ ” He paused, then added portentously, “This is only toooo true, as I feel sure yooou will agree, Badger. It is an indisputable fact that females suffer from certain innate and irremediable intellectual deficiencies. The celestial flame that warms and sets fire tooo the masculine soul is simply—”