by Helen Fox
George the Orphan Crow and the Creatures of Blossom Valley
Helen Fox
George the Orphan Crow and the Creatures of Blossom Valley
Published in 2016 by
AG Books
www.agbooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2016 AG Books under exclusive licence from Helen Fox
The right of Helen Fox to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
for my son Michael
One
The sun was heading towards the west when Plato, the old owl of Penny Wood, flew up on his tree. He stretched his legs, flexed his talons, and for a while sat basking in the glow of the setting sun. Then, in the peacefulness of Penny Wood he shut his eyes and nodded off.
Suddenly, a rumble broke out somewhere deep in the woods and was gradually coming closer. Plato didn’t stir. He listened. The sound rumbled on at intervals and he knew what it was, for in his long life in Penny Wood he’d grown all too familiar with such sounds.
“Frenzied hunters,” he moaned drowsily, then closed his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.
***
A young crow and his parents sat close together, numbed with fear at the dreadful noise that was tearing through the woods.
“We shouldn’t have ventured to places we are not familiar with,” the mother grumbled in a trembling voice. “And whose idea was it?” She stared at her mate, her eyes filling with tears.
“Don’t be scared, mother,” her son comforted her. “The hunters are after the pheasants. Crows are no good to them.”
“We’re not safe here,” she went on. “The foliage of this tree isn’t dense enough to offer us protection.”
“Maybe the other side of the woods is quieter. I’m going to find out,” her son whispered.
“Don’t!” His mother let out a muffled cry. “It’s become too dangerous.”
“I won’t be long, mother. Father will be at your side,” said the young crow and was gone.
The shooting eased off for some brief minutes while a different noise, loud and agitating started coming closer.
“What now... What can this rattle mean?” uttered the mother.
“It’s the pheasant hunt beaters, I believe that’s what they are called,” the father said. “The rattle they create is to startle the unfortunate pheasants out of the trees and into the open air to face their fate.” He turned and looked at her. She was trembling. He stretched his left wing over her, gave her a soft peck and squeezed her closer.
“We’ll be safe my dear, as long as we keep still,” he whispered softly.
The shooting was now growing fiercer and fiercer. The two crows sat tight, close to each other, and watched with dread as pheasants were dropping on the ground in twos and in threes, silent, resigned to their fate. They peered down and cringed. The colourful bodies of pheasants littered the forest floor, the terror of death still in their eyes. Two dogs were on the spot carrying the pheasants to their masters. One of them looked up and saw the two crows. He dropped the pheasant and snarled at them, showing his sharp teeth and dribbling disgusting saliva. The mother jumped.
“I can’t endure any more of this,” she said, choking. “These merciless humans will shoot at anything. We must find our son. I’m off! Follow me!”
The father tried to beat his wings hard to gain height but horror had numbed his wing muscles.
“Wait for me! Wait for me!” He panted. Then he heard the shots.
“Stop firing!” he cried, “I’m only a crow!”
His cry rasped to a squeak and died in his throat. He felt a dull thud, then pain, excruciating pain. Then he plunged into darkness. His body spiralled through the trees and landed on the bluebells.
The young crow saw his mother flying towards him. He heard the shooting getting closer. “Faster! Faster! Try faster, please mother,” he cried out.
In the next instant a succession of deafening shots shook the woods. A fair few pheasants plummeted to the ground. There were no more to kill but the frenzied hunters kept on shooting at the empty air, just for fun. But the air wasn’t quite empty. The young crow’s mother was desperately flying towards her son’s cries. A shot rang out. She could feel it close, too close. She let out a husky moan of pain and shut her eyes. Black feathers drifted in the breeze. The young crow saw them.
“Caark, caark, caaaaaark,” he started wailing and desperately rising and dipping and clattering through the trees. Then he stopped.
Plato jolted awake. He stood up and looked around him, but saw nothing. He flexed his numbed talons and flew to the ground.
A crow covered in blood lay on the bluebells. Plato choked. He then spotted the wailing crow gliding frantically in circles above the trees before disappearing into the thick ferns.
Plato didn’t move. It was when he heard the stirring of dry pine needles behind him that he turned round. He saw the crow drag the black body of a bird and lay it softly on the bluebells. Plato stared at the two bodies all grave and silent.
“This is my mother,” the crow uttered with loud whimpers. “The hunters killed my father first. I had to find her.” Then he let himself to his grief completely. Tears streamed down his face and choking sobs shook his whole body.
“They are dead,” Plato said plainly. “It’s unfortunate and dreadful. I am very sorry for you, Crow. This happens in the woods often. Humans get blinded by the thrill of the hunt. Ease your mind, Crow, for there’s nothing you can do now.”
“I can’t leave them like this for the foxes to make a meal of them,” wept the crow.
“Would you like to see them...?”
Plato didn’t finish what he was about to say but the crow guessed and he nodded.
Plato dug the soft soil under the bluebells, placed the two bodies side by side and covered them. “The bluebells will keep them safe and the foliage of this young fir tree” - he looked up- “will keep the rain and snow away. You can come whenever you feel the need to talk to them.”
Then Plato looked him carefully over to make sure the crow had no serious injuries. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said, no cuts, no deep scratches only a few grazes on your wings that will go in no time and won’t stop you from flying. Give yourself a few minutes to recover from the shock. I’ll stay with you if you want me to. But whatever you decide to do, stay clear of the maddening hunters and you’re sure to fly home safely.”
“Fly home you said, Owl?” sobbed the crow. “I don’t want to go home without them. I’ll be terribly alone.” He lifted the tip of his wing to wipe a tear but more came rolling down.
“Stop crying,” the owl said sternly. “It grieves me to see a bird cry.”
“Don’t you ever cry, Owl?” wheezed the crow.
“Owls accept things as they come to them. They don’t cr
y, they think,” he answered, stroking his brow with the tip of his right wing. Then he looked at the crow and his glassy eyes glinted with sympathy and love for the unfortunate creature.
“I’ve come up with something that will help you cope with the loss of your parents,” he said. “I’ll send you to a place where you’ll find a new home and make new friends. I’ve lived round these parts for many long years and most creatures, flying ones, hopping or crawling, know me and they all call me Plato. What name do they call you, Crow?”
“I don’t have a name,” he answered meekly. “My father called me son and so did my mother. Everyone else called me crow.”
“Well then,” Plato said cheerfully, “it’s time you had one and I think George is a good name for a nice bird such as yourself. What do you say?”
The crow said nothing, but Plato saw a tiny glimmer in his sad eyes and went on.
“Now I want you to calm down and listen. Head towards Sunrise Hill. There’s light still left in the sky. When you reach the peak, stop. Far off to your left is the edge of Penny Wood. Look down to your right. Towering cedar, elm and other trees follow the hill down to the valley, then curve and come up again to form a circle. Along with the trees runs the ivy that over the years has knitted an unbroken tangle tying the trees into a solid circular wall. From way back, this glossy green wall has secluded the valley from the outside world. Within that circular wall is Blossom Valley. Families of all kinds of creatures, small, tiny and big, live together as one big family. The head of this family is Thelma, a shrewd spider, but also kind and caring. Bond, the red squirrel and his team guard the ivy wall to keep undesirable visitors away. I’ll send a message with Swift, a dear friend of mine. Every spring when his flock fly from the faraway land of Africa, he offers to do messaging and sometimes scouting tasks for me.
“I’ve never seen a swift nor heard the name until now,” said the crow.
“I must tell you then,” said Plato with a happy twinkle in his eyes. “Swifts are superb flyers. They rarely come to land, spend almost all their lives in air, even feeding and sleeping in flight. And just in case you bump into one, swifts are black - brown all over, long narrow wings and deeply forked tail. Now make haste before the daylight fades. I know you’ll be happy in Blossom Valley and I’ll be seeing you quite a lot. Off you go.”
The crow, and from now on George the crow, thanked Plato and slipped into the air.
Back on his tree top, the owl watched the sky, certain he would catch sight of George flapping away along the path to Sunrise Hill. But the path remained empty.
There was sadness in Plato’s voice when he spoke to himself. “George must have changed his mind. Emotion has taken him back to his home and fellow crows. Pity!”
Two
George changed course in mid-air and followed the path to Crow Lake. He ought to tell his fellow crows who, together with his family, had lived for many years in the copse a short distance from the lake. Plato would understand, he thought.
He wasn’t looking forward to this. Crows would gather round him to hear how his parents had died. Some would burst into mourning carks, others would pray that nothing like that ever happened to them. He didn’t want to be pitied, treated like an orphan. His parents wouldn’t have wanted it. The questions about how his parents had died would never end. The horrific images of his parents’ blood-stained bodies would stay alive, and his mind would never ease. He needed a complete change; the wise owl was right. He flapped his wings hard, rose into the clouds and, following Plato’s directions, sped towards Sunrise Hill.
At the peak he stopped and took his breath. Penny Wood, was darkening in the distance, its trees massed close together waiting for the night.
Far off to his right he saw the trees. He couldn’t see the ivy around them, for the daylight had dimmed and his eyes had grown weary. But the trees were there, looming in the distance, their tops scraping the sky.
All at once, a feeling of uncertainty crept in his mind and troubled him. Should I have gone to Crow Lake? Shall I carry on for Blossom Valley? Am I making the right decision?
He looked across to the trees and saw their tops nod in the breeze.
“It’s an omen,” he said to himself, “the trees are beckoning to me.” He let out a deep sigh and took off.
As he neared the ivy wall, he slowed his beat and hovered over. A stout red squirrel sat upright, his tail fluffed up behind him, his head darting in George’s direction.
George landed close to him with a brisk sweep of his right wing, and lowered his head in a courteous greeting.
The squirrel jerked his head and stared at him with a sort of curiosity.
“You must be George,” he said. “I’m Bond, the head of the guards and these - he pointed to a line of squirrels in shiny red pelts - are my crew.”
George greeted them and they in turn gave him tiny smiles then whisked away inside the ivy.
“There’re more of us,” Bond went on, “guarding the south, north and eastern walls. You’ll get the chance to meet them some other time. Swift has already been with Plato’s message. I’m pleased to see you, George. Only you took a long time and you got me a little anxious. You’re the second newcomer. A while back, we had a ladybird and her three daughters. The mother, Rosa, and her eldest daughter - I don’t remember her name - were rude and snappy to my crew.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I didn’t like the sight of them two. They had malice written all over them. I hope they don’t cause worse problems than they already have. Now, George, when the gate opens walk through the passage and on to the path. I’d prefer if you didn’t fly. Just take the winding path, it’ll bring you down to the pond. You can’t miss it. Thelma will be meeting you there, and George, come over whenever you feel like a chat. Midday is a good time. We break for lunch. You look puzzled, George, so let me explain. We all work here and take our work seriously. We guard all sides of the wall; other creatures attend to the gardens; still others do their bit to keep Blossom Valley spick and span at all times.”
A small gate creaked open and George trotted through a narrow passage and onto the path. There he stopped and blinked in awe.
The great trees, together with the ivy, ran downhill as far as the eye could see before they disappeared round a curve. Alongside the wall, graceful shrubs and bushes pushed the glossy ivy back as if to say, ‘we’re here too! Give us some space to show off our spring blossoms.’
The tall grass was coloured with forest daisies and flaming red poppies that dipped and rose in the breeze. Mounds and slopes smothered in purple heather and sown with anemones, violets and brilliant yellow buttercups, rolled down to the banks of a stream that flowed peacefully under a dainty bridge then ran off downhill. Everywhere he looked, blossoms burst out on trees, plants and bushes, their delicate scent floating in the air. The beauty was endless. So much more to see, but he shouldn’t keep Thelma waiting.
Half way down the hill, a board swinging from an overhanging branch caught his eye. There were arrows with writing on them giving directions to The Ant Village, The Schools. The Music Hall and The Hospital. He couldn’t see much of any of them, apart from the hospital that stood on the hill straight ahead. There was a red cross on its wide entrance and on the forecourt rested an ambulance cart. The green writing on its side read, ‘For Accidents and Emergencies call Nurse Tawny Owl straight away.’
“Amazing, everything is so amazing,” George mumbled. “This place full of such beauty and wonder can’t be ordinary. Has the old owl sent me to a... wonderland?”
A pleasant feeling went through him.
“It already feels like home,” he mumbled to himself and hurried downhill.
Three
A frog was singing on a lily pad but stopped when he saw the crow and took a huge leap on to the grass. “You must be George,” he croaked. “I’m Conti, a humble but talented frog.” He puffe
d himself out. “I’m a tenor frog. I sing classic tunes. I’m happy to see you, George. We heard you were coming but why did you take so long?”
George didn’t answer for he hadn’t heard. His jaw had dropped open and his eyes widened at the sight of the grandest, most beautiful creatures in shimmering yellows, oranges and blues, fluttering over the pond.
“Are they fair...?”
“They are butterflies,” a voice said. He turned round and held his breath. An enormous spider was standing beside him. She had a pleasant appearance that carried superiority and leadership, but also some sadness deep down.
“I am Thelma,” the spider said with a wide smile. “Welcome, to Blossom Valley, George. You’ve come at a good time. We’ll be celebrating the arrival of spring soon, as we do every year. We’re waiting for the cuckoo to fly over and officially announce it. The butterflies you are marvelling at lived here before any other creature, and so did their ancestors.”
George watched them as they gracefully glided over the water lilies and beamed at him.
“Hello, George.” They smiled and their eyes shone like diamonds.
“Hello, to you too,” he replied in the softest voice he could muster.
“I never knew such creatures existed,” George whispered. “So noble and grand.”
“They have a long history of grandness,” Thelma said. “They are descendants of a kingdom that once stood right here in Blossom Valley. An evil force fell upon it and destroyed it. These few are all there are left of it. The young butterfly in blue is Prince Orpheo and next to him is Princess Estella, his bride to be. The other young ladies are members of the family. In time you will know their names. Sadly, the queen, Estella’s mother, hasn’t been with us for some long years now. Estella’s father, King Iolas, is away on a long journey, but he’ll be back to bless his daughter’s wedding which is planned for after our Spring Celebration.”
George hesitated for a moment then he asked, “What was the evil force?”
