by Helen Fox
“That’s what I said, Owl, dead, passed out it makes no difference. It means the same thing, doesn’t it?”
“Plato!” Alphie called from the bracken, “George is lying here seriously injured.”
Tawny Owl was beside him in a jiffy.
“See to the others first, Tawny Owl. I can wait,” George said, groaning with pain.
“I know my job,” Tawny Owl replied firmly. “You’ve got a nasty burn, red as the heart of a beetroot. The remedy I’m going to apply will sting and burn horribly for some few seconds. So feel free to jump up and down, or scream your head off, until the pain eases off, then rest.
Plato took Tawny Owl aside. He pulled something from deep inside his left wing and ceremoniously handed it to her.
“This,” he said in a deep, earnest voice, “is a sacred old remedy. My master, the Great Owl of Delphi, left it with me before he flew back to the mountain of Parnassus in Greece. He said, “When I die Plato, and I shall one day, I want to be in the high mountains and hills that surround Delphi, my homeland. You know of course that we owls originate from Greece. My old master told me that one of his very ancient ancestors sat on the shoulder of Athena, the goddess of Athens, guiding her with his wisdom. This remedy has great powers. So use it wisely and consider it precious.”
Tawny Owl looked intrigued and fascinated. “You have never talked about him before, Plato, Why not?”
“Because the opportunity has but now risen, Tawny Owl,” he answered plainly.
After Tawny Owl left the bracken, silence fell, as the crows, exhausted by the horror of the fire and relieved of their pain, nodded off.
It was sometime in late afternoon that George, together with a few others, left the bracken and slowly walked to where a number of crows had gathered around the old crow whose spirit much brighter now, was talking about happenings long in the past. Plato was still there. George trotted over to him and spoke.
“I’m grateful, Plato. All of us at Crow Lake are. Without you and Alphie, our Blossom Valley fellow crows but mostly, without Tawny Owl’s medical assistance, we wouldn’t have coped. I won’t be coming back to Blossom Valley, for as you’ll appreciate I’m needed here. We have to find a new home, and because it’s all farm land around here, we’ll have to travel far to find trees.”
Plato fell silent, stroking his brow, as he did when he was going through his thoughts. “I believe I’ve found a good solution,” he said. “Why travel far in search of a new home when Blossom Valley is already a home to a crow family? There are lots of uninhabited trees in Blossom Valley and many herons in Penny Reeds who are brilliant architects of nest building. They’re good friends of Blossom Valley and will be happy to help us. We’ll transport the chicks, the injured and the frail. Our ambulance cart sits outside the hospital and those creatures who pull it are the fastest and most reliable hares in the region. Talk it over among you and decide. I’ll be back tomorrow,” he concluded and took off.
“What was he talking about? Is he serious?” a crow with a patch on his left eye asked.
“He’s an owl,” the old crow blurted out. “Owls never speak words that aren’t serious and wise. Remember that.”
Eight
For years the herons had built their nests in the reeds along Penny River. Early each spring they’d fly into Blossom Valley to pick up the twigs that the creatures had saved for them. They’d become good friends with everyone and were only too happy to build as many nests as were needed.
Everyone came out and watched with great admiration as the herons, flapping their massive wings in stately slow motion, flew in. They landed on the tall grass, and without much ado started work.
To speed the build and save the herons from flying to and fro from the twig-heap to the trees, it was arranged that the big birds, rabbits, Conti and a few squirrels, would transport the twigs to the bottom of each tree where the squirrels would clamp them with their teeth, race up the trees, hand them to the herons and race down again.
So it was not long before a large number of nests were ready for the crows and their babies to move in. Slowly they got used to their new home, felt secure and happy and life in Blossom Valley went on as before.
***
Then one evening, Speedo the snail wasn’t at the gathering.
“Search in the strawberry garden. He often goes there to have a rest or a nap,” shouted some ants.
“Take a look in the lettuce patch,” said a rabbit.
“No need for any of that,” Conti croaked loudly. “He’s gone. He left me a message. Sorry it went out of my mind. My brain refuses to store sad messages. It lets them slip out. Only it’s gradually coming to me now. He said he had been feeling lonely, yearning to find his fellow snails. He said he was sorry he didn’t announce it at the last gathering, cause he couldn’t bring himself to tell his crowd. Besides, they would have tried to talk him out of it. You can’t blame him, can you? A creature wants to be with his own kind. That’s how nature has made us.” Conti burst into loud sobs, took a huge leap and dived into his pond.
Speedo had only crawled a short distance away from Blossom Valley when George found him the next day.
“Conti told us. Your audience are sad you’ve left them. They miss you we all miss you, Speedo. We are all one family.”
“I’ve felt lonely for a long time, George,” sobbed Speedo. “I’ve been bored of life. I desperately yearn to see my friends, my own kind.” Tears gathered in his tiny eyes as he continued.
“I lost my family long ago. They were caught under the tractor’s wheels. It wasn’t the farmer’s fault. He was reversing out of the barn. They shouldn’t have been there. But I was left among friends, my own kind. We were a happy bunch.
Sometime back, there was a severe storm. A horrific gust of wind blew through the farm, lifted sheds, uprooted plants and bushes and tossed them long distances away. I was tossed up on the edge of Blossom Valley. I’d been beaten on all sides and I stayed in my shell, waiting to die.
It was Bond, the red squirrel and his team, the kindest of creatures, who brought me back to life. They kept talking to me, urging me to come out, telling me about the beauty of Blossom Valley, the butterflies, the frog. I have been happy in Blossom Valley, I’m not complaining. But I can’t help thinking about my fellow snails. I dream of Dyke Farm. I need to know what happened to my friends. It will take me ages. I don’t care if it’s forever, but one day I shall reach Dyke Farm. I long, to hear the yew tell her young lambs, stories. That’s how I became a storyteller myself. She told them a new story every day. I asked her how come she knew so many different stories. You know what she said? I make them up as I go along. So I started doing the same with my family and friends and I was successful.”
George had gone quiet, carried into deep thought. Then he spoke. “What would you say if I offered to make your journey shorter than ages, shorter than forever, and get you to Dyke Farm in a few short hours from now?”
“How do you mean?” Speedo huffed, his antenna bobbing and his eyes glistening.
“I will fly you there. Get on my back and hold tight. I’ll take it easy. I’ll try to make the flight as smooth as possible.”
“Are you alright up there, Speedo? You’re too quiet,” George called some few minutes after the take-off.
“I’m still in my shell, George,” Speedo replied in a trembling voice.
“Has it not been safe so far? Don’t you trust me, Speedo?” George sounded disappointed.
“Oh, my dear friend, of course I trust you. But from crawling to being in the air is scary and I’m such a coward.”
Speedo decided it was time he confronted his fear, and scooted out of his shell. He was glad he did. It was a breath-taking spectacle as he watched fields, meadows and the hedgerows rolling away beneath him.
“George!” he screamed in his tiny little voic
e, “look down! Yelping hounds, some beautiful horses and their posh riders. Why are they running like a pack of demented wolves?”
“It is the Fox Hunt, Speedo, the privileged humans’ game,” George explained. “The hounds are following a poor fox’s scent, aiming to ambush him somewhere in the undergrowth and I can’t even bear to think what the savage hounds will do to him.”
“You mean they’ll kill him - tear him apart?” Speedo’s voice wobbled.
“They will,” said George, his voice cracking with emotion. “It is the game of the elite humans. It gives them pleasure to see a creature being killed, blood being spilled. They do it for fun.”
“No creature should die just for the sake of fun,” Speedo cried, his eyes filling with tears.
“But they do, Speedo. Humans can be very cruel to creatures. They think that we can’t feel pain, the loss of a dear parent, or friend. My parents were killed just for the sake of fun. I saw it happen in front of my very eyes.” George choked and tears clouded his eyes. He had to come down.
“George, I think we’re here. Take a look at that faded writing on the old gate. Does it say Dyke Farm? Are we here?”
“We are, Speedo. I hope you find your friends soon.”
“You made my dream come true, George, I’ll always remember the thrill of flying but most of all your kindness. Leave me here. I’m at home now.”
“I’ll be back in two days to see how you got on,” said George. “Be by the barn so I don’t miss you. Good luck, my friend!” he called flapping his wings and rising into the sky.
Two days later George was at the farm. The place was deserted. The roofs of the barns had been blown away, doors and windows were hanging from rusted hinges. There was no sign of any farm animals and no sign of Speedo. He paid several visits to the farm and in the end he gave up.
It was on a wet morning months later that George spotted two snails crawling on the ground and landed close to them.
“I’m very sorry if I stood you up,” said Speedo, “but I had wandered too far. This is Sally, the sister of my best friend, Derek. Most of our fellow snails have vanished, blown to god knows where. I found Sally by chance. She was also searching for them.
“I’m glad for you, Speedo. At least you have Sally now. Would you like a lift to the valley?”
“Thank you, George,” said Sally. “You’ve already done enough. Besides, we’d rather get there by ourselves. There’s still so much more to catch up with.”
Everyone was happy to see Speedo back on the white rock, this time with Sally by his side. His audience had grown bigger. They were all keen to hear about his flight on George’s back, his desperate search for his fellow snails, and how he bumped into Sally.
Nine
And so the days passed, and each dawned as glorious as the one before until one morning, totally unexpectedly, Blossom Valley woke up under a blanket of grey mist. Not a single whisper of wind or breeze stirred and a strange hush had taken hold of the entire valley. Even the sun wouldn’t show up, as if it had made up its mind to take the morning off.
But after it had enjoyed a long lie in, its glowing face popped up over the tip of Sunrise Hill and came blazing through the gaps of the trees. It turned the mist into pink haze, silvered the grass, and turned the dew drops into sparkling crystals.
Perched high on the elm tree, George was marvelling at the spectacle when out of the corner of his left eye he thought he saw three red dots travelling through the mist over the northern side of the ivy wall. Something stirred inside him. Could it be the ladybirds? Had they lured the butterflies out with the intention of harming them? He quietly flapped his wings and flew out.
The sun hadn’t reached that side of the wall yet and the mist still lingered, thick and grey. George flew high, dipped low, circled around and strained his eyes, trying to see through the mist, but saw nothing. Seconds later, he heard distant muffled sounds. He stopped flapping and listened. It was only the whining of the wind blowing down from the northern hills.
“I’ve been seeing and hearing things,” he moaned to himself. He didn’t feel like joining his friends this morning, so he flew farther away to Penny meadow.
***
“Lovely place you’ve got here, ladies,” George said to a bunch of young ladybirds who were flying from one anemone to another. They weren’t the five spot species. He counted their black dots.
“We mainly have small birds in our meadow,” one of them said in a playful voice. “Crows rarely, and if they do come, they’re always in pairs. You are alone then? You live on the rocks? on the hills?”
“I live in Blossom Valley. You may have heard of it,” George replied.
They shook their heads.
“I have,” shouted an older ladybird who was basking on a buttercup. “We had one from there, so she told us. She was a five spot species and gloating about it. Call me what you may, Crow, she looked a nasty piece of work, if you get my drift.”
“Are the five spot ladybirds rare?” George asked.
“Thirteen and five spot ladybirds are very rare,” the old ladybird answered. “We, here, are the seven spot species and, together with the ten spot, we are the most common ones, but we don’t grumble. That’s how nature made us. I’ll tell you something I’m sure you don’t know, Crow. Seven and ten spot ladybirds are bred in their millions and used for pest controlling purposes. We eat the flies, pests that damage the farmers’ produce. So you see, Crow, all creatures have a purpose on this earth. Now, going back to what I was saying, this five spot took some of our own, lured them out, kept talking to them about Blossom Valley, some magical butterflies, a prince and a princess, and they followed her. We never saw them again. Some days later, a sparrow, one of our regular visitors, asked me if we ladybirds can fly long distances and as high as birds can. I asked him why he wanted to know. He said he’d seen a number of them travelling towards the northern hills. He mentioned a place. Um, I’m not certain but I think I heard the word, devil something. They were on their way to Blossom Valley, I said to him. What are you talking about, silly ladybird? he asked mockingly. There aren’t any valleys up there, only steep ugly rocks.”
“Did the sparrow say Devil’s Gorge, ladybird?” George asked, anxiety mixed with fear in his voice.
“As I said, Crow, I don’t remember. I wasn’t paying much attention,” the ladybird replied peevishly and moved away.
Devil’s Gorge was a deep narrow passage with rough rock sides that fell deep down into a dry river. No trees or plants grew down there, only dead brambles, twisted and tangled up in massive heaps.
So why did Rosa take the ladybirds up there? What plan was in her devious mind? Why did the ladybirds never return to the meadow? What if my eyes and ears saw and heard right? What if Heather, as evil as her mother, has done the same with the butterflies?
Panic overtook him. Like an arrow he shot off into the sky. He was flying against the wind, its fierce gusts fighting furiously to send him reeling backwards, but he used all his might to give his wings the extra power and kept on flapping.
***
By now, Heather, her sisters and the butterflies were quite some distance away from Blossom Valley, and Heather was pleased her plan had gone well so far. No one had followed.
“Isn’t it fun, girls?” she shouted in a cheerful voice. “I’ve waited a long time for a morning like this to take you out. Nobody saw us leave and nobody will know where we’re going. I’ve planned to take you to a place you’ve never imagined, a place that will carry you away to another world. What do you say, Princess?”
“I say, what are we waiting for?” Princess Estella replied excitedly. Then, overcome by the sense of freedom, adventure and mischief, the butterflies giggled, danced, dipped and rose in the wind.
A short while later Heather’s voice announced. “We’re here, ladies, time to come
down. We’ve landed safely on Devil’s Gorge. I bet you’ve never flown to such heights before.”
Estella had gone silent, turning her head left and right examining the surroundings. “I don’t like this place,” she said. “It’s barren and bleak. The hills look menacing. Their jagged peaks look like scary ghosts, and the eerie moaning of this wind is giving me the creeps. I would much rather have gone to the meadows. We’d have fun there.”
“Don’t worry about the fun, Princess.” Heather’s mouth opened in a leering smirk. “We’ll have plenty of that here. Now come and take a look at this magical plant of mine. It is unique and has powers that no one but I know.”
Estella walked a few paces closer. The leaves of the plant were short and curly and its centre was a faint yellow. “Is this it?” she said with a frown. “That is but a plain weed with nothing magical about it and I am very disappointed you brought us up here to show us a weed. We’re going back,” she said firmly.
“No, you aren’t,” Heather retorted, a menacing look in her eyes. “I won’t let you.” Then she softened her voice and with a fake tone of concern went on. “I won’t let you cause the flight is long as you’ve just experienced yourselves. The wind has picked up and will make the flight dangerous. I’d hate it if anything happened to you and we’d get the blame. We’ll take you back. Don’t get yourselves upset. Relax and let us have some fun. So, you called my unique plant a weed, didn’t you, Princes? Ha! I’m going to prove to you that it isn’t. You’ll know how unique it is after you’ve taken a sniff from its yellow centre. Breathe long and deep, until your lungs are full. Straight away a wonderful feeling will travel through your body and mind and carry you away to a beautiful world.”
Though Heather had spoken in a fake soft voice, there was malice in her eyes that she couldn’t hide. The butterflies drew back and pulled Estella with them.
“Don’t!” they whispered. “It’s a trick. Heather is twisted. We mustn’t trust her.”
“Don’t be silly,” Estella whispered back. “It’s only a plain weed. What harm can it do me?”
