Battle for the Park

by Colin Dann

  The heron felt heartened by the improvement in his nutrition. He began to search for stout pieces of wood. One day, while juggling with various twigs and sticks in a meditative sort of way, he was surprised by Adder, who slid into view unexpectedly.

  ‘Whatever are you doing?’ the snake hissed. ‘You’re not thinking of swallowing those, are you?’

  ‘Oh, Adder! I thought I was alone,’ Whistler said, feeling a little foolish. ‘No, it’s all part of my exercise scheme. I have an important task to accomplish.’

  ‘And what is that? Building a new kind of nest?’

  The heron croaked raucously. ‘Krornk!’ he was much amused. ‘You’re a wry one, Adder. I’m too ancient to pair. No female would be interested in an arthritic old has-been like me. No, I’m going to airlift Weasel.’

  Adder leered. ‘What a novel idea.’

  ‘Not so novel,’ Whistler corrected him. ‘Remember the motorway? I seem to recall you also found yourself whisked off on that day.’

  Adder did remember and he hastily coiled himself around a fallen branch in case Whistler intended to repeat the trick by way of a test.

  Whistler put his head on one side and stepped close. ‘Are you game for a little practice?’ He was joking but Adder took him seriously. The snake shot from the branch and wriggled with the utmost swiftness towards the stream, where he plunged straight in. The last Whistler saw of him, Adder was rapidly looping his way downstream with only his head above water, as if expecting the heron’s long bill to snatch him up at any moment.

  The whole episode put Whistler in much lighter spirits than he had enjoyed for a long time. He felt ready to tackle his mission of rescue. He beat his old wings once or twice with gritty determination, trying to ignore his aches and pains. Then he took off for Fox’s earth.

  Fox had already primed Tawny Owl to be available to show Whistler the way when the time was right. Owl had grumbled, telling Fox about Holly’s three white eggs, which were due to hatch any moment, but the bird had seen no real alternative to falling in with the plan. Consequently when Whistler arrived, Fox, having first welcomed the heron as a hero, referred him to Owl’s roost in a hollow oak.

  Whistler discovered Holly on her eggs. Tawny Owl was absent. ‘He’s asleep somewhere,’ she told him. ‘Can’t you wait until evening?’

  ‘I could wait until dusk,’ the heron offered. ‘I’m not too adept at nocturnal flights.’

  ‘Well, the two of you must come to an arrangement. You can see I’m busy,’ Holly told him tartly. ‘You’ll probably find him snoozing in one of the largest beeches. They remind him of his old home.’

  Whistler was only too glad to leave. He felt out of place in the presence of brooding hen birds, now that his own mating days were over. He flew to the clump of mature beeches and circled awkwardly above them, keeping his eyes peeled for the sleepy owl. But the beeches’ newly opened leaves screened Tawny Owl from view. He was well hidden, which was what he liked. Whistler called to him with his harsh croaky cry. It was a very loud cry. One or two repetitions woke Tawny Owl from his nap, as well as a number of other unlucky creatures who preferred to sleep by day.

  ‘Is that you, Whistler?’ Owl demanded. ‘You might have allowed me a little more shut-eye! We’re not all used to gallivanting around in the daytime.’

  ‘I can wait,’ Whistler replied amicably. ‘I merely wanted to be sure you were in there. Ah – I can see you now. I’ll perch here’ – he alighted clumsily on a topmost bough – ‘while you doze off again for a bit.’

  ‘How can I doze off again now I’m awake?’ Tawny Owl snapped. ‘I can’t turn sleep on and off like a – like a – ’

  ‘Like a cat?’ Whistler suggested helpfully.

  ‘Like whatever you please!’ Tawny Owl retorted.

  ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, really I am,’ the heron apologized. ‘It will soon be dusk. Shall we go then?’

  ‘No point in waiting now, is there?’ Tawny Owl mumbled. ‘The sooner I’ve taken you to the spot, the sooner I can get back.’

  ‘Just as you wish,’ said Whistler.

  Tawny Owl shuffled on to a branch, blinking sleepily. He stretched his wings and glared up at the heron. The setting sun dazzled him and he closed his eyes tight. Whistler waited patiently until Owl was quite ready. Abruptly Tawny Owl leapt from the branch, flapping his silent wings and sailing upwards. He skimmed the tree-tops, just clipping Whistler’s pate with one dangling toe as the heron prepared to follow him. The owl felt better after that, as though he had evened the score.

  The two large birds soared over the Park, silhouetted against the sunset. Tawny Owl flew on a direct course to the new Reserve and landed on top of the wall. Whistler perched beside him.

  ‘This is the place,’ Tawny Owl said. ‘You’ll find Weasel soon enough if you call him.’ His job done, the owl began at once his return journey but the heron called him back. ‘Wait! Wait!, old friend!’ Whistler cried.

  Tawny Owl veered and landed again. ‘Now what?’ he demanded.

  ‘Well, that’s a large area in there,’ the heron said. ‘Can’t you give me some clue as to where Weasel’s likely to be?’

  ‘Not really,’ his guide answered unhelpfully. ‘I had to find him the hard way – by calling and calling until he came.’

  ‘But surely you must remember roughly where Weasel was when you found him?’

  Tawny Owl pondered. It had been Plucky who had found Weasel, not he himself. ‘No, Whistler, I can’t,’ he replied truthfully.

  ‘Come now, I know I woke you up before you wished it, but why be so unhelpful?’ the heron appealed to him. ‘The thing is, Owl, my wings do give me discomfort if I fly too far. Be a good chap and save me combing the entire expanse, please.’

  Tawny Owl relented. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You see, Plucky came to my call, rather than Weasel. Of course you mustn’t tax yourself. I’ll try to direct you. I’ll fly into the enclosure, and I may be able to pinpoint the spot where Plucky found me. You follow me.’

  ‘I’m most awfully grateful,’ the heron said with relief, and did just as Tawny Owl bade him.

  Owl flew unerringly to the selfsame pine tree where he had halted in his search before. The two birds alighted and sat side by side. ‘Now,’ said Tawny Owl, ‘call Plucky as well as Weasel. Then you’re bound to find one of them.’

  ‘I can’t carry Plucky out of here,’ Whistler protested, but his companion was already in the air, this time determined to return home.

  ‘There’s really no more I can do now,’ Owl called over his spread wings.

  Whistler settled himself more comfortably amongst the pine needles and, in the gathering dusk, called Weasel’s name. ‘I’d better not encourage Plucky,’ he told himself, ‘or he may expect too much of me.’ His wing muscles ceased to ache and the heron resigned himself to a long wait. But, just as before, the alert Plucky recognized one of the familiar sounds of White Deer Park and tracked it down.

  Whistler explained why he was there, emphasizing that he was only capable of carrying the smallest and lightest of animals. Plucky ran off to look for Weasel and to repeat the heron’s message. He was excited at the prospect of Weasel being transported out of the enclosure by a bird. It seemed like playing the men at their own game. He found Weasel, wakeful in the spring evening, emerging from his makeshift nest. Plucky babbled out what Whistler had told him.

  ‘Well!’ Weasel exclaimed. ‘I didn’t expect this. I bet Fox is behind it, the clever old fellow.’ He well remembered hanging limp in the heron’s bill as he was whisked across the motorway all those seasons ago. ‘Lead on, Plucky. This is a marvellous piece of news.’

  Whistler fluttered to the ground as he saw them approaching. ‘Here’s your escape route, Weasel,’ he quipped in his slow deep voice.

  ‘Not for the first time,’ Weasel answered appreciatively. ‘I’ve been itching to get out of here. I’m really obliged to you, Whistler, because the tunnelling lark didn’t work, and I saw myself separ
ated from my friends for good.’

  Plucky looked glum, as if reminded of his own position, and Whistler noticed it. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said to the fox, ‘I can’t extend my assistance to you too but, as you will appreciate . . .’ He broke off. There was no need to say more.

  ‘Don’t let it worry you,’ Plucky answered with feigned optimism. ‘I’ll get myself out, even if it means going out the same way I came in.’

  Weasel and Whistler looked at him with puzzled expressions but Plucky wouldn’t explain. He said quietly, ‘Good luck, Weasel. And tell Dash when you see her we’ll soon be running together again through our Park.’

  Whistler cocked his head on one side. ‘Are you ready then?’ he asked.

  Weasel said that he was. Whistler opened his beak and, very gently, grasped his friend until he had him in a firm grip. Then he took to the air, pleasantly surprised by Weasel’s modest weight. Over the enclosure wall they went and then down on to the springy turf of the downland, where the heron released his passenger.

  ‘Any discomfort?’ Whistler asked.

  ‘None at all,’ Weasel assured him. ‘Whistler, I’m in your debt.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said the bird. ‘You know the way now?’

  ‘I should think I do,’ said Weasel.

  9

  The Rats Gain Ground

  Not long after Weasel’s return he was able to find Dash and convey Plucky’s words to her.

  ‘I don’t know what he means,’ the hare said sadly. ‘How can we ever be together again? He’s not lucky enough to be small and he can never be carried back to his old home.’

  Weasel began to feel a little guilty that he had left Plucky behind. ‘I think he has a plan of his own,’ he told Dash. ‘He’s quite determined to get back.’

  Dash wasn’t comforted. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not possible. I shan’t see him again. Even Fox can’t compete with the humans’ cleverness.’

  ‘Well, he got me out,’ Weasel reminded her and then immediately wished he hadn’t. ‘I mean to say, he’s still trying to find a way to help Plucky.’ He left Dash as soon as he decently could.

  The hare moped about. These days she hardly ever felt like racing. As she nibbled listlessly at some bark she thought how lonely Plucky must be feeling with none of his friends around him. She wished fervently there was something she could do about it. All at once the idea come to her that there was something she could do about making him less lonely. She could join him! If Plucky couldn’t come to her, she could go to him. She only had to find where the men were setting up their nets that day and then run headlong into them. She’d let the humans bring them together.

  ‘Oh, why didn’t I think of this before?’ she berated herself. ‘There’s no fun in White Deer Park any more. I may as well go to the other place.’ Now she did have a reason for running again. She had to locate the group of men before she could allow herself to be captured. She set off at once for the area where she had seen them operating before. Finding no human evidence there, she ran towards the Warden’s cottage to see if they were gathering nearby for their day’s work. All was quiet in the vicinity. There was no sign of any activity. Dash ran around the Park, searching systematically for the men she wanted to trap her. By the time she had covered the entire terrain of the Nature Reserve, she knew the men had gone. It seemed they had taken all the animals they needed and that their programme of capture and removal was over, at any rate for the time being. Dash sank down in some long grass close to where a number of the white deer were feeding. She felt tired and utterly deflated. The placid movements of the deer soothed and refreshed her after her exertions and she fell asleep in the sun.

  The Farthing Wood animals had, between them, come close to piecing together what the actions of the Warden and his assistants had all been about. White Deer Park had been overpopulated. There was another piece of land nearby set aside exclusively for wildlife. So this had been used to take up the overspill. The fact that families had been split up, pairs separated, had not been the intention of the men, but this had been unavoidable in their efforts to ease the pressures on the Nature Reserve. The new enclosure had once been the walled grounds of a country house. The house had long ago fallen into disuse and disrepair. The land, meanwhile, had been bequeathed to the County Naturalists’ Trust and so had fallen eventually under the White Deer Park Warden’s jurisdiction. As yet the new reserve had no name. There were no deer in it and the Warden was still in discussions with another local landowner for further extending it.

  As for White Deer Park itself, although it now returned to its usual aspect of a wildlife haven, tranquil and without human activity, it was actually under greater threat. This was because the rats saw the time was right for their return. The ruse had worked. The humans had been bamboozled by the rodents’ temporary evacuation. After three rats had been discovered in the nets, no more had been found anywhere and the men had looked upon their capture, therefore, as isolated incidents. It had been easy for the sly creatures to congregate in the sewer system that they understood so well, and simply to wait until the alarm blew over. They kept tabs on the humans’ doings in the Park by sending out an animal here and there to reconnoitre. Eventually news got back that the human presence had been withdrawn.

  ‘Our patience has paid off,’ said Bully to his comrades. ‘The country air beckons again. We’ll take that country air, shall we? And all the other benefits that go with it. The best of it is, the Park is unguarded now. But we won’t be foolish or impulsive. We know better than that. A few at a time is the way to do it. We don’t want to arouse suspicion. We can spread ourselves across the Park in stages. No-one’s going to notice us. We’re only small creatures, aren’t we?’

  The rats made their way back in tight little groups, over a period of many nights. They were so quiet and careful about it that the Park residents were unaware there was anything amiss, especially since they had ceased to keep a lookout recently because of the dearth of rodents. So when Dash opened her eyes in the early evening and saw, not deer, but a pair of rats scurrying through the grass, she thought nothing of it. Plucky was still uppermost in her mind.

  Other animals around the Reserve spied rats separately in twos and threes. The true picture of the rats’ planned invasion escaped them for some time. Whistler, who had acquired a taste for rats, caught one drinking from the stream. He looked for others along the stream’s banks but found none. The thought occurred to him that he might spy some more by the Pond. And he did. He was able to spear another two, after which he stood on one leg and dozed.

  The Pond became a favourite patrol area for Whistler. He ignored the young frogs and toads who were developing fast in the sun-warmed water, and kept his sharp eyes skinned for larger prey. And it was in this way, more than any other, that the rats’ increasing numbers were first noticed. Whistler passed the news to Tawny Owl. He thought the other bird could profit from it, particularly with the prospect of young to feed.

  ‘I’m grateful to you,’ Owl acknowledged. ‘The eggs have hatched and Holly and I have been kept busy. I’ve done the lion’s share of fetching and carrying.’

  ‘I thought you looked a bit ragged,’ Whistler remarked jocularly.

  Tawny Owl didn’t take exception to this. ‘I feel worn and weary,’ he admitted. ‘Parenthood’s all very well but it’s come to me a little late in life.’

  ‘Better late than never, surely?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Owl answered. ‘It’s such a job finding sufficient prey. The owlets are always hungry. I’ve no sooner torn one meal to shreds for them than they’re clamouring for more. And Holly keeps urging me to bring bigger quantities. I sometimes wonder if I’m appreciated at all.’

  ‘Oh, the typical parent!’ quipped Whistler. ‘I know just how you feel, though. I bet you feel you never have time to grab a morsel yourself.’

  ‘You’ve summed it up perfectly,’ Tawny Owl grumbled. ‘Holly says everything I catch I must bring to the nest. But I have to kee
p myself alive as well.’

  ‘You’ll get by,’ Whistler chuckled. ‘Snatch a bite here and there as you feed the young’uns. You can catch up again later when they’re asleep.’

  ‘I don’t think they ever sleep,’ Owl moaned.

  ‘Well, the rats will be handy for you. They drink a lot at the Pond. Easy for an old campaigner like you to pick them off. How many nestlings do you have?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘How charming. Are they sturdy?’

  ‘Two of them are. One’s lagging behind – the last one to hatch.’

  ‘Hm. Well, if two out of three make it, you won’t have done badly.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Tawny Owl muttered.

  ‘Anyway – the rats are back. So that’s good news for all three of them.’ It wasn’t good news for anyone, of course. It was the worst possible news. The rats grabbed territory wherever they chose, pushing out mice and voles on land and any other creatures smaller than they were. They competed for space along the stream where water voles were just beginning to return now that there was healthy vegetation sprouting in its waters. The water voles were few and offered little resistance. By the Pond Toad watched the rats encroaching on the Edible Frogs’ area and looking as if they would overwhelm the creatures’ ancestral home.

  The other Farthing Wood animals – Fox and Vixen, Badger and now, once more, Weasel – noticed disturbing signs of the rats’ determination to populate every nook and cranny around the Park. The momentum of the rodents’ advance was such that, within a matter of a few weeks, only the central portions of the Reserve remained free of them; and this was because they were mostly grassland and access to water was less easy. To all the residents there seemed to be several times as many rats as there ever had been. They were alarmed at the way they were losing ground to the invaders right across the Reserve. The more timid animals ran before the rats and tried to find corners where they could hide away, free from interference. But the rats pushed them out of these too: it was as though a tide of these rodents was flowing through the Park and engulfing it with their numbers.