Frost Dancers: A Story of Hares

by Garry Kilworth

  In any case, the jills were bigger than the jacks, and if a jack’s ego got too big for him, some jill would be sure to knock him down to size. The mountain hare jills certainly didn’t care to take on the leadership of the clan. They were too busy with their families in the mating season, and quite uninterested in organising anyone else when out of it. It was known that some of the lowland brown hares had matriarchs who set themselves up as leaders, but the blue hares of the highlands wanted none of it.

  There was one particular jack in the Screesider clan, just over two years old, who others kept away from as much as possible. His name was Bucker, and it was said he could kick a rock to sand if he put his mind to it. He was a big handsome male, who had won the frost dancing for the last two years, and was beloved of many jills. Fortunately for Skelter, Bucker had taken a shine to the youngster, and often paused to give him advice.

  ‘Whatever anyone tells you,’ Bucker had told Skelter, ‘the best defence is camouflage. When danger’s in the air, or on the ground, freeze. Only at the last resort do you run. There are those who will tell you they can outrun a wildcat, or confuse an eagle – that’s a load of nonsense, and well they know it. Beware of braggarts, for they’ve been the downfall of many a sensible hare. Remember too, one very important thing that I’ve learned for myself. It’s not always the fastest runner that escapes the predator.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Skelter.

  ‘I mean, sometimes, in certain situations, it’s wiser to run at a speed which will confuse your enemy, and this is not necessarily the top speed of which you are capable.’

  Skelter still did not understand. Surely, you should always run as fast as you could?

  ‘I can’t see what you mean.’

  He honestly wanted to comprehend Bucker’s strategy, but it wouldn’t come right in his head.

  ‘I can’t explain it, because it depends on the situation at the time. All I’m asking you to do, is remember what I said, for there will come a time when you’ll need to think beyond the simple freeze or run policy.’

  Skelter thought Bucker one of the greatest hares of all time, but this sort of favouritism earned him the animosity of other jealous males and consequently Bucker’s patronage was almost a bigger curse than it was a blessing. Skelter knew that if anything was to happen to Bucker, then he – Skelter – had best run along the wind’s back and join another clan.

  Since birth, Skelter and Rushie had been inseparable friends. They were close to each other in ages, though Rushie had been born at the beginning of the previous season. They remained near to each other at feeding time so that they could talk between mouthfuls, and their forms were adjacent. During the winter gathering, when hares meet in large numbers, they had remained in one another’s company, exchanging views on the hares of other clans. They were like brother and sister.

  One evening they were out together on the slopes near the scree, nibbling this or that as it took their fancy, when a third hare came by. Skelter recognised him as the two-year-old jack, Swifter. One of Swifter’s hind legs had been damaged in a rock fall, for which he compensated with a kind of lilt to his run, but he had more than usually powerful shoulders. Swifter had once boxed himself to second place in the frost dancing, behind Bucker. He was a rough, a hare who was crazier than most, denounced by some as a rogue male with no scruples.

  Swifter stopped in front of the two younger hares. Ignoring Skelter, the older jack bit the head off an alpine gentian and sat staring at Rushie as he chewed.

  Finally Swifter swallowed the flower, his throat pulsing, and he nodded.

  ‘I shall dance in the frosts for you,’ he said.

  Then, with no more ado, the bigger hare turned and skidded down a slope of grass, into the heather below.

  Skelter was quite affronted for his friend.

  ‘Who does he think he is?’ said the young jack. ‘Just to walk up to you like that and make a claim on you. What an offensive hare …’

  Rushie nibbled at some heather.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said.

  Skelter looked at her, astonished.

  ‘You mean, you aren’t scandalised at Swifter’s behaviour?’

  Rushie lifted her head, to stare Skelter in the eyes.

  ‘No, no I’m not. Why should I be? He’s a very fine jack hare, with a lot of strength. His injury was caused by a fall, not by any problems before birth. I quite like the way he paid me that compliment.’

  There was confusion raging in Skelter’s head. He felt sure that Rushie would be, or should be, offended by the blatant proposal. Surely that was not the way things were done? A male must first establish his position in the mating field for that particular season, before daring to show any preferences for a female.

  ‘I still think it’s disgraceful,’ said Skelter, grinding his teeth in annoyance at both Swifter and Rushie now.

  Rushie said, ‘You wouldn’t be jealous of him, I suppose?’

  Once again, Skelter was nonplussed.

  ‘Jealous? Why on earth would I be jealous? An old hare with a limp? Certainly not.’

  ‘I mean, jealous because he has shown favour to me, rather than any other female. Please don’t think that because we are together so often, Skelter, you and I are a natural mating pair. I mean, it’s possible we could be, because we’ve always been such good friends, but …’

  ‘Nothing was further from my mind,’ interrupted Skelter, haughtily. ‘I have no interest in you as a female, whatsoever, I swear. You’re good company, the best of company. I prefer to be with you more than anyone else,’ he was anxious to get in his denial of baser intentions, ‘but not for one second have I thought of you as a potential mate.’

  Now it was Rushie’s turn to grind her teeth, though for what Skelter could not imagine. He had behaved perfectly in his view, not pressing any claims on her, not saying anything untoward. What was she angry about? He simply could not understand why she seemed furious at him, while the real villain Swifter, with his loose talk, was exonerated from all blameful behaviour by her. It didn’t make any sense.

  ‘So, you don’t admire me?’ said Rushie.

  ‘Of course I admire you, but as a hare, not as a female for mating with. Why, you’re one of the most interesting …’

  He stopped abruptly, as Rushie butted him in the flank, sending him tumbling over the edge of a small cliff. He landed with a thump on a soft verge.

  Now what was the matter with her?

  When he reached the scree slope again, Rushie had gone.

  Miserably, Skelter began to chew at the grasses again. Then he stopped to stare out over the mountainous landscape bloodied by a dying sun. There was a flock of birds in the sky, too distant for identification. They swept away, brushing the silent peaks that had now purpled. The next moment they were gone, down behind the high jagged horizon.

  I wish I was with them, thought Skelter. I want to get away from this place, with its Swifters and Rushies. There must be other places, where a jack hare can be himself, and not have to think around corners before he says something. If I was a bird I could go where I wished, talk to whom I pleased, and when things got awkward or boring I could wing away into the clouds, find another landscape where the grass is lush and the heather just as tasty.

  As these thoughts tumbled through his head, the darkness came down like fine dust, to settle on the highlands. It thickened the shadows in the dark holes and cracks of the earth, and turned familiar rocks and trees to sinister strangers. Finally, the insipid moon that had been creeping timidly up the edges of the sky, encroaching secretly on the sun’s hours, was able to deepen its colour. The sun had gone and the moon was no longer afraid of comparisons with its more charismatic sibling.

  Skelter dozed, falling into a half-dream state. Suddenly, down below Skelter, a ghost-hare appeared, running zig-zag in field hare fashion between and around the rocks, its pale form barely visible amongst the dark heather. It seemed to glide, rather than run, over the uneven grou
nd. Skelter was alarmed that he had been making wishes, some of which he really did not want to come true, with his ghost-hare in the vicinity. If the sacred hare had heard his thoughts it might decide to grant those wishes.

  The ghost-hare stopped at the top of rise, stood on its hind legs for a moment as if surveying the land ahead, then disappeared below the crown of the hill.

  Skelter was not surprised at witnessing the ghost-hare’s run. Every living hare had a ghost-hare to watch over it, though since ghost-hares were few, and the living many, the spirits of the sacred hares were guardians to more than one. It was fortunate that being supernatural, the ghost-hares could be in several different places at once and thus able to take care personally of each of its charges.

  The last occasion Skelter had dreamed of his ghost-hare was as a leveret, just three weeks of age, and it was a pleasant memory. Ghost-hares sometimes appeared before in the dreams of the living hares as a portent, though whether one of doom or great fortune, no hare ever found out until whatever it was actually happened. It could mean something good was coming, or something very bad, or nothing at all.

  Unfortunately, ghost-hares are known to be fickle: often there’s no pattern nor reason behind the dreams. They might just be lonely for contact with the quick, or fed up with the prattle of the dead. Then again, they are hares, albeit sacred and profound, and thus enjoy a joke as much as the next. Just because they’re insubstantial wisps of mist flying through the heather does not mean they’re made of nothing but seriousness, or are devoid of a sense of humour.

  Skelter knew from the oral tales that ghost-hares are not the spirits of ordinary hares, but are most of them close to two thousand winters old. They are the souls of hares who have at one time been worshipped by humans, and are thus sacred, having been deified into immortality. Since they have roamed the earth for such a long time, and are connected with the Otherworld, they know all things. They have run the ice of new-born glaciers in ancient blizzards; between their claws are the archaic snows of yesterwinters; they have danced in the frosts of antiquity.

  Ghost-hares even know some of the horrors of the Ifurin, that place which tempts hares on their way to heaven, with false trails. The journey to the Otherworld, after death, is short but difficult, through thicket-covered terrain with many tracks and highways. There are strange lagomorph phantoms that whisper from the tangled briars, to come and join them in feasts and frolicking. The dead hare must beware of straying from the path, must resist the sirens of the bracken, for they are only the images of hares, fashioned by dead stoats and weasels. They lead those tempted into a place called the Perfect Here, the heaven of predators, and the souls of these unfortunate hares are forever used to feed the spirits of their old enemy.

  Ghost-hares also know that the time of the living hare is relatively short. They remember the highlands when men first came from their rock burrows into the light of day, out of the depths of the earth to hunt the hare for its flesh and pelt.

  But if men hunted hares, rabbits were in even greater danger, for they were slower and were easily winkled from their holes. There was a strong belief amongst hares that rabbits were the result of man’s poor attempt at copying hares. Why, rabbits did not even have hair on their pads! When men had tried to copy the magnificent hare, with its lithe muscled body and powerful hind legs, they had failed miserably. Hares said they didn’t mind rabbits being around, but the creatures should know their place.

  When the ghost-hare had run through Skelter’s dreams and disappeared, he suddenly woke and found the darkness around him. He made his way to his form, reflecting on what his dreams might mean, if anything at all.

  Chapter Three

  The hares were gathered in the evening hills. Delicate smoke drifted from a distant crofter’s hut, curling upwards towards reddening cirrus like claw scratches in the high heavens. In and around the crags, the silver snow became pink and warm-looking. Below was a loch like a fallen moon, silent and still, shining. A tumbling burn smoothed the edges of the uncut garnets collected on its narrow bed.

  It was the best time of day, when danger was at its least. The light being poor the eagles had ceased to circle and it was too early for serious concern over foxes and wildcats, who preferred the darkness. The storytelling was about to begin. Nothing was real. All had become dreamlike, a fantasy wafting before restful eyes. A time of peace. If you stared at something long enough, a piece of bracken or a flower, it melted into a haze before your eyes and eventually disappeared.

  ‘When the world was winters young,’ began the storyteller, ‘there appeared on the earth a mighty lagomorph: the magnificent Kicker, whose body flowed with long lean muscle, whose ears were like tall pines, whose hind legs were two mighty rivers of strength. There also came into the landscape at the same time a creature known as the Wind.

  ‘At that time the Wind had a shape and a form, though nobody knows today what it looked like, and it claimed to be the fastest creature on the earth. Seeing the great Kicker, the Wind issued a challenge. It cried in that wailing voice we all know so well that it wanted to race the hare, for it boasted that it would surely win.

  ‘Kicker was intent at that period in history on creating his own kind to populate the world, but the Wind would not allow him to rest, wailing and moaning in all the hollows and valleys, and calling Kicker a coward …’ (Skelter and the other hares gasped at this) ‘…; and a loser. Until Kicker finally agreed to race the Wind.

  ‘The Wind told Kicker that the course would be a great circle around the earth, beginning at a small island most of us hares know well. Kicker agreed to this, but stipulated that there should be no start and finish: the competitors had to run until they were so exhausted they could run no further. Thus it would be a test of stamina, as well as speed.

  ‘Agreeing to this the Wind set off immediately and had done at least three circuits of the world before Kicker had passed the island once. The speed of the Wind was so great it tore the skin from its own back, but when it passed Kicker, the great hare shouted, “Can’t you go any faster than that? I’m just warming up, but I’m wondering whether it’s worth the effort. I don’t want to flash past you so fast it makes you look foolish.”

  ‘The Wind screamed at this remark, and increased its speed, flattening forests, raising waves to the height of mountains, and creating dust storms on the deserts. As it did this, its flesh began to tear away in large pieces, which were devoured by the cats and dogs in its wake.

  ‘“Really,” Kicker told the Wind, as it sped by him for the seventh time, “this is going to be too easy. Having seen the best you can do, I hesitate to actually start my run, because I don’t want to humiliate you.”

  ‘The Wind howled at these words, and went even faster, scattering its bones over the world in the process. They sank in the seas, were buried in the mud or frozen in blocks of ice. Once the Wind’s body was gone, with nothing to contain its spirit it began to break up into smaller hurricanes and cyclones, typhoons and tornadoes, which scattered in all directions. Many of these greater parts of itself broke up into even smaller winds and breezes, right down to the tiny draughts that slide into our forms when we are resting.

  ‘The magnificent Kicker had counted how many times the Wind had circled the earth, and taking his time he did exactly one more circuit than this number, before claiming victory over his opponent. The Wind was angry of course, but was now without shape or form, and could only rush around in its disparate parts blowing things down until it ran out of energy.

  ‘So it was that Kicker dealt with his greatest rival, the Wind, which to this day has never recovered its physical shape, and is still scattered over the face of the earth.’

  Like the other hares, Skelter listened to the recounting of the legend with pride in his ancestor, recalling the day’s events in the lull that followed the tale.

  It had been a typical spring day for Skelter.

  He had awoken before the light, to leave his short-tunnelled form so that he could f
eed on the heather while the dew was fresh on its flowers. Rushie, whom he had now forgiven for acting so peculiarly over Swifter, joined him shortly afterwards, and the pair hunched amongst the grasses and sedge and bit and jerked at any piece of greenery that took their fancy.

  Rushie would not sleep in a form in the shape of a tunnel, which she said was too rabbity, but preferred instead to nestle between two rocks, her back bared to the night airs. She often told Skelter she enjoyed the sensation when the stars dripped dew onto her head and woke her before the dawn.

  Gradually other grey shapes appeared around them, all silent save for the nibbling and munching sounds. No one bothered anybody else. There were no battles over prime patches of grass, nor confrontations over heather. Territories were not defined, yet somehow no one encroached on the food of another. They moved around in the otherwise stillness with nary a brush of coats, intent on the feeding, yet content with what they found, the heather as large as bushes and shrubs are to a human, their fine brown eyes covering a wide angle of vision around them.

  Other creatures began appearing. Some ptarmigan rattled through the scree. A stoat was spotted down by the burn, but it followed the wind in a direction away from the clan. A quarrelsome savage little shrew, uncaring of the greater size of the hares, prowled and twitched between them, muttering and grumbling to itself, tearing earthworms from their holes, attacking beetles, chewing up caterpillars, spiders and woodlice, but in such a bothersome and noisy way that other creatures moved from the vicinity, whether they were large or small. If the shrew was challenged at all, it let out a high-pitched stream of vile invective, fortunately not usually understood by the recipient unless it happened to be another shrew, and showed itself ready to take on all comers at the drop of a straw by curling back its lips to reveal its incisors, and making hostile darts at its opponent.

  Hares have often remarked that if shrews were just that little bit bigger, they could have been used by the other creatures of field and sky to drive man from the face of the earth.