The Animals of Farthing Wood

by Colin Dann

  Toad paddled briskly to the bank, and watched the grey-headed bird making off with its prize. Badger, Weasel, Hedgehog and Hare came running.

  ‘It might be one of our mice!’ cried Toad.

  ‘Quickly!’ said Badger. ‘Hare, Weasel, come with me. Hedgehog, will you stay here, and get everyone under cover? Oh, where are Kestrel and Owl?’

  The three animals raced off in the wake of the robber, Hare at once taking the lead.

  Burdened by its victim, the bird fluttered along slowly, and the fleet-footed Hare was soon directly beneath it. He slackened his pace, and was about to cry out. But, as he looked up, he saw that the poor mouse was dangling limply from the bird’s cruel hooked beak. It was quite clearly dead.

  Hare knew it was useless to follow further. The bird looked down with an air of invincibility, and uttered a muffled ‘chack’. Then, turning its handsome chestnut back on the powerless Hare, it flew triumphantly away, disappearing into the very birch scrub where Hare knew the voles and fieldmice to be.

  He looked round. Badger and Weasel were still a long way off. He followed the bird into the scrub. An excited ‘shrike, shrike’ betrayed the creature’s whereabouts, as it was greeted by its mate from a prominent perch on a birch sapling. What followed made Hare’s blood run cold.

  The chestnut-backed bird made for a neighbouring blackthorn bush, and, with a vigorous stab of its beak, skewered the tiny mouse on one of the projecting thorns. It then promptly rejoined its mate on the branch where they clacked excitedly, wagging their long tails from side to side.

  Hare found himself drawn towards the thorn-bush, almost against his will. A few feet away he stopped, scarcely able to credit the horror of what he saw. The bush was covered in bodies: bumble-bees, large beetles and grasshoppers, and tiny, almost furless mice, all neatly impaled on the sharp thorns.

  Hare whispered to himself: ‘The butcher bird!’ All wild creatures had heard tales of the horrible ‘larder’ of mutilated victims which was kept by the red-backed shrike, the ‘butcherbird’.

  Hare shivered. He was struck by a thought he hardly dared acknowledge. Where were the voles and fieldmice? He began to search amongst the leaves and twigs underfoot, more and more desperately. He looked everywhere. None of the mice was to be found.

  He heard Badger calling. ‘Hare! Where are you?’

  He quickly left the scrub. The shrikes were both sitting bolt upright on their perch, turning their heads jerkily in every direction, searching for fresh morsels to catch.

  Hare was determined that Badger should not see what he had just seen. It would be in that kindly animal’s nature to blame himself for what had occurred, and if he saw that awful larder he would feel he had sent the voles and fieldmice, or at least their helpless babies, to their death.

  ‘There you are!’ cried Badger, as Hare emerged into the open. ‘Where did the bird go? Did you see?’

  Hare sadly shook his head. ‘The little mouse –whoever he was – was dead,’ he said. ‘I saw that.’

  ‘What kind of bird was it?’ demanded Badger.

  Hare had to think quickly. ‘Well, I’m not sure,’ he said evasively. ‘It had a red back, grey head, and a hook-tipped beak.’

  ‘The butcher bird,’ said Weasel immediately.

  Badger looked at him in horror. ‘Ghastly creatures,’ he said. ‘There used to be a pair on the borders of Farthing Wood . . . more dangerous than Adder when it came to hunting small creatures.’ He stopped talking and looked round.

  ‘But the mice . . . the voles . . . where are they?’ he muttered, moving towards the scrub.

  Hare held his tongue, but lamely followed him. Inside, Badger looked around again.

  Suddenly they heard the rustling of leaves underfoot, and, from beneath a pile of leaf litter, one by one, came the voles and fieldmice.

  ‘Is it safe?’ whispered Vole.

  ‘Yes, come quickly,’ said Hare; and he, Badger and Weasel, shepherding the mice between them, ran from the birch scrub towards a hollow tree. Once inside, they rested, panting heavily. No one spoke for a while.

  Then Badger said, ‘You see, Vole, what happens when you leave the safety of the party? You small creatures are too vulnerable to be left on your own. How many have died?’

  ‘All the babies,’ Vole said brokenly. ‘I’m sorry, Badger. I should have known you were really thinking of our good.’

  ‘We’ll stay with you now,’ said Fieldmouse. ‘The poor parents are agreed – otherwise there’ll be no voles and fieldmice.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Badger resolutely. ‘We can’t leave Hedgehog any longer. Who knows what other dangers threaten us?’

  The animals made their way back to the stream, where Hedgehog trotted out to meet them, ‘All safe here,’ he announced.

  Badger explained what had happened. ‘It’s been a tragedy,’ he admitted. ‘But this won’t happen again. You have my word on it. From now on we shall travel in close formation – and we shall stop only to drink and eat and sleep. One of the birds will always be on guard in the air, where they will be able to detect the approach of any foreign creature.’

  He looked all round. His voice took on a warm, benign tone. ‘There will be no more lives lost while I’m in charge; I promise it. I hope now you will all trust in me?’

  The animals responded unanimously to his plea.

  ‘I thank you all,’ said Badger. ‘Adder, you look as if you want to say something?’

  Adder’s face took on a sardonic grin. ‘A very moving vote of confidence,’ he drawled. ‘I’m sure if it were possible for me to applaud, I should do so now.’ He chuckled noiselessly.

  But nobody took any notice of him. For there was a new confidence in the party, despite the recent setback. They had survived the catastrophe of the river crossing and the loss of Fox who, a natural leader, had seemed irreplaceable.

  They felt that Badger had now stamped his authority on the leadership and would rise to the occasion. Whatever hardships were still in store for the animals, they sensed that, having come so far, it was unlikely they could now be diverted from their joint purpose.

  Ignorant of the fate of Fox as they were, most of them could not believe him dead, and still felt in their bones that, eventually, he would rejoin them. Yet, with or without Fox, however long it might take, the determination of each creature was now reinforced. Their journey could end in only one place – within the boundaries of White Deer Park.

  PART TWO

  Journey to White Deer Park

  19

  Fox alone

  From the middle of the river Fox watched a huge mass of driftwood and debris floating downstream towards him. He was tired – terribly tired – and he knew he was too far from the shore to avoid the impact. In a few seconds the mass was upon him, engulfing him. One of the larger pieces of wood dealt him a sharp rap on the head, and he was carried away on the current.

  Despite his struggles, he was unable to resist the pressure exerted by the heavy brushwood, and he was carried helplessly along. In a last, frantic, backward glance, he saw his friends on the bank running, trying to keep pace with him, but he knew it was impossible for them.

  In a few minutes, Fox was entirely alone. All his effort was concentrated on keeping his head above water.

  Eventually he was carried into a stretch of calm water, and here he managed to ease himself a little. He was able to pull himself far enough out of the river to rest his front legs on the collection of large sticks and branches surrounding him. In this position he travelled a considerable distance, while day gradually dawned.

  The water was cool and refreshing, and as he was not able to swim – enmeshed as he was in the driftwood – he had very soon recovered a good deal from his previous exhaustion. But as he floated downstream on his tiny island, farther and farther away from his friends, Fox wondered if he would ever feel solid ground underfoot again.

  The wood-pile carried him over a weir, from which he emerged none the worse except for a fright and
a good ducking. He floated into less peaceful water, becoming more and more of a speck in the broadening river. He drifted past anglers and picnickers, past houseboats and rowing-boats; he drifted underneath overhanging willows and alongside big pleasure-steamers thronged with passengers in thin summer clothes. But nobody saw him. Nobody remarked on the waterborne fox.

  He had begun to feel quite convinced that before long he would be washed out to sea – that vast, terrible expanse of water he had heard tales about – when his situation suddenly changed.

  As he floated under a bridge, there, directly in his path, was a small motor-boat. The man inside had obviously been fishing, for he was getting the last of his tackle aboard. The wood surrounding Fox caught against the outboard motor, and finally came to rest.

  Fox did not dare to attempt to climb into the boat, although it was low in the water, but he thought there might be a chance for him to reach the bank at last, if the angler was going to moor his boat.

  When he was quite ready, the man began to paddle his boat in a leisurely fashion out from the bridge without once looking behind.

  A little further on the river split, flowing either side of a large island. The man paddled into the left-hand channel, and Fox saw ahead two large wooden gates, right across the water. As they approached these gradually swung open, and the man continued to paddle right inside.

  Suddenly the boat was motionless. Fox found he was in a narrow channel of water, locked in by two tremendously high, slime-covered walls on either side, and two sets of great double doors, before and behind. Looking directly upwards he could see human faces peering over the tops of the walls.

  He heard a gushing sound, and the next thing he knew, he was slowly being raised upwards on the water. The green slippery walls slid past on either side of him, and the faces above came nearer and nearer. Surely they would notice him!

  All at once he heard a child’s excited cry. The faces peered further over the walls. Fox began to feel nervous and vulnerable. He heard the sound of human voices growing louder, and he saw the man stand up in the boat, and look towards him.

  Fox tried to shrink back against the branches and sticks, hoping to camouflage himself. But he was too late. More and more faces were staring down at him. Hands and fingers pointed excitedly. The chattering voices increased in number. Fox was almost on their level.

  The water was rising more slowly now. The man in the boat had been obliged to sit down again, and prepare to move his craft. The lock gates in front of him were swinging open, and he was taking hold of his paddle.

  Fox saw that unless he did something quickly, he would be towed on down the river. His head was now level with the top of the wall. Arms reached out to him, but he did not wait to see if they might be helping arms. He snapped his jaws twice, viciously, and the arms were withdrawn. With a half-leap he scrambled clear of the brushwood and, for a fleeting moment, balanced himself before jumping on to the pathway.

  Legs, human legs, everywhere. Straight through them he dashed, before anyone could prevent it. He saw the river bank and raced for it. Then he ran as he had never run before in all his life, away from the humans and their noise, and straight for the first cover he could find.

  But humans seemed to be everywhere. Shouts followed him. Humans were in front of him as well as behind him. They were strolling, sitting or lying on the grassy bank. Some did not even notice Fox dash past. Others stepped back in amazement, uttering little shrieks.

  Fox sped along the tow-path, with the river on his left and fences, hedges, walls, houses on his right. He was hemmed in, but still he kept running.

  Soon, looming in front, was the bridge he had floated under only a short time ago. The path ran directly underneath. Fox did not stop.

  The sun and the air were drying his fur, wet for so long. He felt strong and refreshed and courageous, and was spurred on by the thought of the friends he was running back to join. Suddenly the fences ended, and there on his right were trees and wide fields with cows or horses in them.

  He turned into the first field. The grass felt cool and supremely soft under Fox’s feet, and as he put the human path further behind him, he felt secure. A little, winding stream ran through the field, and he drank from it in great gulps.

  A Friesian cow that was drinking a little further upstream, raised her head and looked docilely towards him. ‘You’re a bold one,’ she said. ‘Farmer’s in the next field.’

  ‘I . . . I was lost,’ Fox replied. ‘I’m trying to find my way back.’

  ‘Are you far from home?’ the cow asked.

  ‘I’m a long way from what I used to call home,’ answered Fox. ‘I have no home now. I’m on my way to a new one, only I’ve been separated from my friends.’

  The cow wanted to know if she or her companions could be of any assistance.

  ‘You have been already,’ said Fox gratefully. ‘I shall avoid the next field. I must get on – I’ve a long way to go.’ He thanked the cow, and ran off, skirting the neighbouring field, and entering the adjacent one, keeping the river in sight in the distance on his left.

  There was a solitary black horse in this field, and from its grizzled haunches and neck, Fox could tell he was old. He was leaning peacefully against a chestnut tree, blinking his eyes and lazily swishing his threadbare tail against the flies.

  ‘Good day!’ Fox called pleasantly, as he trotted past.

  The old horse started and looked down. ‘Oh, hullo!’ he wheezed. ‘Must’ve been dozing again. Very warm today.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said Fox, stopping for a moment to snap up a stag-beetle that was lying on its back, all six legs waving feebly.

  The horse turned his head away in disgust. ‘Ugh! Don’t know how you can,’ he protested.

  ‘That’s the first morsel I’ve had for a good many hours,’ Fox replied.

  ‘If you’re hungry, my manger’s half-full over there,’ the horse said hospitably. ‘My teeth are going – I can’t crop grass so well now. And my appetite’s not what it was.’

  ‘Very kind of you,’ said Fox, ‘but I don’t really go in for that sort of food.’

  ‘Oh well, come and have a chat anyway,’ wheedled the ancient horse. ‘I get so bored here by myself all the time.’

  Despite his haste to rejoin his friends, Fox felt it would be impolite to refuse the invitation, especially as the horse was behaving very civilly towards him.

  He wandered over to the chestnut tree and lay down, panting, in its shade. The sun was very hot.

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded the horse. ‘Make yourself at home. It’s cooler under here.’ He continued to lean against the trunk of the tree. ‘I don’t get much company these days,’ he went on, turning his rheumy eyes on Fox. ‘Not since my old pal, the bay, died last summer. After the wife went, we became very close, although, of course, he was only working class.’

  ‘The bay?’ asked Fox.

  ‘Yes. A draught horse, you see.’

  ‘And you are . . . ?’

  ‘I was a hunter,’ replied the black horse. ‘Best in the stable, with a long pedigree. Seems funny, my talking to you like this, after a long career chasing foxes.’

  Fox started and pricked up his ears. ‘Fox hunting?’ he whispered.

  ‘That’s right. Oh, I don’t uphold it. It’s a wicked sport really. But the racing, the leaping, the scarlet coats – that part of it’s grand.’

  Fox shuddered. The old horse’s words took him back to his childhood, and the terrifying tales he had heard from his father of the mad, baying hounds, the thundering hooves, and the torment of the exhausted, solitary fox forced to run to its death.

  The old horse noticed Fox’s discomfort. ‘You must excuse me,’ he said humbly. ‘Just an old creature’s thoughtless reminiscences. Believe me, I used to be as relieved as you would be, when the animals I chased got away.’

  ‘That’s good of you,’ said Fox. ‘I never suspected anything else. Only humans could practise such cruelty as exists in hunting any sm
aller or weaker animal to its death.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ the old horse nodded. ‘And yet, those same humans have always treated me well – like a life-long friend.’

  ‘Well,’ Fox shook his head. ‘A different relationship, I suppose.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank heaven, I’ve never been involved in a hunt,’ said Fox. ‘But my father told me of his experiences. He was lucky, but his father and mother were both caught. The hounds tore them to shreds.’

  The black horse nodded his grizzled head. ‘I can give you a word of advice,’ he said seriously. ‘I shouldn’t stay in this part of the country any longer than you can help. It’s all hunting country for some miles round here. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.’

  ‘Thank you, but don’t worry,’ said Fox. ‘I’m just passing through. I’m on my way back to rejoin my friends up river. I was separated from them last night.’

  ‘Really? What happened?’ the old horse wanted to know.

  So Fox explained that he had been swept away while trying to help some frightened rabbits to cross the river. Then, seeing the look of disbelief on the horse’s face, and feeling that it would do him good to rest for a little while longer, Fox settled down to tell the whole story.

  He explained how all the animals of Farthing Wood had been driven from their homes by the humans, and how, having heard from Toad of a wonderful place, White Deer Park, a Nature Reserve where they could live in peace again, they had banded together to make the long and difficult journey. Fox trembled as he recounted the various dangers they had met on the way, remembering particularly the terrible fire they had survived, and the storm, and the angry farmer with his gun – and, finally, the horror of the river crossing. Stirred by renewed anxiety for his friends, Fox brought his story to an end as quickly as he politely could, impatient to be on his way again.

  The horse had listened in silence, except for the occasional snort of disgust. When Fox stopped talking, he commented sadly, ‘It’s happening all over the country. You wild creatures are being driven back on all sides. Humans have always been greedy, particularly where land is concerned. But it’s to the credit of those among them who appreciate your existence that they’re setting aside at least a few chunks of land where you can live in peace. I’ve heard about this White Deer Park you mentioned. For a horse it wouldn’t be a long journey from here. But if it’s necessary for you to travel at the pace of mice, then obviously it’s another matter.’