by Michael Tod
‘That’ll break our scent trail,’ Rowan said, exhilaration in his voice as they stood together, composing themselves after their ride. ‘Meadowsweet-mate, that was a brilliant idea!’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lord Malachite was watching Obsidian and Silica to see how they would react to his assumption of command. It was a daring move on his part, he was thinking, appropriate to a born leader. Often the best way – act positively and other lesser squirrels will follow meekly. The more confident you sound the less likely they are to challenge.
Now the lesser squirrels seemed bemused, waiting for his next move. He must keep the initiative; reinforce his position.
Where was Sitka? He was the other one to watch. If that traitor Hickory was off with those native Reds, Sitka might go too. They had both had many moons of that poisonous, corrupting Red influence. Ah, there he was, ready to obey. That was better.
‘Right, this is the situation. A group of natives has infiltrated their way into this precinct under the guise of teaching us Silver Squirrels their nasty native ways. We will not tolerate this indignity. The two males we held in the Warren Ash tricked their guards – who have been dealt with in an appropriate way – and escaped. No doubt they have joined their pretty little females. Worst of all, Hickory, rot his name, appears to have joined them. Probably fancies a bit of red-tail. We will hunt them down and dispose of the problem once and for all. Never trust a native with their sneaky, underpaw ways. Follow me.’
He led off towards the Little Pool, followed by a posse of Greys, with Sitka behind them and Obsidian and Silica bringing up the rear and grumbling at the effort.
Malachite halted the column before they reached the Deepend area. He was breathing hard.
‘We will pause here,’ he said. ‘We must not alert the enemy by rushing out and letting them get away.’
‘Lord Obsidian,’ Malachite called across. ‘Take a party and circle round to the east. Lord Silica – do the same to the west. Sitka will go right round and cut off their retreat. When you are in position I will advance from here. Don’t let any escape. Kill on capture. Death to all Reds – and all traitors.’ He scowled a warning at Sitka.
Sitka, with a dozen Greys at his heels, ran from tree to tree to get behind his teachers and erstwhile friends as if to cut off any way of escape. He was surprised that Hickory had abandoned both his own kind and any hope of challenging for the position of Great Lord Silver. Hickory had, at one time, been as keen on this as any Grey male. But what a fool this Malachite was. Still, it was best to go along with him for the time being, he didn’t want to lose his tail and there may be a way to help the Reds without compromising his own position.
When Sitka’s posse was beyond the Little Pool they picked up the clear scent of the Reds, with Hickory’s among them, leading away towards the Hazel Copse. The enemy had gone. The trap, if one could call it that, was empty.
Sitka contemplated following the trail at once but decided it would be wiser not to risk the anger of their new self-appointed chief. He turned up-trail and reached the Little Pool as a disappointed Malachite arrived from the other direction.
Sitka reported what he had found.
‘Right,’ said Malachite, ‘just what I expected. They’ve sneaked away. That’s good news. Now we can have a proper hunt – I always enjoyed those. An exhilarating chase across country, overtake the quarry, surround them, outnumber them, then the Kill. Great sport! The quarry probably enjoys it too. Good fun all round. Who said natives are all bad? Follow me.’
The Grey force followed Malachite along the scent trail, and through the Hazel Copse to the trees on the edge of the Dogleg Field where the trail had come to a dead end. They sniffed around, some going down to the ground where the horse droppings obliterated any more delicate scents, but even when searchers had ventured out into the field beyond the trees there was nothing to indicate which way the quarry had gone.
‘Crafty little tree-rats,’ Malachite declared. They must have back-tracked. We will rest for a while, then fan out and search either side of the trail. Someone wake me after High-sun.’
Rowan kept looking over his shoulder, fearful that their trick with the horses might not have worked and that they would soon hear the sounds of pursuit. He urged his party on, though they were making good time, all being strong and fit, with no very young or old squirrels to slow their progress. He would not be happy until they were safe on his Eyeland in the pool that was named after him – Rowan’s Pool. They would hide up there and, if they were found and attacked, they would have the advantage of being able to defend the Eyeland from firm ground while attackers would be wading ashore. All he needed now was a Woodstock.
He scanned every clump of hazel and goat-willow as they followed humans’ pathways and old overgrown tramways across the Great Heath. He chose a route to the south of the direct line to his pool; he would overshoot and work back towards it with as many false trails as they could lay. These would help to confuse any possible pursuers.
There were a lot of bushes on which honeysuckle was growing, but nowhere could he see the tight strangling spirals that forced the host plant to grow the bulging twists of wood that trapped the Life-Force and gave the Woodstocks their power. Most bines trailed loosely through the branches or, if they did twist, were too slack to affect the host. Twice he thought they were lucky but, on climbing up, he found that the honeysuckle had won the battle and strangled the life out of the hazel. The Woodstock that had once formed was now just a hollow on dead bark filled with fragments of rotten wood.
In another place they found a rotted Woodstock lying on the ground. The success of the woodbine in killing its host had resulted in both the woodbine and Woodstock collapsing to the ground in a tangled heap.
The squirrels checked briefly when the fresh scent of a fox drifted across their path, inducing Fox-dread.
‘Off the ground,’ Rowan ordered, and they scurried up the nearest tree, a stunted pine. Hickory staying just behind Bluebell. They were safe here, but they could not stay indefinitely. Rowan asked for two volunteers to join him in a scouting party to establish if the fox was far enough away for them to pass. He hoped they would not have to lose time by back-tracking.
The entire party volunteered and he selected the twins, Rosebay and Willowherb to come with him; it was time these two came more to the fore. They tended to stay behind the others, always whispering to one another. Rowan explained his plan.
They would drop to the ground, then work upwind following the scent. He would lead. The others were to keep him in view but stay well behind so that if he was ambushed they could report back. If this did happen, they were not to attempt a rescue; their job would be to inform the others.
At ground level the scent was quite strong and the scouting party moved up the scent-line, with Rowan a long squirrel-leap ahead. He climbed onto a stump and stood up to his full height, his nostrils twitching. The fox was close; probably in that clump of bracken just across the grassy track. He stared at it, every muscle tense and quivering, separating stem from frond with his eyes. The dark mass was heather, he was sure of that. Above it was a brown shape that might be an early tinge of autumn colour.
Rowan leapt sideways as the fox sprang. By the time it recovered its balance he was running along the track, leading the fox away from where his companions were waiting in the stunted pine.
Rowan ran, passing several single trees that would have offered him immediate safety, until he came to a clump with a thicket beyond. He leapt for the nearest pine trunk, hearing the snap of the frustrated fox’s jaws below him.
He climbed leisurely up to one of the higher branches and watched it prowl about below, then pause, prick up its ears and, after listening for a moment, slip noiselessly away into the furze. Rowan listened too; human voices were just audible. He lay on the branch, the smell of warm resin strong in his nostrils, as two humans, with sticks in their hands and bright blue loads on their backs, passed underneath, heading towards the p
lace where he had left his party.
He ran down the tree trunk to the ground and followed close behind the humans until he was near the tree where the others squirrels were hiding.
Rosebay and Willowherb had reported back, breathlessly.
‘Uz zaw a vox jump out at Rowan, him jumped zidewayz.’
‘ Rowan jumped zidewayz when the vox jumped at him.’
‘The vox mizzed him and him ran away.’
‘Him ran away when the vox mizzed him.’
‘The vox wuz chazing him.’
‘Him wuz being chazed by the vox.’
‘Slowly, slowly,’ said Meadowsweet as the sisters told the story, Willowherb as always echoing Rosebay. ‘He’ll be all right. Rowan will have some trick to play on it. Was it a fox or a vixen?’
‘Him wuz zleek and vat.’
‘Vat and zleek him wuz.’
‘Probably a fox then. Vixens are thin and scraggy at this time of year. Feeding the cubs wears them down. The scent was almost certainly from a male. You’ll remember it now?’
‘Yez,’ the sisters nodded together.
Spindle and Hickory were sitting up, alert. ‘Humans coming,’ Spindle said. ‘Keep out of sight.’
Rowan called up when the walkers had passed under the tree.
‘Come down quickly and follow me. The fox won’t come near the humans, and they never watch their tails.’
‘They don’t have tails to watch,’ said Meadowsweet, brushing whiskers briefly with Rowan.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On this same fine summer morning, two squirrels were talking together in one of the Ourland trees, much as their mother Marguerite and her brother Rowan had done years before at the Blue Pool. These yearlings were Marguerite and Juniper’s son and daughter, Oak and Burdock. Oak was named after his grandfather and Burdock after her great grandmother, both of whom were long Sun-gone and buried together, nourishing the Council Tree in Beech Valley. Their father, Juniper, had died heroically on the Mainland in the battle against the Greys at the Agglestone Rock the year before.
Neither Oak nor Burdock had chosen mates this year, much to Marguerite’s disappointment, though each had a drey near to her own.
‘If we’d stayed on the Mainland,’ said Oak the Wary, we’d both have been on climbabout by now. I’ve been round Ourland so many times I know every tree and bush. I’m bored – think of something for us to do’
‘I must admit that, with food everywhere, and nothing trying to kill us, life is just too Sun-damned easy,’ Burdock the Thoughtful replied. ‘We should be grateful to the Sun, but yes – I’m bored too.’ She was silent for a moment then said, ‘I know. Let’s be News-squirrels!’
‘What are News-squirrels?’
‘Squirrels who tell the others what is going on. No one hears anything much now. Any news that does get told is by old Post-squirrels with no imagination.’
‘Surely News-squirrels shouldn’t have imagination. They should just report what they see, accurately,’ Oak said.
‘Boring, boring, boring,’ said Burdock. ‘News should be exciting, fun, entertaining – like Dandelion’s stories.’
‘But news often isn’t exciting,’ protested Oak, warily.
‘It could be if it’s told right,’ replied Burdock. ‘Come on. Let’s be News-squirrels.’
‘Don’t we need permission or something?’
‘I don’t think so. We’ll soon find out if we just do it. Let’s find something happening.’
They called at the drey of Tansy Stout Heart and the one-eyed Tamarisk Great Leap. They were foraging together with their three dreylings. Greetings were exchanged but it was obvious that nothing newsworthy was going on here. These two, who had lived such dramatic lives on the mainland, were now happily domesticated.
‘We’re News-squirrels,’ said Burdock, ‘seeking a story. What’s new.’
‘Nothing much,’ said Tamarisk, after a moment’s hesitation, remembering how, when he was young, he had been prone to blurting out whatever came into his head. As Tamarisk the Tactless he had hurt many feelings and given away secrets which it would have been better to have left unsaid. ‘What sort of things do you want to know?’
‘Anything unusual.’
‘Chip the Ruddled has got something odd down in the Zwamp.’ Tamarisk said, looking at Tansy with his one good eye. He knew that Chip still carried a catkin for her and wasn’t sure if she didn’t do the same for him. ‘There might be a story there for you.’
Chip, absorbed in the Bark-rush, did not see Oak and Burdock until they were close to him.
‘It’s a good job we’re not predators,’ said Oak.
‘Yes,’ said Chip crossly. ‘Were you looking for someone?’
‘You,’ said Burdock. ‘Tamarisk said you have something odd here. We’re News-squirrels,’ she added.
Chip was trying to hide the Bark-rush behind his back. There was a big difference in Marguerite seeing it and these two prying about. They might be her son and daughter and of his age, but they had never been close, despite journeying together the previous year.
‘Come on,’ said Oak to Burdock. ‘He doesn’t want us to see it, whatever it is.’
‘Not so fast,’ Burdock replied. ‘I’m sure that Chip would rather tell all about it, than have us guess and tell wrong things to other squirrels. Wouldn’t you, Chip?’
‘Well,’ said Chip, hesitantly, ‘I call it a Bark-rush. You can count on it and work things out.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like how many squirrels there will be on the island if everybody keeps on having dreylings at the rate they are.’
‘Neither of us have got any,’ said Oak defensively.
‘Hush,’ said Burdock. ‘Chip is going to tell us about his bark-rush thing. Why do you call it that?’
‘Because it is made from bark and rushes,’ Chip replied.
‘But that’s a silly name – how does it work?’
Chip slid the rings back and forth but neither Oak nor Burdock could see what made Chip so proud of it.
‘That’ll have to be our story,’ said Burdock. ‘Chip the Ruddled invents a Bark-rush.’
‘Do you have to use my tag?’ asked Chip.
‘Not if you tell us everything,’ Burdock replied. ‘Now what were you going to tell us about all those dreylings?’
Marguerite heard the story second or even third paw.
‘Chip’s Bark-rush invention is going to make all the squirrels have lots of dreylings and soon the island will sink under the weight of them all.’
‘Chip said that?’ Marguerite asked her informer.
‘Well, something like that. The News-squirrel – your daughter Burdock – told my friend only this afternoon and she told me. What should we do?’
‘Leave it to me,’ said Marguerite.
She found Oak and Burdock at their dreys and asked about the ‘story.’ Oak told her what Chip had told them about the Bark-rush.
‘Did he say that the island would sink under the weight of all the squirrels?’
Oak was silent and Burdock said, ‘Well, not exactly, but that made a good story.’
‘That’s downright irresponsible,’ said Marguerite.
‘You two, of all squirrels, ought to know better.’
‘Why us? Asked Burdock.
‘You’re my family.’
‘So what – does that make us different?’ Burdock snapped back.
Oak put a restraining paw on his sister’s shoulder but she shook it off.
‘I’m fed up with always being your daughter and other squirrels expecting us to behave better than they have to. We – I at least – am a News-squirrel and I shall say whatever I like about whoever I want to.’
She ran along a branch and leapt into the next tree.
Oak called after her but Burdock snarled over her shoulder, ‘You can go and get lost for all I care!’
Marguerite sighed and looked upset.
Oak went to her and said, ‘Marguerite
-Ma, I’m sorry that Burdock spoke to you that way, but it’s true. It is hard being your family and trying to live up to what you, and other squirrels expect of us. Especially now.’
‘Why especially now?’
‘Things are not right here on Ourland – I’m sure you can see that. There’s no danger to keep us alert and wary, as squirrels should be. No excitement. There’s masses of food everywhere, our Mainland ideas are not fully accepted by the island squirrels, and the old Royal ways and disciplines you’ve told us about, don’t apply any more. Squirrels just don’t know where they are.’
Marguerite looked at her son proudly. He had summed up exactly what she had been feeling. She let him carry on.
‘By all accounts, Just Poplar made a good leader when you were not here on Ourland. He always tries to be fair and live up to the ‘Just’ tag, but he feels over-awed by you.’
‘Me?’ said Marguerite incredulously. ‘Me?’
‘Yes, you, Marguerite-Ma. Every squirrel can see that you are far cleverer than he is. He’s afraid that you will disagree with his decisions.
‘I would never dream of interfering.’ Marguerite felt herself to be on the defensive. ‘I never would.’
