The Golden Flight (The Dorset Squirrels)

by Michael Tod

‘I know that, but it makes him uneasy and indecisive. Remember he is used to one strong squirrel being in charge. A King in fact.’

  ‘That’s all over and done with,’ said Marguerite. ‘It was Just Poplar himself that gave up being King.’

  ‘I know, but there are a few squirrels – more than a few – who would like you to be Queen.’

  ‘Me?’ Queen of Ourland? Out of the question. I thought they all called me Miss Hoity-Toity.’

  ‘Only a few of the younger ones. Don’t take any notice of them – they speak from under their tails.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Marguerite sat back, tail low, awaiting her son’s verdict.

  Oak thought for a moment, then replied, ‘It’s difficult for me. If you were Queen then I would be Next-King and I’m not sure if I want that. There is no doubt that you are the cleverest squirrel on the island, bar none.’

  Marguerite’s tail rose a little.

  ‘Squirrels say Chip is clever, and he is, but he hasn’t got your experience, nor wisdom, nor your ability to find the truth buried beneath the facts.’

  Marguerite’s tail rose higher.

  ‘I think you would make a good Queen, or Leader, call it what you will, and I think all the squirrels would accept you, though some of the ex-zervantz might not be too keen on the idea of being zervantz again.’

  ‘They needn’t be. Just because there was a Queen, or a King, there needn’t be zervantz!’

  ‘True, but it would take some time to convince them. Nothing should be done hastily,’ said Oak the Wary.

  ‘Now, what is the truth in what Chip told Burdock and me about Ourland being overrun with squirrels?’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lord Malachite was woken from a dream in which he was taking his place in the Oval Drey as the new Great Lord Silver. The trees around were full of respectful Silver squirrels chanting his praises as he climbed to the rightful position. Then some minion was shaking his shoulder.

  ‘Wake up sir, it’s past High-sun.’

  ‘How dare you,’ he snapped.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. You said to wake you.’

  Malachite scratched at an invisible flea. ‘Yes, so I did, so I did. Anything to report.’

  ‘No, sir. We’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘Quite right, quite right. We must find where the quarry backtracked. Everybody search. Leave no trees unsniffed.’

  Miles away across the Great Heath, the human walkers had reached the road passing to the west of Rowan’s Pool and turned along it towards Screech Hill. In the hedges on either side of the road were many trees and bushes with honeysuckle growing up them; the sweet scent of the yellow trumpet-shaped flowers drowning the tarry smell from the hot surface of the road.

  The squirrels watched the humans walk away out of their sight, confident that the fox was no longer a threat, but listening for the hum of the travelling boxes that humans used on these roadways. Whenever the road was clear, they again searched for a suitable Woodstock, hiding in the hedges when vehicles came by.

  It was Wood Anemone who found one, a bulky twist on a hazel sapling, with the honeysuckle bine almost buried in the wood that had grown out and around it. Rowan sensed its power; running his paws over the bark, his whiskers vibrating with the hidden force trapped in the fibres.

  ‘This is a strong one,’ he said, then started to gnaw at the stem above the twisted bulge.

  In a short time he had cut the sapling through above and below the twist, and had bitten away the bitter bine itself, letting the Woodstock fall into the hedge. From there they dragged it out onto the grass verge and across the road towards Rowan’s Pool.

  ‘Uz wouldn’t like to have to take thiz wun far,’ said Spindle, remembering the long journey of the previous year. ‘What diztanze iz yewr pool from here?’

  ‘Not far, just through those chestnut and pine trees.’

  Even so, it was twilight when they dragged the Woodstock through the trees and reached the bank that surrounded the pool. They looked down on the Eyeland that they hoped would offer safety for them all once they had swum across to it.

  A tree had blown down, probably in the Great Storm, and was lying in the water – making a bridge from the Mainland!

  Rowan said something under his breath but perhaps a little too loudly. Meadowsweet looked at him, her eyes wide. ‘Rowan!’ she said.

  Rosebay and Willowherb giggled and nudged one another. Hickory looked surprised and glanced at Bluebell.

  ‘Stay here at the top of the bank and keep alert.’ Rowan said. ‘Spindle and I will go and investigate.’

  The two males crossed the water using the fallen tree, and dropped from it on to the tufty grass and lichen that covered the ground. There was no scent of danger there, nor in the three trees. The Eyeland seemed to Spindle to be much smaller than when he had seen it two years before. It was little more than a squirrel leap from one side to the other.

  ‘What now?’ he asked.

  ‘This’ll have to do for tonight,’ Rowan replied. ‘In the morning we’ll find a safer place. At least here we can only be attacked from one direction. Let’s get the Woodstock over here.’

  The twisted stick was rolled down the bank and carefully dragged across he tree trunk to the Eyeland as the moon rose in the east, throwing an eerie light on the busy squirrels. Rowan was trying to remember the shapes that Marguerite had cut on earlier weapons and wished now that he had taken more notice when she had tried to teach him numbers.

  There was a then a . After that was a , or was it a ?

  ‘Who remembers the numbers that go on a Woodstock?’ he asked, turning expectantly to Meadowsweet, who spread her paws.

  ‘Sorry, Rowan-mate,’ she said.

  ‘Uz doez,’ said Wood Anemone. ‘Uz doezn’t know what they iz called, but uz knowz the shapes well ‘nuff. Uz uzed to polizh the old Woodstock when Marguerite wuz not there. Uz liked to zee it all clean and tidy-like.’

  Rowan set Rosebay and Willowherb to guard the bridge and sent Bluebell up the tallest tree to listen for any sounds of approaching danger. The others all worked at stripping off the bark and biting the magic numbers deep into the hazel wood – .

  Hickory watched in fascination, taking his turn in the cutting and asking questions about the shapes of the numbers.

  There was some argument about the . Rowan said it was Marguerite’s special mark and was therefore not needed, but the others, especially Wood Anemone, felt it was important. ‘It worked vor uz with that there; it may not work without it,’ she argued, and so the was cut, leaving space for the numbers which activated the force and controlled its power and range.

  Bats circled between the trees and flittered away down the length of the pool, snatching at moths and other night flying insects, their shrill cries sharp in the still air. A nightjar churred from a branch across the water reminding Rowan of the year he had lived on the Eyeland alone.

  Whilst they had been dragging the Woodstock to the pool a young Grey was once more waking Malachite.

  ‘Lord Malachite, sir. We’ve found the trail. It’s on the other side of the field. It crosses the roadway and goes on to the Great Heath.’

  Malachite looked at the angle of the sun. Was it really that late? He must have been dozing again. The quarry would have a good start. Too late to follow now. They would set out at first light and allow a full day for the hunt. In the meantime he had some other business that must be seen to.

  ‘Everybody back to base,’ he ordered. ‘Get a good night’s rest. Where are the Lords Silica and Obsidian?’

  ‘They retired early, sir. They went back to their dreytels.’

  In the North-east Wood, Silica and Obsidian were discussing Malachite’s behaviour.

  ‘He’s fallen off his stump!’ said Silica. ‘Can’t he see that things have changed. I’m surprised that the other Silvers follow him so readily.’

  ‘I think they’re thrown, with Hickory leaving like that. Fancy a Silver running off after Red-tail, ass
uming that’s what’s behind it.’

  ‘Dangerous to assume. What was it that Red female told us?’

  Squirrels who don’t check

  May assume a fox’s mouth

  To be a safe den.

  ‘Don’t start quoting their Kernels at me.’ Lord Obsidian growled. ‘You’ll be wanting me to behave like a little native next.’

  They were silent for a while, each busy with their thoughts. Finally Silica spoke.

  ‘Do you think we’ve been out of action too long?’ he asked. ‘The whole world seems to be upside-down now. I’m tempted to slip back to the Tanglewood and live the quiet life. Be lonely on my own, though. Would you come with me?’

  Then, before he had an answer, he added, ‘Obsidian-Friend, as the Red ones put it.’

  ‘Sun-dammit I will – as the Red ones would put it. Let’s slip away before the hordes come back – Silica-Friend.’

  ‘What about Malachite?’

  ‘Him! He’s obsessed with the idea of becoming Great Lord Silver. When he’s got over that and finds us gone, no doubt he’ll follow us. Come on, I’ve had enough of this.’

  Lord Malachite returned to New Massachusetts with Sitka, explaining to him why he had put off following the fugitives until the next day. ‘We’ll all be fresh then, have a good day’s hunting. Run those natives down by High-sun I’m sure. And the traitor! You can have the honour of killing him. I’ll remember that when I’m in high places. You’ll need to show which side you’re on since you’ve been mixed up in this native business for so long. See you at first light. What was your name again?’

  The moon was high when Malachite slipped out of his dreytel and went silently through the branches towards Silica’s. It was good that Obsidian’s dreytel was some distance beyond that. This was worthy of Zander the Great: original thinking, the element of surprise, ruthlessness – good leadership qualities those. If he could get Silica and Obsidian while they were asleep, he could kill them before they knew what was happening. Bite the throat and hold on – it should only take a minute or two to get those rivals out of contention. But he would have to do it without waking the other Silvers.

  At Silica’s dreytel he paused and listened. There was no sound of breathing. A thought flashed across his mind. What if Silica had planned the same thing? Maybe Silica had already killed Obsidian and was now on his way to kill him. No – he would have seen or heard him.

  Malachite went and listened outside Obsidian’s dreytel. Silence again.

  He thought up some pretext about changing the start time for the hunt, and shook the twigs of the sleeping place, then put his head inside. It too was empty.

  Perhaps they were out together, looking for him! He imagined sharp teeth biting into his neck; looked around fearfully in the spooky moonlight, then sought an unused dreytel, well away from his own, and spent a restless night there, only dozing off when the moon had set.

  ‘Lord Malachite, sir. It’s dawn, sir. We had a job to find you, sir. It’s all right, sir. It’s only me, sir. Are you alright, sir?’

  Malachite looked bleary-eyed at the youngster, one of the new arrivals.

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course I am. What was your name again?’

  As dawn lightened the sky over the little island in the pool, the Woodstock was as complete as Rowan and Spindle could make it. They relieved the guards on the bridge and sent all the others up the trees to sleep. Wood Anemone gave the gleaming twisted wood one last rub with a piece of soft moss.

  ‘Watch that I don’t fall asleep, Spindle-Friend,’ Rowan said.

  ‘Yew’d better do the zame for uz,’ the ex-zervant replied.

  Rowan watched as a heron flapped slowly over the pool before starting a long slide down to the shallow water at the far end; the trueness of its flight indicating that here was no apparent danger from that direction.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Hickory had come with Bluebell at mid morning to relieve Rowan and Spindle at the bridge.

  ‘Call me if you see anything suspicious. I’ll sleep near the Woodstock in case we need to use it,’ Rowan told them.

  Though desperately tired, sleep did not come easily. From where he lay in a tussock of grass he could see Hickory and Bluebell sitting on the peeling bark of the bridge, saying things he could not hear. It was clear from the way they sat so close together how they felt about one another. How had he missed this before?

  What would happen if they mated, as they clearly planned to do? Remembering Bluebell’s namesake and the Greys of the Silver Tide, he knew that a mating must be physically possible. But would the Sun bless the union with dreylings and, if it did, what would they be like? Would they be grey or red, or a patchy mixture, like the horse in the Dogleg Field? Whatever colour they were, they would be his grandchildren and he would love them.

  Rowan finally dropped off to sleep, dreaming of being a grandfather and playing under a peaceful sun with a tumbling mass of piebald dreylings.

  Malachite asked the assembled Greys if anyone had seen the other two Lords. None had, neither that day nor the previous evening. He selected two young males and briefed them privately.

  ‘I’ve got a special and secret mission for you,’ he said in a conspiratorial voice. ‘I have chosen you out of all the others to follow Lord Silica and Lord Obsidian and report back to me exactly what they are doing. Don’t let them see you, and tell no one but me what you find out.’ He put a paw to his lips. ‘No one but me. Understand?’

  The youngsters nodded, proud to have been selected, though they were disappointed to be missing the hunt.

  ‘Wait until we have gone, then follow your noses. I will expect a report tonight. If we are not here – follow our trail.’

  He turned back to address the others, surprised and pleased to see how many had turned out for the chase. Not only were most of those who had been at Rowan’s current training present, but yet another new batch of colonists had just arrived and they were eager to join in.

  The squirrels crossed the Dogleg Field in a grey mass and flowed over the road in the early light. Scouts had been sent ahead to find the scent and they guided the hunters through the furze, heather and fern of the Great Heath.

  By High-sun the scouts had reported that the quarry were trapped on an island in a pool, with a tree-trunk bridge leading to it.

  ‘I don’t think they have seen us,’ Malachite was told by the scout leader. ‘Most of them are asleep, but the traitor, Hickory, and a Red female are on guard.’

  ‘Rot his tail,’ said Malachite to Sitka. ‘How do you fancy single combat on the bridge? That should be good sport.’

  Sitka looked apprehensive. ‘He was my friend,’ he said.

  ‘Not now, surely – he’s a proven traitor. You kill him, then we’ll deal with the natives.’

  ‘Let’s see exactly what the situation is first,’ said Sitka. ‘The Red ones taught us a saying.’

  In a strange country,

  Be careful. Time spent looking

  Is seldom wasted.

  ‘Humph,’ said Malachite, but sent out parties of squirrels to surround the pool, in case the quarry tried to escape by swimming, then approached the edge of the bank where they could all look down on to the island.

  Hickory was sitting on the bridge with Bluebell at his side, both facing the Mainland. He felt her body stiffen.

  ‘Don’t look at once,’ she whispered, ‘but I am sure there are squirrels up there on the bank, watching us.’

  ‘Red or Silver?’ Hickory whispered back.

  ‘Grey,’ she said.

  ‘Go as casually as you can and wake your father. Tell him what you’ve seen. I’ll stay here.’

  Bluebell stretched and went slowly back along the fallen trunk and relieved herself behind a clump of rushes, conscious as she did so, that, though out of sight of her party, she was in full view of ‘lots’ of enemy Greys.

  Then she went over to where her father lay at the foot of one of the pines and said, ‘Rowan-Pa. Wake up, the Gr
eys are here. Slowly now, they don’t know we have seen them.’

  ‘Climb the tree and tell the others,’ he said calmly. ‘I’ll cover the bridge with the Woodstock.’

  ‘My Hickory is down there, call him back if you have to use it, don’t curl his whiskers,’ Bluebell told her father, then slowly climbed the tree, as though she was going up to sleep there.

  Hickory was watching the top of the bank. Bluebell had been right, there were lots of Silvers there. He turned his head – there were more to be seen on the opposite bank, all just sitting and watching. The fur on the back of his neck rose slowly and his tail started to swish from side to side, betraying his fear.

  He saw a Silver come down the bank towards him, tail low, in the ‘Parley’ position. It was Sitka.

  Hickory sat still as he approached.

  ‘Hickory-Friend,’ Sitka said quietly. ‘That old fool Malachite wants me to challenge you to single combat. What should I do?’

  ‘Look fierce,’ said Hickory, ‘and talk.’

  Sitka raised his tail, arched his back, stamped his feet on the bridge and churred the Challenge. Hickory did the same.

  ‘Hickory, come back here,’ Rowan called, ‘clear of the bridge.’

  Hickory signalled an unmistakable ‘leave me alone’ with his tail, while still facing Sitka.

  ‘What do you want to do? He hissed at Sitka.