by Michael Tod
‘Her did a brave thing,’ replied Willowherb.
‘Look out.’ Called Bluebell as the fox leapt up at Sycamore but just fell short. He leapt again but could not quite reach the young squirrel as he bit and gnawed at the hazel stem.
When Sycamore’s teeth were aching, he handed over to Oak. Between them they cut through below the Woodstock, the fox all the while leaping up at them in vain.
Bluebell and Chip finished cutting the Woodstock clear, and together they pulled it to the top of the mass of honeysuckle, where it lay on the tangle of fine stems while they peeled off the bark and cut those now familiar numbers: .
The fox prowled back and forth below them.
‘What number shall I use?’ Bluebell asked.
‘Enuff to kill the nazty thing,’ said Willowherb but the others disagreed.
‘A or a should curl its whiskers and stop it chasing us,’ said Bluebell. ‘He was only being a fox, and foxes eat squirrels when they can. That’s how things are.’
She sighted the Woodstock at the fox and scratched a . There was a yelp of surprise but the fox only pawed at his face, shook his head, and continued his prowling below them.
‘Try a ,’ suggested Oak. This was no more effective. ‘That fox has tough whiskers,’ Bluebell remarked as another and another o the big wasps flew past towards the distant hollow tree.
‘Try a .’
None of the numbers proved effective against the fox. He yelped a little each time the Woodstock was used, but his whiskers stayed as straight as pine needles.
Sycamore was watching the yellow and brown insects as they zoomed past.
‘I wonder if those big-wasps have big stings,’ he said.
‘Why,’ asked Oak.
‘We might be able to get them to sting the fox,’ he replied.
‘You won’t get me poking a twig in their nest,’ said Oak. ‘You can try if you like.’
‘No, I wondered if the Woodstock Force might stir them up,’ said Sycamore. ‘We could do that from here; we’re a safe distance away.’
They all agreed it was worth a try but that one squirrel would have to tease the fox to keep it near the big-wasps’ nest while the others stayed well back. Bluebell drew the short twig and lightly ran along a branch and leapt across to the lower branches of the hollow tree.
From there she chattered insults at the fox, who had followed her. She was careful to keep just out of his reach.
‘You’re in the way of the Woodstock,’ Oak called to her. ‘You’ll have to go higher.’
The fox sat and watched her climb.
Oak aimed at the hole in the tree and scratched a . There was a low rumble from within the tree and the squirrels saw a cloud of big-wasps pour angrily from the hole. The fox turned and ran, yelping and biting at his flanks as hornet after hornet caught up with him and forced their sharp stings through his fur. The yelping faded into the distant sounds of the wood.
Bluebell, unthinking of the danger to her, had watched the scene until she realised that one of the big-wasps had seen her and was coming to attack. She leapt for the next tree, the big wasp just behind her, raced through the branches and into the next tree. She could still hear the whirl of its wings behind her head and ran on towards the pool.
At the last tree she jumped for the water, submerging and coming up under a lily leaf near the shore where her feet were able to touch bottom. Here she stayed, holding the leaf above her head until the frustrated hornet gave up the search and returned to its nest. She crawled out to dry, her teeth chattering with fear, relief and cold.
As soon as the fox was gone and the big-wasps had returned to their nest, Chip climbed down and rushed across the leaf litter to recover the coin. The others followed the direction that Bluebell had taken and found her on the poolside.
‘That was well done,’ said a voice from behind them, and they turned to see a grey squirrel’s face grinning at them.
‘Zumac! It’z yew!’
‘Bluebell, Willowherb … where’s Rosebay?’
The Grey and the two Reds brushed whiskers, then Bluebell, her chattering gone in the delight at meeting an old friend, introduced Oak and Sycamore.
‘Sumac is a Sun-squirrel,’ Bluebell explained.
‘Rowan-Pa said he was his best pupil ever.’
Sumac looked suitably modest, then asked again about Rosebay.
They told their story and Sumac silently embraced Willowherb.
‘Was it you who buried…?’ Bluebell’s voice trailed away.
‘Hickory and Sitka and your father, Spindle. Yes they’re all nourishing trees now, as your Farewell kernel teaches.’
Oak the Wary was listening to Bluebell and Sumac. He was uneasy about the way she was treating him as a trusted friend; after all he was a Grey. He may profess to be a Sun-squirrel but Oak was not going to give him a chance to learn the secret of the Woodstock. He left them exchanging news and slipped back to where the weapon had been dropped when they had followed Bluebell.
Chip was there with his gold disc.
‘We must hide the Woodstock,’ Oak said. ‘There are Greys about.’
‘Change the figures,’ Chip suggested, ‘Then it won’t matter if they do find it.’
‘Watch in case the fox comes back, and listen for the big-wasps.’
Oak bit into the wood, tasting the sweet sap of the hazel. His sharp teeth rapidly changed the into , the into , the into and the into . The became ., as did the . The became ,.whilst the , . Finally he made the look like ,and as he did this he felt the power drain from the Woodstock as the life had drained from the shot partridge.
‘Where shall we hide it?’ he asked Chip.
Together they pushed the inert stick end-first into the mound of pine needles covering a wood-ants’ nest, brushing the ants from their fur and scampering away before they could be bitten.
‘It’ll be a brave Grey who gets that out, even if they did find it,’ said Oak.
When the rejoined the others they heard Bluebell say, ‘Thank you, Sumac-Friend. Where is Tumbleweed?’
‘She should be here soon. She has been helping old Malachite at the Tanglewood, he’s not too well. But he’s a Sun-squirrel now, would you believe; and so are those other two old puffers. Tumbleweed and I have been doing a bit of teaching ourselves since you all left. Shall I give the three Lords your regards?’
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Rowan returned to his drey after a day’s teaching. Meadowsweet was waiting for him. As they brushed whiskers, he said, ‘You know young Elm Larchson?’
Meadowsweet nodded.
‘Today I said to him, ‘I didn’t see you at the Camouflage and Concealment class yesterday.’ And he said, ‘Getting good aren’t I?’ Cheeky young thing!’
Queen Marguerite had now learned from Wood Anemone how the old King had ordered all the zervantz to eat one of the tiny mushrooms that grew on Old Wally’s wall on the night of each new moon, but had never told them why. It had been Wood Anemone, the Royal’s zervant Woodlouse as she had been then, who had always maintained a stock of dried mushrooms from The Wall for the ceremonies. When the King decided that it was necessary for some new zervantz to be born, he had ordered Woodlouse to give different mushrooms to the selected couples instead. This was the secret that she had been sworn to keep.
‘We must educate all the squirrels so that they know that if they eat Moon Mushrooms each month once they have had two dreylings, we can prevent the island from becoming over-populated,’ Marguerite told Wood Anemone. ‘That will be your job. No secrets, no coercion, just education.’
The swan on the beach was ailing and Marguerite did not know what more she could do to help it recover. Then, early in the morning of the day before New Moon was due, as a light autumn mist floated through the trees of the island, she was trying to get the swan to feed when she sensed that the dolphins were close. She turned and, through the mist, saw three dark humps rise out of the water and disappear again.
‘Malin, Lundy,
Finisterre,’ she called, ‘I am here.’
The answer came immediately. ‘Squirrel-Friend, we see you. Is that a swan with you?’
‘Yes, it is covered with black stuff and very sick. I don’t know how to help it.’
‘Only humans can. There is a poison that they throw into the sea from their biggest boats. It kills many birds and hurts us if it gets into our breathing holes,’ Malin said. ‘You must get the swan to the humans, only they can save it.’
‘Have you heard anything about your young friends who we took to the Mainland?’ Lundy asked. ‘We are due to bring them back at first light tomorrow.’
‘No, I hope they are safe.’
‘Try and get that swan to the humans, we will see you in the morning.’
‘SWAN
WALK ALONG THE BEACH
ACTION NOW
ACTION NOW!
Yes you can, yes you can,
ACTION NOW.’
The swan responded by raising its head but seemed unable to walk. It was obviously just too sick.
Marguerite left it and went inland, looking for a human.
She found one just taking off his green covering with the badge of Acorn, the first squirrel in the World. Underneath was another covering which was white with dark lines making squares on it. As she hid and watched, the human fumbled with his square-patterned arm coverings and rolled them up towards his shoulders. Then he picked up a stick with a flat bit of metal on one end and swung it at the trunk of a rhododendron bush. The top of the bush fell off and rolled towards Marguerite who crouched in fear.
Eventually she collected enough courage to hop out towards the man and chatter to attract his attention. He stopped chopping and leant on the axe-handle watching the squirrel. She ran backwards trying to get him to follow her but he did not move. She tried again and again until it seemed that at last he understood. He rested the axe against a bush, picked up his green covering and followed her.
Marguerite stayed on the ground, looking back frequently to see that she was still being followed, but staying far enough in front to be able to leap clear if the human tried to do anything hostile or unexpected.
She led him to the swan, who hissed feebly. The man approached cautiously then tied a knot in the end of one of the arm tubes on the green covering he was carrying. He manoeuvred the swan’s neck into that tube and pulled the rest of his covering over the swan’s body so that it could not struggle nor peck him. Marguerite admired the firm but gentle way he had done this and, as he lifted the swan, she slipped away into the shoreline vegetation. The swan was now the human’s responsibility. She had done all she could. She felt tired and hungry and spent the remainder of that day resting or feeding listlessly, and the night sleeping alone in a palm tree in the valley.
Next morning she hurried through the mist across the island to Potter Point and joined a group of other squirrels as they watched the three dolphins carrying the sticks and the five returning scouts.
Five?
Burdock the News-squirrel carried the story across the island, bearing in mind what her mother, Queen Marguerite, had told her.
‘From now on, you will be as responsible as the Post-squirrels were. What you say must be the truth, and if you don’t know the truth, find out before you say a word to any squirrel.’
SCOUTING PARTY RETURNS. ROSEBAY GIVES
HER LIFE TO SAVE HER SISTER.
With the return of the scouting party your reporter learned of the
sad death of Rosebay, Wood Anemone’s daughter…
Chip had been the last one to come ashore, swimming with the coin in his mouth. He had helped Willowherb up the beach but then had avoided the group clustered around the other scouts and had carried the golden disc away to his drey. Later he learned from Burdock that Marguerite was now Queen of Ourland.
He waited until he found her alone.
‘I’ve brought you a present,’ he said. ‘A present fit for a Queen.’
Marguerite took the coin and turned it over. She had not looked at it closely before.
‘It’s very pretty,’ she said as the sun glowed on the bright golden metal. ‘What’s it for?’
‘It’s for you,’ Chip replied.
‘I didn’t mean that, Chip-Friend. What does a squirrel use it for?’
‘I don’t know,’ Chip admitted. ‘But Lundy said that the humans think highly of these. There’s a little human’s head on one side.’
‘Then I think we’d better give it back to the humans, don’t you? It really belongs to them. But thank you for bringing it to show me.’
Chip carried his coin through the wood, unsure how to get it to a human. Although none had ever harmed him, he did not know if it was safe to approach one.
He passed many squirrels busy with harvesting the plentiful nuts. Soon it will be our Harvest Sun-day, he thought, as Willowherb, sitting close to her mother Wood Anemone, waved to him, a ripe hazel nut in her teeth. He had not noticed before what a good-looking squirrel she was.
Ahead, the late morning Sun shone on the tower of the little island Church of St Mary, Brownsea. Chip saw this and was drawn in that direction. As he neared the building he could hear the singing of the humans and he hid behind a slab of stone until they all came out.
He was too afraid of such tall creatures to approach closely and so stayed hidden until he was sure that they had gone. The flat wood that the humans used to close the entrance to this great Man-drey was not across the opening, and he was tempted to enter the dark entrance. As he stood timorously in the doorway waiting for his eyes to adjust to the fainter light, he could smell the scent of fruit and newly dug vegetables of every kind. Around him a harvest of human food was piled in heaps on every ledge and in baskets on the floor.
Where could he put his coin so that a human would find it?
He hopped onto a seat and then onto a ledge higher up; he could leave it there. Then, overwhelmed by an urge to hide it out of sight, he frantically looked around for a suitable place to conceal the coin. A closed wooden box at his paw had a slot in it of just the right size. He looked around the church, fearful of being found, rubbed the coin with his paw one last time, enjoying the smooth feel of it, then dropped it through the slot. As he hopped down from the seat he heard it fall with a rattle into the box, on the side of which in human symbols meaningless to him were the words:
FOR THE POOR AND HUNGRY PEOPLE OF THE WORLD
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Chip felt strangely relieved as he left the church. He felt too, that he ought to tell Marguerite what he had done and went to find her.
She was sleeping in the warm afternoon sunlight on a branch outside her drey. He sat and watched her lovingly until she awoke. There was something that he wanted to ask her.
‘Marguerite-Friend,’ he began, then paused, embarrassed. Could he address her an intimately as this, now she was Queen?
She looked at the younger squirrel and remembered how he had looked when she had first seen him, an under-fed and sorry looking sqrunt. He had certainly come up in the trees since then.
‘Yes?’ she said kindly.
‘I was – I was going to ask you – ask you…’ He stopped again.
‘Yes, Chip-Friend?’
‘I was going to ask you to be my life-mate – but now that you’re Queen…’
‘That would have made no difference if it had been the right thing to do,’ she said. ‘But it would not be fair. I’ve had two dreylings and you haven’t had any. If I’m going to ask all other squirrels to have only two, then I mustn’t have any more. You must find another mate. But thank you – I do appreciate the compliment.’
Marguerite brushed whiskers with him.
‘Now go and visit Wood Anemone, there is someone there who needs you.’
Chip hopped away, once again surprisingly light-hearted. He found Wood Anemone with Willowherb, both spreading out Moon Mushrooms to dry in the sun, and he watched them from a distance. The sunlight was lighting up Willow
herb’s ruddy fur and shining through the glossy hairs of her tail. He knew what he should do.
He went across the grass to her side.
‘Willowherb-Friend. Will you be my life-mate?’
‘Yewr life-mate uz will be.’
Chipling brushed whiskers with Willowherb then with Wood Anemone, who appeared to be as pleased as her daughter who was already racing up a tree, giving a tease call for him to follow her.
Winter passed, with all of the squirrels who had already had two or more dreylings happily joining in the monthly Moon Mushroom Eating ceremonies. March came in gently to the peaceful island.
Marguerite was on her way to choose which of the newly qualified scouts would be selected to be taken, by the dolphins, for the next Mainland Adventure. Hearing the W-wow, W-wow, W-wow of wing-beats overhead, she looked up as a swan, its feathers gleaming white, swept overhead and turned in a long glide to land in the lagoon and paddle over to where she sat near the edge of the black mud of the Zwamp. The bird was carrying a plant in its beak.
It walked up to her, spread its wings and lowered its head in an unmistakable gesture of thanks, then walked to the marsh-edge and pushed the roots of the plant into the mud where the stream ran into the lagoon, above the level of the highest flood tide. It lowered its head once again, then walked back into the water.
