by Colin Dann
‘You’ve had it, chum,’ Stout Fox whispered prophetically.
The vixen began a final mad spin, ending with a beautifully timed pounce. The rabbit knew nothing about it. It was dead before it knew it was under threat.
Now Stout Fox rushed forward. ‘Bravo,’ he barked. ‘A fine example of skill. Where have you been hiding yourself? I don’t recall seeing you before.’
The vixen regarded him coolly. She guarded her kill in case Stout Fox’s approach was some kind of ploy. Her face wore a very worldly expression as if she had seen everything before at least once. ‘I don’t hide,’ she replied, ‘but I cover a lot of ground.’
‘You must do,’ the fox acknowledged. ‘Have you – er – ever encountered the otters?’
‘Now and then. But not recently.’
Stout Fox was eyeing the rabbit.
‘I suppose you’re hoping to share my kill?’ the vixen asked baldly.
‘No. No. I merely watched you from interest and – and – admired what I saw.’
The stout vixen softened. ‘Well, after all,’ she resumed, ‘there’s more than enough for one. Do you have a permanent den? Mine’s a long way off.’
‘Yes.’ Stout Fox was encouraged. ‘My earth is in the side of a badger set. We get along.’
‘Just as well,’ the vixen commented. ‘Show me the way then. We can share my catch in comfort.’
The fox wondered at her abrupt change of attitude but assumed she had seen something in him, at any rate, that she liked. He led her across a glade to a clearing in the Wood where the set was situated. The badgers were absent except for a young male who was rooting up worms near one of the entrances. Stout Fox and the badger recognized each other and paid no attention to one another’s activities.
The stout vixen dropped the rabbit carcass on the sandy floor of the den. ‘Hm. Comfortable looking place,’ she observed appreciatively, looking around and then sniffing the air.
‘It suits me,’ Stout Fox said.
‘Might suit me too,’ the vixen remarked.
Stout Fox wagged his tail. ‘Sure to,’ he replied. ‘Look upon it as your own.’
Shortly after this episode the otters were once again seen in the Wood. Sly Stoat, who had recently acquired a mate also, was the first to fall victim to their new determination. Smooth Otter provided the demonstration the other otter required. He followed the stoat on its hunting run, allowed him to fell a shrew and then snatched it from his grip.
‘Easy come, easy go,’ he sneered at the stoat who was too stunned to react.
‘You said to make use of the foxes; there was nothing about stoats,’ the other otter said critically. ‘I want to see how you tackle foxes.’
Smooth Otter glared. ‘Stoat; fox; what does it matter?’ he growled.
‘There’s a deal of difference between the two,’ his companion insisted. ‘Any of us can get the better of an animal the size of a stoat.’
Smooth Otter was stung into action. ‘All right. You eat this shrew while I go for a bigger prize.’ He dropped the stoat’s kill. ‘I can cope with foxes, don’t you worry.’
‘Mine, I think,’ Sly Stoat muttered, snapping up the shrew and running for his den.
‘Oh-ho, you’re so slow you need lessons,’ Smooth Otter derided the other male. ‘Come on!’
There weren’t any foxes in the neighbourhood just then. ‘Look, forget what I said,’ the slow male called to Smooth Otter after a while. ‘I’m ravenous. Can’t we just find our own food?’
The big leader otter ran on regardless. He was resolved, now his ability had been challenged, to demonstrate his prowess. Slow Otter, grumbling constantly, dropped farther and farther behind. Eventually he lost sight of the big male.
‘Oh, to blazes with him,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ve had enough.’ He stopped running. He had no idea where he was. He hadn’t explored much of the woodland before. ‘Now where on earth am I going to get something to eat?’ As he looked around, wondering what to do next, he heard a tremendous commotion break out elsewhere in the Wood. Barking, shrieking, whistling, yapping – it sounded as though a really serious fight was taking place. Slow Otter this time was quick on his feet. With the inquisitiveness of all his kind he ran under the trees towards the din. Secretly he longed to find Smooth Otter in difficulties with a fiercer animal. He didn’t take kindly to his boastful manner at all.
When he arrived on the scene the noise had ceased and there was a tug-of-war being enacted between Smooth Otter on the one hand and a very angry and determined Lean Vixen on the other. In the middle, with its legs in the jaws of the fox and its head clamped in the sharp teeth of the otter, was an unfortunate and very dead pheasant. Both animals had braced themselves, digging their feet into the damp soil and pulling hard. The vixen’s greater strength began to tell. But with the arrival of Slow Otter her antagonist was spurred on to new efforts.
‘Whatever is he doing?’ Slow Otter muttered. ‘This is a struggle he can’t possibly win.’
Sure enough the carcass began to come apart. With a final wrench the vixen tore the body loose and Smooth Otter was left with only the pheasant’s head in his mouth.
Lean Vixen dropped the bird. ‘You stupid animal,’ she snarled at Smooth Otter. ‘Do you plan to wrest our food from our very jaws? What kind of madness will you get up to next? Be warned.’ She turned to look at Slow Otter. ‘You too,’ she growled. ‘Try those sort of tricks again and we foxes will drive you from the Wood!’
‘You and who else?’ muttered Smooth Otter. But it was his turn to feel humiliated and he turned to go.
Slow Otter followed. ‘Just lead us back to the stream,’ he urged his companion. ‘There’s nothing for us here.’
‘There will be,’ Smooth Otter vowed grimly. ‘You don’t think I give up that easily, do you?’
In March Farthing Wood was carpeted with banks of celandine and wood anemone. Primroses gleamed in the sunny glades and marsh plants sprouted along the stream’s edges. Frogs, toads, newts and reptiles emerged from hibernation and, in the mammal world, hedgehogs woke and went about their business again.
One old creature, who had lived in the Wood for many seasons, was known as Sage Hedgehog because of his wisdom. During his long winter sleep he had experienced strange and striking dreams which he believed were some kind of premonition. He related them to those animals willing to listen.
‘I saw a strange place with many animals. Animals such as us; such as those who live here. It was like Farthing Wood, yet it was not Farthing Wood. A beautiful antlered beast with the grace and carriage of a deer, but ghostly white, stood on its edge. On the one side was a poor broken piece of ground, barren of creatures and full of the noise and danger of humans and their works. On the other, rolling grassland and woodland. The white beast looked from one place, the one with nothing, to the place with the animals. Then it grew dark and the deer’s white coat shimmered like a pale beacon in the gloom. All at once the beast disappeared and there was nothing but darkness. Over and over I have dreamed this dream. I believe there is a message in it; that it foretells the end of Farthing Wood.’
A group of hedgehogs who were listening stirred uneasily. They were puzzled and a little shaken. One of them said, ‘Dreams are dreams. This could mean anything – or nothing.’
Sage Hedgehog looked at the animal steadily. ‘There is a different air in Farthing Wood now,’ he said. ‘The Wood is threatened. I feel it in my bones. It’s a new sensation. Before the winter I felt nothing and was content’
‘There’s no evidence of a threat,’ a young hedgehog said. ‘Everything is just the same as when we began our sleep.’
Another hedgehog was more cautious. ‘There have been other times when the sage one has spoken strange words. And I recollect when once he foretold a great storm and urged us to take shelter and we –’
‘Yes, yes,’ cut in another. ‘We didn’t take any notice of him and then there was a storm and some hedgehogs were drowned when the stream burst it
s banks. So what? Simply a coincidence, I’d say.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t,’ the first hedgehog returned. ‘He’s something of a prophet in my view.’
‘We shall see,’ the second remarked. ‘Do you detect any sign of change?’
There was no answer. Sage Hedgehog said, ‘I sense disaster. I beg you, all of you, to be on your guard.’ He went on his way, and left his fellows to make of his dreams what they would.
Other animals in Farthing Wood were to learn of the vision of the white deer. Some of them were impressed and felt concern, others were openly scornful. It didn’t take much to unsettle the squirrels and rabbits who were always jumpy, whereas the weasels and stoats laughed at Sage Hedgehog behind his back.
‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’ Quick Weasel chortled. ‘That we should be taken in by his tales!’
Sly Stoat’s wily mate commented, ‘Time will tell. If his warnings prove correct we shall remember them ruefully. In any case, what provision could any of us make?’
‘He’s ancient and his mind wanders and makes up pictures,’ Quick Weasel chattered. ‘There’s always been a Farthing Wood and there always will be. We have the otters to thank for that,’ she added explanatorily.
‘Yes. That’s their habitual refrain, isn’t it?’ Wily Stoat said. ‘My mate and I are sick of hearing it. And what if one day there were no otters? Have you thought of that?’
‘Of course,’ Quick Weasel answered. ‘But I don’t worry myself. Otters don’t suddenly disappear and they’ll be around for as long as we are.’
The dispute over food and prey continued to occupy the foxes and otters. They had no time to take account of dreams or predictions. Smooth Otter hunted alone now. He had realized it was as well not to have witnesses to his success or failure. He steered clear of the mature, canny foxes, and concentrated on filching titbits from younger or weaker animals. His skill and dexterity usually paid dividends. The other otters were capitalizing on the spring gathering of frogs and newts in the water courses. For a while there was plenty for all, then abruptly the amphibians’ brief mating season was over and the survivors dispersed throughout the Wood and surrounding grassland.
Smooth Otter ignored the frogs. He loved to pit his wits against rivals and whenever he bested them he never failed to crow about it.
A young badger, a male cub a few seasons old from the set where Stout Fox and his vixen lodged, fell victim to the dog otter’s gibes. The badger had been about to eat a pigeon fledgling which had fallen from its nest. The otter had been shadowing the bulkier animal for a while without arousing suspicion, waiting to see what food the badger might turn up. The feeble fluttering of the injured fledgling had attracted the young badger’s curiosity and, just as he was about to seize it, Smooth Otter dashed in, flicked the bird to one side with his paw and made off with it.
‘Oh, how you woodland animals suffer when we otters are on your heels,’ Smooth Otter boasted. ‘You’re a cumbersome lot, heavy-footed and ponderous.’ He trotted to a distance of a few metres in case the badger was inclined to react.
Young Badger, however, was nonplussed. ‘Why do you do this?’ he asked with genuine bewilderment. ‘Why do you make a game of everything? Eating isn’t a game; it’s how all of us keep the threads of life together.’
‘Except when there’s an otter on your tail!’ the other animal laughed.
Young Badger looked sulky. ‘It’s no laughing matter,’ he said. ‘There’s a time for play and – and –’
‘And why didn’t you join in our games, then, in the snow?’ Smooth Otter interrupted. ‘You wouldn’t come, any of you. I came looking for high-spirited animals like you!’
‘Oh yes, mock all you like,’ Young Badger remarked, aware of the sarcasm. ‘We can’t all be athletes and swimmers, can we? We are as we’re made. But you know, you’re really rather silly. You seem set on annoying everyone. What for? It might rebound on you. My father, the kindly badger, always taught us youngsters we should get along with everyone as best we can, because in that way Farthing Wood thrives. But it seems you’re set on disruption.’
‘Disruption? No,’ Smooth Otter chuckled. ‘We just enjoy life whichever way we can. So catching prey can be as much fun for us as anything else. Too bad most of you are such a dull lot!’ He bounded away, jigging this way and that around some chestnut saplings.
Young Badger watched and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid otters and woodlanders simply don’t blend,’ he murmured.
When the glut of frogs was over for that spring, other otters had no alternative but to return to hunting small mammals. The badgers were not the only inhabitants of Farthing Wood who felt a crisis was looming. The squirrels and hedgehogs and many of the woodland birds, who were not among the hunted, watched the behaviour of the otters with alarm.
‘Someone should t-try to c-calm them down,’ Nervous Squirrel stammered. He sat on a high branch watching a pair of otters chasing Quick Weasel beneath the trees. ‘They’re so unsettling.’
‘Madness!’ screeched Jay who couldn’t keep still when there was any disturbance. He flew to another tree. ‘Madness! The foxes are gathering, I’ve seen them. When they’re not being robbed, they’re being goaded and irritated.’
‘Hunting calls for silence and perseverance,’ an owl fluted from a hollow oak. ‘I should know. There’s just no peace and quiet any more.’
‘W-why don’t we t-tell them?’ Nervous Squirrel chattered. ‘Tell them to p-pipe down. And – and –’
‘And respect the ways of others?’ the owl suggested.
‘Yes. Ex-exactly.’
‘Some of us have tried, but the otters won’t compromise. They’re the jokers of the animal world. They have no seriousness.’
The foxes were indeed planning to take action. The youngsters had been tested to the limit and were looking for some support from their seniors. Groups of foxes began to debate their grievances and it was these gatherings that Jay had watched from the tree-tops. Lean Vixen backed up the young foxes.
‘I warned the big otter about the consequences if he and his kind continued with their tricks,’ she told a large group of all ages. ‘My mate and I are ready to do whatever’s necessary. It’s time we struck a blow.’
Lean Fox hadn’t been consulted about whether he was in agreement with this. He said nothing therefore, hoping the others wouldn’t realize the vixen was dominant.
The young foxes related their experiences. Time and time again otters had interfered with their hunting techniques, sneaking prey from them and deriding them afterwards.
‘It’s intolerable,’ said one. ‘We can never hold our heads up again if we let them get away with it.’
‘Otters or foxes,’ Lean Vixen growled, ‘one group has to come out on top.’ She looked around the gathering and her eyes rested on Lean Fox. ‘And it won’t be the otters!’
‘No. No, it won’t be,’ he concurred hastily. ‘Tomorrow night we’ll muster. All of us who care for our way of life – our fox ways – must take part. We’ll chase those slippery pests from the Wood!’
Lean Vixen grinned a foxy grin. These were strong words; rousing words. The young foxes were satisfied. They ran off to carry the message to as many others of their kind in Farthing Wood as could be found.
The next evening the foxes rallied. With Stout Fox and Lean Vixen at their head, they trotted quietly through the depths of the Wood, intent on forestalling the otters close by the stream. Little light filtered through the budding branches but, at the edge of the woodland, the setting sun shone on the glistening water, turning it blood red. The foxes stood silently.
‘It’s an omen,’ whispered a youngster. ‘Blood will be shed.’
Stout Fox murmured grimly, ‘Yes. I fear blood will flow if the otters persist in their ways.’
‘You can count on it,’ Lean Vixen snarled. ‘Before the Wood is in leaf.’
There was something about that evening that seemed to affect the entire population of Farthing Wood. T
he atmosphere was remarkably quiet. A spring breeze, a cool breeze, blew across the grassland. Nothing stirred. Not a single otter appeared. Were they suspicious? Lean Fox broke the silence.
‘It doesn’t look as if there’s anything to chase after all,’ he said.
‘Give them time,’ said Lean Vixen.
The sun sank below the horizon. Darkness cloaked the foxes and the stream ran black. At last there was movement. Something approached, then turned and set off in another direction.
‘Follow it,’ Lean Vixen yapped. The foxes ran forward. The creature, which was indeed an otter, turned at the sound of running feet. Far from taking fright, it stood its ground. The foxes’ rush slowed, then halted.
‘Rather unfair odds, isn’t it?’ Sleek Otter asked, for it was she.
‘Are you alone?’ Stout Fox growled.
‘You have eyes.’
‘Then where are the others?’ a young fox piped up.
‘How should I know? In the Wood perhaps.’
‘In the Wood?’ Stout Fox barked. ‘Nothing passed us as we came. How can that be?’
‘Hardly likely they’d want to come face to face with a force of foxes,’ Sleek Otter observed, ‘if they are in the Wood.’
‘What game is this?’ Lean Vixen snarled.
‘There is more than one way to enter a Wood,’ was the reply and Sleek Otter tittered.
Lean Vixen was infuriated. Had the otters outmanoeuvred them again? While the foxes were standing idle, were they plundering the woodland in their absence?
‘Back to the Wood!’ she roared. ‘They’ve gone behind our backs!’
The foxes, in one mass, turned and galloped towards the trees. Sleek Otter could hardly contain herself. She rolled over in her delight, whistling and giggling. Her cool-headedness had tricked the other animals into retreat. For she knew quite well not one otter, apart from herself, had yet left its holt.
