Back at the hedge the Alsatian was still struggling on its hind legs to try and free itself from the snare. The smaller dogs were running around, barking, but not knowing what to do.
The snare had tightened at the Alsatian’s knees. It wrenched its forelegs again. The snare slipped over its knees and down to its paws. Dancing back on its hind legs, it gave a final wrench and was free. Immediately it turned and sped away in pursuit of the fox, followed by its three smaller companions.
Fang knew that the fun dogs wouldn’t give up so easily. It wasn’t long before he heard them on his trail again, and he was glad. The last thing he wanted was them to give up and turn back. At the same time he realised that he would have to use every trick he had ever learned if he was to stay ahead of them. He circled, doubled back, laid false trails, used streams, everything in fact he could think of. However, as the day wore on, the dogs grew closer. He was wondering what he was going to do, when he came across a badger set. If there were badgers in the area, perhaps there were foxes too. If not, maybe an empty earth where he could take refuge. Desperately he scouted the fields, but search as he would he could find no trace of either fox or earth. Then it occurred to him that the badger set might be empty and he could take refuge there. Again his luck was out. The set was occupied.
Fang was turning to go when he remembered how he had gone into the set back at the evergreens and to his embarrassment and Hop-along’s amusement had been booted out by an angry boar. He wondered. The fun dogs were closing in on him. Now they had spotted him. Well, he thought, here goes. Plunging into the set, he whizzed past a badger who had been awakened by the barking of the dogs. The boar was so surprised that Fang was past him before he realised what was happening. Turning around to give chase, the boar found three small dogs piling up at his hind feet. Furious at this invasion of his home, he did what the other badger had done to Fang. He pulled in his back feet and unleashed them with all the power he could muster, catapulting the small dogs clear out of the set to land yelping at the feet of the Alsatian.
Fang, meanwhile, had skidded past the boar’s mate and her cubs and had gone out a back way with the speed of a scalded cat. By the time the dogs discovered they had been tricked again, he had gained another head start. He was, however, far from happy. They had come close — too close. He might not be so lucky next time. And he still hadn’t succeeded in drawing them away from the path to Beech Paw.
Pausing briefly to take his bearings, Fang could see he was now on the land of the farmer who had fired at Skulking Dog and himself the day they had stopped to feed on the sheep that had been killed by the fun dogs. He hadn’t realised he had circled back so far in his efforts to keep ahead of them, and he knew he would have to be very careful. They were familiar with this territory, probably more familiar with it than he was. He’d also have to keep an eye out for the farmer’s dogs and a very hostile farmer.
Thinking of these things, it now occurred to Fang that if he was on dangerous ground, so also were the fun dogs, and he wondered if, perhaps, he could turn that to his advantage and get rid of them once and for all. He looked back. They were closing in on him again. It would be dangerous, he thought, but what had he to lose? It was worth a try.
In a field not far from the farm buildings, he could see a flock of sheep, and he streaked towards them. In a moment he was in among them, sending them running, bleating, first as a flock, then in all directions. A few seconds later the fun dogs were in there too. Now they could see him, now they couldn’t as he ran hither and thither among the sheep. Not surprisingly, the sheep panicked, and the more they did so, the more excited the dogs became. In their excitement, they soon forgot all about Fang, and their lust for chasing and killing sheep, their pastime for so long, took over. Throwing all caution to the wind, they proceeded to indulge themselves in an orgy of destruction.
Having lured them into the field, Fang now slipped away from it, and when next he stopped it was to listen to the sound of shots from the direction of the farm. He waited to see if the fun dogs would reappear. There was no sign of them, and he turned to go back for Black Tip and Vickey and the others. The way to Beech Paw, he knew, was now clear.
Fifteen
When the Hogweed Blooms Again
A late snowstorm was swirling around Glensinna, turning the meadows an unseasonal white and giving an edge to the wind that ruffled the rooks in the beech trees. However, the foxes that made their way doggedly along the dry ditch beneath the long row of beeches scarcely noticed it. They were back in their beloved Land of Sinna, and they knew a disused quarry where the snow wouldn’t reach and the wind wouldn’t worry them.
It seemed a long time since they had left Beech Paw. But the quarry was still unoccupied, the den dry and undisturbed. There they would rest a while before going their separate ways.
As they snuggled close together for warmth, they thought of all they had seen and done. They were tired, and because of their tiredness they wondered among themselves if it had been worthwhile.
Old Sage Brush sighed. ‘Why do you have so little faith?’ he asked.
They lowered their heads, not knowing what to reply, and the old fox went on: ‘Where is the determination that defeated all who opposed us? Where is the courage that drove back the fun dogs, and where is the cunning that destroyed them? Have you learned so little that you falter now?’
‘But have we learned enough to survive the attacks of man?’ asked Vickey.
Knowing this was what they were all wondering, Old Sage Brush answered with one of those wise sayings that had so often given them courage before.
‘Tell me this,’ he said. ‘If the lowly beetle can overcome the mighty elm, however tall, cannot the cunning of Vulpes overcome the work of man, however great?’
‘There are many beetles,’ remarked Black Tip, ‘and there are only a few of us.’
‘True,’ replied Old Sage Brush. ‘There are few of us, but we are wiser now, and very soon we will be few of many’
The others were silent, and as always, sorry that they had once again doubted the old fox. They knew this was his way of reminding them that cubbing time was almost upon them, and that the lessons they had learned would help not only themselves, but their cubs, to survive.
Soon they drifted off to sleep, and for the first time in a long while, it was a peaceful sleep. Some of them dreamt of hunting in the fields around Beech Paw again, and some of them dreamt of the cubs they would soon have and how they would teach them to hunt.
As for Old Sage Brush who was dozing beside Vickey and Black Tip, he dreamt they were on their travels from Beech Paw again, and when he awoke he began to think about them. The little brown hen, he recalled. That was their first adventure. He chuckled now as he thought about it. It had worked well, hadn’t it? Then he found himself thinking about Lepus, the leader of the hares, and how Hop-along had fooled him. He smiled. That was a good one. So was the way the horses and the howling dogs had been thrown into confusion at the hunt. That was when Skulking Dog and Running Fox had brought his daughter Sinnéad back into his life. Sinnéad and She-la would be telling their cubs about the great raid they had made into the Land of the Giant Ginger Cats with Scavenger. Ah, Scavenger, thought Old Sage Brush. He was a great little fox. In a way he reminded him of Whiskers, the otter. It was good that they had been able to help Whiskers put a stop to the greedy mink. Then the fun dogs had almost put a stop to them. That was a great fight. It was Fang who had finally put a stop to the fun dogs. Faithful Fang. He would be heading off now, but the young foxes would hear all about him. They’d also hear how Black Tip had saved Vickey from the stoat hunters. Vickey, content now to be back in Beech Paw, would be turning her den into a nursery, and the other vixens would be looking around for dens of their own. It was time.
In a snow-white dawn, Black Tip and Vickey stood with Old Sage Brush on the rim of the quarry. The others had gone their separate ways, and the old fox, back again on familiar ground, was going his. Silently they touche
d noses, and then he was away.
As they watched him go, Vickey said: ‘Do you really think we found the secret of survival?’
‘I think so,’ said Black Tip. ‘Don’t you?’
Vickey smiled and nodded.
‘But we never did find the Great White Fox,’ said Black Tip.
‘Maybe not,’ Vickey replied. ‘Then again, maybe we didn’t look hard enough
Snowflakes were swirling across the fields, and as they watched Old Sage Brush make his way along the hedgerows, his coat soon became white and he disappeared into the snow-clad countryside.
A gentle breeze, softened by the late onset of spring, ruffled the sparse hair on Vickey’s underside as it rose and fell with the breath of contentment. Her two suckling cubs were at one with the world, and so was she. One cub had died within her during the fight with the fun dogs, but the other two more than made up for it. From where she lay she could see that spring had brought forth from the moss, the first fragile shoots of wood-sorrel. Three heart-shaped leaves on a slender pink stem; larger than a shamrock, yet light green and delicate. By the time their small white flowers appeared, she knew her cubs would have opened their eyes. Shifting her gaze to the top of the bank immediately opposite, she could see that while she had been having her cubs, young ferns had been pushing their way up into the world. The ferns now stood with heads curled, like notes of music while overhead in the brambles, small birds were singing. Nature had written her own symphony to the new life that was springing up all around.
Vickey was contemplating these things when Black Tip arrived. He had caught her some food in the meadows, and as usual she would bury it in a hiding place nearby and eat it later when she was hungry and the cubs were full.
They were both amused by the little dog’s black tip.
‘No need to ask you what you’re going to call him,’ smiled Black Tip. ‘And what about the vixen? What’s her name going to be?’
Vickey caressed the little she cub. ‘Running Fox,’ she announced. ‘We’ll call her Running Fox.’
‘Why Running Fox?’ asked Black Tip.
‘Because we’ve stopped running, that’s why’
Black Tip was perplexed. ‘Why then call her Running Fox?’
‘What else?’ smiled Vickey. ‘It was the great running fox in the sky that guided us in our search for the secret of survival. And I’ll never forget little Running Fox in the Land of the Howling Dogs. That was his home and he wouldn’t run away from it. And now that we’ve returned to Beech Paw, we’ve stopped running, haven’t we?’
‘We have,’ said Black Tip. ‘Now, take good care of little Black Tip and Running Fox. I’ll see you later.’
From the rim of the quarry, Black Tip surveyed the valley. It was quiet and peaceful. Soon white blooms of cow parsley would spread along the hedgerows like spiders’ webs, but not for long. In no time at all they’d give way to the flowering hogweed. And then what? Black Tip smiled wryly to himself. He knew only too well that when the hogweed blooms had come and gone, man would hunt the fox again.
Author’s Note
If the ten adult foxes named in this book — Vickey, Black Tip, Fang, Old Sage Brush, Hop-along, She-la, Skulking Dog, Sinnéad, Running Fox and Scavenger — had been killed by the snare and the gun, they would have provided one person with a fur coat and possibly a hat. But it would not have been a full-length coat, as that requires about fourteen pelts. Fortunately, Vickey and her friends managed to avoid such a fate.
The background to my book was the hunting of the fox for fur, which began in Ireland and Britain in the late 1970s and lasted for several years. The fur hunters drastically reduced the fox population, which was already under great pressure in mainland Europe for another reason. Rabies was spreading westward across Europe, and in many areas the fox was falling victim of attempts to bring the disease under control, as it was known to be a carrier. Then in 1977 France increased bounties on foxes as part of an all-out drive to prevent the spread of rabies there. At the same time, long-haired furs had come back into fashion, so the fox was also being hunted intensively for its pelt. In North America, 388,000 red foxes, similar to ours, were ‘harvested’ in 1977-78, while in West Germany the number caught or shot rose from 186,000 to 194,000.
It was about this time that the fur companies also sought supplies from Ireland and Britain which, unlike their European neighbours, were free of rabies. Being a relatively small country, the impact was particularly noticeable in Ireland. Prices quickly rose from the traditional £1 bounty (equivalent to €1.27) to almost £20 (€25.39) for a pelt. Fox trapping became a lucrative business for many people, and as the trapping continued unabated, fears were expressed for the fox’s survival.
Not everyone, of course, agreed that the fox was in danger of being wiped out. Nevertheless, it is known that in 1979–80, the first season in which export licences were required in the Republic of Ireland, 36,500 fox pelts were exported. Another 36,400 were shipped out the following season, and by 1981–82, the number had risen to 40,700. In addition, an estimated 10,000 were being exported annually from Northern Ireland. Ireland, therefore, was in the unusual position of exporting over 50,000 fox pelts in one year. Less than 10,000 of these were farmed. The other 40,000 were caught in the wild — almost half the number of red foxes trapped in Canada.
Fears were also expressed for the future of the fox in Britain, where it was estimated that Britain and Ireland between them supplied over 100,000 pelts in 1979.
However, despite all the odds the fox survived, not only to roam the fields but also the parks and gardens of our towns and cities where, over the years, many have chosen to make their home. Now and then it’s reported that real fur may be coming back into fashion, but hopefully the fox may never have to face such an onslaught again.
Hunting the fox with hounds for what some people call ‘sport’ has been banned in England, Wales and Scotland for some years, but it is still legal in both parts of Ireland. On this island, therefore, the call of the hunting horn still tells the fox it must ‘run with the wind’ if it’s to escape what those in my story call ‘the howling dogs’.
Tom McCaughren
2016
About the Author
TOM McCAUGHREN lives in Dublin and has worked as a journalist and as a broadcaster for RTE. He has always been interested in wildlife, an interest that prompted him to write Run with the Wind and its sequels, Run to Earth, Run Swift, Run Free, Run to the Wild Wood, Run to the Ark, and Run for Cover.
His fox books have been widely translated and have won many awards including: the Reading Association of Ireland Book Award 1985; the Irish Book Awards Medal 1987; the White Ravens Selection 1988 (International Youth Library Munich); The Young Persons’ Books of the Decade Award 1980-1990 (Irish Children’s Book Trust); and the Oscar Wilde Society’s Literary Recognition Award 1992.
Copyright
This eBook edition first published 2016 by
The O’Brien Press Ltd,
12 Terenure Road East, Rathgar, Dublin 6, D06 HD27, Ireland.
Tel: +353 1 4923333; Fax: +353 1 4922777
E-mail: [email protected]
Website: www.obrien.ie
First published 1983 by Wolfhound Press.
This edition first published 2016.
eBook ISBN: 978–1–84717–857–2
Text © copyright Tom McCaughren
Copyright for typesetting, layout, illustrations, design
© The O’Brien Press Ltd
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced or utilised in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording
or in any information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.
ading books on Archive.
Run with the Wind Page 14
