The Willows and Beyond

by William Horwood

It was perfectly true that a moment before his thoughts had been only of himself and his desire to escape as he struggled to free himself from the clinging ropes and the clutching branches all about. But when he heard Master Toad’s plaintive cry and pathetic sobs, the guardian heart of Toad was touched, and some nascent parental urge to help one weaker than himself and in his care was released. Remembering that Colonel Wheeler had recommended that a vicious hunting knife be packed in one of the outside pockets of the haversack, he retrieved it and swiftly cut loose their bonds, and in great and savage sweeps hewed down the branches that imprisoned them.

  Then with wild cries, and waving his alpenstock about his head, he drove the close circle of weasel eyes and stoat teeth back, and hauled the trembling and weeping Master Toad to his feet.

  “Follow me!” he yelled and, grabbing Master Toad’s lapel that he might not lose him, he began to flee in what he trusted was the direction of the River. Yet after only a few minutes his Viking spirit began to flag, and he gasped for breath as he heard the creatures of the Wild Wood following fast in the shadows, calling and hissing, whistling and mocking.

  “Where are we going?” wailed Master Toad: “Is ‘iking in the country always so dangereux?”

  How mortally afraid he must be to be slipping back so swiftly into his native tongue!

  “Mon dieu!” he cried. “Look there!”

  The weasels and stoats were closing in fast and even as Toad and his ward were greeted by the welcome sight of the River Bank once more, their path was blocked by the massed ranks of the enemy, carrying weapons of all kinds, and, like some heathen New Guinea tribe, ready now to hew their victims down. The villains began to advance upon them with terrible cries.

  Retreating along the bank, with his ward clinging around his neck, Toad was about to offer his old enemies all he possessed, including Toad Hall itself, in exchange for their lives, when he stumbled across something he had not touched or seen in many a long year. Something he had quite forgotten existed.

  It was the entrance to the tunnel that Badger had first revealed to him on that most memorable evening when he and Toad, along with Ratty and Mole, had successfully wrested back Toad Hall from the fathers and grandfathers of these same villainous weasels and stoats who had ambushed them now. Hewn many hundreds of years before, it had been turned by Toad’s father into a secret passage between the River Bank and Toad Hall, no doubt as a possible escape route from pressing creditors and the like. Now it offered his son quick and safe passage back to the safety of his own home.

  Pushing Master Toad through into the echoing darkness, Toad swiftly blocked the opening with boulders and other such rubbish, even as his ward prodded at the enemy to keep them at bay Then, opening another of the pouches of his haversack, he produced matches and a taper, with which he had planned to light their campfire. Now it served as a torch to light their escape along the dark, damp, narrow passage. With the thwarted weasels and stoats receding behind them, the two toads fled up the tunnel, putting obstacles in the way as they went, till finally, with a push and a shove at the trap-door, they tumbled headlong into the kitchens of the Hall.

  This caused three kitchen maids to faint, and the boot-boy to flee, leaving only the Cook to belabour them with a soup ladle before she realized who they were.

  No matter of that! Having securely battened down the trap-door and placed several sacks of flour on top, just to make certain, they were safe — and food and drink were readily to hand to help them recover their sanity and strength.

  “You know, Master Toad,” said Toad a good deal later — they sat at the kitchen table, still in their hiking gear, with the servants having joined them in their fare so that their eccentric master might have an audience for his tale of how the weasels and stoats were fooled and duped by the superior cunning and intelligence of toads — “I think that we should now adjourn to the terrace, and thence by way of paths familiar, to Mole End, where Mole is to celebrate his birthday this afternoon.”

  “Lor’, sir,” said the Cook, “the afternoon’s nearly over for it’s nigh on five o’clock. That’s the servants’ supper you’ve been eating for your lunch!”

  “How swiftly time passes by for those engaged in heroes’ work!” cried Toad, rising. “Come, Master Toad, to Mole End at once — and don’t forget those haversacks, for we have champagne to deliver and more tales to tell!”

  Thus persuaded, and now rather looking forward to showing off to Toad’s friends, Master Toad followed his guardian into the open air once more, only tiring when they saw the lights of Mole End across a field.

  “We shall soon be there?” he asked, for lights at dusk have a strange way of receding.

  “We shall!” cried Toad, “and you can take it from me that we will receive a right royal welcome!”

  Mole’s birthday party had gone without a hitch, just as the Rat had hoped it might. Nephew had done all the preparatory work at Mole End and the Mole had arrived back to find a huge banner across the front of his home that read: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOLE & MANY MORE TO COME!!!” Whilst from every window latch, door handle, and hook or nail in the wall, outside and in, hung clusters of balloons and ribbons. Best of all, Portly, Grandson, as well as Nephew, were all there to shake his hand and greet him.

  “Happy Birthday, Mole old fellow!” cried the Rat, who was almost as overwhelmed by the good work of Nephew and his friends as the Mole himself.

  “But —“ he began.

  “You said —“ he continued.

  “Ratty, I thought —“ he protested.

  “O my,” he whispered as they all clustered about him and sang “Happy Birthday to You”.

  Ready laughter mixed with tears of happiness as he turned first to the Rat, then to Nephew, then to each of the others, not knowing what to say or whom to thank. “O my, I surely don’t deserve it,” said he, wiping the tears from his eyes, yet sobbing still.

  “You deserve it and a great deal more, and we all think so,” said the Rat. “And Mr Badger thinks so too. He has sent a special card apologizing for his absence, as he and Otter have had to go to the Town on urgent River business. It seems there is some talk in the Town of building new houses in the Wild Wood that must be nipped in the bud.”

  “Badger sent me a card!” said the Mole, more interested just then in present pleasures than in future threats.

  “And Mr Toad told us,” continued Nephew, “that though he was otherwise engaged with Master Toad this afternoon he would make every effort to see that the two of them join us a little later, and that he will bring the champagne with him.”

  “Toad bringing me champagne!”

  “Now come on, Mole,” said the Rat, the others having agreed he should be Master of Ceremonies come inside and tuck into the birthday tea we have prepared.”

  “Tea?For me? O dear, I am going to cry again.”

  But how truly happy he was that afternoon, and happier still as the afternoon progressed and dusk came. Indeed, everything seemed perfect — and might have stayed so, had not Portly and Nephew gone outside for a breath of fresh air, only to come rushing back in a state of alarm.

  “Uncle! You others! Keep quiet!”

  “Why, what is it?” cried the Rat, rising from his seat in alarm.

  “The Beast’s out there and he’s coming this way!” whispered Nephew.

  “The Beast?” said the Rat louder than he should.

  “But there is no Beast,” said the stalwart Mole.

  “There is, and we’ve just seen him clambering over the gate,” said Portly.

  “But — but —“ began the Mole.

  “Shhh! Mole, old fellow,” commanded the Rat. “I can see these two mean business, so the least we can do is to investigate their claims.”

  He crept to a window and peered out.

  “Good heavens,” he whispered, aghast, “we must arm ourselves.”

  “Why, what can you see?” said the Mole, joining the Rat, and peering out from a now darkened Mole End.

&
nbsp; “Them!” said the Rat very grimly indeed, pointing a finger through the dusk.

  It was true. Out of the darkness came two figures, hunch-backed and shambling as primeval creatures do, stopping now and then to look about, and the bigger one, the leader, holding an enormous stave.

  “The Beast and his Mate!” said the Rat.

  The front door was still ajar and as the Rat went to close and bolt it they heard the most terrible grunting and groaning coming from the beasts, and then strange other-worldly mutterings.

  “See how their eyes stare so horribly!” whispered Portly from the window, for as on previous sightings the creatures seemed to have great white ovoid eyes.

  The Mole, who had recovered himself and taken up the trusty cudgel that had stood him so well in the past in crises such as these, was now calm determination itself, and said, “They seem big, and they certainly sound dangerous, but there are five of us and only two of—”

  “They’re advancing once again,” said Portly.

  “What do you think we should do?” said the Mole tersely.

  “Surprise is always the best form of attack,” answered Grandson stoutly. “Have you perhaps any other weapons so that as they reach the door we can spring it open, charge them down, and overpower them?”

  Thus it was that as the Beast’s grunting and groaning outside began once more, and there came a primordial knocking and clattering at the door, the Rat let forth his battle cry, “Charge them down, and give no quarter to our enemy!”

  As the door burst open, the two exhausted, startled figures on the doorstep were sent flying, landing in a tangled heap of arms and legs and straps.

  “Look, the Beast has four legs!” cried Grandson, not realizing who owned the limbs he was now attacking.

  “The Beast wears khaki—coloured armour to protect itself!” cried the Mole, bringing down his cudgel a good many times on the haversacks.

  “Destroy the Beast!” cried Nephew, upon whom a Viking-like frenzy had fallen. While Young Rat prepared to offer the coup de grace with his marlin spike.

  No, it had certainly not been a good day for Toad. An enterprise that had seemed so sensible and foolproof, so well planned and so full of promise, had gone from difficulty to disaster and from disaster to this sudden and unprovoked attack from an enemy Toad could not see, for his goggles had misted up once more, and anyway his aggressor could not be anyone he knew.

  Heaving himself to the vertical with his alpenstock, he roared, “Seek to assault two innocent hikers out for a day’s stroll and about to visit their harmless and law-abiding friends, would you? Imagine that you could hurt and destroy Toad of Toad Hall, eh?”

  Then he counter-attacked, venting his spleen upon his attackers for the tribulations and frustrations of the day. As he began his assault a similar passion overcame the still-fallen Master Toad, suffused with a determination to be vanquished no more, and appalled at seeing his pater so unfairly attacked.

  Casting off his haversack at last, and hauling off his loathsome hobnail boots that they might be used in his attack, he began to fight side by side with Toad.

  “But it’s Toad of Toad Hall!” cried the Mole, when he saw at last who it was they had attacked, and who was counter-attacking with very formidable might and determination.

  “And Master Toad,” cried Nephew, in astonishment. “Toad, it’s only us!” yelled the Rat when he realized their mistake.

  For a moment Toad paused as they retreated towards the Mole’s house before his counter—attack, and suddenly he recognized his attackers.

  “Toad, we’re sorry — we thought you were the Beast!” cried Mole.

  For Toad, still reeling from the humiliation and outrage of their assault a moment before, and the pain of their blows upon his legs, this was the final straw.

  “What impudence!” exploded Toad. “How could you possibly mistake the great and handsome Toad of Toad Hall for the hideous Beast of the Iron Bridge?! Why, I’ve never heard such cheek!

  “Khaki-coloured armour, eh?” he yelled, shoving the contrite Mole back through his own front door.

  “A beast with four legs, am I?” he roared, setting about Grandson with a will.

  “Invited for tea, are we?” he screeched, raising his alpenstock once more.

  “You most certainly are,” said Nephew calmly and soothingly, staying Toad’s hand, “and I am sure we have some delectable fruit cake which Ratty made only yesterday evening.”

  “Hmm. Fruit cake, you say?” said Toad faintly, before turning to Master Toad and asking, “Shall we destroy them all and raze Mole End to the ground, young Master Toad … or join them for tea?”

  “I do hope you’ll decide upon the latter course,” called out Ratty from behind the Mole’s dresser, to where he had felt it wisest to retreat in a quite uncharacteristic display of cowardice, but then he had never confronted an enemy quite so — so absolute — as Toad that day, “for that champagne you so kindly offered to bring will be most welcome.”

  “And we can find you a Havana cigar as well,” offered the Mole, emerging from behind the kitchen door, where he had felt it best to take refuge.

  “Hmmm!” grunted Toad, sitting down and accepting the cake that Nephew offered him.

  “Well!” he growled a little later, sipping the champagne now opened and poured.

  “Mmmm!” he muttered, as he contemplated the Havana and put it down ready for use.

  No, it had not been Toad’s day — till now. For he never was an animal to hold grudges, and was always willing to laugh at himself and see to it that others around him were happy and well set, once he had had a little of his own way.

  “Well, and what do you think, Master Toad,” said he finally, with a twinkle in his eye, “that a toad should do when after such a hard day’s work as we have had he is beaten and insulted by his hosts?”

  The company fell silent, waiting upon Master Toad’s response.

  “Well, Pater —“ he began, but then he paused, for he thought that perhaps this was the final test of one who has been tried all day in the disciplines of educational exercise, and that much might depend upon the nature and quality of his reply.

  “I think, possibly,” he continued, raising his glass, “that it would be a very good idea if we wished Mole a very happy birthday, and you made a speech!”

  If there was a moment when Master Toad was finally accepted into River Bank society absolutely and without question, a moment that suggested that he had those same inestimable qualities that Toad had in such abundance, and which allowed others to forgive so very much, that was it.

  “A speech?” said Toad, rising like a fish to bait.

  “At once, Toad,” said the Rat.

  “Upon the subject of Mole’s birthday, and why we are assembled here today to celebrate it?”

  “Yes please, Mr Toad,” said Nephew.

  “Master Toad, hand me my haversack!”

  “It just happens,” said the incorrigible Toad, fumbling from one pocket of the haversack to another before he found what he wanted, “that I have a speech prepared on that very subject!”

  Very much later, when all the drink was nearly drunk, and all the food nearly eaten, and night had come, the Mole asked Toad and Master Toad what they had been doing all day, “if it is not presumptuous to ask?”

  “Doing?” cried the irrepressible Toad with spirit. “Why we were partaking of the very latest, and the very best, form of exercise.”

  “Labouring with heavy loads?” said the perplexed Mole, eyeing the enormous haversacks.

  “We were hiking,” said Toad, “and don’t worry about the size of that haversack, Mole old chap. You’ll work up to it in time? Eh, Master Toad?”

  “‘E will, I expect,” came the reply.

  “But do you enjoy it?”

  “Wonderful!” said Toad, taking up some fruit cake. “Eh, Master Toad?”

  Had those others present known something of the history of the day they might have noticed a momentary pa
use before Toad’s ward replied, during which a silent struggle took place between that youth’s natural desire to say how truly awful hiking was and his toadish inclination to impress all with his strengths and abilities, and modishness.

  “Nothing better than ‘iking!” he declared at last, scoffing a last crumb of cake and basking in the admiration of his peers.

  VI

  A Touch of Araby

  November came, and with it a sudden and unseasonable sweep of blizzard snow from the north, which blanked out the River Bank, and draped the trees of the Wild Wood with hoarfrost, heralding a hard and bitter winter.

  It was a time to stay indoors and enjoy the comforts of home, be they food, friendship or fond memory. Or, if an animal must go out, a time to wrap up well and finish daytime chores before the freezing shadows of the night return, unless it be to visit friends and there find comfort by the fireside, and companionable conversations about times gone by, and thoughts and hopes of spring.

  The Mole’s growing concern about the Rat’s wellbeing seemed to find confirmation when, a week after the snow had thawed and the last pockets of ice were melting, he and Nephew, who had taken advantage of the brief spell of milder weather to go out for a brisk walk, came home to find a most alarming note pinned to their door at Mole End in an unfamiliar hand.

  The Mole glanced quickly at the signature and ascertained it was from Young Rat, but its untidy scrawl seemed so out of character that the Mole guessed it had been written in some haste.

  “Dear Mr Mole! It’s the Cap’n, sit;” he read, realizing it was Ratty who was referred to, “he’s gone poorly and you had better come as soon as you can.”

  “What ever can this mean, Nephew,” said the Mole with a worried frown.

  Nephew looked at the note and said, “I expect Ratty has simply caught a cold or something, and that what is needed is one of your herbal remedies.”

  But no sooner had they begun to delve into Mole’s cupboards for those healing balms and cures he took such pride in, than Young Rat himself appeared from the direction of the River.