The Willows and Beyond
Page 20
How well Mole and Nephew slept that night; how good to hear the sounds they had heard so often before: the tawny owl calling, the bark of the fox, and far off, low and whispering, the sounds of autumn coming, and the wind in the willows along the River Bank.
The Curator was as good as his word, and though Nephew had a hearty breakfast, the Mole had little more than a cup of tea and a piece of toast.
“It’s a misty morning, sir, and chilly with it, but a bit of walking will warm you up.
“Yes,” said the Mole quietly, wondering if he had quite the strength to walk so far.
“What is it, Uncle?”
The Mole put on his old coat and scarf, and opened his front door. It was cold, quite; it was misty, very.
“Uncle, are you all right?”
“Can you not hear her voice, Nephew; can you not hear her song?”
He barely said goodbye to the Curator before he was off into the strange dawn light, leaving Nephew to say his “thank you’s” for him.
“He’s not normally like this, you know, but he seems a trifle over-wrought this morning, and still a little tired.”
“It has been a pleasure, sir, to meet you and that gentleman, who was so kind to tell me what he knew of Mr Mole.”
Then the Curator winked, and chuckled, for he knew quite well who his special guest had been. Then, laughing, Nephew followed his uncle down the familiar path towards the River.
“Uncle, Uncle!” he called, for the mist was strange and swirling, and he was suddenly not sure quite how far down the path the Mole had gone. “Uncle, wait for me!”
Down the path he went, almost running, yet not quite catching up with the familiar form of the Mole, whose head he saw, and then his scarf, and the shape of his coat — and a singing, a voice, a song of calling, a song of sweet belonging and of return.
“I’m coming, Uncle,” cried Nephew “I’m not far behind. The sun will soon be out and we’ll be able to see more clearly, and then, then —“
Nephew paused and came to a stop, for already he had reached the River and what he saw a little way below, still vague and misty was rather more than the Mole.
It seemed to be a rowing boat, a boat that might well have been moored and waiting, waiting for minutes or hours, days or years — but even now was casting off as it so often had of yore, as the River’s song grew louder, and the sun so bright in the mist that it was hard to see — and hard for Nephew to quite comprehend what he was seeing.
For there in the blue-and-white boat he knew so well was the Mole, in the seat in which he had sat so many times before, and sitting opposite him, oars confidently in his hands once more, was one who seemed to be the Water Rat.
“Ratty?” whispered Nephew in awe as the light came all about them, and the River’s song grew loud. “Uncle?”
For a moment the Rat turned to stare at him, and the Mole too, and on their faces there was a look of sweet companionship and contentment, and in their silence the calling of farewell.
Then, even as the mist cleared by the bank, the boat drifted out into the River and turned towards the Island with the River’s eternal flow.
“Uncle?” whispered Nephew once more, and he saw on the path, and down by the water, the hoof-marks of some great animal, and knew that He was near.
“Farewell!” sang the River, her voice joining at last with Ratty and Mole’s. “Farewell!”
The song rose all about Nephew as he watched and saw the boat drift onward, and the mist broke up ever more, yet never quite enough for him to see all clearly.
He stood in silence as the boat reached the Island, and the song changed from farewell to welcome. Though he could not be sure, Nephew felt certain he saw Badger waiting there, and Otter too, and Ratty helping Mole from the boat; yes, and there was Toad, younger than Nephew had ever known him, calling to them to hurry up and hurry along, for he had an idea for them, and it started just over there on the other side of the Island, just over there, just Beyond.
So Toad had now made the final journey too…
Nephew sat down and watched the mist slowly clear down towards the Island and the Weir. He stared at the water, and thought of many things.
He peered across the River to where once the Wild Wood had risen up. But as yet that was still in mist, and there was nothing to be seen. Yet the sun was all about him, and the autumn wind so mild, and the leaves of willows on the River, floating, falling, drifting —“Nephew? Is that really you?”
He awoke with a start, and thought himself still lost in that world of Beyond, for there in the middle of the River was a water rat, standing up in a skiff quite different from Ratty’s boat, yet one he knew, for he remembered Young Rat making it, many years before.
Nephew stood up.
“Hub, Young Rat,” he said without surprise, as if he had expected him to be there. “So you came back home?”
“Came back a few days ago, Ratty and I, and have been waiting ever since, for it’s Mr Mole’s birthday today and Ratty was sure Mr Mole would return, for the River told him so. She’s been singing a song of longing all the way up from the coast, and Ratty’s been so impatient. But now — now —Young Rat looked down the River the way Mole and Ratty had gone.
“Did you see them?” he whispered, idling the oar in the River to bring himself nearer to where Nephew sat.
“Yes,” said Nephew, “O yes, I did.”
Young Rat brought the boat to the bank and lightly jumped off. Little wonder that Nephew had mistaken him for Ratty a moment before: he was wearing one of Ratty’s old tweed suits.
“Found it in his old home,” said Young Rat, as he once had been, but Rat as he now surely was.
“Did you?” said Nephew.
They sat in silence for a time, wondering. Talk could come later but for now the River’s song was still in their ears, and the cloven hoof had not long passed by.
“Rat, old fellow,” said Nephew, feeling as easy with his old friend as if they had never parted, “would you mind just taking me down to the Island, just for a little —“
But something impelled the Rat to shake his head slowly, for Mole and Ratty could not be followed to the place where they had gone.
They heard then the River’s song all about them, and though afterwards they could not quite remember it, knew more then of fulfilment, and the true meaning of Beyond; and while Nephew listened in wonder, and watched the shifting light in strange delight, the Rat sculled to the Island and there, without once setting foot upon that hallowed place, or even glancing in amongst the vegetation there, grasped the painter of Ratty’s boat, and brought it back to Nephew, and to mortality, again.
Later, leaving that part of the bank, with their farewells to the past and to Mole, Ratty and all the old River-Bankers quite done, the two friends crossed over to Ratty’s house, his old boat in tow They clambered up onto the jetty and sat with their feet dangling, just as Ratty and Mole often had. Of the past there was nothing left to say, and it was to the future that their thoughts now bent.
“Did you find a new home, Nephew, and is there room there for a wanderer like me?”
“We did,” said Nephew with a smile, “and there is! But hold fast a moment, what’s the time?”
The Rat pulled from his pocket a silver watch that had once been Ratty’s and said, “Almost ten o’clock.”
“Then we must get to the Iron Bridge without delay for Toad — that’s Master Toad as was, and Badger — that’s —“
“I know who that must be,” said the Rat with a grin. “Tell me the rest when you’re aboard or we’ll never get there in time.”
“But Ratty’s house?”
“It’s all locked up, and there’s a note for the rabbits to look after it, and the key as well. All I need is already stowed aboard my skiff.”
How expertly the Rat managed the boat; how easily he began to row; and how comfortable Nephew’s seat felt, as the River glided by, and they left their past behind.
“There they are!�
�� cried Nephew, spying Master Toad, Badger and Portly. “But no motor-car, I’m afraid. They can’t have repaired it.”
Such explanations as could be swiftly made, were made. Such apologies as could be made, Toad made, for his vehicle had had to be sent back to the Town and they would have to walk.
“Nonsense, we’ll go by boat,” said the practical Rat. “Portly, or should I say Otter, you and Toad take the skiff, for you’ll know how to handle her, and take Badger with you, for he’ll be able to keep Toad under control. I’ll take this boat with Neph — with Mole.”
“All the way home by boat?” cried Toad doubtfully.
“Better than hiking,” said Otter with a grin.
“Humph,” said Toad ruefully.
But then, as the two craft cast off, and the Rat led them towards the darkness beneath the Iron Bridge, a peaceful look came to Toad’s eyes and he let his fingers trail in the water.
“I’ve always liked boats,” said he, “but it’s a long time since I had one. I think I’ll buy a few”
“One’s enough,” said the Badger gruffly, “and preferably without an engine, for they don’t break down.”
“I don’t suppose they do,” said Toad dreamily. Then, a moment later, he added, “You know, you’re right. Can’t beat boats.”
“Won’t ever beat boats,” said the Rat.
“Hear, hear!” said the Mole.
Then they were gone, Mole and Toad, Badger and Rat, and Otter too, gone under the Iron Bridge and away upstream towards Lathbury Forest, heading home, there to find out all the wonders of what might await them in the future, and Beyond.
THE END
Acknowledgements
A book such as this, even more a series such as Tales of the Willows, cannot be brought to successful publication without the creative and practical help of a great many people. Six in particular should be mentioned by name.
First, my warm gratitude to Eddie Bell, Executive Chairman and Publisher of HarperCollins, who in a two-minute telephone conversation in 1993 saw at once the essence of the idea and immediately gave it approval and support, as he has ever since. That is real publishing.
My special thanks to Patrick Benson, whose accompanying illustrations have rightly earned him such international acclaim. Thanks also to Ian Craig, who as art director of the project has been responsible for its overall look, which captures so well the spirit of the famous 1932 edition of Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows illustrated by Ernest Shepard, and takes it forward so brilliantly to something new.
I have been exceptionally lucky in the two editors —Malcolm Edwards and Tim Waller — who have been closely involved in the series since its inception, and have guided my words and ideas into print with such common sense and good humour.
Finally, as so often on these occasions — and so happily — to Deborah Crawshaw, my partner, who recently became my wife. She has shared my laughter and occasional tears with Mole, Ratty, Badger and Toad.
I have received many hundreds of comments about these books from readers and others, but by far the most charming came from my young son Joshua, who, listening to Richard Briers’ tape of the first volume in the series, The Willows in Winter, summoned me to his side and said, “Daddy, why don’t you try to write something like this?”
We fathers, like us storytellers, can only try.
William Horwood
Oxford
July 1996