Текст книги "Quest for the Faradawn"

Автор книги: Richard Ford

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CHAPTER VII

Nab’s eleventh winter was long and cold; the snow had stayed for an age and there had been vicious frosts which had killed many of the year’s young birds. On the very coldest nights, when the savage north-east winds threatened to cut the animals up and leave them on the frozen ground, both Brock and Tara would make their way from the sett into Nab’s bush and lie down on either side of him to keep him warm in their fur. During the short days Nab would venture out for some fresh green plants to augment his supply of nuts and dried fungi and then, if the noon sun was warm enough, would sit outside the bush and look out over the frozen fields where only the rooks and the crows moved. At other times the rains would lash down so that it became impossible to stay dry; little drips would start to seep through the rhododendron leaves and wet the floor of his bush which was made up of a dark brown, peaty mixture of soil and leaves, so that it took the boy all his time to find a dry place to sit. He also had to make sure that the dried toadstools, which were scattered all over the inside wherever there was a little twig to stick them on or a flat surface where they could be laid, were kept away from the wet; otherwise, as Nab had discovered in a previous winter, they would begin to spoil and rot leaving him hungry. Sometimes Warrigal would fly down from his hole in the Great Beech and perch on a thick branch in the bush and talk to the boy or else sit with him silently as they both stared out at the sheets of rain falling down outside; there was something very comforting and cosy about being under shelter while outside everything was a torrent of wet. When the rain finally stopped and the heavy black clouds moved on, the sun would often come out and Nab would leave the bush to wander through the dripping wood and rejoice in the feeling of freshness with which the grasses and the trees and the bushes had been left; the sun would sparkle from all the little raindrops that lingered everywhere and Nab’s mind would be lost in a magical world of golden reflections and sparkling silver crystal.

The cold March winds continued into April, dragging the winter out so that it seemed it would last for ever until, finally, one day the cry of a curlew echoed over the fields, and all over the wood hearts jumped with a thrill of anticipation at this triumphant clarion call of spring. Soon the plovers arrived and the fields were full of their liquid warbles as they strutted about with their magnificent plumed heads arrogantly turning from side to side or swooped and dived through the air, asserting their control of the sky over their fields. As the days grew warmer the larks began to sing their distinctive one-note symphonies as they hovered way up in the blue sky, so high sometimes that Nab thought they had vanished until he would suddenly see a tiny black dot, fluttering delicately.

It was on one of these days of high spring that Nab first saw the race of which he was a member. He was sitting, with his eyes closed, on an extremely comfortable tussock of grasses, listening to the larks and feeling the warmth of the sun fill his body with energy and life, when suddenly he felt a little cuff on the side of his face. He opened his eyes to see Perryfoot jumping around in front of him with his great long ears cheekily erect and his black eyes sparkling with merriment.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Coming for a walk?’

Nab gave a yawn and a stretch. ‘I was enjoying that until you turned up,’ he said and darted forward with a hand to catch the hare on his back thigh, at which Perryfoot skipped to one side missing the hand by a pace.

‘Too slow, too slow,’ he said and, as Nab recovered his balance, he nipped forward again and dealt the boy another smart blow on his cheek with his front paw. ‘Come on; it will do you good – get some of that winter stiffness out of your bones.’

Nab agreed on condition that they try and get Brock to come with them. They both wandered over to the sett and Nab knelt down in front of the tunnel and gave a call, for it had been many seasons now since he had been able to crawl into the sett. There were only three badgers now; the two cubs had left and gone to Near Wood and since Nab had come there had been no more. Brock believed that this was the work of the Elflord; indeed Warrigal had hinted as much when they had been talking one evening. The reason, the owl had told him, was so that he and Tara could devote all their energies to looking after the boy.

Finally, after a number of calls had met with nothing but silence, Nab spotted the black tip and white stripes of the badger’s face making its way up the passage and Brock agreed to go off with them for an afternoon walk. Nab picked a handful of the delicate young beech leaves which were just beginning to emerge and started to chew them as the three made their way from the sett to the old stile. Then they walked along the far side of the brook to where, in a bank in the middle of the new young birches, Rufus had his hole. When they reached the fence at the back of the wood they walked along it until they came to a hedge which ran out across the field and which they could use for cover until they got down to the stream. They stopped there for a while in the shade of a great ash tree and looked out at the wood basking in the spring sun. Nab went off to explore on his own leaving the other two meditating under the tree. He walked down to a thicket of rhododendrons and young birches, made his way through them and emerged on to a carpet of bluebells which stretched over the floor of the wood until they reached a number of enormous elms.

Nab knelt down and buried his face in the heady scent of the blue flowers; he felt he could almost drink their fragrance and as the smell pervaded his senses he could see, in his mind’s eye, every perfect spring day he had ever known. He stayed there for a long while, kneeling with his face on the ground as if he were praying while the sun sent little shafts of golden light through the branches of the trees. He lifted his head and looked around exultantly; these were the times when his whole body seemed so full of energy that he felt he would explode and his soul sang with joy. He got up and ran like the wind back to the ash tree where Brock was sleeping and Perryfoot sat on all fours, his great ears laid flat along his back, quietly contemplating. They woke the badger up and made their way under the rusty wire of the old fence and into the field under the shelter of the hedge. They went past some warrens in a little sandy hollow, where the rabbit, greeted them and asked for news of Pictor and the woodland rabbits, and then walked up a fairly steep slope until they reached the top of the bank. The wood was now quite far behind and below them and ahead there was a gentle slope down to the stream. It was a perfect afternoon; little white clouds scudded about in the blue sky and there was a gentle breeze which blew delicious gusts of warm air against their faces. Nab’s heart was light and free.

‘Race you to the stream,’ he said, and he and Perryfoot scampered away down the slope through a belt of small willows and over; velvety green carpet of new grass while Brock pottered along behind When they got to the bottom, Nab and the hare began dancing around, each trying to land little cuffs on the other’s cheek. They often played this game although Perryfoot nearly always won; his huge back legs could shoot him out of range so quickly that Nat seldom caught him and then, while the boy was thinking about his next move, the hare would be in and out, cuff: cuff, before Nab could blink. Still, it didn’t matter, they both loved playing, and this afternoon Nab was feeling so good that he managed to catch the hare once or twice. Brock sat under the cool shade of a willow next to the stream and enjoyed watching them. Since that night so many seasons ago when he had found the baby, Brock’s life had been devoted to caring for and looking after the boy. There had been little talk of Elflords or saviours or any ‘grand purpose’ since that time, although Warrigal sometimes intimated that the Elflord was well pleased with the progress of the boy and Wythen occasionally came to visit Brock and Tara to see how they were managing and to guide them on difficult issues.

After a while, when Perryfoot and Nab had grown tired after their game, the three animals decided to wander a little further along the stream. On the other side of the stream there was another green field which sloped steeply down in a sharp bank, so there was little need to be cautious as they were well out of sight of any farm and in any case even if they did see an Urkku there was plenty of undergrowth in which to find cover. Thus they were ambling along quite carelessly, stopping every now and then to pick some berries or young leaves to nibble, when suddenly, upon turning a corner of the stream, they froze. Ahead of them the little steep-sided valley along which they had been walking opened out so that the slopes became far more gentle and on their side of the stream there was a little cluster of yellow gorse bushes surrounding three sides of a hollow. Inside this hollow they could hear the sounds of laughter and talk and there were other unfamiliar sounds which they could not recognize.

After a long time, the trio, satisfied that they had not been seen or heard, relaxed. They were in single file behind a large willow and a holly bush that had been seeded, probably by a bird, many seasons ago and which had flourished by the water. The only sound, apart from that coming from the hollow, was the continuous tinkling of the stream as it meandered over the pebbles in their sandy bed. ‘What shall we do?’ said Nab quietly as he turned round to face the others, who had been walking behind him when they had heard the noise.

‘It’s the Urkku,’ said Perryfoot. ‘Come on, we’ll go back. Come on Brock, turn round,’ and he gave the badger a gentle push with his paw.

‘No,’ said Brock firmly.

‘What do you mean, “No”? It’s Urkku and they’ve probably got guns. Don’t be silly. Let’s go back,’ the hare whispered fiercely.

‘No. I’m pretty certain they aren’t dangerous. I can tell; they aren’t behaving like the Urkku we normally see. Besides the sounds of the voices are different; higher and softer. No, there’s no danger. It’s a good opportunity for you, Nab, to see some Urkku at first hand. Listen, here is what we’ll do. Perryfoot, you go round the front of the hollow, as near as you dare, so that they can see you. Then while they’re watching you, Nab can run across at the back and take cover behind the gorse bushes. I’ll stay here and watch.’

‘Hmmm. I don’t like it at all,’ muttered the hare. 'Not one little bit. Still, if my learned friend says there’s no danger, there’s no danger. I just hope he’s right. Why don’t you go, Brock?’

‘Because if I’m wrong, you can run faster,’ said Brock, smiling mischievously.

‘All right,’ said Perryfoot. ‘Wish me luck.’

The hare ran slowly over the grassy bank and, when he appeared in view at the front of the hollow, the two remaining animals heard little squeals of delight coming from behind the gorse bushes. Perryfoot had stopped and was preening himself and from the sounds of merriment Brock guessed that the Urkku had seen him and were fully engrossed in watching his antics.

‘Right, off you go. But be careful and keep well out of sight,’ whispered Brock, and the boy scuttled along, bent almost double, until he reached the shelter of the bushes at the top of the little hollow. He sat silently for a moment, hardly daring to breathe and then, bursting with the most intense curiosity, he crawled along until he found a gap in the bushes through which he had a clear view. There he saw, for the first time in his life, another member of his own race. There were in fact two of them, both sitting watching Perryfoot with their backs to Nab. Even though they were sitting down he could tell that one was bigger than the other and he guessed that they were parent and young and, from what Remus and Bibbington had told him, he further believed that they were both female. He had not known what he had expected to see but he recognized himself in them and was not so surprised as he thought he might have been. Nevertheless he was fascinated by the way they talked and the way they looked and as he watched he found his attention drawn more and more to the little girl as she snuggled up close to her mother, holding tightly on to her arm with the thrill of seeing the hare so close. Perryfoot was obviously beginning to enjoy himself now as he found himself the object of such rapt attention and in no danger: he hopped a few paces and then stopped, raising himself up on to his back legs and putting his ears erect so that he looked like an arrogant monarch, and then he hopped a few more paces and repeated the performance. The little girl had now turned to watch Perryfoot, and Nab could see her face; judging by her size she had probably seen as many seasons as he had and, as he stared at her wide blue eyes and delicate mouth and the gentle pink of her cheeks framed by a tangled cascade of golden hair, he became entranced. All the magic of the spring day seemed to Nab to be captured in her face and when she laughed he could feel his heart miss a beat in sheer joy; she was a Princess of the Golden Afternoon and he would never forget the way he felt as he first saw her, through all the rest of his life.

The hare had begun to get bored now and, feeling he had carried out his duty, he hopped slowly back to where Brock was watching from behind the holly bush. Nab, however, was quite unable to tear himself away and indeed had hardly noticed that Perryfoot had gone. ‘What is he doing?’ whispered the hare crossly. ‘Hasn’t he seen enough?’

‘I don’t know; be patient and try to imagine how you would feel if you were his age and were seeing a hare for the first time.’ Perryfoot grunted and stretched out to enjoy the full warmth of the sun and reflect on the story he would tell his doe. Meanwhile Nab’s reverie was suddenly broken as the little girl jumped up, said something and ran off out of the hollow towards the stream, where she began to pick primroses. As she followed the meanders of the stream she was soon out of sight of her mother and had come fairly close to where Nab was lying; in fact he could approach her without being seen from the hollow. He was suddenly seized by an overwhelming impulse to talk to the girl and make himself known to her despite Brock’s warning and in the face of all the animal instincts which told him to remain hidden. How could he approach her? How would she react? Would she call to her mother? A hundred questions like these raced through his mind as, with his heart beating so loudly that he was certain she would hear, he crawled slowly down the bank away from the shelter of the gorse bushes until he was in a shallow ditch that would lead him up to a large willow by the stream which was near the little girl. Behind the holly bush Brock had roused Perryfoot and they were both watching horrified as Nab crawled nearer and nearer to the girl. ‘What’s he doing? Shall I go and stop him?’ said the hare.

‘No,’ replied Brock. ‘It’s too late now; he’ll do what he wants and we can only hope it turns out for the best.’

Nab was now at the foot of the tree and he crouched among the roots hardly daring to breathe and listening to the stream just by his left elbow running over its sandy bed. Very slowly, as Brock had taught him, he raised his head so that he could just see over the edge of the ditch. The little girl was some eight paces away, humming quietly to herself and thoroughly involved in picking the primroses and red campion that were growing on a little tussock which jutted out slightly into the water. She was bending down with her back to him; across the stream the green meadows rolled gently upward until they met the great beeches that stood at the edge of Tall Wood. Sheep were grazing contentedly, their white fleeces standing out clearly against the green, and overhead the larks hovered, singing the songs of spring as they had since time began.

Nab stood up and walked silently over the grassy bank of the stream until he was only a pace behind her. Suddenly, sensing that someone was near, she stopped humming, stood up quickly and turned round.

‘Oh!’ she cried in alarm. ‘You frightened me. Who are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you in the village. Are you playing a game – dressed like that I mean? Come on, tell me, who are you?’ She stared at him in growing amazement as she tried to understand what she saw. His hair, a dark golden brown, hung in gentle waves down around his shoulders and three or four fresh green rushes had been tied around his forehead to keep the hair out of his eyes. About his waist was a wide length of silver birch bark threaded through with a new willow branch, thin as a reed and fastened somehow at the side. His feet were bare and his hands were large with long fingers and broken nails, and they hung loosely by his sides. But his face! his face was the colour of the autumn beech leaves and out of it shone two smouldering dark eyes which roved ceaselessly around her and burned with a wild intensity. She felt she ought to have been scared but her instincts told her there was nothing to be afraid of and she was, in any case, too mesmerized by his restless eyes to do anything but stare.

‘Who are you?’ she said again, slowly and gently. ‘Why are you frightened? Where do you come from?’

Nab was quivering with fear from head to foot and yet, he did not know why, he was bursting inside with the need to communicate with her and tell her about his home and his friends and the wood and the bad days of last winter and everything he had ever done or seen or heard. But when he tried to speak in the language of the wood she shook her head and appeared not to understand; she simply kept opening her mouth and uttering strange sounds and noises which he had never heard before: this must be the Urkku language which he had heard about. But he loved the sound of her voice; he could have listened to that gentle happy sound for ever.

The little girl listened in astonishment to the series of barks and whimpers and yelps and growls that came from this strange boy. She thought he was trying to talk to her; it was obviously no game but she was puzzled beyond words by it. He apparently didn’t understand her either; she must be kind and gentle and patient as she was with animals. She decided to try and take him over to meet her mother; perhaps she could explain everything. She moved slowly towards him with her hand outstretched and tried to grasp his arm; as she got close she realized that he smelt of moss and leaves and sunshine and grass and somehow she understood then that he was not from the village, or indeed any village. As she placed her hand on his arm he snatched it away and his dark eyes flickered.

When she touched him and he could smell her gentle fragrance Nab became so overcome with embarrassment, confusion and fear that he was finally panicked into a full realization of what he was doing. He pulled his arm away from her hand savagely and looked round to the holly bush where he had left Brock and Perryfoot; there was no sign of them. With a quick glance back to the little girl, who was looking deeply at him in a most strange way, he took off back along the ditch and up the gentle slope towards the top of the hollow and the shelter of the gorse bushes from where he had first watched the girl and her mother. He looked down into the hollow and saw the mother lying flat out on the grass enjoying the sun and he turned back to where he had left the girl. She was standing, looking straight at him; her red gingham dress was blowing in the gentle afternoon breeze and her hair glinted golden in the sun. She raised an arm and waved it at him, and Nab, not knowing what he was doing, responded by waving back and then sensed with a thrill of joy that he had communicated with her. Finally, after what seemed for ever but was only in fact a heartbeat, Nab took a last precious look at this delicate vision and, tearing his eyes away with an effort that made him feel sick, he ran down the slope to the holly bush.

‘Well, so you finally decided to break off your discussion with the Urkku,’ whispered Perryfoot fiercely, ‘and not, if I may say so, before time. We thought you were never coming.’

‘Come on, ’ said Brock, ‘but there’s no panic; she hasn’t told her mother yet. Go carefully, quietly and quickly.’

At the sound of his two friends’ voices, Nab felt the sense of warmth that only arises from coming home after being away and, almost overcome with love for the two animals who were standing in front of him, he felt tears welling up in his eyes. ‘Come on,’ said Brock again, gently, and he turned round and began to make his way back along the stream with Nab following him and Perryfoot bringing up the rear.

It was late evening when the three weary creatures found themselves back at the top of the ridge that looked down into Silver Wood. They sat down and Nab told his companions about the events of the afternoon; at least, he tried to tell them but he found it hard to express the feelings that he had experienced and explain why he had so recklessly approached the Urkku. But Brock seemed to understand and, despite Nab’s disobedience, he did not appear to be cross. In truth Brock was really very satisfied with the way things had gone; it had been purely accidental but it had solved the problem of how Nab was to learn about his own race in a most fortunate manner. There had been little or no danger and Nab had had face to face contact with an Urkku of his own age; the only worry was that the girl would tell her mother and news of his existence would go round the village. Still, they would solve that problem if and when it arose. Perryfoot had calmed down after his initial anger and was now enjoying going through in his mind his own part in the afternoon’s adventure and working out exactly how he would relate it to his doe when he saw her later that night. It would make a good story.

And so it happened that when the moon began to shine that night it found a boy, a badger and a hare still sitting looking down on the wood; each of them silently lost in his own different thoughts. Across the fields a little girl was looking out of her bedroom window at the moon and thinking, as she had done ever since the afternoon, of the strangely beautiful boy she had met by the stream. It seemed like a dream but she knew that it had been real. She couldn’t tell anyone, of course; that would spoil the magic, and it was her secret that she would keep with her always.