The Fox Cub Bold (15 page)

‘I know all about parental care,’ Robber said. ‘I’ve helped to raise several broods in my lifetime. But you should have been more cautious, the pair of you. More haste, less speed. Now you’ve got to pause whether you like it or not, until you can walk again.’

‘It may be too late,’ Bold said pessimistically. ‘I don’t know if I can make a recovery this time.’

‘Nonsense!’ Robber croaked. ‘There’s warmer weather coming – I know it as sure as I know that night follows day. We’ll get you some food – good food – and you’ll soon mend.’

Bold sighed. ‘What a comfort a good friend can be,’ he said thankfully. ‘And, Robber, you are as good a friend as any creature could hope for.’

Robber cawed a rather more melodious couple of notes than he was wont to do. He was delighted to be held in such high esteem. Perhaps this was the magic of the Farthing Wood pledge at work on
him
, this strange willingness to help another animal in need?

‘I brought this – it’s not much,’ he said, pushing a small dark object towards Bold with his beak.

‘Carrion?’ inquired the fox.

‘No. Stolen goods,’ answered Robber. ‘What the cat didn’t want.’

Bold sniffed curiously at the item. It was certainly meat, but a meat he had never seen before. However, an empty stomach needs no second bidding to be filled, and down the morsel went.

‘You said something about
good
food?’ Bold hinted.

‘I did – and it’s as good as arranged,’ said the crow. ‘As you can’t move, I’m going to have to leave you here for a bit. I’ll be back as soon as I can. In the meantime, is there any way in which you can make yourself less conspicuous?’

‘Not without immediately turning the colour of my coat to white,’ Bold answered sarcastically.

Robber looked at him askance. ‘You’ve hit upon something there without intending it,’ he observed. ‘Why don’t you dig yourself more into the snow – you’d be difficult to spot except at close quarters?’

‘I could try, I suppose,’ Bold said without enthusiasm. ‘But I don’t want to freeze to death.’

‘Don’t be absurd, Bold,’ Robber answered. ‘There’s no danger in it greater than that of feeling some discomfort. Well – I’ll away.’

Bold was left alone again. For some time he didn’t move. Then he heard some human voices and took Robber’s advice to heart. He pawed at some of the firmer snow close to the ground until he had made a makeshift sort of tunnel under the slushy surface. This at least served to hide part of his body and gave him an added feeling of security. The voices disappeared and a hush returned to the countryside. Bold lay trying to ignore his misery, by listening to the beats of his own heart and telling himself that each one brought him close to the time when Whisper might return.

A sudden noise made his heart beat much faster. It sounded again – the noise of dogs following their quarry; excitable, savage and lusting for blood. It was horrible to listen to. For any wild creature it was terrifying. And Bold could not move. Instinctively, he flattened his body. He tried to make himself as small as possible, in the nature of all animals trying to avoid detection. He could see nothing, except what was immediately in front of him. A few moments later, a hare streaked across his line of vision – running, leaping, zigzagging this way and that as it tried to shake off its pursuers. Then two long, thin dogs raced past in the little animal’s wake, their pointed faces agape, and their tongues lolling between cruel, laughing fangs. Bold shuddered at their eager, frantic barks. Angry human shouts tried to call them back, but in vain. It seemed the hare should have been allowed to escape; yet now the dogs were deaf to everything but its certain death. And the ghastly race continued. The hare doubled back on its course, back past Bold in his fragile igloo, its springy, elastic bounds flagging by a fraction. Desperate to outrun each other the dogs had increased their speed, and came on with their gleaming, murderous eyes. A scream – thin, childlike but shattering, rent the countryside. The hare was caught – and torn – by those ferocious jaws.

Bold had never seen such fearsome beasts. He knew nothing of greyhounds. Dogs that seemed to be uncontrolled by their human masters threatened the safety of any animal – wild or otherwise. Despite his sufferings, Bold simply could not bear to stay still any longer. He crawled out from the snowy shelter, intent on one thing: to move somewhere, somehow, away from those dreadful dogs. He started to walk blindly; mechanically. Had he remained where he was he would have been safe. The owners of the greyhounds had almost reached them. But the dog who had been cheated of the kill by its faster rival now saw the chance of another victim, as it spied Bold’s halting movements in the distance. In a trice, it ducked the grasp of its frustrated master and launched itself on a fresh attack.

For a bird, and a large bird at that, the distance through the air from the point where he left Bold – back to the town, was modest. At their necessarily slow pace, the pair of foxes had really come no great way. So Robber was soon among human habitations again, and now he flew straight towards Bold’s other friend.

Rollo was napping, half in and half out of his kennel, when Robber descended and perched on the fence. He woke at once and sprang up. ‘Have you seen them? Have you seen them?’ he asked quickly.

‘Yes, yes, I’ve seen them,’ Robber replied. ‘At least – I’ve seen Bold. He’s in a bad way. He needs food.’

‘Of course he does,’ Rollo said. ‘Can’t find it out there in these conditions, can he?’ He went at once to his food bowl to remind himself if he had left anything from his previous meal. It was licked clean. ‘Hm. I can’t seem to help at the moment,’ he muttered with some embarrassment, ‘but tonight I –’

‘Tonight’s no good,’ Robber interrupted peremptorily. ‘How can I find him in the dark? Haven’t you
anything
left at all?’

‘Well, no, you see I wasn’t expecting –’

‘Obviously.’

‘Wait a bit, though. There might be a biscuit or two . . .’ Rollo put his great head in his kennel to look.

‘
Biscuits
? Robber echoed derogatorily. ‘That’s no use. He needs something nourishing. Of all the greedy . . .’ he started to mutter, then thought better of it. Luckily, Rollo didn’t hear.

‘I’ve found two,’ the mastiff said with great satisfaction, and carried out similar bone-shaped biscuits to those he had given his friends before.

‘What he wants is
meat
,’ Robber said irritably. ‘And Whisper too, of course,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Those won’t get him moving again!’

‘Moving?’ asked Rollo. ‘Can’t he move?’

‘He’s exhausted himself trying to travel in thick snow,’ Robber explained. ‘He hasn’t even any shelter.’

Rollo suddenly gave a tremendous bark. The crow nearly fell off the fence with alarm. ‘What’s that for?’ he screeched.

‘I’ve just remembered,’ said Rollo excitedly. ‘My master gave me a huge bone some time ago, but I’ve hardly touched it.’

‘Well, where is it then?’ demanded Robber.

‘I buried it – you know, to save for the future.’

‘Can you find it?’

‘Oh, yes, nothing easier,’ said Rollo. ‘Now, let me see, was it over here by the kennel or – no, I think I put it near the fence.’ He went over to one of the fence-posts and began to sniff. ‘Of course, I could find the spot at once if all this snow hadn’t covered up my signs,’ he told the bird. ‘But, don’t worry, I’ll soon have it up again.’

Robber was nearly expiring with impatience. ‘Can’t you be a bit quicker?’ he croaked. ‘We have to be back with him in the daylight.’

Rollo paused in his search and looked up. ‘
We
?’ he asked, his deep voice tremulous with excitement. ‘Am I to come too?’

‘Oh, really!’ cried Robber. ‘How do you think a bird could carry a bone selected for a great, stupid dog like you – in its claws?’

‘Of course, of course,’ the mastiff answered, ignoring the insult. He renewed his efforts. Slush and mud flew in every direction as he dug furiously for the treasure, spattering Robber liberally until the bird flew to a safer spot. Robber ‘cawed’ angrily and began to preen himself.

At last the bone was unearthed. Rollo gripped it in his huge jaws and ran over to the crow, dropping it at his feet. ‘There!’ he cried. ‘What do you think of that?’

Robber examined the mud-caked object with disapproval. ‘I don’t think anything of it,’ he announced. ‘You could hardly describe it as edible!’

‘Of course it’s edible,’ Rollo answered. ‘Why would I have saved it otherwise?’ He started to claw the worst of the mud off. ‘You see – there’s a lot of meat on it,’ he pointed out. ‘A lovely succulent bone!’ He barked once or twice – quite deafeningly – in his appreciation. Then he grasped the bone firmly once more and ran at the fence with a great leap. Dropping the bone briefly he cried: ‘Come on then! What are we waiting for?’

Robber flew down and tried to pick up the two large biscuits with his beak. After juggling unsuccessfully for a while, he abandoned one and flew off with the other without a word, leaving Rollo to follow his flight.

The mastiff’s powerful legs covered the ground in great bounds as he watched Robber’s direction through the air. Snow, slush, mud – none of these was a barrier to his progress. He ploughed through everything like a juggernaut. The crow flew as low as he dared and found perches along the way to enable the dog to keep him in sight. So they progressed on the trail of the foxes.

The sun was dropping imperceptibly as Robber heard the first sounds of the greyhounds. As he flew on he saw the field where they had been set to course the hare. He saw the men and he saw the hare’s desperate flight, and how it leapt right over the low hedge bordering the field and into open country. He saw the dogs push through the hedge after it, furious at the hare’s attempt to escape, and how the men failed to stop them. Then he saw the slope where he had left Bold earlier that day and, even as he looked for signs of his friend, he witnessed the hare’s inevitable demise. The men were out of the field now, trying to round up the hounds. One was taken; the other avoided capture and turned to race away. Robber saw what it was aiming for and opened his beak to screech an alarm, dropping the biscuit. He flew round in a circle, cawing frantically as he saw Rollo in the distance, still running gamely but much slower now after his long journey. The greyhound had lost none of its speed, and was closing on Bold rapidly. Robber realized that any help the mastiff might give would arrive too late. So, as on a previous occasion, he flew forward to see if he could divert the attack.

Bold had taken only a few limping steps when he heard the dog’s renewed clamour. He faced about hopelessly. But he was no hare. He gritted his teeth, preparing to fight. The greyhound’s advance was now impeded by the harassing tactics of Robber. The crow had flown right into the face of the fierce hound before flapping away, causing it to veer; then immediately repeating the manoeuvre. The greyhound’s greedy jaws snapped furiously but closed on air. Meanwhile Rollo approached.

At last the greyhound’s supple body succeeded in getting clear of the bird and the dog impelled itself towards its target. Bold lunged at the aggressor, caught a glancing blow, staggered, and fell. The greyhound swung round and bit deep into the fox’s neck-scruff. Bold yelped and tried to struggle free. But he was held fast. The fangs sank deeper into his flesh.

In the next few seconds Rollo joined the fray. The great bone he had so faithfully carried all the way was dropped and forgotten. With a mighty bellow of rage he hurled himself on the unsuspecting greyhound. The weight of his huge body drove all the breath from its lungs, so that it instantly released its grip on Bold. Then Rollo’s great jaws seized it by the neck and shook it as if it had been a ferret. The hound’s eyes glazed over and Rollo cast it away, leaving it for dead.

Bold lay still. Dark blood flowed from his wound and collected in his fur, dyeing it a deeper red. Rollo and Robber stood over him and watched his gasps with concern. But Bold, for once, was lucky. The greyhound’s teeth had only pierced the thick fold of skin at the base of his neck by which Vixen, his mother, had carried him when a cub. No real damage had been done. He recovered sufficiently to sit up. He looked at the black crow and the huge frame of the mastiff and murmured simply: ‘My friends.’

The men came up and, quite timidly, went to examine the motionless greyhound. They dared not approach Rollo, for he was more than a match for them. His presence loomed over the entire scene. One man bent to pick up the hound, then stumbled away, cradling it in his arms. He went, whispering to its limp form as it hung laxly, more dead than alive. His companion followed him, leading the other greyhound, now a morose and much subdued animal. The sun continued to sink down into the horizon.

Bold slowly bent his head and licked carefully at some snow. It seemed to revive him a little. Robber went off to look for the biscuit.

‘That really was . . . the nick of time,’ said Bold, referring to the mastiff’s entry into the mêlée. ‘But wait – I don’t know yet why you’re here, all the way from home.’