The Golden Flight (8 page)

‘I think the roots are getting smaller again,’ Bluebell said. ‘We must have passed under the tree.’

They circled round and round in various tunnels until they were sure that they were at the most likely place. Meadowsweet reached up and scratched at the roof. A shower of dry soil and powdered wood enveloped her.

‘This is it,’ she said. ‘We’ll leave a marker here and get the others.’

They laid out the shape of one of Marguerite’s
s on the ground with the last of the wood they had carried with them, and followed the glowing fragments back to the entrance. The other three had already returned with food which they shared out and ate. Each squirrel then took a piece of shining wood and followed the markers to where the
 indicated the centre of the tree trunk above them. Meadowsweet reached up and scrabbled some of the punkwood down into the tunnel. The fine dry dust enveloped them and they coughed as it filled their throats and lungs. It was dry and bitter on their tongues.

Taking it in turns, they pulled more and more of the powdery punkwood down into the tunnel, the others pushing and carrying it away into side passages.

‘If the rabbits ever come back, they won’t be very pleased,’ Bluebell said.

‘Never mind the rabbits, it’s Rowan and Spindle who are important today. Keep digging,’ Meadowsweet told her.

The squirrels were covered in fine dust and particles of the incandescent wood. They all glowed as they dug upwards, the glowing particles giving off just enough light to see by.

Meadowsweet looked up to where she imaged the Sun to be and breathed a heartfelt ‘Thank you’, totally unaware that the sun was on the other side of the world and it was now completely dark outside.

Above them Rowan shook Spindle awake.

‘I’m going to see if the guards are still there,’ he whispered.

‘Yes, but be careful,’ Spindle responded, needlessly.

Rowan had looked out once during the day, only to have had his face savagely slashed by a grey paw.

He climbed up from the soft punkwood floor and reached a tentative paw out of the hole. It touched fur, and teeth nipped it hard. Rowan withdrew his paw, trying not to cry out. He dropped back down to the bottom of the hollow and licked away the blood. It was salty on his tongue and he felt thirsty.

Spindle was scratching in the darkness.

‘Do yew think uz could tunnel out? Uz don’t remember a hole lower down in thiz tree but anything iz better than zitting here doing nothing.’

‘There isn’t another hole. I know this tree well,’ Rowan replied, then regretted saying it. Here was an ex-zervant showing initiative and he, Rowan the so-called Bold, was pouring cold water on the idea.

‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘anything’s better than just sitting here. There may be a hole we don’t know about.’ He started to dig.

At first it was easy. Under the top layer of finely powdered wood was a layer of empty hazel-nut shells and a few dry leaves which crackled as they moved them.

‘Quiet, hissed Rowan. ‘We don’t want to alert the guards.

As the hole they were digging got deeper, their challenge was how to dispose of the debris. They piled it around the sides of the chamber but soon the debris started to trickle down on them and they had to lift it out again. Eventually a pile of fine powder poured down on to Spindle and buried him. He wriggled up, coughing and spluttering. Then all the stacked punkwood slid down into the hole and filled it. Rowan and Spindle climbed up to the inside of the entrance hole and hung there precariously, hoping to find clearer air.

‘What are you two doing?’ a gruff voice called from outside.

Below them, the females were making better progress, gravity being on their side. There were frequent cascades of powdered wood, mixed with the scales and dried remains of insects and the occasional leaf or nut-shell. The glow from the particles of rotten wood on their fur allowed them to see what they were doing and avoid the worst of the dust-falls. Even so they were tiring and the rate at which they were moving the rubbish away was slowing noticeably.

Then with a whoosh of sound, a huge mass of punkwood fell, covering those working below, and pitching a bewildered Rowan and Spindle down on to the wriggling bodies of the five females who were struggling to free themselves.

A rush of cool air passed them, drawn up the tree as if it were a chimney. A stream of fine powder poured out of the hole past the guards.

‘What’s going on in there?’ a voice from outside called huskily and the squirrels below tried not to cough.

‘Which way is out?’ Rowan asked the glowing figure of his life-mate as they embraced.

Hearing no sound from within the tree for at least a minute, one of the guards cautiously pushed his head into the hole, even darker inside than the night around him. He withdrew it rapidly, his eyes full of dust. The other guard, who had gone round the tree to see if he could find out what had made that odd whooshing noise, rubbed his eyes as he saw what appeared to be a line of glowing squirrel-shapes materialise from nowhere in the darkness below him, then scurry towards the pine trees. He watched them fade away between the trunks before returning to his companion.

‘Did you see anything?’ he was asked.

‘No,’ he replied, his voice high and a little shaky. ‘Nothing at all.’

An owl hooted derisively and the squirrel shivered.

CHAPTER TEN

‘Do any of you have anything to say before we consider a tag change?’

Clover the Tagger looked at the three youngsters on the branch before her, then at the assembled squirrels of the Council. There were many gaps. Apologies had been sent by squirrels busy on various projects. Larch had sent a message saying he was at a critical stage on his carving. The ex-princesses, Voxglove and Cowzlip the Carers, had responded by saying that they were building a special drey where sick squirrels could be treated and that ex-prince Fir was helping them that day by testing different plants for healing properties.

Heather Treetops had just sent word to say that she and Chestnut were ‘unavailable’. But there was a sprinkling of ex-zervantz, though again no Caterpillar. Marguerite was there with Chip, as were Just Poplar and Alder, but very few of that year’s new generation were present, although they were entitled and even encouraged to attend.

The three youngsters had been found, ruddled and helpless, at the leaf pile and when sober, had been summoned to appear before the Council.

One of the offenders, Sycamore, sat up, tail high.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I  have. There’s nothing for us to do on this Sun-damned island. We just get bored. It was all right for you lot, you could go on climbabout when you lived on the Mainland. We can’t. It must have been exciting when the pine marten was here. Nothing like that happens here now. It’s all so dull. That’s all.’

Clover looked at Marguerite then back at the youngsters.

‘Does anyone else have anything to say?’

The other young squirrels shook their heads, so she sent the three out of ear-twitch and looked around at those who had attended, most clearly taken aback by the lack of respect shown.

‘Do we have any choice but to tag them ‘Ruddled’?’ she asked.

‘Perhaps Sycamore should be ‘the Ruddled and Disrespectful’,’ Marguerite suggested.

‘Where have
you
been?’ Clover replied sharply. ‘Most of them are like that, I really don’t know what to do. It’ll just have to be ‘the Ruddled’ and we must hope they will grow out of it.

The three were called back and told that each would have to bear the low-tag ‘the Ruddled’. They turned to leave, led by Sycamore, their tails high.

‘Wait,’ said Clover the Tagger. ‘You have been down-tagged, lower your tails. You are in disgrace.’

‘What about him then?’ asked Sycamore, pointing to Chip. ‘He’s supposed to be Chip the Ruddled, but he goes around with Miss Hoity-Toity, his tail as high as ever.’

Without waiting for an answer, Sycamore dropped to the ground and sauntered off.

Marguerite looked around to see who Miss Hoity-Toity was, then realised with horror that Sycamore had been referring to her. Was that what they called her behind her back? She looked at Just Poplar but he was engrossed in conversation with Alder, and Clover was on her way to join them. Chip had slipped away unnoticed. Feeling angry and left out, she went quickly down the tree trunk alone.

Another group of dreylings where playing at The Wall as she passed, and she realised with a shock that Sycamore the Ruddled had been among those she had watched here, earlier in the year. These playing the game now were youngsters from Second Litters. Were these dear little ones going to grow up loutish, like the three at the Council Meeting? Would
they
think of her as Miss Hoity-Toity? She heard the chant coming from behind her.

‘I honour birch-bark

The island screen. Flies stinging…’

The Island’s Queen
… She corrected mentally then turned and went to seek the Ex-Kingz Mate. Marguerite was sure that the old Royal knew something that she might be persuaded to tell.

Ex Kingz-Mate Thizle was not on her branch in the sunshine when she arrived at her drey so Marguerite said the Calling Kernel–

‘Hello and greetings

I visit you and bring peace.

Emerge or I leave.’

She waited, ready to go if there was no response.

‘Marguerite,’ called a feeble voice from within the drey. ‘Come yew in, pleaze. Uz’z glad to zee yew.’

Marguerite wriggled in through the entrance and found the old squirrel inside, very feeble and weak.

‘Thank the Zun yew came.’ Thizle said, struggling to pronounce the words. ‘Uz’ll be Zun-gone zoon and ther’z zumthing uz muzd tell yew.’

Marguerite propped her up and tried to make her comfortable. ‘Yes,’ she said, I’m listening. What is it?’

‘Woodlouz knowz…’ The old squirrel stopped and Marguerite repeated her words.

‘Woodlouz knows…’

‘How the muzhroomz of the moon…’

Marguerite repeated this, ‘How the mushrooms of the moon…’

There was a long pause, Thizle breathing with difficulty. Marguerite waited.

‘Controlz the breeding.’ The words were very faint and indistinct.

‘Controls the bleeding?’ Marguerite queried.

‘No, no! Controlz…’

Thizle’s head fell back against Marguerite’s shoulder and the old Ex-Kingz-Mate drew a last rattling breath and slumped down on the mossy lining of her drey.

Marguerite put a paw on Thizle’s thin chest. It was still.

She laid the body out straight and went to tell the others and to get help to carry the body down to the ground for burial. The loss of her friend and confidante left her feeling as though a piece had been painfully bitten out of her own chest.

‘Woodlouz knows how the mushrooms of the moon controls the bleeding.’ Marguerite repeated the message again and again as she went. Was that what Thizle had said? It was almost as confusing as Wally’s prophecy about honouring birch-bark.

Woodlouse was the original name the Royals had given to her friend Wood Anemone, one of the zervants who was now on the Mainland with Rowan. What did
she
know about the Moon Mushrooms, whatever these were?  And how did they control bleeding? Why had old Thizle suddenly thought it important to tell her about them as she was dying?

Marguerite had reached the Council Tree.

‘Clover, Old Thizle is Sun-gone. I’ve just come from her drey.’

Thizle was buried at the foot of her drey-tree and most of the island squirrels were present. One of the ex-zervants had brought along a small feather from a peacock’s tail, with a gleaming eye in the fan, similar to the feather once carried so proudly by Thizle in the days when she was Kingz-Mate.

Thizle’s son, Just Poplar, took the feather and laid it alongside the body of his mother before saying the Farewell Kernel –

‘Sun, take this squirrel

Into the peace of your earth