The Second Wave (4 page)

Crag’s voice, lacking, for the first time that Chip could recall, that tone of total authority, said, ‘When it has been quiet for a while, we will go out and see why the Sun has tested us this way.  But this is the Mainland and we must pray for guidance.’  He turned to Chip.  ‘Then we must seek a worthy squirrel as your mate.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Blood, a pine marten, was moving about in the darkness of his cage, fretting at the confinement and the stench in the dilapidated stable building near the isolated cottage on Middlebere Heath.  He was forced to share this dark space with other animals who bore a semblance to him in shape, though some were of a much smaller size.

A mature pine marten, or ‘sweetmart’, to give him the Old English name, should be out amongst the trees in the forest, not shut up here, he was thinking.

From the cage below him another wave of noxious scent rose from the pair of ‘foulmarts’, or polecats as they were more commonly called.  He retched and tried again to find a way out.

The weasels and stoats were also moving about in their cages, equally uneasy – they had their own dreams of freedom and of a destiny dictated by their wits, instincts and survival ability.

Only the ferrets, born into captivity, were sleeping when the black door of the old stable was quietly opened.  The human scent that blew in was not that of their gaoler, and the animals crouched, their hearts beating fast with anticipation.  Two hooded humans entered, one, a male, carrying a set of bolt-cutters.  The other, a female, stood watching at the door and shining the light from a tiny pencil-torch to guide her companion as he pulled out the pins or cut the padlocks securing the doors on each of the cages.  Then, one by one, the cage doors were opened to allow the animals to leave.  All, fearing these unknown humans, huddled in the back of their boxes until one of the ferrets, now awake and alert, ventured out on to the cobbled floor, saw an inviting trouser leg and, remembering the titbits that his human ‘master’ had given him when they performed their joint party-trick, climbed up the leg inside.  The ferret was not unduly put out to find that this human was not wearing the usual two pairs of trousers.  He dug his claws in and scrambled up.  The leg shook violently.

The man swore.

‘Quiet!’ hissed the human female.

‘There’s something climbing my leg.  God, it’s inside!  Here, where’s the light?’

‘Quiet!’

‘There’s something in my trousers, I tell you.  Oh my God! Shine that damn torch over here.’

The man was attempting to take off his trousers whilst standing up, with his shoes still on his feet.  The girl was flashing the light in his direction and trying desperately not to laugh.

In the confusion the pine marten, Blood, saw his chance and slipped away, out of the stable and into the fresh air outside.  As he did so, the cottage door burst open, a human figure ran out and was momentarily silhouetted against the light behind.  Blood saw that the man was holding a stick that was thicker at one end then the other, but knew that he was safe.  He ran past the black hen-house, in which the disturbed chickens clucked fretfully, and into the night.

In the cool darkness here was the scent of resin and pine-bark.  Blood padded on, heading northwards towards the long ridge of Arne, pausing now and then to sniff and to listen.  He climbed the first tree to loom up ahead of him and lay on a branch, savouring his freedom.

When it was light enough, he looked about him.  He was hungry and, more than anything else, he wanted
warm
flesh and blood, not the cold rabbits and dead chicken carcasses that had been his fare since his capture so far away in his northern homeland.  He moved along the pine branch and leapt effortlessly into the next tree, then went on across the wood, pausing frequently to test the air and watch below him for possible food.  An autumn-fat squirrel would be ideal, he thought, but there was not the slightest trace of squirrel-scent in the air or on the branches.  He jumped from a pine into an oak tree.

A blackbird was rustling the leaf-litter below the oak and he stalked down the trunk, then pounced, catching the unwary bird whilst its beak and eyes were under the leaves.  The pine marten scampered back up the tree, the limp bird in his mouth, enjoying the satisfying salty taste of warm blood.  A trail of soft black feathers floated away on the morning air behind him.

Freedom and life for him, terror and death for others.

Blood-dread had arrived!

CHAPTER SIX

Across the water of Poole Harbour, on the Island of Brownsea, enough red squirrels to satisfy even Blood’s wildest dreams were planning to celebrate their Harvest. This island, known to the squirrels as Ourland, was an overgrown animal paradise of some five hundred acres of trees, heath and neglected fields, surrounded by a narrow beach.

Since the abdication of the last of the Royal squirrels, the indigenous island community and the refugees from the Blue Pool Demesne had been integrating well.  The islanders had adopted most of the refugees’ customs and traditions, and many of them had accepted Tags awarded by Clover, who combined her Caring vocation with that of Tagger.

The ex-zervantz, now as free as any squirrels anywhere, were learning to live with the concept that they could make choices, and were getting used to the heady feeling of carrying their tails high and not always having to hold them in the submissive position.

Like the ex-Royals, the ex-zervantz still spoke with the ‘z’ dialect, but all were attending the sessions held to teach them the ancient Kernels of Truth which were replacing the discredited Royal Law.

Most of them had adopted new names, the males from trees and the females from flowers, but a few of the older ex-zervantz clung to their creepy-crawly names, amongst them Beetle, Bug and Caterpillar.  These three old zervantz were the ones who had found it hardest to accept the changes, even though they enjoyed no longer being at the beck and call of each and any of the Royals. 
That way
had always been their life, however, and whilst they had grumbled and complained about their treatment then, they now had difficulties making their own decisions and sometimes hankered for the ‘Old Days.’

Much had changed for them, but Bug, Beetle and Caterpillar had maintained their ‘Zecret in the Zwamp’.

Every autumn that they could remember they had slipped away from Royal duties and built a great mound of wet, dead leaves. In this steaming mass they had buried pawfuls of ripe sloes and left them there to ferment.  During the following winter just eating one of these ruddled fruits was enough to make them forget all their troubles and cares, at least until the next morning, when they usually wished that they had left the sloes buried in the leaf-pile still.

On this autumn day, Oak the Curious, now Leader of the united Ourlanders, was at the Council Tree in Beech Valley near the centre of the island, talking to Fern the Fussy, his life-mate, and Clover the Tagger.

‘We must have a Sun-day soon, to thank the Sun for allowing us to get the Harvest in.  I think we’ve stored more reserves than ever this year,’ he said.

‘I don’t recall ever seeing so much food, and it is a beautiful island.  The Sun certainly smiled on us when he guided us here,’ said Clover.

Fern looked to the west.  ‘I wonder how Marguerite and the others have fared this autumn?  At least we know that they’re safe.’

Oak followed her gaze.  ‘I wonder if we will ever see our grand-dreylings.  I suppose not.  They could never find a way to come here.  Remember all the luck we had on
our
journey?’

‘I like it on Ourland – it’s so peaceful and safe, and food is so plentiful – but I
do
miss the Blue Pool.  Couldn’t we go to them?’ asked Fern.

Tansy the Wistful had just arrived and overheard the latter part of the conversation.  ‘I’d find a way,’ she said confidently.

Clover smiled.  Tansy had spent so much time looking out to sea after Marguerite and her party had been forced to leave that she had earned her Wistful tag.

‘How would you get across the water?’ she asked.

‘I’d find a way,’ Tansy said again.

On the other side of the harbour Blood wandered along the shore, frustrated at the sight of the fat ducks who had just flown low over his head and landed in the shallows, and were paddling about out of his reach.  Their scent wafted towards him on the easterly breeze, making his mouth water.  He was quite ready to swim out to them, but knew that it would be a wasted effort as the ducks would be up and away long before he could reach them.

Then, faint but unmistakable, mixed in with the scent of the ducks, was
squirrel-scent.
  He stood up on his hind legs and tested it.  Definitely squirrels – red squirrels.  He sniffed again, then moved along the beach until he was clear of the duck-scent.  Undoubtedly red squirrels, male
and
female, but a long way off, and over the water.  Blood romped along the shore, looking for a way to cross the channel, then, realising that there was no landbridge, he slipped into the sea and swam across to the first of the islands.

There was no squirrel-scent here on Long Island and the breeze had dropped, so he spent the rest of the day quartering the island out of sheer curiosity, and searched along the shore until he found an injured seagull, unable to fly.  He killed the weak bird easily, ate until he was full, glanced at the angle of the setting sun and decided that the squirrels would still be wherever they were tomorrow.  He slept comfortably in a patch of reeds till dawn.

The morning breeze from the east carried the faint but tantalising scent, but the next land that Blood could see in that direction was a long way off.

He went to the south end of the island and swam across the channel back to the Mainland, and waded ashore through the mud and rushes on a projecting point.

Time no longer mattered, discomfort was irrelevant, a swim was nothing – the squirrel-lust was on him.  It took three days for him to reach Brownsea (by way of Green Island and Furzey Island), where, as he scrambled ashore, the air was thick with the scent of delicious squirrels.  He padded up the bank behind the beach, through a stand of pine trees and on to a level grassy area, ignoring the rabbits which just looked up from their nibbling as he passed, showing no fear.  Blood crossed an overgrown meadow and entered a wood, climbing into the trees to avoid the dense rhododendron bushes that covered the ground and moving upwind all the time.

It was in the swamp that he found a squirrel, asleep on the ground close to a pile of steaming leaves.  In killing and eating it he both satisfied and inflamed the squirrel-lust burning inside him.

This place, he thought, is a sweetmart’s dream.  He searched for and found a perfect hiding place in a large, disused Man-cave, around which brambles and ivy grew, covering much of the stonework.  After entering the arched entrance where the sun-bleached, wooden door stood ajar, he picked his way over the droppings from the huge and unknown birds he had seen outside, who clearly slept perched on the backs of the mouldering pews.  At one end of the great cave he found a hanging rope, and climbed up it into the tower of St Mary’s Church, Brownsea, there to sleep and dream of squirrels, and yet more squirrels.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Sun-day at the Blue Pool was nearly over.  Well into autumn, the daily flood of human Visitors had ceased, and the squirrels had enjoyed a day of feasting, chasing and hiding.  There has been a great deal of squirrelation, and now tired and happy animals were making their way to the Council Tree to hear Dandelion tell one of the stories of Acorn, the first squirrel in the world.  Squirrel-mates sat together and unmated youngsters sat with their friends, giggling and jostling for the best positions.

It was here that the Portland squirrels found them, following the scent and the unfamiliar sounds of enjoyment that had drifted downwind towards the barn that afternoon.

Crag, Rusty and Chip had waited in the boat for an hour before cautiously emerging from their hiding place and dropping over the side on to the barn floor.  Wriggling under the huge black wooden doors, they had blinked at the light, then clambered up the stone wall to where they felt safer, on the roof.

From there Chip had looked about him ecstatically.  All around him were trees, trees of every size and shape – their colours ranged from a light green to a bright red, and the leaves had the strangest variety of patterns.  The Mainland scents had made his head reel. The salty sea-smell of the Portland air was gone, and in its place was an atmosphere of moist leaves, resin and autumn fungus, underlaid by the warm hay-smell from bales stacked at one end of the barn beneath them.  His nostrils had been assailed from every side and he had sniffed in pleasure and wonderment.  Rusty was doing the same, though Crag was more soberly scenting around and analysing odours.

‘There’s a group of squirrels upwind,’ he had said, ‘probably a mile away.  We’ll go there and maybe make contact.  There might be a worthy mate for you among them.’