A Rustle in the Grass

by Robin Hawdon

  Several times, as they ran, they passed junctions with other trails branching off amongst the trees. Snake's Tongue never seemed to hesitate at such points and the other two blithely trusted his judgement, hoping that they were still on the right track. There was certainly no time to stop and debate the matter. All three ants could now quite clearly feel the tremor caused by the enemy party behind and the realization that they were being gained on gave added impetus to their flight.

  Snake's Tongue spoke for the first time, calling back over his shoulder, 'Can you tell how many there are, Dreamer?'

  'Six or seven, I think,' panted the other. 'And they're catching up fast.'

  'I'm done for, leader,' gasped Joker, from the middle. 'I can't keep up this pace much longer. You'll have to go on without me.'

  'Keep going,' commanded Snake's Tongue in a firm voice. 'When they get really close we'll split up. That will confuse them for a while. Then try and break your scent and find somewhere to hide. One of us must get through!'

  The canopy of branches above their heads, the tangle of undergrowth and grasses through which the trail wove its way, all merged into a single blur in Dreamer's mind as he ran on, his heart pounding, his muscles aching. In his imagination the sound of the enemy's feet seemed to grow to a thunder as menacing as that of the storm, and the evil scent of their poison already seemed to taint the wind. It appeared now that there was little chance of their reaching their own territory in time and he felt a despairing anguish that they should have got so far, only to fail in the final stages of their journey. He thought that perhaps he and Joker should turn and fight there and then on the path, which might at least give Snake's Tongue, the fastest of them, the chance to get away. He tried to convey this to Joker, but the words would not come: merely a hoarse, gasping stutter which was lost in their pounding footfalls. He kept glancing back over his shoulder as he ran, until finally he caught the sight he was dreading – a distant blur of bobbing reddish-brown far back up the trail behind them.

  This time he was able to get the words out. 'I can see them, leader,' he panted. 'They're in sight!'

  'Right,' called back Snake's Tongue. 'Split up when we've rounded the next bend. You two to that side, I'll go to this. Find some cover and climb if you can. Good luck.'

  Their chance came almost immediately. The trail took a curve round the big, grey root of a beech tree, and for a few precious moments they were out of sight of their pursuers. 'Now!' called Snake's Tongue and he was away, veering off the path into the unmarked wilderness at the side. Joker followed his example, crashing clumsily through the dead leaves and humus of the forest floor on the other side. Dreamer ran on a few more paces to clear Joker's trail and then left the path at that side also, plunging into unknown territory.

  The vegetation was thick and tangled here, new growths and shoots battling for space and light. It offered a great deal of cover but at the same time impeded progress considerably. As Dreamer ran, staggering and stumbling through the verdure, his heart pounding as if it would burst out of his body, he tried frantically to think of a way to use the ground to advantage over his pursuers. It occurred to him that to run blindly on, making such an amount of noise and leaving an obvious trail over the forest floor, was not the wisest tactic: the more powerful red ants would soon catch up with him. What was it Snake's Tongue had said? 'Break your scent and hide. Climb if you can.' Yes, that was it! Get up high, away from this jungle, to where one could be silent and use one's nimbleness and finer senses to advantage. But how to break the trail? How to make them lose his scent?

  Dreamer forced himself, despite his fear of the creatures at his back, to stop for a moment, listen and think. He could hear Joker careering through the undergrowth off to one side and prayed that he would do the same. Then, behind him, he heard a gabble of red ant voices, of hurried consultation, of commands being issued, and he guessed that the enemy had reached the point where they had split up. A few moments later, as expected, there came a new crashing in the vegetation and he knew that they had dispersed into separate groups to follow the three different trails.

  He scanned the air with his antennae, searching for a particular scent. Then he received a waft of what he was seeking, ahead of him and off to one side. He began to run again, this time more carefully, more discerningly, his senses alert to his surroundings. Yes, there it was – water! Clear running water, not the stagnant, earth-stained, after-rain variety. A tiny rivulet was meandering across the ground, draining a bank of moss at the foot of an old oak tree. It only ran a little way, scarcely out of the shadow of the oak itself, before sinking into oblivion beneath the soft earth, but it was enough for his purpose for in its final stages it reached the undergrowth beyond the tree's shade, and here the tangled stems of bramble, hawthorn and elder dipped into its shallow flow.

  Dreamer overcame the natural distaste that all ants have for wetness of any kind and splashed straight into the water near its source, ignoring the cold, unpleasant effect on his legs. It was so shallow that it only came halfway up his limbs, but that was enough to hide his scent for those vital few strides, and he waded down the tiny stream's length towards the sanctuary of the entwined tendrils. On reaching the spot he threaded his way between them, selected a thick bramble stem which reared out of the water and disappeared into the general tangle above his head. He began to climb, weaving his way round the sharp thorns which protruded at intervals from its surface.

  As he climbed higher into the thicket the sounds from the forest floor came more sharply into focus. He could hear the footfalls of the chasing ants – two, by the sound of it – quite clearly behind him. And some way off at a tangent was the noise of a further pursuit, presumably after Joker. The air was remarkably still after the storm and the sounds came in clear relief through the otherwise strangely silent forest. It was as if all other life was frozen, holding its breath to observe the outcome of this chase to the death. Sound, Dreamer realized, was the crucial factor in the contest. The air was too still for scent to carry far, but for the same reason every tiny noise was clearly audible through the echoing arches of the woodland. He climbed with greater stealth than ever, crossing to different stems whenever they came within reach in order to confuse his scent trail; listening all the while to the approaching footfalls.

  The bramble was now heavily entwined with the stiff, straighter stems of an elder bush, whose pungent odour filled the air, and Dreamer transferred to one of these, partly to disguise his scent further, and partly because its larger, sprouting leaves would provide better cover.

  The sounds behind and beneath him grew louder and more immediate, and he slipped on to the broad, curling surface of one of the leaves and crouched there motionless, trying to still his thumping heart, peering down over the edge at the scene below.

  He did not have long to wait. Within moments the figures of two red soldiers came into view, partially glimpsed through the intervening screen of vegetation. He did not recognize either of them, but they were big, powerful beasts who did not seem much incapacitated by the rigours of the chase and they were following his trail at speed, if a little uncertainly. When they came to the tiny stream into which he had digressed, they ran backwards and forwards beside it, having lost his scent. Then they held a muttered conversation together which Dreamer was unable to hear, being too far above them. One of them waved his antennae in the direction of the water's flow and they parted, each taking one side of the rivulet, and began to move down its length towards him, seeking for his scent.

  Dreamer held his breath in an agony of suspense as the soldiers approached, scanning the ground and the stems of vegetation for the telltale spoor. He intermittently lost sight of one or other of them through the leaves and stalks between, but always they reappeared, coming nearer and nearer to the spot where he had climbed from the water. Was their sense of smell good enough, he wondered, to be able to track him up through that maze of interwoven growth?

  He began to look about above him for further wa
ys of escape in case they should pick up his scent. The tangle of elder and briar spread itself above in an ever-widening canopy. It seemed to offer plenty of scope for further progress, but the danger was that the higher he climbed the more likely he was to find himself trapped on a final stem that led nowhere but to the empty air. He turned his gaze back down below again, willing the two enemy ants to move on past the vital spot.

  So intent was he on what was happening directly beneath him that he did not notice the sounds of a separate activity until the soldiers themselves halted in their search and turned their heads and feelers towards the distraction. Then he too became aware of the noise of something approaching from that direction and turned to identify it. The sound of running feet and crashing undergrowth told its own tale and in a few moments he caught a glimpse of scurrying bodies through the leaves. With a surge of horror he realized that it was Joker who was approaching, the figures of two more red soldiers close on his heels.

  The next few moments were a nightmare which was to haunt Dreamer for the rest of his life. He would awake from future dreams of the event with Joker's name a strangled gasp at the back of his throat, and then, such was the unreality of the occurrence in his mind, he would sigh with relief, thinking it only a dream, a product of his imagination – until memory returned, clutching his heart with the icy hand of truth.

  Joker blundered on, staggering and gasping, blindly unaware that he was approaching Dreamer's hiding place. The latter tried to shout – to warn him, to cause a distraction – but no sound would come. The two red ants immediately beneath him crouched low and slipped stealthily towards the oncoming prey. They did not have to move far for Joker was moving on a line which would take him very close to where they were. In his blind desperation to escape from the ants at his rear he saw no sign of the others until he was almost upon them. Then, simultaneously they both leapt out in his path. Joker swerved wildly away to one side but it was too late. The bigger, faster ants were up with him in a few strides and pounced. He went down in a flurry of kicking, flailing limbs, his sting lunging wildly from side to side. One of the red ants staggered away momentarily, having received a stab in his side, but the second held on ferociously with claws and mandibles until the other two ran up and then all four set upon their unfortunate quarry.

  It can only have taken a few moments to finish the business, but to the watching Dreamer, crouched in impotent paralysis on his elder leaf, it seemed an eternity. He could see Joker, buried under a mass of red-brown limbs and bodies, fighting and squirming like a creature possessed. Time and again one of his assailants had to leap clear of his lashing sting, but only to return with another snap of those powerful mandibles. The red ants did not appear to be using their own jets of poison – preferring to rely on their sheer superiority of force – and certainly there was no need for it. Joker's valiant struggles grew weaker and weaker as the big insects simply hung on, wearing him down through their solid combined weight.

  Then Dreamer saw one of them shift his grip and get a purchase with his jaws on the vital join between head and thorax and he knew that it was the end. Joker's efforts diminished to a feeble twitching, his head bent back to an unnatural angle, and then he gave a convulsive heave and lay still. The red soldiers relinquished their hold and stood back, contemplating the twisted body. Then two of them took hold of it again, one at each end, and together, dragging the corpse unceremoniously between them, all four set off back towards the trail.

  Dreamer did not move for a long, long moment. The fact that his own pursuers seemed to have abandoned the chase, that the danger to himself had suddenly evaporated, did not occur to him for some time. All he was aware of was a huge, numbing ball of grief, crushing his soul, weighing down his heart. Joker was gone. The warm, trustworthy, irrepressible Joker, who had become the only real friend he had ever had in the world, was no more. And actually to have witnessed his terrible death without being able to do anything to help was an experience which changed Dreamer for ever. Henceforth he was an infinitely more cynical, more hardened being, who knew never to take anything the world had to offer on trust. He knew now that he had no sway over anything but his own will – that destiny was an uncompromising master who had no truck with sentiment or mercy, respecting only logic and power and who bowed down only before the irresistible force of pragmatism. He cursed the Lord of the Stars for his ruthlessness; and deep down perhaps even began to doubt, for the first time, his very existence.

  Finally he turned and, for the moment uncaring of his own safety, made his way openly along the elder stem, concerned only with the engulfing sense of sadness he carried with him. He did not retrace his steps – he could not bear to go near the awful place where his companion had died – but moved blindly on up the stem into the unknown tangle of greenery above his head. The elder bush grew side by side with a thick covert of hawthorn and their upper branches were heavily intertwined. He crossed easily to the thorny branches of the latter tree and made his way steadily above the ground, across the hawthorn, through a tangle of crawling bryony and eventually back to the earth again down a trailing spur of bindweed. The sun was high in the heavens as he set off over the ground, away from the place of death, away from the trail and the enemy ants, towards he knew not what.

  But the day had not yet yielded up its full quota of drama for Dreamer. He travelled on for some time across the forest floor, making slow progress as there was now no trail to ease his path and neither mind nor body could be induced to strive for speed. The sun had moved some way across the sky and the woodland had to a great extent yielded up the excess moisture from the storm to the warm south breeze which had whispered in almost unnoticed. Dreamer, as he went, became almost subconsciously aware of a familiar sound filtering through from ahead. As he emerged from the shelter of a large patch of ground ivy the noise increased in volume and he stopped, consciously hearing it now, his antennae stretched in its direction. The scent of fresh water came to him and confirmed his eager suspicions. A stream!

  He ran forward, hope once more blossoming inside. Through a patch of rye-grass overgrown with briar, across a bank of moss beneath a young aspen tree, and suddenly he was out under the open sky, familiar river-bank grasses were all around and the sound of running water was sweet music in the air. He plunged eagerly through the grass and came to a stop on the crest of a bank, looking down over the swirling waters. It was a wonderful sight to eyes grown so used to the gaunt shapes and shadows of the forest and he was suddenly filled with a longing for his own bank, and stream, and clearing, which he had kept held down inside him throughout the trials and uncertainties of the mission, but which now engulfed him in a flood of emotion and homesickness.

  There was no way that he could tell whether this was the same stream that flowed past his own home. The spot he was at now was certainly unfamiliar, though the stream itself was roughly the same width as his own. Its waters, however, were swollen and turbulent after the storm and the way they clutched at the bankside vegetation, dragging the ends of grasses and reeds down towards their muddy depths, indicated how much higher they were than usual; and there was a considerable amount of flotsam riding downstream upon them: twigs, leaves, stems of vegetation and the occasional larger, storm-torn branch.

  He turned downstream and headed along the bank, searching for some clue as to where the stream might lead and whether its terrain was friendly or hostile to such as himself. And it was now that he so nearly blundered into another of Nature's fatal traps.

  He was vaguely aware of a low hillock ahead of him at the edge of the bank, but he was too concerned with the sights and scents of the water's edge itself to pay much attention. The breeze was blowing roughly in the same direction as the stream's flow, so he received no scent from that direction and assumed the irregular-shaped mound to be that of a stone or possibly an exposed tree root. Then, as he approached, something about the hump's unusual shape and colour made him stop. He peered at it curiously. He suddenly became aware that what he
had taken for a natural protuberance on its surface – a lump, or a knot of wood perhaps – was actually a huge raised eyeball, which was staring at him, unblinking, unmoving. He froze, paralysed with terror.

  Dreamer had never seen a toad before. But he had heard stories of these huge creatures with their insatiable appetites for all forms of insect life. He had been taught how they waited, still as death, merging in with their surrounding habitat, until some unfortunate mite came within reach; how they hypnotized their victims with that terrifying stare; and how their principal weapon – an immensely long, glutinous-surfaced tongue – could flick out faster than the mind could think and vanish inside that cavernous mouth again with the prey helplessly attached, before even a muscle could twitch in defence. The accounts had been so nightmarish that the beast had acquired an almost mythical status in his mind, as if it were the product of imagination and legend, not real at all; and yet here it was, confronting him with that unblinking stare, in all its vast, squat grossness just as it had always been described.

  The moment seemed to last for an eternity, insect confronting amphibian in an expectant, frozen tableau. Then gradually Dreamer's petrified brain began to work again. He realized that he was still some distance from the creature, perhaps half a dozen ant-lengths, and probably just out of reach of the deadly tongue, which was why it had not yet struck. From all the accounts he had heard he could not have been far out of range and possibly another two paces would have meant the end for him. As it was it seemed he had a moment's grace. He thought frantically. He was not sure how fast the beast could move its huge body, but he knew that it could easily cover the distance between them with one leap. It was presumably waiting to see what he was going to do first.

  He scanned his surroundings while keeping his head and feet motionless. To move back or sideways towards the trees offered little chance of escape; the creature would cover the grass far faster than he could traverse it. His only hope lay to the other side, where the stream bank fell away directly beneath him. He had no idea how to utilize this feature, for he had never before risked approaching really close to deep running water – and, moreover, he knew that the bank was the toad's natural habitat – but his instinct told him that he stood a better chance in that direction.