Battle for the Park

by Colin Dann

  The foxes, Badger, Weasel, Tawny Owl and Whistler tried desperately to keep them out of their own little enclave. But there was a limit to the number they could consume, any of them, including Owl’s progeny, and they simply couldn’t hold back the flood. When they saw the Hollow, their exclusive meeting place, become a nest for a party of rats, it was time to take more drastic action.

  ‘It’s war,’ Weasel said bluntly. ‘We shall have to fight to keep what’s ours.’

  Adder queried, ‘Don’t you mean “win back”, Weasel? We’ve already lost the area.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ said Fox. The friends had gathered by his earth now that they had no specific place for a rendezvous. ‘We still have our individual homes.’

  ‘Just let them try entering my set,’ Badger growled. ‘They’ll turn themselves into my larder if they do. But I’m worried about Mole. Could he defend himself?’

  ‘Has anyone seen Mossy?’ Fox whispered to the others.

  Nobody had. ‘I think a mole’s best defence is his network of tunnels,’ Fox said. ‘If he stays deep underground he won’t clash with rats.’

  ‘We can’t leave that to chance,’ Badger argued. ‘I shall have to go and see if Mole’s all right, just to put my mind at rest.’

  ‘How will you do that, Badger?’ asked Leveret. ‘If Mole’s gone down deep how will he know you’re looking for him?’

  ‘Oh – um – we have a sort of signal . . . a particular call,’ Badger informed him. He was making it all up. He didn’t like to admit that Leveret had found a weak point.

  ‘Look,’ said Weasel impatiently, ‘when are we going to teach these rats a lesson? We should drive them out of the Hollow for a start.’

  ‘We’ll begin tonight,’ Fox said quietly. ‘We’ll round up every friend and relative we have. Then we’ll descend on the rats in the dead of night. There won’t be one left alive in this part of the Reserve if I have anything to do with it.’

  ‘Bravo!’ cried Weasel. ‘I was beginning to wonder if we’d gone soft, but no! That’s our Fox talking!’

  Adder’s red eyes glittered as he studied the resolute faces of the old companions. ‘Just like old times,’ he drawled.

  10

  Toad the Brave

  There were many descendants of the Farthing Wood animals spread around White Deer Park. But those who had chosen to make their homes in the corner adopted by the original band of travellers now swelled the ranks of the fighting force led by Fox. Friendly and Charmer, son and daughter of Fox and Vixen, were chief amongst these. The animals moved towards the Hollow, silent and intent on their purpose. Any rat that crossed their path as they progressed was instantly felled. In this way sixteen had been killed even before they had reached their first objective. Tawny Owl meanwhile hunted tirelessly through the home woods, sparing no intruder. Holly guarded the chicks from raiders. Only the previous night a rat had been killed at the foot of the nesting tree. The owls too were fighting to defend their own.

  In the Hollow the rats who had settled there sensed danger. The body scents of a large group of hunting mammals drifted across to them on the night air. They scurried into their runs and burrows and cowered there, hearing nothing and seeing only the quivering whiskers of a neighbour. The Farthing Wood band’s silence was awesome. Not a sound escaped the muzzles of the animals, and their feet trod warily to avoid giving the alarm. Fox led them into the Hollow. He knew where the rats’ nests were. He began to dig with his front paws. Vixen helped him. Badger, grunting with effort, used his powerful claws to unearth the rodents, and the rats shot out of their holes, flying in all directions. The foxes pounced. Weasel snapped. Badger snarled. Twelve rats were killed, though even more escaped. The animals, however, were pleased with their work.

  ‘The Hollow’s ours again,’ said Vixen.

  ‘Yes, and it’ll stay so now,’ Fox vowed. ‘We’ll see to that. But this is only the start,’ he said, turning to his companions. ‘We’ll hound those rats and harry them and chase them and, if necessary, slaughter them wherever they are. All of us together. They’ll find they can’t have their own way while we’re around. Come on, my friends. Let’s sweep them away!’

  While Fox’s band concentrated on clearing their favourite woodland area, another of the Farthing Wood animals was trying to defend a different part of the Reserve from the invaders. At the Pond Toad had watched with horror as a mass of rats swarmed into the neighbourhood, led by a particularly bold and burly animal. These creatures seemed bent on creating havoc. They plunged into the water and struck out for the little islet in the middle of the Pond where the colony of Edible Frogs liked to sit and talk to each other. The frogs at once leapt for cover, diving to the bottom of the Pond and its sheltering mud. But the rats caught many of them as they struggled to get away. The frogs were good to eat and the rats bit savagely at them, killing some and maiming others. Then they dragged their prey on to the little piece of land, fighting amongst themselves for the best morsels. The big rat Bully took the best pieces first. None of the others argued about that.

  The other denizens of the Pond, disturbed and frightened by the swarming rats, tried to get out of their way. Moorhens scuttled to guard their nests amongst the reeds. Coots rocked nervously on their platforms of weed and twigs as the water was stirred up by the sudden violent activity. As for the young frogs and toads, no bigger than penny pieces, who so lately had swum blissfully in the pond as tadpoles, they erupted in panic. An explosion of miniature amphibians, seeking desperately to escape the sharp teeth of the rats, occurred around the Pond’s edge. The little froglets and toadlets jumped and leapt everywhere, landing sometimes amongst vegetation, sometimes on dry land, sometimes on top of each other, sometimes back into the water, and even into the eager jaws of the marauding rats. The Farthing Wood Toad, who had spent so many peaceful times on the shores of the Pond, couldn’t bear to see this pandemonium breaking out. His stout old heart swelled with pity and indignation at his relatives’ plight. He had no means of fighting the rats’ onslaught. He was endowed with no sharp teeth or claws. But he remembered only too well the purpose of a nature reserve, and why White Deer Park had been designated as such. He couldn’t sit by and watch the rats’ desecration.

  ‘Villains! Warmongers! Butchers!’ he croaked at the top of his voice, hopping towards the seething waters in a fury. ‘How dare you come here, destroying everything like this? Who invited you to this peaceful spot? You’ve no rights here. You’re not fit to live amongst us. You’re vicious and unclean and – and – poisonous creatures!’ Toad was groping for appropriate adjectives. ‘Filthy rodents who stink of – of – mess and slime. Leave those frogs alone! They’re protected here by Man himself! This is their home! Get away from – ’ Toad’s voice ended on a choke as a powerful rat gripped him from behind. Toad writhed and wriggled in vain.

  From the centre of the Pond, Bully sat up on his hind legs with a quizzical look on his face. In the darkness he scanned the shore with narrowed eyes. He was interested in, even amused by, the sole voice of protest. ‘Who has the nerve to question what we’re up to?’ he asked roughly.

  Toad was unable to answer him. His attacker’s teeth had sunk deep into his neck. One of the other rats explained who was challenging them.

  ‘A toad?’ Bully whispered. ‘Don’t joke with me,’ he warned the rat.

  ‘It’s no joke, Bully. Go and see for yourself.’

  ‘I think I will,’ said the other. ‘This’ll be worth seeing. A toad, eh? Well, this is rich.’ Bully scrambled into the water and quickly paddled to the bank. He saw the immobilized victim who had dared to raise his voice to the rats. Toad’s neck, badly bitten, was bleeding. The rat who had seized him now hastily let go as the foul taste of Toad’s skin – his only defence against a predator – got to work. The rat clawed at its mouth in an effort to remove the evil taste.

  ‘Who are you?’ Bully asked, with a horrible rat grin that displayed his razor-sharp yellow teeth.

  ‘The Farthing
Wood Toad.’ The reply was given in a gasp.

  ‘The what toad?’

  This time there was no answer. Toad’s attacker repeated the title for him.

  ‘Oh, so you’re not a native of White Deer Park either?’ Bully sneered. ‘I’ve heard of this Farthing Wood and its clever animals who came here all in a group, helping each other on the way. You’re well known all around, aren’t you? But I don’t see any of your friends around now to come to your aid. They must have abandoned you!’

  ‘They’ll come,’ Toad managed to croak.

  ‘Too late to save you,’ Bully squealed with a leer. ‘Pity really. I’d like to see how your Farthing Wood friends work together. You’re a bit like us in a way. We work together, don’t we, Brat?’ He addressed his companion.

  ‘Yes, we do, Bully.’

  ‘Only – there’s more of us,’ Bully went on. ‘That’s the difference. We’re going to control things. We’ve started already. We’ve needed a proper home – like you – for a long time. Now we’ve got one and we’ll settle here for good. It’s ideal, isn’t it, Brat? Of course, we may upset some of you. We are rather grubby and hungry and greedy, too. But there’s nothing poisonous about us. We’re only too healthy, as you’ll find out. We want the best for ourselves. It’s natural, isn’t it, Toad? You couldn’t blame us for that. So you’ll come to understand very soon what happens to creatures who object to our ways. And, with a bit of luck, your friends will understand as well, when they find you here and see how we deal with objectors.’ He grinned again.

  ‘Your threats mean nothing to me,’ Toad answered painfully. ‘I’m old and helpless. You’ll gain very little from removing me from your path.’

  ‘You’ll be a lesson to others,’ Bully sneered.

  ‘I’m only a toad, a smaller animal than you. How will you tackle foxes and badgers?’

  ‘We’ll overwhelm them,’ said Bully. ‘Bigger creatures than we are will soon learn about the sheer weight of numbers. We’re numerous, we rats, and very quick to multiply. More of us are coming. The Park will teem with rats!’ He ended with a squeal of defiance.

  Toad sank back, exhausted. Here was a grim picture of his beloved White Deer Park. This odious animal’s prediction seemed all too possible. Dimly he saw a blur of white approaching from a distance. Deer were coming to drink. Even they, the deer, would find themselves as strangers in their own Reserve.

  ‘Shall I kill him?’ Brat asked suddenly.

  ‘No. You leave him,’ said Bully. ‘I’ll deal with this bright fellow.’

  Toad waited for the expected snap of the big rat’s jaws. He was fatalistic about his end and he watched the animal’s gimlet eyes rove over him. He felt almost no sense of regret save that he wouldn’t see his dear friends again. One by one they came into his mind’s eye, those faithful, constant companions in adversity . . . Fox, Tawny Owl, Badger, Weasel, Adder, Mole . . . Bully slowly opened his jaws. Toad’s jewel-like eyes closed. He thought of Vixen, Whistler, Hare . . .

  There was a sound of many feet. The herd of deer, unnerved by the presence of rats all around, had broken into a run. They cantered towards the Pond. Some of the rats were kicked, trampled by the mass of feet. Most scattered. Bully looked up. The deer were huge by rats’ standards. There were not yet sufficient rats on the ground to impede the progress of a herd of hinds and their young. The big rat gave Toad a final warning, scarring his body anew with a vicious lunge from his teeth, before scuttling away. This time the rodents withdrew from the Pond, leaving their victims dead and dying behind them.

  At dawn the next day Whistler flew from his roost in a tall tree to the Pond to catch himself a breakfast. On this occasion he found no rats; only the remains of the night’s carnage. The frog carcasses were strewn along the water’s edge and on the islet. Some floated on the Pond’s surface. The survivors cowered in the mud underwater. To them the heron was a potential hunter of frogs, although in fact Whistler had never caught any of them. Whistler guessed at once who were the perpetrators of the killings and was greatly alarmed for Toad. He stepped amongst the bodies on his long thin legs, examining them closely and dreading to find a toad amongst them.

  ‘No toad here,’ he muttered with relief. He flew to the islet to look at the remains there but he didn’t expect to see Toad amongst these as the place was almost exclusively the preserve of the frogs.

  ‘The rats did it! The rats did it!’ a coot called to Whistler. ‘They were here, trying to spill us all from our nests. Only the deer stopped them.’

  ‘They’ll be back again, and what are we to do?’ wailed the mother moorhen.

  Whistler forbore to give an answer. The problem of the rats was becoming something far beyond what could be contained by hunting. ‘Did you see a toad?’ he asked worriedly. ‘The one who often appears here – my friend?’

  ‘Lots of toads visit the Pond,’ the moorhen cheeped. ‘I think I know the one you mean, though. He’s a brave animal; he tried to stand up for the Pond’s residents.’

  Whistler was filled with pride. He knew this could be none other than the Farthing Wood Toad. It was so characteristic of him and all the Farthing Wood creatures. But now he feared more than ever for Toad’s fate. ‘Did he . . . did he suffer at all?’ he croaked anxiously.

  ‘We didn’t see,’ the coot answered. ‘We had enough to do to save our homes and young.’

  ‘I’d be surprised if he’s still alive,’ the moorhen said cheerlessly, ‘when you see what happened to the frogs.’

  The heron began a miserable search amongst the reeds and sedges. Toad had managed to crawl under cover after the departure of the marauders but he was too weak to call Whistler’s attention. He watched the heron striding up and down, examining everything. At last the great bird came close enough for Toad to risk a cry.

  ‘Here!’ he gasped. ‘Here, Whistler!’

  The heron hurried forward. He saw Toad with his badly scored body. ‘Oh! Oh!’ the bird groaned. ‘Toad, poor, poor fellow, what have they done to you?’

  ‘Made . . . a mess of me,’ Toad answered with difficulty.

  Whistler bent his head down to ground level. He looked at Toad’s wounds. ‘You’re – you’re in a parlous state. Those are really deep lacerations.’ The heron was so overcome by his friend’s appearance he could hardly speak. ‘I must help,’ he muttered, more to himself than anything else. ‘Whatever can I do for him?’

  Toad provided the answer. ‘Take me to the Hollow,’ he whispered. ‘The rats will . . . come back.’

  ‘Of course, of course, dear friend, at once. But, will you be able to bear it? Would it pain you? My beak . . .’ His voice petered out.

  ‘Better your beak than . . . a rat’s fangs,’ Toad murmured.

  Whistler hesitated no longer. As gently as he could, he clasped the little creature in his bill. He tried to treat Toad as if he were lifting an egg and certainly he believed his old friend was just as fragile. With a couple of wing-beats Whistler was aloft and flying fast across the Park. Toad uttered no sound; he was beyond complaint. The Hollow showed up below. Whistler lowered himself toward it, hoping desperately that Toad could hang on. They landed, and amongst the soft vegetation Whistler cautiously opened his bill, placing his burden as comfortably as he could. He noticed the rat carcasses still lying where they had been felled the night before. In a rage he tossed every one out of the area so that Toad alone occupied the Farthing Wood animals’ meeting place.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Whistler croaked wretchedly. ‘I do hope I haven’t made things worse?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Toad! Toad! Can’t you speak?’ the heron cried in desperation.

  ‘Thank you,’ Toad whispered, ‘for rescuing me.’ He gave a long sigh. Whistler’s relief was enormous. Toad fell silent again. Then, with a final effort, he croaked: ‘Tell the others I’m proud to have . . .’ His strength ebbed away. Whistler watched in abject misery as the brave animal gave up the fight. Toad, the discoverer of White Deer Park and th
e animals’ guide during their long journey there, was dead.

  11

  Battles

  It was a mournful group of Farthing Wood animals who assembled after Whistler’s distressing news. The heron had not yet recovered from his sad experience and he absented himself from the gathering. The friends stood silently in the Hollow, each lost in his or her own thoughts, as they gazed on their old companion. Adder was the first to speak.

  ‘How small he looks,’ he murmured, ‘how soft and vulnerable. He never seemed to me like that when he was alive. I wish I had been spared this sight.’ The snake was genuinely aggrieved. Expressions of regret were a rarity from Adder’s lips and they made the scene all the more poignant.

  ‘If only the humans had removed him instead of me,’ Weasel said. ‘He would have been well out of reach of any troubles.’

  ‘Toad was never in the running,’ Tawny Owl pointed out. ‘The men were after larger game.’

  ‘Why don’t they come back?’ Leveret moaned. ‘We need protection.’ He was of the opinion that Toad’s death marked the beginning of a new dangerous period.

  ‘For the moment they’re more interested in the new reserve,’ said Fox. ‘The Warden has his hands full with two areas to oversee. When he comes to patrol around here again, he’s in for an unwelcome surprise.’

  ‘He’d better not delay too long,’ Adder hissed, ‘or he’ll be patrolling a place called Brown Rat Park.’

  The snake’s sardonic words hung in the air with an awful portent. The animals actually believed that they could lose control of their home Reserve.

  ‘We must fight and fight,’ Badger urged. ‘Warden or no Warden, White Deer Park must be saved.’

  ‘How can we do that on our own?’ Leveret demanded. ‘We are so few and some of us, like poor Toad, have nothing to fight with.’

  ‘We shall concentrate on our own corner, of course,’ Fox told him. ‘Vigilance is essential by night and day. We won’t permit the rats to group again in our own territory. As soon as they approach, we strike. And we keep on striking.’