Frost Dancers: A Story of Hares

by Garry Kilworth

  Both hedgehogs nodded their heads, sagely, completely in agreement.

  Still, said Jittie, they were all part of nature’s varied world, and whoever had made them all had obviously seen a purpose for hares, though heaven knew what it was. Perhaps they had been put on the earth to counterbalance all the sanity, to stop the world from becoming too boring, to add a bit of spontaneity? They were handsome looking creatures, everyone was agreed on that, but their brains had been put in backwards or upside down or something.

  The neighbour clucked, pulling a worm out of the ground which didn’t want to be eaten, and clung to its hole until the last moment.

  That’s a fact, the neighbour told her (crunching away). Their brains were in their feet, though sometimes their feet were in their heads.

  Well, this one is a bit different, acknowledged Jittie, because he digs himself a little hole, like a rabbit. He definitely wasn’t a rabbit, though he was smallish for a hare, and the tunnel he dug was only short, with an opening at both ends, like a flattened U shape. Maybe he was a runt, or something, abandoned by his parents at birth? Maybe he actually thought he was some kind of rabbit, and didn’t associate with hares at all?

  The neighbour suggested that perhaps Jittie ought to put him straight on exactly what he was, though she was sure she’d get no thanks for it, for when did a hare wait around long enough for niceties and polite talk?

  No social graces, remarked Jittie.

  Oh, you can say that again.

  Jittie left her neighbour to wander along the ditch in search of breakfast. She found some juicy larvae under a dock leaf and ended their mortal torment of having to feed on second-rate vegetable fare, while two fields away – a journey beyond their capability – was a sea of young lettuces, food for the gods. She felt she was doing them a favour.

  When she got back to the nest, the new hare was sitting looking at the world with sad eyes. He seemed a bit bewildered and not at all in his right mind.

  ‘Hello,’ said Jittie, in her best Leporidae, ‘what’s the matter with you? Lost?’

  The hare blinked at her.

  ‘You could say that, though I don’t think I’m ever going to find my way back to where I came from. I’ve got to make the best of this dismal place I suppose.’

  Jittie felt her spines tingle, and for once was aware of the fleas busy amongst the forest on her back. Like most animals, she was proud of her homeland, for although she knew the wetlands were a little dreary and flat, they had a mystique, she felt, and were not altogether without their attractions.

  ‘I can say that, but not you!’ she snapped, showing she was put out. ‘We like it bleak around here. Gives the place an air of mystery and magic. Why, you of all creatures – a hare! – you should find this place sacred. This is where the human hare-worshippers lived: the warrior-queen and her tribe. This is where your ghost-hares first appeared, though I’ve never seen one, and wouldn’t want to.’

  The hare blinked again, an annoying habit.

  ‘Oh, sure, sorry. I didn’t mean to put the place down, only I come from the mountains, which for me has more interest, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Mountains,’ nodded Jittie. ‘They go up one side and down the other. So what? Does that make them interesting? Do the mountains have any marshes? No. Do they have any saltings? No. Do they have any hedgerows, ploughed fields, gates or stiles? No.’

  The hare began to get sniffy.

  ‘Don’t really want any of those things. How come you speak such good hare anyway?’

  ‘I speak seven languages fluently,’ said Jittie, ‘and can pass the time of day in four others. I’m a creature of intellect. I don’t waste my days punching holes in the wind with my head, or showing off by dancing on my back legs, or doing somersaults like a clown. I employ my time usefully, listening, learning, utilising.’

  ‘Clever snout,’ muttered the hare, and dashed away, out into the field, to nibble sulkily at some cabbage stalks.

  Jittie watched him go, decided he was not as fleet of foot as the local hares, but that his run was so peculiar he would probably surprise the foxes with it and survive that way. She could see he was miserable. Hares would be, away from home. If they ever made any journeys at all, which they did sometimes in the autumn, migrating to higher ground before the winter set in, it was only a short distance. Hedgehogs on the other hand, didn’t care where they wandered, so long as there was food and a place to rest.

  She shook her head, and muttered an old saying. Then she made her way across the field to a rich bottomland meadow, with a river at the foot of its slope fringed by broad-leafed goat willows. When she reached it, after shuffling through the thick hedge, she found it was a sea of wild flowers. Buttercups blazed like yellow fire across the dipping slope, and the scent of the meadowsweet’s feathery flowers filled the air. The delicate mauve-pinks of valerians were scattered through the bright raging suncolours of the buttercups, dandelions, meadow vetchling and tansy herbs. Butterflies, blues and fritillaries mostly, were like coloured dust settling on the field.

  Jittie was moved by the beauty of the meadow.

  Mountains indeed! Had he seen this? Did you get this in the mountains?

  She grumbled away to herself, disappearing into the tall wild flowers and following the slope down to the river. Inside the meadowland were all manner of creatures, from mice to moles, but Jittie was given a wide berth as she waddled through this fairytale cloak of grasses and herbs.

  When she reached the river, she dipped her head and drank down the cool, muddy water until she had quenched her thirst. There had been water in her ditch, but nothing tasted so good as the river.

  Some distance down the bank coypu were busy doing something, but what took her attention was a local hare crossing over from one bank to another further upstream. It was probably coming to get at the meadow grass. The hare was a strong swimmer, as most brown hares tend to be, and forged the current without too much difficulty, though by the time it scrambled up the bank it had been taken at an angle and landed right where Jittie was drinking. The hare, a jill, shook herself, wetting Jittie.

  ‘Hey,’ cried Jittie, ‘watch it!’

  The hare sat up and stared.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the jill, ‘didn’t realise you were there.’

  ‘Do you ever?’ grumbled Jittie. ‘You hares! What’s your name?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  Jittie huffed in impatience.

  ‘Why? Because there’s a new hare arrived, from the mountains, and I thought if I gave him your name he might come looking for you, and you can help him adjust to the flatlands. He’s going to get himself into trouble, otherwise. There’s a fox highway not far from where I live, and if no one takes responsibility for him, he’ll blunder into one of them and get eaten.’

  The jill began to eat the wild flowers, annoying the bees that were homing in on the nectar. ‘What’s it to me?’ she said.

  Jittie stared at the hare, half up on its hind legs and chewing delicately, wondering how such a noble-looking creature could be so indifferent to the plight of others, especially her own kind. The local hares were renowned for being selfish, however, and Jittie did not like to see them get away with it. She persisted.

  ‘I asked you your name,’ she snapped.

  The hare shrugged.

  ‘Speedwell,’ she replied.

  ‘Good. Now that we know who you are, I can pass on the information to … I don’t even know his name. You hares are such secretive creatures. Anyway, this mountain hare will probably come looking for you, so treat him kindly, or I’ll put a hex on you.’

  The jill stopped chewing and stared.

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘I would, as soon as look at you,’ snapped Jittie, knowing that the local hares were amongst the most superstitious creatures on the earth. They had all sorts of talismans and symbols to ward off evil, though Jittie couldn’t be bothered to learn what they were. The fallen twigs of the wych elm were import
ant, she knew that much. ‘I’ll find a wych elm and work a spell with it that’ll make your feet rot,’ she said, enjoying herself a little, ‘unless you agree to look out for this young jack and treat him well.’

  ‘Not my feet,’ pleaded Speedwell.

  ‘First your feet, then your ears. They’ll rot at the roots and drop off. Fine sight you’ll make then.’

  ‘You leave me no choice,’ said the jill. ‘Tell him where to find us, and we’ll straighten him out – kindly.’

  ‘Good, that’s all he needs I think. He seems a sensible creature – for a hare.’

  With that, Jittie walked away, up the meadow. She followed a ridge that was part of an ancient ruined fort built by humans who came to the land some two thousand summers ago: humans whose weaponheads still littered the meadow ground. There had been a ferocious battle here, between the local humans and these metal-clad newcomers from a distant country. Bronze and iron blades corroded amongst the roots of the daisies and buttercups, where leather garments had melted into the soil and provided the wild flowers with extra nourishment. Here, down amongst the worms, was the shape of a spoked chariot wheel, its royal tribal carvings imprinted on the clay. A standard, the emblem of which would be recognised by Skelter as the dreaded eagle, had all but dissolved in a vein of lime. There were bones there, iron bolts embedded in them, sundered from their sockets. More than that, the soil reeked with the spirits of warrior women and men waiting to be reawakened on the earth’s final day. The outlanders amongst them had called upon gods of superhuman form, while the rebellious locals had looked to the divine hare to give them inspired victory. That victory had indeed been granted, as the charred remains of foreign corpses attested.

  Soon Jittie’s hedge came in sight, and she waddled towards it, looking forward to a long rest.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After his squabble with the hedgehog, Skelter felt affronted, and went out into the field to chew on cabbages. The trouble with the local animals, he thought, was they didn’t understand what it was like to be a mountain hare. How could anyone compare these dismal surroundings with his beautiful highland home? The suggestion was ludicrous: the idea was pathetic. Mountain scenery was the most magnificent nature had to offer: it lifted your heart and made it soar. How dare this hedgehog say that the flatlands had a beauty to compare with what he had lost.

  Wondering why he could never find any heather in the flatlands, Skelter tore angrily at the cabbages at first then gradually became depressed and miserable. A creature had offered him her friendship, in this forsaken land and what had he done? Rejected it. Instead of relaxing and getting to know the hedgehog, he had waded in with his criticisms of the local habitat, damning the whole landscape, extolling the virtues of his highlands. Of course that was going to upset someone who was born in the flatlands.

  He saw himself through her eyes now: tactless, whining, parochial. The exile with the chip on his shoulder.

  Skelter decided to apologise to the hedgehog, and returned to the ditch, but the spiny creature was nowhere to be found. He discovered her nest in the rabbit hole, but she had gone off somewhere.

  He went back to the roots of the tree and pondered on what he ought to do next. Should he stay here, make his home in the corner of the field, or move on? This was not exactly heaven on earth, but then, what did he intend to find elsewhere? There were no mountains to be had. One field was much like the rest. What he was doing was moving around for the sake of it, to keep his mind busy. Well that wouldn’t do. It was possible he might suddenly come upon a field of heather, or vegetation similar to what he was used to, but there had been no evidence so far to prove this probable. So, not only was he going to have to live without his mountains, but also his heather. The water here had a funny taste to it, too, not at all like the sweet water of the burns and loch of his homeland. It was too bad, he thought. Just too bad.

  The sun was in evidence today and he settled down, letting it warm through his fur. He fell into a doze, from which he kept waking with a start, then settling back down again. By the time noon came round he was fast asleep.

  It was a crow’s call that woke him, and he jumped up with a start.

  Something moved very quickly before his eyes.

  Skelter jumped back against the tree.

  It was a creature the badgers call a noedre, mountain hares call a viper, and flatlanders call an adder: the only indigenous poisonous snake in the land. Skelter had startled and annoyed the creature into rearing. He could see the snake was angry with him and it looked as if it were about to strike.

  Skelter remained absolutely still, hoping the creature would go on its way. The trouble with adders was that they were unpredictable. Skelter couldn’t be sure that the snake would bite him, but then again, it might.

  The adder spat some strange sounds at him but since he understood not a word of the language used by the creature Skelter could do nothing but reply in his own tongue.

  ‘Get away from me!’ cried Skelter frantically.

  This shrill appeal from the hare seemed to enrage the sun-coloured serpent with its dark zigzag markings even further. Its V-marked head swayed from side to side as it prepared to stab the hare with its fangs.

  This was the scene that Jittie saw as she walked through her hole in the hedge. She was totally unprepared for such a sight and for a moment she too froze in her tracks. Then, realising the situation was a desperate one for the hare, she made a sound to distract the snake. The adder turned quickly. Jittie dashed forward, clicking her teeth aggressively.

  * * *

  Skelter had been so transfixed by the adder that at first he did not realise that it was no longer a threat to him. Then he saw the hedgehog, rolled into a ball, within easy range of the adder’s strike. The snake’s head flashed forward, as it bit the hedgehog several times.

  Skelter was horrified. He skipped to the side, away from the tree, and dashed to a safe distance before looking back. The adder’s vicious attacks continued, striking repeatedly at the defenceless little ball in front of it. The hedgehog could not escape the bites, as they came in lightning jabs, one after the other, the fangs finding a mark every time.

  There was a feeling of anger in Skelter’s breast now, towards the adder, but he knew he could do nothing to save the hedgehog that had intervened on his behalf. She would be dead within a short time. Her little body had been penetrated in over a dozen places, and still the snake struck, time and time again, completely devoid of any mercy.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ he shouted. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  The adder paused to look at the hare, its eyes yellow with contempt.

  At that moment Jittie began to uncurl. First a nose came out, then a whole face, until she was standing on four legs before the adder.

  Amazingly, she did not appear sick: in fact, she looked defiant. Jittie darted forward with surprising speed and sank her teeth into the adder’s throat. The snake began to writhe, its coils winding around its adversary, but Jittie was not about to let go her grip. The coils twisted and turned, tying knots around its enemy.

  Skelter watched the combat on the scruffy piece of turf below the elm with his heart in his mouth. Was it possible that the hedgehog could triumph, even as she was dying herself? She seemed determined to take the adder with her, to wherever it was that hedgehogs went after death. He marvelled at her strength of will, her stamina, her fighting spirit.

  The snake uncurled itself, trying to slither backwards, out of Jittie’s grip, but its small spiny antagonist chose this moment to renew her hold, and her sharp incisors bore even deeper into the adder’s throat. The snake began to go limp, its struggles growing weaker and weaker, until it could hardly move. Then Jittie began to do the same to the adder as it had done to her, attacking it repeatedly with savage bites.

  Finally, the adder lay still in the dust, as dead as a fallen branch.

  Skelter let out the breath that he had been holding for some time, and ran over to the hedgehog.


  ‘You gave up your life for me,’ he said quickly, in case she should die before he had time to thank her. ‘You are the most unselfish creature I have ever met. I am forever indebted to you. Do you have any last wishes? Have you any messages you would like passed on to your kin? I don’t even know your name. Mine is Skelter.’

  The hedgehog looked at him with a funny expression.

  She said, ‘I’m known as Jittie, but you can save your breath, because I’m not going to die.’ She stared at the body of the snake, lying in the sun with its belly exposed to the sky. It was like a piece of discarded rope now: torn and frayed around the head. ‘I warned him, several times. He stole two of my babies last year. I said I would get him, and I have. That thing there in the dust is called Stememna, and his mate will no doubt come looking for him at some time. She would be wise to stay away from me, though I’ve no quarrel with her at the moment.’

  Skelter shook his head to clear it of the jumble.

  ‘You’re not going to die?’ he repeated.

  Jittie stared at him and shook her own head in impatience.

  ‘You don’t know very much about hedgehogs, do you? Neither did he, though I warned him often enough. Hedgehogs, my harebrained friend, are immune to adders’ venom. For some reason, adders can’t get this fact into their heads. They are so used to everyone being terrified of them they think they’re invulnerable. All I had to do was roll myself into a ball and wait until he had exhausted his venom, then attack and kill him. Well, it’s over now, and I’m afraid he deserved what he got, that baby-killer.’