Frost Dancers: A Story of Hares

by Garry Kilworth

‘What?’ said Skelter.

  The otter shook himself.

  ‘Ah, allow me to request a forgiveness of my abrupt intrusion on this salutary morning when the sun burnishes the landscape with its bronzing rays. I am simply desirous of introducing myself. My name is Stigand, of the local Mustelidae, and I am familiar with many of the different tongues of animals.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Skelter. ‘You mean you speak many languages – like a friend of mine, Jittie.’

  The otter’s eyes brightened to pinpoints of light.

  ‘Ah, yes, the hog of the hedge, I know her well, an admirable creature of good standing. But still my initial question remains enravelled, which I would be delighted if you would distangle. Are you of the local tribe?’

  ‘Tribe? Er, no, not of the local tribe. We call them clans where I come from. I’m a mountain hare.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I see it now. Absence of black flash under tail, shorter ears, smaller stature. Yes indeed, the mountain hare in all its highland heatherfed glory. I am much pleased to make of your acquaintance, never having met such a hare before this very time, this very place.’

  Skelter said, ‘You seem to know a lot about mountain hares.’

  ‘One listens, one talks with itinerant creatures, one learns. My own dear mate, Sona, the otter with whom I spend my seasons of joy, tells me that I waste my time on such entertainments as learning, but I am a lost case, my soul is captured by the very essence of knowledge, it makes a bonfire of my brain, it consumes me with interest. I must know all the secrets of the universe, or I pine. You are sympathising with this viewpoint, or are you of the Sona mind?’

  ‘I think it’s quite admirable, to wish to learn everything.’

  The otter’s jaw opened, revealing a mouthful of needles, reminding Skelter that he was passing the time of day with a fierce predator, albeit one whose diet was fish and things from the water.

  ‘I am glad you envisage it so,’ said Stigand with a sigh, ‘too many of our fellow creatures are intent only on filling the stomach with food. I am of the opinion that knowledge is superior to food.’

  The comparison had never occurred to Skelter, he had to admit.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Stigand, ‘and I am not the only creature who has this persuasion, for the man in the cottage nearby is also of the same conviction. You may observe him going without victuals many a day in order that he not be interrupted in his study of wildlife. His great dog, the admirable Betsy, will not be harming you in any way. I tell you this, to stop any attacks of the heart, should she come near.’

  ‘I had gathered the impression that the hound was not vicious, though I’m afraid I could never trust a dog, not in a million seasons.’

  ‘I am of that understanding, for you hares suffer much in the jaws of such creatures, but Stigand tells you this great fluffy giant will not close her jaws on a gnat for fear of damaging its wings. She has truly the heart of a rabbit in the body of a dog. Now tell me about the highlands,’ said the otter eagerly. ‘What of the deer and the wildcat, and of the mighty golden eagle? Is the bird as magnificent as they say?’

  Thus, Skelter met and befriended the otter who was famous around the land for his pursuit of knowledge and for his habit of encountering travellers passing through his territory, engaging them in conversation, and pestering them for information on anything and everything. When Skelter asked Stigand if he knew anything about the flogre, the otter shook his head sadly, and said that he had witnessed the flight of the creature occasionally, at either dusk or dawn, but the creature’s camouflage was such that it melded with the twilight earth and sky, and was impossible to identify. Stigand added that the flight of the monster was swift and silent, quite unlike anything he had ever encountered before.

  ‘I have to say, without shame, that I make myself secretive when the creature is about, for there is no proof it has eschewed a taste for otters, and I must therefore assume that my flesh is as delicious to it as any hare or rabbit.’

  Skelter parted from the otter and went back to his form for a sleep in the afternoon sun.

  When late afternoon came, moonhare visited.

  Eyebright always fussed over Followme, but Skelter, who regarded no hare as above himself, greeted her politely but without obsequiousness. The moonhare seemed flattered by the attentions of Eyebright, but never favoured her above any of the other hares in the colony. Skelter wondered whether there was an incident in the past, which he had missed, involving the two jills.

  Moonhare spoke about the coming harvest, when the harvesters would be in the cornfields and there would be general panic in the air. Harvest time came every year, when the corn ripened and was ready for cutting, but the creatures of the field were never prepared for it. Mice and birds had built nests amongst the wheat, barley and oats. There were new bolt holes from rabbit warrens, hidden by the corn. There were new animal highways across the tall fields.

  Then came the combine harvester, changing the landscape within a day, revealing the rabbit bolt holes for the world to see, uncovering partridge nests, destroying mouse nests.

  Naturally, the creatures of the field did not like this disruption to their lives, and regarded it as a time of terror. There was food in plenty at that time, with fruit, vegetables and grain, all ripening around the same time, but still late summer and autumn meant harvesting time, and harvesting time meant sleepless days for everyone.

  ‘When harvest time is over,’ said moonhare to Skelter, ‘we must have a meeting. Since you taught us to fashion our forms like mountain hares, we have not been so bothered by the flogre, although we still need to be wary of course. By next mating time, when the hares gather again, we need to know what we are up against. We need to know exactly what the flogre is, whether mythical beast or real creature.’

  ‘How do you propose to find out?’ asked Skelter.

  Followme looked directly at him.

  ‘Headinthemist has studied the wych elm twigs and it’s apparent that someone has to go to the church tower.’

  Skelter shook his head.

  ‘Why, no one would dare do that, would they? What would they do once they got there, anyway?’

  Still the moonhare’s eyes remained on his.

  ‘They would have to climb the stone steps inside the tower, to its top, and spy on the flogre. Headinthemist has discussed this aspect of the mission with harebell spirits, who suggested to her that it should be someone with a head for heights.’

  Skelter knew now that the moonhare was talking about him – he was the one they wanted to go and spy on the flogre, find out what kind of creature it might be. He felt a flutter of panic in his breast at the thought, but he had been through so much recently it was difficult to feel the terror he should be experiencing.

  ‘You want me to carry out the mission – isn’t that right, moonhare?’

  Moonhare nodded.

  ‘None of us could do it. We are flatlanders, frightened of heights. We shake if we have to climb onto a fallen log. You, as a hare from the highlands, are used to such things. I imagine you could climb the steps to the top of the tower without any problems whatsoever?’

  ‘Yes, I could do it easily, you know that. What are a few steps when you’ve lived on slopes of scree a thousand feet in the air? Heights mean nothing to me. However, you’re not just asking me to climb to the top of a tower. You’re asking me to spy on a monster – a monster that could rip the skin from my body in seconds.

  ‘I really don’t see why I should. I can tell you now, it’s no mythical creature. Such things don’t exist.’

  ‘There are those of us who believe they do,’ said moonhare. ‘However, no one can force you to go, can they? Certainly none of us can do it, and I wouldn’t trust another creature, even if we could persuade one to go, which I very much doubt. It must be your choice. However, when Headinthemist was under a honey fungus trance, she said she had a vision of you, Skelter, leaving the colony next spring. In this, er, vision, it seemed you were going away for good. I can�
��t explain this, can you? Then again, I don’t see how someone who has given valuable service to the colony, in return for being given a home, can be forced to leave it. Well, I’ll be on my way. I want to get back before dusk, naturally.’

  So the moonhare left them.

  Skelter watched her go. He knew very well what she was saying: if he did not go on this mission he would be exiled. Moonhare would find some excuse to have him thrown out of the colony. He sighed deeply. He still had the choice, but if he said no to the mission, he would probably have to leave the colony. That would mean saying goodbye forever to Eyebright, who had become a good friend. It was a terrible decision to have to make.

  He decided to say nothing to Eyebright, or anyone else, about moonhare’s implied threat. It would do no good accusing her: she would only deny it. Instead, he told Eyebright that he did not believe in mythical beasts and might go on the mission to prove he was right.

  Eyebright stared in disbelief at Skelter on hearing this news, and shook her head slowly.

  ‘You’re not seriously thinking of going?’

  ‘Well, I have to at least consider it. After all, this business about mythical creatures is all rubbish. The flogre is obviously some kind of raptor, strayed into this area by accident, or brought here by men. There’s no such thing as flying badgers …’

  Eyebright looked around quickly, as if she suspected someone might be listening.

  ‘Hush, don’t say those things, the flogre might hear you! It may have asked the wind to carry secrets to its ear and want to prove its magical powers by appearing here this evening.’

  Skelter shook his head sadly.

  ‘You really are caught up in this thing, aren’t you? Look, I realise the flogre is a formidable creature, but really this is all a bit silly …’

  Her pained expression made him stop suddenly.

  ‘Please,’ she implored, ‘don’t talk like that.’

  These field hares were superstitious beyond belief. Perhaps he should accept the mission from moonhare, get a quick sighting of the creature, and bring back a description which would satisfy these silly hares? Moonhare was right about one thing. The field hares had taken him in and he could show his gratitude for their kindness by ridding them of one of their fears at least. When it was proved to them that they were dealing with a normal creature with no magical properties they might be more willing to accept other methods of defending themselves, instead of viewing any new ideas as heresies.

  ‘I think I might accept moonhare’s mission,’ he said grimly.

  Eyebright gasped. ‘No. What for? You realise she would not raise a paw to help you, if you were trapped in a snare, or a gin? She is entirely selfish.’

  Skelter considered this to be true.

  ‘Granted, I doubt she would help me, but I have to think of all of you, the whole colony. I’m not doing this just for her, I’m doing it – if I do it – for all the unborn leverets and those hares caught out at dusk. If we know what we’re up against, we can prepare ourselves accordingly.’

  ‘You must want to die.’

  ‘No,’ said Skelter truthfully, ‘I don’t want to die, but I have been extremely lucky so far and there’s no reason to suppose I can’t go on being lucky. This luck makes me a useful member of the colony. I want to help, to repay you all for taking me in.’

  ‘You’ll be killed,’ replied Eyebright miserably. ‘I know you will.’

  Skelter could not understand why she was getting so upset. After all, it was him who was volunteering for the mission, not her. Why should she worry? She was just like Rushie used to be, going off into a sulk for no real reason whatsoever. Jills were creatures with hidden moods that were incomprehensible to the average jack.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Harvesting time came and the air was choked with tawny chaff and strawdust that dried the throat and blocked the nose. There were machines cutting, binding, threshing, gathering in the wheat, barley and oats, gathering in the very fibrous rays of the sun itself, splitting the shafts into golden wands, binding the sheaves with silver wire. Men worked with their collarless shirts stretched taut across their backs, their sleeves rolled to reveal pale muscles, their necks bared and reddening in the late-summer heat. The rain had been ordered to stay away, keep its wet fingers off the land until the harvest was in.

  There was noise and confusion, but that was normal for the gathering of the harvest. Local women made corn dollies for visitors: little men-shapes, horse-shapes, hare-shapes. Gingerbread men with black-raisin eyes found their way into lunch boxes, surprising the harvesters. There were strange country rituals carried out by the young men and women, mystical rites the secrets of which were kept by mother earth. There was dancing on the village green, with leg bells and sticks and colourful knee ribbons. The spring-time fertility celebrations had reached fruition, and the pregnant fields were giving birth to riches: amber grain, ruby berries, emerald leaves.

  When darkness began to descend, the harvesting machines were lit by lamps that swayed as the vehicle rumbled on, the men calling to each other across the shadows. Gnats came in clouds to pester the harvesters and these attracted first the martins, swifts and swallows, and then the bats.

  Although the animals and birds were aware that this human activity was organised not against them, but in order to gather in the crops, the disruption to their lives caused them much anguish and anxiety. The shaven fields, exposed to the sky, were fine for the hares, but not for a thousand other creatures who depended upon cover for their survival. It was the rape of their homeland. They moved into hedges and ditches, into the woodland verges, and into fields that had remained as yet untouched by the reapers. Overcrowding caused squabbles and some serious fighting.

  The worst was yet to come.

  Some of the farmers set the stubble on fire, unleashing terrors upon the creatures of the countryside. Thick smoke enveloped the highways and byways, the hedgerows and trees, the hidey holes in the ground. Lines of flame swept over the landscape, deadly to those in their approach, and grass snakes, smooth snakes, mice, voles, hedgehogs, rats, toads, lizards, newts, shrews, and many other beasts of the field were burned to death. Innumerable insects, like rare delicate jewels, melted in the flames. Dusty-winged moths, butterflies, dragonflies, fragile lace-wings, bees and wasps, snakeflies and springtails, tiny red ticks and false scorpions, stoneflies, spiders complex as knitted wire, bullet-hard beetles, all incinerated. Not one, but many varieties of grasshopper and ladybird were amongst the victims. Wild flowers, herbs, fungi and grasses were destroyed with all the larvae and attendant parasites: the aphids, mealy bugs, thrips and mites.

  Finally, it was over, the rhythm of the seasons having paused for a moment, but not halted.

  Whinsled Lea, the meadow in which Skelter and Eyebright had their home, was not mowed that summer. Instead, some horses and cattle were put out to graze, every so often, which suited the two hares quite well. The big animals did not bother them in the least, and their presence deterred poachers and legal shooters from using the meadow as a hunting ground. So far as cows were concerned, the hares could often feed in and around their legs, without fear.

  Skelter continued to consider whether or not to go on moonhare’s mission to the church, but he did not raise the subject again with Eyebright because it seemed to upset her so much. Moonhare did not press him for an answer either, probably guessing her implied threat would eventually have the right effect on his decision. Headinthemist had been to see him, and explained that a long exhaustive study of wych elm twigs after a recent storm had revealed that it was Skelter’s destiny to attempt discovery of the flogre’s identity. When he pressed Headinthemist for an idea of whether or not he would be successful however, he received the vague answer that ‘the honey fungus was shining’. This only served to further entrench his belief that Headinthemist was no more an oracle than any other hare and merely pretended to be to give herself some status. She advised him to take a bird skull with him, so that the idda
bs could protect him. Skelter thanked her politely for her advice. He had no intention of travelling around the countryside carrying a bird’s skull in his mouth, though he did not say so.

  ‘Anything more on that human shooting incident?’ Skelter asked one day of sunhare when he came to visit. ‘You remember, when the tractor-man hunted those two people, then buried them?’

  Reacher said there was.

  ‘The patch where the tractor-man buried the bodies seems to be especially fertile now, and the grass grows thick and lush on it. Of course, this means the animals all go there to feed, and this leaves the rectangle of ground plainly visible. The tractor-man doesn’t seem to like this very much, and gets quite distressed. He keeps digging around at the edges of the rectangle, trying to change its shape. I think he wants to sort of merge it with the rest of the field.’

  ‘How strange,’ remarked Eyebright.

  Sunhare shrugged. ‘Well, there’s no understanding human behaviour, is there? I mean, up at the church they spend all their time making sure such rectangles remain clear of weeds and stand out quite clearly from the grassed surrounds. One thing though, he does copy – he puts cut flowers on the patch some mornings. Little bunches of them. Then later he takes them away again. Most peculiar behaviour, even for a human.’

  Skelter was fascinated by the strange antics of the tractor-man, who was the nearest thing among humans to a wild creature that he knew. Up in the highlands hares could get quite close to those without guns but Skelter had never been able to become familiar with a human. For one thing he had seldom seen the same human twice.

  There had been shepherds he recognised, but they had been distant creatures, and the presence of their dogs made them inaccessible. Shepherds were intense, serious men, who were interested only in their flocks and their dogs. They lived apart from other men and were almost a race unto themselves. There were not so many of them now as there used to be, but they were still the same kind of creature. They had faces like weathered stone and hands to match, and they would sit on a piece of ground for a day long, content to stare at the hills and glens around them. If it weren’t for their dogs, hares would quite like shepherds. Sheep dogs never attacked hares, or any other wild animal for that matter, for they were trained to work and not be distracted, but still they were canines, and so could never be trusted.