Frost Dancers: A Story of Hares

by Garry Kilworth

  ‘Well, maybe not an owl then, but certainly not a supernatural creature either. Don’t worry about me. It seems that I’m bound for a life of adventure, with many changes. I used to have the deer, the eagles and wildcats around me. Now I have field hares, hedgehogs, otters and flogres. Maybe tomorrow there’ll be a whole new set of creatures. I’ll survive.’

  Eyebright sniffed. ‘You’ll have to settle down one day, so why not now. Let some other hare risk its skin.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry Eyebright, it has to be me.’

  She refused to talk to him after that and went to another part of the meadow. Skelter found this very odd behaviour but he had ceased to try to fathom Eyebright. She was a strange hare, even for a brown. Instead, Skelter went to say goodbye to Stigand, the otter.

  ‘Ah, it’s fare you well, my confederate,’ said the otter, ‘and may we assemble again soon, eh? You must look out for your fleece. Stigand will hold the vigil and be ever watchful for your return – the coming of the hero.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about the hero bit,’ said Skelter, ‘but thanks anyway Stigand. Goodbye Sona,’ he said to Stigand’s mate, but she just rolled her eyes to heaven and muttered something in her own language. Females, they were all the same, always disapproving of something.

  Skelter then set off to tell moonhare that he planned to visit the church tower this very day.

  Before he left the meadow, however, Eyebright ran over to him. She looked distressed and he wondered if she had had an accident, but it seemed that she only wanted to speak to him one last time, before he went. If her expression was full of anxiety, her voice was full of aggression.

  ‘Goodbye, and … take care of yourself,’ she said fiercely.

  ‘Why,’ said Skelter, surprised, ‘of course I will. I intend to take very good care.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, just as fiercely, and then ran away to crouch in her form.

  Puzzled again by all this, Skelter left the territory he shared with this eccentric jill. He knew she was trying to tell him something, but he was not good at recognising unspoken signals. He liked his messages straight from the mouth, and in plain language, not hidden behind gestures. Highlanders were not good at playing subtle games.

  When he reached the shaven Booker’s Field, where moonhare had her territory, he found the venerable matron and told her of his decision. She seemed pleased, and called to sunhare in Poggrin Meadow, his territory abutting hers.

  ‘The mountain hare is going on an expedition to discover the identity of the flogre.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent!’ cried sunhare.

  Then the two field hares went back to eating, leaving Skelter standing around, wondering whether to say something else or creep away and get the task over with. Clearly moonhare and sunhare had lost interest in him.

  ‘Well, goodbye then,’ he said.

  Followme looked up.

  ‘Oh, you still here?’ she asked in a surprised tone. ‘I thought you’d gone.’

  ‘Just on my way.’

  ‘Well, off you go then.’

  She went back to her meal.

  Skelter began the long journey to the church tower. He wanted to be there before dusk of course, before the flogre was up and around. If it caught him out in the open, he wouldn’t stand a chance. The hedges tended to crowd in on the church, and there would be some cover for him.

  He took one of the regular hare highways that cut across the landscape, travelling through other hare territories. Sometimes they acknowledged him, sometimes not, depending on whether they were busy at some task. Once or twice he crossed through the territories of hares from another colony, but word had spread that summer about a mountain hare taking up residence in one of the leas by the river, and though they stared at him curiously, and returned his greeting if they were close enough, they were not overly concerned at his presence.

  Skelter kept a wary eye open for foxes, especially since there were piles of russet-coloured leaves collected in the corner of many fields and up against the drystone walls of some of the cottage gardens. Now and again, he had to cross a lane or man-path and sometimes there were people out strolling, or vehicles shooting along the tarmac, but Skelter was not shy of these.

  Once though, he nearly shed his skin in fright as a hound threw itself, shouting and slavering, at a chain link fence. Fortunately, the dog remained trapped, inside the fence, while Skelter was able to skip away quickly before the noise brought a human with a gun.

  The rise on which the church was perched was some way along a country lane from the village, hidden for the most part in some cedar trees, but the square greystone tower shouldered its way above these evergreens. Skelter had to cross a patch of marshland, where conspiratorial herons stabbed their silver victims secreted by the tall reeds, finding his way along tufted paths. Around him, the occasional tree was ablaze, the damp long grasses on the edges of the paths hung lank and dirty.

  Because of the tall marsh weeds, he was unable to see more than a length in front of his face, and twice he became seriously lost. By the time he came to the open field which led to the church rise, it was getting very late. The day was dark and cloudy, and dusk came early.

  Skelter wondered whether or not to spend the twilight hidden on the rim of the marshes. There was a danger of foxes there, however, because the red devils loved the cover tall reeds gave them and often went to hunt the plentiful birds. They would accept a hare as well as a plover. There were machinations on the marshlands that worried him, and he thought he would be much happier in the open.

  He made his decision, and began to cross the bare furrowed field towards the church. He kept to a deep channel, padding across the layer of damp leaves, his sharp eyes ever watchful for movements in the sky. Once a sparrowhawk went zipping overhead and gave him heart tremors, but the raptor was there and gone, and his heart was soon back to normal. Not that he was in any danger from such a predator, but the presence of fast-moving fliers did nothing for his nerves.

  When he was about halfway across, he smelled a fox, and froze. The direction of the wind was from his right flank, crosswise to the tower, so that if he moved he would be right in the fox’s line of sight. Skelter knew that if he remained still he would be safer, for foxes lose their focus on immobile objects within a very short time. He knew that foxes rely mainly on their noses, and since Skelter was downwind, he was hopefully screened from this one.

  The scent of the fox became stronger and Skelter formed a fairly accurate mental image of the creature’s path, which would cross Skelter’s furrow just behind him.

  Skelter’s eyes being situated on either side of his head, he had a very wide circle of vision, and was able to observe the fox crossing behind him, without actually moving his head. It was quite a youngster, probably born only that spring, and no doubt excited to be out hunting on its own. Immature and inexperienced, the young fox seemed intent on reaching the far side of the field.

  Once he considered that the danger was past, the fox having disappeared through a hedge, Skelter considered his next move. He had to get out of the open and behind some cover now. He began to run along the furrow as rapidly as he could, towards the tower.

  Evening was now closing in. The broad tower loomed out of the grey murk, its ancient pitted stones like faces watching for the coming of the night. There was a hawthorn hedge and a low wall protecting the graveyard beyond. Both these obstacles were tangled with ivy. Skelter could go through the hedge, but he would have to scramble over the thick drystone wall and the ivy would help him there.

  When he was about seven lengths from the wall a great shape suddenly launched itself from the sill of the tower filling the twilight with its menacing form. Skelter had left it too late: the flogre was abroad. The evening air, swirling with sombre cloud, disassembled the flying monster so that its outline was fuzzy and indistinct. It cruised high above Skelter’s head, as he crouched in his furrow, terror filling his breast.

  Skelter hoped that the flogre would no
t consider hunting within the pale of the church, having exhausted that area when it first took up residence. It was likely that the creature would fly off into the murk, looking for its victims in known hunting grounds, where game was plentiful.

  Just as he was about to move on, believing that the flogre was now somewhere over a woodland or river creek, Skelter saw the young fox again. It had retraced its path, caught his scent and was moving upwind, tracking the source. Although it had not sighted Skelter, the fox was moving through the field crosswise, sniffing the furrows as it went. When it reached the furrow down which Skelter was travelling, it stopped, and peered along it. Skelter remained as still as death. The fox began tracking the scent along the furrow. Soon Skelter would either have to bolt or face the consequences.

  What should he do? Make a dash for the church? What if there were no cover there? He realised, for the first time, that he had no idea if he could actually enter the building. Would there be a door open, or a hole through which he could crawl? He cursed himself for not questioning these things before he had set out on this mission. He really was a most inexperienced spy.

  Just as he was about to make a dash for the church wall, a shadow passed over him, frighteningly low. The flogre had come back, skimmed the hawthorn hedge and wheeled once around the tower. This is it, thought Skelter, it’s seen me. I’ve had it.

  The terrible form of the flogre went into its silent dive, swooping in from the direction of the tower, its shape lost in the dense greyness of the stones. Skelter could just make out the erectile crest, the bright eyes. He waited for the strike, wondering if he could stand the initial shock of those great claws snatching him from the ground. Would the impact of the strike kill him instantly? He hoped it would.

  The giant creature swept down towards him, and then, miraculously, over him, missing him by no more than three hare lengths.

  Skelter heard a sharp cry to his rear, and with his all-round vision, saw the flogre hit the furrow behind him, and come up with a struggling figure in its claws. The giant rose into the sky, a limp creature hanging from its talons, and disappeared into the gloom of the darkening upper reaches.

  Skelter made his move, scrambling through the hawthorn hedge, then skipping over the ivy-covered wall. At first his heart was beating so fast he was dashing wildly around the churchyard, in and out of the crosses and gravestones, without any real aim in mind, looking for some cover. Then at last he spotted a triangular hole in the side of one of the oblong stone tombs, and squeezed inside.

  There in the darkness, he let his heart pump out his anxiety, the sound thudding in his ears. The flogre had the young fox in its clutches, and the cycle had closed, the hunter becoming the prey. It would be tearing the creature to pieces now, all the training of its parents, all its gambolling and wrestling with its brothers and sisters, had come to nought. It had ended up as quarry for a creature that was terrorising the very animals that it terrorised itself.

  Skelter’s heart began to recover its regular beat, and he settled on the cold stone of the tomb, to await a time when he felt ready to go outside and face the next part of his ordeal. He had been lucky so far, but things had not exactly gone according to the very sparse plans he had laid for himself. It was time to assess his position, get himself back on track, and stop taking chances. He knew now that he should have taken his time and waited on the edge of the marshes for darkness to fall.

  ‘I should have waited,’ he admonished himself.

  A hollow voice echoed out of the darkness of the far corner of the tomb.

  ‘Of course you should.’

  Chapter Twenty Four

  ‘Who said that?’ cried Skelter, staring into the darkness at the back of the tomb. ‘Who’s there?’

  Skelter’s eyes could not penetrate the murk within the blocks of stone and though he was sure he was being watched intently – by one whose eyes were obviously used to the dimness – he had no idea of who or even what it was. He felt helplessly insecure. He was trapped inside the tomb, for there was certain death outside, and had to face whatever the darkness held within its musty folds.

  There was a snuffling sound and someone began to move towards Skelter. He backed up to the exit, ready to kick out if the creature turned out to be dangerous: his heart drummed in panic.

  ‘I’ve got powerful hind legs,’ he told the other occupant of the tomb, ‘and I’m not afraid to use them.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not, Skelter, but would you kick an old friend?’

  The other animal came forward and nuzzled against his face, and Skelter felt a surge of joy go through him as he recognised the scent.

  ‘Rushie?’

  ‘The very same jill.’

  ‘How did you … why … when did you … ?’

  Rushie nuzzled him again, saying, ‘Slowly, take it slowly. First you tell me what happened to you after I left that farm, and then I’ll give my own story. Come on, how did you escape? Did they put you in the hare coursing?’

  Skelter could hardly contain his feelings, but he could sense that Rushie did not want a lot of emotion poured over her, so he pulled himself together and tried to calm down.

  ‘Yes, they did put me in the coursing, but I outran the greyhounds. You should have seen me, Rushie, I was magnificent! The poor hare before me, a creature with a funny accent – he was torn to pieces by the dogs …’

  So Skelter told the tale, of how he escaped from the coursing, and of everything that had happened to him since that time. Rushie listened patiently, interrupting him only when she wanted something clarified, and encouraging him to fill her in on the tiniest details. She was especially interested in the relationship he now had with Eyebright, and questioned him quite closely on this point.

  ‘So, you share a field with this jill?’

  Skelter said, ‘More than a field, which can of course be of any size. We have two large fields actually: a meadow and a field of mustard. There’s a river at the bottom, and a stream running alongside. I’ve made friends with an otter who has his holt in the stream.’

  Rushie said, ‘You seem to have made yourself quite comfortable.’

  ‘Not bad. I owe a lot to the kindness of the creatures that I’ve met on the flatlands – Jittie the hedgehog, and one or two others. Moonhare and sunhare are a bit stuck up, but that’s because they’re leaders of the colony I expect. They’ve got a lot of responsibilities.’

  ‘So what are you doing here, at the church?’

  He told her that he had been asked to come and investigate the church tower, to see what kind of monster lived in the belfry. It was a mission, he explained to her proudly, that only a mountain hare could carry out with success, due to the fact that the field hares could not stand heights.

  ‘It seems to me they’re using you,’ replied Rushie.

  ‘No, no. I volunteered, I really did.’

  ‘Well, more fool you, mountain hare. That thing up there will eat you alive. It’s huge. I came in here to escape it, but once the darkness comes down, I’m off. That monster, whatever it is, has nearly had my pelt before.’

  Skelter stared at the eyes that were shining through the darkness now that he had got used to the lack of light.

  ‘It doesn’t seem to be an eagle – at least, not the eagles we know. Its habits are nothing like a golden eagle’s, and it’s not the same colour. It’s a kind of dirty grey, and you can’t see it in the twilight, not properly.’

  ‘I know,’ said Rushie, ‘it chased me into a wood the other day, and went from tree to tree, following me deep inside.’

  ‘There you are!’ cried Skelter, ‘Eagles don’t fly in forests, they’d get their wings caught on the branches. They’re just not equipped for it, like hawks. This can’t be an eagle if it goes into woodlands.’

  Rushie wasn’t so sure and said you couldn’t make judgements on so little evidence. Skelter wasn’t in the right frame of mind to argue with her, and anyway, he said, he was impatient to hear how she had escaped from the farm. Rushi
e then told him her own story.

  ‘You remember the man who liked jugged hare and kept staring into my cage? Well, the night I disappeared he came to my cage, opened the door, and grabbed me around the throat. Before I knew it, I was in a sack. Instead of kicking like mad, which I felt like doing, I began to gnaw at the sackcloth. Fortunately, the man had a long way to walk before we reached his house. I had a reasonable sized hole going when I heard a gate squeak and knew we had arrived at his home. Frantically I ripped away at the hole, and he felt me doing it and held up the bag, barking something in my face.

  ‘At that moment I was full of hatred for this human, and his nose was within distance of my teeth – so I bit him, sinking my teeth into that long piece of flesh.’

  ‘You didn’t?’ cried Skelter, excited.

  ‘Yes I did, very hard. So hard that he screamed and let go of the sack. I clung onto his nose for a minute or two, then dropped to the floor, ran out of the bag, and through the gate. I found a ditch and ran along it until I was exhausted, then fell asleep.’

  It seemed that Rushie had missed being a jugged hare by a very small margin of time.

  ‘Where did you go from there?’

  ‘Well, I foraged around for a bit, keeping to the hedgerows, worried about the open fields because there was no cover from eagles.’

  ‘Me too,’ replied Skelter.

  ‘Anyway, I came across a colony of hares on the mainland, and they told me there were no eagles in this part of the world, and that the only thing to beware of was foxes.’

  ‘And the flogre.’

  ‘The what?’ asked Rushie.

  ‘The flogre – the flying ogre – that creature we’re in here to avoid.’

  ‘Oh, no, not that. You have to remember, this was on the mainland. Your flying creature doesn’t venture that far from his tower. I only encountered him when I came over here, to this island or whatever it is, looking for you. Our colony on the mainland isn’t troubled by any flogre – only foxes and stoats really.’