‘Is it much further?’ she gasped.
Almost as she spoke the words, the tunnel opened up into a gallery, and the fear subsided enough for her to breathe freely again. At least when she was on her way out, she would be heading towards fresh air. She found she had to visualise her environment with organs other than her eyes, as she did on moonless nights above, sensing and smelling her surroundings.
Down here the air was stinking, stale and used, and the odour of earth was overpowering. There was a thick root like a dark-grey snake just above her head, running flush with the ceiling, and knobbled chalk-covered flints stuck out of the walls as if they had been placed purposely for their decorative effect, though they were too big to have been handled by rabbits, and must have just been exposed during the digging.
This underground world was a fascinating, terrifying place, full of ancient memories. The memories were like odours in her brain, triggering scenes that remained misty, on the edge of recognition. Unable to grasp these dream-like racial recollections, she wondered whether perhaps hares had once tunnelled like rabbits, digging deep into the earth to protect themselves from the savage monsters of prehistory. She could smell iron and bronze things buried in the walls, and old bones and old rotting birchwood twigs laid like a path running just above their heads. The earth was full of heavy stones, some as large as her highland crags, suspended by the dense material that held them there.
Rushie was in the belly of a monster.
Chapter Thirty
Rushie heard La framboise say to her, ‘Well, so you’re a friend of Skelter’s, from his old country? Have you travelled all that way to seek him out?’
Rushie explained to La framboise that she had been among the same batch of hares carried south for the purpose of hare coursing, as Skelter. She said that she herself had managed to escape before the coursing and had made her home among a hare colony on the edge of the marshes.
‘I know the one,’ said La framboise.
‘Now,’ Rushie explained, ‘I’m trying to find out what has happened to Skelter. It may be that he’s dead – killed by the flogre. But it’s also possible that he’s lying wounded somewhere and needs help. I came to see if you rabbits had any ideas which would help me in my search.’
At that moment another large rabbit arrived in the chamber.
Rushie could sense the newcomer close by when a voice, undoubtedly that of a buck, asked, ‘What have we here? A scent I don’t recognise.’ There was authority in the tone, yet it was not unfriendly.
‘Ah, L’herbe, we have a visitor. An old friend of Skelter, from the mountains that he talked about so much.’
‘Hello,’ said L’herbe. ‘You’ve come looking for him, I suppose? I heard he went missing.’
‘Yes, I was just asking La framboise here, if she had any ideas where I might start searching?’
‘Well, I’m sorry to say,’ replied L’herbe, ‘that he hasn’t been here. No one has seen him since he left the warren, though we hear of him from time to time. News travels fast amongst rabbits – we cover the territory. I’d like to be of help – Skelter is a favourite of ours – but we’ve nothing to offer.’
Disappointed, Rushie thanked the buck. ‘You were my last chance, I don’t know what to do now. Accept the fact that he’s gone I suppose, and get on with my own life,’ she said, stoically.
La framboise was sympathetic. ‘Were you mates?’ she asked.
‘No, not really. Just friends – good friends. Skelter and I grew up together: he was my link with the old life, with the mountains. I shall miss him very much, even though we have only spoken once in the past few months. He was always there, close by, if I needed him.’
‘Nothing for it, I’m afraid,’ confirmed L’herbe, ‘but to accept the inevitable. Hares and rabbits get killed every day. It’s a fact of life. Nature has marked us down as the prey, and predators need meat to live.’
‘Yes, but we don’t have to like them for it, do we?’ said La framboise.
‘No, but we must accept it.’
Finding she could do nothing further there, and feeling the oppressiveness of the warren weighing her down, Rushie decided to leave. She wondered how Skelter had managed to keep his sanity down here in the hot fetid air of the warren for the length of time that he had been with the rabbits. She mentioned this to the two rabbits.
‘Oh,’ said L’herbe, ‘he didn’t stay down here. This is one of the deepest galleries. We put him up near the badgers, close to the surface. He could see a bit of light from where he was.’
‘Near the badgers?’ gasped Rushie.
‘Yes, that was his reaction too, at the time, but we get on all right with them, actually. And though they complained about Skelter’s noisy habits – I suppose he got restless down here with us rabbits on occasion – they thought he was all right – for a hare, that is. Badgers complain about anything and everything.’
Rushie tried to imagine Skelter with badgers for near neighbours and the image was one which sent shivers down her spine. She thanked La framboise and L’herbe for their hospitality, then went back up the tunnel which had caused her so much concern on the downward trip. It was not half so bad going up, but she was pleased to reach the surface anyway.
The trees were still tossing their crests. The light was beginning to filter in from the east. She wondered whether it might not be wiser to stay in the wood until dawn had passed into day, but she hated the denseness of the woodland and the solid lumps of darkness it trapped beneath it. She knew that trees did not stop the flogre in any case, and she would have to go underground again to protect herself. That was definitely out. There was no way she was going back down that hole.
It was best to make for open country, where she might find a place to nestle until the daylight came.
On the edge of the wood there was someone waiting for her. It was Creekcrosser, as scruffy as ever, but she was pleased to see him nonetheless. He shuffled his feet awkwardly when he noticed her gaze was on him.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘Came looking for you. I saw you come back across the causeway, so I followed you.’
‘Whatever for?’
Creekcrosser shrugged. ‘Thought you might need help.’
Rushie said, ‘I can look after myself.’
‘I know that, but two’s company, isn’t it? Anyway, I’ve got something to say to you. I’ve decided I’m going to box for you, when the frost dancing comes round.’ He stuck out his jaw belligerently. ‘What do you say to that then?’
‘You? Box for me? I – I don’t know what to say. I think you’re making a mistake, Creekcrosser. You know I’ve promised Racer.’
‘I know that, but I’ll fight him anyway. That’s if you have no objection.’
She was concerned.
‘I can’t withdraw my promise to him. It’s been made, for better or for worse. It would be wrong of me to support you, you know that.’
‘I don’t know anything of the sort,’ he retorted. ‘You put too fine a point on what’s expected of you. Customs were made to be broken when you get hares like Racer. He would kick you out of the way if it suited his purpose, quicker than that.’
Rushie shrugged.
‘I don’t know about that, I think you’re being too hard on him. He’s very sensitive about his image, that’s all. You can’t blame him totally, it’s partly the colony’s fault – it expects perfection. I think I understand Racer and I know that deep down he’s a fine creature.’
‘Well I’ve known him longer than you and forgive me if I snort in disgust.’
Rushie said, ‘You’re rivals. You’re bound to think badly of him.’
‘Can we drop it now?’ asked Creekcrosser. ‘He’s not my favourite subject. I’ve told you what I intend to do and if you’re not dead set against me I’m giving it a try. Maybe I’ll lose – there’s a strong possibility of that – but I would regret it for the rest of my life if I let the opportunity go by. I don’t want any
of the other jills – they’re all too insipid for me …’
‘Oh, I think you’re being too hard on them, too.’
‘That’s one thing I don’t like about you, you think well of everyone. I expect if the flogre came swooping down and snatched your leverets you’d forgive him, wouldn’t you?’
His reminder made Rushie look up at the sky, and she saw that it was a murky grey.
‘We’d better be getting on,’ she said.
They headed for a ditch that they could travel along until they reached a point where they would have to break across open country. Two fields away, there was an overhanging drystone wall, at the bottom of which they could crouch until the sun was fully up. There were hollows beneath the stones that would hold a hare safe.
The two hares travelled along the ditch, a haunt of stoats, hoping they would not come across another predator in their efforts to avoid the creature in the sky. Rushie guessed they were barely on the periphery of the flogre’s hunting ground but it was an unpredictable creature and on occasions extended its territory beyond its normal boundaries.
At the end of the ditch they came up into a meadow of short grass where cattle had been grazing recently. They launched themselves over this, racing for the distant wall, knowing that once they reached this point, they could use the stonework to protect themselves.
Creekcrosser was about three lengths behind Rushie when she saw the shadow on the ground, moving in rapidly from the east. Without looking up she knew it was a huge bird, the bizarre shape unmistakable to her, with its short wingspan and fan tail. It was the flogre, larger than a golden eagle, more athletic, and possessing a more developed manoeuvrability. The situation was desperate, though Creekcrosser was in a worse position than she, and was more likely to be the chosen victim.
It was a matter of survival, she could do nothing to help the jack behind her, and she increased her speed. The adrenalin coursed through her body, driving her to a swiftness she had never before attained. Creekcrosser was somewhere further back, still in the open field, when she was almost at the wall. She allowed her companion a brief compassionate thought, before diving for the cover of the stonework.
Then came the hit.
Rushie’s breath left her body as she felt the cruel claws snatch her from the turf and carry her through the whistling air, into the sky. In an instant the world was a patchwork below her, as if she were standing on the highest peak of the northern mountains, looking over a sheer edge. It was a sickening, dizzying experience, and her body went rigid with fear. There was nothing below her but rushing air and flatlands. She could see the ocean, the creeks in their crazy patterns, the fields and their borders. The talons of the flogre were piercing her skin, causing her great pain, but terror overruled the hurt, dominating her heart and her head.
She struggled a little, trying to ignore the pain, attempting to make the flogre drop her to a swift death. But its cruel ridged claws had muscles and tendons that would need a machine to open. Certainly no hare could do it.
Chapter Thirty One
Bubba was very pleased with himself. At last he had caught the hare that had been giving him so much trouble over the past season. It had even crossed from the island to the marshes to teach the hares in that district how to avoid Bubba by digging little holes in the ground. Well now he had the magical hare he was going to make it suffer. Since this was no ordinary hare, it would suffer no ordinary death. Only those creatures with whom Bubba was pleased were given the honour of being torn to pieces and eaten. This one was the first animal that had ever made Bubba angry, and for that it was going to agonise in some way yet to be thought of by Bubba.
He swept down to the martello tower through the hole in the roof, and dropped the hare on the floor. It lay there, stupefied and still, in the dust and grime of the dim room. Bubba’s bone collection had begun to build up again, though he had nowhere near the same number he had gathered in the old tower. The creature on the floor stared at these bones with fixed glazed eyes, as if they represented some kind of hope for it. There was no hope. Once a creature came into Bubba’s possession, it never escaped.
—Tower, what shall I do with this strange hare?
—Give it to me, Bubba. You have enough to eat. Let me torture this one to death.
—You mean starve it?
—Yes. Leave it here, inside my stone belly. It can’t escape. There is only one way out for creatures who can’t fly, and that involves a drop long enough to break a hare’s back. All it can do is run around in here, looking for a way out, when there is no exit.
Bubba considered this very carefully. The exit to the room was halfway up the tower, which itself was six or seven times the height of a man. The hare could not escape through the hole in the ceiling because it couldn’t fly. Hares hated heights. Bubba knew that because they screamed when he took them aloft, and their teeth chattered in fear.
Bubba reminded himself that he had previously believed this was a magical hare. It was true that it had managed to climb the steps to the old tower. But then the old tower was easy to climb from the inside. This new tower had no steps, and if the hare was a good sorcerer, it would have made itself vanish, or would have destroyed Bubba, even before Bubba had climbed up to the clouds with it in his claws.
Bubba came to the conclusion that this hare did not have the kind of magic that allowed it to do supernatural things, but rather the kind that allowed it to foresee events. It could invent things to protect other hares and it knew when Bubba was in the sky, but it could not do enchantments. It could not save itself from an impossible situation. This was a satisfactory discovery.
The hare moved in the dust at his feet. He pecked its back, but not hard enough to cause it great harm, just enough to make it cower in fright.
It was probably wondering when Bubba was going to begin eating it.
Bubba flew up to the hole in the ceiling and stood on the broken edge, looking down. The hare squirmed below him, making for the shadows on the periphery of the circular room. That was all right. Let it search. Let it seek a way out. There was no way out.
Bubba unfolded his wings and took to the airways. He searched the immediate area, finding nothing of interest. Then he noticed a formation of large birds on the horizon. A skein of geese was coming in from the north. This looked promising. Bubba preferred the meat of mammals but birds would do in a pinch. He was not confident enough to take one on the wing – that was not his way – but once the geese landed it would be a different matter.
He circled the sky, watching the flock looking for a landing space. The geese were exhausted, obviously having flown a long way. Bubba was aware that birds came and went, flying long distances to reach warmer climates, or arriving from colder ones, and he thought the whole business unnecessary. What was wrong with these creatures, that they could not stand a little cold? He, Bubba, was not a native cold-climate creature. There were in his hazy egg-memories, remembrances of a hot humid place where the air was heavy and lethargic. He had been born in a land whose inhabitants moved slowly through the day, the heat causing drowsiness and languor among the creatures of its green waxy bosom.
Yet Bubba had adapted to the cold, and scorned those who migrated to escape a little frost and ice.
The geese landed, winding in their necks, padding about on the mud of the estuary with their great ungainly feet. Bubba chose his victim, a large goose that was obviously very tired from its flight across the ocean. The creature was completely unsuspecting of the danger from above since it was in a country where there were no flying predators that would bother a bird the size of a goose.
Bubba landed with a thud on the back of the goose and silenced its rhonking within seconds. The rest of the flock scattered, running for take-off, their exhausted wings beating frantically. There was much noise and excitement. Once they were up off the ground they formed a ragged flight pattern, and went rippling over the landscape to find another area in which to rest, away from monsters that fell out of nowher
e and killed you where you stood.
The day was coming in fast now but Bubba decided to eat his food on the spot. The large goose was a dead weight and rather than carry the whole of it back to the tower it was best to eat his fill first and then take back the remains.
Bubba gorged, tearing and ripping away at the corpse, scattering feathers and pieces of skin. Later the kill would be blamed on foxes by man and beast.
When his hunger had been satisfied, Bubba grasped the shapeless piece of flesh in his talons and took to the air again, heading directly for the tower. Once there, he dropped the carcass through the hole in the roof and then landed on its edge to peer down into the gloom.
For a moment, his heart skipped, thinking that despite all his calculations the little hare had escaped. But no, there it was, tight against the wall, clinging to the shadows. Bubba was happy with his prisoner. Bubba dropped down inside the room, his hard claws scraping on brickwork. There he played with the carcass for a while, tearing off small strips and forcing them down his throat.
The hare watched him from the darkness.
Bubba ignored the creature, aware that it was suffering. It was enough to know that the hare was terrified, and would remain so, as it slowly starved to death.
A little later, Bubba fell asleep.
PART FIVE
The Magical Hare
Chapter Thirty Two
Since hares have always been herbivores and quarry for the predators their history is somewhat placid. They have no great wars of which to boast, no legendary warriors to revere, no conquering heroes to hail. Only the great Kicker, who is regarded as more of a god than a hero, has any prominence in their history. It is true that their one great claim to fame can be found in their feet: hares are swift runners and proud of their speed. However, this quickness in their legs has been employed mainly in the art of escape, not for any positive action against an enemy.
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