Frost Dancers: A Story of Hares

by Garry Kilworth

  She was sometimes right, for he would stare at a Scots pine, the needles of which the ants used to build their nests, and his heart turned to amber sap, and his eyes saw the rugged hills and mountains of his birthplace.

  Yet, he was contented enough, most of the time. Eyebright was an exceptional jill and he was determined to make her his own when the frost dancing came around.

  He had to keep reminding himself that she had yet to be won, despite her obvious preference for him.

  Chapter Forty

  One hoary morning about fifty days after Skelter had rejoined the colony he woke with the blood singing in his ears. His head felt hot and his whole body was electric with excitement. There were bees, swarms of bees, buzzing in his loins. His breath was coming out short and sharp. He felt alive. He felt in prime condition. His white fur was crackling with static and his eyes were as hot as two tiny suns. At that moment if the flogre had flown over him he would have leapt a thousand feet in the air, and bitten off its head. Nothing was beyond his capability. He was immortal, invincible, hare of extraordinary powers. He was Skelter.

  Around him the world was sparkling, the sun glinting from a clear sky of thrush egg blue. Everything was bright and new and full of zest. He loved it. He loved the world. It was effervescent and he was king of the mountain, prince of the field.

  Up he went on his hind legs, chest puffed out, and walked around in a circle, staring across fields powdered with cold dust. He whistled, the sound going out like an arrow, towards the place where a husk of hares was gathering. There was a returning whistle.

  It was the frost dancing time.

  Eyebright was gone from her bed under the marble trough, and Skelter was a little hurt that she hadn’t waited for him. He set off after her, the frost flying in clouds under his feet, determined to catch up with her. He took a low hedge with the ease of a riderless hunter, sailing over it and landing in a shower of frost on the other side. Eyebright was just ahead.

  ‘Hey, wait for me!’ he cried in excitement.

  ‘Can’t!’ she called back. ‘Bad form.’

  He hardly heard her, his mind was alive with insects like jewels and there were birds in his feet.

  When he reached the totem, Eyebright was just gathering her breath. She stared at him, her eyes flashing messages and he could hardly contain his excitement. He raced around in a circle, went up on his hind legs and did a little jig to try and work off some of the excess exhilaration.

  The other hares too were in the same state of enthusiasm, even moonhare. Normally stately, dignified and reserved, moonhare was leaping and rolling, cavorting in front of Reacher, who seemed mesmerised by her behaviour. Other hares were on their hind legs, some already boxing each other, though not at all seriously yet, just warming up.

  Longrunner dashed at Eyebright and nipped her rump, and she batted him on his nose with her paw. She did not appear to be in the least bit offended by this attention from Longrunner. In fact she seemed flattered and excited by it, and for a moment Skelter faltered, realising he had a serious rival. Eyebright was fond of him, Skelter, but like all the hares, her blood was singing and all her reserve was gone. She was out of her head with the excitement of the time. She had made no promises to Skelter, nor to anyone, for that was not good form. She was still to be won, no matter how much preference she had shown for him in the past.

  This would have sobered any other creature but a hare at frost dancing time. Instead of being shocked and stunned by her behaviour, Skelter was thrilled by it. She was not just any jill, she was desired by other hares, by such strong and handsome hares as Longrunner. She was magnificent, beautiful, charged with delightful attractions. Skelter would have danced through fire for her at that moment.

  Instead, he skipped over to her on his hind legs, displaying his lean mountain hare’s body for her benefit, shouldering Longrunner out of the way as he did so.

  Her eyes sparkled, watching him sway before her.

  From her shadow world Skelter’s ghost-hare watched her charge, willing for his victory over any jacks that might battle with him for the favours of Eyebright. Skelter had always been a favourite with her, even though she had other hares to look after: she found him earthly-attractive and wistfully wondered what it would be like to have flesh around her spirit and hot blood in her veins once again. He was such an appealing jack, especially when he was on his hind legs like that, with his eyes full of fire. Such a noble visage, such muscled flanks and strong hind legs. Her body was dust, but her carnal desires remained.

  Now Longrunner knew that he was not going to get a walkover. He would have to fight the small but tough highlander, who had braved flogres in church towers, travelled on great journeys across the world, escaped a hare coursing, knew of wildcats and golden eagles, and was still alive to tell the tale. Skelter was a formidable opponent, despite his stature: a muscled little hare with the spirit of a wolf.

  Longrunner went up on his hind legs and batted Skelter lightly round the head, letting him know that the challenge had been accepted, though the fight would come in order of precedence, after the older jacks had settled their affairs and ensured their jills.

  Suddenly, all movement stopped. The hares went quiet and still, and only their steamy breath moved in the morning air. It came out in plumes from every mouth and filtered into the blueness. The frosted fields stretched away on all sides, flat and cold, a brown rise and furrow showing just here and there. The hedgerows had crystallised, the trees had petrified.

  Across Booker’s Field came a figure, a man, bearing something in his hand.

  The hares remained as still as death as the man approached, passing near the five-barred gate. His breath was coming out as sprigs of steam. It was the tractor-man and in his hand he had a small bunch of crocuses, white and yellow. He did not see the hares, though there were many around him, for his eyes were wet and his attention was on another world. He went to the foot of the tree, where the two bodies were buried, and laid the flowers on the patch of earth. Then he stood for a long time, staring down at the place, making mewling noises like a kitten with his mouth.

  Finally, he took off his flat cap, ran his fingers over his head, then turned and walked away.

  The hares waited until he was on the far side of the field, then sprang to life again, dancing and cavorting.

  The first to make a claim for Followme was of course Reacher. The sunhare went up on his strong hind legs and danced in front of moonhare, his feet spraying onlookers with frost dust and his fur scattering drops of moisture gathered from rolling on the ground.

  Fleetofoot went up to meet him after first doing a preliminary dance in front of the jill in question, as required by etiquette. Not that he wanted the matronly moonhare especially, though he would probably like to be sunhare, but more because no jill should go unchallenged. It was not very flattering to have only one hare stand up for you, and Fleetofoot was ever one for correctness and courtesy. Just because he was ready to box Reacher for his jill, did not mean he could not box again, for another female, if he lost.

  Reacher, who was the largest jack in the colony, flattened his opponent with several short sharp jabs, and then a push in the chest with both front paws. Fleetofoot went over on his back and signalled that it was all over, he accepted defeat. It was not much of a match, but then it was not expected to be, for the two jacks were just going through the motions for the benefit of moonhare, who sat looking imperious and grand as the short fight took place.

  Two more sets of hares boxed for females, then something interesting happened.

  One of the new jacks, from the marsh colony, stood up for Bittersweetinspring. Immediately, another newcomer stood up with him. They did their dances in front of the jill and then a savage battle took place. What it was all about, the tree totem hares had no idea, but obviously there were some old scores being settled here.

  The jack that had watched and waited for Racer to place his claim was called Creekcrosser, and two more different hares
were not likely to be found in any community.

  Racer was long, finely-muscled and one of the most handsome jacks ever to walk on four legs. In viewing him, Skelter had to admit a pang of envy, mixed with some other feelings concerning his old friend Rushie. He could understand however, why she had fallen for the jack, whose body was so perfect it verged on the insipid. Skelter could tell he was a total conformist, without asking any of his former colony. He looked like a hare that rarely put a paw wrong, was deferential to the colony’s elders, cared for his appearance, and ran and walked to a fine degree of excellence. Skelter found him boring, thinking that just an iota of wickedness would improve the jack no end.

  Creekcrosser, on the other side, was a rangy-looking beast, smaller in stature than Racer, but with a tough stringiness about him. His fur was slightly unkempt, as if he scorned the idea of preening himself and he had a rebellious air about him, in his face, in his demeanour. He was often close to insolent with the elders, when he believed something stupid was being said or done, and his behaviour caused much gossip among the matronly jills. He had many times been in danger of being ostracised from his old colony, though he had been a little more conservative in his ways under moonhare, who would have thrown him out much more rapidly than his old seahare.

  So these were the two combatants who were battling for Bittersweetinspring, herself a creature that jacks from her own colony were wary of standing up for. They knew her hidden ways, for though she was a very beautiful hare she was also sulky and petulant, wanting attention, yet when it was given, rejecting it with disdain.

  Creekcrosser boxed well, but his stamina was his worst enemy. He was no real match for the larger Racer and took several unnecessarily vicious blows to the face which left bloody claw marks. It was obvious to the spectators that he was likely to lose an eye or something if he continued, but he refused to give in. It seemed that nothing would make him step down, and in the end Racer began to tire a little and Creekcrosser managed to get in one or two well-placed punches himself, making his opponent’s eyes water with the sting of them.

  The eventual outcome of the match was in no doubt however, and missing several pieces of facial fur, Creekcrosser finally conceded victory, though you could tell it almost broke his heart. He limped away, having damaged his right foreleg, to the periphery of the field, to nurse his wounds. When Skelter went across to him, he found the jack almost beside himself with frustration, grinding his teeth and slamming his hind leg down on the hard frozen ground.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about losing that one,’ said Skelter, trying to cheer him up. ‘She’s not worth it. Bittersweetinspring would have given you a terrible time, with her moods …’

  ‘Who asked for your opinion?’ snapped Creekcrosser, glaring at him.

  Skelter was a little taken aback. ‘Well, no one, I just thought …?’

  ‘That’s just the trouble with you jacks, you think too much, and where did you get that stupid white coat?’

  Skelter could see what was happening now.

  ‘It’s no good picking a fight with me at the moment,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to box for my jill so I’m not going to get into any battle with you. If you think that bashing me will help rid you of your frustrations over losing to Racer, well fine, I’ll come back later and let you have a go.’

  Creekcrosser stared at him, then sighed. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that … look, you knew Rushie, didn’t you? You were her friend. How can you stand to see that obscenity on four legs walking around, getting any jill he pleases, and not feel angry? He should have protected Rushie, stood by her, instead he turned his back on her when she needed him the most. I could tear his head off and stamp it flat.’

  ‘I have no idea what went on between him and Rushie, but I’ll tell you this, Rushie was no fool. She might have fallen for his looks in the beginning, but once she found out what a shallow creature he is, she would have scorned him.’

  Skelter let this sink in before going on.

  ‘So,’ he continued, ‘you boxed Racer because of what he had done to Rushie? You didn’t actually want Bittersweetinspring – you just didn’t want him to have her? Well, my friend, I think you’ll be glad you lost, because he’s going to get a bit of a shock, that one. No doubt he’s after her because she’s beautiful, but she didn’t earn her name by being a predictable loving creature. I’ve been told she’s hell to mate with, because she encourages you one minute and rejects you right on the point of … well, to be fair to her, she’s probably getting her own back on us jacks for something that’s happened earlier in her life. I just wouldn’t want to be the scapegoat for someone else’s crimes. I tell you brother, she has moods on her that make the flogre look like a baby sparrow in comparison, and Racer is one jack that’s going to suffer. Serve him right for going for looks instead of soul, eh?’

  Creekcrosser was quiet for a minute, then wiped away a trickle of blood from his nose with his paw.

  ‘Aw,’ he said, ‘you’re all right, Skelter. I’m … I’m sorry I – you know.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘You better get back to the frost dancing – looks like Longrunner is standing up for Eyebright, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘What?’ Skelter whirled round, and indeed there was Long-runner, up on his hind legs, dancing before Eyebright. Skelter cursed. He should have been the first one up, calling for challengers, not Longrunner. Now he was already starting off at a disadvantage and Eyebright would think he was simply making a challenge for her because he was expected to, not because he wanted to. It would look to her that he had deliberately vacated his place at the dancing to get out of being the one to stand up for her first.

  He raced back to the dancing area, thinking that life was a stoat’s orphan, and somehow he always managed to get himself into trouble without really trying. Now he had to make a good showing, or spend the mating season counting the leaves appearing on the branches. Not just a good showing: he had to win. By the time he reached the circle, his heart was pounding.

  He skidded to a halt and went up on his hind legs.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said to Longrunner, hoping to make up for his errors so far by showing Eyebright how eager he was to box for her favours.

  Then he remembered he hadn’t first danced in front of his hoped-for mate – another faux pas – she would feel insulted by his casual attitude towards her.

  I’m doing really well, he told himself as he noticed the fierceness in Eyebright’s expression when she caught his eye, really well.

  Even if he won she was going to tear him limb from limb, and throw the carcass to the crows.

  Life was really a stoat’s orphan.

  Chapter Forty One

  Longrunner was quite tall when he stood on his hind legs, but he was not as stocky as Skelter. Skelter was perhaps half-a-head shorter, with shoulders thicker and stronger. His bullet head was more firmly fixed on those shoulders, too.

  Longrunner was an older jack with more experience, and had already gone through one frost dancing. Skelter had heard no ill of him though, and his character was known to be dependable, if leaning towards the stolid. The jill Longrunner had won last year had been taken by the flogre and only one of his leverets was still alive, now a yearling.

  They considered each other worthy adversaries.

  The two hares went into each other straight away, without any preliminary jigging around. Their paws flew, and though he had to reach up a little, Skelter got one or two blows into Longrunner’s face.

  Unfortunately for the highlander, his head was just the right height for Longrunner’s punches and no matter how many blows he got in, Longrunner gave him three in return. It was going to be a test of stamina, for Skelter was only going to give up when his heart gave out, and mountain hare hearts are made of good stout stuff, strengthened by highland pride.

  During the fight, Skelter’s mind kept returning to his heather-covered hills: the stone-and-turf crofts with the peat smoke curling fro
m their chests; the golden eagles gliding through the glens, with gemstone eyes and wicked beaks; the wildcats with their array of pointed weapons; the deer with their elaborate signals and visible pattering hearts; the purple saxifrage and heather forming the mountain’s skirt. This was what he was fighting for, as much as his potential mate. The homeland that he would never see again. The Screesiders amongst the rugged tumbledown rocks, dancing now on the springy turf between the boulders. All this, which he missed to the bottom of his heart, was part of his reason for needing to win.

  Once or twice both boxers glanced towards the jill they were fighting for to gauge what effect their success would have on her. It was obvious to both of them, for every time Skelter took a blow, Eyebright winced. And every time he gave a blow in return, an eager look sprang to her face.

  Longrunner redoubled his attacks on Skelter’s head, the blows stinging the highlander, driving him backwards. The two hares frequently dropped onto all fours, then came back up again onto their hind legs to renew their efforts. The fight would be over when one of them stayed down on all paws, while the other went back up. It was a furious match, with blinding blows flashing against the sparkling frost, and back legs dancing to keep the boxer’s balance.

  Skelter was forced backwards to the edge of the ring of hares, and there he dug in, held on and traded punch for punch, knowing that when he did hit, it hurt his opponent. His short legs were thick and stubby with all the strength of a climber’s shoulders behind them. His was not a clean body made for swift running on the flat – not lean and lithe – his were limbs and shoulders that were needed to power an uphill climbing run. They were not made for top speeds, but for traction and endurance, surefootedness, grip. His legs did not carry him forward, they drove him, usually onward and upward. Had he been in a race against Longrunner he would have lost, but in a boxing match he could take the blows and deal them out twice as hard.