Frost Dancers: A Story of Hares

by Garry Kilworth

  ‘So, you think you may be wrong about the place, and I’m probably right.’

  Skelter spat out a stringy piece of weed. ‘Yes, to be quite frank, I think you’re the one who’s right, and I’m wrong after all.’

  ‘Well, I must say I’m very relieved.’

  Skelter munched away on some toadstools. ‘It’s nice that you thought so far ahead,’ he said, ‘and prepared the place for us.’

  She nodded and joined with him in the toadstools. ‘Well, not so much us as me and whoever,’ she remarked.

  ‘You and who?’ he said, his head jerking up.

  ‘Precisely,’ Eyebright said lightly, ‘I mean, I didn’t know which jack I would end up with at the time, did I? It could have been Longrunner.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Skelter coldly, ‘I thought you were dead set on having me?’

  ‘I was, but I had to make contingency plans, didn’t I? In case you lost the boxing. I mean, I wanted you, but if I didn’t get you, well, I needed some or other jack to father my leverets.’

  Skelter sighed, trying to make light of the hurt he felt, when he thought of her with some other jack. It was a very unpleasant image, and not one he liked to think she had considered very seriously.

  ‘You would have been upset if I hadn’t boxed for you though, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes – but Longrunner’s not such a bad type. He’s very upright, honest and courteous and we would have got on quite well I think.’

  ‘A bit boring though, eh? Longrunner?’

  ‘Depends what you want in a jack. A good provider and father, or a partner that’s dashing and exciting. Some of these things wear off, after a while, especially when the young come along.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure, but I can be a good provider and father too.’

  Eyebright said sweetly, ‘We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we? I mean, you haven’t had a chance to prove yourself yet, have you?’

  Skelter felt very cast down at these words.

  They ate in silence together for a long while, before Eyebright said, ‘I’m off out into the fields, to look for some vegetables. You’re the best jack I could ever wish for, but next time you want to play subtle games with me make sure you know the rules, and do brush up your skills a little.’

  With that, she walked away through a hole in the long straight hedge. Skelter stared after her, then narrowed his eyes, taking in the combed furrows and ridges of the neat field, and the arrow-straight ditch. Somewhere along the line he had been fooled, but precisely when and how, he was still not sure. He knew one thing: there wouldn’t be a next time. He wasn’t going to get himself into a mess like that again.

  Much to the annoyance of moonhare and her colony, a warren of rabbits arrived to take possession of the corner of the field, under the big tree where the human bodies were buried. The rabbits had been chased away from their old home, which had been on the edge of the village, when a new house was built right on the spot where their previous warren was located.

  There was very little discourse between the rabbits and the hares, for the two do not make good neighbours, and most of the colony thoroughly resented the encroachment. No real trouble ensued, for hares and rabbits do not make war on each other, but the hares remarked that the atmosphere was less pleasant than it used to be. Hares, and it has to be said, other mammals with fussy ideas about straight lines and tidy surrounds, maintain that rabbits have unsociable habits, and leave the feeding grounds in such an unsavoury condition that those who follow have to wade through mess in search of a clear eating place.

  The rabbits affected an air of indifference to the snobbishness of the hares, and went about their task of burrowing their new home with no apology on their lips, nor any attempt at conciliation. They sent no envoys to the hares, saying, ‘Do you mind if we …?’ The rabbits simply arrived with all the mayhem created by a motley murder of crows, chattering excitedly, the younger ones dashing out into Booker’s Field to play on the roots of the hare totem (an act which horrified Headinthemist), the does getting on with digging the holes, while the bucks wandered around looking important and pointing out the advantages of the spot to one another. One of them ate the day-old bouquet of crocuses that lay on the patch around which their females were hard at work.

  During their digging the does found bits of cloth and leather, which they dragged out with irritation, and left to litter the field. The hares were disgusted by this disregard for the environment, but they certainly were not going to clear up behind a bunch of manmade mammals that lived in dark underground passages and gave each other feline-sounding names.

  So, the rabbits installed themselves, and there was little the hares could do about it except grumble.

  Skelter, who was not as concerned by tidiness as the brown hares, tried to establish contact with the warren, but they were not interested in forming any sort of relationship with a hare, especially a blue one from the mountains. They kept themselves to themselves (they said) and bothered no one.

  Unfortunately for the rabbits, though the hares had quite the opposite opinion, their untidy habits caused them to be moved on yet again, to the wood where Eyebright and Skelter’s leverets were conceived. Skelter witnessed the whole incident.

  A passerby, a harmless elderly human who walked with a stick and was often seen strolling across the fields, came through the area the evening after the rabbits had settled themselves. Normally the walker would not pass that place, for it was not a footpath, but many of the fields were still covered in shallow water and in order to avoid the flooded areas the man came through the five-barred gate and along the edge of the ditch. When he reached the place where the rabbits had scattered bits of cloth and leather over the furrows, he stopped and looked about him, and finally with a little effort reached down and picked up an oblong leather pouch that the rabbits had kicked out.

  The white-haired man began investigating this leather pouch, taking out soggy pieces of paper and staring at them. The hares were willing him to stay around until after dusk, for the flogre would not attack them while a human was so close at hand, but as the light was fading the old man hurried away.

  The following morning six or seven men dressed in blue uniforms arrived with the old man, all barking at one another excitedly. The old man was pointing to the bits of cloth on the ground, but when he tried to pick one up, a man in blue yelped at him, and he left it alone. Some workmen then arrived and began digging with spades. It was at this point that the rabbits began filing out of their bolt hole in Poggrin Meadow on the other side of the hedge and running for the far wood. Some of them no doubt thought the hares were responsible for this terrible invasion of their privacy, but were at a loss as to explain how.

  During the morning the two decomposed bodies of the couple shot by the tractor-man were uncovered, and a foul stink polluted the air around the colony. None of the humans were worried about the presence of the hares, and while there were no guns or dogs in evidence, the hares were not too concerned about the humans. The hares kept their distance of course, most of them moving into Poggrin Meadow, and continuing the frost dancing under a crack willow out of sight of the activity, but there was no great alarm. The hares knew that the humans would only be around for a short while, for there were no houses to keep them out in the fields.

  More humans arrived, until there was a huge crowd. The farmer began barking at the men in blue, and soon most of the people were sent away, tramping over the farmer’s field and causing him to suffer a mild bout of apoplexy. On the edge of the crowd, the hares noticed, stood the tractor-man looking edgy and anxious, peering over the shoulders of those who went forward to view the corpses, only to reel back clutching their noses and mouths when they got too close. The hares wondered what the tractor-man was doing in that awful mêlée, instead of sitting in the chugging symbol for happiness, a place of blissful contentment.

  After a while, they saw him leave the crowd, pale and clearly nervous, to lean on their symbol for long life, the five-b
arred gate, and stare at their dances in Poggrin Meadow. Now that the winter was over they knew he would be by soon with a saw and timber, hammer and nails, paint brush and green paint, to carry out the tri-annual ceremony of renewal which ensured the immortality of the five-barred gate. They looked forward to this, for hares love the smell of recently cut timber, and the odour of fresh paint. And of course they delighted in witnessing the rejuvenation of their great symbol for longevity at the hands of their respected tractor-man.

  Happiness and long life – these were the two important aspects of existence entrusted to the tractor-man, who had never been known to fail the hares yet.

  The remains of the dead humans were carried away, and life returned to normal in Booker’s Field, and of course, the rabbits had gone for good and all.

  Chapter Forty Three

  Bubba knew that the magical hare was back, to torment him again, to thwart his desired feeding. It had taught the other hares how to use logs and rocks to avoid Bubba’s deadly beak and claws.

  There were dark forces at work here which were moving against Bubba, for he was certain the hare had died. How could it have lived, so close to starvation? Some magic had surely revived the creature, had rescued it from the grave and brought it back to plague the flier born of man, who needed meat in vast amounts. Certainly it had not been with the other hares during the winter months.

  —Tower, what am I to do?

  —What has been deprived of life before, can be killed again, Bubba.

  —But it will return to haunt me.

  —Not if this time you devour it.

  How wise the tower was. Bubba shuffled on his shelf in the martello tower, thinking that next time he caught the hare, and he would catch it again, he would eat it on the spot, fur, bones and all. There would be nothing left of the creature to bring back to life. Perhaps when he had eaten it, Bubba too would be magic, as well as physically powerful?

  Winter was on its way northwards, forced upwards by the springtime that had spent months gathering strength in the south and was now putting its shoulders against the ice and snow, pushing it back towards the pole where it rightly belonged. Bubba was glad of this in one way, but not in another.

  The days were becoming lighter, and brighter, and it was getting dangerous to venture far from the tower. The greyness was no longer there to mask his movements. His hunting was now confined to the marshland around him, at dusk and dawn, except on stormy days. The hare population had been depleted, and he was no longer able to find the creatures. He was surprised how much his craving for hare meat had increased, now that he was no longer able to get it.

  There was plenty of other wildlife to be had of course, from stubborn grey herons to stupid rabbits, but Bubba did not just want food, he wanted the food he wanted. It was not right that a small creature like a hare should dictate to Bubba what he could or could not have for his diet.

  Bubba went up in the dusks and dawns, patrolling the marshlands, dropping, snatching, feeding, gradually depleting the area of all mammals and birds. The other predators starved because of his voracious appetite and moved into other areas, causing a rolling effect amongst their kind.

  Life for Bubba was like a slow dream of drifting in dark grey skies, the marshes sliding away beneath him, racing towards the far horizons. In the skies he was lord, his eyes unmatched for keenness, his size frightening the other birds. Flocks would wheel away from him, heading out to sea, hoping he would not follow. Sometimes he would, just for the sport, fly over the restless waves with their sprigs of white that flourished and died within the moment. Life was like a dream, a drifting dream, that held him aloft and bore him on its soft shoulders.

  In the tower he had much time to think, and sometimes he lost himself within himself, and only the fading or the rising sun was able to rescue him from drowning in himself. Surrounded by the old stones, he was like the live grey centre of the world: a savage core that sprouted talons and beak enough to rip the heart out of a man.

  Chapter Forty Four

  Before the birth of Eyebright’s leverets a high wind came to devastate the countryside. It began as a sharp but fairly gentle breeze from the east, and swiftly grew to hurricane proportions. The east was the birthplace of many of the worst winds to hit the island, there being nothing to stop them from sweeping across the sea and attacking the flatlands.

  Skelter had been out to the north, foraging, and when he returned he had to cross a road to reach the meadowland that led to Booker’s Field. The wind was already gusting and racing in circles, stirring up the twigs and grasses and scattering rubbish over the hedgerows. It was throwing rooks around as if they were single feathers and tossing their nests from the high elms, out into the fields. Other birds had vacated the skies, having found themselves niches in the landscape, to wait out the anger of the air.

  Skelter hated crossing roads, even though traffic on the island was fairly light, for many cars were so fast you couldn’t see them coming. It was best to stop and listen for a while, until you were sure that a quick dash was safe, then sprint over the tarmac. Even this method was not foolproof.

  Coming out of a ditch into the long grasses at the edge of the lane Skelter approached the edge of the asphalt. Then, as he paused for a moment, he looked along the roadway and saw something on its surface that gave him a jolt. He hare-walked along the periphery, about seven lengths, before making his dash. On his way across, he confirmed what he thought he had seen. It was a squashed Jittie, flattened onto the tarmac. He recognised her little snout, and her protective bristles.

  Filled with sadness, he stared back at the sight from the other side of the road, wondering how she had managed to get herself killed. She had been quite fast on her feet when she wanted to be, and could sprint as quickly as most mammals. No doubt she had come out of her winter sleep, from a hidey hole filled with old leaves, and had been groggy and disorientated. Maybe she staggered around for a while, before absently crossing the road, having lost all concentration. It was she who had told Skelter how dangerous it was to hibernate, for she had to slow her heart rate down almost to a stop. Such a state must need some considerable recovery time.

  Well, she was gone now, and no goodbyes had been said. He owed a lot to Jittie and would like to have told her so.

  Skelter continued his journey with a heavy heart. Eyebright would sympathise of course, but she would not understand how close the two of them had been, for to her Jittie had just been another grumpy neighbour. He would have to bear this hurt by himself.

  It was now mid-day and the gusts increased in force, until Skelter realised this was no ordinary wind. It began tearing cabbages from the ground and rolling them like balls across the fields. Some of the thinner branches of the trees were beginning to crack and go spinning away. The old leaves left by autumn took on a new lease of movement, and became animated travellers, filling the air with their brown corpses.

  The blue hare sheltered behind a log for a while, to catch his breath. Each time he went out in the wind, he was robbed of air, and he did not like the way the wind rushed up his nose. It made him snort involuntarily. The sensible thing to do, he supposed, was to stay where he was, but Eyebright was in a delicate condition and he wanted to be with her, to offer her company, assistance and comfort if it was required. Her belly was now round with the little ones, and she was very protective of herself for that reason. He ought to be with her.

  While he was behind the log, someone got blown off their feet and went rolling by. Then the creature recovered its legs and managed to scramble behind the log at the far end.

  Skelter’s fur stood on end. The animal was an adult male stoat, the largest of his kind, halfway through moulting its winter coat. Rusty brown patches showed through the arching white of its back.

  The hare was still out of breath, and though his back legs were primed for the bolt, he remained where he was, alert and watchful. The stoat stared back at him intensely, with eyes as red as glowing berries. Neither animal moved a
muscle, as they both recovered their breath.

  Stoats were lithe dancers, like hares, only their swaying performances were dances of death. They went up on their hind legs, tall and willow-wandy, and swayed back and forth, mesmerising their victims. Their hypnotic eyes would hold the eyes of the prey as they danced forward slowly until they were within striking distance. Then they would leap for the head and sink those needle-like incisors into the back of the neck, and blood would flow. Usually the stoat’s victims were rabbits or other smaller mammals, but Skelter knew that they would take on a hare if they felt they could get away with it.

  ‘Hwit hara!’ said the stoat in its harsh tongue.

  Skelter said nothing, not understanding the archaic language of badgers, weasels and stoats.

  It was repeated, several times.

  ‘Hwit hara. Hwit hara.’

  The stoat looked down at its own coat, and then stared at Skelter’s pelage, before saying it one last time.

  Then Skelter understood. He still had the vestiges of his white coat himself. The stoat had obviously never seen a hare whose fur changed in the winter. The stoat nodded slowly and put his head on one side in an unusual gesture.

  Skelter had the strange feeling, as the wind raged round him and this other ancient creature of the landscape, that they were caught in a kind of brotherhood: winter souls meeting on the windy plains of the flatlands. There was a rare truce between them for the moment, allowable by the unusual circumstances of the weather, in which they could study one another closely.

  For Skelter, the atmosphere was sinister yet exciting, and his feelings were at needle-point. This was the second time he had encountered a stoat in the flatlands. The first had been that stoat in the rabbit warren, chased away by the badgers. There he had felt nothing but terror. This unique time there was the fear, but it was a calm terror, which could be examined minutely with fascination. It was a strange glittering thing, a dreadful jewel that one possessed and wanted to cast off, but whose deadly beauty forbade such action.