by Pat O'Shea
Between mouthfuls, she said:
‘It’s nice in this place. All the things are nice and the fields are so small and neat, they look like dolls’ fields.’
‘The same fields have fed the people over and over again from the first; mother and father to us all—the lovely green fields, bless them forever,’ said Old Daire gravely.
‘More bread and butter, please,’ Brigit said.
Daire passed her the plate and took her hand as she reached out.
‘This little hand will do something big,’ he said, and Brigit reddened with pleasure.
‘When?’ she asked.
‘In time,’ he said.
Pidge noted this with a feeling of gratitude; it promised well for the future. As he ate, he looked at the people who had been such good friends. They all had a look of Daire and Finn, and were dressed as they were, in the bluish-grey homespuns. The clothes were all made out of new cloth, it appeared; not even one patch, although they were working clothes. Even as he looked at Daire’s sleeveless jacket, a patch was there just under his left arm; but done very neatly. I was wrong, he thought, and finished his eggs.
One of the women was admiring Brigit’s brooch and saying how nice it looked. She reached over and touched the little silver bow and arrow with hands that had never known rough work, Pidge saw.
‘You’d best be off now,’ Old Daire said when they’d finished and eaten all that they needed. ‘I’m sure you have a long way to go.’
‘Thank you for everything,’ Pidge said awkwardly, not yet old enough to say words of indebtedness to older people easily and on an equal-footing, and not young enough like Brigit to just let it trip off his tongue.
‘You have lovely plates and eggcups,’ she said enviously. ‘Thank you for my breakfast.’
Old Daire held out his hand to say goodbye. Brigit settled her satchel on her shoulder and shook hands.
Old Daire then took Pidge’s hand.
‘You’re one of those quiet, steady ones who sees a lot and says nothing.’
‘I didn’t know that; I suppose I am,’ Pidge said, slightly surprised.
‘You’ll show them the way,’ Old Daire ordered Finn, hitting him with his cap.
Finn’s gaze was directed back at the spot high up on the rim, where they had first come into the valley. He gave a low whistle and all of the people, even those at the greatest distance away, stopped work and looked at him.
They followed his gaze at once, everyone turning to face the ridge and stare at the hounds on the skyline.
It all went very still.
The columns of smoke that had been rising in straight unruffled lines, suddenly bent at right angles when they were level with the rim and drifted to form a swirling thick blanket, that carried right to the edge where the dogs were now watching. There, it gathered and thickened even more and billowed out at either side; a grey and yellow mass that screened all that was in the valley from the dogs’ eyes.
Finn hoisted Brigit onto his back and motioned to Pidge to follow. He then went, not by the road, but through the remaining fields, to the way out of the valley. It was a dark tunnel, hidden by growth, and he silently led the way, out to the countryside beyond.
By a huge thorntree, he stopped and set Brigit onto the ground. He bent and plucked a dandelion clock which he gave to Pidge.
‘Run,’ he said. ‘Keep running until the last seed remains—then stop.’
And then he was gone.
While Pidge took a moment to look about him, wondering which way to go, Brigit began to search the ground in a frantic, angry way.
‘I’ve lost my brooch,’ she said furiously.
‘Oh no! Not now! We’re supposed to be running!’
‘I’m not going without it,’ she said hotly, as if she thought he might argue with her.
‘Of course you can’t go without it,’ he said glumly, and together they went back through the tunnel, searching all the way.
They had to go all the way back before they saw it lying on a bit of grass, just inside the valley. Brigit snatched it up and Pidge helped her to pin it back on her cardigan, fumbling a bit because he was anxious to be gone.
Naturally, they both had a quick look to see if the smoke was still working, and saw that it was thicker than ever. But all of the people had vanished; perhaps into their houses, and hundreds of hares had come out to play; boxing and jumping about and chasing each other in their usual, crazy way. The donkey-herd was no longer there; instead nibbling the grass, there were well-bred horses; and that was odd too.
They went back though the tunnel and stood again by the thorntree.
‘Hold my hand, Brigit,’ said Pidge and they ran.
Chapter 12
THEY went swiftly and easily because of the herbs they had eaten; Pidge with the fluffy little dome held out in front, where he could watch it. As they sped along, some dandelion parachutes pulled free and drifted. Pidge snatched a look behind and could not be sure that the Hidden Valley had not changed into a hill-fort, already diminished in the distance behind.
They flashed over moorland, turf-bogs and streams. They pounced at and leaped over ditches, brooks and small boulders. They swept round small lakes and young spinneys and skirted spongy clots of moss, and ran over flat pasturage and lumpy, sedgy ground where water tumbled into suds and made bubbling pools.
And the parachutes blew away, spasmodically.
It was taking a long time.
The sun moved and the shadows changed; the day had a different feeling to that of morning-time. They felt not the smallest bit tired. Brigit chattered about the things that caught her eye as they passed by, but never once asked to stop either to play or explore, in all that time.
It came to it, at last.
Two parachutes remained.
When one went sideways and took off, they immediately stopped running.
‘We’re supposed to walk now,’ Pidge said, although he knew inside himself that they could still run fast if they wanted to.
The last parachute fell and he threw the stalk away.
Close by was a large crag, sheer but for one sloping side. Wishing to know how far they had come, they climbed to its top to try to find out. For a few quiet moments they stood looking back, surveying the astonishing distance they had travelled. There was no sign at all of the Hidden Valley or anything even resembling it.
Even as they watched, the far-off shapes of the hounds appeared, seeming to rise out of the ground because they were so remote; but running marvellously.
Perhaps because he was instinctively looking for them, Pidge saw them first.
‘Would you ever believe it; they’ve found us already,’ he said softly.
‘Where?’
He pointed.
‘Way back over there? Do you see them moving?’
‘Oh yes. They look so small—like rabbits. I hope they all break a leg!’
‘We must walk on as if they’re not even there. Right, Brigit?’
‘Right!’
They scrambled and slithered down from the crag and set off to walk to wherever they were going.
‘How could we run so well, Pidge?’ Brigit asked.
‘Something in the food or drink that Old Daire gave us, I expect. Funny how Finn knew when exactly that we should stop running; yet I don’t think those people were Gods of any kind—just a bit strange, maybe.’
At frequent intervals he looked back to check on the hounds’ progress and the hairs rose on the back of his neck to see how quickly they were gaining. He saw Brigit shudder.
But the hounds didn’t want to catch up, it seemed.
When they reached a certain position in relation to where Brigit and Pidge walked, they stopped running. Keeping this distance, they appeared content to simply track after them. Sometimes they had to trot for a little while to keep the space between them more or less unaltered; but mostly they managed this by just walking. Pidge saw this with the greatest relief.
As time passed, t
he children became slowly used to the fact that the hounds were following after them. If they turned round some big obstacle or were hidden from view for some time by trees or scrubland, the hounds made no attempt to shorten the gap. Twice in full sight of them, and even though Pidge said not to, Brigit stopped to pick a flower to find out what they would do. Each time, the hounds immediately dropped to the ground and lay still as carvings, while they waited. A few times, when they knew that they could not be seen, the children ran for a short stretch, always being careful to stop and walk in plenty of time. It turned into a pattern in due course.
Brigit started to lag behind.
Pidge was instantly worried when he noticed that she was limping slightly.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve a stone in my sock. I’ll have to sit down and get it out,’ she said glumly.
‘That’s all right; they won’t try to catch up. I was afraid it was a sprain.’
He smiled encouragingly at her and looked for somewhere nice for her to sit.
There was a massive old fallen tree-trunk to the right of them. Moss grew on it in patches with some green mould and a few baby ferns stuck up like bright, green feathers, and there was a great tough old fungus, sort of blue-grey, that grew at an angle and made the old tree give the impression that it was wearing a cap at a jaunty angle. With all its decorations, the tree looked very attractive. The ground beneath and in front of it was covered with very fine, soft grass, thick and inviting.
They sat there and Brigit took off her sandal and her sock.
A little whispering voice, from somewhere up above them, said:
‘I think he should be given a good, hard pinch.’
A different little whispering voice answered in agreement:
‘That’s what I think. A good old pinch would do him no harm at all.’
A whole chorus of similar little voices joined in, all agreeing that what ‘he’ needed was ‘a good, old pinch.’
Some said: ‘It would bring him to his senses.’
Others said: ‘There’s no cure like a good, old cure.’
Still others said that: ‘A pinch in time saves nine.’
Then one said somewhat hesitantly:
‘Far away pinches have long horns.’
This terrible remark caused silence.
The voice that had spoken broke into nervous giggles and then there was silence again.
Brigit moved in close to Pidge and whispered in his ear:
‘Who’s “he”? Are they talking about you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he whispered back.
The voices resumed.
One said:
‘My dear old Auntie always used to say: “Pinch first and ask questions afterwards.” ’
‘That’s just like your dear old Auntie—always looking for a fight.’
‘Shut up about my dear old Auntie or you’ll get such a pinch in a minute.’
A third voice cut in on this private squabble.
‘We should just tell him he’s batty and not pinch him at all—that’s my opinion.’
‘It’ll be more than a black eye, if we do. It could be the firing-squad, again!’
‘Yes,’ a last little voice said sadly. ‘He’s too batty to be told he’s batty, that’s the trouble.’
Pidge stood and looked about. All that could be seen were a dozen or so earwigs enjoying the sun on the tree’s bark.
‘Nobody there,’ he whispered, sitting down again.
The voices continued:
‘He’s enough to make your blood run backwards!’
‘With his little Nappy Hat and his French.’
‘He says it’s French but for all we know—it’s Ancient Foolish.’
‘He prances round something shockin’, doesn’t he?’
‘With his battles! Battles? If you ask me, it’s all daft!’
‘I don’t know though—he’s a good laugh at times. I often get a stitch in my side laughing at him.’
‘Don’t ever let him catch you, that’s all!’
With Brigit’s sock and sandal back on, the children stood again. Pidge leaned forward and his shadow fell on the tree.
‘The sun’s gone behind a cloud,’ said one.
‘Oh, I hope it doesn’t rain.’
‘I hope it does, then we can all go home.’
‘Look—we always go on like this and we never do anything about it.’
‘Yes. We always humour him.’
‘Poor oul’ skin.’
‘Anyway, I enjoy it most of the time.’
‘So do I—but not all the time.’
‘It’s the earwigs,’ Brigit said suddenly. ‘They’re the ones who are talking.’
‘THUNDER!’ yelled one of the earwigs. ‘I heard thunder! I knew it was going to rain.’
‘Take cover!’
An earwig wearing a Napoleon Hat emerged from a crack in the bark of the tree that went in a narrow split under the elaborate fungus.
‘Courage, Mes Braves!’ he shouted. ‘Stand votre ground. There’ll be no Retreat From Moscow here!’
Chapter 13
THE little earwig wearing the hat spoke so commandingly that all the other earwigs stopped their aimless milling about and stood where they were.
Even so, there was a sarcastic mutter of:
‘Oh, that’s a surprise, isn’t it; when there isn’t any snow. If there was any snow at all, he’d have us doing The Long Retreat From Moscow up and down this old tree until our pincers was froze off and without a wink of sleep until it thawed!’
Others grumbled:
‘I told you he was off his hinges!’
‘I said he was under the influence of a High Temperature most of the time!’
And:
‘I’d laugh—but it would be pistols for two at dawn with High Stericks, if I was caught with as much as a grin.’
‘Seelawnce!’ roared the little one in the cocked hat. ‘Attention! Gentlemen, you are On Parade!’
The others fell silent at this and stood to attention.
The children watched, fascinated.
The one with the hat on, walked up and down with his forelegs clasped behind his back.
‘Aha!’ he cried with an air of having caught them out. They responded to this by shuffling guiltily.
‘Ze discipline gets slack when Moi is not around, I notice. Where is Mon Imperial Guard?’
An earwig took a pace forward and said, after saluting smartly:
‘They got took in with the washing and they got ironed, Mon General.’
A second one gave an even smarter salute and added:
‘It’s the third lot this week, Sir. We’re gettin’ decimated by it!’
The one with the hat seemed to go into a trance of brooding as he paced this way and that.
‘What is this fatal fascination with fresh laundry?’ he asked himself softly but passionately, and he shook his head from side to side at the mystery of it all. In moments, he solved the riddle to his own satisfaction at least, by muttering: ‘Destiny!’; and then he appeared to be much as he was before hearing the terrible news. He faced the others with a dignified formality and said proudly:
‘Ze Fortunes Of War, Mes Amis. ’Ats off and a minute’s seelawnce for our gallant dead!’
There were weak complaints of: ‘We haven’t got any hats,’ and: ‘He’s the one with the hat,’ and then there was silence.
Pidge took his chance to make sure that the hounds were not in sight. He looked conscientiously in every direction, in case they were playing some kind of soothing trick. He was suspicious that they might creep close and suddenly pounce, knowing that he and Brigit were off-guard. But wherever they were, they were not in view.
‘Fall in!’ the earwig with the hat shouted, after a few seconds of profound quietness. The others quickly obeyed, tripping over themselves and each other, in their haste. There were cries of: ‘Get off me legs, can’t ye’, and: ‘Look where yer going, Dermot’, and: �
��You’re standing on me head, you fool!’ and then, they stood in ranks.
‘Pidge,’ Brigit said, pointing to the one with the hat, ‘it’s that mad earwig I told you about the other day.’
A great many cries of surprise and panic and some nervous giggles came from the troops at this.
‘KEEP CALM!’ shouted the one with the hat. ‘Do you want it said that we have no discipline; that we are held together with a safety-pin? Back to your positions! Allez!’
The earwigs shuffled back into place.
When they were motionless again, he reared up to his full height and looked closely at Brigit.
‘So, we meet again,’ he said slowly. ‘I know you. Now let me see—didn’t we meet at my field-headquarters at ze Battle Of Waterloo?’
‘Yes. You were in the old water-butt.’
There was a half-stifled snigger from the others, which he squashed on the instant with a powerful, scanning glare. When order was restored, he turned his attention to Brigit again.
‘It is true that I may have been in an old water-butt—ze redcoats are everywhere,’ he responded haughtily; ‘but, it is better than being in a smelly, old boot, what is called Ze Wellington, if I am not mistaken and I never am.’
‘Yes, you’re the same one; you had that daft hat on,’ Brigit answered back.
‘What?’ he shouted. ‘You call my best Sunday Bicorne a daft ‘at? No criticism from civilians permitted! Alors! Have you been putting it about zat I am mad? The Emperor Napoleon—for it is I? Moi? Napoleon Forficula Auricularia—Le Wig of Wigs?’ he finished in a passion as he strutted up and down fiercely and proudly, with his chest stuck out like a battlement, before him.
Before Brigit could reply, an earwig jumped to attention and shouted:
‘Permission to reconnoitre, Mon General?’
Permission was given with a wave of a foreleg and without any interruption whatsoever to the temperamental pacing of the little Napoleon. The other little earwig ran up Pidge’s arm and onto his shoulder. He raised himself up on his back legs and pretended to sweep the countryside.