by Pat O'Shea
‘Ah, that explains it. Destination Unknown. Category—Lost Property.’
‘You’re at it again!’ Brigit said accusingly.
‘Beg pardon. What I mean is—you must be Lost Property. I could direct you to the nearest Lost Property Office, if you like. You could sit on a shelf until you’re claimed, on production of a receipt. See under—”Conditions Of Acceptance”.’
‘We’re not Lost Property,’ Pidge said laughing.
‘Indeed we’re not. We’re on a journey for the Dagda,’ Brigit said severely.
If I’d realized that she was going to say that, I could have tried to stop her, Pidge thought ruefully.
But he was reassured at once to see that at the mention of The Dagda’s name, the metal man’s hat went high up in the air.
‘Great Guardian Of The Seasons; all honour to the Good God,’ he said, with the deepest respect possible. ‘You must be Pidge and Brigit.’
‘I’m Brigit all right,’ she agreed, nodding.
‘How do you know who we are?’ Pidge wondered.
‘I know because the winds bring me all the news. See, it is written at my feet: “NEWS”.’
He pointed downwards and sure enough, on top of the little spire on which the metal man was balanced, there were four arrows arranged in a cross and at the tip of each one, there was a letter.
‘Don’t they mean North, South, East and West?’ Pidge asked politely.
‘They point to the world’s ends beyond doubt, as a help for travellers who want to go a little or a long way: and it is from the world’s ends that the winds come screaming or whispering to me, gathering up every little scrap of news on the way.’
‘We are travellers. Could you give us a direction, please?’ Pidge asked.
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Why couldn’t you?’ Brigit demanded to know.
‘I am not a master of the secret way you go. I can find a direction for the whole world but not for you.’
‘Why can’t you find it for us? Other people have helped us and you should be better at it than anyone else at all,’ Pidge persisted, feeling baffled by the metal man’s refusal.
‘Take my best advice and hold your own course unchanged.’
‘I was thinking of going—’ Pidge began to say.
The metal man butted in quickly.
‘Hush! A wrong ear could be listening. Now I have given you a timely warning and my best advice, and I can do no more.’
This seemed to be so final that Pidge felt obliged to accept it.
‘Well, thank you anyway,’ he said.
‘You’re very welcome. Before you leave, may I invite you to come up and admire the view?’ the metal man asked, as though it meant a lot to him.
‘Well that would be very nice another time, but not now. We should be moving on. I’m sorry,’ Pidge said.
‘Come up, do. I believe it would do you good, lovely fresh air up here. Please come,’ the metal man insisted; and falling back into his old way of speaking, he added: ‘Please accept my kind invitation as a refusal often offends. Dress Optional. R.S.V.P.’
‘I suppose I could spare a few more minutes. What do you think, Brigit?’
‘You go up. I want to do something else myself,’ she said, and grasping the hem of her dress in bunches in her left hand, she held it out before her, making a sort of bag or hammock, which she then started to fill with some stuff that was growing near to the garden.
From the broken wall it was easy to get onto the roof and then get across to the friendly figure that stood on the little spire. When Pidge was close to him, the metal man bent over with a terrible groaning creak, whispering into his ear through the deafening noise:
‘Take a good look and spy out your way, silently. The best of good luck to you and to Brigit.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir!’ Pidge said in gratitude as he understood now why the metal man had insisted that he should come up, and as he realized how the creaking noise was a hindrance to a wrong ear.
‘Call me Needlenose as all my friends do,’ the metal man said.
Through a rift in the mist the mountains could partly be seen. In spite of the distance that the Elk had taken them, he saw that they seemed no nearer, but he was pleased to see that at least they were no further away. He examined the country between the carthouse and the mountains for landmarks that they could use as pointers, if the mountains should ever be hidden again. He saw that if they travelled directly cross-country, they would eventually come to what looked like a very large wheatfield; but he couldn’t be sure of what lay after that, as the ground seemed to fall away into some kind of valley from an edge. Beyond that, the mist still lingered.
‘You’ve been very helpful after all, Needlenose,’ he said.
‘Most honoured to be of service,’ Needlenose replied.
‘Here!’ Brigit shouted, her head appearing just above the roof-eaves. ‘Stuff this in his hat to stop him getting headaches.’
She had gathered a thick sheaf of long grass and numerous lumps of moss.
Pidge crossed over gingerly, wishing that he had rubber soles on his sandals, and took them from her. He did as she had suggested while Needlenose watched with hopeful interest.
‘When the hat is full, put the rest of it on top of his head,’ she said.
When next the metal man put on his hat, there was a gentle, muffled thump and Brigit told him that he could always get the birds to gather some for him, from then on.
‘This is wonderful,’ Needlenose said with his eyes filling. ‘What a good, kind girl you are.’
‘The winds must have told you,’ she said.
‘Quickly! Get down! I can’t hold back the tears and they could hurt you!’ Needlenose said, and he sobbed.
Pidge scrambled down off the roof and they moved away only just in time.
‘Goodbye, Needlenose!’ they shouted as they struck off across the fields.
‘Goodbye! Goodbye!’ the metal man cried, as the ball-bearings poured out of his eyes and clattered down the roof to bounce off the ground. ‘In conclusion, I affectionately bid you farewell. Your loving friend, Kiss Kiss, Needlenose.’
For a long time they could still see him whenever they looked back. Each time they gave him a farewell wave and he responded by lifting his hat and waving back to them gaily.
Chapter 27
IT was somewhat later than midday, when they arrived at the wheatfield.
In the time that had passed since they had left the metal man, Pidge had been trying hard to understand about Needle-nose. But no matter how many times he went over it in his mind, he just couldn’t puzzle out why the metal man had not been able to help with a direction; and it was all the more baffling when he was so openly friendly towards The Dagda and themselves. In the end, all that he could do was to blame himself, for not properly explaining about how much they had been helped already by The Dagda’s friends.
If only I’d told him about the kite and the white birds; and the way that Finn and Daire had taken us to the Hidden Valley and how they helped us, it might have made a difference, he thought remorsefully. I’m sure I made a bad mistake in not trying harder to explain. But it’s done now. And it was something after all, to see so plainly where the mountains were, from that good spying-out place on the carthouse roof—and it’s no good crying over spilt milk, and maybe we are not doing too badly, I hope.
He followed Brigit in over a dry stone wall.
From ground level, they faced a solid wall of yellow, ripe wheat that had grown very tall, much taller than Pidge. A narrow strip of headland ran between the boundary wall and the wheat; and Pidge said that they would walk along it, to see if they could find a path that would allow them to cut through to the other side. He knew that when the seed was being sown in the spring it was often the custom, if the field were very big, to leave a path unsown for use as a short-cut after the shoots had appeared; otherwise a person would have to walk the whole way around the perimeter.
Poppies
grew everywhere and the wheat was the best that he had ever seen. The day had turned hot and the whole field shimmered and rustled in a slight breeze.
There was a path.
As soon as they came to it, Pidge went back up on the wall to spy out which way it might lead.
The wheatfield was very big indeed; as big as a small lake, he thought. It spread and spread and he could see the line of the path quite clearly. It went straight as a die and could easily be distinguished as a dark stripe all the way across. With this kind of path, all that could ever really be seen was the break between the two walls of wheat; the growth being always too tall, even when the wheat was only of normal height, to allow the path itself to be seen.
He jumped down from the wall and they went in. Brigit, who was going mad for the poppies, hopped in first.
It was like being in a golden jungle. The gentlest breeze hushed the radiant sea of wheat, that seemed to give out a brightness that coloured the air above it, and was reflected on the children’s faces. Now and again there was a startled scuttle as they surprised a rabbit or a fieldmouse that happened to be too close to the edge of the path. Mild crowds of butterflies of all colours and sizes, twitched and hesitated about the ripe ears of wheat, and throughout the field millions of insects created a vast drone of life. High above, hundreds of skylarks sang through the stillness of the day. One after another they dropped like stones and, still singing, they hung only bare inches above the wheat. Then they went up again to do it all once more, just for the thrill of it, one would think.
Apart from the birdsong and the soft sounds the wheat made, and the occasional Sittings of nervous small animals, there was the creaking of a host of grasshoppers all playing the same tune but on differing notes. The ones nearest were the loudest but the far-away ones could be heard in company with them; and they were all like a great festival of massed soloists, each insisting on competing at once, with everybody obstinately refusing to listen to anybody else at all.
Over all of this, there was a huge langorous stillness that made Pidge go drowsy and dreamy with pleasure. A lovely peace came into him and despite the goldenness of the wheat, he felt relaxed and safe and he knew that it was all natural and real.
Brigit was picking poppies as she went along ahead. They all soon fell to rags but she couldn’t resist the colour. She was thinking that they were lovely except for the smell they left on her fingers.
‘Wouldn’t it be nice for these poppies if they smelled like cowslips or roses? Wouldn’t they like to? I wish I was a flower with my own perfume and everything, and I’d never have to get washed with soap,’ she said.
‘You wouldn’t like to be a flower and have no legs, to be stuck in the ground and not able to move—and a slug coming along to take a bite out of you,’ someone answered from somewhere amid the wheatstalks.
‘No, I wouldn’t like that,’ she agreed, thinking that it was Pidge who had spoken.
‘If flowers had legs, you wouldn’t like to be a slow little slug, because everytime it saw you coming, your dinner would run away and you’d always be hungry.’
Brigit sighed heavily.
‘I wish slugs didn’t eat flowers,’ she said wistfully.
‘We all have to eat something and that’s a rule of life.’
‘Yes. But I wish that slugs didn’t eat flowers all the same.’
‘Who are you talking to, Brigit?’ Pidge asked, coming out of his trance.
She looked back at him in surprise.
‘You, of course,’ she said, very puzzled that he should ask.
‘No. You were talking to me and a nice interesting conversation it was too.’
And suddenly, and without causing the slightest disturbance to the wheat, a magnificent dog-fox was standing in between them on the path.
‘I hope you are fond of foxes?’ he said with an unmistakable wink. His face seemed to hold aspects of intelligence and humour.
‘Oh, very fond of foxes!’ cried Brigit with delight. ‘That’s because I’m not a chicken.’
The fox coughed delicately and was, to all appearances—instantly very deeply absorbed in studying a splendid green beetle with polished wing-cases and quite remarkable antennae, who was taking a casual ramble up a wheat stalk.
Pidge frowned, thinking of Auntie Bina’s beloved poultry, and said:
‘Who are you?’
‘I am a friend and I’ll come with you for company’s sake if you’ll let me. My name is Cú Rua, but my good friends just call me Cooroo.’
‘You’ll be followed by hounds if you come with us,’ Pidge warned.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ Cooroo answered, sighing. ‘They’re what they call foxhounds, I suppose?’
‘No. I don’t think so; they’re a different kind. Much thinner and all brown coloured.’
‘Oh do come!’ Brigit pleaded, putting an arm around his neck.
Cooroo laid his muzzle against her arm in a gentle kind of way and said:
‘What does Pidge say?’
‘Who told you my name?’ Pidge asked, interested to know, but hardly surprised.
‘Was it the winds?’ Brigit asked.
‘You told the bees your troubles and they told others until it came to me,’ Cooroo replied, as though surprised that they didn’t know.
‘I never told the bees anything, did I, Brigit?’
‘Not a word.’
‘Well, they heard at any rate. It seems that they were working the clover near a hill that was ploughed; and the story is—that you had lost some valuable thing—something that was helpful—and you cried out about it because you were very upset.’
‘Oh, the scrying-glass—that’s true,’ Pidge agreed, as he remembered that he had half-noticed the bees.
‘Could we be moving on?’ Cooroo suggested. ‘I never like to stay in the one place too long. I don’t even like to be out in the daytime; but if I have to be out, this isn’t a bad day for it.’
‘Will you let me stroke you sometimes?’ Brigit coaxed.
‘I’d be pleased,’ the fox said, and suddenly he looked shy.
Pidge smiled at him.
‘We’ll go on,’ he said.
Chapter 28
‘WHAT kind of a day is a bad day?’ Brigit inquired as they sauntered on along the path.
‘A heavy day, with the sky overcast, when the scent sticks to everything. It’s better to stay in a hole freezing and starving on days like that.’
‘Why?’
‘Why is what I’d like to know,’ Cooroo said bitterly. ‘All I do know is—if I’m out on such a day, it’s: “Bloody end to you, my fine thief!” and: “View Halloo!’ and other strange cries. And horses and hounds and a long run until my heart feels as if it would burst through my ribs. It’s my belief that they are all stone mad. And sometimes, there’s death in it, on such a day.’
‘If you didn’t take chickens, they wouldn’t hunt you,’ Pidge ventured.
Cooroo turned and looked steadily into his eyes for a long moment.
‘Oh, but they would. You know it and I know it,’ he whispered sadly, and then he moved on.
For a while there was silence, broken in the end by Brigit who had been thinking her own thoughts.
‘I like chickens because they’re mostly daft, they make me laugh; and I like ducks because they always seem to be smiling,’ she said.
‘I like ducks too, they taste very well,’ was Cooroo’s opinion.
‘So they do,’ she agreed.
‘I like to eat as I’m under the impression that it’s good for my health,’ Cooroo remarked, looking innocently skywards. ‘Of course if I were a dog, I could sit up and beg; but as I’m a fox, well sometimes I steal. Now, would I rather be a beggar or a thief, or what is there to choose between the two? What do you think, Pidge?’
Here he gave Pidge a sideways look and Pidge was almost sure that the fox was laughing at him. With Brigit agreeing with all that Cooroo was saying, he thought that he had better put a word in
on Auntie Bina’s side.
‘About the chickens … ,’ he began.
‘Oh yes?’ interrupted Cooroo. ‘Why don’t we talk about rats?’
‘Rats?’
‘You know the damage they do. And supposing I take the odd chicken or two—what’s that to the number of rats and rabbits I eat?’
‘I’d eat a rabbit but I’d never eat a rat, yerk!’ Brigit said, making a face.
‘But the cost!’ Pidge persisted.
‘Cost? What do you mean?’
‘The cost of the chickens and what it takes to feed them.’
‘Oh, the Cooroo said in a sarcastic kind of enlightened way. ‘Horses grow on trees for the picking, do they? And oats fall from the sky in showers! Hounds can be gathered free like mushrooms on a September morning, can they; and they relish famine and live on moonlight strained through silk washed down with tap-water? And I suppose you’ve seen cocks of hay floating in on the spring tide to be forked up like seaweed?’cost!’
‘I never have,’ Brigit said emphatically.
‘Add it all up and what have we?’ Cooroo asked.
‘What?’ Pidge said warily, feeling that he was losing.
‘Saying it plainly, we have the price of the horses, their stabling, feed and tack. We have what is paid for their shoeing at the blacksmith’s—am I right?’
‘You are,’ said Brigit, nodding vigorously.
‘Then we have the price of the hounds and the food they eat; we have the wastefulness of the rabbits and the gobbling and spoiling done by rats. It all adds up to a big bag of money and it’s all to save the price of a few chickens by killing me. What a lot they spend to save a little money!’
‘You forgot to say about vet’s fees,’ Brigit said. ‘We know all about these things because we keep horses at home, don’t we, Pidge?’
‘But—’ Pidge tried to say something, but Cooroo cut in again.
‘They should be paying me for all the good work I do. Why—they wouldn’t even have to muck out after me, or pamper me with bed and board. It would be more fitting if they would think of what I do to the rats and not what I do to a few hens—if they can think.’