A Tour de Fate

by P R M Kinloch

  “What is our need?” Cried a squirrel. “You are Other! We do not need Other!”

  “Right! We have the Search!” called another. “That is surely enough!” “He is Other!” Called the first one. “We do not speak to Other!” Two or three squirrels were getting excited and angry. “With the fruit we forget the Search!” “Reject the fruit!” “The fruit is bad!” “Bad!” The three set up a chant, “Bad, Bad, Bad.” One or two others joined in.

  Stint, silent in the middle of this noise, suddenly stood very tall and looked straight up. The noise came to a ragged stop as all eyes turned heavenward. Two baby squirrels were running down towards them with a much older one following. The babies hopped across the ground to look up at the group. The old one came across and said,

  “Look at them! Unbelievable. Suddenly they’re strong! I couldn’t hold them back!”

  “What happened to them?” called someone, alarmed.

  “What do you think? One decent meal is what happened!” The old squirrel swung round to Stump. “As sure as my name is Slip, that’s the best thing for these kids. Ever. You got any more?”

  She switched back to face her own again. “What are you waiting for? You listen to what this Other is saying! We all know what’s happening here, and we all know it’s not good.” She switched back to Stump again.

  “You tell ’em, Mister. Tell ’em straight. They’ll listen. That’s a promise.” She looked back at the group, “Or they’ll get it from me.”

  “Um, yes. Thank you. I think Slip is right. I think you are, er, how can I say... losing the battle? Slowly. I think perhaps... always you’re becoming fewer? It’s like... It’s like the night is long here. And that’s the thing. It’s always night here. And you want to see the dawn?

  “What I gave you came from the sun. Your children need the sun. We need to find the sun. And the...” He patted his satchel. “This fruit... This is some of the fruit that grows in the sun. I can help you go there. Isn’t it time now, to go there?”

  Silence. Except for the two little ones. They had found bits of the shells that had fallen from the treetop yesterday and were gnawing on them.

  Slip went to them, examining their mouths like a protective mother. She stood up and addressed the group. “Look at these kids. The fruit is good. These kids know more than you! The hardness outside the fruit helps their teeth!” She looked at the kids, then at the group.

  “Stop your ranting. Make up your mind. It’s going with the Other, or never finding nothing! Get on with it! You owe it to your kids before there won’t be any more kids!” Shaking with emotion, she hurried the two little ones back up the tree. All the way. They disappeared into the canopy.

  Silence.

  Finally, Stint turned to Stump. “So. What do you want?”

  Monty Stump mentally digested until he translated Stint’s question. They would come.

  “Right. Good.” He considered his next step. “Do you know the fallen tree? Where Snitch, um... Where I saw Elder Snitch?”

  “I do. Naturally,” said Stint. “That is one of the Stories.”

  “Could you get us there?”

  “No problem.”

  Next, of course, was the problem of how they would actually travel. Twelve squirrels. They answered the problem themselves. He hadn’t thought of it. Their natural travel was in and among the canopy. That only left Stump pointing out that he couldn’t see them up there. Stint thought he might have the answer and ran up the tree. Shortly, he was down again. No problem. Slip would go with Stump. She would have no difficulty seeing them from the ground.

  Slip rode on his satchel. She didn’t talk much except occasionally to correct his course and speed. They were at the fallen tree a little before nightfall. Stump produced another meal of nuts and an apple. From the direction of the fallen tree, he knew his course back to Little Willy.

  Next day, Stump again used his foot-scuffing trick to keep his travel straight, and he now knew the speed to maintain for the squirrels. Slip wasn’t needed, so she went aloft again. The squirrels in the canopy were able to follow him with no difficulty at all.

  It did take longer, but finally they were on the edge of Worrywart Woods. He stopped so that they could adjust to the glare of the sunlight. They came down among the last trees and very hesitantly approached open ground and finally stepped into the sunlight. Stump had time to work out a plan for the next phase of the journey. While the squirrels stared in amazement at the vast expanse of open scenery visible through the last of the trees, he transferred the remaining supplies to smaller pockets of the satchel. Then he opened the main flap to let it lie flat on the ground, brought the long straps to a loop at the back, and was ready.

  Assembling the squirrels on the satchel, he picked up the loop, and pulled the satchel like a sledge. He soon learnt what speed was best. Not very fast. He had to allow for their curiosity. As soon as they came to the grassland, there was no speed at all. They explored, tasted, or ate something of everything. At lush grasses, it happened again. He improved his technique so that the squirrels could hop off, keep up with the satchel and hop on whenever they wanted. He knew they would never last the distance without riding for the most part on the satchel, but it was still very slow going.

  Stump, having been pulling his new friends every four hours on, four hours off round the clock. It was night when they approached the fence and farm. Not only did he not want them to be seen, but the satchel was also noisy on the ground. He stuck to the Milky Way to be out of sight and earshot, not even risking running up to the farm by himself to get more fruit or nuts.

  Invigorated by the proximity to his home, he pulled the satchel through under both styles of the lane and kept going. Finally, he reached his gully, his home, and the massive oak tree. The squirrels had been watching its magnificent silhouette as they approached. Finally, he let go of the satchel.

  “Go. Have a look. See what you think,” he said.

  They were already gone. He could hear them chattering up in the tree. Leaving the satchel where it was, he went to bed.

  49 GETTING ROPABLE

  The idea of needing string had occurred to Stump a while earlier, on one occasion when he had been snooping around at the farm. Having checked out the almond tree, it was just on dusk as he was slinking round to the vegetable garden. Instantly alerted to activity ahead as he entered, he stopped and crouched.

  A crow at the far end was pecking at a worm or something, repeatedly having a go with its beak, trying to pick it up. Succeeding, the crow flew up into the apple tree above it. The next thing startled Stump as much as the crow. It wasn’t a worm at all. The crow had seen the end of some long brown string poking out from under a stone. The stone had been placed to keep the string tight ready for farmer hare to plant along it. Other rows had already been planted.

  Released from the stone, and pulled up into the tree, the tension went all the way back to the other end near Stump where it was balled on a stake. The ball spun busily, releasing more string. With the line now slack, the ball stopped. Still gripping the end, crow flew off, going for home. String followed, tightened, ball spun. Crow circled, string still followed, but it curled round the vegetables - snagged – and pulled. Crow plunged and crashed. Lots of flapping noises. Crow got up and flew off very embarrassed, without the string,

  Stump got up from his crouch, bemused by what he had witnessed. He turned and slunk away, appetite for supper replaced by fear that such a kerfuffle would bring the farmer.

  The string thing had fascinated him. As with the crazy goings-on he’d seen under the fence a while back, he kept such things stored in his memory - like bits of useful timber during his renovations at the Wilder-Ness house. He had no use for them, but too good to throw away, each bit might be useful someday.

  When he’d seen a ball of string in the farmer’s shed, he’d taken it with the same feeling it might be useful, though he couldn’t possibly have said how. Now he did have a use for it and fetched it out from his new h
ome. Then he paid a visit to his rubbish tip, found a stick that looked right for a stake and brought it back.

  He drove the stake into the ground, put the ball of string on it, and sat. Whether his plan would work or not, his ulterior motive for bringing the squirrels was about to be tested. Stump was ready and soon enough, Stint turned up.

  “How’s it going?” Stump asked.

  “They’re – we’re – It’s new. Very new.” Then he added, “The fruit is good.”

  “Acorns,” said Stump. “That’s an acorn tree.”

  “Acorns. Acorns are good.” He sounded guarded. He paused. “We...” He was having difficulty.

  Stump felt a sudden apprehension. Worried about what was coming next, he blurted. “I’ll show you the other trees. When you’re ready.”

  Another pause.

  “You live here?” Asked Stint.

  “Yes. Er, yes. Just moving in, actually. But there’s such a lot to do.”

  “Why?” Unable to get to what he wanted to say, Stint let Stump do the talking. “What do you have to do?” Stump jumped at the chance.

  “Well, I’m trying to figure a way to, um, get this string, um, over the branch, above us.” He pointed first to the ball and then up at the overhead branch.

  “Why? That’s big and heavy!” Said Stint. “It would take four of us to lift, let alone get it up the tree. You can throw it around, easy... But you can’t climb, can you.” Stint said with finality. Then, “So what will you do? What do you want? It’s here. Why have it up there?”

  “No, no.” Stump got up and went to the ball, picked up the end, unravelled some, and brought the end back. “I need the end of the string over the branch. Hanging over it. Not the ball. The string. Up, just above here. Over the branch, and down to here again.”

  Long pause. Stint studied the loose string, the ball and the way Stump had taken the end and pulled so much more of it clear. Finally, he spoke.

  “No problem.”

  Stump waited for as long as he could before he was impelled to ask, “Meaning?”

  Instead of answering, Stint bounded back to the tree, went straight up and disappeared leaving Monty none the wiser. After a while, he and another appeared directly above Stump. A conversation ensued. Then both of them scampered back along the branch, hurried down the trunk and bounded across to Stump.

  “This is Stert.” Said Stint.

  “Now?” Stert flicked looks at Stint, Stump, string and back to Stint.

  Getting no immediate answer, Stert grabbed the end of the string in his mouth and bounded for the tree, taking it with him. The ball swizzled, string ran out as it was tugged through the bushes. Stump leaped up and ran back and forth banging the bushes and twitching the string to make sure it didn’t snag. He had to jump sometimes as Stert took the string higher. In no time at all, Stert was above them and looking down, the string draped loosely over the far side of the branch.

  “Good! But I need it over. Does he know it has to come over the branch, and come down this side? Over. Bring it over. Over the branch. We need it down here.”

  Stump was actually rocking from side to side, trying to show what he wanted. If Stert dropped the string now, the whole effort would be wasted. There again, nobody had discussed how to get the string down once it was over the branch. He had no idea how to call out what was needed and shot Stert a questioning look.

  Stint was unperturbed. His look implied “No problem”.

  Monty looked up and gaped.

  Stert suddenly leaped off, falling head-first it seemed, string in his mouth and holding the string with hands and feet. Miraculously, the string running over the branch slowed his fall sufficiently. The string straightened just before he landed. As if he often did that sort of thing, Stert handed the string’s end to Stump.

  “Wow!” Said Stump.

  “No problem.” Said Stert.

  “Now?” Asked Stint, wanting to know what was next.

  Startled by the sudden success, Stump had to think what indeed was next? “Ah,” He remembered, went around the ironing board and disappeared indoors.

  He had of course let go of the string. None of them had noticed that the string, unwinding off the ball had jammed. As Stert came down, the ball had been lifted into the air off the stake. When Monty let go, the ball, still jammed, landed and rolled gently off to find a little hiding place of its own, pulling the string from over the branch as it did so. Stert’s end of the string slowly rose, gathered speed, whipped over the branch and fell down in a tidy heap beside the squirrels.

  The squirrels looked at the heap, at each other, then waited for Stump. He reappeared coming backwards, dragging his massive coil of rope. Arriving at the squirrels, he saw the string.

  “Ah,” said Stump. After a pause, he fished around on the ground and picked up the end of the string. “Oh,” he said. He stared up at the branch, “Er,” he said, embarrassed. Looking at Stint and Stert, he mumbled, “Would you mind...?”

  “No problem.” Said Stert, taking the end, going for the tree again. As Stert hurried upwards, the string snagged as before and Stump again ran and jumped around the bushes to keep the string free. In no time Stert was down again handing the end to Stump. However, this time Stump asked Stert to keep hold of it.

  They had all forgotten the ball until it somehow returned on its own to dangle among them as if asking for attention. Stump grabbed it, yanked the snare free, put the ball back on the stake, unwound plenty and chewed it from the ball.

  50 THE WHAT KNOT

  Taking the chewed end of the string, he went to the coil of rope and wound lots of it busily round and round one end of the rope in an attempt at complexity. The result was a tangled mess supposed to be the kind of knot he’d seen previously beyond the fence, but he wasn’t sure. With Stint and Stert looking on attentively, he felt drawn to say something.

  “It’s a guess.” He said.

  “A what?” they both asked.

  “A guess,” he repeated, “but you’re right I think. A what is a much better name. Only saw it from a distance. Couldn’t see details.”

  THE WHAT KNOT

  “Why?” They asked.

  “Why?” He asked.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Why. Yes,” he said, examining his handiwork. “Well...” He remembered the dogs coming at him. He couldn’t possibly explain any of that.

  “I had to leave. Bit of a hurry.”

  As for tying the string to the rope, he really didn’t know any more than they did, but his attempt at complexity produced a solid looking mess. Good or bad, he put a foot on it and pulled the long end that led up over the tree and down to Stert. He pulled it as tight as he could and it seemed to hold. It looked quite professional - in a confused sort of way - except there was a long trailing loose end of string that didn’t do anything. Not knowing what to do with that, he ignored it and decided to see if the whole thing worked. He stood back, looked up, looked around, retrieved the other the end of the string from Stert and started to walk down the gully with it. Soon the string pulled tight over the branch. With a good wrapping of string for grip, he kept going. The rope end with his string knot began to rise towards the branch. Stump knew this from the added weight. This was too easy!

  51 NO GAIN WITHOUT PAIN

  It was too easy. He was way down the gully, level with his rubbish tip, when it stopped. No matter how he pulled, the string merely cut into him. He tried moving to one side then to the other. Frustrated, he tried thrashing into bushes, but it only made the string cut deeper. While he was trying all this and getting more and more frustrated, Stint appeared.

  “I’m stuck!” growled Stump.

  “Yes.” Said Stint.

  “Oh, you know. That’s helpful. What would be really helpful is if you know why!”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes? Yes what? You know why?”

  “Yes.”

  “Brilliant!” He snarled. The conversation was not quite drawing the best out of Stump. No
w thoroughly tangled in the bushes, gripping the string that was hell-bent on cutting into him, he tried to get a grip on himself.

  “Any chance you can help?” He managed a last effort at civility.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh good.” Sarcasm helped a bit, though he knew it wasn’t fair. “What do you recommend I do?” He asked, dripping with fake bonhomie, if not real blood from the string.

  “Wait.” Said Stint, who then turned and bounded back up the gully, calling back as he left, “Pull.”

  “Right!” breathed Stump to himself, having a vision of letting go and then having to start all over again, which would surely be less painful, but he did realise that Stint had to go all the way back to do whatever it was, and presumably climb the tree to do it. The trouble had to be somewhere up there. Something was caught most likely, so he had better keep up the pulling.

  Stint and Stert got to where the string ran over the branch. The rope was almost but not quite over it. The problem was the bundle of string round the end of the rope was just catching against the branch. They each took a side of the rope. They couldn’t lift it over the branch, so tried rocking it.

  Using every bit of strength they had, they coaxed tiny movements in the rope from side to side. The rocking was minute, but with the continued tension from Stump, the knot of string gradually walked its way over the branch until the rope began slithering over.

  The squirrels were left totally drained. They retired to a safe distance and just watched. Down below, Stump gradually finding he was moving again, knew they had freed whatever had been the problem.

  He moved steadily back. No! Horror! In his desperate efforts to pull the string, eyes closed, stressing and straining, he’d pulled round a bush and was moving back towards the ironing board – the wrong way!