by Michael Tod
‘Prime territories for those who kill,’ he shouted. ‘Kill the traitor. Kill the Brown Job. Kill, kill, kill!’
‘This is it, Spindle-Friend,’ said Hickory, twisting his tail around the trunk where it met Spindle’s. The tails hooked together as a ring of savage Greys climbed ever nearer. The Red and the Grey, their tails tightly intertwined in a symbolic twist of friendship, hung by their back feet and slashed desperately at the attackers.
Grey after Grey fell back, faces torn and bleeding from the claws and teeth of the squirrels above them until Malachite called a halt and the attackers withdrew down the trunk to gather round the old Lord as he gave them new instructions.
Hickory and Spindle, tails still linked, strained unsuccessfully to hear what was being said.
Soon the change of plan became apparent. Four Greys climbed the tree together, stopped just out of reach of the bloodstained claws above them and started to gnaw simultaneously through the thin trunk. Chunks of bark and splinters of wood fell among the massed Greys waiting on the Eyeland below. The scent of fresh resin drifted up to Spindle and Hickory.
‘Uz do love that zmell.’ Said Spindle.
‘Take a good sniff then,’ replied Hickory. ‘It’ll probably be our last. The Sun be with you.’
‘And with yew,’ said Spindle as the tree’s top lurched sideways and fell into the grey mass below.
Marguerite flew back from Ourland to Rowan’s Pool for the final pick-up, taking care that her instructions to the swans could not be misunderstood. As they glided in and landed on the water she knew that something terrible had happened. The swans paddled towards the Eyeland which seemed silent and deserted. Then she saw the two bodies, one red and one grey, hanging from the highest tree, their necks jammed into forks, their tails swinging in the evening breeze. High in a tree on the deserted bank of the Mainland she glimpsed a grey movement. It was another tail, that of Sitka.
Floating torpidly in the water near her was the abandoned Woodstock. Sun forbid that the Greys learn the secret of its power, she thought, and was about to direct her swan towards it, when the twisted stick, as if it was now too tired to float, tilted slowly into an upright position then sank in the deepest part of the pool. It seemed to the exhausted squirrel as if it was being drawn down by an invisible, underwater paw. Sunlight glinted on the tiny ripples created as it disappeared.
‘SWANS – ‘ she said wearily.
‘SWANS –
FLY ME BACK TO THE BIG ISLAND -
ACTION NOW –‘
The swans turned and once more ran down the surface of the pool, taking off and circling to gain height. Marguerite, looking down past her swan’s neck, saw the mass of Greys on the ground below, heading for the Blue Pool. Even from high above, a sense of jubilation was apparent in their movement and her anger rose.
‘SWANS
FLY LOW OVER THOSE GREY CREATURES
ACTION NOW
FLY STRAIGHT
STEADY
EMPTY YOUR BOWELS
ACTION…ACTION…ACTION…
NOW!
FLY ME TO THE BIG ISLAND
ACTION NOW‘
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Lord Malachite looked up when he heard the W-wow, W-wow, W-wow of the swans’ wings overhead and watched the two white birds circle round in a wide arc, then fly in straight towards him. He was staring at the leading bird, trying to see if there was one of those hated natives clinging to its back, when a shower of stinking green dung splattered him from head to foot.
‘Lord Malachite - Lord Malashite – more likely,’ a voice called from behind him, and he turned furiously but was unable to see which of the grinning squirrels had spoken.
‘Silence!’ he shouted, trying to wipe the slime from his face. ‘Back to your duties, all of you.’
He stayed behind as the other Greys passed him, wrinkling their noses pointedly. Then he sought out one of the small pools that had formed in the remains of the many worked-out clay-pits scattered over the Great Heath. He found a pool with a fallen post reaching out into the shallow water and went along it to the end, stopped and splashed himself, washing the swan-dung from his fur and tail. When he had finished, he peered at his reflection in the water. Was that him? That old, fat squirrel staring back at him.
He sat up and looked around. The pond surface was still, except for tiny disturbances where whirly-gig beetles swam in frantic circles. Round his head damsel flies with blue or brown bodies flitted. A pigeon coo-d its familiar call from a pine and he suddenly felt homesick for the Tanglewood. But no. He braced himself; there were troops dependent on him at the New Massachusetts Base, his place was there with them. He hurried off in that direction.
When he arrived, the Greys were milling about aimlessly. He climbed on to a stump and called for order. No squirrel heeded him. He called again.
‘Shut it, Malashite,’ a Grey called. ‘We’re all leaving. Something about this place stinks!’
The speaker flicked his tail insolently and headed off westwards, followed immediately by the others.
Lord Malachite sat on the stump until they were all gone, then hopped off in the direction of the Tanglewood, curiously light-hearted.
Burdock, the Ourland News-squirrel, was planning a field day. Even before dusk fell, she had extracted all the details of the Eyeland rescue from her mother and was preparing to spread the news across Ourland at first light.
TEACHING SQUIRRELS SNATCHED FROM CERTAIN DEATH.
In a rescue unique in the history of squirreldom, Marguerite saves her
brother and others from the raging hordes of Greys and returns with them
high on a bird’s back…
Marguerite woke to the sound of her daughter’s voice and listened sadly to young Burdock telling a dramatised account of the events of the last few days, then she turned away to seek out Wood Anemone and comfort her for the loss of her life-mate, Spindle. She would probably be building a new drey in the same tree where she had had her home when she was a zervant on the island years before.
As Marguerite hopped along, Burdock’s words repeated themselves in her head – high on a bird’s back – high on a bird’s back. The words seemed familiar, but she was sure that she could not have heard them before. No one had ever been high on a bird’s back or even considered the possibility.
She must be wrong, yet the words would not go away.
She was concentrating so hard that she nearly ran into a party of humans who had just arrived on the island by boat, hoping to see the famous red squirrels. Marguerite fled up the nearest tree, a mature birch, to their ‘0o’s’ and ‘Ah’s’ and hid behind the trunk, catching her breath. Her claws bit deep into the silvery-white bark as she clung there. Birch-bark.
I honour birch-bark, she said to herself. High on a bird’s back – that was the pattern of words.
Forgetting the humans, she tried Old Wally’s prophecy again.
High on a birds-back
The Island Screen. Flies stinging –
The piece of the sun.
Or could it be:
High on a bird’s back
The island’s Queen. Flies stinging . . .
If Queen was right then it could be:
High on a bird’s back
The island’s Queen flies . . .
But then it would be
. . .Stinging . . .
The piece of the sun
Not a lot of sense in that, although the first part felt right. Forget it; there aren’t any Queens on the island now anyway, though Wally couldn’t have known that when he composed his prophecy. So ran Marguerite’s thoughts as the humans walked on and she resumed her search for Wood Anemone.
She found her with her twins, building a good sized drey in a pine tree, helped by Chip. She greeted them and Wood Anemone paused in her work to talk. Marguerite said how sorry she was that Spindle had been killed by the Greys, but Wood Anemone seemed to have accepted the fact easily.
‘Him would have been
pleazed to go like that. Him liked to help otherz, it wuz hiz whole life really. Him’z left uz two good daughterz.’
She indicated the twins who were with Chip collecting moss for lining the drey. They too did not seem unhappy.
Wood Anemone continued, ‘Uz only regret iz that hiz body iz hanging from a tree, inzstead of being cozy under the ground nourishing won, like iz proper. But there uz is…’
Chip watched until he saw the conversation cease, then hopped over.
‘Quite an adventure we had…’ then stopped, his head on one side.
‘Yes,’ Marguerite replied, ‘if only we hadn’t lost Spindle and Hickory, it would all have been wonderful. The flying was most exciting.’
Marguerite turned to Wood Anemone, ‘Did you ever hear Old Wally’s prophecy that starts
I honour birch-bark?’ she asked.
‘Oh yez.’
Hie honour birch-bark,
The I’landz Queen fliez, bringing
The pieze of the zun.’
‘Did you say bringing, or stinging?’ Marguerite asked.
‘Zum zay ztinging but uz iz zure it uzed to be bringing.’
‘It didn’t start High on a birds’ back did it?’ Marguerite asked.
It might have done, wonze. Theze thingz changez over time, Marguerite-Friend.’
High on a bird’s back
The Island’s Queen flies, bringing
The piece of the sun.
‘That would make some kind of sense if we knew who the Queen was, and what is meant by a piece of the sun,’ Marguerite said.
Chip was sure that he knew. He had heard a little about queens from Just Poplar and how beautiful they had been. The Queen in that prophecy must be his beloved Marguerite, and the piece of the sun was that golden disc that he had so stupidly dropped in the water at Rowan’s Pool. But he said nothing. He must find a way to get the gold and fulfil the prophecy. Then he would ask his Queen to be his life-mate.
‘If I could get over the water I’d go back and bury Spindle,’ he said unexpectedly.
‘Zo would uz,’ said Rosebay who had just joined them. ‘Uz would too,’ said Willowherb.
As they were saying this, Sumac, on the Eyeland, was engaged in just this melancholy task.
The previous day, following the trail from the Blue Pool towards Rowan’s Pool, he had heard the sounds of a group of excited Greys coming towards him and had hidden to hear what they had to say. ‘…totem stick was nasty…lots of curled whiskers…some very sick still…serve the Reds right…good native is a dead one…hanging there…covered in it he was, head to tail…silly old fool…’
Sumac heard enough to know that he was too late to be of any help. When the posse had passed, he had come out of hiding and run after them.
‘Sorry to have missed the action. Only just arrived. What happened?’ he asked breathlessly.
When he had heard the full story, including Malachite’s humiliation, he slipped away and followed the well-beaten trail to the Eyeland Pool. It was all just as he had been told, the body of his friend Spindle was hanging from one of the island trees alongside that of Hickory, while Sitka’s corpse dangled grotesquely from a tree above his own head.
Sumac climbed and dislodged Sitka’s body, which fell to the ground amid a buzzing of disturbed flies. He dragged it across the tree-trunk bridge on to the island and buried it at the foot of one of the trees, then did the same with the other two, one beneath each tree.
Judging by the accounts of the rabble he had just met, these were three fellow Sun-squirrels, two of them Silvers, who had died defending their beliefs even though it meant being branded as traitors by their fellows.
Moved by a feeling he had never before experienced, he gnawed away a small area of the pine-bark just above the ground and cut a fish symbol into the trunk of each tree.
The setting sun lit up the bright patches of exposed wood and a tiny tear of resin oozed from the bitten bark above Spindle’s grave. Sumac turned, crossed the bridge and headed back over the Great Heath towards the bulk of Screech Hill. Tumbleweed would be wondering why he had been away so long.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Bluebell approached her aunt shyly. She had learned to respect Marguerite on the journey the previous year which had culminated in the battle of the Agglestone. Since Marguerite had flown in on the swan’s back to rescue them, her aunt had been elevated to an almost Sun-like status in her eyes.
Marguerite looked at her niece, Rowan’s daughter, waiting for her to speak, and remembering the first Bluebell who had given her life to warn the Reds of an impending attack by the Greys of the Silver Tide.
‘Yes, my dear?’ she said to break the ice.
‘I wanted to thank you for coming and saving us, well – most of us, anyway. Did my father or mother tell you about Hickory and me?’
Marguerite shook her head.
‘Well, he was a Sun-squirrel like us, even if he was a Silver, and I loved him. I can’t bear to think of him hanging in a tree to be eaten by maggots. Is there any way we can go back and bury him?’ she asked.
Marguerite felt a surge of love towards her kin-squirrel. Bluebell was ready to risk her own life just to bury a dead Grey who she had cared for. This was the second time in two days that squirrels had wanted to return to the Mainland that she had thought they had left forever.
‘Leave it with me, my dear, I’ll think about it and see if we can do anything.’
She went to look for Chip but found her son, Oak, first.
‘Is it true what Burdock is saying about you and the swans?’ He asked.
‘Mostly, but Burdock does like to add bits here and there to make a more dramatic story. She says more squirrels listen to her if she does that.’
‘What’s it like flying? Nothing exciting seems to happen here on Ourland.’
Marguerite outlined her adventures; the balloon flight, crossing the sea on a broken oar held by a dolphin, the rescue of Finisterre and the flight home on the swan’s back, not forgetting the lifting of Rowan’s party from the Eyeland.
‘Wow! All that in two days. Nothing ever happens here, I wish I could go to the Mainland.’
Sycamore joined them.
‘Oak-Friend,’ he said, all his previous sullenness gone. ‘You should have been with us – did we have some fun?’
‘I wish I had been,’ Oak replied.
‘Marguerite.’
She turned to see Rowan, with Meadowsweet beside him.
Meadowsweet spoke first. ‘Our Bluebell says that you are going to get her back to the Eyeland to bury Hickory. Is this true?’
‘She asked me if it was possible and I said I would think about it. Rosebay and Willowherb want to go back as well; even Chip says he would. Now I’ve got Sycamore getting Oak wanting to go. I’d have thought that they would want to stay here, where it’s peaceful.’
‘They’re all young,’ said Rowan. ‘They need adventure, something to make their blood flow, give them a tingle.’
‘I’d have thought, except for Oak, they would have had enough. I have.’
‘Yes, but you’re older. All youngsters need adventures and challenges; they get bored and troublesome otherwise.’
‘Should we let them go back, if that’s what they want?’
‘If it was me, you’d have a job to stop me,’ said Rowan.
‘If they do go back to bury Spindle, Hickory and Sitka, I’d be pleased. I don’t like the idea of them all hanging there. And the youngsters might be able to find out what the Greys are up to.’
‘But how? Remember Ourland here is an island in the sea. There’s no tree trunk making a bridge from here to the Mainland.’
‘That never seems to bother you, Marguerite, you’ve crossed four times, a different way each time. You’ll think of something. When you do, I think we should encourage them,’
‘But it could be dangerous.’
‘True, but life always has been dangerous for squirrels, that’s what keeps us alert – and a
live. You’ll think of something. If you think you can…
Either by coincidence or Sun-plan, the dolphins swam in on the evening tide and thought-called to Marguerite as she sat looking up at the giant squirrel that Larch and his family had carved. Some idle tail-wag of a youngster had bitten the tufted ears off, and cut circles round its eyes, so that it appeared to be wearing those glass things that some humans hooked over their ears.
‘Marguerite-Friend,’ Lundy called. ‘We have come so that Finisterre can thank you for your help.
He is much better and we have all recovered from our ordeal. It seems much more than three days ago. How are you? The swans evidently brought you back safely.’
Marguerite projected her thoughts and told of the incidents on the flight and the loss of the three Sun-squirrels.
‘If we can ever help you, let us know. We owe Finisterre’s life to you and your friends.’
‘We were glad to be able to repay you for all you have done for us in the past,’ Marguerite said, ‘but there is a little help you could give – if you are not too busy now.’
‘Our patrol is being swum by others until Finisterre is fully recovered. How can we help?’
‘There are squirrels, five altogether, who want to go back to the Mainland to finish off some business there and find what the Greys are up to now. Could you take them?’
‘Glad to. When do they want to go?’
‘They could be ready at first light.’