The Willows in Winter

by William Horwood

  “Otter!” said the Water Rat in a commanding way, not liking this kind of talk. “Enough! Let us go and find the wretched animal, and let us hope you will box his ears for him, or something or other that will teach him not to cause his father such concern, and his father’s friends such trouble. But don’t worry, the sun is shining now and all will be well!”

  And yet, as the two friends set off, the Rat could not help feeling that all was not well, not well at all. It was the River that told him this, the River which none knew better than he. ‘What Otter had said was true, he was a bachelor, with few cares in the world. But though he lived alone, he had often thought that it was the River who was his friend and his mate. He knew her moods, he knew her ways, and when she whispered to him, as she whispered ominously now down where the ice stopped and the water flowed, and there where the wind-broken sedges rasped in the winter breeze, he heard a warning voice which said, “Beware! Trouble ahead! All is not well!”

  “I think we ought to hurry,” said the Rat presently, whiffling his snout at the river wind, “if we are not already too late.”

  “Rat!” whispered Otter, very much alarmed. “‘What’s wrong? There is something wrong, isn’t there? The river’s not right — I know it’s not. You know too, for you know it best of all.”

  “No,” said the Rat, “she’s not right, not right at all. Come on, Otter, we must make for Mole End as fast as we can, because that’s where Portly was going to. Mole will have some news for us, I’m sure.

  “We could swim across,” said the Otter doubtfully “No!” said Rat firmly “We’ll go the long way round. Swimming across is not a good idea. ‘We’ll go by the bridge.”

  “But that’s miles and miles —”

  “It may be,” said the Rat, setting off at a rapid pace, “but where the river is concerned, prudence is the watchword!”

  The winter’s afternoon was already drawing in, and the snow underfoot growing crisp and icy, when they finally reached Mole’s little home. The familiar door, the neatly painted “Mole End”, the very tree itself about which the Mole’s modest place was made, all spoke of comfort and safety.

  “But no light,” muttered the Rat grimly, “no sign of life at all. It’s not like Mole to go far in winter, unless it’s to come and see me.

  “Maybe he’s asleep,” declared the Otter. “But look, Ratty! He can’t be far!”

  The door was ajar and leading from it were what looked like the fresh prints of Mole’s galoshes. Rat put his paw to the door and pushed it open, though being a cautious animal he did not go straight in.

  “It’s not like him to leave his door open. Mole! Are you there?” he called out. “This doesn’t look good, Otter.”

  “It does not, Ratty,” said Otter, who was a reliable animal in such situations, as he pulled himself up to his fullest height alongside the Water Rat.

  “Listen!” whispered the Rat, peering into the murky interior.

  They heard a sniffle, then a snuffle, then a bleat, and finally a sob.

  “That’s sounds like Portly!” said Otter going straight in. “No doubt about it!” There was relief in his voice, but consternation as well.

  “‘Where are you, Portly? Show yourself.”

  The sobbing grew louder as the Rat joined the Otter in the parlour and looked about to see where Portly was.

  “You would think that Mole would have had the sense to light a candle or two,” said the Otter.

  “Mole’s not here,” said a tremulous voice from the direction of Mole’s favourite armchair. “Mole went out and didn’t come back.”

  They found Portly at last, huddled beneath Mole’s winter plaid, staring forlornly into a long-dead fire.

  “Now listen, Portly,” began the Otter in a very stern voice, “something’s going on and we want to know what it is!”

  Portly began to sob even more.

  “Leave this to me,” said the Rat, who, for all his fine words about discipline and proper behaviour was a kindly, soft-hearted animal when he saw others in distress. “You light a candle and get the fire going and let me talk to Portly —”Now, old chap, why don’t you tell me exactly what has happened and where Mole’s gone, and where that Nephew of his has disappeared to.”

  “But that’s just it,” said Portly, “I don’t exactly know. You see —Then, as the Otter bustled about setting out some candles, clearing the grate and then setting the fire ablaze once more, Portly told his sorry tale.

  “So, to sum it all up,” said the Rat finally as the Otter offered them a warming drink, “instead of telling Mole we had thought he might join us for the evening — which being a sensible animal and seeing the blizzard on its way he would have realized was not a good idea —instead of that, you somehow made him think that Otter or I or both of us were in trouble?”

  “Yes,” conceded Portly.

  “And needed help?”

  “Yes,” repeated Portly more quietly.

  “Then being the Mole he is, which is to say always concerned about his friends before himself, he put on his coat and set off alone into the snowy night three nights ago.

  “Yes,” said Portly, more quietly still.

  “Then a short time ago you awoke as his Nephew, concerned for his uncle as all nephews should be, was likewise setting off into the cold, leaving you here snug and safe.”

  “Not very snug,” said Portly in a very quiet voice indeed.

  “Snug enough,” scowled the Rat, who might now have been inclined to be more harsh had Otter not been there.

  “He only went an hour or so ago. I did offer to go with him but he said to stay here in case you came.”

  “Sensible,” said the Otter.

  “He also said to tell any animal that came that he would first go down to the river opposite your home, Mr Rat, because he thought that was the way Mr Mole would have gone.

  “Sensible again,” said the Otter. “More sensible than some I can think of.”

  “Very much more so,” said the Rat darkly He frowned and thought for a moment and put down his drink only half finished.

  “I think, Otter, we had better be going right away It’s still light outside but the days are growing very short.”

  “Can I come?” asked Portly.

  “No you can’t,” said the Otter. “You stay here and keep that fire burning. No, on second thoughts, just stay here and don’t touch anything.”

  “It’s lonely by myself,” said Portly.

  “Yes,” said the Rat pitilessly, “I daresay it is. Now, Otter, to work!”

  The Water Rat was at his very best in a crisis and in no time at all had gathered together all the provisions he thought they might need in the course of what could turn out to be a cold and difficult few hours: some food wrapped up in grease-proof paper; some warming sloe juice; a flint and candles; and some spare clothing.

  “The only thing I can’t see is Mole’s lantern, which he must have taken with him, so we’ll have to make do with a jam jar if we can find one —Then, with the ‘Water Rat carrying the bag of provisions over his shoulder, the two animals set off once more, giving final instructions to Portly to stay exactly where he was and to keep the candle burning at the window so Mole End could more easily be found in the dark.

  It was a route that the Rat had taken many times before — though never in such an apprehensive frame of mind. The way seemed longer than it really was, the hedges and meadows gloomier, despite the snow that lightened their way.

  “These are definitely the tracks of Mole’s Nephew!” said the Otter, but they were the only words the two spoke almost the whole way there.

  The gloaming was already with them, and the trees losing their colour and turning into silhouettes, and the snow all about becoming more violet than white, as they came in sight of the river.

  As they did so they saw a figure running wildly towards them out of the dark, shouting and gesticulating. For a moment they thought it was the Mole himself, but it was his Nephew, and in a state of
considerable alarm. Indeed, so incoherent was he that the Otter thought the worst and said, “Mole’s not —?”

  “Worse,” said his Nephew “O, far, far worse!”

  “Better show us what you’ve found,” said the Rat, eyes narrowing, as he led the way down to the bank.

  “Mole’s lamp!” he cried out, pointing out where it stood so conspicuously on the path by the bank.

  “But no Mole,” said his Nephew “Gone — gone forever!”

  Then he pointed mutely towards the willow tree roots where Mole had left his message before trying to cross the river.

  “There are words there; he’s scribed words,” said his Nephew.

  The Rat and the Otter peered at the roots, but the light was now too poor to make anything out.

  “Otter,” said the Rat grimly, “give me the candle and flint and that jam jar and let us read what Mole has written here. Mole is no fool, you see. He guessed we might come looking for him, though why he didn’t go straight back home after seeing the state of the river I can’t — I mean — he couldn’t have — he —”

  Rat turned to look at the river and the ice that still covered a good part of it, and a thought too terrible to think came to him, and he shook his head and turned back to the tree.

  But as the Otter struggled to light the candle in the cold night breeze it seemed to the Rat that the River was speaking to him again, and that what she had to say was bad news indeed. He had never known her splashes so — sonorous; her meanders so — miserable; her normally majestic flow so — final!

  “There you are, Rat,” said the Otter, giving him the flickering light, “you read it, for I’ve never had much time to learn that sort of thing.”

  The Rat peered about, looked closer, and was suddenly very still indeed; then, clearly shaken, he put the jam jar down on the nearest flattest root he could find.

  “‘What does it say, Rat?”

  “I shall read it aloud,” said the Rat in a terrible voice, which he clearly had great difficulty controlling.

  “It is headed ‘Mole’s Last ‘Will and Testament’ and this is what it says: ‘Before crossing the River, and Knowing I may not return alive, I, Mole, of Mole End, hereby ‘Wish to make the following Bequests: First, my Garden Seat is for Ratty, in memory of the many happy hours we had on it sitting and talking; Second, my Brass Candle Stick is for Mr Badger, as a token of my respect for him and since he needs one, along with those of my books he might choose to take; Thirdly, my bust of Garibaldi is to inspire Mr Toad to better things and remind him of his friend Mole; lastly, but by no means the Least important, I leave Mole End to my Nephew to whom I may not always have been as pleasant and welcoming as I should, but of whom I am very proud. I know my good friends will take his future education in hand till the day comes when he will be a most worthy Mole. Finally, I ask that Portly be kept well clear of my Sloe and Blackberry wine as it goes to his head somewhat. Now —’“

  And that was all, nothing more. Not even “Mole”.

  As Mole’s Nephew wept at the unexpected generosity and sentiments of his uncle, the Water Rat read the writing through again and then went down to the river. He peered across and saw the jagged gap where the ice had broken, and the black deep waters of the river that rushed and flowed so cruelly there.

  “My friends,” he said at last, “I greatly fear that we may not see Mole alive again. He must have been trying to get across the river to help me. He knew how dangerous that would be and yet — and yet he tried. No doubt he went carefully, but Mole was never a river animal and did not understand that of all the River’s moods her worst and meanest is when she is covered in ice. Yet alone as he was, and no doubt afraid, on he went in the cause of his friends. Not just for me, Otter, but for you as well.”

  The Otter sniffed, and a great big tear rolled down his face in the dusk.

  “He was the bravest mole I ever knew,” he said. “He was the truest friend I ever had,” said the Rat. “My uncle was the greatest mole who ever lived,” said his Nephew.

  For a long time they stood in silence as the night gathered about them, the flickering light on the willow root a beacon to light a friend on a journey they could never be part of.

  “But isn’t it possible he climbed back out onto the bank?” said his Nephew much later.

  “Or that he never fell in in the first place but is somewhere on the other side and the ice broke later?” said the Otter hopefully.

  “In short, that we have jumped to the wrong conclusion?” said the ‘Water Rat.

  The others nodded in the dark.

  “Unlikely,” said the Rat finally, as he stared at the river, utterly still, his grief total and complete.

  Much later still, speaking in a low voice, he said this:

  “All my life I have lived by the River and I have known her in all her moods. I have shared with her good times and bad. One thing she has never failed to do is to talk to me, though sometimes I found it hard to listen and understand what she said. Today she has been speaking to me but I did not want to hear what she said. You know what I mean, Otter, it sometimes just isn’t possible to —”To make sense of things,” said Otter.

  “Exactly Now, we are all tired and over-wrought and if Mole is still alive there is little good we can do floundering around in the dark. We shall go back to Mole End. We shall sleep. Then tomorrow we shall call on Mr Badger and institute a search for Mole, for I shall not be satisfied till I know what has happened to him one way or the other. Perhaps tomorrow I can try listening to the River once more — by myself — and perhaps it will all make more sense.

  “Now we shall put a new candle in Mole’s lantern, we shall light it, and we shall leave it here in the hope that somehow or other he will see its light, and know how much he is loved, and how much missed; and how much we want him back again!”

  They did this with all due ceremony, standing again in silence with the light flickering on their sombre faces before the Rat led them silently away from the river bank, back through the night to Mole End.

  The ‘Water Rat knew a night of shadows and half-dreams in which, try as he might, he could not get out of his head memories of Mole sitting so comfortably on the garden seat in the hot afternoon sun of the summer, reflecting upon life or, more often than not, upon something better still: nothing at all.

  “Mole, dear friend,” Rat remembered himself saying many a time, “this place is too comfortable, too pleasant, and I feel once more a yearning to get into my boat.”

  “Ratty, I am not at all surprised,” Mole would reply, “and it would be pleasant, very pleasant, to sit in your boat once more, with you sculling, which you do so much better than I, trailing a paw in the placid water, which I do so much better than you.

  “Trouble is, we have to get there, and that means getting out of this very comfortable seat.”

  “It does,” the Rat replied sleepily, “it doeszzzzzzz.” Of course, there had been many other occasions when after a day or two of such inactivity, Rat had declared, “If we don’t go now we never will, and therefore, Mole, I shall not sit down in that garden seat of yours. No! I shall help you prepare a hamper of food and drink sufficient to last us the whole day through.”

  “And halfway into the evening, if it stays as warm as this!”

  “Exactly! So let’s press on!”

  And on they had pressed, and off they had gone, though always Mole had cast a backward glance at his delightful nook, knowing that when the time came, when he tired of the river and longed once more for the shade of the trees, and the hum and buzz of the secret fields, it would always be there, waiting for him and his friend.

  Such thoughts and remembrances tormented the poor Rat all that night, till dawn came once more, when at last, as often happens after such a night, he fell into a deep sleep.

  “‘We’ll not disturb him till he wakes of his own accord,” said the Otter later, “for I doubt that he got much sleep in the night at all, poor fellow The loss of Mole will hit him h
ard, very hard indeed, and we should let him get what rest he can.”

  “If Mole is lost,” said Mole’s Nephew.

  “It’s certainly not like the Water Rat to give up so easily,” said Portly.

  “Hmmph!” said the Otter. “Make breakfast for us all, you two, and do it quietly!”

  So it was that the Rat woke to the pleasant scent of bacon and sausages sizzling on the hob, and the alluring aroma of camomile tea, which sent his spirits soaring and had him sitting up and asking, “‘Where am I?” before he looked about and saw only too clearly where he was: in Mole’s home without Mole, and with no hope that he would ever be here again.

  “O!” cried out the Rat, falling back on the pillow —the comfortable pillow it must be said, for it was Mole’s own, and in Mole’s bed in which Rat lay — “O dear!”

  He stared bleakly out of the window, tears slowly trickling down his face, and listened to the quiet bustle of the other three round the corner in the kitchen, and Portly saying, “Do you think he’s woken up yet? I’m very hungry and we can’t wait forever.”

  “We’ll wait for as long as it takes,” Rat heard Otter growl.

  The Rat drifted away into a muse, staring at the blue sky — for it was another lovely winter day — and at the drip drip drip of water from the ledge above the window.

  “The thaw’s set in,” he said to himself, “the thaw —”‘What was it about that drip of water that had him wide awake in moments and opening the window, and peering outside and all about and scenting at the air? ‘What was it that sent his whiskers buzzing, and made his snout tremble with — with the sense of things happening?

  He peered out still more, he looked down from the dripping of the water and the trees, down towards —why, towards the very garden seat that Mole had left him in his will. It was glistening with damp, it was waiting, it was —But before Rat could decide what it was, something else caught his attention, the very thing perhaps that had made him open the window in the first place. His snout had trembled — now it thrilled to the scent of the River come alive once more, too distant for any other creature to notice it. His River, across the meadows, through the wood, down the track, beyond the bank, alive and calling to him.