THE TALES OF THE WILLOWS
By Kenneth Grahame
The Wind in the Willows
By William Horwood
The Willows in Winter
Toad Triumphant
The Willows and Beyond
ALSO BY WILLIAM HORWOOD
The Duncton Wood series
The Stonor Eagles
Callanish
Skallagrigg
The Wolves of Time
WILLIAM HORWOOD
The Willows and Beyond
Illustrated by Patrick Benson
I
The River’s Warning
It was late September, and after a week of storms and rain, which had caused the River to rise, and the once-glorious vegetation along the River Bank to grow old and bedraggled, the sun started to show itself again.
Now, with a new dawn, the day promised a time of calmer, drier weather and the final touch of an Indian summer. A thin veil of mist hung over the River, and all seemed subdued, and at peace.
The Mole, who had not been able to leave Mole End for some days, had left Nephew to busy himself with a few necessary repairs to the windows and doors before winter set in, and had gone off for the day to see his good friend the Water Rat.
He had reached the Iron Bridge and was leaning on its parapet to gaze down at the River, and watch its endless flow, when he noticed somebody sitting a little way along the bank, hardly more than a misty silhouette.
“Is that you, Otter?” he called. “Hello, Mole,” said the Otter, rising to join him. Then, seeing the fat wicker luncheon-basket he carried, he added, “You’re not off to see Ratty, are you?”
“You can join us if you like,” said the hospitable Mole. “Seeing that these are likely to be the last few decent days of summer, I thought —“
“I’d leave Ratty well alone today, if I were you, Mole,” said the Otter seriously. “He’s communing with the River, and has been since yesterday”
“Aah!” said the Mole, putting down his basket. “Then I’ll have to think of something else to do, for at such a time Ratty’s best left by himself.”
The Otter continued to stare down at the River, and seemed unusually quiet and distracted for one normally so cheerful.
“Is something amiss along the River?” enquired the Mole anxiously.
“I think there may be,” said the Otter, “though what it is I cannot say. I have known Ratty commune with the River many times before, we all have, but not for quite so long, and not so… so seriously.
“I took him some food and a warming drink last evening — I left it nearby where he might see it when he was ready, for I did not wish to disturb him — but I swear it was untouched this morning.”
“You mean he has been out all night?” cried the Mole.
“I think he must have been.”
“And he seems troubled?”
“Very,” said the Otter sombrely.
“Well, we certainly shouldn’t disturb him,” said the thoughtful Mole, “but we can be at hand when he has finished, for he’ll be very tired, and in need of good food and company”
So it was agreed, and the two spent the day at Otter’s house, sending Otter’s son Portly down-river from time to time to see how Ratty was getting on.
“He’s still there, just sitting and staring, and raising his arms occasionally, as he does when he’s communing,” reported Portly at eleven o’clock, at midday, at two o’clock and again just after three.
“We’ll leave it till the end of the afternoon,” said the Otter, “and then I’ll go along again myself. Meanwhile, Mole, I hope you don’t mind if I help myself to some more of that cranberry pie you’ve made; there’ll still be plenty left for Ratty”
“Please have as much as you wish,” insisted the Mole, “and for goodness’ sake put some of this clotted cream on top, for it just does not taste the same without it.” A little later, Mole went out and gazed down-river towards the distant form of the Rat in the fading sunlight. “O my” he sighed, and went back to sit by the Otter and wait while the minutes and hours passed by.
Both of them knew that if there were one animal along the River Bank who understood the River’s moods better than any other, and who heard its call more clearly than them all, it was the Water Rat. Come spring, summer, autumn or winter, a day rarely went by when the Rat was not either in the water or on it, swimming or sculling, thinking and dreaming. If he did have to be away from the River Bank, for social or business reasons, he was restless and uneasy till he was back in touch with the River again.
For the most part the Rat called the River “she”, and none thereabouts doubted where his heart and spirit lay, or what was the source of his deepest joy and happiness, and, for that matter, his sporadic moods and silences. The River-Bankers never questioned the Rat for a single moment on those occasions, happily rare and usually at times of spring and autumn spate, when he warned others off the River, and told them to leave her alone for a time.
His chief confidant and helper in such difficult times was the Otter, who lived as close to the River as the Rat, and was as adept as he in managing her more violent moods of storm and flood. When it came to matters of River history and lore, however, the Otter deferred to the Rat’s greater knowledge and wisdom.
It was one of the quiet pleasures of the River Bank to see the Rat and the Otter conferring about the changing mood of the River, sitting upon the bank, their feet dangling in the water, their voices low Only Portly was allowed to disturb them, for such was the power of the River over them that they sometimes needed reminding that their tea was ready, or they were due at Mole End in half an hour for supper.
It was no wonder then, that the Otter was so concerned about this latest episode. But as the September day wore on into a balmy evening and still Portly reported that there was no change, they began to think that something very serious indeed was afoot.
The Mole was just beginning to consider that he might go home for the night and return in the morning when Portly came running along the bank.
“He’s moved! He’s up and he’s stretched, and he’s gone back into his house and shut the door!”
“I think this is a matter for you now, Mole old fellow,” said the Otter. “You’re a better judge than I as to whether or not Ratty’s at home to visitors.”
The Mole smiled and said, “Now, how much of that cranberry pie have you left?”
They quickly gathered together what remained of the feast the Mole had prepared, added a few things from the Otter’s more workaday larder and set off to see if their friend might be lured back into society.
“Ratty!” called the Mole, having tapped at his door. “Are you there, Ratty?”
“You know perfectly well I am,” said an irritable voice from inside Ratty’s house.
“Well then, are you at home to visitors? Because I’ve brought you some —The door opened a little and two bright eyes peered out.
“Some what?”
“O, nothing very much, just a little bit of supper, because I had heard —“
“What had you heard?” said the Rat, letting the door open a shade more.
“— and I know that at such times —“
“What do you know about such times?” said the Rat in a more friendly way, and opening his door wider still.
“— that you could do with a bite or two, and that a well-made warming drink would not go amiss.”
The Rat opened the door completely and looked at the contents of the Mole’s basket with unabashed pleasure.
“Is it very bad, the news you have from the River?” said the Mole.
The Rat abruptly turned his attention from the basket to the Mole and his expression changed.
“I
think it may be, Mole, for her call these past two days has been strange. She worries me. She worries me a great deal.”
The Rat stood with his old friend, staring at the light of evening upon the River, and listening to the distant calls of the migrating geese, which had settled for the night in the nearby meadows.
Quietly Otter and Portly came to join them, and not long afterwards Nephew also arrived, for he had been worried about his uncle. Nephew sensed the importance of the occasion immediately and settled down with the others to contemplate the silent flow of the River.
For the time being all thought of food and drink had fled the Rat’s mind, but a little later the Mole quietly slipped into the Rat’s house and made up a large pot of tea for the whole company He brought it out, and while it brewed he opened up his basket and finally laid out some food for the Rat on a large plate.
The Water Rat took up the mug of tea the Mole had poured for him and sipped it slowly hunching forward as he looked at the River, his hands tight about the mug as if for warmth and comfort.
“I cannot say that I fully understand what she has been trying to say to me since yesterday” he confided at last, “for the River does not use language as we do, but speaks to us in a deeper way Very often it is I who do not understand her, but I think that on this occasion she is not able to speak at all clearly of what concerns her. It is as if she is calling for help, but … that she knows we cannot give it. There! That’s what it is: she needs help, but not from us because there is nothing we can do for her.”
Ratty sounded suddenly relieved that his work of communion had found expression after so many arduous hours, but he sounded very tired as well.
“But what does she need our help for?” asked Nephew, who had not yet learned, as his uncle had, that on such occasions the Rat knew the questions well enough; it was the answers that had to come in their own time.
Yet perhaps because it was Nephew, of whom he had grown very fond in the years since he had first come to live with the Mole, the Rat did essay an answer.
“I do not know what it can be, but it’s certain it’s important and threatens her very life and possibly our own.”
There was a gasp from Nephew and Portly who had been slower than the Mole and the Otter to understand the sombre importance of what the Rat had been saying, and they stared again at the great River whose steady and relentless flow seemed as solid and eternal as the cycle of day and night, and of the seasons.
“But how — ?“ whispered Nephew.
“He doesn’t know, he can’t know,” said the Otter, replying for the Rat in a low voice, that animal having now risen.
“Mole,” the Rat called out when he had made his slow, tired way to his front door, “I’ll be well and rested in a day or two and will come and see you then. Meanwhile, let us say no more of this amongst ourselves, or to Badger. I think it better that I talk to him myself about it first, for idle chatter on matters of moment is to nobody’s advantage, least of all hers.”
“Uncle,” began Nephew an hour later, after the little group had dispersed and the two moles were nearing Mole End by the light of the stars, “this is a serious business, isn’t it?”
His uncle had said hardly a word since they had crossed the Iron Bridge, and in the last quarter of an hour his pace had slowed, evidence that he was deep in thought. Now he stopped, sniffed appreciatively at the night air, and leaned upon a gate that led into one of the pasture fields.
“No doubt of it, Nephew, none whatsoever. Ratty isn’t given to making things up, and he never makes light of River business. I cannot think what the matter can be, and nor shall I try, for in that department we must leave ourselves in the good hands of Ratty and Otter, and to some extent in Portly’s as well, for he is coming along very well, very well indeed.
“Meanwhile, as Ratty said, ‘idle chatter’ will help nobody, and I shall desist from it. Now, did you succeed in stopping the rattle in the window, and easing the front door somewhat?”
“I did,” said Nephew good-humouredly, the more so because such jobs were much easier without the house-proud Mole fussing about, and he had been glad that his uncle had followed his gentle hint and made himself scarce for the day.
“There’s still a good deal of work to do on the other windows, however, and I will need your help holding the ladder on that highest window of all, which needs a good clean and rub-down, and then some fresh paint.”
“Even more than that I fancy,” said the Mole, “for I put in that window myself when I first came to Mole End, and that’s a good many years ago — before you were born.”
Talking in this comforting manner, they resumed the last stage of their journey and once back in the security of Mole End they soon turned in. It had been a long day, and a worrying one, but the Mole always said that a good night’s sleep cleared the mind and made things look different, and very often a good deal better; and often he was right.
If he had hoped for a lie-in, however, he was disappointed, for the sun seemed barely to have risen when there was a rat-tat-tat at the door.
“That must be Ratty!” he said, as he rose from his bed and searched for his dressing-gown. “He must have made a bit more sense of what the River was trying to tell him and come over at once to tell me.”
Rat-tat-tat! went the knocker once more, rousing Nephew from his slumbers too.
Grumbling a little, and calling to Ratty to be patient if you please, the Mole slid back the bolts and finally opened the door.
“Ratty, you’re always welcome,” began the Mole, “but do remember that not everybody is as wide awake at this hour as —But it was not the Rat. It was a solid gentleman in a blue and red uniform, and he carried a brown canvas satchel with a red crown upon it, above which were embroidered the words “Royal Mail”.
The Mole saw at once the mistake the postman had made.
“It’ll be Mr Toad of Toad Hall you want,” he said, his normal good humour returning as he saw that the weather was fine and another good day seemed certain, “but I’m very much afraid you’ve come too far.”
“I know where Mr Toad lives,” said the postman slowly “Everybody knows him. But I can’t say as we’ve ever had to deliver further afield than his establishment, not in my experience and that goes back a good way now.”
“Ah,” said the Mole equably, feeling that in some way he may have called into question the postman’s professionalism.
“You’re Mr Mole of Mole End, I take it, seeing as you’re mole-like and your house is named ‘Mole End’?”
“That is correct,” concurred the Mole.
“So you’re not Mr Water Rat? And nor is he, I take it, since he, too, is mole-like?”
Nephew had appeared at the door behind the Mole and the postman was staring at him rather suspiciously.
“Neither of us is the Water Rat,” said the Mole, feeling that simple agreement was the best approach with this gentleman.
“It’s easier in the Town,” said the postman wearily. “There’s numbers on the houses there. If I had my way I would have the law changed and get numbers put on every house in the land.”
“I see,” said the Mole, “but do you not feel that it would be pleasant to retain the house name as well?”
“Can’t see the point,” said the postman.
“No, I don’t suppose you can,” said the Mole.
“I can’t stop here all day talking to you, now can I?” said the postman suddenly “The letters of the land must be delivered — not to mention other things.”
Mole glanced at his satchel, wondering if it might contain some of those “other things”, and if so if they might be dangerous in some way But the bag appeared to be empty, which was perhaps not surprising since Mole End was the last house in this direction for a great many miles.
“Would you like a cup of tea and some buttered toast?” offered the Mole, thinking that perhaps that was the way to deal with postmen.
“That is against all the regulations,” said t
he postman with considerable severity, “and it is as well that you did not include with that invitation the suggestion — a hint would have been enough — that alcoholic beverage was included, or else I would have had to make a citizen’s arrest and turn you and every other person resident in this house over to the magistrates.”
“Well I —“ began the perplexed Mole, who had never thought that the offer of sustenance to a visitor might land him in court.
“Don’t you think, sir, that it would be better if you said nothing more on the subject of tea and toast? Instead, perhaps you could just try to give me a straight and unequivocal answer to a simple question: if Mr Rat does not live here, where does he live?”
“On the other side of the River,” said the Mole, pointing down through the trees. “It’s about half an hour or so if you go back the way you’ve come and over the Iron Bridge, but a good deal quicker by boat.”
“Very droll,” said the postman with a scowl. “We are not issued with boats.”
“I could perhaps take the letter or package to Ratty myself, he is a good fr—”
“Sir, you have an unfortunate habit of saying the wrong thing: I would not repeat that suggestion if I were you, because purloining mail is deemed a criminal rather than a civil offence!”
The Mole was not a little affronted by the postman’s attitude, but he was also most curious and intrigued, for to his certain knowledge the Rat had no more experience with the Royal Mail, in either the receiving or sending departments, than he had. He was reluctant to ask further questions, since he did indeed seem to say or ask the wrong thing and had not quite realized the risks attached to dealing with postmen, but quite suddenly the postman softened a little and offered some information.
“In any case,” he said, “it isn’t a letter”
“Not a letter,” said the Mole, feeling that repetition of what was said to him was the safest approach.
“Nor a package.”
“Ah,” said the Mole. “Nor a package.”
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