The Golden Flight (The Dorset Squirrels) Read online

  Then with a whoosh of sound, a huge mass of punkwood fell, covering those working below, and pitching a bewildered Rowan and Spindle down on to the wriggling bodies of the five females who were struggling to free themselves.

  A rush of cool air passed them, drawn up the tree as if it were a chimney. A stream of fine powder poured out of the hole past the guards.

  ‘What’s going on in there?’ a voice from outside called huskily and the squirrels below tried not to cough.

  ‘Which way is out?’ Rowan asked the glowing figure of his life-mate as they embraced.

  Hearing no sound from within the tree for at least a minute, one of the guards cautiously pushed his head into the hole, even darker inside than the night around him. He withdrew it rapidly, his eyes full of dust. The other guard, who had gone round the tree to see if he could find out what had made that odd whooshing noise, rubbed his eyes as he saw what appeared to be a line of glowing squirrel-shapes materialise from nowhere in the darkness below him, then scurry towards the pine trees. He watched them fade away between the trunks before returning to his companion.

  ‘Did you see anything?’ he was asked.

  ‘No,’ he replied, his voice high and a little shaky. ‘Nothing at all.’

  An owl hooted derisively and the squirrel shivered.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘Do any of you have anything to say before we consider a tag change?’

  Clover the Tagger looked at the three youngsters on the branch before her, then at the assembled squirrels of the Council. There were many gaps. Apologies had been sent by squirrels busy on various projects. Larch had sent a message saying he was at a critical stage on his carving. The ex-princesses, Voxglove and Cowzlip the Carers, had responded by saying that they were building a special drey where sick squirrels could be treated and that ex-prince Fir was helping them that day by testing different plants for healing properties.

  Heather Treetops had just sent word to say that she and Chestnut were ‘unavailable’. But there was a sprinkling of ex-zervantz, though again no Caterpillar. Marguerite was there with Chip, as were Just Poplar and Alder, but very few of that year’s new generation were present, although they were entitled and even encouraged to attend.

  The three youngsters had been found, ruddled and helpless, at the leaf pile and when sober, had been summoned to appear before the Council.

  One of the offenders, Sycamore, sat up, tail high.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing for us to do on this Sun-damned island. We just get bored. It was all right for you lot, you could go on climbabout when you lived on the Mainland. We can’t. It must have been exciting when the pine marten was here. Nothing like that happens here now. It’s all so dull. That’s all.’

  Clover looked at Marguerite then back at the youngsters.

  ‘Does anyone else have anything to say?’

  The other young squirrels shook their heads, so she sent the three out of ear-twitch and looked around at those who had attended, most clearly taken aback by the lack of respect shown.

  ‘Do we have any choice but to tag them ‘Ruddled’?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps Sycamore should be ‘the Ruddled and Disrespectful’,’ Marguerite suggested.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Clover replied sharply. ‘Most of them are like that, I really don’t know what to do. It’ll just have to be ‘the Ruddled’ and we must hope they will grow out of it.

  The three were called back and told that each would have to bear the low-tag ‘the Ruddled’. They turned to leave, led by Sycamore, their tails high.

  ‘Wait,’ said Clover the Tagger. ‘You have been down-tagged, lower your tails. You are in disgrace.’

  ‘What about him then?’ asked Sycamore, pointing to Chip. ‘He’s supposed to be Chip the Ruddled, but he goes around with Miss Hoity-Toity, his tail as high as ever.’

  Without waiting for an answer, Sycamore dropped to the ground and sauntered off.

  Marguerite looked around to see who Miss Hoity-Toity was, then realised with horror that Sycamore had been referring to her. Was that what they called her behind her back? She looked at Just Poplar; he was engrossed in conversation with Alder, and Clover was on her way to join them. Chip had slipped away unnoticed. Feeling angry and left out, she went quickly down the tree trunk alone.

  Another group of dreylings where playing at The Wall as she passed, and she realised with a shock that Sycamore the Ruddled had been among those she had watched here, earlier in the year. These playing the game now were youngsters from Second Litters. Were these dear little ones, going to grow up loutish, like the three at the Council Meeting? Would they think of her as Miss Hoity-Toity? She heard the chant coming from behind her.

  I honour birch-bark

  The island screen. Flies stinging…

  The Island’s Queen… She corrected mentally then turned to seek the Ex-Kingz Mate. Marguerite was sure that the old Royal knew something that she might be persuaded to tell.

  Ex Kingz-Mate Thizle was not on her branch in the sunshine when she arrived at her drey so Marguerite said the Calling Kernel:

  Hello and greetings

  I visit you and bring peace.

  Emerge or I leave.

  She waited, ready to go if there was no response.

  ‘Marguerite,’ called a feeble voice from within the drey. ‘Come yew in, pleaze. Uz’z glad to zee yew.’

  Marguerite wriggled in through the entrance and found the old squirrel inside, very feeble and weak.

  ‘Thank the Zun yew came.’ Thizle said, struggling to pronounce the words. ‘Uz’ll be Zun-gone zoon and ther’z zumthing uz muzd tell yew.’

  Marguerite propped her up and tried to make her comfortable. ‘Yes,’ she said, I’m listening. What is it.’

  ‘Woodlouz knowz…’ The old squirrel stopped and Marguerite repeated her words.

  ‘Woodlouz knows…’

  ‘How the muzhroomz of the moon…’

  Marguerite repeated this, ‘How the mushrooms of the moon…’

  There was a long pause, Thizle breathing with difficulty. Marguerite waited.

  ‘Controlz the breeding.’ The words were very faint and indistinct.

  ‘Controls the bleeding?’ Marguerite queried.

  ‘No, no! Controlz…’

  Thizle’s head fell back against Marguerite’s shoulder and the old Ex-Kingz-Mate drew a last rattling breath and slumped down on the mossy lining of her drey.

  Marguerite put a paw on Thizle’s thin chest. It was still.

  She laid the body out straight and went to tell the others and to get help to carry the body down to the ground for burial. The loss of her friend and confidante left her feeling as though a piece had been painfully bitten out of her own chest.

  ‘Woodlouz knows how the mushrooms of the moon controls the bleeding.’ Marguerite repeated the message again and again as she went. Was that what Thizle had said? It was almost as confusing as Wally’s prophecy about honouring birch-bark.

  Woodlouse was the original name the Royals had given to her friend Wood Anemone, one of the zervants who was now on the Mainland with Rowan. What did she know about the Moon Mushrooms, whatever these were? And how did they control bleeding? Why had old Thizle suddenly thought it important to tell her about them as she was dying?

  Marguerite had reached the Council Tree.

  ‘Clover, Old Thizle is Sun-gone. I’ve just come from her drey.’

  Thizle was buried at the foot of her drey-tree and most of the island squirrels were present. One of the ex-zervants had brought along a small feather from a peacock’s tail, with a gleaming eye in the fan, similar to the feather once carried so proudly by Thizle in the days when she was Kingz-Mate.

  Thizle’s son, Just Poplar, took the feather and laid it alongside the body of his mother before saying the Farewell Kernel:

  Sun, take this squirrel

  Into the peace of your earth

  To nourish a tree.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN


  Hickory was waiting at the Little Pool when the Reds arrived back, tired and dirty, in the early dawn.

  He listened to the story of the escape and looked at Meadowsweet with a new respect. To think what that old fool Malachite had said about natives!

  ‘What do you plan to do now? He asked Rowan.

  ‘We’ll need to get cleaned up first,’ he said, seeing his life-mate looking ruefully at her claws, torn and broken from the night’s digging, ‘then decide on action.’

  Indecision kills.

  Act positively and lead.

  Action is the Key

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ Rowan went on, ‘but it’ll be the third time in four years that you Greys have driven me out. It’s getting to be routine. Do any of the others know you’re here?’

  ‘No, I thought of telling Sitka but I’m not sure if I can trust him. I think he’s got ambitions to be the Great Lord Silver and he might believe it would go against him if he was known to have assisted natives.’

  ‘Don’t you have that ambition?’ asked Rowan.

  ‘Not now. I used to once, but I’ve learned a lot from your teachings and there are more important things to me now.’

  He glanced across at Bluebell who was licking her paws and cleaning her fur.

  ‘What about the others? Rowan asked.

  ‘All the colonists will be plotting to be Great Lord Silver now; even those three old fools from the Tanglewood fancy their chances. You should hear them bickering over who would win if they were to fight one another. It’s pathetic.’

  He paused. ‘Can I come with you?’ he asked.

  ‘Let me get cleaned up, then I’ll ask the others. I can’t decide that on my own.’

  The guards stayed on the Warren Ash-tree, near the hole, long after it was light, hoping to hear sounds from the inside to confirm that their prisoners were still secure. They were puzzled by the updraught that was blowing particles of dust out into the open air, each mote dancing in the sunshine as it was caught by a gentle breeze that eddied round the tree.

  Eventually, the bravest one put his head inside, then pulled it out and turned to his companion. ‘Oh Great Lord Silver,’ he groaned, ‘are we in trouble!’

  At the Blue Pool the Greys heard the guards tell of how they had looked in the hollow of the Warren Ash after hearing no sounds from inside during the night, only to find that the prisoners had tunnelled their way out. Malachite conferred with Silica and Obsidian then ordered an immediate tail-chop for the senior guard and a tail-halving for the other. Sentence was carried out gleefully by one of the more recently arrived Greys. Sitka watched in horror. Was this to be the new order of things?

  He had waited for an hour, expecting Hickory to reappear. He did not know where his friend was, but he assured the three Lords ‘that he will be back soon.’

  ‘Slack sort of base this,’ grumbled Malachite. ‘Never like this in my day.’

  An hour later Lord Obsidian led a party of colonists to search for the Red males and the missing Grey Leader. They returned to report that a scent trail, and speckles of wood dust particles, led away from the Warren Ash towards the Deepend of the Blue Pool where there were also traces of Hickory’s scent.

  ‘The traitor,’ snarled Malachite. He glowered at Sitka. ‘I’m taking full command of this precinct. Watch your tail if you know what’s good for you,’ he declared.

  Rowan knew that they would be pursued soon and he must lead his party to safety, but he must first resolve the question of Hickory coming with them. Hickory was an alien, one of the colonisers who had taken over his land and harassed and persecuted the native Reds. The Greys’ whole philosophy had been based on different principles and ideals. The native concept of the guardianship of an area of country was as difficult for a Grey to grasp as ‘ownership’ was to a Red. True he had been teaching native ways to several groups of Greys during the last year, but apart from Hickory and Sitka all the others had moved on west and south, hopefully taking these ‘native’ ideas with them.

  The new batch he was teaching had only just started their training and he could not rely on them for support. Sitka might be reliable, but he had never been as enthusiastic nor as friendly as Hickory. Then there were the so-called Three Lords. They were probably harmless enough, far too old and unfit to be a danger.

  Rowan remembered that:

  A delayed Action –

  Stultifies. Find the root cause,

  Grub it out and Act.

  There was no difficulty in identifying the root cause here; it was that Hickory was a Grey. Could he trust him as one of their party?

  Rowan joined the others.

  ‘Hickory,’ he said, ‘would you wait over there. I must consult with my companions.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hickory, ‘I understand.’

  When he was safely out of ear-twitch, Rowan spoke. ‘We can’t stay here, so until the situation becomes clearer, we must go into hiding. We will go to the Eyeland in the pool across the Great Heath. Hickory wants to come with us, even though he doesn’t know where we are going. Who has views on this?’

  He looked at Spindle who spread his paws wide and said ‘I’ve no objections. He’s always treated me well. I trust him.’

  Wood Anemone nodded her assent, as did Rosebay and Willowherb, their heads moving in unison.

  Rowan turned to Meadowsweet. ‘What do you think, Meadowsweet-mate?’ he asked.

  ‘I think you should really ask Bluebell,’ she replied and Rowan looked at her quizzically. Was something going on here he did not know about? He turned to his daughter.

  ‘Bluebell?’

  ‘Hickory has asked me to be his life-mate,’ she blurted out. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it, but the time has never been right. I do love him, Rowan-Pa.’

  A host of queries poured through Rowan’s brain, but there was no time to consider them now. One thing was clear though; they all seemed to think that Hickory could be trusted to be on their side in any confrontation.

  ‘We’ll have to discuss that later,’ he said. ‘I take it then that we are unanimous; Hickory comes with us.’

  Rowan signalled to Hickory, who came bounding over.

  ‘You can come with us. There are other matters to discuss, but they can wait. Now we will make for a safe place and see what develops. Follow me, all of you.’

  He headed off towards the Hazel Copse and the Dogleg Field.

  The sun was high and the air was warm when they reached the trees whose lower branches spread out over the field. The horses were standing close together, resting in the shade. They were facing the opposite directions, each flicking its tail to keep the flies off the other’s head.

  ‘If we go straight across the field and we are followed, our scent will give us away, we’d better lay some false trails.’

  They were discussing who was to go in which direction and where they were to meet, when Meadowsweet called to Rowan.

  ‘Do you remember Tansy telling us how she came across the harbour on a deer’s antler?’ She asked. He nodded.

  ‘Well, humans keep horses so that they can travel about the country sitting on their backs. Why can’t squirrels ride on horses?’

  Rowan looked at the horses below. What would they do if squirrels dropped on to them unexpectedly? But it was a splendidly original idea – worthy of Zander the Great.

  ‘We’ll try it,’ he said. ‘We won’t leave any scent trails that way. That’ll fool those Sun-damned Greys.’ Then, seeing Hickory wince, he added, ‘Sorry – present company excepted.’

  The horses had long tails, and manes of coarse hair on the top of their necks and tassels of hair hanging between their eyes.

  ‘Aim for the neck of the chestnut-coloured one. Drop and cling on when I say ‘Go’. I expect them to run off when we do that. Then, when I say ‘Jump’ leap off and follow me.’

  They all climbed down through the branches until they were just above the horses. They paused there, listening to the gentle sno
rting noises that the horses made as they communed with one another. Rowan signalled the squirrels to line up on a branch just above the Chestnut.

  ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Go now!’ and they dropped, each scrabbling for a hold, the unfamiliar smell of horse strong in their nostrils.

  The dozing animal reared unexpectedly and Rosebay and Willowherb, who had not yet got their claws into the security of the mane, slid down the horse’s back, unable to grip the short hairs of its summer coat. As they tumbled over its rump, they grasped at the tail and hung on as the frightened animal raced across the field, followed by its puzzled companion, the piebald mare.

  Rosebay and Willowherb were swung from side to side as the tail was switched violently in an attempt to dislodge them. When the hedge loomed up in front of it, the chestnut turned, rearing and plunging, its frightened whinnying showing its distress.

  ‘Jump’ called Rowan, ‘Jump now!’ and one grey and five red squirrels leapt from the horse’s neck for the safety of the hedgerow. Rosebay and Willowherb dropped from its tail and dodging the flying hooves of the black and white mare as it raced by, they scampered for the hedge to join the others.