The Willows at Christmas Page 4

  Who was he to go off in the night in pursuit of weasels and stoats, cudgel in hand? And anyway, had he not made a point of visiting Otter’s house for a very different purpose indeed?

  “Er, Otter?” he essayed. “I did not really call upon you tonight to take up arms against the weasels and stoats. In fact, I was rather hoping you might give me some advice. You see.”

  “Advice?” cried the distracted Otter as he locked his front door. “Advice about what?”

  “Well, about Christmas, actually,” said the Mole, somewhat feebly.

  “Christmas?” said the Otter, stopping for a moment in his tracks. “Christmas?”

  Yes, you see, Otter,” began the Mole, “I was just trying —”

  “My dear Mole,” said the Otter very firmly, “this is not the time to talk of Christmas. There are many in these parts who may not have a Christmas at all if the weasels and stoats are allowed to continue vandalising the River Bank. Have you any idea of the power of the River when she grows angry with floodwater?”

  “I — I — I did not think,” said the Mole, quite at a loss for words.

  “No, you did not!” said the Otter. “Now, there’s a good fellow, and come along to give me some support against these thugs and hooligans.”

  “Thugs?” said the bewildered Mole in a timid voice. “Hooligans?”

  “And murderers,” growled the Otter, leading the way along the River Bank path.

  “Murderers?” repeated the Mole unhappily, as he tagged along behind the Otter in the dark, all thoughts of his revitalised Christmas plans, which he had so wanted to talk about, quite gone from his mind.

  Mole’s silent misgivings were soon amply justified. The two animals crept through the tangled reeds of the River Bank till they had the Iron Bridge dimly in view up-river, with the canal off to their left. There, in the chill, damp darkness, the increasingly nervous Mole was left to lie low in the reeds while the Otter went on ahead to investigate.

  Feeling alone and vulnerable, he was beginning to shiver with cold when he heard the unmistakable sound of the enemy approaching from the Wild Wood. By the sound of things, they were dragging something heavy along with them.

  “Otter!” he whispered hoarsely in the direction of the River Bank. “Otter! They are coming! Please, Otter, hear me!”

  He did not dare move for he had no doubt their numbers were great, and he knew the sleek weasels and lithe stoats were fleeter of foot than he. He also thought it likely that the more they had to give chase the greater would be their appetites.

  He hoped that his urgent whispers would not be heard against the River’s murmur in the night, but when he called out Otter’s name once more, quite desperate now, the dragging sound stopped at once and he heard ominous mutterings, as of villains deciding what to do next.

  He did not have to wait long to find out. With one accord the night creatures moved rapidly forward towards where Mole lay, by now frightened out of his wits. Only when he saw their shadows looming from the undergrowth did he decide to break cover, cudgel in hand, and bravely charge them.

  He was not sure what he hoped to achieve — perhaps to get a blow or two in first and then flee towards the bridge — but no sooner had he risen from the ground than he heard one of them grunt, “There!” and before he could even strike a blow, or see the enemy clearly, a strange shifting shadow engulfed him. He felt the harsh, rough entanglements of what seemed to be a net falling all about him, catching first at his cudgel, then at his arms, then enwrapped about his face and head till with a terrible cry he fell back upon the ground.

  Worse followed, for the shadows stood over him, and the Mole felt buffets on his head and kicks about his body as they overwhelmed him and bundled him up so tightly that he could scarcely move a limb. Despite his brave struggles and now-muffled protests, he felt himself hoisted up by many hands and carried off to a fate that was so awful to contemplate that he fainted right away, and knew no more.

  So it was that when the Otter returned some minutes later he found no Mole, no Mole at all. By the dim light of the winter night he could just make out an area of broken and flattened vegetation, with the Mole’s cudgel lying abandoned nearby — graphic evidence of what had happened.

  “Mole!” exclaimed the distraught Otter. “Moly, where are you.

  But the Otter was not so foolhardy as to hasten off in pursuit alone. “Badger’s the only animal who can help Mole now!” he told himself, and without more ado he retraced his steps to the Bank and from there set off by safer and more familiar paths back into the Wild Wood towards Badger’s home.

  When Badger’s door was opened — only after a long delay — the Otter was surprised to be confronted not just by the Badger, but also by the Water Rat as well, both heavily armed.

  “My dear fellow,” said the Badger, “you should have said it was you. Whatever are you doing here in the dead of night?”

  “You must come quick, Badger, there’s no time to lose. Mole’s been taken by the weasels and stoats!”

  “Mole?” repeated the Badger uncomprehendingly “Yes, Mole,” said the Otter. “For who else would I risk a journey through the Wild Wood on such a night as this, except perhaps yourself or Rat?”

  “Humph!” said the Badger disbelievingly “It is surely not like Mole to take risks, least of all in these parts, and it might well be that you are mistaken and the sensible Mole is at home, tucked up in bed and fast asleep.”

  “He is certainly not at home!” spluttered the Otter, exasperated at Badger’s seeming lack of concern. “I say again, Mole has been —”

  “I know what you said, Otter’ responded the Badger calmly, “and I can guess what you would like Ratty and me to do. I suppose you would like us to set forth into the Wild Wood and rescue him?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly —”

  “Can’t be done’ said the Badger abruptly, “not in the thick of night, and especially not this night. We have already been out on an expedition and were half-expecting a counter—attack from the weasels and stoats. And we really shouldn’t stand out here where we are vulnerable. Better to discuss this further in safety’

  He shepherded the protesting Otter inside and swiftly bolted his door.

  “Now come and sit by the fire and try not to worry, he said. “I very much doubt that so important an animal as Mole, who is known to be Badger’s friend, would be harmed by the weasels and stoats.”

  “I tell you —” cried the Otter.

  “Tell us by all means, old fellow,” said the Rat with some asperity, for he was getting cold in the hall, “but pray come and do so in Badger’s comfortable parlour!”

  The Otter soon found himself sitting by the fire, a glass of mulled wine in his hand, as he tried to explain poor Mole’s startling disappearance.

  Poor Mole indeed — not for him the comfort of a warming winter drink and the pleasures of conversation and companions. Instead, that unfortunate animal had suffered a good deal of hurt and indignity since he had been so unceremoniously abducted. Now he found himself in mortal danger.

  When he had come round he found himself inside a rough hessian sack of some kind. From the warmth —the uncomfortable warmth — of the place, and the muffled murmur of voices, he realised he was in the foul den of the villains who had captured him. It did not take him long to appreciate the gravity of his situation. The stuffy atmosphere in his sack was growing more clammy by the second, and he was conscious of an unwelcome heat beginning to warm him even as he heard the unmistakable bubblings of a cooking pot nearby. Only by a great effort of will did he prevent his terror from overcoming him. It was almost as if the weasels and stoats were merely waiting for the pot to be hot enough before they tipped Mole into it and started stewing him for dinner later that night.

  “O my goodness! Now, what weapons do I have upon my person?” he asked himself, feeling from pocket to pocket. He soon found that his arsenal consisted of one fountain pen, a silver fruit knife (the one with a shell handle that had bee
n his mother’s), a handkerchief and, ow!, a large safety pin!

  This find was a cheering discovery, and he resolved to stab at anyone who came near. What might be achieved if he started with the pin, followed up with the pen nib and then finished them off with the knife?

  But such brave thoughts lasted only a few moments till he heard movement nearby. Then the bubbling grew louder as the range was stoked, followed by laughter and the sound of lids being lifted and knives being sharpened. By now, inside the sack it was almost hot and steamy enough to render him parboiled, and even braised — and the Mole felt himself growing strangely light-headed and confused.

  “O dear’ he told himself. “This will never do: they’re going to cook me without tucking some thyme and bayleaves into the sacking, and I am sure I would taste better if they covered me with a rasher or two of fatty bacon. O my, to be cooked is not good, to be sure, but to be cooked badly is a tragic way to end one’s days!”

  He swooned once more, and when he next emerged into consciousness he found himself crying out, “Make sure you put some cranberry and onion comfit on the table, for I’ll taste a good bit better with that!”

  Then sanity returned and he told himself, “No, I will not be put into the cooking pot meekly, if only to show that we of the River Bank are not so easily vanquished! I’m sure it’s what Badger would advise and what Ratty would do!” And with that he lay still, safety pin in hand, ready to attack the moment the villains released him.

  How very differently had Mole’s friends passed the evening! How dolefully true is the adage that out of sight is very soon out of mind, especially when creature comforts are on offer!

  No sooner had the Otter settled down by the fire to explain how it was that the Mole had been captured than he yielded to the heady comforts of food, drink and companionship.

  “How much more I would enjoy these excellent crumpets,” he was saying, “if only I knew for certain that poor Mole was still alive!”

  A second glass of mulled wine and toasted crumpets as a rather unusual hors d’oeuvre to the mushroom stew that the Badger was cooking, plus the soothing effects of a warm fire, had calmed the Otter to such an extent that all urgency concerning Mole began to leave him.

  “And yet,” he mused, “there must be some way we can work out where he might be, so that we are ready to search for him at first light.”

  “The Wild Wood is a big place,” said the Badger as he stoked the fire under the stew to bring it to a final boil and helped himself to another crumpet, “and there are many holes and underground passages that would serve the role of dungeon for one such as Mole very well indeed. But —”

  Just then there was a slight movement in the shadows to the left of the Badger’s inglenook which stopped their conversation quite dead.

  “Good heavens, Badger,” cried the Rat. “In the excitement of Otter’s arrival and disturbing intelligence we have quite forgotten those villainous thieves we captured earlier tonight.”

  “Thieves?” said the astonished Otter, raising himself from his semi-slumber.

  “There, in that muddy sacking,” explained the Rat, pointing to the wet bundle by the hearth. “Three stoats and a brace of weasel at least. Caught ‘em thieving along the River Bank just near your house.”

  “Stoats?” cried the Otter angrily, rising to his feet and staring down at the sacking. “Weasels?”

  “Yes,” said the Badger, shaking his head. “They’ve always been the same, those animals. No standards, no values, no respect for property and people’s liberty. One would have thought that the trouncing we gave them at Toad Hall earlier this year would have taught them a lesson, but not so! They get more and more impudent as the months go by. Still, I suppose we ought to release them now and take their names.”

  “We should,” said the Rat, “and come to think of it they might give us some help in finding Mole.”

  “Help?” cried the roused Otter. “I should say they’ll give us some help — once I’ve given ‘em the drubbing they deserve.”

  Without further ado he set about kicking at the sacking. “Villains! This is for our friend Mole, whom your colleagues have abducted, and this as well, and this too!”

  “Really, Otter, I think perhaps —” essayed the Rat, trying to restrain his friend.

  “Desist, Otter, desist at once,” cried the Badger, his voice deep with alarm. A drubbing was one thing, but a common assault quite another.

  “Well…” growled the Otter, his ire suddenly gone, and feeling rather ashamed at getting so carried away.

  As the other two regarded the sacking with a mixture of concern and curiosity, the Otter bent down and untied the cords that bound its top together.

  “Out you come, villains!” he said, rising up once more, and hoping the stoats and weasels had no more than a bruise or two apiece.

  But the sacking remained ominously still, the shapes of bodies inside it accentuated by the flickering flames of the nearby fire, and made all the more lurid by the rise of steam from the hessian.

  “I say, fellows,” said the Water Rat, “this may be more serious than we thought. You don’t think they have suffocated in there, do you?”

  At once the three animals knelt down to release the captives, pulling open the mouth of the sack still further.

  “Out you come!” ordered the Badger.

  “Out?” cried an enraged voice from within the wet and steamy sack. “Out? I’ll come out, all right!”

  Out he certainly came, the bruised, abused, battered and furious Mole, like a rabbit bolting from its hole. Up and at ‘em, safety pin and all!

  “Take that! And that! And that!” he yelled, stabbing, pricking, hitting and punching, lunging and digging and making as much use of his tiny arsenal of weapons as he could. A Viking frenzy was upon him, which was why he did not immediately see that it was his friends he was assaulting.

  “Have me for supper if you must!” he cried wildly. “But I shall fight and struggle all the way into the pot!”

  Their cries of alarm and pain did nothing to stop him, but rather spurred him on, till one by one they retreated — the Badger to his bedroom, the Rat to the kitchen and the Otter behind a chair. Only then did the Mole give pause to see with clearer eyes, and realise with growing astonishment that he was in the Badger’s sitting room.

  “Villains!” he shouted (for he naturally thought that the weasels and stoats had somehow gained access to the Badger’s home, and most likely had already eaten him for lunch). “Come out and show yourselves!”

  Then, most sheepishly, most apologetically, his three friends left their hiding places and stood before the Mole, the very picture of contrition.

  “But — but — but —” was all the astonished Mole could say, looking first at one and then another, then at the sacking by the fireside and the cooking pot, and finally understanding all.

  It was a long time before anybody dared speak. Finally, the Otter took it upon himself to attempt to mollify the aggrieved Mole.

  “Well, now,” he haplessly began, “I mean to say —”Best say nothing, old fellow,” said the still angry Mole softly, rubbing his many bruises. But then, with a twinkle in his eye, for he was never one to hold a grudge, and always the first to laugh at himself and put the best complexion on things, he said more gently, “Best say nothing at all.” Then, relaxing a little more, he said, “Do I not smell the heady scent of mulled wine?”

  “You shall have some at once, dear Mole,” said Ratty, hurrying to serve him.

  “And crumpets, too?”

  “I’ll toast and butter you some fresh ones right away’ said the Otter.

  “And comfortable chairs?”

  “Have mine, old fellow,” said the Badger without hesitation, though no animal in living memory had ever sat in his chair before.

  “Why, that’s most obliging,” said the Mole, sitting down with aplomb. “Very obliging. Ratty, perhaps you would be kind enough to charge my glass once more. And, Otter, I think that o
ne more crumpet would go down well before I try that mushroom stew. O, and Badger, another cushion would — that’s right, just there, yes, aah — and while you’re at it, Badger, be a good chap and put another log on the fire.”

  Then a look of happy contentment came to him, and slowly to the others as well, as they began to enjoy that special peace and companionship that comes with the resolution of misunderstanding between good friends.

  IV

  A Tale of

  Bleak Midwinter

  “It is a pity,” observed the Mole a little later, now calmed and comforted by food and drink, “that Toad is not here. I’m sure he would have enjoyed this evening.”

  “It is a pity,” murmured the Badger, puffing at his pipe, “but I am afraid that his family duties for the festive season have now begun and so we shall see nothing of him till after Twelfth Night. There it is.”

  But there it definitely was not, so far as the Mole was concerned. He was determined to get to the bottom of the River Bank’s festive malaise and do something about it.

  “You said, Badger, ‘there it is’, as if you accepted the situation. Forgive me for being bold, but I do not accept it. Toad must have his reasons for not celebrating Christmas, but I doubt that they are good ones, or ones he cannot be persuaded to abandon. But, since none of you is friend enough to tell me exactly what ails Toad, there is not much I can do to help.”

  He sighed in an exaggerated way to emphasise the distress he felt at not being taken into their confidence. Though it was very unlike his normal modest way to cause a fuss, he felt it was the least they deserved after their harsh treatment of him earlier.

  A very long silence followed. The others all understood that it was best to wait to let Badger say what he must in reply. Finally, sighing rather as Mole himself had done, he began to speak.