The Willows in Winter Read online

  “Otter,” declared the Badger after a week of brooding, during which the Rat showed no signs of recovery, but persisted in speaking of having seen Beyond and the wonders that were there, “we shall have a memorial service for Mole the day after tomorrow.

  “You really think that’s for the best, Badger?” said the Otter doubtfully. “Isn’t it perhaps a little forward? I mean Mole could still be alive for all we know.

  “Could be, could be!” snapped the Badger. “We must be realistic and face the facts. He has gone from us. He is no more. He may very well be better off for it, for all I know Meanwhile we are left behind and must recognise that if Rat is not to go completely out of his mind — and I have seen similar cases to his where the delusions increase till irreversible dementia sets in — we must gather together and say goodbye to Mole in a fitting manner. This may settle Rat back into reality.”

  “But —”

  “O, not you as well, Otter,” cried out the Badger, in a voice of such irritation that the Otter almost backed away in surprise. The truth was that the Otter was beginning to think that he was the only normal animal left along the river, now that Toad and Mole had disappeared, or whatever they had done, and poor old Rat could only mutter about Beyond, and now the Badger had become quite impossible to talk to, and determined to do anything rather than do nothing, when nothing, thought Otter, might very well be the most sensible thing to do.

  “We’ll hold the service tomorrow at dusk,” said the Badger. “We shall gather and celebrate the memory of Mole at the spot where he gave up his life, that others might live.”

  “Yes,” concurred the Otter in a low voice.

  “Don’t forget to tell Portly. We must look our best. I shall instruct the weasels and the stoats in how to comport themselves.”

  “They need to be there, do they?” said the Otter. “Mole was not especially fond of them, nor they of him. They only helped with the search because you offered them the prospect of high tea.”

  “Tea?At a time like this? O wretched animals that they are,” responded the Badger passionately “No —they do not deserve to be there! Let them skulk in the Wild Wood! The rabbits can come instead. They will swell the numbers. Now, I must consider all that needs to be done.”

  “Yes, Badger,” said the Otter once more, catching a sudden glimpse of the Rat who was peering round the guest bedroom door, for he had been confined to bed and told to rest and sleep. As the Badger hurried off busily to make his plans the Otter sidled over to the Rat and said, “I wish you’d come back to us, Rat, and be normal once more. Badger’s gone off his head. I mean, do you really think Mole’s — er — gone for good?”

  “Mole’s no more passed away than you have, Otter said the Rat softly “At least I don’t think so. Why, without Mole nothing would be the same, would it, nothing at all? But it is the same, isn’t it? It’s just that he’s not here. But, Otter —”Yes, Ratty,” said Otter gently, for his friend sounded a little frail.

  “Did you look really hard for him?”

  “Right up past Toad Hall and right down to the weir and over its dreadful edge,” said the Otter, “and there was neither sight nor sound of him. Not a thing. We called and called, in case he was trapped, but — nothing. And I myself, without Badger’s knowing, made the stoats and weasels help me with one last search, but it was no good.”

  “He was alive,” said the Rat, his voice dropping to a whisper, as it sounded as if the Badger was coming back, “for the River told me so. And I do not feel — I do not think — No, Otter! I’m sure he’s all right and this is just a dreadful dream. But we had better go through with Badger’s plan — if only for his sake! He’s the one who needs to say goodbye!”

  There was a sudden twinkle in the Rat’s eye, brief but comforting to the Otter, for it suggested that shaken though the Rat was he was on the road to recovery, rather than heading for dementia as the Badger seemed to think.

  “Tomorrow it is then!” said the Badger, returning. “At dusk. Assemble Portly, assemble the rabbits, assemble Mole’s Nephew and let us say goodbye to our good friend Mole in a splendid and fitting manner and with due decorum!”

  “Yes, Badger,” said the Otter, before sliding away back down to the river, thinking that he would get a few helpers together and have one last final look and then, if that did not produce anything, he supposed he could say goodbye to Mole feeling he had done all he could.

  The night passed; dawn came; the morning was bright and cold. Then as the afternoon wore on a strange discoloured sky appeared which portended the return of snow — the same sky that Mole had also seen, and which made him think that perhaps he ought to venture onto the water and try to return home — and it cast its pall all along the river.

  The animals assembled at the very tree where the Mole had written his generous last will and testament, and the Badger, looking very serious and wearing a black armband, led the Water Rat, the Otter, Portly and Mole’s Nephew through the throng of rabbits who had long since gathered, more out of curiosity than anything else.

  There was a certain solemnity about the scene, despite the fact that at least two of those present — Rat and Mole’s Nephew — were utterly unconvinced that the Mole had passed away Nothing felt as if he had, nothing at all. Rather the contrary, in fact. Yet now they had gathered in the late afternoon, with the river flowing heavily and mournfully by, and the threatening sky finally swirling and changing as the first snow began to fall.

  “My friends,” said the Badger, “we are gathered here today to celebrate the memory of one who —”

  As the Badger spoke, even those who had had doubts — even the Rat himself — began to think that Mole had indeed gone from them and would not walk their way again. Indeed, the more the Badger’s voice intoned on the sadness of passing, and the bleak comfort of memory, and the darker and more cold and snowy it got, with flakes of snow swirling about them and adhering to their heads and coats, and to the trees about, the sadder and more mournful the group became.

  The rabbits, always much affected by such things, were beset by sniffles and tears. Mole’s Nephew stood ever more sombre, ever more still, while the Rat seemed to age with each new rolling, funereal phrase the Badger uttered — his voice deepening, and sometimes shaking a little to betray the depth of his emotions.

  But it was poor Portly who was affected most of all.

  Mole’s Nephew had had to support him all the way from Mole End, from where the party had set out. He felt (not without reason) that it had all been his fault and began by sobbing to himself, at first quietly and with decorum. As the Badger droned on, however, and the snow fell, Portly grew wilder in his distress, crying out, “O, it was all my fault, all mine!” and “I shall never forgive myself!” and “How can I live after this!”

  Which did not improve the Badger’s temper or composure one bit, for he was forced to stop in mid-sentence and order Otter to quieten Portly down a little.Which he did with soft words and persuasion and by telling him to sit down on the tree roots and watch the proceedings from there.

  “Also I’m hungry,” said Portly in a whisper loud enough for others to hear. “Maybe I should go back to Mole End and leave you to it?”

  “Sssh!” said the Badger sternly “Wretched animal. You will stay and mourn, and show respect for this great and much loved Mole who —”

  Badger was off again, and with each word he spoke Mole — ordinary Mole, humble and familiar Mole — was elevated inexorably into Great and Noble Mole, certainly the greatest and noblest Mole they were likely ever to meet, whose like would never —As the Badger went on, Portly, sitting down out of the breeze and so more comfortable, began to feel himself grow drowsy It was, of course, a pity about Mole but, well, there was Mole’s Nephew to fill his place and perhaps it had been Mole’s own fault for going out onto the ice …

  “Yes!” Portly told himself comfortingly as his eyes began to close, “if Mole hadn’t been foolish and — and—”

  His sleepy gaze w
ent past the sombre upright forms of the Badger and the others to the grey flow of the river.

  “— and I think it was definitely his fault!”

  Even as Portly said these uncharitable words to himself, and eased into a position in which he hoped none would see his eyes close, he saw, or thought he saw through the falling snow, something strange upon the river.

  Something that moved slowly and smoothly Something pale and odd.

  He leaned forward, peered and woke up with a sudden jolt.

  “It looks like — it — it is coming —”

  These were not words that Portly was actually able to speak aloud as he struggled to make sense of the dreadful apparition that had undoubtedly come into view on the river a little way downstream and was making its slow way up it; these were the mute appeals of an animal who had quite lost his voice.

  He half rose as that apparition, all white and unearthly, became clearer and ever clearer and, even as he watched, turned across the great river and came towards him.

  “Badger!” Portly tried to call, though no sound came out.’ “Rat!”

  Then, finally, he turned to Otter and looked at him, mouthing silent words of terror and anguish, his eyes nearly popping from his head in alarm as he raised his right hand and pointed at the Thing that came ever nearer.

  It was Mole’s Spirit that came, for it had the shape of Mole, of that there was no doubt, and it —”Sit down, Portly, and stop being such a nuisance,” said the Otter, placing a firm paw on his miscreant son’s shoulder.

  “But —”

  He saw that Mole’s Spirit rode in an ancient craft, also pale and ghostly, and this now carried him — no, It — to the bank in full view of the others, if only they would turn round. But they did not, and would not hear Portly’s silent cries of warning, or understand his wild gesticulations, which grew ever more desperate as the form approached.

  It was undoubtedly in the shape of Mole, but ghastly white and slow-moving.

  “Look out!” cried Portly, finding his voice at last. “It’s Mole returned to punish me!”

  “Sssh!” hissed the Badger and the Otter together. “Not long now,” said the Rat, patting him in a friendly way.

  “Nobody’s blaming you, Portly,” said Mole’s Nephew kindly.

  “But —” whispered Portly, for the Thing, having tied up the ghostly boat with a ghostly painter, was turning now towards them and beginning to ascend the bank.

  It was then that the rabbits saw it too, and with one accord, turned tail and were off into the night. Which made the Otter look towards where his son was pointing in time to see for himself the ghostly shape of Mole, his ascent completed, standing there staring at them, without a word.

  “Badger —” growled the Otter, for though he was a sturdy creature and not easily frightened, this was very much beyond his experience.

  “Silence!” cried the Badger, who had reached the climax of the memorial service.

  “For we are nearly done. We must pay homage in silence to one who —”

  Otter reached out to Rat and he to Mole’s Nephew, and pointed wordlessly at where the apparition stood.

  Then all the animals but the Badger himself, who would not be stopped, backed away as the ghastly form began its determined advance towards them.

  “Badger, I really think you had better come with us,” said the Rat quietly, the only one among them who seemed to have retained some presence of mind. “You had better come now!”

  “Now?” cried the Badger. “Not now!”

  “Now might well be better than later,” said the Rat, backing away with the others.

  Then panic overtook them all; just as a whirlwind among trees sets first one and then others falling, fear set Portly, Otter, Rat and all but Badger scampering away behind the great tree on which Mole’s will and testament had been written, and to which he had now returned in spirit form, no doubt in judgement of them all.

  “Better get clear, Badger. It’s nearly upon you!” cried the Rat from his place of vantage.

  “Unworthy animals!” cried the Badger after them, shaking his fist. “Does a little snow cause you to run and hide? What could be nearly upon me, as you put it, but grief and sorrow and heavy thoughts of—”

  He was about to launch off yet again when some sense must have told him that there really was something creeping up behind him. He turned, and saw, and stared, open-mouthed.

  For there it stood staring up at the Badger, pale and awesome in the twilight, Mole’s Spirit. No doubt about it at all.

  “Badger!” it whispered terribly with a strange chattering voice. “Badger, I am alive!”

  The Badger’s response was extraordinary and unforgettable, perhaps aided and abetted by the many irritations he had suffered in the past days.

  He stared, he wondered, he thought, and he was not afraid.

  Raising his great paw most impressively, he cried out, “Whatever you are, whatever you want, go back whence you came! Leave us in peace! Leave us, I say”

  “But, Badger it whispered.

  “No but’s, no if’s!” thundered the Badger. “Wherever you came from you shall return to and we shall lay thy restless soul in peace. This is hallowed ground now and thou shalt not sully it!”

  Then the Badger advanced upon the Mole, utterly unafraid, astonishing in his courage, and as the others watched in awe from where they half hid themselves, the ghost began to retreat back down the bank up which it had come, protesting as it went.

  “Yes, Spirit,” cried Badger, undaunted by its plaints, “leave us in peace to mourn the loss of Mole.”

  “I am Mole!” said the Thing very irritably indeed, finally standing its ground. “And I am cold and hungry, and I —”

  “O lost creature, do not —”

  While the others shivered and stared in alarm, dawning recognition came at last to the Rat, and hope as well. He climbed over the roots and came to the Badger’s side.

  “Why, I think it may be Mole,” he said, peering through the gloom.

  “Of course I’m Mole; who else would I be?” said Mole.

  “But you’re pale and white —”

  “O yes, that!” said the Mole. “Snow and ice upon my coat, and in my eyes as well.”

  “But, Mole, how did you —”By boat,” said the Mole shortly; “how else would I come upstream from the island — swim? Really, you are all being very exasperating. What are you doing here anyway?”

  “By boat —” whispered the Rat, beginning to make sense of things, “and from the island. You were there all this time, and my boat —”

  “Yes, yes, Ratty, but must we talk about it here? You are all, if I may say so, behaving most strangely”

  “You are Mole!” cried the Water Rat with sudden Conviction, pushing past the bemused Badger and grasping his friend in a warm and delighted embrace. Then all the others came forward to peer at the Thing that was Mole, and helped him scrape the snow and ice from his fur before they led him away from the river and towards his own home, to warmth, and rest, and food.

  While behind them, muttering as darkly as ever, came the Badger.

  “Toad,” he was saying, “that Toad. He’s mixed up with this in some way, bound to be. Certain to be.”

  Then the Badger stopped and cried up towards the snowy night sky so loudly that the others turned and stared. “If you’re up there, you reprehensible and dreadful Toad, you had better never come down, for I, Badger, have a great deal to say to you!”

  “Badger doesn’t seem quite himself,” said Mole quietly.

  “He isn’t,” said the Water Rat matter-of-factly “Hasn’t been for days. And nor will Toad be, if he ever dares return.”

  VII

  How the Mighty Fall

  It is a sad reflection upon Toad’s moral character that no sooner had the Water Rat fallen from the flying machine and his parachute opened than he said to himself, “That’s all right then! Rat’ll be all right, for the parachute will save him, so now I can enjoy
myself.”

  But the truth was that Toad had behaved even more infamously than the Rat would have given him credit for. The machine had not stopped of its own accord at all. Toad had turned the engine off himself, hoping thereby to get the Rat to bail out first on the false promise that he, Toad, would follow, which he had no intention of doing at all. Voluntary parachuting was not Toad’s style.

  But it had not quite worked out that way — when the engine was turned off the flying machine had turned over and the Rat had fallen out, while Toad had managed to cling on for dear life till the machine righted itself. With trembling hands, Toad had managed to re-start the engine. Only then, when he was safe and sound once more and flying merrily about, did the cowardly Toad think of his erstwhile friend again, who for all he knew had already crashed onto the ground far below No doubt it was with a sigh of relief that he saw the Rat floating downwards in relative safety, though the sigh would have been less at seeing the Rat safe, than at knowing that others might not have reason to blame him for the Rat’s demise.

  All this took but seconds, after which, with the engine roaring before him in a fruity and agreeable manner, and the spoilsport Rat out of the way, Toad could get down to what really mattered — his own enjoyment.

  “Aha!” he cried, grasping the joystick with a “Wheeee!” and a “Whoops!”, as the cold air drove excitingly into his face and he began to experiment with flight. Up he went, and down, down so that his stomach felt as if it was falling through the seat; then up once more, towards the clouds above and right into them!

  “O yes!” he cried, for there was a brightness above, “O my goodness me, we are heading for somewhere wonderful now!”

  Then on up through the clouds he went, and out into bright sunshine, to a prospect so vast, so awe-inspiring that even Toad, who liked things to excess, was forced to mutter, “Well! Did you ever see such a thing as —as —” and he delighted in banking the machine to examine and explore the great and glorious domain which suddenly he had taken for his own.