Run with the Wind (5 page)

Old Sage Brush retired to his chamber. Maybe, he thought, they should be getting back to Beech Paw. At the same time, maybe he was being given this opportunity to demonstrate to Skulking Dog that the great god Vulpes had provided him with more between his ears than a mouthful of teeth. Most certainly it would save time in the long run if Skulking Dog could be brought into line now.

The old fox thought long and hard, yet it wasn’t until Vickey returned to report that the little brown hen had visited her nest but hadn’t settled, that he got an idea.

‘Vickey,’ he said, ‘you are indeed my inspiration. Fetch Black Tip.’

Old Sage Brush gathered his little group around him, and told them that with the aid of Vulpes — and Vickey — he had hit upon a plan. He didn’t tell them exactly what it was, just enough to set it in motion, as he wanted it to have the maximum effect on Skulking Dog.

‘Black Tip,’ he said, ‘you and Skulking Dog take these shiny eggs up to the hill and leave them in the coldest, frostiest place you can find. After a while, steal up to the hill again, to the nest of the little brown hen.’ He thought for a moment. He had no way of knowing that hens, unlike foxes, have very little sense of smell. However, he did know that birds could often tell if anything had been at their nest, and he didn’t want to arouse the suspicions of the little brown hen, so he told them: ‘Take the shiny eggs and put them in the nest. But be careful you don’t disturb it. If there are any of her own eggs in it, bring them back. We can have those for a start. Then I’ll tell you what to do next.’

Black Tip and Skulking Dog did as they were told.

That evening in the dusk before gloomglow, Old Sage Brush despatched Fang to the sheds in the hollow, and sent Black Tip and Skulking Dog back up the hill to where the little brown hen had her nest beneath a gorse bush. A hard frost had set in, and a freezing wind was cutting across the hill.

While Fang roamed around the sheds, disturbing the white hens and keeping them awake, Black Tip and Skulking Dog crawled quietly through the undergrowth until they were near the little brown hen. They could see she hadn’t settled down for the night. She was still scratching about, complaining to herself about the hard ground and the frost. When at last she did settle into the nest, she felt what she thought were her eggs, as cold as two lumps of ice. Jumping up with a loud cackle, she walked around for a few moments before returning to the nest and flicking them out with her beak.

Old Sage Brush had predicted that the coldness of the eggs would start the little brown hen thinking about the warm sheds in the hollow. Even if it did, they had no idea what purpose it would serve. The old fox hadn’t told them. The little brown hen shifted uncomfortably in her nest. It had been a very hard winter on the hill. Never before had she known it to be so cold. She had hoped to have a brood of chicks to keep her company. Sadly, none of her eggs had hatched and it seemed her latest ones had turned to stone. She got out of her nest and pecked at the two delft eggs the foxes had left in place of her own. They were indeed as hard as stones. To make matters worse, she could now hear for the first time in a long while, the barking of foxes across on the other hill.

In their hiding place nearby, Black Tip and Skulking Dog looked at each other. They knew the barking was more of
Old Sage Brush’s work.

Settling back into her nest, the little brown hen shivered and wondered what she would do. She could hear the hens cackling away in the sheds in the hollow. She thought how she had often seen the eggs there, and the fluffy little day-old chicks. Through the partly-open door of one shed she had also seen the white hens eating and drinking and sitting in their warm nest boxes. They didn’t have to worry about foxes or to scratch and scrape for food the way she had. They had other hens to keep them company, and cockerels too. They had a warm nest at night and their eggs brought forth chickens. Maybe, she thought, it was time to give up this hard and lonely life on the hill. She knew that every day when the men came to visit the shed, they left the door just a little bit open. If she was quick, perhaps she could hop inside and no one would notice.

Next morning, when the men with the buckets went into the third shed, Black Tip and Skulking Dog watched from the bracken. Sure enough, they saw the little brown hen scurrying across to the shed and slipping through the partly-open door.

Old Sage Brush was pleased, and told them that all they had to do now was wait for results. Privately he prayed that his plan would work. Experience had taught him that creatures were never happy with what they had; they always felt that others were better off than they were. In the case of the
little brown hen, he believed she would soon realise how well-off she had been on the hill. He only hoped it wouldn’t take her too long.

Down in the shed, the little brown hen found herself in more company than she ever dreamed of. There were hundreds of hens and cockerels. There was food and drink any time she wanted it, and warm nest boxes around the walls. She made friends with many other hens, and with a young cockerel. The cockerel was surprised he hadn’t noticed her before, and she could see he was attracted to her.

In spite of all this, the novelty of the shed quickly wore off, just as Old Sage Brush thought it would. There was always pushing and shoving to get to the food that was poured into the large funnel and carried along a trough in the shed. Even when she could get at the food, it always tasted the same. While she thought the shed was warm at first, she now found it stuffy and overcrowded. She couldn’t sit in a nest box any time she wanted, or even as long as she liked. Others had to use them too. How she longed for her own little nest under the gorse bush and the stars, with the wild wind caressing her soft brown feathers.

Seeing that she was unhappy, some of the other hens, and the young cockerel, asked her what was wrong. Naturally she told them of her life on the hill, where she was free to come and go as she pleased, eat what food she liked, and had a nest of her own. Of course, this was all new to the others, who
were aware of no other world outside the shed where they had been reared. The more the little hen talked of the freedom she had enjoyed on the hill, the more the others realised the extent of their enslavement and the more they longed for the other way of life.

How well Old Sage Brush knew his fellow creatures. Some of these birds, who had never even thought of venturing outside the shed before, now wanted to leave with the little brown hen, and that evening, when the men left the door partly open again, that’s exactly what they did. Unnoticed, seven or eight of them followed her out and up to the hill. However the little brown hen had only told them of all the good things in the wild, and had forgotten to tell them of its dangers. Consequently, the silly hatchery hens walked not to freedom, but into the jaws of Old Sage Brush and the other foxes. As for the little brown hen, she knew better. She escaped to her old haunts, together with her admiring young cockerel.

So, the little brown hen was happy again — and so also were the occupants of the badger set across on the other hill. The foxes ate their fill and then, turning their backs to the brush, they made their way back home to Beech Paw.

Six

Hop-along's Dream

T
here was no gloomglow and no running fox in the sky. Snow clouds covered the moon and the stars, and snow swirled around the fields and farms of Beech Paw. In the quarry above the meadows, the foxes snuggled down in the warmth of their earth, and no swirling snow or freezing winds found their way in.

Old Sage Brush had decided they had earned a rest. His plan with the little brown hen had worked out so well that they had not drawn any danger upon themselves, a point he was quick to impress upon the others, especially Skulking Dog. The men at the hatchery weren't even aware that they had lost any poultry, so there was no pursuit. As an added precaution, Old Sage Brush had also insisted that they follow the badger's example, and not leave any chicken remains
lying around where the men might see them.

‘That has got more foxes killed than anything else I know,' he said. ‘Except, of course, the choking hedge-traps. You might as well leave a message on your doorstep saying Foxes in Residence. It's suicide.'

The others listened attentively. Vickey snuggled in beside Black Tip, and She-la was enjoying the company of Hop-along with whom she had now mated. Fang and Skulking Dog would have to look elsewhere for vixens, but for now they were content to lie and listen to the old fox. The admiration of the little group for Old Sage Brush had grown immeasurably with the success of the hatchery raid. They had never seen anything like it before. To get so many hens out would have been an achievement in itself. To do so without having to go there themselves, or without bringing dogs or shooters after them, was nothing short of genius. It would be told and retold and end up in foxlore, an example to those who had forgotten that the great god Vulpes had endowed them with something special.

‘And that,' said the old fox, ‘is cunning. You wouldn't think it, to look at the state we're in today, that we're supposed to be cunning. You'd think man is the one who's cunning.'

‘He's been cunning enough to destroy many of us,' observed Black Tip.

‘Yet,' said Old Sage Brush, ‘man speaks of the fox as the cunning one, I believe. I've heard it said that he talks of being
“as cute as a fox”, or of trying to “out-fox”. But are we cute? We're being shot to death and choked by the thousand. I believe man tells his children stories about wolves, then reassures them there is no such thing as a wolf in this country any more. He tells them stories about foxes too. Will he soon be assuring them there is no such thing as a fox?'

‘We know what you say is true,' said She-la. ‘And we know you have great wisdom. But if one such as you can be blinded by man, what hope is there for the likes of us? How can we hope to survive?'

‘You have just got a great lesson in how to use the cunning Vulpes has given you,' replied the old fox, ‘and it has been a cheap lesson. I paid dearly for mine.'

‘You don't have to tell us about it if you don't want to,' said Black Tip.

‘I don't mind. If it was a lesson for me, so too it can be a lesson for you.' Old Sage Brush nestled his grey head between his forefeet. ‘It happened during my last breeding season.' He sighed. ‘I can see myself in all of you. I was a young fox then — strong and independent, like you Black Tip, ferocious, like you Fang, and foolhardy, like you Skulking Dog.'

Skulking Dog lowered his head, and sensing that he had hurt his feelings, the old fox added quickly: ‘Not that I'm saying you're foolhardy now, Skulking Dog. I'm hopeful you've learned your lesson. When I learned mine, I was all of these things, and so I became severely handicapped, like
you Hop-along.' As he continued, none of the other dog foxes felt offended by what he had said. Strangely, they felt privileged to be identified with him, if only in a negative way. He went on: ‘No badger set or rabbit burrow would do me, and so I had to scrape out my own earth in a sand pit on the side of a hill covered with gorse. An old fox I knew had warned me never to make my home in a sand pit, but I was too proud to take his advice. I found the sand easy to scrape and easy to shape.'

‘We had a nice earth,' he recalled, ‘and we had a fine litter — three in all, two dogs and a vixen. I loved them with all the love a father can give. They were cuddly and very playful, and if a father can have a favourite, I suppose I must admit it was the little she-fox, Sinnéad. She was born with a small white mark on her forehead and was the cutest little thing you ever saw. But I loved them all and hunted hard to make sure they wanted for nothing.'

He sighed. ‘Unfortunately, I went back to the same farm too often. The men came from the farm with their guns and their fun dogs, and long sticks. Unlike the badger, I hadn't thought of putting a back door in my earth. The small fun dogs came right in and cornered us.'

‘So that's why you wouldn't let us block up the back door of the badger set?' said Vickey.

‘What did they do with the long sticks?' asked Hop-along.

‘I'm afraid they were more cunning than I was,' continued
the old fox. ‘They sank the long sticks down through the sand to find out where we were. They kept pushing them down, poking and probing. The end of one stick was right at my head. It kept jabbing at my eyes and my face, but I knew if I snapped at it the men would know they had located us. For what seemed an eternity, I endured the jabbing pain, the choking sand and the snapping dogs, until at last little Sinnéad could bear to see me suffer no longer. She sprang from behind me and grabbed the end of the stick. How could she know that was exactly what the men above wanted? It told them where we were and they dug down. My vixen and two dog cubs were shot where they lay. Sinnéad and I made a run for it. The blood was streaming from my eyes, and as I crashed headlong through the undergrowth I could just make out one of the men diving after Sinnéad and catching her. It was the last thing I ever saw'

Old Sage Brush paused and sighed. ‘Poor Sinnéad. She'd have been a nice mature vixen now, like you Vickey, or She-la. But it wasn't to be.'

Outside the quarry, the cold wind drove the snow across the hillside. Inside, the younger foxes curled up and went to sleep, secure in the earth and in the company of one who had learned so much the hard way.

In the days and nights that followed, the weather showed
a slight improvement, and once again they made their way northward along the valley. The younger foxes were learning much from Old Sage Brush. At the same time, Vickey let it be known that he felt perhaps they were beginning to rely too heavily upon his cunning and experience, and that he wished to find out just how much they had learned.

Several times Vickey and the others asked Old Sage Brush about Sionnach, the Great White Fox he had spoken of back at Beech Paw. However, it was a subject on which he would not be drawn further. ‘Some things I can show you — others you must see for yourselves,' was his reply, and no matter how many times they asked him, that was all he would say.

The days were getting a little longer now, and occasionally the sun would appear for short periods. It gave a new life to the air, although there were few signs that it was finding its way down into the soil. Only bunches of cow parsley braved the cold to give the barren ditches a new mantle of green and a suggestion of spring. Otherwise the winter lingered on. Fortunately, the frosty nights also gave the foxes a clear view of the running fox in the sky, and so long as they could see the brush they knew which direction they were going.

It was in a most unexpected way that they were brought to a halt. They had found a stream where they could refresh themselves and rest before continuing their nocturnal travels. There were no dogs to be heard, nor was man to be seen, although his traces were clearly apparent. Pieces of plastic
fertiliser bag flapped in the hedgerow, and a green bottle lay discarded to litter the stream. It was a slow-moving stream with hardly any banks, which made the water easy to get at. Having slaked their thirst, they took cover beneath the hedge.

Later, as they slept, darkness closed around them and the moon crept across the sky. Whatever about the others, Hop-along began to dream, and it was a dream that reflected a worry that was now beginning to occupy his mind. How was he, a fox with only three legs, going to prove himself to Old Sage Brush? Above him, the moon was big and bright, and smiling, as if it and it alone was sharing the secrets of his slumber. If it was, it saw Hop-along's secret thoughts slipping silently out of the hedgerow, across the stream, and into the fields beyond …

In a way that can only happen in dreams, Hop-along suddenly found himself with his friends in fairly high country, and it was no surprise to them to come upon a hare sitting in the moonlight. Foxes, of course, will kill a hare if they can, but this one showed no fear of them. Instead he sprang up with a sudden thrust of his hind legs in a spectacular leap across the moon. When he landed, he scudded around and, sitting back on his haunches, bared his buck teeth in a twitching grin. It was clear from his behaviour that he wasn't playing with them. He was inviting them to come and get him.

The foxes, it must be said, had no reason to fear the hare. They knew he could out-run them with those powerful hind legs. Yet if it came to a standing fight, the fox would win. Why then was this hare so brazen as to take on several foxes?

The hare hopped warily around. ‘Which one of you calls yourself leader?' he asked in a very lofty manner.

Old Sage Brush stepped forward, and the hare laughed. ‘You?' he sneered. ‘You call yourself leader? You are too old. There would be no victory in fighting you.'

Hop-along knew that this hurt the old fox's feelings, and the others knew it too, but Sage Brush wasn't prepared to let himself be goaded into a fight he couldn't win, so he said: ‘Then, let me name one who will take up your challenge on my behalf.'

‘By all means,' sneered the hare. ‘If you can find one strong enough.' So saying, he gave another impressive leap across the sky.

‘Fang is my strength,' said Old Sage Brush. ‘But our weakest is strong enough to put you in your place, you overgrown rabbit.'

‘Ho-ho,' laughed the hare in mock glee. ‘An overgrown rabbit am I? We'll soon see about that.' Thereupon he made a fierce warning sound by grinding his teeth. They could hear the sound being picked up and relayed by other hares across the hills, and in what appeared to be no time at all, hundreds
of hares had bounded over the stone walls and gathered around in a huge circle to watch them.

‘They say I'm just an over-grown rabbit,' announced the big hare who had called them. The other hares ground their teeth and grinned widely at the idea. ‘Me, Lepus, Leader of Hares, an overgrown rabbit,' he continued. He gave several more long leaps, then turning again to his fellow hares, appealed to them, saying: ‘What will we do with them?'

‘Kill them!' cried the other hares. ‘Kill them!'

Lepus bade them be quiet. ‘I am not only the leader of the hares. I am a great hare. No, I will not kill them — not yet.'

He turned to the foxes and told them: ‘I am Lepus the Great. I can jump higher than any other hare. So here's what I will do. If you can prove yourselves worthy by jumping higher than I can, I will let you go.'

The other hares ground their teeth and grinned and rubbed their front feet together in glee. They knew no other creature could jump as high as Lepus.

Hop-along knew, as all the foxes did, that they could not possibly jump as high as any hare, not to mention Lepus. Even the strongest of them knew it. They turned to Old Sage Brush. The old fox knew it, but he said to Lepus:

‘You have laughed at me because I am weak. But there is one of us who is weaker, and it is he who will take up the challenge.' So saying he turned to Hop-along and told him: ‘Hop-along, it was you who brought us here, so it is you
who must out-jump the hare.'

‘What?' exclaimed Lepus indignantly. ‘You dare to put up a three-legged fox against Lepus the Great. That would be no contest.'