The Golden Flight (11 page)

‘Wake up sir, it’s past High-sun.’

‘How dare you,’ he snapped.

‘I’m sorry, sir. You said to wake you.’

Malachite scratched at an invisible flea. ‘Yes, so I did, so I did. Anything to report.’

‘No, sir. We’ve been waiting for you.’

‘Quite right, quite right. We must find where the quarry backtracked. Everybody search. Leave no trees unsniffed.’

Miles away across the Great Heath, the human walkers had reached the road passing to the west of Rowan’s Pool and turned along it towards Screech Hill. In the hedges on either side of the road were many trees and bushes with honeysuckle growing up them – the sweet scent of the yellow trumpet-shaped flowers drowning the tarry smell from the hot surface of the road.

The squirrels watched the humans walk away out of their sight, confident that the fox was no longer a threat, but listening for the hum of the travelling boxes that humans used on these roadways. Whenever the road was clear, they again searched for a suitable Woodstock, hiding in the hedges when vehicles came by.

It was Wood Anemone who found one, a bulky twist on a hazel sapling, with the honeysuckle bine almost buried in the wood that had grown out and around it. Rowan sensed its power – running his paws over the bark, his whiskers vibrating with the hidden force trapped in the fibres.

‘This is a strong one,’ he said, then started to gnaw at the stem above the twisted bulge.

In a short time he had cut the sapling through above and below the twist, and had gnawed away the bitter bine itself, letting the Woodstock fall into the hedge. From there they dragged it out onto the grass verge and across the road towards Rowan’s Pool.

‘Uz wouldn’t like to have to take thiz wun far,’ said Spindle, remembering the long journey of the previous year. ‘What diztanze iz yewr pool from here?’

‘Not far, just through those chestnut and pine trees.’

Even so, it was twilight when they dragged the Woodstock through the trees and reached the bank that surrounded the pool. They looked down on the Eyeland that they hoped would offer safety for them all, once they had swum across to it.

A tree had blown down, probably in the Great Storm, and was lying in the water – making a bridge from the Mainland!

Rowan said something under his breath but perhaps a little too loudly. Meadowsweet looked at him, her eyes wide. ‘Rowan!’ she said.

Rosebay and Willowherb giggled and nudged one another. Hickory looked surprised and glanced at Bluebell.

‘Stay here at the top of the bank and keep alert.’ Rowan said. ‘Spindle and I will go and investigate.’

The two males crossed the water using the fallen tree, and dropped from it on to the tufty grass and lichen that covered the ground. There was no scent of danger there, nor in the three trees. The Eyeland seemed to Spindle to be much smaller than when he had seen it two years before. It was little more than a squirrel leap from one side to the other.

‘What now?’ he asked.

‘This’ll have to do for tonight,’ Rowan replied. ‘In the morning we’ll find a safer place. At least here we can only be attacked from one direction. Let’s get the Woodstock over here.’

The twisted stick was rolled down the bank and carefully dragged across the tree trunk to the Eyeland as the moon rose in the east, throwing an eerie light on the busy squirrels. Rowan was trying to remember the shapes that Marguerite had cut on earlier weapons and wished now that he had taken more notice when she had tried to teach him numbers.

There was a
 then a
. After that was a
, or was it a
?

‘Who remembers the numbers that go on a Woodstock?’ he asked, turning expectantly to Meadowsweet, who spread her paws.

‘Sorry, Rowan-mate,’ she said.

‘Uz doez,’ said Wood Anemone. ‘Uz doezn’t know what they iz called, but uz knowz the shapes well ‘nuff. Uz uzed to polizh the old Woodstock when Marguerite wuz not there. Uz liked to zee it all clean and tidy-like.’

Rowan set Rosebay and Willowherb to guard the bridge and sent Bluebell up the tallest tree to listen for any sounds of approaching danger. The others all worked at stripping off the bark and biting the magic numbers deep into the hazel wood –
.

Hickory watched in fascination, taking his turn in the cutting, and asking questions about the shapes of the numbers.

There was some argument about the
. Rowan said it was Marguerite’s special mark and was therefore not needed, but the others, especially Wood Anemone, felt it was important. ‘It worked vor uz with that
 there – it may not work without it,’ she argued, and so the
 was cut, leaving space for the numbers which activated the force and controlled its power and range.

Bats circled between the trees and flittered away down the length of the pool, snatching at moths and other night-flying insects, their shrill cries sharp in the still air. A nightjar churred from a branch across the water reminding Rowan of the year he had lived on the Eyeland alone.

Whilst they had been dragging the Woodstock to the pool a young Grey was once more waking Malachite.

‘Lord Malachite, sir. We’ve found the trail. It’s on the other side of the field. It crosses the roadway and goes on to the Great Heath.’

Malachite looked at the angle of the sun. Was it really that late!  He must have been dozing again. The quarry would have a good start. Too late to follow now. They would set out at first light and allow a full day for the hunt. In the meantime he had some other business that must be seen to.