Quest for the Faradawn

Richard Ford

Quest for the Faradawn

Illustrated by Owain Bell

PANTHER

Granada Publishing

For Reena, Daniel and all the Animals

Spring 1982

CHAPTER I

It was still snowing in Silver Wood. All night large flakes had been falling relentlessly, covering everything until now every blade of grass had a thick round column down one side and every twig supported a white replica of itself. Brock looked up and was mesmerized by the myriad of white specks in the air. They seemed to come down directly into his eyes as if they were being pulled towards the earth by a magnet; and yet not hurrying, more a determined drifting. He shook himself and a flurry of flakes flew off, so he retreated further under the Old Beech until only his head was exposed from the hole amongst the great roots which formed a low wall at either side of the entrance to his sett. He was enjoying the night; there was that stillness and complete quiet that occurs when every sound is muffled immediately by a thick blanket of white, and despite the snow the sky was quite clear so that he could see almost to the pond in the field at the front of the wood.

Beech Sett had been in Brock’s family for generations, some said since Before-Man, and had in those times, of course, been right in the centre of the vast primeval forests that covered all the land. Now, since nearly all those forests had been consumed by man for his cultivating or living space, the fields had encroached almost up to the sett so that it was on the very edge of the wood and Silver Wood itself was only a short walk in length and width. The sett thus formed a useful look-out post and Brock had taken on the role of guardian of the wood, spending most nights looking out over the fields or walking along the edge while he looked for food. The other animals were happy with this arrangement because Brock had learnt to distinguish between real danger, when he would bark loudly two or three times, and a mere need for caution, when he would very often not alarm the wood at all but simply watch and wait until the incident was finished.

Tonight he was relaxed. On nights like this the great enemy almost never came out or if they did it was only to scurry past in the distance in that curious upright fashion of theirs, balanced on two legs with their heads down, and were very often gone as soon as Brock had spotted them. In a way he felt sorry that the peace and beauty of these nights were so seldom seen by them and he wondered whether this was one of the causes of their nature or the result of it. It was because of their hostility towards everything that they had been called, in the language of the Old Ones, Urkku or the Great Enemy.

Lost in these thoughts he was suddenly jolted into the present by a scent coming to him through the snow; he crouched lower and put his ear to one of the great roots at the side. Urkku were approaching; he could hear the unmistakable two-legged footfall, but there were only two and they were walking slowly and evenly. Keeping low, he peered hard through the flakes, which were now a nuisance as they got in his eyes and blurred his vision. Then he could see them walking round the side of the pond and starting to cross the big field at the front of the wood. They rested for a moment, leaning against the old wooden gate that led into the field, and then came on straight across it heading towards the sett. He wondered whether or not he should give the alarm; he rarely did at night, even when Urkku approached, because the few who came after dark rarely, if ever, caused damage and it was only if they carried the long thin instruments that blasted out death or that were used to dig with that he would alert the wood.

Every muscle tensed, his black nose-tip twitching, he watched as they came slowly forward, apparently now making for the stile into the wood which was only some thirty paces from the Old Beech. It was obvious that they knew the wood well for they did not hesitate or look around as most Urkku did but instead climbed over the stile and made straight for the Great Oak in the centre. To watch them now, Brock had to come out of the sett and pad slowly towards the little stream which ran across the middle of Silver Wood, from where he could see them clearly. He crouched in close against the bank of rhododendron bushes that went down to the stream and studied the scene. It was most strange. The first thing that struck him was that he did not have that awful feeling of fear which he nearly always felt whenever Urkku were near; somehow, all his instincts told him that there was no danger here and that, even if he were seen, no harm would come to him. Secondly, he now noticed that the taller of the two, the one with the shorter hair, was carrying a bundle which he handled very carefully and which was making a strange noise. The other one, who had much longer hair which was now flecked with white, simply stood quietly whilst the first placed the bundle down, right up against the oak, at the very base of the enormous trunk. He then proceeded to dig away at the snow and cover the bundle with the leaves and peat moss which he found underneath until only a small portion at the top was left from which Brock could hear strange noises, almost like those made by the river in the shallow places where it runs over pebbles.

Just as the man stood up, a peal of bells suddenly filtered through the still air. It was the church in the village calling the people to Midnight Communion on Christmas Eve. To Brock it was a death knell. The Midnight Bells came once a year and two days later came the slaughter. The wood must be warned. He turned back to the strange picture under the oak and saw the two kneeling over the bundle. The one with long hair placed her head close to the uncovered space, lingered there a second or two and then moved away. Then they both got off their knees and for a moment held each other in a way Brock had not seen before in the Urkku. He felt a great sense of tenderness and sadness radiate from them and in his own blood he felt a tingling sense of excitement and anticipation as he watched them walk slowly away, arm in arm, leaving the bundle there, under the Great Oak.

He waited until he saw them go back through the stile and begin to cross the field and then he began, very slowly and cautiously, to inch his way across the log which was the only way of crossing the stream other than going all the way round by the stile. The log was slippery at the best of times, being covered with moss and constantly wet from the water, but now, with a layer of snow on top, it was treacherous. He should have gone the long way round but he had always been a hasty badger and he was now so curious to examine the strange bundle that it would have been impossible for him to delay a second longer. His enormous front claws gripped tight either side of the log as he inched his way very slowly over it. He could see the brackish water beneath him, jet black against the white of the two banks, and he could see the way the snowflakes dissolved and vanished almost as soon as they hit the surface. He was nearly at the far bank now. The flakes had almost stopped falling and a familiar silver light began to reflect back from the water. He clambered carefully off the log and felt the snow soft and yielding again beneath his paws. This part of the wood was full of bracken and the snow was thick, so he had to be careful not to walk on a mound and fall right through; it was no use following the rabbit tracks either as the rabbits were so light they could walk over the treacherous bumps. He made his way carefully towards the oak, sniffing the air as he went, and every few paces he would stop and listen. The wood was bathed in moonlight now and there wasn’t a sound; nothing was abroad tonight and even Brock began to feel cold on his back where the snow had made him wet and where it was now begi