The Golden Flight (24 page)

The fox prowled back and forth below them.

‘What number shall I use?’ Bluebell asked.

‘Enuff to kill the nazty thing,’ said Willowherb but the others disagreed.

‘A
 or a
 should curl its whiskers and stop it chasing us,’ said Bluebell. ‘He was only being a fox, and foxes eat squirrels when they can. That’s how things are.’

She sighted the Woodstock at the fox and scratched a
. There was a yelp of surprise but the fox only pawed at his face, shook his head, and continued his prowling below them.

‘Try a
,’ suggested Oak. This was no more effective. ‘That fox has tough whiskers,’ Bluebell remarked as another and another of the big wasps flew past towards the distant hollow tree.

‘Try a
.’

None of the numbers proved effective against the fox. He yelped a little each time the Woodstock was used, but his whiskers stayed as straight as pine needles.

Sycamore was watching the yellow and brown insects as they zoomed past.

‘I wonder if those big-wasps have big stings,’ he said.

‘Why,’ asked Oak.

‘We might be able to get them to sting the fox,’ he replied.

‘You won’t get me poking a twig in their nest,’ said Oak. ‘You can try if you like.’

‘No, I wondered if the Woodstock Force might stir them up,’ said Sycamore. ‘We could do that from here – we’re a safe distance away.’

They all agreed it was worth a try but that one squirrel would have to tease the fox to keep it near the big-wasps’ nest while the others stayed well back. Bluebell drew the short twig and lightly ran along a branch and leapt across to the lower branches of the hollow tree.

From there she chattered insults at the fox, who had followed her. She was careful to keep just out of his reach.

‘You’re in the way of the Woodstock,’ Oak called to her. ‘You’ll have to go higher.’

The fox sat and watched her climb.

Oak aimed at the hole in the tree and scratched a
. There was a low rumble from within the tree and the squirrels saw a cloud of big-wasps pour angrily from the hole. The fox turned and ran, yelping and biting at his flanks as hornet after hornet caught up with him and forced their sharp stings through his fur. The yelping faded into the distant sounds of the wood.

Bluebell, unthinking of the danger to her, had watched the scene until she realised that one of the big-wasps had seen her and was coming to attack. She leapt for the next tree, the big wasp just behind her, raced through the branches and into the next tree. She could still hear the whirl of its wings behind her head and ran on towards the pool.

At the last tree she jumped for the water, submerging and coming up under a lily leaf near the shore where her feet were able to touch bottom. Here she stayed, holding the leaf above her head until the frustrated hornet gave up the search and returned to its nest. She crawled out to dry, her teeth chattering with fear, relief and cold.

As soon as the fox was gone and the big-wasps had returned to their nest, Chip climbed down and rushed across the leaf litter to recover the coin. The others followed the direction that Bluebell had taken and found her on the poolside.

‘That was well done,’ said a voice from behind them, and they turned to see a grey squirrel’s face grinning at them.

‘Zumac! It’z yew!’

‘Bluebell, Willowherb … where’s Rosebay?’

The Grey and the two Reds brushed whiskers, then Bluebell, her chattering gone in the delight at meeting an old friend, introduced Oak and Sycamore.

‘Sumac is a Sun-squirrel,’ Bluebell explained.

‘Rowan-Pa said he was his best pupil ever.’

Sumac looked suitably modest, then asked again about Rosebay.

They told their story and Sumac silently embraced Willowherb.

‘Was it you who buried…?’ Bluebell’s voice trailed away.

‘Hickory and Sitka and your father, Spindle. Yes they’re all nourishing trees now, as your Farewell Kernel teaches.’

Oak the Wary was listening to Bluebell and Sumac. He was uneasy about the way she was treating him as a trusted friend – after all he was a Grey. He may profess to be a Sun-squirrel but Oak was not going to give him a chance to learn the secret of the Woodstock. He left them exchanging news and slipped back to where the weapon had been dropped when they had followed Bluebell.

Chip was there with his gold disk.

‘We must hide the Woodstock,’ Oak said. ‘There are Greys about.’

‘Change the figures,’ Chip suggested, ‘Then it won’t matter if they
do
find it.’

‘Watch in case the fox comes back, and listen for the big-wasps.’

Oak bit into the wood, tasting the sweet sap of the hazel. His sharp teeth rapidly changed the
 into
, the
 into
, the
 into
 and the
 into
. The
 became .
, as did the
. The
 became
,.whilst the
,