The Willows at Christmas (6 page)

“A ruse?” wondered the Mole, who knew little of such things.

“We have reason to believe that the weasels or the stoats, or possibly both acting together, have been causing damage to the equipment Ratty and I keep along the River Bank for our mutual use — nets, poles, marker buoys and pruning gear. For several nights Portly and I have made a show of staying at Ratty’s, then, each night, under cover of darkness, I have come back here in secret to keep a watch on things. It is as well your knock was clear and distinct, otherwise —”

Otter produced a fierce-looking boathook, which he had clearly intended to apply to the head and posterior of any weasel or stoat that came by up to no good.

“O my!” said the startled Mole, rubbing his head as if he himself had been struck by the Otter.

“We can’t let ‘em get away with it, Mole. What with flooding and ice, the River is a dangerous place in the winter, and only Ratty and I have the knowledge to make things safe.”

“Quite so,” said the Mole, very much impressed by the Otter’s determination and courage on others’ behalf. “I am sorry if I frightened them off before you could put your theory to the test.”

“It couldn’t be helped, Moly. But did you hear anything, or better still,
see
anything?”

“I heard many strange sounds from the direction of the Wild Wood,” said the Mole with some feeling, “but nothing else, or nearly nothing.”

“Nearly
nothing?” asked the Otter.

“Well, when I was at the crossroads and was about to turn down to visit you here I am almost certain I heard the sound of running feet from the direction of the Iron Bridge.”

“Running feet, eh!” cried the Otter, rising. ‘Near the Iron Bridge!

You should have told me this before. Here, put your coat back on at once, I may need reinforcements. Hurry, Mole, hurry — and you had better carry this as protection!”

Mole was alarmed to have a fierce-looking cudgel placed in his hands. Not for the first time since he had made the acquaintance of the River Bankers, the quiet and unassuming Mole found himself thrust into a risky venture of a kind he would normally have done his very best to avoid.

Who was he to go off in the night in pursuit of weasels and stoats, cudgel in hand? And anyway, had he not made a point of visiting Otter’s house for a very different purpose indeed?

“Er, Otter?” he essayed. “I did not really call upon you tonight to take up arms against the weasels and stoats. In fact, I was rather hoping you might give me some advice. You see.”

“Advice?” cried the distracted Otter as he locked his front door. “Advice about what?”

“Well, about Christmas, actually,” said the Mole, somewhat feebly.

“Christmas?” said the Otter, stopping for a moment in his tracks.
“Christmas?”

Yes, you see, Otter,” began the Mole, “I was just trying —”

“My dear Mole,” said the Otter very firmly, “this is not the time to talk of Christmas. There are many in these parts who may not have a Christmas at all if the weasels and stoats are allowed to continue vandalising the River Bank. Have you any idea of the power of the River when she grows angry with floodwater?”

“I — I — I did not think,” said the Mole, quite at a loss for words.

“No, you did not!” said the Otter. “Now, there’s a good fellow, and come along to give me some support against these thugs and hooligans.”

“Thugs?” said the bewildered Mole in a timid voice. “Hooligans?”

“And murderers,” growled the Otter, leading the way along the River Bank path.

“Murderers?” repeated the Mole unhappily, as he tagged along behind the Otter in the dark, all thoughts of his revitalised Christmas plans, which he had so wanted to talk about, quite gone from his mind.

Mole’s silent misgivings were soon amply justified. The two animals crept through the tangled reeds of the River Bank till they had the Iron Bridge dimly in view up-river, with the canal off to their left. There, in the chill, damp darkness, the increasingly nervous Mole was left to lie low in the reeds while the Otter went on ahead to investigate.

Feeling alone and vulnerable, he was beginning to shiver with cold when he heard the unmistakable sound of the enemy approaching from the Wild Wood. By the sound of things, they were dragging something heavy along with them.

“Otter!” he whispered hoarsely in the direction of the River Bank.
“Otter!
They are coming! Please, Otter, hear me!”

He did not dare move for he had no doubt their numbers were great, and he knew the sleek weasels and lithe stoats were fleeter of foot than he. He also thought it likely that the more they had to give chase the greater would be their appetites.

He hoped that his urgent whispers would not be heard against the River’s murmur in the night, but when he called out Otter’s name once more, quite desperate now, the dragging sound stopped at once and he heard ominous mutterings, as of villains deciding what to do next.

He did not have to wait long to find out. With one accord the night creatures moved rapidly forward towards where Mole lay, by now frightened out of his wits. Only when he saw their shadows looming from the undergrowth did he decide to break cover, cudgel in hand, and bravely charge them.

He was not sure what he hoped to achieve — perhaps to get a blow or two in first and then flee towards the bridge — but no sooner had he risen from the ground than he heard one of them grunt, “There!” and before he could even strike a blow, or see the enemy clearly, a strange shifting shadow engulfed him. He felt the harsh, rough entanglements of what seemed to be a net falling all about him, catching first at his cudgel, then at his arms, then enwrapped about his face and head till with a terrible cry he fell back upon the ground.

Worse followed, for the shadows stood over him, and the Mole felt buffets on his head and kicks about his body as they overwhelmed him and bundled him up so tightly that he could scarcely move a limb. Despite his brave struggles and now-muffled protests, he felt himself hoisted up by many hands and carried off to a fate that was so awful to contemplate that he fainted right away, and knew no more.

So it was that when the Otter returned some minutes later he found no Mole, no Mole at all. By the dim light of the winter night he could just make out an area of broken and flattened vegetation, with the Mole’s cudgel lying abandoned nearby — graphic evidence of what had happened.

“Mole!” exclaimed the distraught Otter. “Moly, where are you.

But the Otter was not so foolhardy as to hasten off in pursuit alone. “Badger’s the only animal who can help Mole now!” he told himself, and without more ado he retraced his steps to the Bank and from there set off by safer and more familiar paths back into the Wild Wood towards Badger’s home.

When Badger’s door was opened — only after a long delay — the Otter was surprised to be confronted not just by the Badger, but also by the Water Rat as well, both heavily armed.

“My dear fellow,” said the Badger, “you should have said it was you. Whatever are you doing here in the dead of night?”

“You must come quick, Badger, there’s no time to lose. Mole’s been taken by the weasels and stoats!”

“Mole?” repeated the Badger uncomprehendingly “Yes,
Mole,”
said the Otter. “For who else would I risk a journey through the Wild Wood on such a night as this, except perhaps yourself or Rat?”

“Humph!” said the Badger disbelievingly “It is surely not like Mole to take risks, least of all in these parts, and it might well be that you are mistaken and the sensible Mole is at home, tucked up in bed and fast asleep.”

“He is certainly
not
at home!” spluttered the Otter, exasperated at Badger’s seeming lack of concern. “I say again, Mole has been —”

“I know what you
said,
Otter’ responded the Badger calmly, “and I can guess what you would like Ratty and me to do. I suppose you would like us to set forth into the Wild Wood and rescue him?”

“Yes, that’s exactly —”

“Can’t be done’ said the Badger abruptly, “not in the thick of night, and especially not this night. We have already been out on an expedition and were half-expecting a counter—attack from the weasels and stoats. And we really shouldn’t stand out here where we are vulnerable. Better to discuss this further in safety’

He shepherded the protesting Otter inside and swiftly bolted his door.

“Now come and sit by the fire and try not to worry, he said. “I very much doubt that so important an animal as Mole, who is known to be Badger’s friend, would be harmed by the weasels and stoats.”

“I tell you —” cried the Otter.

“Tell us by all means, old fellow,” said the Rat with some asperity, for he was getting cold in the hall, “but pray come and do so in Badger’s comfortable parlour!”

The Otter soon found himself sitting by the fire, a glass of mulled wine in his hand, as he tried to explain poor Mole’s startling disappearance.

Poor Mole indeed — not for him the comfort of a warming winter drink and the pleasures of conversation and companions. Instead, that unfortunate animal had suffered a good deal of hurt and indignity since he had been so unceremoniously abducted. Now he found himself in mortal danger.

When he had come round he found himself inside a rough hessian sack of some kind. From the warmth —the uncomfortable warmth — of the place, and the muffled murmur of voices, he realised he was in the foul den of the villains who had captured him. It did not take him long to appreciate the gravity of his situation. The stuffy atmosphere in his sack was growing more clammy by the second, and he was conscious of an unwelcome heat beginning to warm him even as he heard the unmistakable bubblings of a cooking pot nearby. Only by a great effort of will did he prevent his terror from overcoming him. It was almost as if the weasels and stoats were merely waiting for the pot to be hot enough before they tipped Mole into it and started stewing him for dinner later that night.

“O my goodness! Now, what weapons do I have upon my person?” he asked himself, feeling from pocket to pocket. He soon found that his arsenal consisted of one fountain pen, a silver fruit knife (the one with a shell handle that had been his mother’s), a handkerchief and,
ow!,
a large safety pin!

This find was a cheering discovery, and he resolved to stab at anyone who came near. What might be achieved if he started with the pin, followed up with the pen nib and then finished them off with the knife?

But such brave thoughts lasted only a few moments till he heard movement nearby. Then the bubbling grew louder as the range was stoked, followed by laughter and the sound of lids being lifted and knives being sharpened. By now, inside the sack it was almost hot and steamy enough to render him parboiled, and even braised — and the Mole felt himself growing strangely light-headed and confused.

“O dear’ he told himself. “This will never do: they’re going to cook me without tucking some thyme and bayleaves into the sacking, and I am sure I would taste better if they covered me with a rasher or two of fatty bacon. O my, to be cooked is not good, to be sure, but to be cooked badly is a tragic way to end one’s days!”

He swooned once more, and when he next emerged into consciousness he found himself crying out, “Make sure you put some cranberry and onion comfit on the table, for I’ll taste a good bit better with that!”