The Odyssey for Arznel

By Kieran McCarthy

There is a legend among the animals.
Long ago, a great tiger, known as Arznel, led an uprising against the humans, in a bid to save the world from destruction. But Arznel was defeated, captured and never seen again. Hope remains, that one day he will be free, and the great revolution can begin anew.
But where is Arznel? And who can rescue him?

Not long has gone since the great battle that ravaged the beautiful nature sanctuary of Lough Ine. But hope and determination thrives in the hearts of Dreamer and his animal friends, who are ready to set out in search of their fabled leader, Arznel.
But their journey has been delayed by new dangers at home dangers in the form of loggers, and an evil rat who is loyal to the humans. In the midst of it all, Dreamer is plagued by new and terrible dreams of the man in the black suit. A man, who may play a key role in the coming war...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493127474

Kieran McCarthy

Kieran McCarthy writes a weekly local heritage column for the Cork Independent, is the author of over 20 local history titles on Cork, and runs a heritage consultancy and walking tour company. He was awarded the Mary Mulvihill Publication/ Media Award, Industrial Heritage Association of Ireland, 2019 for his last THP book, The Little Book of Cork Harbour, and for championing cultural heritage. He has been an independent member of Cork County Council and is a member of the EU Committee of the Regions.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Connie Nagle stood at the foot of a tall, steep hill, ensconced in a crowd of protesters. Men, women and children from all over the parish had assembled here to have their voices heard. There was only so much the local people would tolerate…

Connie lifted a glazed eye to the sky. Ominous grey clouds scudded across the deep blue azure, driven by a chilled wind, on an otherwise beautiful day. Lowering her eyes again, Connie continued to wait in frosted tension.

Bulldozers, two of them, were parked impatiently outside the gate. A team of men in hard hats and steel—toed boots waited across from the hill, leaning on their axes. The two crowds stared each other down. The time for negotiation had come and gone.

Connie Nagle simply buried her gnarled, arthritis-ridden hands in the pockets of her black cardigan. The breeze ruffled her red bandana and purple scarf as she stood, deep in thought.

At 109 years-old, this was not her first public protest. She had watched the landscape change and change again, along with its culture and its people. She had seen the horse-drawn plough become the Massy Ferguson; days of sitting on a stool and milking the cows by hand become the high-tech, multi performance milking machines.

She had witnessed hedgerow after hedgerow being knocked for the expansion of agribusiness, until fields became as wide as deserts. She’d watched houses spring up all over the landsurface like pimples on a green face. Small, cosy pubs had sold out to become top class hotels and restaurants.

And as for childhood—whatever happened to playing cowboys and Indians in the woods with your friends? The new generations’ idea of fun was lounging about at home and going blind from playing those ever complicated ‘Game Stations’ or what have you.

Connie Nagle had learned to accept most of this change. Who was she to stand in the way of human progress, when most of her generation had long passed?

But today, here, what these steel booted, yellow capped men planned to do—this was an outrage. A crime.

Connie threw a glance up at the steep, grassed hill, where inside a ring of stone, grew a tiny forest…

The slowing hum of an engine prompted her to look towards the gate again. The squad car had arrived at last. The protesters stirred uneasily, watching two guards, one fat, one thin, both in fluorescent yellow jackets, step from the car.

Connie sidled up to the man in front of her, her nephew, Barry Walsh. A decent man. An honest man, dressed in a pale blue shirt and black chords. Connie never worried about him losing his nerve when it came to confrontation—it was his twelve year-old son, Christopher, who was guilty of that. The fair haired boy stood hand in hand with his father, as the two guards approached, moving through the team of builders in the field.

Barry Walsh let go of his son’s hand and stepped forward, ready to parley. The thin guard spoke into a walkie-talkie while the fat guard advanced, stony eyed and purposeful.

‘What’s da bodder here, bies?’ he boomed.

Barry Walsh straightened his glasses.

‘The bother is right behind you, officer,’ he said, indicating the sour faced builders. ‘These men are here to destroy a cherished part of our community.’

The fat guard didn’t blink, with his arms akimbo.

‘Cherished, shmerished,’ he huffed. ‘The deal is signed, like. They’ve gotten permission. Tis yer breaking de law fer being here.’

‘We can’t allow this eyesore to go ahead,’ Barry Walsh asserted. ‘Enough of our national heritage had been ruined without this adding to it.’

Finally, the thin guard spoke up. All the protestors leaned forward, gripping tighter to their signs and banners.

‘Now listen here,’ he began, matter of factly. ‘Richard Bromwell of Bramcorp has bought this place, to do with it what he wants. If he wants to build a hotel here, that’s his business. No one else has kicked up such a stink about it. It’s just progress, lads. So grow up, and move on.’

Barry Walsh raised his chin and clenched his fists.

‘Richard Bromwell,’ he said coolly. ‘Has sewage pipes from the foundation of this hotel, running right into Lough Ine Nature Reserve. Now tell me that’s legal! It’s men like Richard Bromwell who are spoiling the planet. We’ve never been so close to a worldwide disaster, and yet there he is buying all his iron and timber supplies from the tropical rainforests. Though he would never admit it! Look it up, officer, if you don’t believe me. And for a man so rich, he certainly knows how to cheap out; dumping waste wherever he wants, instead of paying for proper disposal. Well not here, officer. You tell Richard Bromwell to come out of his shiny mansion and swagger down here to meet us himself, because we’re not moving!’

The thin guard nodded.

‘Then you’re all under arrest,’ he said simply.

‘Well you’ll have some job squeezing us all into that little paddy-wagon,’ said Barry Walsh smartly.

Both guards turned away and conferred privately.

Connie Nagle didn’t stir. She had seen this all before. But it wasn’t the pollution she was worried about, while gazing up at the stone circle again. Nor was it the spoilt scenery, or lost heritage. Not this time. Connie Nagle was worried about something very different. Something she rarely talked about, for fear of being taken away. She had just avoided the nursing home; the asylum was the last place she needed to be…

Barry Walsh found himself confronted by the two guards again.

‘Back-up’s on de way,’ said the thin guard, smugly.

‘Very well,’ said Barry Walsh. ‘More for me to chat with.’

‘I’ll tella what ee should do now,’ said the fat guard, pointing aggressively. ‘Ee hippies should goway and get some daecent, normal jobs like de rest of us.’

‘I’m an accountant, officer,’ said Barry Walsh. ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t care about the planet. And how dare you call me a hippy in front of my son.’

A thought struck Barry Walsh.

Where is my son?

‘Christopher!’ he shouted.

The crowd shuffled in their places, and looked around, bewildered.

Connie Nagle was all concern now. How had she missed him? Was her eyesight really that bad?

And then, Barry Walsh spotted his unruly rogue of a son.

‘Christopher, get away from there!’ he roared.

Sure enough, the boy had slipped in behind the crowd, crept along the edge of the field, past the protesters, the guards and the builders, and had climbed the gate—armed with a crowbar.

He now stood beside one of the bulldozers; an oil drenched rag hanging from the petrol valve. With one hand, he waved to his father, with the other, he held a lighter.

As soon as the rag sprang aflame, Christopher was off up the road, out of sight in a blink.

The two guards were left to hold back the crowd by themselves, as they screamed and roared. But the sounds of pandemonium were lost as the bulldozer exploded into a hail of lurid orange fire!

Everybody dropped to the grass and covered their ears.

Only Connie Nagle stood, watching a ball of fire rise and balloon outwards, throwing bits of glass and metal through the smoke blackened air. At 109 years-old, her days of crouching were over. So she stood now by the hill, surrounded by what looked like people worshipping her, as she warmed her face against the glow.

Even the second bulldozer and the squad car were swallowed up, their windows blown out in a flash. Once it cleared, the two guards rose and began ushering everybody over to the far side of the field. Knowing how much trouble they were in, the protesters complied.

Only Barry Walsh escaped. He had hurdled the gate and taken off up the soot covered road, in search of his son.

Connie Nagle was the last to be moved.

‘Come on, love,’ said the fat guard, taking hold of her arm. ‘This is no place fer ya.’

Connie turned from the fire and looked up one last time at the ancient stone circle.

‘No good will come of this,’ she said.

‘Wass dat?’ said the guard.

Connie looked him in the eye.

‘That’s a fairy fort up there,’ she said. ‘And you don’t want to upset the fairy people.’

The guard paused and shook his head.

‘Move along, love.’

PART ONE

Bilberry Grove

ONE

Time to Move On

Spring had arrived again, making her presence known in every field and verge; tree and bush.

In a certain nature sanctuary (with a growing reputation), the wildfolk welcomed in the season with open hearts.

The surrounding fields, yellow with coconut—scented gorse, rose steadily to a mighty hill, where the splendid forest gleamed with new life. Mosses and lichens, rich and green, clambered up the ancient tree trunks, like children climbing onto their parents’ laps, awaiting a story. Lemon—hued primroses and pink umbels of celandine popped from their hiding places amid the thickening undergrowth, competing for sunlight as the canopy above spread and blossomed. At long last, the sad grey clouds of winter had been chased away by the sun, revealing a brilliant blue sky.

Sanctuary residents, unseen but everywhere, embraced the day from one twilight to the other. Birds singing merrily from every perch, rabbits rollicking on the Hilltop, and the Lake—who could forget The Lake! The glassy cobalt Lake buzzed with activity; swans paddling around in the still blue water, greedy gulls fighting over a leftover sandwich from a tourist’s lunchbox, and a family of bashful otters sticking to the shade.

Happiness had become almost compulsory. Everyone seemed happy, for no reason other than it simply being spring. Anyone caught brooding or sulking was sentenced to a long day of fun and games, quickly learning to enjoy it. No one could see it, but many liked to believe, that behind its dazzling glare, even the sun was smiling.

So it was, one little sanctuary, sitting by the coast, thriving in sweet resurgence. Lough Ine was alive.

‘Oh, well, I had a good run,’ the little pond eel must have thought, as the kingfisher carried it to the branch of an ash tree and began smacking it repeatedly against the trunk. Keeneye swallowed her catch whole, and ruffled her blue and orange feathers.

‘Hmmm,’ she thought. ‘Still hungry. Nothing but empty goodness in those eels.’

Flitting down to the rim of the Pond, in the Swamp near the Hilltop, Keeneye continued her browse for breakfast. Fallen trees had left large craters in the ground, which had filled with rainwater, creating a series of little ponds throughout the Swamp. The ground had swollen in places, giving rise to great, soft mounds of moss. They lay scattered around the rows of pine trunks, like unique pin—cushions.

Insects hummed and skated across the surface of the muddy water hole, while beneath the surface, more little tiddlers shot from one clump of rushes to another, as if they knew they were being watched. There were all sorts; mosquitoes, craneflies, horseflies, mayfly nymphs, water beetles, a water spider, skaters, chasers and some more millipedes (Keeneye liked to call them eels).

She felt she was guaranteed a bite, so she took to the air and dived vertically back into the pond, slicing the surface like a razor. Sure enough, she caught something. But not what she’d had in mind.

‘Whaaaaaaahh!!’ shrilled a small voice. ‘What in the name of bursting bubbles?!’

‘Oh, sorry Aidey,’ Keeneye blushed, setting the frog back down on solid ground. She was in for it.

‘You make that mistake—EVERY—morning without fail!’

Aidey massaged his sore back with suction—pad fingers.

‘I’m really sorry,’ said Keeneye, in a whimper. ‘We need a bigger pond.’

‘Hmph,’ said Aidey. ‘I should dye myself red! Being green is too troublesome these days!’

Keeneye laughed and then stifled it straight away, while the frog had his rant. ‘Thank goodness I wasn’t mating, I’d have some job getting back in the mood!’

‘How is the mating going?’ Keeneye ventured to ask.

Aidey stopped in mid sentence and took a breath.

‘Not great,’ he admitted, now easing up. ‘All the females are either taken, finished mating or just plain not interested.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Keeneye cheerily. She was just glad the yelling was over. ‘You’ll find someone. Who could resist that charm!’

Aidey’s eyes narrowed, scanning for sarcasm.

‘Yeah, thanks.’

But it was all in good fun. Keeneye and Aidey had been the tightest of friends; inseparable even since the days one was a tadpole and the other was an egg. They weren’t even aware of how odd it was for a frog and a kingfisher to be bonded. They were an odd pair, and nothing was going to change it now. Two tiny friends, until the end.

‘Maybe Dreamer and Fuchsia can give you a few pointers,’ Keeneye suggested, still on the topic of mating.

‘Hmph, I bet they could,’ Aidey shrugged. ‘Those two are lovey—dovey even when it’s not mating season!’

Keeneye laughed. ‘I wonder where they are today.’

‘Who knows,’ said the frog, hopping into the shallows of the water. ‘Ever since Dreamer hooked up with that vixen, he’s sort of snobbed us.’

‘Oh well,’ chirped the kingfisher. ‘He waited long enough for her. Let him enjoy it.’

‘Fine,’ Aidey muttered, ‘While the rest of us keep waiting.’

Victor sat alone at the edge of the track, half hidden by the masses of bluebells and stitchwort. With his face to the light, he closed his eyes and enjoyed both the warmth, and the brilliant colours that danced and folded before his vision. He listened to the grasshoppers chirruping and water tumbling somewhere behind the lush expanse of green.

Normally, badgers would never surface during the daytime, but lately, Victor’s sett was just too quiet.

He turned away and sniffled the tears back up. It really was just too nice a day.

Moments later, the brambles at the end of the path shook and parted, and out of them, jumped Rush. The big hare spotted his friend sitting by the edge of the path and scurried to his side.

‘What’s wrong, party pooper?’ he asked. ‘You’ve got a face like a raincloud.’

Victor wiped his eyes and paused, looking at the ground.

‘My cubs would have been born around now,’ he said.

Rush screwed up his face with pity.

‘Ouch,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine how that must feel,’ before adding rapidly, ‘I know what’ll get your mind off things!’

‘Best of luck with that,’ Victor grumbled.

Rush folded his arms.

‘Do you wanna have some fun or not?’

Victor climbed to his feet and brushed the crusty, clinging leaves from his coat.

‘What do you have in mind?’ he asked, half-heartedly.

Rush laughed, wiggling his fingers with delight.

‘Follow me. I found something this morning.’

The fields on the side of Knockomagh Hill were a vast canvas of yellow green most days, but today, if you were lucky enough to see, two dots of red played and romped around carelessly in the open.

Dreamer and Fuchsia chased each other around the heather-splashed knolls, skirting, dashing, diving and of course, laughing, as one finally caught the other.

Dreamer pinned his mate to the ground with his paws, and tickled her nose with his. She screamed and broke away with a sharp roll, righting herself before Dreamer could regain his balance.

‘Where are you going?’ he laughed.

‘Somewhere you can’t tickle me,’ she teased.

Dreamer noticed his mate was crouched tail-up over a fluffy dandelion. She leaned closer to it whenever he took a step forward.

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he challenged.

‘Wouldn’t I?’ she said smartly.

Dreamer reared up and pitched forward, but Fuchsia, her timing immaculate, blew hard on the dandelion, sending a cloud of fluffy spores whirling around his head. He laughed and sneezed and laughed some more, and then opened his eyes to see Fuchsia bounding up the Hill.

‘No fair!’ he called after her.

That night was clear and fresh. The moon hung like a pearl in the starry sky, its light trailing up along the field to find two foxes snuggled in the grass.

Fuchsia was asleep, her face buried in Dreamer’s shoulder, her tail and his tail entwined. Senses dulled, slipping into a realm of pure, drowsy pleasure, Dreamer rested his cheek against his mate’s ear, and inhaled the fernwater fragrance of her skin.

Contrary to his restless nature, Dreamer now felt like the happiest fox in the world. He pitied all the other foxes who could never share this moment. His heart felt invigorated, infused with frenetic fervour. He felt he could leap off the edge of the Lough Ine Panorama and fly.

But there was work to be done; adventure ahead.

As a cub, Dreamer had been told two stories—one true, the other he believed to be true. The true story told of the world outside Lough Ine, a world being uprooted and destroyed by the humans.

The legend was of a certain tiger named Arznel, who in a bold move, had declared war against the humans, only to be captured in the midst of his efforts and never seen again. According to the legend, to find the tiger and rescue him, restoring him to his former leadership, would bring about the greatest war the world had ever known, man against beast, and ultimately decide the fate of all life.

Dreamer wrinkled his nose.

Before any such war, came a journey; a long and perilous journey into the unknown, in the hope of finding Arznel alive, if at all. None had undertaken this journey before. Few now believed in Arznel, and those who did were simply too afraid to set out and find him. But not Dreamer and his friends, who felt the journey needed to begin soon. Very soon.

Which made tonight all the more precious.

Dreamer licked Fuchsia’s ear and snuggled in closer, the warmth of her body against his lulling him into a deep, deep sleep.

The land spread out like a patchwork quilt of fields, hedgerows and forest as Dreamer soared above it. His shadow was cast over the greenery, its size inflated by the sun on his back. He had always wanted to fly!

The Lake was like a great, turquoise eye sparkling in the glare, save for its iris—which was the castle ruin lying in the middle. Beyond the hills, the big, blue sea opened out into eternity. Dreamer had never appreciated his homeland quite like this before.

His dreams, lately, had been lucid dreams, in that, he could control them. This one too, was under his command. Until, darkness seeped into the sky. This part, he found surprising.

The cloud appeared and spread, like a glob of oil in a water-bowl. It quickly leeched the light from the sky, and Dreamer could feel himself falling. The rush of air into his lungs and past his face felt all too real. During his descent when he managed to keep his eyes open, he saw the countryside below—and something rather disturbing happening to it.

As if some giant, humpbacked monster lay beneath its skin, the ground began to bulge and burst! Trees, bushes, sods of earth flew out in all directions as up came a towering mass of steel and glass. All over the landscape, the ground swelled, more of the menacing rectangles springing up, until hardly a field remained.

The biggest road Dreamer had ever seen tore its way through the woods and hedging, lane upon lane upon lane of lights, fences, railings, sign-boards, getting closer as he fell. Cars swarmed like bees in a hive, honking, screeching, revving; their exhaust enveloping them in a noxious blue haze.

After he came to ground and skidded along the path by the Lake, Dreamer barely had a chance to recover, when he found himself lying at the feet of a man.

He had seen men before. Those encounters had been less than favourable. But this man was different from the rest. Dreamer scrambled backwards to get a proper look at him. The man was tall and broad, dressed smartly in a black suit and tie. However, to contradict this opulent appearance, he wore a hard, yellow helmet, which, along with the eerie purple sky, cast a shadow across his face. No eyes glimmered.

Dreamer rose to his feet and held his ground. He was no longer afraid of men. Not unless they had guns. But a surge of anxiety did travel up his spine when he peered around. This was still Lough Ine. But what had become of it? The Lake—it was ringed with buildings, tall white buildings; there were boats, docks, little bridges crossing over it.

Dreamer turned back to the man, who was standing stock-still in the shadows.

‘What have you done?’ Dreamer cried, not expecting an answer.

The man just stood.

‘What have you done?’ Dreamer cried again.

But the man’s only answer was a smirk: a dark, sharp toothed smirk.

Dreamer charged at him now and flew for his chest. And then the man laughed. A raspy, demonic laugh—and Dreamer snapped awake before he could touch him.

He was in hysterics, breathing heavily, rapidly.

Fuchsia was roused from her slumber too, finding her mate wide eyed and hyperventilating.

‘Sweetie,’ she cooed. ‘What’s wrong?’

Dreamer was still shaking and gulping for air.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’

TWO

The Conclave

It was noon of the previous day when Victor and Rush reached a plateau near to the top of The Hill. Shafts of sunlight sliced down through the branches like lasers, illuminating every spore of dust and pollen, as Victor jogged on upwards. Rush was always several paces ahead.

‘How much… further?’ the badger panted.

‘Practically there,’ the hare assured him. ‘Anyway, relax, the walk will do you good.’

‘It’s not the walk I’m worried about,’ said Victor. ‘It’s what I’ll find at the end of it.’

‘Tisk, tisk, tisk,’ said Rush. ‘Always assuming the worst.’

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Finally, just below the peak, in the shade of its fellow evergreens (where the ruin of a jeep lay overgrown with shrubs) Victor saw what Rush had been so excited about.

‘It’s a log,’ he said, flatly.

‘I know,’ said Rush, hopping round and round what looked like an ancient scots pine. ‘This tree fell during The Battle. It’s only now I’ve had a good look at it.’

‘So?’ said Victor. ‘Lots of trees fell during The Battle.’

‘Yes, but not at an angle as perfect as this,’ said Rush, indicating how the tree was balancing on the edge of the slope, its tip pointing over the edge.

‘What are you saying?’ asked Victor, finally showing interest.

‘What I’m saying is,’ Rush began, stroking his paw along the rough skin of the charred log. ‘ . . . it’s been a while since any of us has had fun. Real fun. Fun worth remembering. We rarely see Dreamer anymore and when we do, he just seems a million miles away. Most likely thinking about that journey we’ll be embarking on shortly.’

‘Your point being?’ Victor prompted.

‘Let’s just forget about the war for a little while—and go sledging!’ Rush blurted out.

‘Sledging, eh?’ Victor yawned, no longer taken aback by the hare’s wild ideas. ‘Down the hill, on this log, I’m guessing?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Rush. ‘Why do you think I brought you up here? I needed someone with a bum as big as yours to push it!’

Victor sighed.

‘Oh, Rush, you say the sweetest things.’

He examined the log. It certainly was huge. The thick, bulky trunk stretched from its wide, lateral base, to its vast conical top. It had fallen neatly without breaking; thick, tentacle-like roots exposed to the air.

To all outward appearances, for a badger and a hare to attempt pushing it down a hill would seem ridiculous. But Victor rarely declined an opportunity to challenge his friend.

‘I’ll have to think about it,’ he yawned, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘I haven’t eaten in a while. How’s tomorrow for you? Since you kind of caught me off guard.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Rush groaned.

‘Pushing this log down the hill will require a full belly,’ said Victor. ‘And I won’t be hunting until tonight. Just hang in there.’

Rush sighed, ears flattened to his back.

‘Make me wait, why don’t ya.’

Sure enough, at dawn, when the distant sun was beginning to show, Victor and Rush returned to the plateau. The hare watched as the badger walked around and around the log, inspecting every twig and groove. Luckily for them both, the log was already balancing precariously at the edge of the slope, with few obstacles below to hinder its course. It wouldn’t take much to budge it.

‘Well?’ said Rush impatiently.

‘It looks more difficult than it is,’ said Victor, brightly. ‘ . . . okay, you stand at that side and grab one of its twigs. I’ll do the same here.’

Rush cackled mischievously.

In only a moment:

‘Heave!’ Victor shouted.

He and Rush planted their hind paws in the earth and pushed with all their might. Instantly they felt sweat breaking out beneath their fur. But there was no movement from the log. They pushed and pushed again, but to the same non-effect.

‘I’ll be too tired to chase it if it does go,’ Rush complained.

Victor thought for a second and quickly darted to the crown of the tree without a word. Rush watched as he began digging underneath it. Soil and pebbles skittered down the embankment, some flying through the air. Rush stooped to observe but was hit in the face by a paw-full.

‘Okay,’ Victor panted, emerging from beneath the withered spines of the pine. ‘Let’s try it now.’

The two friends reassumed their positions at either side of the log and gave it their all. After a moment of back—bending, teeth-clenching, claw-scraping exertion, the tree—began to move! With a jolt of excitement came a jolt of new energy, so the friends looked at each other and laughed, before pushing harder. Slowly, the log tipped itself over the edge, point first, and was soon rumbling down the slope.

‘Hop on!’ cried Victor.

He and Rush gave chase and leapt onto the trunk; Rush helping Victor up. The log travelled slowly, and in a straight line. At first.

It was a thrill for the two friends to be on the move without the use of their legs. Their surroundings; the serried columns of the other trees, the plants, bushes and flowers, all chugged by peacefully, as the log continued at a steady pace.

Victor and Rush sat smiling.

‘Now,’ said the hare. ‘Aren’t you glad you came?!’

Victor chuckled.

‘How do you think of these things?’

‘It’s easy,’ Rush smiled. ‘I don’t think!’

However, it wasn’t long before the log became stripped of its spines and roots, its only means of braking! Soon, it began to pick up speed.

Victor and Rush stopped smiling.

The log juddered and bounced, rattled and skidded.

‘Uh oh,’ said the friends in unison.

They could feel the vibrations in their legs and tails, and could hear the tremor in one another’s voice as they cried ‘Uh oh’ again.

The log was speeding up at an alarming rate, cutting a swathe through the hillside. Dirt, leaves and dust spewed up in its wake; everything around them dissolving into a blur! Birds flew pell-mell from their perches, tweeting and twittering in alarm.

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Victor and Rush held on tighter and screamed, watching the distant ground hurtle towards them; trees flashing by on either side. The log now zoomed.

‘VICTOR!’ Rush cried, bouncing around on the bark, like a doll strapped to a rocket. ‘I think we’re heading for Craggy’s home!’

‘Oh no,’ Victor groaned. ‘How do we warn him?’

‘CRAGGY!’ Rush cried hopelessly. ‘CRAGGY! COME OUT! COME OUT!’

Craggy, an old hedgehog who lived with his wife and children in the middle of the woodland glade, poked his head out from beneath his beech tree home. He was on his way to a meeting when he could have sworn he felt the earth tremble. Furthermore, he was almost sure he could hear his name being called.

‘I’m old,’ he muttered. ‘Old and getting older.’

Rubbing his eyes and turning to his right, he straightaway saw the log bearing down on him. What’s more, he saw two of his neighbours riding on top of it.

‘CRAGGY!’ Rush screamed. ‘GO BACK IN! GO BACK IN!’

The hedgehog saluted, unable to register what he was seeing, and hid away.

The log whooshed past Craggy’s beech tree, and then took an erratic course, rolling on its side! Victor and Rush found themselves scrabbling furiously with their hind legs to stay balanced. That was until, blessedly, the log came to rest in a shallow, muddy stream. Victor and Rush were catapulted off, landing with a pair of splashes.

All sounds were stilled. Some dust still trailed from the top of the slope down to the stream, taking minutes to fully settle. The air became redolent of fresh earth. Birds returned to their perches momentarily.

Then there was a cough. Victor sat up in the streambed and spat out some muddy water, and then, he burst out laughing—laughing with all his heart.

‘Hahahahahaha! That was amazing! Rush, wasn’t that just… Rush, what’s wrong?’

The hare sat in the mud, hugging his knees and rocking to and fro.

‘I was so scared,’ he whimpered. ‘Victor, why?! Why would you let me do something like that?!’

Before another word could be said, Keeneye fluttered down and perched herself on a rhododendron branch.

‘What are you two giddy-goats doing?’ she squeaked.

‘Nothing at the moment,’ said Victor. ‘Why so?’

‘It’s Dreamer,’ chirped the kingfisher. ‘He’s called a conclave, in The Ranger’s Cottage. Says it’s important. Told me to fetch you.’

‘A conclave?’ said Victor. ‘When does it start?’

‘It already started,’ said Keeneye. ‘ . . . you passed it.’

‘Oh, okay,’ said Victor, climbing to his feet. ‘We’ll be there as soon as we’re clean. Come on, Rush, enough sobbing.’

As soon as Victor, Rush and Keeneye arrived at The Ranger’s Cottage, the ruin of an old stone hovel, they were greeted by a congregation of animals. Wesley, the stoat, standing on two legs amid the leaf loam, beside Craggy, Bertha and all the hedgehogs; Nuala the owl perched on a chestnut branch; within the walls were Skip, the otter, Pierce the grey heron, Emur the swan, Bill, and a host of ducks. Aidey sat atop the wall. Jostling