Red Willow

By Dylan Southard

Based on the 1908 classic The Wind In The Willows by Kenneth Grahame, Red Willow follows a group of young animals coming of age in the luxury vacation town of The Willows, and facing that town's history of crime and corruption. The Willows is divided between the wealthy and elite North Enders and the working class animals of the South End, animals like our story's hero, the quiet and unbecoming Mole. After Mole begins an unlikely romance with a North Ender named Rat and, through her, befriends the notorious Toad, scion to the family that built The Willows, he finds himself swept up in a plot to seek revenge on that family and dismantle the structures that enabled its rise to power. Caught in the middle, Mole must weigh his allegiance to the South End against his feelings for Rat and his fears that more turmoil will only doom The Willows for good.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dylan Southard
• Release date: May 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201058081

Dylan Southard

Dylan Southard is a dramaturg, producer, writer and teacher working in the interactive entertainment and performing arts industries. He is originally from Oakland,CA and curently resides in Los Angeles. Red Willow is his first novel.

Book preview

Red Willow

By Dylan Southard

Chapter 1: A Mole in the North End 

Chapter 2: Stoat Crick Mart 

Chapter 3: Party at The Holt 

Chapter 4: The Backwater Races 

Chapter 5: A Visit To Weasel’s 

Chapter 6: Beneath Toad Hall 

Chapter 7: The Crime Committed 

Chapter 8: The Trial of Mr. Toad 

Chapter 9: Badger’s Defense 

Chapter 10: Raging Waters 

Chapter 11: Welcome to Greenleaf 

Chapter 12: The Wide World 

Chapter 13: The Great Escape 

Chapter 14: Journeys Home 

Chapter 15: An Unexpected Reunion 

Chapter 16: The Raid 

Chapter 17: And The River Runs On 

Chapter 1: A Mole in the North End

O h jeez. Jeez! Oh. ..oh. Come on!

Clatter. Bang. Shuffle.

It was a whole symphony of aggrieved and strained sounds that came bursting out from this rather unassuming hole in the ground, situated as it were at the base of a tired old oak tree, in a back corner of The Willows known as Wild Wood. It was a sun-drenched September Sunday; a day redolent of deep, restful exhalations, of animals wallowing in the last dregs of summer. As such, it was quiet out in the world and the exclamations of the animal called Mole drifted unimpeded through the air, there to be heard only by the very few out attempting to accomplish anything of value.

Mole was attempting to accomplish something, something very important in fact, and it wasn’t going terribly well. This was an auspicious day for him. Rat was to visit his home for the first time, and so Mole was in a barely contained state of panic trying to prepare the burrow for her visit. All his cleaning instruments and implements had been wheeled out and the process set in motion. But his nervous energy was doing him no favors. He was desperate to impress Rat and overcome by the notion that he had neither the tools nor the talent to do so. Thus, the sounds of frustration that now rang through the air.

Mole hadn't lived in the burrow very long, about six months, and in that time he had put very little effort into interior design. The most striking feature of his home at this point was probably the frankly impressive way in which he had managed to organize his effects without the benefit of any furniture. He had the essentials, of course, but things like books and papers and articles of clothing had been left without any means of containment other than the delicate piles that Mole had made.

He was acutely aware of how this may look to someone, particularly someone of Rat’s caliber and so Mole was now attempting something in the way of presentation. A carefully curated selection of the books had been placed on a tilted shelf that he’d hammered in place himself. There was a hand-woven throw rug that Mole had bought during that time when he had journeyed away from The Willows and first seen the Wide World, one that he now displayed in the hopes that Rat would ask him about it. And there were a few pictures tacked to the walls now too — young Mole and some pals, Mole and his parents, and a Mole family reunion with dozens of them gathered in what looked like some vast underground dance hall.

The remaining piles had initially been shoved back into his bedroom until Mole realized that he wanted Rat to eventually see his bedroom too and so then the piles went into his closet except there was not even close to enough room to accommodate it all. So now Mole was engaged in deep contemplative consideration over whether or not this kind of messiness was what had attracted Rat to him in the first place. He still really had no idea why she was, and this was as good a guess as any. Perhaps she considered this messiness some kind of outward sign of a busy mind.

Hullo, Mole. Are you down there?

Oh! Oh, I could have helped —

No, it's alright. I've got it.

She was here, picking her way down the steep dirt hill that led from the surface, nimbly hopping down the earthen steps. Rat was a sight for sore eyes. Dressed for a day in the countryside, she'd hung a large bag from one arm and jauntily perched a sailor's cap on her head. She beamed at Mole.

That's a bit of a drop you've got there, old boy.

I told them it was too steep and a danger —

It's okay. So then...will you show me around?

The tour took about thirty seconds. Rat was charmed, not so much by the place but by Mole's earnest attempts to impress her with it. He told her the story of that rug and how he had bought it at a small woodland outpost, talking its seller — an imposing snake of indeterminate origins — down from the original asking price. He laughed self-consciously at the bookshelf’s shoddy construction and smiled awkwardly as Rat cooed over his old photos. And he proudly pointed out the small work station he'd set up for himself — just a table and chair and a small oil lamp — but it was cozy enough and Mole allowed himself to ramble on a bit about the work he was undertaking. He would be writing the definitive history of The Willows, as told to him by the animals who lived there.

It's a fantastic idea! I think it's wonderful, just wonderful. I couldn't be more supportive! Rat proclaimed.

As she said this though, her glance kept cutting back to the burrow's opening and the bright light of midday that poured through. She had trouble with confined spaces like this. Mole loved them; the cocoon-like warmth of the burrow, the way its tunnels seemed to wrap around you, sheathing you in their protective embrace, ensconcing you behind their walls. Rat, on the other hand, craved nothing if not open air. Her father, a born and bred river rat, had instilled that in her. She loved the feel of the breeze on her cheeks, that freshwater smell in her nostrils, the gentle sound of the current trickling in her ears. Whenever she thought of any of those things, Rat felt an accompanying, almost unquenchable need to roam and explore and wander. It was a directionless lifestyle that had been afforded to her but which nevertheless occasionally led to trouble.

Today, Rat was bringing Mole to meet her old friend Toad, with plans on taking the long way, meandering from one side of The Willows to the other and allowing each to share with the other their take on the place they both called home. Departing from Mole's, they scrambled down a short hill — Rat laughing airily at the inconvenience of it as their feet shushed through the leaves — until they met up with a winding rutted trail that had no name. It had once been a stream but it now served as the principal roadway for this curious little neighborhood called Wild Wood that had sprung up in a southeastern pocket of The Willows and which Mole had recently become a part of.

Mole didn't know much about his neighbors. He wasn't exactly the type to go about knocking on doors and introducing himself and, frankly, this was the type of neighborhood where those doors might not necessarily be opened. It wasn't a bad neighborhood, not like some of the blocks on the South End where Mole had grown up, the blocks he would avoid — the ones he had carefully drawn maps of in his head in order to avoid. In fact, it rather had charm.

Would you look at that?! Rat exclaimed, grabbing at Mole's arm. Do you see that window there? Isn't that beautiful? I wonder how they did that?

She was pointing towards a small log cabin with the sort of rounded, picturesque windows that are described in fairy tales. Mole wasn't exactly sure what about the windows had captured Rat's attention besides maybe how round and fairy tale-ish they seemed but he smiled and nodded.

They're very interesting folks in there, said Mole.

Oh yes?

They look like it anyway. Sort of odd. On the fringe.

You haven't met them?

No.

Well, why not?

I...I don't know. I suppose I haven't felt the urge to.

How very strange of you, Mole! You know, if you are to write this book, you are going to have to talk to animals.

I know that. But I've always found it much easier to talk to someone if you have something very specific to say.

I suppose that makes sense. You're nothing if not sensible, Mole. We'll have to rid you of that at some point!

That stream, when it did exist and should it ever exist again, would eventually find its way to The River, and so that is where the path took them now. All things in The Willows eventually found their way to The River. It ran straight down through the middle of their small community, a mighty and surging force to hold it together; a guardian, whose gifts bound the animals to it and to each other. It defined their land, and would forever do so. In fact, there was an old wives' tale that said that the blood of a Willows native flowed at the same pace as The River itself. That's how intertwined it had always been with the plants, the animals, every living and breathing part of that land.

Out on to The River Run spilled Rat and Mole. The Run, as it was known, was the wide, dirt road that ran along The River's west bank for miles. And if The River was the beating lifeblood of The Willows, then The Run was its central nervous system. Trodding down The Run, an animal could have any manner of interaction, adventure or revelation. They could buy a bushel of berries from an enterprising young squirrel or trade gossip with a passing barge captain or simply take a moment to stretch out underneath one of the many trees from whence The Willows took its name, watching the world go by through the delicate gossamer of its branches.

They had both walked down this road more times than they could count and yet today, shoulder-to-shoulder and amid the bountiful sunshine, it felt brand new.

I still simply can't believe it has taken us all this time to actually, finally meet, Mole. Can you? How can that be possible?

It was perplexing to Mole too. He did feel as if he had known Rat his whole life, while simultaneously acknowledging of course that this was not true. It was more as if his life had been marked by cameo appearances from Rat. Every year, as spring turned to summer, Rat would join the parade of vacationing animals traipsing into The Willows, hearts and minds set on a season of flitting about, of boat rides and lazy walks and evenings on the riverbanks, singing and dancing. Mole would catch a glimpse of her as she trailed her father on into the commercial docks on the odd occasion, looking to pick up some fresh fish to grill. Or he'd spot her at the grocery store, giggling with friends as they roamed through the aisles, selecting sweets for a party that evening. But every year, as summer faded and fall nosed its way in, Rat would vanish again and Mole would be left behind.

Her family had owned a house on the north side, a massive spread that still qualified as modest compared to some of the gargantuan beasts that surrounded it. In the spring, just before the weather turned, these houses would slowly be brought to life by animals like Mole's father. Those animals would trudge up The Run from their homes in the South End, headed north, just like Rat and Mole were at this very moment. They'd switch on the lights and shake out the linens and turn the taps to make sure the water still poured out. Mole's family lived in The Willows year-round, and his father cobbled together a living as a plumber, laying the pipe that pumped steaming water into the bathhouses of animals like Rat.

Up until very recently, Mole had only spoken to her once. It was several years ago, out at a particularly beautiful spot along The Run called Gloaming Glen, where everyone — the year-rounders and the summer visitors alike — would come on warm nights to have a bit of a picnic and revel in abandoning oneself to Nature. Mole had come with his friends. Rat had come with hers. And there was that moment — familiar to all species — when one group eyed the other and the other group eyed them right back and there was a shared feeling that they should all at least try to get into some trouble with one another.

Mole's pal Otter was the first to make official contact, striding up to a young chipmunk and rakishly extending a paw.

Hey there. I couldn't help but notice you looking at me.

Oh, was I?

I could be mistaken. But I don't think so. My name is Otter.

It was this way for Otter, an irrationally confident animal if ever there was one but one whose confidence always ended up justifying itself in the end. The groups slowly melted into one another and Mole found himself standing next to Rat, who turned and looked at him expectantly. Here was the moment Mole had dreamt of for years. Here was his chance to finally talk to the animal of his dreams.

I...uh...it's a —...it's a wonderful night we're having, isn't it?

Oh! Yes.

She had smiled winningly and paused for a moment, graciously giving Mole the chance to say something else, anything else. His mouth had flapped open, his eyes had darted to and fro. Something else! Anything else! Nope.

Okay.

And she was gone.

He's a good fellow, Toad is. Not everyone believes it but it's true. They think he's got it easy with all that wealth and that huge house of his — wait until you see it, it really is a monstrosity. But he's very lonely. He was even when his parents were still here. Now...even more so. But he's so good-natured, so affectionate. I think you'll really love him, Mole.

They had arrived at Rat's small dinghy just as Rat launched into her description of Toad, a description that was completely unnecessary since anyone within twenty miles of The Willows was well aware of Toad and his various exploits. What was necessary, or at least what Rat felt was incumbent upon her, was a defense of her old friend. She and Toad had practically grown up together in those summer months spent sprawled across their respective estates. And these were, after all, the earliest days of Mole and Rat's relationship. As much as Mole might have been nervous to present his hovel-like burrow to the worldly Rat, she too had fretted about perception, notably her friendship with the flamboyantly wealthy, wildly unpredictable, notorious, uproarious Toad.

The dinghy was a reflection of that anxiety. It was purposefully small and modest, designed for utility though, of course, also stunningly beautiful in its construction. Even Mole, who had never quite understood the idea of boating as anything more than a means of conveyance, certainly not a luxury pastime, could see that. Rat was never more at peace than when she was out on the water and the joy palpably radiated from her as she bounded down into the boat now and set about preparing for departure.

He's been abroad so I haven't seen him for months, only exchanged the occasional letter, you know. We all thought it might be best for Toadie to do a bit of traveling, get away from it all, considering what had happened.

Mole nodded and tottered in behind her, taking up a secure position at the stern of the boat. From there, he watched Rat go about her work, a grin slowly spreading over his face, despite his best efforts. He was still a bit shocked at how a humble mole like himself could now find himself sharing a boat with, of all animals, Rat.

There was a time when Mole thought he may never actually return to The Willows at all. Growing up amid the hardscrabble struggle of the South End, Mole had only a hazy notion of what life was like for animals like Rat and Toad. Sure, he had seen them and shared the land with them. But their world seemed impenetrable. Meanwhile, the world he did occupy seemed altogether untenable for someone such as himself. Mole had always been a quiet animal, content to spend his time buried in books or in quiet contemplation, pastimes that the South End rarely encouraged and, indeed, often found suspicious. The course that the neighborhood prescribed for its residents was quite a bit rougher, and so Mole had left The Willows in search of a new course, packing his bags and bidding goodbye to his crestfallen parents. They had hoped Mole would take up the family plumbing business. But it was not to be.

He had been gone for four years. He had first tried school but institutionalized academics didn't suit Mole well. Learning was a means to freedom in his mind and what he found at the college he attended was far from freedom. So Mole had tried wandering for a bit, reading dog-eared paperbacks and living out of a backpack. But he was just as poor at that. Wandering required a kind of bravado that Mole never had. For every proudly-won negotiation with a rug-selling snake of indeterminate origins, there were countless embarrassing, painful and uncomfortable episodes in which the hesitant and nervous Mole either failed to assert himself or asserted himself in all the wrong ways and so his adventures were usually truncated and, with a few exceptions, largely unsatisfying.

Mole had had to consider the possibility that, despite his occasional thirst for wayfaring, he ultimately belonged in The Willows. Of course, the moment he set foot back home, he could feel his father's peculiar brand of gratified disappointment practically radiating out of him. His predictions, after all, had come true. Mole had come crawling back, washed up, unable to cut it out there, not nearly as smart as he thought he was. At least, that's what Mole told himself as he scuffed his way down The Run on the painfully long afternoons that followed, muttering to himself in his father's voice.

In truth, it had always been quite difficult for Mole to discern exactly what his father was thinking. Like most South Enders, Mole's family had lived in The Willows for generations. These were folk as stoic and sturdy as the trees, and as consistent and dependable as the running waters of The River; the folk that had first built this community up out of nothing. They expected no more than what they earned and they knew that to earn anything meant hard work. So they put their noses down and did just that; they worked. The defining image Mole had of his father was of the animal silently hunched over some bit of plumbing, his mouth set in seriousness, just the faintest traces of weariness creeping in around the edges of his eyes, where the skin crinkled every so slightly.

Upon his return, Mole tried to tell himself that he was simply settling into his next chapter. That's what his mother had told him anyway. In the tradition of mothers everywhere, she had simply been happy to have him nearby once again. But when his father pronounced that if Mole were going to live at home, he would need to pay rent, Mole responded by saying thank you very much but no thank you. He reasoned that if he was going to have to pay rent, he might as well have a little privacy.

So he set about determining where exactly amid the rabbits and stoats and raccoons, among the red maples and the purple loosestrife and the azure delphinium, he might find his place now. This is what had brought him to Wild Wood, a developing neighborhood where a new breed of Willow artisans was making their home and establishing a class separate from the moneyed North End blue bloods and the blue-collar working animals of the South.

He also managed to find gainful employment repairing the books for Beaver down at the mill. The old codger had been running the place practically single-handedly for years and his finances had long ago slipped into utter chaos. Mole had a mind for order and systems of organization though and he set to it determinedly, busying himself among the reams of paper, losing himself amid the spiraling columns of numbers, hoping perhaps that the answers he sought — answers to the question of what exactly he was supposed to be doing with himself — might be found there.

In the evenings, Mole sought answers elsewhere. He reconnected with Otter, who had his own fishing boat and was making a nice living for himself. It was just enough money, in fact, for him to comfortably blow it all night after night on parties at the tattered and charming retreat Otter called home. There, Mole, who might not have carried himself like a South Ender but carried within him the soul of one nonetheless, would wile away the nights, tipping back big bottles of the local spirit of choice, Red Willow Juice, and laughing at old stories from the neighborhood.

It was not uncommon then for some of the summer visitors to wander into Otter's, eyes wide and shoulders set back, still not entirely sure if they should be there or not. He was, as ever, a voluble presence on the docks, prone to inviting anyone over to his place, especially the attractive and rich female animals of the North End.

We'll tip a few back. Listen to some tunes. Maybe we'll pop a few oysters on the barbecue. Come on! he'd say, and just like that, his humble abode would be filled with a glorious mixture of everything The Willows had to offer, the wildest of wild hogs bumping up against the most prim of foxes, everyone dancing and drinking and howling up at the moon together. In those moments, quiet and contemplative Mole would abandon himself to the frenzy unfolding around him, a joyous and almost surprised smile spread across his face.

It was at a moment like this and precisely because of that oddly happy look on his face that Rat was first drawn to Mole. She had been dragged to the party by a friend who'd been taken in by Otter's bold entreaties and the promise of a potent Willow Juice mixture. Rat had been hesitant. Not that she didn't enjoy a good blow-out and she'd heard enough about Otter to know this would be a good one. But she too had recently felt herself drifting a bit, unsure of where to drop anchor. Nevertheless, she'd allowed herself to believe that the party might be a good distraction. And there she saw Mole, who looked as adrift as she felt and yet also appeared to be reveling in it, basking in it, enjoying it.

What's your secret? she practically yelled into his ear.

Later on, Mole would come to regard it as fate and a sign from the powers above that in this moment, a moment where he might expect himself to stumble and flail and rain flop sweat down upon the poor and unsuspecting Rat just as he had years before; Mole was instead seized with the inspiration of what he thought was a pretty darn smooth reply.

I've never been much of a fan of secrets. He smiled, paused for the briefest of beats, and extended a hand. My name is Mole. What's your name?

They had been out on the water for half an hour now, with Rat doing most of the talking. She was in the midst of an entertaining but rather long-winded story about her father. Mole would hear it again, many times, told in many settings, before all was said and done. Rat was the first to admit that she dwelled on the memory of her father, who had passed away a few years ago from an untimely heart attack. He had been a banker of some kind. Mole was unsure of which kind and he got the impression Rat scarcely knew herself. Her memories and evocations of him were much more childlike in their perspective, that of a gruff and towering but also loving figure, guiding her hand on the tiller of the boat, sweeping her up on to her shoulders so she could see above the crowd at the annual Lily Fair, holding her close when she had bad dreams.

This particular yarn involved her father's participation in a local, amateur regatta. Rat's father had been an expert boatsman and many among the gathered expected him to compete for the top prize. And indeed, he was right in the thick of it up until the final stretch, when a misguided tack and a submerged rock sank the boat in shallow water and seemingly ended the sailor's day. But the animal, so close to the very end, was having none of it and decided to swim for the finish line. He finished far behind the pack but he did finish. Rat laughed now, remarking that her father must have known then what a fantastic ending to the story his swimming for it would make. He was like that, always keenly aware of the impression he had.

Mole had wondered about the effect of Toad's parents' death a year before on Rat. She had been close to them and, coupled with her own father's death before that, this would seem to naturally impact any animal. And Mole could feel the strain in Rat's joviality at times, even today. There was a weariness there. At that moment, she let the natural quiet of The River envelop them and with it came a sadness that no one could avoid.

The death of Toad's parents had, of course, been sensational news. Toad's father had been much respected, possessing of a purposeful dignity and a care for the community that previous toad patriarchs were well known to have lacked. For her part, Toad's mother had spent her days wrapped up in the intricacies of social niceties, from which she took genuine satisfaction. She seemed to regard Toad however as no more than a curiosity, one worth trotting out when the occasion called for it but otherwise fairly useless.

Toad's father, forever fearful of the effect that money might have on his progeny, was more headmaster to Toad, watchful of the young Toad's academic work and moral upbringing but wholly unconcerned with any degree of intimacy or affection. He was an inveterate workaholic, one of several compulsions that he managed to keep hidden behind his office door, and this might explain how he could have missed the fact that, despite his best efforts, money had indeed had quite an effect on Toad.

This is how Toad grew up. And then, one day, on a trip to visit some of his mother's family, their train car derailed. And his parents were gone.

Just then, coming into view from around the corner, sprang Toad Hall. Mole had, of course, taken in this sight before and he was familiar with all the beats of the spectacle. There was the sudden clang of the emerald green lawn that fronted The River, the way its gaudiness made one's eyes pop, conditioned as they were to the muted, golden browns of The Willows. Your eyes searched for some purchase and eventually found it at the top of that emerald hill, where a stately row of fir trees stood sentry, dark but not altogether intimidating. They boosted the eye even further up, encouraging you to catch that glimpse of Toad Hall's uppermost points, the spire of a chimney, perhaps a rooftop deck of some kind. And of course the balcony and great glass doors of the master bedroom, where generations of toads had stood and gazed down upon the land they'd built.

From amid the fir trees and down the lawn now bounded the latest in that long line of toad progeny. He was dressed in an outrageous spoof of himself — a red satin smoking jacket over a designer, pink-and-black flower-print t-shirt, fitted sweatpants, no shoes.

Hooray! This is splendid!

Toadie!

Ratty! My love! My darling! My one-and-only.

The dextrous Rat tied up the dinghy and swung up on to Toad's private dock all in one motion. She and Toad hugged each other, their upper bodies swaying in sync with one another as they yelped and cheered.

Oh, it's good to see you.

It's so good to see you too! How was it?

Fantastic. Life altering, Ratty, really. I must tell you all about it.

You must.

The adventures I've had, the way it's opened my eyes! I mean, my God!

That's fantastic. Truly. Now, Toad —

Yes.

I want you to meet Mole.

Yes! Of course! There he is! The famous Mole!

Mole had remained in the boat, nervous to interrupt this merry reunion. He had momentarily pondered the question of whether or not he should feel threatened. Rat had assured him before that she would only ever be friends with Toad; that, in fact, Toad had never really been romantically involved with anyone. He craved friendship but seemed to have little interest in intimacy, she had said with a trace of wonder in her voice. Watching the two of them hop about happily, Mole put the question out of his mind. Their relationship was clearly that of siblings, bound together by a cosmic force. They had not found each other, had not sought each other out. They had been there for each other from the very beginning.

Toad, stop it!

What?

I told you not to tease me like that.

Fine. But it's true. You sound eerily like her.

Ugh. God.

Mole, have you yet had the pleasure of meeting Rat's mum?

No, I haven’t.

Toad giggled. It was a laugh that would become very familiar to Mole, a little too familiar for Mole's taste actually. It was practically a weapon for Toad, a means to disarm even the most sober of animals, a musical honking so carefree that it seemed both insolent and harmonious at the same time. Toad meant to celebrate life and he meant to invite you to join him. But that celebration would be on his terms and he would let you know it was so by sounding these discordant bells.

Oh you'll have to let me know how that goes. And you thought I was going to be hard.

But you won't be, will you, you old Toadie?

Of course not. I can already tell I'll like Mole. He seems very amused by me.

This was true. At this moment, Mole was very amused indeed. Trailing the other two as they walked up the manicured path that led from the dock to Toad Hall, he felt rather as if he were floating. Luridly colored and outrageously large flowers beamed down at him from all sides, their perfumed warmth filling him with airy, giddy anticipation. Mole tried to peak over the shrubbery and get his bearings but all he could see were more bushes, more flowers, more lawns. This was more than he had ever imagined and he had spent some time indeed imagining the details of Toad Hall.

So what are we to do today?

Well, for one, you've got to give Mole the tour.

You've never been here before, Mole?

Hmm? No.

No? My goodness. Well then.

As if on cue, they came out from the gardens and were met by the sight of Toad Hall, fully revealed now. Toad bowed and swept his arm out.

Welcome to my home.

Toad Hall lay neat and square and solid at the top of a small rise; a three-story, marvelously gabled mansion of red brick, built in the Tudor-style of the day, with rows and rows of windows that welcomed in the river light while, in return, offering only the slightest peek at the splendors that lay inside. It was designed in the style of a country home for lords and ladies and it had an accompanying, dignified and imposing sense of peace. It was in the way its considerable bulk rested on the land, thought Mole; the way it seemed to welcome your eyes to it and then insist you come no further.

As they drew closer though, with Rat and Toad again lost in chatter, Mole could see the renovations that Toad Hall had been subject to, additions and subtractions that, upon inspection, gave the property a kind of ramshackle, confused air. That balcony attached to the master bedroom truly had been attached, and poorly, it seemed. Whole sections of the mansion appeared tacked on, with no consideration paid to any aesthetic integrity.  Garish facades had been fastened to the windows and the property was littered with evidence of one fancy or another: an odd bit of topiary or some frightening attempt at modern sculpture. There was even some kind of strange, futuristic shed tucked into a back corner of the property that Mole would later learn was a new kind of hothouse. There, Toad had passingly experimented with an interest in botany.

It was fitting, of course, since the entire history of Toad's family in The Willows was about bending the land to their needs. They had quite literally done just that, not long after Toad's great-grandfather first stepped foot in The Willows. Everyone knew him as The Commodore, though whether or not he had ever served in the military was a matter of great dispute. But there was a swagger about that animal, one way or the other. It befit the name and so The Commodore had stuck. It was The Commodore who had first made the family's fortune as a real estate developer, using that single-minded swagger of his to convince locals to buy into the big dreams he spun — luxury developments, commercial hubs, resort living. The Willows was perhaps his finest achievement.

This part of The Willows was undeveloped scrub brush then, too far from the existing river to be of any real use to anyone. But standing amid the brush, posed like some kind of conquering hero, The Commodore saw the potential. He didn't need to get near The River. All he needed to do was bring The River to him. The Commodore, like any animal, had been struck by the magic and majesty of The River. He was enraptured by it and so he desired nothing more than to control it. 

He had been behind the damming of The River, a massive project that altered its course and stretched its length, creating entirely new riverfront property. The River flowed slower now too, allowing for leisure activities like the recreational boating Rat had enjoyed as a youth. It was a smash success, at least for the newly minted North End, and Toad Hall was built soon after, establishing a benchmark for the sprawling mansions of The Willows and announcing the area as a premium vacation destination.

Through the hall's great front doors now strode the current master of the house, followed by Rat and Mole. Toad moved them through a voluminous entryway and towards a salon off to one side. That room was dominated by its great stone fireplace and the portrait that hung over it. It was the Commodore himself, posed as he surely had been on that first day in the scrub brush. His chin was tilted up, his eyes gleaming. A hand rested on his hip, which was thrust out jauntily, while his other arm and hand were extended, pointing off into the distance and to some faraway vision of a resplendent future. Toad saw Mole gazing up at it.

Yeah, that's the old lily pad himself, he said. The Commodore, Toad intoned in a deep baritone, his voice dripping with mock gravitas. And like that, he was on to the next subject, imploring both Mole and Rat to inspect a surfboard he had just bought. Rat gently reminded Toad that there were no waves to be found anywhere near The Willows.

It's not for actual surfing, Silly. It's a piece of art! Oh! Look! I also got this.

He was now brandishing a long and terribly sharp-looking sword, holding it in front of his face and then waggling it back and forth.

I won't tell you how expensive this was. It's authentic, an actual museum piece so it's worth every penny. Here, let me show you where I want to put it.

He was moving again now, the sword leading the way. They toured the whole house like this; as if Toad were some kind of ancient explorer, off to discover hitherto unknown lands buried deep within Toad Hall. His mouth moved a mile a minute as he darted between rooms and topics. One moment, he was delivering a history lesson on the engineering innovations required to hoist a grand piano through a third story window. The next, he was miles down the road of a tangent, entertaining his two guests with a ribald anecdote about the secrets hidden in the servants quarters.

I'm told they used to call that closet to the left ‘the nursery,’ because so many illicit pregnancies were conceived back in there. There was a gardener - Ferret, I believe he was. Nanny says he knocked up half the cleaning staff during our dinner parties. Can you even imagine? Father and Mother off with their suck-up retinues in the dining room, toasting to each other with pink champagne. And down here, Ferret rogering the maid behind closed doors!

Toad giggled again, the peals of laughter echoing off the room's stone walls.

I used to spend hours here. We both did, Rat, you remember? I shudder to think of the things we were witness to that we've now repressed. No wonder I'm such a mess!

The house, for all the eccentricities that this family had introduced, was still truly a marvel. Its dining room came with a banquet table for thirty and a