Twenty Two

The hares had unloaded the baskets when Plato and George got to Penny Clearing. Plato gestured to them and in the next instant the ambulance cart zoomed out of sight leaving clouds of dust behind.

Plato took a few steps forward and looked around. Something was wrong. Huge numbers of wood flies were walking away from Penny Clearing. Plato stopped a mother who was carrying two little children on her back, and asked her. “What’s happened? Where are you going?”

“Penny Clearing isn’t ours any longer,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “When our men were fighting in Blossom Valley, a swarm of ferocious horse flies marched in. We were mostly females, children and the elderly. We couldn’t defend ourselves. They terrorised us, stinging us, sucking our blood, chewing our wings. Most of us can only walk now. We lived through some horrific hours. We were forced to empty all our hollows.”

“Where are you going now?” asked Plato.

She shrugged her shoulders and more tears rolled down her face. “We don’t know,” she sobbed. “We’re seeking refuge. We’ll keep walking until we find one.”

Plato spotted Wilfred sitting by the old oak tree, his head buried in his hands.

“Wilfred,” he called, “we heard what happened. Aren’t you going with your people?”

“No, I’m not. I’ve been the leader of my people for many long years and we’ve been happy in our old oak tree. I shall die here, Plato.”

“Who are the horse flies, Wilfred? Where did they come from?” Plato asked.

“Horse flies,” Wilfred replied, “are bigger than us and vicious. The females bite humans, animals and all sorts of other creatures, to get protein for bigger and healthier clusters of eggs. They lived in a cattle and horse farm some distance from here. The farmer must have sprayed the air with some kind of chemical to get rid of them and they fled here. It breaks my heart to see my people wandering like refugees to find a place to live.”

“All is not lost,” said Plato, patting Wilfred on the shoulder. “Where there’s life there’s always hope. Now, shake yourself, put some life back into your face and come with me. You must see what we have brought.”

Wilfred looked puzzled. “What could you have brought us?” he said with a sigh.

Plato touched the green basket and spoke. “Here are your wounded men whom Tawny Owl our nurse has treated and brought back to life.” He opened the green lid and out poured the wood flies, running in all directions and hiding in the grass. “And here” - he touched the brown basket - “is where we gathered your dead, a total waste of life because you fell for the grasshopper’s atrocious scheme. Thelma has never refused kindly creatures to live in the valley and never has she spoken cruelly or insulted anyone. I would have expected better from you, Wilfred, for you’ve known the grasshopper’s devious nature and you shouldn’t have trusted him. You should have stopped Hugo.”

“It was taken out of my hands, Plato. Our people backed him. They voted for his plan.”

“You should have put your foot down and stopped him. You had the power as senior head.”

“He got rid of me cause I was objecting to his plans. He threw me in the old people’s hollow, Plato, my own son!”

Plato shook his head. Then he looked Wilfred straight in the eye and spoke in an earnest voice. “We have returned the injured wood flies, and honoured your dead. Now we want to take Thelma back to Blossom Valley.”

Wilfred’s jaw dropped and his voice trembled. A chilling thought seized Plato’s mind.

“Hugo brought Thelma in and left her on the ground.”

“She’s all yours,” he shouted in a loathsome voice.

I stared at him. I didn’t recognise my own son. There was such fury and hatred in his eyes, I had never seen before.

“Does the body of this spider weigh as much as the bodies of our men that died?” I asked him. He shot me a hateful glare and fled. Good job too! Hugo is dead as far as I’m concerned. I thought Thelma had passed out. I kept talking to her, poking her gently on her sides, but got no response. Her body had gone cold and rigid. She was dead.”

Plato gulped with shock. George let out a throaty caw and his mouth stayed open.

“Me and a few females, took her to the yew trees, not far from here. There’s a thick cluster of forest daisies and we laid her down there. We covered her with leaves and twigs to keep her body safe from wild creatures, for I knew you’d come for her. I am very sorry, Plato.”

The two birds turned their backs and rushed out. They searched under the twigs, parted the stems of the daisies and looked farther out, but Thelma’s body wasn’t to be found. Sadness clouded their faces.

“Some wild creature has already made a meal of her,” George whispered and broke out in tears. “But how do we know that she wasn’t beaten to death here?”

“If Wilfred says she was dead when they brought her here, that’s how it was. Wilfred doesn’t lie,” said Plato.

“Then it was Hugo and his men who...” George choked. “But Thelma was bold and strong, she wouldn’t have given up without a fight.”

“It depends how hard Hugo and his men came down on her, George.”

“Did they beat her hard? Did she suffer pain?”

“Your questions cannot be answered, George. Not that it matters now.” Plato said blinking back tears. “Thelma is dead!”

Both Plato and George, numbed by shock and grief, sat speechless, staring at the empty space. Then Plato shook himself up. “Let’s go and tell them, George,” he cried.

***

The valley grew still, wrapped in a shroud of grief and sorrow at the grave news. There was no movement, no stirring across the valley, until the third day when the burial of the dead birds was to take place.

The squirrels and rabbits dug the grave by the honeysuckle and all the bodies were laid in rows side by side. Every creature threw flowers over them and the grave was covered. Afterwards, Plato walked solemnly to the grave and placed a wreath made with glossy ivy and flaming red poppies. Everyone stood still and tearful for a minute’s silence, and then they joined the ant choir in a sad farewell song accompanied by Prince Orpheo’s flute.

Plato walked to the front of the gathered creatures and, looking straight across at the butterflies, spoke. “I promised to bring Thelma home alive but sadly, when George, and I got to Penny Clearing, we were told that Thelma was dead when she was taken there. We weren’t able to bring her body home, for we didn’t find it at the place where Wilfred had laid it nor anywhere else, we searched. So now we shall hold a service in memory of Thelma, the shrewd, but kind and caring, head of the creatures’ community of Blossom Valley.”

Just then, the cuckoo wheeled lazily over the assembled creatures, perched on the silver birch and started his song. “Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. “ He paused for breath, then on and on he sang.

“He’s never stayed here this long,” a blackbird remarked, “and his singing isn’t his usual formal sort. It’s more joyful. Why isn’t he leaving? Is he waiting for something? Or somebody, a fellow cuckoo perhaps?”

While the cuckoo was still cuckooing, Swift flew into the valley, circled above the trees and announced. “Thelma is on her way home. She stressed that no one is to go out to meet her, and no fuss about her return is to be made.” Then Swift flew off and the cuckoo followed.

It took the creatures sometime to switch from grief to jubilation, but when gradually the unexpected sank in, they screamed and jumped and danced and cried with joy.