Lives of the Fur Folk Part 8

ZOE

The day on which the first swallow came was marked with white in Grimalkin's calendar. He was looking for chaffinches' nests in the big whitethorn hedge at the back of Ballymore Rectory, when he suddenly spied a rat. The rat was sitting up eating a snail, and every now and then it cast a beady glance around; but Grimalkin slid through the gra.s.s like a snake, and it did not see him. He had cramped his limbs together for a spring when all at once something fell like a miniature thunderbolt from a neighbouring crab-tree, and alighted just six inches behind the rat, who dropped his supper and vanished in a twinkling.

Grimalkin was astonished. It was a cat--but what a cat! She was small, but such was the length of her fur that she appeared much larger than she really was. She had a foam-white vest and socks, but the rest of her coat was deep mouse colour, and a wide ruffle stood out on either side of her face. Had it been a tom-cat who had leaped at his game, Grimalkin's paw would speedily have buffeted his ears. As it was, he crept forward humbly and tried to attract her attention. Zoe's back gradually rose to a semicircle, and when he touched her she struck him smartly across the face. Certainly love can work miracles, or else Grimalkin, King-Cat of Knockdane, would never have suffered such a blow quietly; but as it was he only pa.s.sed his tongue deprecatingly over his whiskers. Zoe eyed him to see whether he took his punishment with due humility, and then sat down to wipe her ears with her fluffy white paw. Presently Grimalkin rolled over on to his back, rubbing his tabby ears. A deep rumbling purr vibrated his throat: 'Prr-r-eaow!'

cried Grimalkin, with that subtle inflection which cats understand to mean: 'You are altogether desirable.' Zoe crept forward, and Grimalkin, rearing up his tabby length, rubbed his whiskers vigorously against her cheek. She too began to purr, but very softly and evenly; and by and by when she trotted away, she glanced back to intimate to him that he might follow if he wished.

After that they often met. Zoe was the cherished pet of the Rectory, and was consequently shut up every night; nevertheless she often eluded her mistress and stole down the whitethorn hedge where Grimalkin caught c.o.c.kchafers--a trick learned from the blackbeetles of his kitchen days. At first she was reluctant to remain out for long together. After a little excursion she would pause and turn back.

Instantly Grimalkin would be at her side imploring her with all feline caresses to accompany him. He could not understand the ties of custom which bound her to her human friends. He had broken them long ago when a kitten, and was now as truly wild as any of the Fur Folk in Knockdane. But Zoe and her parents before her had lived by the fireside and eaten men's food, and it was more difficult for them to hear the call of the woods.

Once for three days she stayed at home; but on the third evening she looked down the field, and saw Grimalkin waiting. A little cry rose in her throat; she dropped out of the window and ran to him.

They hunted together until the long sunbeams were cut off by the hill, and the dew began to fall. A score of blackbirds piped in Knockdane, and a corncrake rasped in the meadow. The darkness fell, and the night peoples--the badgers, bats, and owls--came out. When the night was half gone, Zoe's instinct to return to her human friends awoke, but she was tired, and Grimalkin's presence was very dear to her. She felt drawn two ways. Instinct bade her remain in the woods; custom, parent of instinct, commanded her to return home. The shadows under the oak trees were full of the mysterious sights and sounds of the night. A skylark on the hill believed that he saw the false dawn, and rose singing to meet it; and a cuckoo in the valley awoke and fluted drowsily. Out in the woods the ways of men seem very small and far away. Grimalkin looked round. 'Prr-r-eaow!' he cried, which being interpreted is: 'O my love, the desirable one'; and the cuckoo's voice mingled with the murmur of the river. Zoe's doubts fled. She forgot her former life, and all the kindness which she had always received from man. Grimalkin was calling and her heart went out to him--Knockdane was calling and she obeyed it. She followed her mate to his lair.

At the beginning of July Zoe left Grimalkin altogether. Now and then he caught a glimpse of her, but she always fled from him as though he had been some dangerous thing, and for many nights he hunted alone.

Years before, a south-westerly gale had driven in from the Atlantic, and ploughed a deep furrow through the fir grove at the top of Knockdane, piling the snapped trunks on one another. n.o.body moved them, and they lay there in rotting heaps; but their fall let in the suns.h.i.+ne and rain to the earth, and the next summer a mult.i.tude of plants grew up where previously had been nothing but gloomy firs.

Briars ran riot over the decaying branches, gra.s.s grew rank and long, and alders pushed a way to the air and light. These were woven into a jungle so dense that only the rabbits thoroughly knew their way about in it; but the foxes and cats followed their runways and often hunted them on their own ground.

Early one morning Grimalkin went to the 'Jungle.' No dew had fallen for many days, and the sun rose up a cloudless sky. Grimalkin glided down a rabbit track, and so into a little clearing surrounded by walls of thorn and wild rose. Here lay a tree trunk which had been uprooted by the storm. Under its roots was a little cavern half hidden by ivy and broken branches. Grimalkin jumped upon the trunk, and squatted down to watch for rabbits and enjoy the morning suns.h.i.+ne. Presently a bough snapped behind him, and he turned his head very slightly. His muscles were tense to spring, when a soft voice of infinite motherliness thrilled him. 'Purr-r-utchuck!' it said, which in cat language means: 'Thy mother loves thee, little love!' Trotting towards the tree came Zoe. She was thin and her coat looked rough, but her eyes had a tender glow. Grimalkin watched her glide into the lair under the ivy, and then he leaped after her. Carefully concealed from curious eyes was a little chamber lined with gra.s.s bents. On the ground squeaked and squirmed a heap of grey and white fur, and encircling it proudly with her body lay Zoe. She purred softly to her brood, and licked the tiny round heads thrust forward so eagerly for a meal. She never noticed Grimalkin until his shadow darkened the doorway, and then she sprang up--a very fierce mother--with back arched. In the woods motherhood for a time swamps all other feelings; and Zoe now looked upon her former lover as she would have done upon any other creature who threatened her kittens.

However, Grimalkin had no evil intentions. He thrust his head into the nursery and touched Zoe's whiskers; and, although her claws were drawn back to strike, she suffered the caress. One of the kittens, mewing plaintively, crawled to Grimalkin, and thrust its minute pink nose into his side. Grimalkin stood frozen with horror for a moment, glaring at his son, then with a hiss of indignation he leaped into the bushes and fled. Henceforth he avoided the old fir tree, although he often met Zoe elsewhere.

That summer was long remembered in the countryside as 'The year of the great drought.' No dew or rain fell, and the whole land leaped and quivered in the heat all day long. The pools and brooks dwindled, leaving cracked patches of mud to show where they had been. Brooding birds upon the nest gaped with thirst, but dared not leave their eggs to seek the distant river. For the Fur Folk in Knockdane there was only one little trickle of tepid water left; and all day long it was crowded with thirsty birds who struggled with one another for room to drink and bathe. It was hard work for Zoe in these days, for she had to hunt for five besides herself. She grew very thin; but as the kittens throve she did not spare herself, for that is the way of mothers, human and furred.

One blazing noon she left her family for a little while, and was sitting with Grimalkin in a hawthorn some little way from the 'Jungle.' Their attention was attracted by the thud of footsteps, and they saw Paddy Magragh the earthstopper. He had paused to draw his pipe from his pocket and light it. The cats watched intently lest he should discover them, but he threw away the match and pa.s.sed on.

By and by Grimalkin looked down the path and saw what looked like a row of orange crocus flowers, which grew up in a moment and died down, leaving the ground black behind them. The cats came down from the tree, and at the first whiff of the burnt gra.s.s Zoe's back rose. She knew that smell better than did Grimalkin, for she was more accustomed to the ways of men, and had sat by the fireside; but there the flames had been caged behind iron bars--here in the free woods they had it all their own way. Grimalkin growled, and then, stealthily, as though he had sighted a rabbit snare, he slipped into the bushes and glided away. Zoe stood there longer, for although she hated and feared the fire, yet it was less strange to her than to her mate.

The flames crept along until they came to a large tuft of gra.s.s, as dry as tinder. There was a sudden flare and the gra.s.s was gone; but the topmost tongue licked a bramble bush, and in an instant it was in a blaze. At night a fire puts on a certain majesty with which to cloak its terrors; but by day it has nothing to redeem its native fierceness. The brushwood was parched with the drought and the flames roared up the dry stems.

Did some kind angel stoop and whisper a word of warning to Zoe? She suddenly turned and ran to the 'Jungle,' which was not very far away.

The kittens were hungry and begged a meal, but she disregarded them, and, picking up the youngest, set off at a steady pace across Knockdane. The woods were quite silent but for the song of the birds.

Close to the nursery an old blackbird was feeding a brood of fledglings, and a hedgehog nosed along the path. Above the tree tops a faint smoke rose, quivering in the suns.h.i.+ne.

Zoe trotted away with her head up, carrying the kitten very carefully lest her teeth should lacerate its tender skin. She crossed Knockdane and sought the open country, for she mistrusted every tree and thicket since she knew what she had left in the woods behind. She found an empty rabbit hole, laid the kitten inside, and cantered back to Knockdane; but it was more than half a mile away, and by the time she reached it, little white ashes were floating over the 'Jungle' like snowflakes, and the fire was singing merrily to itself. Nevertheless a wide path separated it from where the kittens lay, and so far the danger did not seem so very pressing.

Zoe picked up a second youngster and carried it off. As she set her face towards Knockdane for the second time she saw that a thick smoke was rolling up and reddening the sun. The country lay still in the heat haze. As yet no one seemed to have noticed anything unusual on the hill, for the valley was spa.r.s.ely populated, and most people were enjoying a siesta. When Zoe reached the 'Jungle' she saw a frightened rabbit scudding away. The fire was raging in the saplings near and licking away the brushwood with a fierce hiss. A charred s.p.a.ce, littered with red embers, lay in a circle of fire which was encroaching ever further and further into the wood. The laurels crackled as the heat changed them to molten gold and ruby before dropping them into the flames. There was no time to be lost. Already blazing fragments were dropping from the tree into the dead gra.s.s at the edge of the 'Jungle,' and the brushwood burned like tinder when kindled.

Zoe took up her third kitten, and this time she ran faster than before. The old blackbird was croaking to her brood, beseeching them to use their wings to escape, but they only gaped foolishly for more worms. The hedgehog was waddling through the gra.s.s as fast as his short legs would permit. Zoe easily overtook and pa.s.sed him, but the kittens were heavy and the day very hot. The sun came through the leaves, and cast chequered patterns on the path. The woods were very still, but for the rush and crackle of the fire.

For the third time Zoe toiled back up the hill. The air seemed hotter and heavier than ever, and smoke hung among the trees. Suddenly she came upon the vanguard of the fire. It had leaped the path and was creeping into the 'Jungle' with a roar. Alder, fir branch, and briar in turn flared up and fell before it, and the yellow flames streamed skywards, dissolving into sparks and smoke. Behind lay utter desolation. The charred tree-trunks stood up among the surrounding blackness, and the leaves which the fire could not reach hung blistered from their twigs. The fire was not two hundred yards away from the fir tree. It was to be a race--Zoe against the flames; but the former had a mile to travel, and a kitten to carry into the bargain.

Her eyes smarted from the smoke and she was dizzy with fatigue, but she gallantly took up her fourth baby, and ran for its life. She caught a glimpse of some men hastening up the hill, but did not heed them. She laid her kitten with the rest of the litter, and made the best of her way back to Knockdane.

The 'Jungle' was crowned with flames. Everything was thickly peppered with ashes and the sun shone luridly through the smoke. For a moment Zoe was utterly at a loss--then she limped up the accustomed path towards the fir tree. Once or twice she trod on a burning cinder, and the heat made her whiskers shrivel; but she kept on bravely for the sake of the baby in the pine-tree nursery.

She darted to the nest. There was just half a minute to spare before the fire would sweep up to the tree. The earth was burning hot, and already the ivy leaves were blistering. She plunged into the hole and groped desperately for her treasure. The moments flew by--she could not find it. Her eyes were accustomed to see in the gloom, but this darkness was impenetrable. Ah! at last she touched the mewing kitten, and gripping it turned to fly. Outside she shrank back, for she was met by a veritable wall of flame. The fir tree was surrounded by fire, for the gra.s.s was blazing, and the bushes were kindling in every direction. There was only one place through which escape could be made--where the burning zone was narrowest. Zoe gripped the kitten tighter, laid back her ears, closed her eyes, and leaped. For one fierce moment the fire actually licked her body, and then she dropped safely on the ashes beyond. Her whiskers were gone, her beautiful ruffle had shrivelled away, her coat was black with ashes; but the kitten for whom she had dared so much was safe. She crawled wearily away, dragging it after her, while the fire leaped and danced round the old fir tree.

At sunset, as Grimalkin prowled through the fields at the back of the church (for he avoided the woods while that mysterious bright power hunted there) he saw Zoe, again carrying a singed kitten. In the hour of danger old ties had rea.s.serted themselves. She was going back to man, for with all his ignorance he had treated her better than the wild had done, and already four of the kittens lay in the Rectory hayloft.

She put up her back when she saw Grimalkin, but he made no attempt to stop her, and only trotted behind with a puzzled air. They came to the gate of the Rectory yard, and Zoe crawled underneath; but Grimalkin heard the scorched woods calling to him, and he could not follow, for he hated the abodes of men. 'Meaow!' he cried, but Zoe took no notice.

At that moment a girl came into the yard, and stopped short in surprise: 'Why, Zoe, my pet!' she cried joyfully. Zoe, trained in caution by weeks of woodland life, climbed into the hayloft. The girl knew better than to follow her there, but presently she came back bearing a saucer of milk for the parched throat, and laid it down outside. Grimalkin turned and crept away.

That night the drought broke, and a thunderstorm burst over Knockdane.

The rain poured in torrents and doused out the fire completely. But for many months there was a wide black clearing where the 'Jungle' had been; and a charred log in the middle was all that was left of Zoe's nursery.

CHAPTER V

WHERE THE BATTLE IS TO THE STRONG

In March the nights are long and winds are cold; food is scarce, yet hunters must live.

Grimalkin pa.s.sed down the palings at the woodside, and stole on noiseless feet among the gra.s.s-tufts under the stormy dawn.

Four summers have pa.s.sed over Grimalkin's head since we saw him last; four years of uninterrupted supremacy in the woods. His own kind feared him; the lesser Fur Folk fled from him; the gamekeeper hated him. He was the patriarch of his race, a Prince among his people. But these four years, while raising Grimalkin to the height of his fame, had taken their toll. His coat already showed a suspicion of grey along the spine and jowl; his eyes were keen as ever, but many kills had blunted the mighty claws and teeth; and his whiskers had fallen in. Nevertheless the Spring Longing danced as gladsomely in his blood as when he had been a kitten.

March mornings are stormy. The wind woke at daybreak and sighed up the valley. The trees of Knockdane swept a stately arpeggio in answer as the steely south-easter roared louder through the organ pipe of the woods, and bent the ta.s.selled larch on which the storm-c.o.c.k chanted to the celandines.

The sunrise was pale and watery, fitful gusts shook the bushes.

Grimalkin's thoughts ran on rabbits--the rabbits always come out on the Long Bank first of all. He squatted under a briar brake, tucked his paws away cosily before him, and watched.

A rustle among the brambles, a stir on the dead leaves. Grimalkin's muscles stiffened, and his whiskers twitched. He crouched flat, then slid forward sinuously, paw after paw. Never yet had he failed in his spring on a March rabbit. His eye dilated and his muscles swelled with the thought of victory. Then came the rub. The quarry, nervously nibbling at the open gra.s.s, was outside striking distance. A young cat might have risked a spring and failure. Grimalkin was too old a hunter, and sat down to wait.

Again the gra.s.ses stirred, and green eyes, keen and deadly, were framed in the waving stems. The hunter knew them well. A reproduction of his own, they belonged to his great-grandson, a worthy whose well-groomed face betrayed all feline vices.

The newcomer licked his lips, his face took a smug complacent expression. He also scrutinised the rabbit--he also would wait. If there should be a battle, well and good--let the strongest win.

Grimalkin made no sign save that he bared his teeth in a silent snarl of concentrated hate; but hot anger boiled within him, for it is one of the laws of the Fur Folk, that if one beast hunts the quarry of another of the same kind, the latter may kill him if he will. But never before had another cat dared to stalk Grimalkin's game, or beard him to his face. It was intolerable, and he half turned, and in so doing betrayed himself. The rabbit is the wariest of Wood Folk. If he were not so he would have died out centuries ago. He sat up with alert ears, and lilted suspiciously to a distance. The hunters saw that their game had disappointed them, but they scarcely heeded it. They watched one another for a minute with slowly undulating tail-tips.

Then very evenly and softly from the patriarch's throat rose the challenge of Clan Cattus: 'mi-ee-awl.' His grandson answered, flinging back the cry loudly and defiantly, interlarding it with those insults of which a tom-cat is such an unrivalled master.

The heroes circled round one another, and then closed, striking out tufts of fur until the ground was sprinkled with them. They buffeted one another until they were utterly exhausted, and then drew back to recover before renewing the attack. Grimalkin strained every sinew to teach this upstart the respect due to his position and years, but--try as he would--not a blow went home. Feint, counterfeint, undercut and smas.h.i.+ng downward stroke, all were parried, and Grimalkin sank down breathless after every round with blood trickling from his ears. A new sensation a.s.sailed him--his limbs seemed numb and feeble. He was weary. It was not now revenge for which he sought--he was struggling despairingly for the right to live. His blows grew more feeble, and foam hung on his jaws. Now was the time for the superiority of young blood to tell. Down came the iron paw, armed with the strong curved claws, upon the veteran's skull. Grimalkin yelled and leaped back as a hot red curtain fell before his sight. Baffled and half stunned, he crept away, cowed, into the bramble covert.

The victor sat up and licked his wounds. Henceforth there was a new king for the cat-folk in Knockdane.

The day was well begun. Why did the throstle pipe overhead? Why did the daffodils dance in the breeze? Why was the Spring Longing so insolently apparent in every bud and bough, and why did they flaunt it so heartlessly in his face? Could they restore a darkened eye, or rejuvenate weakened limbs? Thus might have mused Grimalkin of Knockdane, who was king there no more. It had come at last, a cold hand which grips man and beast alike, certain and irremediable. _Old Age_ was stealing fast behind him. And old age means more to the Fur Folk than to human beings. When their strength once declines ever so slightly, they must go to the wall to make room for stronger hunters.