Watership Down Page 32

  "That's what he says, sir."

  "Why can't the Council see him tomorrow?"

  "Just as you like, sir, of course. But he strikes me as being a bit out of the ordinary. I'd say, a distinctly useful rabbit."

  "H'm," said Woundwort, considering. "Well, all right. I haven't got long, though. Where is he now?"

  "At the Crixa, sir." Campion meant the crossing point of the two bridle paths, which was about fifty yards away, among the trees. "Two of my patrol are with him."

  Woundwort made his way back to the Crixa. Chervil, being on duty with his Mark, remained where he was. Campion accompanied the General.

  At this hour the Crixa was all green shade, with red gleams of sun that winked through the moving leaves. The damp grass along the edges of the paths was dotted with spikes of mauve bugle, and the sanicles and yellow archangels flowered thickly. Under an elder bush, on the far side of the track, two Owslafa, or Council police, were waiting; and with them was the stranger.

  Woundwort saw at once what Campion had meant. The stranger was a big rabbit, heavy but alert, with a rugged, seasoned appearance and the look of a fighter. He had a curious thick growth of fur-a kind of topknot-on the crown of his head. He stared at Woundwort with a detached, appraising air which the General had not encountered for a very long time.

  "Who are you?" said Woundwort.

  "My name is Thlayli," replied the Stranger.

  "Thlayli, sir," prompted Campion.

  The stranger said nothing.

  "The patrol brought you in, I'm told. What were you doing?"

  "I've come to join Efrafa."

  "Why?"

  "I'm surprised you ask. It's your warren, isn't it? Is there anything odd about someone wanting to join?"

  Woundwort was nonplused. He was no fool and it was, he could not help feeling, extremely odd that any right-minded rabbit should choose to walk into Efrafa of his own accord. But he could hardly say so.

  "What can you do?"

  "I can run and fight and spoil a story telling it. I've been an officer in an Owsla."

  "Fight, can you? Could you fight him?" said Woundwort, looking at Campion.

  "Certainly, if you wish." The stranger reared up and aimed a heavy cuff at Campion, who leaped back just in time.

  "Don't be a fool," said Woundwort. "Sit down. Where were you in an Owsla?"

  "Far off. The warren was destroyed by men, but I escaped. I've been wandering some time. It won't surprise you that I heard of Efrafa. I've come a long way to join it. I thought you might have some use for me."

  "Are you alone?"

  "I am now."

  Woundwort considered again. It was likely enough that this rabbit had been an officer in an Owsla. Any Owsla would want him. If he was speaking the truth, he had had wits enough to escape the destruction of his warren and survive a long journey through open country. It must have been a very long journey, for there was no warren within the normal range of the Efrafan patrols.

  "Well," he said at length, "I dare say we might be able to find some use for you, as you put it. Campion here will look after you tonight, and tomorrow morning you'll come before the Council. Meanwhile, don't start fighting, do you see? We can give you plenty to do without that."

  "Very well."

  The following morning, after the Council had discussed the predicament of the warren due to the recent losses, General Woundwort proposed that, for a start, they might do worse than try the big newcomer as an officer in the Near Hind Mark, under the instruction of Captain Chervil. The Council, having seen him, agreed. By ni-Frith Thlayli, still bleeding from the Mark gash inflicted in his left haunch, had taken up his duties.

  35. Groping

  This world, where much is to be done, and little known…

  Dr. Johnson

  "And then before the Mark silflay," said Chervil, "I always have a look at the weather. The previous Mark send a runner, of course, to say when they're going down, and he reports on the weather, but I always go and have a look for myself as well. In moonlight we put the sentries fairly close in and keep on the move ourselves to make sure no one goes too far. But in rain or darkness we send the Mark up in small groups, one after the other, and each group has a sentry in charge. In absolutely desperate weather we ask the General's permission to postpone the silflay."

  "But do they often try to run away?" asked Bigwig. During the afternoon he had been up and down the runs and crowded burrows with Chervil and Avens, the other Mark officer, and had thought to himself that never in his life had he seen such a cheerless, dispirited lot of rabbits. "They don't strike me as a very difficult bunch."

  "Most of them are no trouble, it's true," said Avens, "but you never know when trouble's coming. For instance, you'd have said there wasn't a more docile lot in Efrafa than the Right Flank. And then one day they get four hlessil wished on them by the Council, and the next evening Bugloss isn't very quick in the uptake for some reason, and suddenly these hlessil play a trick on him and bunk. And that's the end of him-to say nothing of poor old Charlock, killed on the iron road. When something like that happens, it happens like lightning and it isn't always planned: sometimes it's more like a frenzy. A rabbit tears away on impulse and if you don't knock him over quick, the next thing you know three more will be off after him. The only safe way is to watch all the time when they're above ground and do your own relaxing when you can. After all, that's what we're here for-that and the patrols."

  "Now, about burying hraka," said Chervil, "you can't be too strict. If the General finds any hraka in the fields he'll stuff your tail down your throat. They always try to dodge burying, though. They want to be natural, the anti-social little beasts. They just don't realize that everyone's good depends on everyone's cooperation. What I do is to set three or four of them to dig a new trough in the ditch every day, as a punishment. You can nearly always find someone to punish if you try hard enough. Today's squad fills up yesterday's trough and digs another. There are special runs leading into the bottom of the ditch and the Mark have got to use those and no others when they go out to pass hraka. We keep a hraka sentry in the ditch to make sure they come back."

  "How do you check them in after silflay?" asked Bigwig.

  "Well, we know them all by sight," replied Chervil, "and we watch them go down. There are only two entrance holes for the Mark and one of us sits at each hole. Every rabbit knows which hole he has to use and I should certainly miss any of mine who didn't go down. The sentries come in last of all-I only call them in when I'm quite sure that all the Mark are down. And once they're down, of course, they can't very well get out, with a sentry at each hole. Digging I should hear. You're not allowed to dig in Efrafa without permission from the Council. The only really dangerous time is when there's an alarm-say, a man or a fox. Then we all bolt for the nearest hole, of course. So far, it doesn't seem to have occurred to anyone that he could bolt the other way and have quite a long start before he was missed. Still, no rabbit will bolt toward elil, and that's the real safeguard."

  "Well, I admire your thoroughness," said Bigwig, thinking to himself that his secret task seemed to be even more hopeless than he had expected. "I'll get the hang of it all as soon as I can. When do we have the chance of a patrol?"

  "I expect the General will take you on patrol himself, to begin with," said Avens. "He did me. You may not be so keen when you've had a day or two with him-you'll be worn out. Still, I must admit, Thlayli, you're a fine size, and if you've been living rough for some time you'll probably manage it all right."

  At this moment a rabbit with a white scar across his throat came down the run.

  "The Neck Mark's just going down, Captain Chervil, sir," he said. "It's a beautiful evening: I should make the most of it."

  "I was wondering when you were going to show up," replied Chervil. "Tell Captain Sainfoin I'm bringing my Mark up at once."

  Turning to one of his own sentries who was close by, Chervil told him to go round the burrows and send everyone up for si
lflay.

  "Now," he said, "Avens, you go to the further hole as usual, and Thlayli can join me on the nearer one. We'll send four sentries out to the line, to start with, and when the Mark have all gone out we'll add four more and keep two in reserve. I'll see you in the usual place, by the big flint in the bank."

  Bigwig followed Chervil along the run, down which came the scents of warm grass, clover and hop trefoil. He had found most of the runs closer and stuffier than he was used to, no doubt because there were so few holes into the open air. The prospect of an evening silflay, even in Efrafa, was pleasant. He thought of the beech leaves rustling above the far-off Honeycomb, and sighed. "I wonder how old Holly's getting on," he thought, "and whether I'll ever see him again: or Hazel either, for the matter of that. Well, I'll give these blighters something to think about before I've finished. I do feel lonely, though. How hard it is to carry a secret by yourself!"

  They reached the mouth of the hole and Chervil went outside to look round. When he returned, he took up station at the top of the run. As Bigwig found a place alongside, he noticed for the first time, in the opposite wall of the run, a kind of recess like an open cave. In this, three rabbits were squatting. Those on either side had the tough, stolid look of members of the Owslafa. But it was at the one in the middle that he stared. This rabbit had very dark fur-almost black. But this was not the most remarkable thing about him. He was dreadfully mutilated. His ears were nothing but shapeless shreds, ragged at the edges, seamed with ill-knit scars and beaded here and there with lumps of proud, bare flesh. One eyelid was misshapen and closed askew. Despite the cool, exciting air of the July evening, he seemed apathetic and torpid. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground and blinked continually. After a time he lowered his head and rubbed his nose on his forepaws in a listless manner. Then he scratched his neck and settled down in his former drooping position.

  Bigwig, his warm, impulsive nature stirred by curiosity and pity, went across the run.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  "My name is Blackavar, sir," replied the rabbit. He did not look up and spoke without expression, as though he had answered this question many times before.

  "Are you going to silflay?" said Bigwig. No doubt, he thought, this was some hero of the warren, wounded in a great fight and now infirm, whose past services merited an honorable escort when he went out.

  "No, sir," answered the rabbit.

  "Why ever not?" said Bigwig. "It's a lovely evening."

  "I don't silflay at this time, sir."

  "Then why are you here?" asked Bigwig, with his usual directness.

  "The Mark that has the evening silflay, sir," began the rabbit. "The Mark that has-they come-I-" He hesitated and fell silent.

  One of the Owslafa spoke. "Get on with it," he said.

  "I come here for the Mark to see me," said the rabbit in his low, drained voice. "Every Mark should see how I have been punished as I deserve for my treachery in trying to leave the warren. The Council were merciful-the Council were merciful-the Council-I can't remember it, sir, I really can't," he burst out, turning to the sentry who had spoken. "I can't seem to remember anything."

  The sentry said nothing. Bigwig, after staring in shocked silence for a few moments, rejoined Chervil.

  "He's supposed to tell everybody who asks," said Chervil, "but he's getting sort of stupid after half a month of it. He tried to run away. Campion caught him and brought him back and the Council ripped up his ears and said he had to be shown at every morning and evening silflay, as an example to the others. But if you ask me, he won't last much longer. He'll meet a blacker rabbit than himself one of these nights."

  Bigwig shuddered, partly at Chervil's tone of callous indifference and partly at his own memories. The Mark were filing up now and he watched as they went past, each darkening the entrance for a moment before hopping out under the hawthorn. It was clear that Chervil prided himself on knowing his rabbits by name. He spoke to most of them and was at pains to show that he had some knowledge of their personal lives. It seemed to Bigwig that the answers he got were not particularly warm or friendly, but he did not know whether to put that down to dislike of Chervil or merely to the lack of spirit that seemed to be common to the rank and file in Efrafa. He was closely on the watch-as Blackberry had advised him to be-for any signs of disaffection or rebellion, but he could see little grounds for hope in the expressionless faces that went by. At the end came a little group of three or four does, talking among themselves.

  "Well, are you getting on all right with your new friends, Nelthilta?" said Chervil to the first, as she passed him.

  The doe, a pretty, long-nosed rabbit not more than three months old, stopped and looked at him.

  "You'll get on yourself one day, Captain, I dare say," she replied. "Like Captain Mallow-he got on, you know. Why don't you send some does on Wide Patrol?"

  She paused for Chervil to reply, but he made no answer and did not speak to the does who followed Nelthilta out into the field.

  "What did she mean by that?" asked Bigwig.

  "Well, there's been trouble, you know," said Chervil. "A bunch of does in the Near Fore started a row at a Council meeting. The General said they must be broken up and we had a couple sent to us. I've been keeping an eye on them. They're no trouble themselves, but Nelthilta's taken up with them and it seems to have made her cheeky and resentful: sort of thing you saw just now. I don't really mind that-it shows they feel the Owsla's on top. If the young does became quiet and polite I should be much more worried: I should wonder what they were up to. All the same, Thlayli, I'd like you to do what you can to get to know those particular does and bring them a bit more into line."

  "Right," said Bigwig. "By the way, what are the rules about mating?"

  "Mating?" said Chervil. "Well, if you want a doe, you have one-any doe in the Mark, that is. We're not officers for nothing, are we? The does are under orders and none of the bucks can stop you. That just leaves you and me and Avens; and we shall hardly quarrel. There are plenty of does, after all."

  "I see," said Bigwig. "Well, I'll silflay now. Unless you've got any other ideas, I'll go and talk to some of the Mark and then go round the sentries and get the lie of the land. What about Blackavar?"

  "Leave him," said Chervil. "He's none of our business. The Owslafa will keep him here until the Mark come back and after that they'll take him away."

  Bigwig made his way into the field, conscious of the wary glances of the rabbits he passed. He felt perplexed and apprehensive. How was he to begin his dangerous task? Begin he must, in one way or another, for Kehaar had made it clear that he was not ready to wait. There was nothing for it but to take a chance and trust somebody. But whom? A warren like this must be full of spies. Probably only General Woundwort knew who the spies were. Was there a spy watching him now?

  "I shall just have to trust my feelings," he thought. "I'll go round the place a bit and see if I can make any friends. But I know one thing-if I do succeed in getting any does out of here, I'll take that poor wretched Blackavar with me as well. Frith on a bridge! It makes me angry just to think of him being forced to sit there like that. General Woundwort indeed! A gun's too good for him."

  Nibbling and pondering, he moved slowly over the open meadow in the evening sun. After a while he found that he was approaching a small hollow, much like the one on Watership Down where he and Silver had found Kehaar. In this hollow there were four does, with their backs to him. He recognized them as the little group who had gone out last. They had evidently finished the hungry, intent stage of feeding and were browsing and talking at leisure, and he could see that one of them had the attention of the other three. Even more than most rabbits, Bigwig loved a story and now he felt attracted by the prospect of hearing something new in this strange warren. He moved quietly up to the edge of the hollow just as the doe began to speak.

  At once he realized that this was no story. Yet he had heard the like before, somewhere. The rapt air, the rhythmic utterance, the
intent listeners-what was it they recalled? Then he remembered the smell of carrots, and Silverweed dominating the crowd in the great burrow. But these verses went to his heart as Silverweed's had not.

  Long ago

  The yellowhammer sang, high on the thorn.

  He sang near a litter that the doe brought out to play,

  He sang in the wind and the kittens played below.

  Their time slipped by all under the elder bloom.

  But the bird flew away and now my heart is dark

  And time will never play in the fields again.

  Long ago

  The orange beetles clung to the rye-grass stems.

  The windy grass was waving. A buck and doe

  Ran through the meadow. They scratched a hole in the bank,

  They did what they pleased all under the hazel leaves.

  But the beetles died in the frost and my heart is dark;

  And I shall never choose a mate again.

  The frost is falling, the frost falls into my body.

  My nostrils, my ears are torpid under the frost.

  The swift will come in the spring, crying "News! News!

  Does, dig new holes and flow with milk for your litters."

  I shall not hear. The embryos return

  Into my dulled body. Across my sleep

  There runs a wire fence to imprison the wind.

  I shall never feel the wind blowing again.

  The doe was silent and her three companions said nothing: but their stillness showed plainly enough that she had spoken for all of them. A flock of starlings passed overhead, chattering and whistling, and a liquid dropping fell into the grass among the little group, but none moved or startled. Each seemed taken up with the same melancholy thoughts-thoughts which, however sad, were at least far from Efrafa.

  Bigwig's spirit was as tough as his body and quite without sentimentality, but, like most creatures who have experienced hardship and danger, he could recognize and respect suffering when he saw it. He was accustomed to sizing up other rabbits and deciding what they were good for. It struck him that these does were not far from the end of their powers. A wild animal that feels that it no longer has any reason to live reaches in the end a point when its remaining energies may actually be directed toward dying. It was this state of mind that Bigwig had mistakenly attributed to Fiver in the warren of the snares. Since then his judgment had matured. He felt that despair was not far from these does; and from all that he had heard of Efrafa, both from Holly and from Chervil, he could understand why. He knew that the effects of overcrowding and tension in a warren show themselves first in the does. They become infertile and aggressive. But if aggression cannot mend their troubles, then often they begin to drift toward the only other way out. He wondered what point on this dismal path these particular does had reached.