The Farthing Wood Collection 1 (3 page)

He gambolled across. Stout Fox was at once on his guard. His hackles rose and he bared his teeth.

‘No call for that, Foxy,’ Smooth Otter told him glibly. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘What a question,’ the fox growled. ‘You otters are always a problem.’

‘Let bygones be bygones,’ the otter offered. ‘I want your company.’

‘Company? Whatever for?’ Stout Fox asked suspiciously.

Smooth Otter explained.

‘Snow? Play? the fox repeated dully. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You otters are all crazy, but I’ve more sense than to listen to you. And I’ll give you a spot of advice. Keep away from Farthing Wood if you value your safety.’ He turned his back and continued on his way.

‘Please yourself,’ Smooth Otter called after him. ‘You’re the loser.’ Setting his face once more in the direction of the stream he mumbled, ‘Better stick to my own kind. What’s the use of courting others’ friendship?’

Of course there were plenty of playfellows amongst the otters. But the antics of the otters that early morning had attracted interest, after all, outside their own group. Two delighted human onlookers were trying hard to keep still behind a thin screen of vegetation as they watched the animal gymnastics. Wildlife enthusiasts were not a rare sight in Farthing Wood. They came hoping chiefly for a glimpse of the otters whose existence was well-known in the area. Usually these clever
animals confined their activities to those times when people were absent from the Wood – during the night and around dawn – and so they were only occasionally spotted. Now their enjoyment of the snow drove caution to the winds. The two amateur naturalists couldn’t believe their luck. It was as though the otters had put on a special display for them. And the humans were not the only witnesses.

‘Just look at those show-offs,’ Lean Vixen grumbled to Lean Fox as they stood together on the threshold of their new den. ‘Running and sliding about like that, don’t they ever grow up? They have no dignity.’

‘I’m more concerned about the way they draw humans into our home,’ Lean Fox answered. ‘They’re always bragging about the fascination they hold for humankind. And look, there are two of them now on the other side of the stream.’

Lean Vixen instinctively dropped to her belly. ‘I never feel safe when they’re about,’ she murmured, half to herself. ‘They can never be trusted. Come inside the den; let’s get out of sight.’

Lean Fox followed her through the entrance to the dark interior.

‘We ought to protest,’ Lean Vixen complained to her mate. ‘We don’t want human intruders around when our cubs are born.’

‘That’s a long way off,’ Lean Fox answered. ‘But I agree. Otters are a constant nuisance these days. I’m concerned about the problem of food when we’re bringing up our litter. We shall have to come to a sort of agreement with them before then.’

‘Don’t kid yourself,’ Lean Vixen said sarcastically. ‘The only kind of agreement they’d want is one on their own terms.’

The competition for prey heightened after some heavier snowfalls. Food became particularly difficult to find for every creature. There were thick layers of snow throughout the Wood. When prey did occasionally surface, there were tussles, not only between fox and otter, but fox and stoat, stoat and weasel. Every hunting animal was ravenous and they scuffled continuously. The foxes sometimes caught a rabbit unawares. Otters never attempted to hunt rabbits and so, except for the stoats, the foxes had a clear field. But rabbits were always quick to recognize danger and it was generally only old or sick ones that the foxes could reach.

As tension between the different groups reached its height, the otters stopped visiting the woodland. The foxes were first to notice.

‘They’ve seen sense,’ Stout Fox remarked, recalling his warning.

Lean Fox wasn’t convinced. ‘No,’ he replied cautiously. ‘It’s not as simple as that. There’s another explanation.’

It was Kindly Badger who provided it. He was digging holes in the snow nearby to get at acorns and roots. The foxes stopped to pass the news.

‘Oh, hadn’t you heard?’ was the badger’s reaction. ‘The otters have fallen sick – at least, many of them have. Voles, mice – wrong diet, you see. Doesn’t suit them. They should have kept to what they like – fish.’

‘There you are,’ Lean Fox said to his larger friend, ‘it’s not as simple as you thought.’

Stout Fox was irritated. ‘Does it matter? As long as they leave the Wood alone …’

Kindly Badger looked from one to the other. ‘It’ll be of benefit to all of us, won’t it? I mean, if they revert to
fishing. Yet there was some question of a dearth of fish, so it’s anyone’s guess what the otters will try next.’

Quick Weasel was about to cross their path, but she saw the bigger animals in time and altered her route. ‘She’s a cunning one, isn’t she, your mate?’ she cried to Lean Fox from a safe distance.

He was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘She planned this. With the sly stoat. The otters are sick because the voles are sick. The vixen and stoat knew of a vole colony where most of the adults were ailing – some sort of infection, I believe – perhaps from a parasite. So they rounded up as many as they could and left them in the path of the otters, where they come from the stream.’

Stout Fox was impressed. ‘Well, there’s cunning for you,’ he remarked. ‘To think that she planned all that without your knowledge,’ he added with a glance at Lean Fox.

Lean Fox looked uncomfortable. He had nothing to say. But Kindly Badger had.

‘Cunning, maybe, but rash,’ he commented. ‘We can’t afford any danger to the otter population. We depend on their thriving.’

‘They’ll survive; you can count on it,’ was Stout Fox’s opinion. ‘At least they won’t be so keen in future to raid our woodland larder.’

Some of the otters looked unlikely to survive. Indeed the cubs were failing visibly. Sleek Otter was at her wits’ end.

‘What can I do?’ she implored other adults. ‘They can’t move, they can’t eat. They won’t leave the holt. Their sad little cries haunt me day and night and they’re growing weaker all the time. I can’t bear to see the looks of anguish in their big weeping eyes.’

‘Have you brought them a fish?’ another female enquired. ‘Healthy food is their only chance now.’

‘I swam half the length of the stream yesterday to catch them something wholesome,’ Sleek Otter replied. ‘There wasn’t enough for all of them. I brought some large mussels to the den, but the youngsters ignored them.’

‘Have you consulted the smooth one?’ asked the other female. ‘He’s been trying to help some of the sick adults.’

‘No, but I’ll do so,’ Sleek Otter mumbled despairingly. ‘I really don’t think I’ve much time left.’

She knew where to find the big male, and trotted purposefully through the snow towards his holt. The otter slides were still visible on the banks of the stream
but no animal played now. How things had changed, the otter mother thought to herself. It hardly seemed possible that her cubs had galloped up and down in such high spirits only a few days earlier.

‘It’s my fault,’ she blamed herself. ‘I didn’t take sufficient care of what they ate.
I
wasn’t raised on furry mice. How could I expect my young ones to benefit from them?’ A little later she wailed shrilly, ‘But they have to eat
something
. What was I to do?’

Smooth Otter greeted her gravely. Then he said, ‘I can guess why you’re here. I’ve told others and I’ll tell you. We’re all guilty of neglecting to take precautions.’

‘Precautions? What precautions?’ Sleek Otter muttered hopelessly.

‘The water plants are what we’ve neglected,’ Smooth Otter explained. ‘Small quantities taken with our usual fare – fish – kept us healthy. We ate strands here and there almost without noticing. The plants have beneficial qualities. That’s what our bodies are lacking now.’

Sleek Otter’s mouth dropped open. ‘You really think … I mean, it’s that simple?’

‘I’m sure of it,’ Smooth Otter said with conviction.

‘Then which plants – which plants must I gather?’ the mother otter cried pitifully. ‘My cubs are so weak; they can’t walk as far as the holt entrance.’

‘The plants in the stream,’ Smooth Otter told her. ‘The cressy plants that grow where the water runs swift and clear.’

‘I know!’ Sleek Otter whistled. ‘I know the ones.’ And she raced away as fast as she could go. She dived into the stream and paddled against the current. She knew exactly where she was heading. A bed of watercress where she had often fished for small fry was her
destination. The plant was her cubs’ only hope now. She swam intently. Other otters, who had listened to the big male’s advice, were ahead of her. All the animals in the water converged on the thick tangle of cress. Without pausing for a word, Sleek Otter tore off mouthfuls of the deep green leaves with her sharp teeth. In a few moments she was swimming down-stream again.

‘I’m coming, my babies. I’m coming,’ she murmured as her body rippled through the water, her fur glistening with silver where it had trapped pockets of air bubbles below the surface. She swooped up from the stream into her dry holt entrance and scattered the plant stems by the still bodies of her cubs. ‘Eat this,’ she commanded sharply. ‘You must eat this. Please, please, eat!’

The young otters didn’t stir. Their sufferings were over. Lean Vixen had wrought her revenge.

Sleek Otter was not the only one to mourn. Other youngsters succumbed as a result of eating the diseased voles. They hadn’t the fortitude of the adult otters who had fallen sick. Those animals managed to recover after taking the measures advised by the big dog otter. They were suitably grateful and Smooth Otter began to be looked upon as a kind of leader. Now he believed more than ever in his own superiority.

After this scare, the otters tried to rely once more on their normal diet. The entire length of the stream and its surroundings were scoured for a viable food supply. There were small numbers of crayfish and mussels and some tench and roach, but the otters were only too
aware that these prey could soon be exhausted. At the same time they knew they must steer clear of voles.

‘We must return to the woods,’ Smooth Otter said.

‘The woods are dangerous,’ another male argued. ‘Do we want to poison ourselves again?’

Smooth Otter’s whiskers twitched. ‘We shall know better this time,’ he said. ‘We have no alternative but to hunt once more where the foxes, stoats and weasels catch their prey. We can learn from them.
They’re
not sick. They must know which prey to avoid. So we watch them closely. We watch where they go, we watch what they catch and then –’ he whistled assertively – ‘we take it from them.’

‘How do we take food from a fox?’ the other male queried. ‘An otter could never win a fight with a fox.’

‘That’s debatable,’ was Smooth Otter’s opinion, ‘as it hasn’t been proved one way or the other. And it probably never will be because, you see, we’re not going to fight them.’

‘Oh, so they’ll just pass over their food to us when we ask for it?’

‘Sarcasm is lost on me. Look – don’t you remember how we showed the other predators how much quicker, how much more agile we are? Well, we can do so again, only this time we’ll let them catch the prey first. When they’ve made a kill, we’ll rush in and whisk it away before they know we’re around.’

The smaller dog otter wasn’t convinced. ‘I’ll come with you on your next hunting trip, then,’ he remarked, ‘and you can show me how it’s done.’

Smooth Otter’s confidence was unbounded. ‘Nothing simpler,’ he assured the other.

The Farthing Wood hunters had been lulled into a
false sense of security. Lean Vixen and Sly Stoat had congratulated themselves on their clever plan and had reverted to being rivals. As the weather grew milder, prey was easier to find. The snow gradually melted and fox, stoat and weasel had their minds on other things. They followed the lean foxes’ example and began to pair off.

Stout Fox’s image of a suitable vixen was of a female with health and strength similar to his own. So when he found a stout-looking vixen tracking an old rabbit which he had singled out himself, he surrendered his interest in it and lay down to watch her tactics. The vixen was big for a female and appeared to have eaten well throughout the winter. This impressed Stout Fox at once. Here was a female who would have definite advantages as a mate. Under the eye of the old rabbit buck, she began to chase her tail. Stout Fox grinned as he saw the rabbit’s puzzlement. The vixen twirled around as if she had nothing else on her mind except play. Every so often the rabbit nibbled at some herbage but it never lost sight of the vixen’s antics. The animal was, if anything, rather curious about the female predator. It certainly didn’t take fright. Stout Fox’s tongue hung loose and he panted as he watched the vixen’s dance take her closer and closer still to the rabbit without its least suspicion.

‘You’ve had it, chum,’ Stout Fox whispered prophetically.

The vixen began a final mad spin, ending with a beautifully timed pounce. The rabbit knew nothing about it. It was dead before it knew it was under threat.

Now Stout Fox rushed forward. ‘Bravo,’ he barked. ‘A fine example of skill. Where have you been hiding yourself? I don’t recall seeing you before.’