Quest for the Faradawn - страница 24

The hare had begun to get bored now and, feeling he had carried out his duty, he hopped slowly back to where Brock was watching from behind the holly bush. Nab, however, was quite unable to tear himself away and indeed had hardly noticed that Perryfoot had gone. ‘What is he doing?’ whispered the hare crossly. ‘Hasn’t he seen enough?’

‘I don’t know; be patient and try to imagine how you would feel if you were his age and were seeing a hare for the first time.’ Perryfoot grunted and stretched out to enjoy the full warmth of the sun and reflect on the story he would tell his doe. Meanwhile Nab’s reverie was suddenly broken as the little girl jumped up, said something and ran off out of the hollow towards the stream, where she began to pick primroses. As she followed the meanders of the stream she was soon out of sight of her mother and had come fairly close to where Nab was lying; in fact he could approach her without being seen from the hollow. He was suddenly seized by an overwhelming impulse to talk to the girl and make himself known to her despite Brock’s warning and in the face of all the animal instincts which told him to remain hidden. How could he approach her? How would she react? Would she call to her mother? A hundred questions like these raced through his mind as, with his heart beating so loudly that he was certain she would hear, he crawled slowly down the bank away from the shelter of the gorse bushes until he was in a shallow ditch that would lead him up to a large willow by the stream which was near the little girl. Behind the holly bush Brock had roused Perryfoot and they were both watching horrified as Nab crawled nearer and nearer to the girl. ‘What’s he doing? Shall I go and stop him?’ said the hare.

‘No,’ replied Brock. ‘It’s too late now; he’ll do what he wants and we can only hope it turns out for the best.’

Nab was now at the foot of the tree and he crouched among the roots hardly daring to breathe and listening to the stream just by his left elbow running over its sandy bed. Very slowly, as Brock had taught him, he raised his head so that he could just see over the edge of the ditch. The little girl was some eight paces away, humming quietly to herself and thoroughly involved in picking the primroses and red campion that were growing on a little tussock which jutted out slightly into the water. She was bending down with her back to him; across the stream the green meadows rolled gently upward until they met the great beeches that stood at the edge of Tall Wood. Sheep were grazing contentedly, their white fleeces standing out clearly against the green, and overhead the larks hovered, singing the songs of spring as they had since time began.

Nab stood up and walked silently over the grassy bank of the stream until he was only a pace behind her. Suddenly, sensing that someone was near, she stopped humming, stood up quickly and turned round.

‘Oh!’ she cried in alarm. ‘You frightened me. Who are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you in the village. Are you playing a game – dressed like that I mean? Come on, tell me, who are you?’ She stared at him in growing amazement as she tried to understand what she saw. His hair, a dark golden brown, hung in gentle waves down around his shoulders and three or four fresh green rushes had been tied around his forehead to keep the hair out of his eyes. About his waist was a wide length of silver birch bark threaded through with a new willow branch, thin as a reed and fastened somehow at the side. His feet were bare and his hands were large with long fingers and broken nails, and they hung loosely by his sides. But his face! his face was the colour of the autumn beech leaves and out of it shone two smouldering dark eyes which roved ceaselessly around her and burned with a wild intensity. She felt she ought to have been scared but her instincts told her there was nothing to be afraid of and she was, in any case, too mesmerized by his restless eyes to do anything but stare.

‘Who are you?’ she said again, slowly and gently. ‘Why are you frightened? Where do you come from?’