AIR. THE SECOND DREAM
Click here for Chapters ONE, TWO, THREE, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN.
When Mr. Baxter continued the story the following evening, he said, “This part is called The Dream of Air. I expect you’d like to start with a picture.”
“Yes please,” said Tom and Judy together. Edward was not with them, having said he was busy, but might turn up later. Their father spread his fingers, and the usual sparks flew. The picture this time was a little bird.
He was about the size and shape of a starling, but his colours were much brighter. His feathers had little patches of red, green, blue, white and yellow, and even some grey, and they were shining in the light. More remarkable than this was his beak. Instead of a normal bird’s beak he had a pair of blades, like a pair of scissors. The expression on his face was very solemn and serious, as if he was always thinking about important things.
“What kind of bird is that?” asked Judy.
“That,” said her father, “is a snip-snip bird.”
“What’s a snip-snip bird?”
“Well, if you listen to the story you’ll find out.”
At that moment a poem began to appear.
Take each issue of tribe or state,
And whittle it down to size.
Truth is the object, truth is the bait,
And truth is the ultimate prize.
Quibble and wrangle, twitter and cheep,
Argue each point of law,
And if you are forced to define your terms,
Then introduce a few more.
“What does quibble and wrangle mean?” asked Tom.
“Well, quibble means argue in a silly, fussy way, that doesn’t use any common sense.”
“That’s what Tom does all the time,” said Judy.
“And wrangle means argue loudly.”
“Which is what Judy does,” said Tom.
“And what about define your terms,” said Judy.
“That means say exactly what you mean by each word that you use.”
“So if Tom said to you, ‘Girls are stupid,’ ”said a voice behind them, and they realised that Edward had arrived, “and you said, ‘Define your terms,’ Tom might say, ‘Well, by girls I mean young female people like yourself, and by stupid I mean not intelligent, doing silly things.’”
“So, having cleared that up,” said Mr. Baxter, “let’s get on with the story.
When Knobby woke up from the dream about the aurochs, he felt different. The dream had been so real, and every detail of it was clear in his mind, the frozen mountainsides, the dark world of the forest and the creatures in it, the tremendous force of the swollen river, and the terrifying power of the earthquakes. The feel of it was with him still, and it had been somehow more than a dream, for he carried its results not only in his mind, but in his body. He was smarting still from countless scratches and scrapes and grazes, and he was aching all over from the struggles and fights, against the rage of the bear, the force of the water and the clutch of the clinging mud.
At the same time he felt stronger and bigger and more enduring, in a word more substantial. He was also full of confidence. He felt new power in his neck and legs and back, and a great vitality in every part of him. He was ready to face the world.
Standing once more in front of the serpent, he watched the enormous yellow eyes, which seemed to be studying him as they slowly moved from side to side. At length Knobby broke the silence.
“That was some dream,” he said. “You told me I would learn things in it, and I think I’ve learnt a lot. I’ve learnt the value of strength and endurance, and gained some at the same time. I feel confident and strong.” He paused for a moment, but the serpent said nothing.
“I feel that I’m ready to return to the camp.”
The serpent’s head continued to sway from side to side. The reply came slowly.
“You have been through the Dream of Earth, and you have received many benefits there, but you are not yet ready. It is time for the Dream of Air.”
The light in the yellow eyes began to fade. The darkness descended, and Knobby moved slowly and easily into another dream.
He was a bird, one of a large flock that was flying together. They were wheeling, swooping, twisting and turning with perfect control. Though close together, they never collided. His mind felt quick and precise, and he had no difficulty in keeping up with the flock and turning when they did.
Quite soon they began to settle in the topmost branches of a widely spreading tree. Knobby came down with the rest, and found a twig to perch on near the edge of the group. The moment they had come to rest, the birds began to argue.
“You owe me half a worm.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes you do.”
“No I don’t. I gave you five seeds instead.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not the same. It’s better.”
“Better for who?”
“Where’s Piplet?”
“She stayed in the nest. She’s sick.”
“She wasn’t sick yesterday.”
“Well, she’s sick today.”
“What do you mean by sick? Define your terms.”
“When I say sick I mean sick. Sick, sick, sick.”
“You’re moulting.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not. Moulting is feathers coming out. Mine aren’t coming out. They’re just untidy.”
“Feathers are always untidy before they come out.”
“Aha! You said ‘before’. So mine aren’t coming out yet, are they?”
All these conversations took place at high speed in a sort of high-pitched chirrup, together with a constant twittering noise from the clashing of countless tiny blades.
Looking more closely at the little birds all around him, Knobby saw that they were not unlike starlings in size and shape, though far more colourful. Instead of a normal bird’s beak they had cutting blades, like a pair of scissors, which they rattled and clashed together as they argued.”
“Like the bird you showed us in the picture, Dad,” said Judy.
“That’s right,” said Mr. Baxter.
“Well, as Knobby watched them he thought that when they were not flying they seemed to spend their entire time in arguments and disputes, on every subject under the sun.
However, the noise was dying down, and he heard a growing number of voices calling out, “Gripling, Gripling, silence for Gripling.”
Finally, when the noise had been replaced by something like silence, a plump, important-looking bird in the centre of the group began to speak. Like all the birds, he had brilliantly coloured feathers. There was also a little crest on the top of his head, and he had an air of great dignity about him.
“Before we begin,” he said, “I would like to say a few words.” Something in his tone suggested that he was in the habit of saying a few words, and quite frequently more than a few.
“As we all know, my friends, our goal is truth in all things. Indeed, it might be said that we snip-snip birds spend our lives in a constant search for truth. And that means, of course, truth in all its forms. There is nothing too small to be examined in all its details, and not just the details, but the details of the details of the details. There is no truth too minute to be examined, carefully considered, and of course disputed. And that brings me to my point. We are here for a disputation. In one sense, of course, we snip-snip birds are always in a disputation. Starlings may be content to exist in murmurations, but as we all know, a group of snip-snip birds is not called a murmuration. It is called a disputation. However, I must make an important distinction. We spend every day of our lives in a disputation, but we are here today for something rather different. We are here for a Formal Disputation.”
He paused, as if to emphasise the importance of his words. Then he rattled his blades together, drew himself up to his full height, (which was not much even when he was fully stretched out), and once again paused importantly. Then he announced in a formal voice, “I declare this Formal Disputation formally open. You may now put forward any topics.”
There was silence after this, well, silence of a kind. There were just a few isolated chirrups and twitters, but they quickly grew in number.
“And now, friend Puffling,” said Gripling loudly, looking down at a bird on a twig a little below him, “would you please introduce the first topic and set the proceedings in motion.”
Puffling, a large, pompous-looking bird, had been listening to all the claims and counter-claims. At least a dozen birds were trying to attract his attention, hoping to
have their topics presented first. Having come to a decision, he drew himself up importantly, rattled his blades for a moment, and announced in a very loud voice,
“Topic number one. Gimlet versus Droplet.”
Instantly two female birds flew up to perch on a pair of twigs facing Gripling, which seemed to have been left unoccupied for this purpose. They both began talking at once.
“It was my material.”
“It was not. It was communal.”
“It was mine. It fell from my nest.”
“You never collected it.”
“Silence, both of you,” said Gripling sternly. A Formal Disputation is not a tree-top squabble. Which of you is presenting this topic?”
“I am,” said the thin, sharp-eyed bird who had spoken first
“Then kindly oblige us by giving your name and stating the nature of your dispute.”
“My name is Gimlet,” said the bird. “Droplet stole my leaves, and I want them back.”
“Define your terms,” said Droplet.
“Define them yourself,” retorted Gimlet.
“Silence!” shouted Gripling, “before I dismiss this topic out of hand. If your leaves have been stolen,” he said, looking at Gimlet, “you can certainly get them back, but first I must have full details of the case. Will you please explain clearly to the Disputation exactly what happened,” and added to Droplet, “Your turn to speak will come later.”
Looking delighted, clearly expecting victory, Gimlet began to speak.
“About five days ago,” she said, “yes, it was exactly five days, I collected three large leaves from a placard tree and brought them to my nest. They were fine, high-quality leaves, ideal for nest repair. They were too large to store in my nest, and before I had time to cut them into smaller pieces a gust of wind blew them off the branch, and they fluttered down to the ground. I flew down and found them on the forest floor and collected them into a pile. Then, because I was tired by that time, moving large leaves is hard work, I decided to leave them for a while before taking them back to my nest. Then I saw Droplet. I said to her, “These are my leaves. I’m going to collect them later today,” and she seemed to understand.”
“And did you collect them?” asked Gripling.
“Well, no. It was already late in the day, and I had a lot of things to do, and as I told you, I was tired, but I went down next morning. When I got to the place two leaves had already disappeared, but I arrived in time to find Droplet picking up the third. I said to her, “Droplet, what are you doing? You know those leaves are mine,” and d’you know what she said? She said, ‘No they’re not. They’re mine. You didn’t collect them, so I assumed you didn’t want them,’
Gimlet paused dramatically, apparently feeling that the enormity of Droplet’s actions spoke for itself. Then, as Gripling said nothing, she added, “And she totally refused to return the leaves, not even the third one.”
Gripling’s reply came slowly. “This is a straightforward case,” he said, looking kindly at Gimlet. “Although you may feel that Droplet’s action was ungenerous, what she did was quite in order. You failed to collect the leaves, and therefore Droplet was entirely at liberty to collect them herself.”
“But I was going to collect them,” said Gimlet angrily
“Perhaps you were,” said Gripling, “but the fact remains that you did not collect them.”
He paused before continuing in a more formal tone, as if quoting from a regulation. “Material fallen from a nest is considered to be the property of the owner of the nest from which it fell, and for the whole of the day only that bird has the right to collect it. After that, however, if the material has not been collected by its original owner, it reverts to a state of communality.”
“That is to say,” he added in a more normal voice, “that anyone may collect it.”
During this explanation Droplet began to look more and more pleased with herself, while Gimlet grew more and more angry and indignant.
“And so,” concluded Gripling, “without more ado, I declare this topic closed in favour of Droplet.”
On hearing this judgement, Gimlet gave a scream of rage, and flew straight out of the Disputation, knocking some twigs from a nearby tree before disappearing in the distance. Gripling glanced after her for a moment, then returned his attention to the gathering.
“Friend Puffling,” he said, “would you be so kind as to introduce the next topic.”
Puffling pushed out his chest and announced importantly, Topic number two, Dumpling versus Popling.”
A pair of male birds flew up to take their places on the twigs. One of them was a large, podgy bird, so podgy in fact, that it seemed surprising that he could fly at all. He began to speak immediately. “My name is Dumpling,” he said. “They’re in his nest, but they were mine. I found them, six real beauties. He took them out of my nest.”
“Define your terms. Define your terms,” went a number of voices.
The interruption seemed to infuriate Dumpling.
“My terms are worms,” he shouted angrily. “Worms! Worms! Worms! We are talking about worms. Everyone knows what a worm is.” Here he addressed the entire Disputation. “Do you not?”
A chorus of voices replied, “Indeed we do, friend Dumpling, indeed we do,” and one bird said, “A worm is a worm is a worm.”
“That is true,” said Dumpling. “I will not dispute that.”
This caused a twitter of surprise. For a snip-snip bird not to dispute something was almost unheard of. However, Dumpling, who seemed to have collected his thoughts, continued.
“But I’m sure you will all agree,” he said, “that there are many kinds of worms. There are long worms and short worms, fat worms and thin worms, nice worms and nasty worms, (when I say nasty I mean of course that they taste nasty), and finally there are two very different types of worm. There are honestly acquired worms and,” he paused and rattled his blades impressively, “and there are stolen worms. Stolen! Stolen! Stolen!” He glared around him aggressively, and once again rattled his blades. “And that is the case with the six worms that are at present in Popling’s nest. They are stolen. They are mine, but Popling stole them.”
“Well,” said Gripling thoughtfully, “I think this calls for an expert consultation.”
He turned to an elderly bird on his right. “Stickling,” he said, “I think this falls within your field.”Stickling nodded wisely. He had obviously been waiting to be consulted.
“Indeed it does,” he said, “Indeed it does. I can look back now on a lifetime devoted to study in the field of Legal Niceties. That is to say the Law as it applies to things that are nice to eat.”
He appeared to be lost in thought, perhaps consulting the vast array of knowledge that was stored in his mind. Finally he spoke.
“The central point at issue in this case,” he said slowly, “is the identification of worms. We know that Dumpling was in possession of six worms. We know that those worms disappeared. We also know that at about this time six worms were seen in Popling’s nest. What we do not know, however, is whether the worms in Popling’s nest are Dumpling’s worms, or whether the worms which Popling now has are similar to, but different from, the worms which Dumpling lost.”
“They weren’t lost,” said Dumpling. “They were stolen.”
Ignoring this comment, Stickling turned towards Dumpling.
“Tell me, friend Dumpling,” he said. “Were your worms marked or identified in any way?”
“Unfortunately not,” said Dumpling. “I hadn’t got round to it.”
“No,” said Popling, “you get round in other ways, mainly by eating.”
Dumpling’s reply to this might have been worth hearing. He was ruffling up his feathers and rattling his blades, as if preparing an angry retort, when there was a whirring of wings, and Gimlet appeared. She had flown off in a rage, but now she seemed not so much angry as very upset. “Strangers, grey strangers,” she kept repeating, as she fluttered about. “They’ve taken all the leaves. And branches too.”
Her voice was drowned by a barrage of questions.
“What strangers?”
“Where?”
“What leaves?”
And following this, in a chorus on every side.
“Define your terms. Define your terms.”
When the noise had subsided to some extent, Gripling said patiently, “Gimlet would you kindly define your terms. The word ‘grey’ can mean many things, and so can the word ‘stranger’. Please try to explain.”
Gimlet stopped fluttering and settled on a branch. After pausing for a moment to collect her thoughts, she said, “When I left the Disputation I flew off to the North – that’s right, towards the mountain – and then I decided to cut some leaves. I was still very angry, and I thought it might take my mind off things if I patched up the nest a little. So I flew down to the forest floor not far from the river. There’s a row of large placard trees beside the river, where the bottom leaves are really broad and strong.”
“Yes,” said Gripling, “I know the place.”
And all these enormous, clumsy creatures – I didn’t see them very clearly – but they were grey, enormous, grey, groundplodding creatures, all crashing about. They were horrible - .”
“Yes,” said Gripling patiently, “and what were they doing?”
“They were pulling off leaves, and not just leaves. They were ripping down whole branches and dragging them away. There seemed to hundreds of them. They’re killing the trees.”
“Killing the trees,” repeated Gripling. “This is serious, very serious indeed.”
He paused for a moment in thought, but only for a moment.
“I declare an emergency adjournment,” he said. “Come on!”
With no more prompting the entire disputation of snip-snip birds took wing and flew off to investigate. They soon found Gimlet’s ‘grey strangers’, although they could not see them clearly among the leaves. Swooping down with the other snip-snip birds, Knobby caught glimpses of large, lumbering, stooping figures moving about below.
However, there was no mistaking their intentions. As Gimlet had said, they were destroying the trees, breaking off branches and throwing them on to a pile. Like furies, the whole disputation, led by Gripling, dived down to the attack, and a moment later it was open warfare.
The birds were swooping, diving and turning everywhere – bright flashes of colour – and snipping. Gimlet – yes, it was Gimlet – snipped off a lock of hair from a stranger, who gave an angry shout. Then the strangers started swiping with branches and hurling sticks and stones. The birds, defiant and brave in their anger, were dodging, twisting, hovering, landing and always snipping, snipping at anything they could, clothes, hair, fur, bushy eyebrows, pieces of cloth and anything loose or hanging.
But Droplet had been hit by a fir-cone, if only a glancing blow, Chuckling had been almost stunned when knocked against a tree, and a number of others had lost feathers or had narrow escapes.
“Retire! Retire!” called Gripling. “Retire and reform!”
They were back in the tree-tops, perching or circling, baffled and beaten, while the shouting and cursing, breaking and pillaging, continued far below. It was a meeting, an emergency debate. Thoughts and suggestions, second thoughts and more suggestions were flying about in total confusion.
“Drive them away!”
“Repel them!”
“Just leave them be. They’re scared, I can tell.”
“No they’re not. You’re the one that’s scared.”
“How dare you?”
“Find out more about them.”
“We know enough. It’s time they found out more about us.”
Against this uproar Gripling’s efforts slowly made themselves felt. “Puffling,” he said when the noise had died down a little, “we must call on your services again. Choose a speaker the way you do at a Disputation.”
Puffling, perched on his usual twig, seemed almost at a loss. Every bird in sight was bursting to take the stage. Finally he picked the nearest. The speaker, a young male called Stripling, was highly agitated and not very helpful. “We’ve got to do something,” he said. “It’s terrible. We must take action. They’re smashing the trees. It really is awful. We must do something.”
The speakers who followed were not much better.
“They’re brutes. They’re monsters. They’re destructive louts,” said Babbling.
“Well, I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Footling.
“I think it’s all a big joke,” said Chuckling.
“We’ve got to show them who’s in charge,” said Toplet.
“I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t understand it at all,” said Dimlet.
The final speaker was a large, fierce-looking bird called Gatling.
“No doubt in my mind,” he said gruffly. “We’ve got to hit them hard, and hit them where it hurts.”
“Yes,” said Piplet, who was no longer feeling sick, “but where does it hurt?”
The question produced a chorus of replies.
“It depends what you hit them with”
“Aw, don’t be stupid.”
‘What can we hit them with except our blades?”
‘They’re not much use for hitting. They’re better at snipping.”
“Alright,” said Piplet, “we’ll snip them where it hurts.”
Finally Gripling made himself heard again. “Stickling,” he said, “perhaps you could give us the benefit of your thoughts.”
There was silence, or something near silence, while the expert on Legal Niceties considered the matter.
“Making battle plans is not my line,” he said at length. “However, a trained and logical mind like mine can be applied to any situation with some hope of success.”
There was another long silence. Then Stickling continued.
“If these creatures are willing to discuss the matter, then perhaps we could approach them and talk to them and reach some kind of agreement. However, if they refuse to listen to reason, then we will have to use force.”
“Right,” broke in Gatling. “Hit them where it hurts.”
“You mean snip,” said Piplet.
“Silence!” said Gripling.
Ignoring these interruptions, Stickling continued. “Like our friend Gatling, I think it will have to be force. We must face up to the fact that we can never match the strangers in size and strength. However, there is a method of attack that we can use. They may be bigger and stronger than we are, but we can fly, and this gives us an important advantage. We can drop things on them, and even a fir-cone, if dropped from high enough, makes a deadly weapon.”
“The trouble is,” said Gatling bluntly, “that they’re sheltered by the trees.”
There was total silence at this. Stickling’s plan had been completely shattered, just by a simple fact. The silence was soon replaced by another burst of comments and suggestions.
“Lure them into the open.”
“Expose their cover. Snip all the leaves off the trees.”
“We’re trying to save the leaves, you fool.”
“Pity the force of gravity won’t go sideways.”
“Gatling’s right. We’ve got to attack them.”
“Hit them where it hurts.”
Through all this confusion Stickling tried to defend his proposal. “It was just an idea,” he said. “Of course it would need to be planned in greater detail.”
He was scarcely heard. For some time the birds put forward plans and expressed opinions, which other birds instantly rejected or contradicted, before explaining different schemes of their own. They were a disputation of snip-snip birds doing what they liked doing best – disputing.
When a final plan began to take shape, it was largely due to the efforts of Gatling. They would make three attacks on the strangers. The first would go for the leaves, the second for hair and ears, and the third for any targets they could find – snip where you can.
Knobby was in the first wave of attackers, dozens of them, swooping down from the tree-tops in a tight formation. He could see the grey, ungainly forms of the strangers as they bent low over the leaves in their carts, or pulled down more branches to add to the pile.
Then the birds were on them, snipping and snipping at the piles of foliage. He was snipping and rising, then diving and snipping again, never still for a moment. The strangers responded with shouts of rage. They were swiping with heavy hands, and a few had sticks, but the snip-snip birds were too fast. By the time a hand or stick had landed the bird was gone.
He had glimpses of Stripling and Chuckling, Jetling and Popling and many others he did not know. They were not doing much real damage, but it infuriated the strangers to see their leaves being snipped. Gripling and Gatling were hovering overhead. Gripling kept a keen eye on the battle and sometimes shouted warnings, while Gatling maintained a steady stream of encouragement. “Hit ‘em where it hurts, boys. Hit ‘em where it hurts”
Then the second wave was on them, snipping at ears and hair. The strangers, bent over the leaves, were easy targets. They straightened, with roars of pain as well as rage, and slapped at their heads, but the birds were such agile fliers that most of the strangers only hit themselves.
Then there was a change. The strangers had opened some cages, releasing two cats and a hawk. The cats were afraid of the birds and quickly ran for cover, but the hawk, with a scream of rage, shot straight as an arrow into the centre of the fray.
The third wave had now arrived, but it made little difference. Some of the strangers had rakes and other tools, and were whirling them round their heads. Several birds had been hit. The hawk had a bird in its talons, and as Knobby dived towards them he saw that it was Dumpling.
After that everything happened very quickly. The hawk gave an angry screech and twisted round in the air, as Knobby snipped the feathers off its tail. One of the strangers had fallen in the river, and was climbing out, wet and enraged. Gripling, but not Gatling, was flying away and calling, “Retreat!”. The hawk had dropped Dumpling, and was trying to follow, but was hampered by having no tail. As Knobby left the place he saw Gatling swoop down in a last attack. A lumbering stranger, who was shouting at the birds, had his trousers held up by a pair of red braces. Like a flash Gatling snipped clean through these, before shooting up again to rejoin the flight.
They were back in the trees. It was another meeting, a despairing, melancholy meeting. A number of birds had been stunned by the whirling rakes and other tools, and a few were injured. Many more had been bumped and bruised, and almost all had lost feathers. Most affected of all was Dumpling. The talons of the hawk had done little real harm to his body, but they had punctured his pride, and he seemed somehow deflated. He was not the only one. The entire disputation was sunk in a kind of gloom. Amazingly for snip-snip birds, they had very little to say.
Only Gatling was still as confident as ever. “Hit ‘em where it hurts,” he kept repeating. “Hit ‘em where it hurts. I did. I cut through one of their braces.”
“Do you think that hurt the creature?” said a voice from the branches.
“It will,” retorted Gatling. “It will, when his trousers fall down.”
At this point Gripling took over. “We have to make a plan,” he said, “a sensible, organised plan for what to do next.”
This was more easily said than done. Apart from Gatling, none of them liked the thought of another attack. However, they had little else to suggest, or nothing that made any sense. One or two birds had silly schemes, like scaring the strangers by imitating the sounds of their enemies, (whatever they might be), or making them lose their way by changing the scenery on the paths they had taken, but these were rightly ignored. The meeting was getting nowhere, and Gripling was about to declare it at an end when without any warning an unknown bird of a type they had never seen appeared above them, and flew down to join the group.
The snip-snip birds reacted with an angry clatter of blades, but the strange bird paid no attention. He settled on a branch near Gripling, where he perched and looked around him with an expression of haughty disdain. He was quite a lot larger than a snip-snip bird, with glossy black feathers, a smooth, black beak and a bright orange patch on either side of his face. Gripling was annoyed by his air of superiority, and spoke to him rather shortly.
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
The stranger did not reply at once, but continued to look around him at the assembled disputation. Finally he spoke.
“I am a mynah bird. My name is not important. I am here to give you a message. You have seen fit to interfere with my masters, opposing and obstructing their activities, namely the collection of leaves. You will not do so again.”
This flat announcement was followed at first by total silence, a kind of bewildered pause. Then there was a burst of angry voices.
“Who do you think you are?”
“Clear out of our forest, you and your masters too.”
“Get out of it! You’re a bunch of thieves.”
“They’re destroying the trees.”
“Clear out of it, the lot of you.”
When this chorus had subsided, the mynah bird spoke only to Gripling.
“My masters need the leaves, and they mean to have them.”
Gripling replied with a simple question. “Why?” he asked. “Why do they need them?
The mynah bird did not seem to want to answer this. “They have their reasons,” he said, as he spread his wings to leave. After a pause he added, “They need large numbers of leaves to put in hot water.”
Then, with a flash of glossy black feathers and a downrush of air, he was gone.
There followed an angry outburst from the whole disputation. Not very patient at the best of times, the snip-snip birds were fuming and boiling with rage. They twittered, they blustered, they clashed their blades together, they ranted, they threatened, and they did it all together.
Strong opinions emerged from the uproar. The strangers were scoundrels. They had to be taught a lesson. They should go back where they came from. If they knew what was good for them they wouldn’t set foot in the forest again. As for their bird, that bumptious mynah, he needed his wings snipped short.
Gatling, of course, was all for attacking right away, and more and more of the birds began to agree with him. At length Gripling managed to make himself heard. He persuaded them all to keep quiet while suggestions were made, and Puffling assumed his role of choosing the speakers. They were not very helpful.
Gatling, to tremendous applause, repeated his slogan of “Hit ‘em where it hurts.”
A bird called Zamling wanted to throw fir-cones at them. “Give them a taste of their own medicine.”
Dumpling, who could imagine nothing worse than lack of food, suggested starving them out, but was not very clear on how this could be done.
Finally Stickling began to speak. Despite the collapse of his earlier argument, his reputation for wide knowledge and deeply thoughtful opinions still commanded respect.
“I would like to make some important points,” he said. “Firstly there is the question of why the strangers need leaves. I have given the matter some careful thought. At first I believed that, like ourselves, they use them for building, to construct some form of nest or dwelling place. However, we have now been informed by their messenger, the mynah bird, that they put the leaves in hot water. Such treatment is unlikely to strengthen the leaves, but would make them softer and weaker. In view of this I would like to suggest that, far from regarding the leaves as building material, they regard them as food. Do I make myself clear? The strangers collect the leaves in order to eat them.”
He paused to allow his hearers to ponder the situation. Then he said, “Does anyone have any comments?”
There was quite a long silence until at last a female voice, perhaps Piplet or Gimlet, said, “If the strangers are taking the leaves to eat them, why don’t we poison them?”
This caused an uproar. Some of the birds were horrified by the idea, while others heartily agreed. Stickling seemed to be in favour of it. “Yes,” he said when he could make himself heard, “I have had that thought myself.”
He was strongly opposed by Gatling and his followers. Poison, they said, was the weapon of a coward, and could only lead to problems. The only sure way to defeat the strangers was a direct attack – hit ‘em where it hurts.
However, Stickling also had many supporters, including Dumpling, Popling and most of the female birds.
Finally Gripling said they should put the matter to the vote, but first he said that if there were any further comments or suggestions, he would like to hear them quietly, one by one.
At this moment Droplet suddenly appeared. She seemed to be terrified, and the words came tumbling out so fast that it was hard to understand her.
“The strangers,” she managed to say at last. “The strangers, they’re coming up the trees, and they’re going to attack us.”
“Come on,” said Gripling, without asking any more questions.
They quickly descended to a lower part of the tree where, peering down from the branches, they saw an alarming scene. There were strangers everywhere. They were all very busy, bustling about, unloading things from carts, giving instructions, calling questions, meeting in little groups for consultations, and as the birds watched, they saw that more were still arriving. As Droplet had said, they were coming up the trees. Taking long, thin ladders from the carts, they were leaning them on the trunks and clambering up to the branches.
Filled with a sort of horrified curiosity, the birds came lower down to see more clearly. There were now quite a number of strangers in the trees. Each stranger carried two objects, a large, wicker basket, which seemed to the birds like a kind of portable nest, and a pair of shears, with blades at least ten times longer than the blades of a snip-snip bird. The strangers were making slow progress, clumsy, groundplodding creatures as they were, and obviously not used to climbing trees. Nevertheless they were moving steadily upwards with an air of grim determination.
Gripling had seen enough. “Retreat,” he called. “Immediate retreat. I declare an emergency Disputation.”
Gatling, however, was not prepared to wait. With a long, loud cry of rage and defiance he dived at the nearest stranger and slashed at his braces. He missed but sweeping up in a sharp, tight curve, he banked and returned to the attack. As he circled he called out loudly, “Fight them! Fight them! Face them, fight them and defeat them! Hit them where it hurts!”
At once he was joined by some of the more aggressive birds. Then other birds, attracted by the commotion, began to arrive, and before long, despite Gripling’s efforts to regain control, a full-scale battle had started
Though it continued for several hours, there was no clear result. The strangers, clinging to their ladders or to the branches, and hampered by the objects they were carrying, were at a disadvantage. They cursed and shouted, swinging their enormous blades and swiping blindly at their attackers, but they usually only hit twigs or leaves. The birds too, in spite of their fury, found their efforts largely useless. The leaves that hampered the strangers also protected them. So the diving and swooping and slashing enraged the strangers and slowed them down, but did them no real harm.
Still, the birds kept it up, and they had some successes. One of the strangers dropped his basket, another, in blind fury, threw his shears at a bird and lost them in the undergrowth, and most encouraging of all, when two birds dived at a stranger who had started to climb a ladder, he lost his balance, and both ladder and stranger crashed to the ground.
In spite of all this, however, the strangers steadily advanced up the trees. When they reached a level where the branches were thinner and the leaves smaller, they began to snip with their shears. At first they cut off only leaves, which they dropped into their baskets, but they were now on the level of the lowest nests, and one of them pulled down a nest and added it to the pile of leaves in his basket.
It was Gimlet’s nest, and she went frantic. Screaming with rage, she circled the stranger and then dived in to attack. Most of the other birds joined her, and under their combined attacks the stranger dropped both his basket and his shears and nearly fell out of the tree himself.
This had some effect. The strangers were obviously worried. They started calling to each other from tree to tree, and then began to descend. On reaching the ground they loaded their shears and baskets and ladders into the carts and left the forest.
The snip-snip birds were delighted. They were winning the battle now, and as they flew off for a final Disputation, a council of war to make their plans in case the strangers tried again, they were full of confidence, calling out things like, “Batter their faces!” “ Slash their braces!” “If they bring any hawks we’ll cut off their tails.” all variations on Gatling’s slogan of , “Face them, fight them and defeat them. Hit them where it hurts!”
Knobby did not follow the other birds. He needed time to think. He had a feeling that the strangers would soon come back, but he was not at all sure that fighting them was the answer. He began to fly in circles, steadily rising until he was high above the forest. Looking down he could see not only the forest stretching in every direction, but also the river, a thread of silver winding through the green, and the home of the strangers, a cluster of roof-tops glinting in the sun.
He saw these things in miniature, far below, but in the final glow of evening light he saw them clearly. He also saw the whole situation he had left. Circling high above it all, he began to see a pattern behind the confusion.
He continued to circle until the night began to fall, and then he did not join the disputation of snip-snip birds, but came down in a different part of the forest.
Early next morning Knobby was flying low over a path at the fringe of the forest. There was a long procession, a line of strangers, looking cold in the morning air, then several carts, and straggling behind, more strangers in little groups and clusters. The first cart was filled with provisions, food and drink, the second and third held equipment, mainly shears and baskets, and the fourth some empty boxes and other containers, but in the fifth cart, the one that caught his attention, there were four cages.
Two of these contained hawks, a pair in each cage, looking smaller and probably quicker than the one used before, the third was empty, but in the fourth cage he saw what he had been hoping for.
It was a large, luxurious-looking cage, equipped with several perches. Sitting on one of these was a bird with glossy black feathers and a bright orange patch on each side of his head, the mynah bird.
Ignoring the shouts of the strangers, some of whom swiped at him clumsily, Knobby flew straight towards this cage, hovered for a moment in front of it, and then clung to the mesh. The mynah bird looked at him haughtily without moving from his perch.
“Well,” he said after a very long pause. “Well, well, a messenger it would seem from the quarrelsome world of the snip-snips.”
“I have something important to say. Please ask your masters not to attack me.”
This was not necessary. The strangeness of his behaviour seemed to have taken them aback, and they were watching without interfering.
“Will they allow you out of the cage?”
“Yes, of course they will. The cage is for protection, not confinement.”
A few minutes later Knobby and the mynah bird were flying together. They followed the path and then rose and flew close above the tops of the trees. As they flew Knobby talked and explained, and the mynah bird listened carefully.
The entire disputation of snip-snip birds was gathered together, preparing to launch an attack on the strangers, who had started to arrive in the forest. Gatling was urging them on in his usual style.
“Batter their faces! Slash their braces! Hit them where it hurts! Fight them every inch of the way. Make them sorry they ever laid hands on our trees.”
The others were listening and sometimes adding comments of their own
“We’ll topple them off their perches.”
“We’ll send them flying.”
“We’ll gang up on the hawks and cut them to pieces.”
Even Gripling seemed to share the general mood. Though silent, he was looking grim and determined.
The two of them flew right in, coming down in the centre of the group in the middle of Gatling’s speech. At the sight of the mynah there was total silence and then an outburst of rage.
“Clear out!”
“Get back where you came from.”
“Tell your masters to clear out too.”
This slowly died away to the point where Gripling’s voice could be heard.
“Let him speak. He wants to speak to us. Let him speak.”
The mynah waited until there was total silence before he began.
“For some time now,” he said, “you have been fighting my masters. I am not going to anger you by telling you, although it is true, that you cannot win. I simply wish to point out that the whole situation, in which you are trying to drive us away from the forest, need not exist at all.”
None of the birds replied to this, but at least they seemed willing to listen. The mynah continued.
“My masters’ purpose in climbing these trees was not to attack you, nor to destroy your nests. It was simply to collect more suitable leaves. Their reasons for needing the leaves do not concern you. However, you also need leaves, and so we come to my proposal. You need large leaves for building nests, and my masters need the smaller, softer leaves that grow on the higher branches. The best leaves for your purpose are on the lower branches of the placard trees near the river, while the most suitable for my masters are the leaves near the tops of the trees where you have your nests, or on other, similar trees. Unfortunately there are problems. The placard trees are quite a long way off, and apart from that, I know that you do not care to spend too much time near the ground, where the biggest leaves are, because of foxes and cats and other dangers. My masters, on the other hand, prefer to stay on the ground. They do not much enjoy having to clamber up trees to get their leaves. Quite apart from your opposition, it is hard work.
So my proposal is this. If you will supply my masters with leaves from the tops of the trees of the kind they need, I guarantee that in return they will supply you with large leaves from the placard trees. This arrangement will suit both sides, and no harm will be done to the trees.”
Here the mynah looked slowly around him at the listening snip-snip birds. There was total silence. After a moment he turned to Gripling.
“What do you say?”
“It seems to me,” said Gripling carefully, “as if it might be a good idea.”
‘But you have some questions, doubts about it?”
“Yes.” said Gripling, “Is this proposal from you or from your masters? If it is your proposal, how do we know that they will agree?”
“They will agree,” said the mynah. “If it saves them trouble and puts an end to all these battles, they will agree.”
Gripling’s question was followed by many others from every side.
“What kind of leaves? What quality?”
“How many?”
“Where do we put them?”
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?”
When these finally died away, the mynah replied.
“I will answer all your questions with another proposal, a simple proposal. I propose a trial exchange of leaves. Bring us some small leaves from the tree-tops. My masters will bring some large leaves from the placard trees by the river. We will make an exchange before dark tonight. There will be time enough then to discuss further details.”
This time there was no outburst of questions. It was obvious in the silence that followed that there had been a change of mood. When Gripling finally answered, “Yes, I agree,” the mynah said no more. He spread his glossy black wings and was gone.
Even as Gripling began to give instructions, the birds were already working on the mynah’s proposal. None of them wanted their nests destroyed. There was some opposition from Gatling and a few of his followers, and Gimlet, instead of gathering leaves for the strangers, began to gather materials for a new nest, although several of the birds pointed out to her that she would do better to wait for the placard leaves that the mynah had promised, but these were exceptions.
The dream was over. Knobby had made his contribution. He was no longer surrounded by birds, just by leaves, twigs, branches, criss-crossing patterns and geometrical shapes, but wavering, shimmering now, and dissolving from view as the dream world faded away.
Well,” said Mr. Baxter, “that really is it. Your dream world is about to begin.”
Tom and Judy got up, but Tom was reluctant to leave.
“I’m not quite sure about that dream,” he said. “I mean, I know that Knobby got strength from the Dream of Earth, but what did he get from being a bird in the Dream of Air?”
“A snip-snip bird,” put in Judy.
“It wasn’t supposed to make him flighty, was it?”
Mr. Baxter smiled. “Think,” he said. “Think. Those snip-snip birds were clever, weren’t they?”
“I don’t think they were very clever,” said Judy. “They were always making silly mistakes.”
“Yes, but they tried to think, didn’t they?” said Mr. Baxter. “They spent a lot of time in arguments and disputes, which sharpened their minds, and through living with them Knobby learned the value of intelligence and a quick mind. And don’t forget, he solved the problem in the end by thinking about it.”
“Right,” said Tom. “So now he’s had two dreams, and they have given him strength and intelligence. I suppose he’s going to need them both.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Baxter. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have been given them, at least, not in that special way. And now, upstairs the pair of you.”
The following night Mr. Baxter began the story as usual with a picture. That is to say he was starting without one, “Now let’s see what was happening to Gracinda in the palace,” when Judy reminded him.
“A picture, Dad. You haven’t shown us a picture.”
Mr. Baxter thought. “Well,” he said. “you’ve already seen the palace, both the outside and the inside, with that disgusting fountain. It will have to be a scene from the story.”
He thought for a moment. Then, as he had done on other nights, he waved his hand, and sparks flew between his fingers. They rapidly rose to form a picture above his head. It was a small, humpbacked bridge with a road below it.
“Ah,” said Tom. “that must be the bridge Gracinda and the guardians crossed the day she arrived at the palace.”
“It is,” said Mr. Baxter. “But look who’s on it.”
It was a unicorn, a young, ivory-coloured unicorn with a slender horn.
“Gracinda,” said Judy.
“And she seems to be trapped on the bridge,” said Tom.
She was. At each end of the bridge they could see a row of long, sharp blades, like sword blades, forming a sort of fence or barrier, so that Gracinda could not go either forwards or backwards.
“How did that happen?” asked Judy.
“Well,” said her father. “You’ll have to listen to the story.
In the palace the fillies were preparing for the Grand Warlock’s visit that year, and now it was no longer make-believe. This was a real event. As there were many things to be done, there was frantic activity everywhere. Not only the palace but also the grounds outside it had to be tidied, cleaned and carefully prepared, and this was done not only by the palace dockees, who normally did work of this kind, but also by the palace fillies.
As well as the Warlock feast there was going to be an important meeting, and these two events were to held in the two big halls, the feast in Speaking, the long hall with the impressive double staircase, and the meeting in the hall at the end of the palace, which, because meetings were usually held there, was known as Meeting.
There was also the matter of preparing rooms for a large group of Warlocks, important Warlocks, only slightly less important than the Grand Warlock himself.
There was a great deal of work to be done, and each filly not only had to learn and practise her own particular task, but was also expected to have a general idea of everything else that was happening.
The Reds and Blues were told that they would be serving at the feast, while the other two groups had duties in other rooms or at various points on the stairs or in the corridors.
Serving was simple enough. The fillies had small trays hanging from their horns, which carried a selection of drinks, as well as fruit and cakes. They had to stand behind the diners, and whenever a Warlock beckoned, or if the moment seemed suitable, move forward and lower the tray to let him take what he wanted. With a little care and attention this was no problem. However, there was a complication.
At most Warlock feasts, after the eating, after the drinking, after the boasting speeches, after the songs, or what the Warlocks called songs, though they were more like shouting, there was sometimes entertainment of a different kind. This was the punishment of Warlocks who had broken some rule or done something wrong. Sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes as many as half-a-dozen would be led in, lined up, made to stand still while their crimes were explained to the group, and then asked if they had anything to say. Those with any sense said nothing, as they knew it would only make things worse. They were then punished. This took the form of being hung up by their arms above the table, with their toes just touching the top of it, all remains of the meal having first been cleared away. All the other Warlocks then hurled rotten vegetables and fruit at them. They roared with laughter as they did this, in fact for many of them it was the most enjoyable part of the meal.
As this kind of punishment was a standard event at any Warlock feast – there were very few where it did not happen – preparations for it were normally made in advance. Before they took their places behind the diners to offer trays of drinks, cakes and fruit, the fillies on serving duty had to place boxes of rotten fruit beside all the Warlock seats. Each filly was responsible for a certain number of seats. This was not difficult, but even the simplest things can go wrong.
On one occasion, several years before, they had gone very wrong indeed. An unfortunate filly, who had the task of putting out five baskets of rotten fruit, and then standing with a tray to serve the diners, had made a disastrous switch. Either through stupidity or nervousness, she had put down the tray of drinks and cakes beside one of the seats and then offered a Warlock diner a box of rotten fruit. It was an extraordinary thing to do, as although both trays and boxes had high, curved handles, they looked quite different. However, she had done it, and the Warlock had noticed nothing wrong until he took a bite from a mouldy passion fruit. Then he had spattered it all over the table and sat there, roaring with rage. The stupid filly had become a palace dockee, and the story had been told ever since as the supreme example of what not to do. No filly ever made such a mistake again, of course. She would have had to be half-witted to do so. However, during the preparations for the Grand Warlock’s visit there was an event which showed that history can repeat itself, and which led to a very nasty situation.
Belzeena had become very critical of all the fillies in the group, including Zannerette, but her attitude towards Gracinda had changed completely. Instead of praising Gracinda’s work and praising her at meetings, she began to do precisely the opposite. She criticised Gracinda in every way. She called her inefficient, she accused her of being lazy, and she constantly gave her contradictory instructions, supplied her with wrong information, and made her life difficult in every way.
One day they were doing a practice preparation for the Warlock feast. They picked up wooden slabs that were supposed to be trays of drink and presented them to imaginary diners, they rehearsed the procedure to be followed at each stage of the meal, learning when to stand back and when to be available without being unduly pressing, they checked the table decorations and the arrangement of the chairs, and beside each chair they placed a wooden block that represented a box of rotten fruit. Every part of this practice was repeated many times, until all the fillies became thoroughly fed up with it. It was in this frame of mind that Tempeste made a silly mistake.
Carrying a wooden block to the table as she had done many times before, and finding the places by the chairs already occupied by blocks that were supposed to be boxes of rotten fruit, she assumed that her block represented a tray of drinks, and went through the action of presenting it to the table. Almost instantly she realised her mistake – she was offering not drinks but rotten fruit – and moved back with a start. This start as much as the mistake itself attracted Belzeena’s attention – and her fury. She raged and ranted at Tempeste, calling her a witless imbecile, a disgrace to the Reds or any other group unlucky enough to have her in it, and scarcely fit to be a palace dockee, let alone a palace filly.
Tempeste was stung by this outburst, and retorted fiercely that it wasn’t her fault. Some other filly had caused the mistake by putting down blocks, the so-called boxes, beside the wrong chairs. Belzeena was furious, beside herself with rage.
“You know what happens to fillies who offer the Warlocks rotten fruit. They get what they deserve, the fools. And some day you’ll get what you deserve, but not here, not while you’re in my group. Get back to the compound before you make any more stupid mistakes.”
When Tempeste refused to move, the dispute became so loud and fierce that some of the birds flew off to summon the Head Filly. She asked Belzeena the cause of the problem, called two of the guardians and then looked coldly at Tempeste.
“Seven days confinement,” she said.
The guardians came up, and were starting to close in on either side of Tempeste, when she suddenly exploded. She reared up and whirled round several times, stabbing wildly all around her with her horn, at the guardians, at Belzeena and at anything else in sight, including Gracinda and Zannerette. Then she suddenly dashed out through the doorway and into the passage connecting Speaking with Meeting. The guardians were close behind her, necks arching and whips lashing out as they ran, and behind them, all order and discipline forgotten, streamed the entire group of unicorns except for the Head Filly, who remained standing in Speaking, rigid with fury, while overhead were dozens of screeching, wildly excited birds.
Gracinda reached Meeting just in time to see the two guardians disappearing through the large main door that led to the terrace outside, and turning left where she supposed Tempeste must have gone before. With a dreadful feeling of disaster she followed them out of Meeting and round the corner on to the narrow path that ran along beside the front of the palace. On the unfenced right-hand side there was a steep drop down to the road below. Tempeste was more than half way along this when she suddenly stopped and turned to the right. A moment later she was clattering over the bridge, the little curving bridge that they had both crossed on their first day in the palace.
Gracinda was horrified. It was what she had feared. Tempeste was not running back to the compound. She was trying to escape. Gracinda knew it was too late, but she still called out.
“Tempeste! Tempeste! Stop! Come back! You can’t get away.”
As she called she ran, and then, with no clear idea in her mind of what good it would do, perhaps with the thought that she might persuade Tempeste to return and so get a smaller punishment, she too was crossing the bridge. As she did so she noticed that the guardians had not crossed ahead of her. They were standing on either side, and as she ran between them she could hear shouting and general commotion both inside the palace and out.
Gracinda was still calling out as she ran up the narrow, steep track of the bridge. She could see the ornamental garden on the other side, but she never reached it. She was on the crest of the curving arch, and starting to descend again, when she heard a grinding, grating sound below her. She managed to stop just in time to avoid running into a row of gleaming blades, like long, heavy sword blades that, pivoting on the ridges that ran across the bridge, had risen up from the long slots in the floor. She began to back and then realised that a similar row of blades had appeared behind her. She was trapped on the bridge.
And that was the picture I showed you earlier,” said Mr. Baxter.
“Well, a moment later Gracinda saw that a group of hooded guardians was approaching the top of the terraced garden, and walking dejectedly in the centre of the group was Tempeste.
Soon after that Gracinda and Tempeste, surrounded by a group of guardians, were standing together in Gathering. They were up on the platform, face to face with the
Head Filly. Banseth was also there, as well as two Warlocks, and there were several birds in the room, including Ballabeck, the macaw with the twisted beak. The Head Filly looked the two unicorns up and down.
“So,” she said, “both from the Reds. And where is Belzeena, the leader of that group?”
Gracinda looked cautiously about her. Belzeena was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is Belzeena?” asked the Head Filly again.
At that moment Belzeena appeared, coming rapidly across the room and up on to the platform. Gracinda thought she was looking rather pleased with herself.
“My apologies, Head Filly,” she said. “I have just been making a final inspection of the practice preparations.”
The Head Filly glowered. “I am glad to see you working so hard. Now, perhaps you can help us with the matter in hand.”
She looked at Tempeste. “We will deal with this young filly first. Please give me all the details.”
“This young filly,” said Belzeena, “is called Tempeste. She has been a rebellious troublemaker ever since joining the group. From the very first she was difficult and defiant. She was not only slow to learn the work, but she made no effort to do it properly. In fact she deliberately misunderstood instructions and made stupid mistakes.”
“Yes,” said the Head Filly, “go on.”
“Things finally came to a head,” said Belzeena, when she made a really bad blunder in the feast rehearsal. Although she had had plenty of practice, she actually offered a Warlock – or she would have done if it had been a real feast – she offered a Warlock a box of mouldy fruit.”
The Head Filly was looking grim. They all knew that if such a thing happened at the Grand Warlock’s feast, it would not only be the guilty filly who suffered. They would all be punished.
“And then,” continued Belzeena, “when I told her off for this, instead of admitting her fault she simply attacked me.”
“After which,” put in the Head Filly, “she ran across the bridge and tried to escape from the palace gardens. That much I know. Thank you Belzeena.”
There was total silence as the Head Filly looked at Tempeste.
“Apart from all the other matters,” she said, “any attempt to break out of the palace area automatically carries the severest penalty. Take her for docking.”
The guardians began to move, and Tempeste went with them. Then, as if she had suddenly realised what was happening – she was going to be a palace dockee – she started to struggle. It was no use. The guardians closed in tightly on either side of her, and Tempeste was half pushed half carried through the door at the back of the platform.
The Head Filly then looked at Gracinda.
“Now this one,” she said. “What can you tell me about her?”
“She tried to cross the bridge,” said Belzeena. “She attempted to escape.”
“I realise that,” replied the Head Filly, “and any attempt to escape carries only one penalty.” She turned to Gracinda. “Have you anything to say?”
“I was not trying to escape,” said Gracinda. “I was trying to persuade Tempeste to come back. She’s my friend. I wanted to bring her back.”
“I see,” replied the Head Filly. “Well, apart from some recent mistakes, your work on the whole has been very good. So if we accept your explanation ---”
“Head Filly, Head Filly,” broke in Belzeena. “She’s not only sly and rebellious – she admits to being friendly with Tempeste – but she’s also stupid.”
“Stupid? What do you mean?”
“She put down her tray of drinks beside a chair, where the box of mouldy fruit should be.”
“What! What did you say?” exclaimed the Head Filly. “When did she do this? When?”
“She did it today, in the practice preparation for the feast.”
There was a very long silence. Gracinda felt stunned and bewildered. She was sure that she had left her tray of drinks in the proper place, in an alcove in the wall that faced the table.
The Head Filly spoke again. “As you know,” she said, “I will not tolerate any disruption of the Grand Warlock’s feast. If this filly not only attempts to cross the bridge, but also makes basic, stupid mistakes after so much practice, there can only be one outcome.” She paused and then added, “However, I would like to see this for myself.”
She was starting to leave the platform, when Banseth came up and spoke to her urgently for a moment. The Head Filly turned and looked at Gracinda.
“I fully intended to have you docked,” she said, “but I now have reason to reverse that decision.” She paused again and then said, “Confined until the end of the year, and then released from the palace."
It was over. Gracinda was not to become a palace dockee, but simply sent home. Belzeena was pleased, and so, it seemed, was Banseth. As he left the room he gave Gracinda a lingering look of appreciation, which she did not like at all.
Then, like Tempeste, and like many another filly before her, Gracinda was led away between two guardians.
“Well,” said Mr. Baxter, “it’s not too late. I think there’s time to go on a little longer.”
“Time for Knobby to have another dream, I expect,” said Tom.
“Well, if you listen,” said his father, ‘you’ll find out what happened in the same way as Knobby did.
Click here for next chapter.
