the indicated the centre of the tree trunk above them. Meadowsweet reached up and scrabbled some of the punkwood down into the tunnel. The fine dry dust enveloped them and they coughed as it filled their throats and lungs. It was dry and bitter on their tongues.
Taking it in turns, they pulled more and more of the powdery punkwood down into the tunnel, the others pushing and carrying it away into side passages.
‘If the rabbits ever come back, they won’t be very pleased,’ Bluebell said.
‘Never mind the rabbits, it’s Rowan and Spindle who are important today. Keep digging,’ Meadowsweet told her.
The squirrels were covered in fine dust and particles of the incandescent wood. They all glowed as they dug upwards, the glowing particles giving off just enough light to see by.
Meadowsweet looked up to where she imaged the Sun to be and breathed a heartfelt ‘Thank you’, totally unaware that the sun was on the other side of the world and it was now completely dark outside.
Above them Rowan shook Spindle awake.
‘I’m going to see if the guards are still there,’ he whispered.
‘Yes, but be careful,’ Spindle responded, needlessly.
Rowan had looked out once during the day, only to have had his face savagely slashed by a grey paw.
He climbed up from the soft punkwood floor and reached a tentative paw out of the hole. It touched fur, and teeth nipped it hard. Rowan withdrew his paw, trying not to cry out. He dropped back down to the bottom of the hollow and licked away the blood. It was salty on his tongue and he felt thirsty.
Spindle was scratching in the darkness.
‘Do yew think uz could tunnel out? Uz don’t remember a hole lower down in thiz tree but anything iz better than zitting here doing nothing.’
‘There isn’t another hole. I know this tree well,’ Rowan replied, then regretted saying it. Here was an ex-zervant showing initiative and he, Rowan the so-called Bold, was pouring cold water on the idea.
‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘anything’s better than just sitting here. There may be a hole we don’t know about.’ He started to dig.
At first it was easy. Under the top layer of finely powdered wood was a layer of empty hazel-nut shells and a few dry leaves which crackled as they moved them.
‘Quiet, hissed Rowan. ‘We don’t want to alert the guards.
As the hole they were digging got deeper, their challenge was how to dispose of the debris. They piled it around the sides of the chamber but soon the debris started to trickle down on them and they had to lift it out again. Eventually a pile of fine powder poured down on to Spindle and buried him. He wriggled up, coughing and spluttering. Then all the stacked punkwood slid down into the hole and filled it. Rowan and Spindle climbed up to the inside of the entrance hole and hung there precariously, hoping to find clearer air.
‘What are you two doing?’ a gruff voice called from outside.
Below them, the females were making better progress, gravity being on their side. There were frequent cascades of powdered wood, mixed with the scales and dried remains of insects and the occasional leaf or nut-shell. The glow from the particles of rotten wood on their fur allowed them to see what they were doing and avoid the worst of the dust-falls. Even so they were tiring and the rate at which they were moving the rubbish away was slowing noticeably.
Then with a whoosh of sound, a huge mass of punkwood fell, covering those working below, and pitching a bewildered Rowan and Spindle down on to the wriggling bodies of the five females who were struggling to free themselves.
A rush of cool air passed them, drawn up the tree as if it were a chimney. A stream of fine powder poured out of the hole past the guards.
‘What’s going on in there?’ a voice from outside called huskily and the squirrels below tried not to cough.
‘Which way is out?’ Rowan asked the glowing figure of his life-mate as they embraced.
Hearing no
Taking it in turns, they pulled more and more of the powdery punkwood down into the tunnel, the others pushing and carrying it away into side passages.
‘If the rabbits ever come back, they won’t be very pleased,’ Bluebell said.
‘Never mind the rabbits, it’s Rowan and Spindle who are important today. Keep digging,’ Meadowsweet told her.
The squirrels were covered in fine dust and particles of the incandescent wood. They all glowed as they dug upwards, the glowing particles giving off just enough light to see by.
Meadowsweet looked up to where she imaged the Sun to be and breathed a heartfelt ‘Thank you’, totally unaware that the sun was on the other side of the world and it was now completely dark outside.
Above them Rowan shook Spindle awake.
‘I’m going to see if the guards are still there,’ he whispered.
‘Yes, but be careful,’ Spindle responded, needlessly.
Rowan had looked out once during the day, only to have had his face savagely slashed by a grey paw.
He climbed up from the soft punkwood floor and reached a tentative paw out of the hole. It touched fur, and teeth nipped it hard. Rowan withdrew his paw, trying not to cry out. He dropped back down to the bottom of the hollow and licked away the blood. It was salty on his tongue and he felt thirsty.
Spindle was scratching in the darkness.
‘Do yew think uz could tunnel out? Uz don’t remember a hole lower down in thiz tree but anything iz better than zitting here doing nothing.’
‘There isn’t another hole. I know this tree well,’ Rowan replied, then regretted saying it. Here was an ex-zervant showing initiative and he, Rowan the so-called Bold, was pouring cold water on the idea.
‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘anything’s better than just sitting here. There may be a hole we don’t know about.’ He started to dig.
At first it was easy. Under the top layer of finely powdered wood was a layer of empty hazel-nut shells and a few dry leaves which crackled as they moved them.
‘Quiet, hissed Rowan. ‘We don’t want to alert the guards.
As the hole they were digging got deeper, their challenge was how to dispose of the debris. They piled it around the sides of the chamber but soon the debris started to trickle down on them and they had to lift it out again. Eventually a pile of fine powder poured down on to Spindle and buried him. He wriggled up, coughing and spluttering. Then all the stacked punkwood slid down into the hole and filled it. Rowan and Spindle climbed up to the inside of the entrance hole and hung there precariously, hoping to find clearer air.
‘What are you two doing?’ a gruff voice called from outside.
Below them, the females were making better progress, gravity being on their side. There were frequent cascades of powdered wood, mixed with the scales and dried remains of insects and the occasional leaf or nut-shell. The glow from the particles of rotten wood on their fur allowed them to see what they were doing and avoid the worst of the dust-falls. Even so they were tiring and the rate at which they were moving the rubbish away was slowing noticeably.
Then with a whoosh of sound, a huge mass of punkwood fell, covering those working below, and pitching a bewildered Rowan and Spindle down on to the wriggling bodies of the five females who were struggling to free themselves.
A rush of cool air passed them, drawn up the tree as if it were a chimney. A stream of fine powder poured out of the hole past the guards.
‘What’s going on in there?’ a voice from outside called huskily and the squirrels below tried not to cough.
‘Which way is out?’ Rowan asked the glowing figure of his life-mate as they embraced.
Hearing no
Similar Books
