four Watchers must maintain vigilance on the world above.
Since the great excitement of a few days ago, however, the giant
had not come to life again. Nor had the creature on the high ground
caused any harm; abandoned by the Two-Legs, it had merely flapped
forlornly in the wind. Even the white birds had returned to their
roosts, no longer afraid of the strange intruder. The high state of
nervousness in the underworld had also been replaced by calm,
albeit an uneasy calm. To all but Long Snout, it seemed that the
threat of discovery by the Two-Legs had passed. Clearly, these long
watches were so unnecessary, so unfair.
A blast of
cold air from above signified that they had reached the end of the
tunnel. Fat One shivered – and cursed again.
The members of
the daylight watch left happily for the underworld. The dialogue
with the sombre newcomers had been clipped, perfunctory. Twisted
Foot and Long Ears set off for the western point of Inchgarvie,
where they would be close to the shadowy bridge. Still grumbling,
Fat One agreed to watch the east of the island. In a rare show of
agility, he leapt up the monastery wall and squeezed his body into
the space afforded by one of the oblong window holes. This perch
gave him a clear view of both the jetty and the contraption on the
high ground. The fourth Watcher, Digger, stayed inside the
monastery, near to the entrance tunnel. Digger (so called because
of his propensity for scratching the ground in search of worms and
other tiny delicacies) was one of the lair’s veterans, probably
older than Sharp Claws, and certainly much frailer.
It was even
colder than they had feared. A chilling wind swept down the estuary
from the west, blustering through the bridge’s giant arches and
whipping into the faces of the two Watchers on the narrow point.
Weak moonlight, intermittently obliterated by the passage of dark,
fast-moving clouds, added a ghostly lustre to the battalions of
jostling waves which besieged the rocks on either side of the
ridge. The Watchers huddled together for warmth, their eyes closed
to the merest of slits against the buffeting wind.
‘ At times like these, comrade,’ Long Ears chattered, ‘I would
gladly be gone from this place.’
Twisted Foot
was quick to recognise the jest in his companion’s remark. Banter
like this would keep them occupied for a while; it would alleviate
the boredom and the miserable coldness.
‘ And where, apart from his nest, would a bold warrior go on a
night such as this?’ he quipped, playing along.
Long Ears
didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he peered across the estuary
to the strings of twinkling lights on the northern shoreline.
‘ To the land over there,’ he said at length.
Twisted Foot
snorted, but something about the statement, the tone of Long Ears’
delivery, told him that the jesting was over.
‘ There? But why?’ he asked weakly.
His companion
sighed and then regarded Twisted Foot for some moments. His outsize
ears were quivering; his whole body seemed to tremble. Twisted Foot
sensed that mounting anger, not the cutting wind, was the
cause.
‘ For many reasons, comrade,’ Long Ears hissed, his narrow eyes
now filled with venom. ‘Because I detest the oppression of our
society. Because I am treated no better than a Scavenger. Because I
don’t want my youngsters devoured by the fat brown ones. Because I
hate their smugness and their easy life.’
The tirade
stopped abruptly. The tenseness in Long Ears’ body disappeared, his
rage expelled with it.
‘ These feelings,’ he continued more softly. ‘I sense – I know –
that you share them; that you, too, are unhappy with the
underworld.’
Twisted Foot
was taken aback by the ferocity of the onslaught – not even Fat
One’s worst complaints had ever carried such hatred, such
bitterness – but the stark truth contained in Long Ears’ words also
unsettled him. It was true: he did have similar thoughts.
‘ All right,’ he said cautiously. ‘Even
Since the great excitement of a few days ago, however, the giant
had not come to life again. Nor had the creature on the high ground
caused any harm; abandoned by the Two-Legs, it had merely flapped
forlornly in the wind. Even the white birds had returned to their
roosts, no longer afraid of the strange intruder. The high state of
nervousness in the underworld had also been replaced by calm,
albeit an uneasy calm. To all but Long Snout, it seemed that the
threat of discovery by the Two-Legs had passed. Clearly, these long
watches were so unnecessary, so unfair.
A blast of
cold air from above signified that they had reached the end of the
tunnel. Fat One shivered – and cursed again.
The members of
the daylight watch left happily for the underworld. The dialogue
with the sombre newcomers had been clipped, perfunctory. Twisted
Foot and Long Ears set off for the western point of Inchgarvie,
where they would be close to the shadowy bridge. Still grumbling,
Fat One agreed to watch the east of the island. In a rare show of
agility, he leapt up the monastery wall and squeezed his body into
the space afforded by one of the oblong window holes. This perch
gave him a clear view of both the jetty and the contraption on the
high ground. The fourth Watcher, Digger, stayed inside the
monastery, near to the entrance tunnel. Digger (so called because
of his propensity for scratching the ground in search of worms and
other tiny delicacies) was one of the lair’s veterans, probably
older than Sharp Claws, and certainly much frailer.
It was even
colder than they had feared. A chilling wind swept down the estuary
from the west, blustering through the bridge’s giant arches and
whipping into the faces of the two Watchers on the narrow point.
Weak moonlight, intermittently obliterated by the passage of dark,
fast-moving clouds, added a ghostly lustre to the battalions of
jostling waves which besieged the rocks on either side of the
ridge. The Watchers huddled together for warmth, their eyes closed
to the merest of slits against the buffeting wind.
‘ At times like these, comrade,’ Long Ears chattered, ‘I would
gladly be gone from this place.’
Twisted Foot
was quick to recognise the jest in his companion’s remark. Banter
like this would keep them occupied for a while; it would alleviate
the boredom and the miserable coldness.
‘ And where, apart from his nest, would a bold warrior go on a
night such as this?’ he quipped, playing along.
Long Ears
didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he peered across the estuary
to the strings of twinkling lights on the northern shoreline.
‘ To the land over there,’ he said at length.
Twisted Foot
snorted, but something about the statement, the tone of Long Ears’
delivery, told him that the jesting was over.
‘ There? But why?’ he asked weakly.
His companion
sighed and then regarded Twisted Foot for some moments. His outsize
ears were quivering; his whole body seemed to tremble. Twisted Foot
sensed that mounting anger, not the cutting wind, was the
cause.
‘ For many reasons, comrade,’ Long Ears hissed, his narrow eyes
now filled with venom. ‘Because I detest the oppression of our
society. Because I am treated no better than a Scavenger. Because I
don’t want my youngsters devoured by the fat brown ones. Because I
hate their smugness and their easy life.’
The tirade
stopped abruptly. The tenseness in Long Ears’ body disappeared, his
rage expelled with it.
‘ These feelings,’ he continued more softly. ‘I sense – I know –
that you share them; that you, too, are unhappy with the
underworld.’
Twisted Foot
was taken aback by the ferocity of the onslaught – not even Fat
One’s worst complaints had ever carried such hatred, such
bitterness – but the stark truth contained in Long Ears’ words also
unsettled him. It was true: he did have similar thoughts.
‘ All right,’ he said cautiously. ‘Even
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