Frost Dancers: A Story of Hares

by Garry Kilworth

Genres: Horror; Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure

Synopsis

Amongst the gorse and the heathers of his native highlands, Skelter the mountain hare enjoyed an idyllic life: browsing and gambolling; taking in the superb scenery and making female friends, including the beautiful Rushie. Then one day Skelter's life of ease came to an abrupt end. Netted and captured, he and several other hares are transported hundreds of miles, to the strange lands of the south, destined for the cruel sport of hare coursing. Amidst a hell of shouting men and howling greyhounds, Skelter witnesses a nightmare, before making a miraculous escape. Alone, stranded in a landscape he does not understand, Skelter must learn to survive, despite the hostility and distrust of the local hares and other natural hazards. By far the most horrifying peril that faces Skelter is the florge : a vast, flying monster which is terrorising the countryside, killing indiscriminately. Raised in isolation by a man, thousands of miles from his native habitat, Bubba is a killer more terrifying than any natural creature: for he believes himself human. Can one small mountain hare survive against such a monster?

Release date: March 29, 2013

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 400

Sample

Remarkably, there seem to have been very few naturalist books written on the hare, so I am indebted to Henry Tegner’s Wild Hares (John Baker Ltd, 1969) which appears to be the only work available dealing solely with this familiar creature of ancient lineage. Prior to Tegner’s book, the last general work on hares was published in 1896, though there may have been one since which I have failed to uncover. In keeping with their private lives, hares have a low public profile. Up until 1910, hares were classified as rodents, which of course they resented, and then they were given their own order (lagomorphs) along with pikas and rabbits. The rabbits they reluctantly accepted, but when asked about pikas they simply looked mystified. Then only very recently the family name of brown hares became lepus capensis, where previously it was lepus europaeus. Some of the more staid amongst them still prefer their old title, feeling their national culture is being diluted by including them with Mediterranean and African species. Opinion varies on whether to call the female and male hares does and bucks, or jills and jacks. I have chosen the latter, to separate my hares more distinctly from rabbits, and, this being a work of fiction, ‘jills and jacks’ seem better suited to a lyrical fantasy. The story deals with two types of hares, the common brown (field) hare, and the blue (mountain) hare. The brown hare is larger and faster, but the blue hare more confident, with its own running tricks. The shallow home that the brown hare digs for itself, and the blue hare tunnels or finds in rocks, is called a form. Rabbits are newcomers to Britain, migrants come over with the Normans in the 11th Century, while hares have been native to the land since the dinosaurs went away. In certain remote enclaves of lagomorph society, the two species still retain a suspicion of one another, though happily in the main they are tolerant of each other’s differences and live side by side as cousins.

GARRY KILWORTH, 1991.

On this pale spring morning, a wet mist clung to the heather, and afforded some protection from birds of prey. There were still patches of hard snow, in the shadows, and cold pockets of air in the hollows. Skelter had woken with a start, having been dozing in his form. For a moment, he hunched himself inside the short burrow, unwilling to go out into the cold half-light. He twitched his nose and sniffed, scenting the damp heather.

‘Oh well,’ he said to himself by way of encouragement, ‘got to go some time.’

Still he didn’t move, and remained listening to the other blue mountain hares, feeding on the sedge outside. Finally, hunger got the better of him and shuddering he left his form to have a good stretch in the open air. Then he gazed about him at the rest of his clan. He realised he was one of the last to wake, but he refused to recognise getting up after sleep as a competition. There was more than enough food for the clan, so who cared who got up first?

Nearby a red stag, a knobber of under two years, was grazing, occasionally lifting its head to peer into the middle distance as if dreaming of a lost time. This creature need have no fear of eagles or wildcats, and could see a lot further than Skelter. However, it was coveted by hunters that would scorn wasting ammunition on a small mountain hare.

As he nibbled away at the sedges, his favourite food, Skelter’s coat gathered the moisture from the grass and heather. Every so often he would stop and shake this unwanted liquid from his body, spraying other jacks and jills in the process, getting sprayed in return.

Mountain hares being gregarious creatures, Skelter did not move too far from his neighbour, a jill called Rushie. Occasionally they spoke between mouthfuls of food.

‘I’ve just seen a click beetle in some fir clubmoss, that’s a good omen, that is,’ said Rushie.

‘Everything’s a good omen to you. Why should click beetles be lucky?’

‘Well, they’re not on their own, but they are if you see them in fir clubmoss.’

Skelter considered this and then dismissed it. Rushie was one of life’s optimists.

He paused in his eating to scratch the side of his head with his hind leg.

Still, it was a fine day. There were a few high clouds about, but nothing that foretold of bad weather. The heather swept away on all sides, like a purple flood, to splash and swirl against rocky outcrops. Saxifrage formed colourful bands around isolated tors, as if the tall stones had been decorated with garlands. In the glen below, some peat hags showed rich-brown against a green backdrop, like great gutted beasts washed up on the shores of a lake. Nearer still, a busy noisome burn, swollen with recent meltwater, flailed its passage down a stony rut in the mountainside.

There was a bird of prey, a hen-harrier, wheeling over some stunted firs. Some small mammal, a mouse perhaps, had been pinpointed. The raptor dropped, snatched at the turf, came up with a limp form. It flew over Skelter’s head, and eventually met its mate in the air, where an exchange took place. The female hen-harrier turned upside down in flight, and took the food from the claws of the male in its own talons.

‘Did you see that?’ he asked no one in particular, and his question drifted away without receiving a reply.

Skelter gave himself another scratch.

The red knobber had moved a little closer to the patch of hares now and was gently nibbling at the grasses. Suddenly his head came up, sharply, and a ripple went through him. One or two of the hares caught it too: something in the air. For a moment the whole mountainside froze. Rushie, close to Skelter’s rear, was still as a blue stone, the mist curling about her face. Only a ptarmigan, rustling amongst some sheep’s fescue, seemed oblivious of the atmosphere.

Skelter’s heart was pattering, not at all close to panic, but ready to pump faster if necessary.

The scene remained frozen for quite some time, until gradually a thawing took place. Hares were the first to begin eating again, though still primed for instant flight. The ptarmigan muttered to herself, not really a part of the scene, but aware just the same. The knobber was slower to melt, its big brown eyes wide, its tense body on taut strings. A ringlet butterfly played around its head, as if taunting the timid creature. Then by degrees a change came over the deer, and it too resumed feeding on the grasses.

Skelter was not ready for the thundercrack at all, and when it came, he jumped his own height off the ground.

The deer staggered forward a few paces, a raw wound under its nearside foreleg. It let out a sound of despair that tore at the roots of Skelter’s fear. One rear leg went from under it, so that it collapsed on that corner. It regained its feet again, only to have another leg buckle. It managed to stagger a few rickety paces forward, its eyes wide with pain, before collapsing completely onto its face, sending puffs of mist up from the heather.

Its fall triggered instant movement amongst the other creatures on the mountainside. Hares began hurling themselves in all directions, looking for their forms. Muscled fur flew, and white tails flashed panic. There was much whistling and grinding of teeth. True to their habits the hares had wandered all over the place. They were now between each other and their forms. One or two sensible ones used the nearest form, but were soon butted out into the open again by the true owners, once the latter reached them.

Skelter telemarked around Rushie, skated near another hare, and then curved in an arc through the heather. He found his form between the two rocks. It was shaped like a short tunnel with both ends open, and when he was crouched inside, he was hidden, just. He smalled himself as much as he could, wondering why his heart didn’t burst, it felt so swollen with fear.

There was the sickly smell of warm blood in the air, mingled with a harsher odour. Skelter’s flattened ears picked up the sounds of men as they crashed through the heather. They were growling at each other, the tones full of triumph.

A click beetle crawled around the entrance to the form, but Skelter ignored it. He was listening intently, trying to make out from the sounds the men were making, whether or not they intended to stay or roam further afield. The little knobber was dead, Skelter was sure of that, but would that satisfy them?

After a while, the beetle went away.

One thing all the creatures of glen would agree upon was that those outside its craggy walls were not to be envied. The tumbledown landscape, draped in the colours of heather, alpine lady’s mantle, gentian and purple saxifrage, was a home that they all held close to their souls. The dotterels who lived at the top and looked down on the rest of the glen were satisfied that here was the heart of the world. The deer would have no other grazing ground. Ptarmigan knew that their camouflage fitted the glen so accurately they might have been fashioned from its very rocks. The stoats and wildcats had no arguments over the lack of game. The hare clans would have preferred a glen without predators, but it would have had to look exactly like the one they knew and loved, down to the last burn, outcrop, peat hag, stunted pine and hidey hollow.

No one knew, or could divulge, what the resident eagle thought about the glen that was daily mirrored in the curve of his golden eye. This fearsome raptor that circled the glen, worrying the land beneath with his sweeping shadow, was only available for opinion at mealtimes, and those that joined him in these repasts were in no position afterwards to pass on any information they had gleaned. The rest of the creatures could only guess that since his terrible beak and talons were ever present, the eagle had no quarrel with those who extolled the virtues of his home.

No matter which way Skelter chose to look, the horizon curved upwards towards the clouds. Not that hares bother very much with such distances, but he thought it as well to glance around the sky occasionally for signs of eagles. Even so, this was considered by some to be a futile precaution, a waste of effort and certainly trying on the nerves. The saying was that you never saw the eagle that took you.

Rushie said once, ‘Hares are very silly creatures a lot of the time. They show off too much.’

Skelter agreed with this, for he himself was an exhibitionist, who would just as soon clown his way to the attention of others, as do something clever or dextrous. There were days when he felt strong enough to brook an eagle, and days when he would run from a wasp. There were dusks when he was full of good sense, and dawns when he was giddy and wild. He was much the same as other hares in that opposites lived comfortably within his soul, and he did not give a hare-blown whistle for critics or censors.

Skelter was slightly more level headed than most hares, which meant that he at least recognised the weaknesses of his kind, though like the others, he could do little to improve upon the situation.

Skelter had been born in one of the last litters of the previous mating season and was just under a year old at the time of the knobber’s death. His father was Dasher, a fine frost dancer who had attracted a jill called Fleetie, and the pair of them had three litters of leverets together. Thus Skelter had several brothers and sisters and many cousins to share his highland home with him.

Growing up had been a hazardous business, with predators around every rock, behind every cloud, but having made it this far, Skelter had gathered together a number of tricks to enable him to stay alive a little longer.

In the highlands, man was not the most dangerous of the hare enemies. For one thing the mountains did not attract vast numbers of humans: they were the last stronghold of the wilderness. For another the jacks and jills of the heather did not destroy man’s crops nor bother his chickens and ducks, so they were not hunted down as pests. Any deaths from men were likely to be from lone hunters taking potshots, but without any serious intention to destroy the clans. A far worse enemy was the stoat, that wily small-eyed killer that crept up on forms and stole the leverets. Then there were eagles, foxes and the occasional wildcat.

Skelter had grown up in the highlands, never straying far from the original form where he was born. His status amongst his kind was not yet established, as he had yet had no opportunity to box. His clan, the Screesiders, like other hare clans in the district, had no permanent hierarchy. Out of the mating season they were considerably unorganised, there being no real need for any kind of due order amongst them, with ranks and positions. They were not a fighting force, out to conquer, nor was there any need for government. In the mating season, or the frost dancing as they called it, things were different. The jacks all wanted the same jills and had to box each other to sort out a pecking order, but once all that was over, the system collapsed again.

Not that there was an absence of bullies or rough hares around. There were plenty of bad-tempered toughies who would butt you, kick you sideways, or bite you if they wanted your patch to feed on. They tended to be loners though, not interested in taking over the clan. Their power was used purely to satisfy their personal needs, not because they wanted to rule. Who would want to be a leader anyway? All it seemed to bring those who tried it – the stag monarchs for example – was a lot of responsibility, and heartache when things went wrong.

In any case, the jills were bigger than the jacks, and if a jack’s ego got too big for him, some jill would be sure to knock him down to size. The mountain hare jills certainly didn’t care to take on the leadership of the clan. They were too busy with their families in the mating season, and quite uninterested in organising anyone else when out of it. It was known that some of the lowland brown hares had matriarchs who set themselves up as leaders, but the blue hares of the highlands wanted none of it.

There was one particular jack in the Screesider clan, just over two years old, who others kept away from as much as possible. His name was Bucker, and it was said he could kick a rock to sand if he put his mind to it. He was a big handsome male, who had won the frost dancing for the last two years, and was beloved of many jills. Fortunately for Skelter, Bucker had taken a shine to the youngster, and often paused to give him advice.

‘Whatever anyone tells you,’ Bucker had told Skelter, ‘the best defence is camouflage. When danger’s in the air, or on the ground, freeze. Only at the last resort do you run. There are those who will tell you they can outrun a wildcat, or confuse an eagle – that’s a load of nonsense, and well they know it. Beware of braggarts, for they’ve been the downfall of many a sensible hare. Remember too, one very important thing that I’ve learned for myself. It’s not always the fastest runner that escapes the predator.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Skelter.

‘I mean, sometimes, in certain situations, it’s wiser to run at a speed which will confuse your enemy, and this is not necessarily the top speed of which you are capable.’

Skelter still did not understand. Surely, you should always run as fast as you could?

‘I can’t see what you mean.’

He honestly wanted to comprehend Bucker’s strategy, but it wouldn’t come right in his head.

‘I can’t explain it, because it depends on the situation at the time. All I’m asking you to do, is remember what I said, for there will come a time when you’ll need to think beyond the simple freeze or run policy.’

Skelter thought Bucker one of the greatest hares of all time, but this sort of favouritism earned him the animosity of other jealous males and consequently Bucker’s patronage was almost a bigger curse than it was a blessing. Skelter knew that if anything was to happen to Bucker, then he – Skelter – had best run along the wind’s back and join another clan.

Since birth, Skelter and Rushie had been inseparable friends. They were close to each other in ages, though Rushie had been born at the beginning of the previous season. They remained near to each other at feeding time so that they could talk between mouthfuls, and their forms were adjacent. During the winter gathering, when hares meet in large numbers, they had remained in one another’s company, exchanging views on the hares of other clans. They were like brother and sister.

One evening they were out together on the slopes near the scree, nibbling this or that as it took their fancy, when a third hare came by. Skelter recognised him as the two-year-old jack, Swifter. One of Swifter’s hind legs had been damaged in a rock fall, for which he compensated with a kind of lilt to his run, but he had more than usually powerful shoulders. Swifter had once boxed himself to second place in the frost dancing, behind Bucker. He was a rough, a hare who was crazier than most, denounced by some as a rogue male with no scruples.

Swifter stopped in front of the two younger hares. Ignoring Skelter, the older jack bit the head off an alpine gentian and sat staring at Rushie as he chewed.

Finally Swifter swallowed the flower, his throat pulsing, and he nodded.

‘I shall dance in the frosts for you,’ he said.

Then, with no more ado, the bigger hare turned and skidded down a slope of grass, into the heather below.

Skelter was quite affronted for his friend.

‘Who does he think he is?’ said the young jack. ‘Just to walk up to you like that and make a claim on you. What an offensive hare …’

Rushie nibbled at some heather.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said.

Skelter looked at her, astonished.

‘You mean, you aren’t scandalised at Swifter’s behaviour?’

Rushie lifted her head, to stare Skelter in the eyes.

‘No, no I’m not. Why should I be? He’s a very fine jack hare, with a lot of strength. His injury was caused by a fall, not by any problems before birth. I quite like the way he paid me that compliment.’

There was confusion raging in Skelter’s head. He felt sure that Rushie would be, or should be, offended by the blatant proposal. Surely that was not the way things were done? A male must first establish his position in the mating field for that particular season, before daring to show any preferences for a female.

‘I still think it’s disgraceful,’ said Skelter, grinding his teeth in annoyance at both Swifter and Rushie now.

Rushie said, ‘You wouldn’t be jealous of him, I suppose?’

Once again, Skelter was nonplussed.

‘Jealous? Why on earth would I be jealous? An old hare with a limp? Certainly not.’

‘I mean, jealous because he has shown favour to me, rather than any other female. Please don’t think that because we are together so often, Skelter, you and I are a natural mating pair. I mean, it’s possible we could be, because we’ve always been such good friends, but …’

‘Nothing was further from my mind,’ interrupted Skelter, haughtily. ‘I have no interest in you as a female, whatsoever, I swear. You’re good company, the best of company. I prefer to be with you more than anyone else,’ he was anxious to get in his denial of baser intentions, ‘but not for one second have I thought of you as a potential mate.’

Now it was Rushie’s turn to grind her teeth, though for what Skelter could not imagine. He had behaved perfectly in his view, not pressing any claims on her, not saying anything untoward. What was she angry about? He simply could not understand why she seemed furious at him, while the real villain Swifter, with his loose talk, was exonerated from all blameful behaviour by her. It didn’t make any sense.

‘So, you don’t admire me?’ said Rushie.

‘Of course I admire you, but as a hare, not as a female for mating with. Why, you’re one of the most interesting …’

He stopped abruptly, as Rushie butted him in the flank, sending him tumbling over the edge of a small cliff. He landed with a thump on a soft verge.

Now what was the matter with her?

When he reached the scree slope again, Rushie had gone.

Miserably, Skelter began to chew at the grasses again. Then he stopped to stare out over the mountainous landscape bloodied by a dying sun. There was a flock of birds in the sky, too distant for identification. They swept away, brushing the silent peaks that had now purpled. The next moment they were gone, down behind the high jagged horizon.

I wish I was with them, thought Skelter. I want to get away from this place, with its Swifters and Rushies. There must be other places, where a jack hare can be himself, and not have to think around corners before he says something. If I was a bird I could go where I wished, talk to whom I pleased, and when things got awkward or boring I could wing away into the clouds, find another landscape where the grass is lush and the heather just as tasty.

As these thoughts tumbled through his head, the darkness came down like fine dust, to settle on the highlands. It thickened the shadows in the dark holes and cracks of the earth, and turned familiar rocks and trees to sinister strangers. Finally, the insipid moon that had been creeping timidly up the edges of the sky, encroaching secretly on the sun’s hours, was able to deepen its colour. The sun had gone and the moon was no longer afraid of comparisons with its more charismatic sibling.

Skelter dozed, falling into a half-dream state. Suddenly, down below Skelter, a ghost-hare appeared, running zig-zag in field hare fashion between and around the rocks, its pale form barely visible amongst the dark heather. It seemed to glide, rather than run, over the uneven ground. Skelter was alarmed that he had been making wishes, some of which he really did not want to come true, with his ghost-hare in the vicinity. If the sacred hare had heard his thoughts it might decide to grant those wishes.

The ghost-hare stopped at the top of rise, stood on its hind legs for a moment as if surveying the land ahead, then disappeared below the crown of the hill.

Skelter was not surprised at witnessing the ghost-hare’s run. Every living hare had a ghost-hare to watch over it, though since ghost-hares were few, and the living many, the spirits of the sacred hares were guardians to more than one. It was fortunate that being supernatural, the ghost-hares could be in several different places at once and thus able to take care personally of each of its charges.

The last occasion Skelter had dreamed of his ghost-hare was as a leveret, just three weeks of age, and it was a pleasant memory. Ghost-hares sometimes appeared before in the dreams of the living hares as a portent, though whether one of doom or great fortune, no hare ever found out until whatever it was actually happened. It could mean something good was coming, or something very bad, or nothing at all.

Unfortunately, ghost-hares are known to be fickle: often there’s no pattern nor reason behind the dreams. They might just be lonely for contact with the quick, or fed up with the prattle of the dead. Then again, they are hares, albeit sacred and profound, and thus enjoy a joke as much as the next. Just because they’re insubstantial wisps of mist flying through the heather does not mean they’re made of nothing but seriousness, or are devoid of a sense of humour.

Skelter knew from the oral tales that ghost-hares are not the spirits of ordinary hares, but are most of them close to two thousand winters old. They are the souls of hares who have at one time been worshipped by humans, and are thus sacred, having been deified into immortality. Since they have roamed the earth for such a long time, and are connected with the Otherworld, they know all things. They have run the ice of new-born glaciers in ancient blizzards; between their claws are the archaic snows of yesterwinters; they have danced in the frosts of antiquity.

Ghost-hares even know some of the horrors of the Ifurin, that place which tempts hares on their way to heaven, with false trails. The journey to the Otherworld, after death, is short but difficult, through thicket-covered terrain with many tracks and highways. There are strange lagomorph phantoms that whisper from the tangled briars, to come and join them in feasts and frolicking. The dead hare must beware of straying from the path, must resist the sirens of the bracken, for they are only the images of hares, fashioned by dead stoats and weasels. They lead those tempted into a place called the Perfect Here, the heaven of predators, and the souls of these unfortunate hares are forever used to feed the spirits of their old enemy.

Ghost-hares also know that the time of the living hare is relatively short. They remember the highlands when men first came from their rock burrows into the light of day, out of the depths of the earth to hunt the hare for its flesh and pelt.

But if men hunted hares, rabbits were in even greater danger, for they were slower and were easily winkled from their holes. There was a strong belief amongst hares that rabbits were the result of man’s poor attempt at copying hares. Why, rabbits did not even have hair on their pads! When men had tried to copy the magnificent hare, with its lithe muscled body and powerful hind legs, they had failed miserably. Hares said they didn’t mind rabbits being around, but the creatures should know their place.

When the ghost-hare had run through Skelter’s dreams and disappeared, he suddenly woke and found the darkness around him. He made his way to his form, reflecting on what his dreams might mean, if anything at all.

The hares were gathered in the evening hills. Delicate smoke drifted from a distant crofter’s hut, curling upwards towards reddening cirrus like claw scratches in the high heavens. In and around the crags, the silver snow became pink and warm-looking. Below was a loch like a fallen moon, silent and still, shining. A tumbling burn smoothed the edges of the uncut garnets collected on its narrow bed.

It was the best time of day, when danger was at its least. The light being poor the eagles had ceased to circle and it was too early for serious concern over foxes and wildcats, who preferred the darkness. The storytelling was about to begin. Nothing was real. All had become dreamlike, a fantasy wafting before restful eyes. A time of peace. If you stared at something long enough, a piece of bracken or a flower, it melted into a haze before your eyes and eventually disappeared.

‘When the world was winters young,’ began the storyteller, ‘there appeared on the earth a mighty lagomorph: the magnificent Kicker, whose body flowed with long lean muscle, whose ears were like tall pines, whose hind legs were two mighty rivers of strength. There also came into the landscape at the same time a creature known as the Wind.

‘At that time the Wind had a shape and a form, though nobody knows today what it looked like, and it claimed to be the fastest creature on the earth. Seeing the great Kicker, the Wind issued a challenge. It cried in that wailing voice we all know so well that it wanted to race the hare, for it boasted that it would surely win.

‘Kicker was intent at that period in history on creating his own kind to populate the world, but the Wind would not allow him to rest, wailing and moaning in all the hollows and valleys, and calling Kicker a coward …’ (Skelter and the other hares gasped at this) ‘…; and a loser. Until Kicker finally agreed to race the Wind.

‘The Wind told Kicker that the course would be a great circle around the earth, beginning at a small island most of us hares know well. Kicker agreed to this, but stipulated that there should be no start and finish: the competitors had to run until they were so exhausted they could run no further. Thus it would be a test of stamina, as well as speed.

‘Agreeing to this the Wind set off immediately and had done at least three circuits of the world before Kicker had passed the island once. The speed of the Wind was so great it tore the skin from its own back, but when it passed Kicker, the great hare shouted, “Can’t you go any faster than that? I’m just warming up, but I’m wondering whether it’s worth the effort. I don’t want to flash past you so fast it makes you look foolish.”

‘The Wind screamed at this remark, and increased its speed, flattening forests, raising waves to the height of mountains, and creating dust storms on the deserts. As it did this, its flesh began to tear away in large pieces, which were devoured by the cats and dogs in its wake.

‘“Really,” Kicker told the Wind, as it sped by him for the seventh time, “this is going to be too easy. Having seen the best you can do, I hesitate to actually start my run, because I don’t want to humiliate you.”

‘The Wind howled at these words, and went even faster, scattering its bones over the world in the process. They sank in the seas, were buried in the mud or frozen in blocks of ice. Once the Wind’s body was gone, with nothing to contain its spirit it began to break up into smaller hurricanes and cyclones, typhoons and tornadoes, which scattered in all directions. Many of these greater parts of itself broke up into even smaller winds and breezes, right down to the tiny draughts that slide into our forms when we are resting.

‘The magnificent Kicker had counted how many times the Wind had circled the earth, and taking his time he did exactly one more circuit than this number, before claiming victory over his opponent. The Wind was angry of course, but was now without shape or form, and co