In mid-May the buds of the fallen oak began to open hopefully and to
show their ruddy leaves. Seven small kingfishers perched on an alder
branch outside the entrance of their tunnel, while the wind stirred the
fledgling down between their feathers, and they waited for loach or
beetle or shrimp or elver or troutling. At sunset seven beaks were laid
on shoulders, sometimes to lift at a whistle shriller and louder than
the whistle of their parents; but the night was to other hunters.
While the moon was full and bright the otters went to hunt the fish
lying in the Tunnel Pool below Halfpenny Bridge--bass, grey mullet,
and flukes, or flatfish. The cubs were two months old and they had
learned to squeeze through the inner opening of the holt and run along
the root, in order to play on the grassy bank. One night as they were
playing rough-and-tumble round the base of an ash tree, they heard
their mother's whistle. This cry was not as piercing as the dog's
call to his mate, but like wet fingers drawn down a pane of glass.
Immediately Tarka stopped biting the tail of his younger sister, and
the third cub ceased to gnaw his neck. As fast as they could they ran
across the root and into the holt. The bitch was waiting for them,
with a trout in her mouth. Tarka sniffed at it as she was breaking it
up, then turned away, for he did not like the smell of it. The cubs
struggled for their own food, so the bitch lay down and fed them with
her milk until she grew tired of them. Shaking them off, she went away
with the dog, who had swum upriver with her.
When next she returned, she brought two skinned frogs, which she had
caught in the reed-grown, marshy bed of the old canal. She dropped
them in the holt and slid back into the river, heedless of the cubs'
cries. Tarka licked a frog and liked the taste of it; he bared his milk
teeth at his sisters, but he did not eat it. They rolled and snarled
and played until their mother's return, when they ran to her. She had
brought an eel, which she bit into pieces, beginning near the tail, but
leaving the head above the paired fins. Tarka swallowed little pieces
of the fish and licked his small sister's head afterwards, because it
tasted nice. Then he licked his own paws. He was cleaning himself for
the first time.
The new food changed them almost at once. They grew swift and fierce.
Their frolics on the bank often ceased at the cry of a night-bird, or
the distant bark of a cattle dog in the village. They started whenever
their mother started. They began to fear. Sometimes at sunset, when
their mother left the holt, they ran on the bank and mewed to her as
she hunted upstream. She would leave the water and chase them back
again to the holt. Her smooth movements near them on land were often
broken; she would stand still and uncertain, or run on, jerky with
fear. Many times she stood upright and listened, her nose towards
the village. People occasionally walked over Canal Bridge, which now
carried a drive to a house near the weir; and whenever she heard voices
she ceased to hunt, and swam down the river to be near the cubs. Human
voices frightened her; but the thunderous noises of trains in the
valley and the long, whisking lights of motor-cars on the road beyond
the railway were ignored because she was used to them, and knew them to
be harmless.
The buds of the ash, sullen for so long in their coverings shaped
like the black hooves of cattle, broke into browny-green sprays. The
cuckoo sang all night. Reed-buntings chattered among the rising green,
water-holding stems of balsam; soon Antares would burn at night like an
ember in the low southern sky.
One warm evening when the river was low, the mother swam down to
the holt and called the cubs into the water, and although they were
ravening, she did not climb up, but waited for them with a fish below
the tree. They whimpered and peered, moving their heads sideways and
telling her that below was fearful. She lay on her back in the water
and let the fish go, in order to catch it, and rise with it gleaming
again. The two youngest cubs ran back over the damp, trodden couch
to get through the tunnel, but they were too fat to squeeze through.
Perhaps Tarka would have gone with them, if he had not wanted the fish
so much. His eyes were on it, he smelled it, his mouth filled with
eat-water. He mewed, he yikkered, he tissed, but there was no fish. The
otter swam on her back and called him into the water.
Tarka watched her. He wanted the fish but he dared not let go with
his feet. The fish came no nearer, so he dropped down into the black,
star-shivery water. He was clutched in a cold and terrible embrace, so
that he could neither see nor breathe, and although he tried to walk,
it smothered him, choked him, roared in his ears, and stifled every
mew for help until his mother swam under him. Pressing pads and tail
against her back, Tarka was carried to the stony margin of an islet,
where the closed flowers of the water-crowsfoot were floating among
their leaves. He spluttered and sneezed and shook water out of his
eyes, and saw the stars above him, and felt his mother's tongue on his
head.
When he had eaten the fish, Tarka began to enjoy the strangeness.
He was playing with the fishtail when he heard the whistle so often
listened to from the holt. When he saw the animal with the wide flat
head and great bristling whiskers that had loomed over his head once
before, Tarka tissed and snarled at it and ran for his mother. He
snapped at the nose sniffing at him. The dog turned on his back and
tried to touch Tarka with his paws, in play. Tarka watched him and
wanted to roll as well, but he was awed by the stranger's size.
An hour later, the three cubs had eaten their fish happily on the
stones. The bitch had grown tired of coaxing the other cubs to enter
the water and had dragged them by their scruffs out of the holt and
dropped them into the river.
The first otter to go into deep water had felt the same fear that Tarka
felt that night; for his ancestors, thousands of years ago, had been
hunters in woods and along the banks of rivers, running the scent of
blooded creatures on the earth, like all the members of the weasel race
to which they belonged. This race had several tribes in the country of
the Two Rivers. Biggest were the brocks, a tribe of badgers who lived
in holts scratched among roots of trees and bushes, and rarely went to
water except to drink. They were related to the fitches or stoats, who
chased rabbits and jumped upon birds on the earth; and to the vairs or
weasels, who sucked the blood of mice and dragged fledglings from the
nest; and to the grey fitches or polecats, so rare in the forests; and
to the pine-martens, a tribe so harried by man that one only remained,
and he had found sanctuary in a wood where a gin was never tilled and
a gun was never fired, where the red deer was never roused and the fox
never chased. He was old; his canine teeth worn down. Otters knew the
ponds in this wood and they played in them by day, while herons stalked
in the shallows and nothing feared the old lady who sometimes sat on
the bank, watching the wild creatures which she thought of as the small
and persecuted kinsfolk of man.
Long ago, when moose roared in the forest at the mouth of the Two
Rivers, otters had followed eels migrating in autumn from ponds and
swamps to the sea. They had followed them into shallow water; and
one fierce old dog had run through the water so often that he swam,
and later, in his great hunger, had put under his head to seize them
so often that he dived. Other otters had imitated him. There was a
web of skin between the toes, as in the feet of wolves and dogs, and
generations of swimming otters had caused the spread of the toes to
increase and the web of skin to widen between them. Claws grew shorter.
Tails used as rudders became longer, thicker, and powerful with
muscles. Otters became hunters under water.
The moose are gone, and their bones lie under the sand in the soft coal
which was the forest by the estuary, thousands of years ago. Yet otters
have not been hunters in water long enough for the habit to become an
instinct. And so the original water-fear was born with Tarka, whose
mind had to overlay a weak instinct with habit, just as his ancestor
had done when he was hungry.
When he went into the water the next night and tried to walk towards
his mother, he floated. He was so pleased that he set out across
the river by himself, finding that he could turn easily towards his
mother by swinging his hindquarters and rudder. He turned and turned
many times in his happiness; east towards Willow Island and the
water-song, west towards the kingfishers' nest, and Peal Rock below
Canal Bridge, and the otter-path crossing the big bend. North again and
then south-west, where the gales came from, up and down, backwards and
forwards, sometimes swallowing water, at other times sniffling it up
his nose, sneezing, spitting, coughing, but always swimming. He learned
to hold his nose above the ream, or ripple, pushed in front of it.
While swimming in this happy way, he noticed the moon. It danced on the
water just before his nose. Often he had seen the moon, just outside
the hollow tree, and had tried to touch it with a paw. Now he tried to
bite it, but it swam away from him. He chased it. It wriggled like a
silver fish and he followed to the sedges on the far bank of the river,
but it no longer wriggled. It was waiting to play with him. Across the
river Tarka could hear the mewing of his sisters, but he set off after
the moon over the meadow. He ran among buttercups and cuckoo-flowers
and grasses bending with bright points. Farther and farther from the
river he ran, the moonlight gleaming on his coat. Really it was brown
like the dust in an October puff-ball, but the water sleeked the hair.
As he stopped to listen to the bleat of lambs, a moth whurred by his
head and tickled him. While he was scratching, a bird flying with
irregular wing-beats and sudden hawk-like glidings took the moth in
its wide gape and flew out of his sight. Tarka forgot the moon-play.
He crouched in the grasses, which rose above his head like the trees
of a forest, some with tops like his rudder, others like his whiskers,
and all whispering as they swayed. The nightjar returned, clapping its
wings over its head with the noise of a dry stick cracking. Tarka was
glad to hear his mother calling him. He mewed. He listened and her
whistle was nearer, so he ran away in the wet grasses. The cub did not
know how alarmed his mother was nor did he know that less than fifty
flaps away a bird with great eyes and wings spanning a yard was flying
upon him. The nightjar had seen the bird, too, and had clapped its
wings as a danger signal to its mate whose two eggs were laid among
ferns in the wood.
The nightjar twirled and planed away; Tarka scampered on. The great
bird, who had raised two tufts of feathers on its head, dropped with
taloned feet spread for a clutch. The otter saw it drop and ran
forwards so swiftly that the sound of her going through the grasses was
like the first wind which uncoils as it runs before the southwesterly
gale. The bird, which was a short-eared owl, thought that Tarka was a
small rabbit, and fanned above him while it considered whether or not
he was small enough to be attacked. It did not hesitate longer than the
time of six flaps, but stopped, while screaking to terrify and subdue
its prey. But Tarka came of a family fiercer and quicker in movement
than the owl. Tissing with rage, he jumped and bit his assailant as a
foot grasped his back and four talons pierced his skin. The other foot
of the bird grasped grasses and it had turned with clacking beak to
peck the base of the cub's skull when the paw-stroke of the bitch tore
half the feathers from its breast. She stood on it, bit once, twice,
thrice, in a second of time, and so the owl died.
Tarka was nipped in the neck, shaken, picked up, bumped all the way
back to the bank, scraped over the stones, and dropped into the water.
Obediently he followed his mother across the river, to where the dog
was lying on his back and gravely watching two cubs playing with the
tip of his rudder.
Fish were brought alive to the cubs when they had been swimming about
a fortnight, and dropped in the shallowest water. And when they were
nearly three months old their mother took them downstream, past Leaning
Willow Island, and across the bend, to where the banks were glidden
into mud smoothed by the sea. The tide had lapsed from the mud, leaving
fresh water to tear the rocky bed below.
Tarka galloped through the tall green reeds to the river, stopping by
a gut to sniff at the tracks of a curlew, which had been feeding there
during the ebb-tide. Near the water he found another track, of five
toes well spread, and the prick of five claws. The dog had walked
there. Just above Halfpenny Bridge they saw him, half out of the water,
and chewing a fish which he did not trouble to hold in his paws. He
craunched it from the head downwards, gulping his bites quickly, and as
soon as the tail was swallowed, he turned and went under water for more.
The bitch took her cubs to a pool below the bridge and walked with
them across a shallow tail of water. She stared at the stones, brown
and slippery with seaweed, and the cubs stared also. They watched the
glimmers in the claws of water, sometimes trying to bite them. While
they were watching the mother ran along the bank to the top of the pool
and slid into the water. More often than usual her head looked up as
she swam from bank to bank, for she was not hunting, but driving the
fish down to the cubs. Tarka became excited and, seeing a fish, he swam
after it and went underwater to get it. In order to travel faster, he
struck out with all four webs together, and lo! Tarka was swimming like
an otter near a fish. It was the biggest fish he had seen, and although
he kicked after it at the rate of nearly two hundred kicks a minute, he
lost it after a yard. He yikkered in his anger, and oh! Tarka was no
longer swimming like an otter, but gasping and coughing on the surface,
a poor little sick-feeling cub mewing for his mother.
He felt better when he had eaten a mullet caught by his mother. The
fish had come up with the tide and remained in the still pool. Late
in the night Tarka caught a pollywiggle, or tadpole, in a watery
hoof-hole and thought himself a real hunter as he played with it,
passing it from paw to paw and rolling on his back in the mud. He was
quite selfish over his prey when his mother went to see what he was
doing, and cried, _Iss-iss-ic-yang!_ an old weasel threat, which, being
interpreted, means, Go away, or I will drink your blood!
Old Nog the heron, beating his great loose wings over Leaning Willow
Island as the sun was making yellow the top of the tall tree, saw five
brown heads in the salmon pool. Three small heads and a larger head
turned to the left by the fallen tree, and the largest head went on
upriver alone. The cubs were tired and did not like being washed when
they were in the holt. Afterwards Tarka pushed his sister from his
mother's neck, the most comfortable place in the holt, and immediately
fell asleep. Sometimes his hind-legs kicked, gently. He was trying to
catch a shining fish that wriggled just before his nose, when he was
abruptly flung awake. He yawned, but his mother, tissing through her
teeth, frightened him into silence. The day was bright outside the hole.
A kingfisher sped down the river, crying a short, shrill _peet!_ as it
passed the holt. The otter got on her forelegs and stared towards the
opening. Soon after the kingfisher had gone, a turtle dove alighted on
the ash tree above the holt and looked about her; she had just flown
off her two eggs, nearly dropping through a loose raft-like nest in a
hawthorn by the weir. The bird held out a wing and began to straighten
the filaments of a flight-quill which had struck a twig during her
sudden flight out of the bush-top. She drew the feather through her
beak thrice, shook her wings, listened, and went on preening.
Tarka closed his eyes again, breathed deeply and settled to sleep
on the youngest cub's neck. He looked up when his mother ran to the
opening. The otter was listening to a sound like the high, thin twang
of a mosquito. Hair bristled on her neck. From far away there came a
deep rolling sound, and a screaming cheer. The otter instantly returned
to her cubs and stood over them in a protective attitude, for she knew
that hounds were hunting the water.
Tarka crouched down, listening to the cries. They became more distinct.
Always a deeper, gruffer note was heard among them. The sounds, almost
continuous, became louder and louder. Nearer came another sound--the
wings of the dove striking against twigs as it flew away.
A minute later the pair of cole-tits that had a nest in a hole of the
ash tree began to make their small, wheezy notes of alarm. The white
owl had flown from the bridge and was perched against the ivy of the
trunk, turning its head from side to side and blinking. One cole-tit,
about as long as a man's finger, flittered with rage on the twigs a
few inches from the gold-grey head. The owl blinked slowly; the baying
swelled under the bridge; it swung its head round without moving its
body and stared straight behind it. _Chizzy-chizzy-chizzy-te!_ wheezed
the cole-tit as the owl floated away. Tarka was used to this sound, for
usually it greeted him whenever he looked out of the holt in daylight.
_Chizzy-chizzy-chizzy-te!_ the bird wheezed again, and then Tarka saw
the big head of the dog-otter by the opening, and his wet paws on the
bark. The bitch tissed at him, her teeth snapped at his head, and the
dog was gone.
The cries were now very loud. Tarka heard thuds in the wood all around
him. The cubs crouched in the darkest corner. Nearer came the shouts
of men, until the thuds of running feet ceased on the bank. The water
began to wash against and lap the half-drowned trunk, claws scraped
the wood, the opening grew dark and the tongue he had heard above the
others boomed in the hollow. The otter crouched back, larger than
usual, for her body was rigid and all the hair of her back stood
straight. Swish, swish swept her rudder. She recognized another sound
and tissed every time it cried the names of hounds, in a voice thin and
high as though it were trying to become as the horn which so often took
its rightful breath. The voice ceased. The horn sang its plain note.
Whips cracked.
By their big feet hounds pulled themselves out of the water, except
the one who threw his deep tongue at the holt opening. He was all
black and white, with great flews, and the biggest stallion-hound in
the pack. He was black from nose to neck, except for the pallid nicks
of old quarrelscars on his muzzle and head. No hound quarrelled with
him now, for Deadlock was master of all. In his veins ran the blood
of the Talbots, and one of his bloodhound ancestors had eaten man. He
had mastiff in him. His dam and sire had pulled down many a deer at
bay in the waters of the moor, and died fireside deaths after faithful
service to red coats. A pink weal ran down his belly, for in his second
stag-hunting season the great pied hound had been ripped open by the
brow-point of a stag; and his pace had gone from him afterwards. The
otter-hunters bought him for a guinea, liking his long legs, and now
Deadlock was the truest marking hound in the country of the Two Rivers.
He held by his paws, and his teeth tore at the sodden tinder-wood. He
could thrust in only his head. While he was kicking the water for a
foothold, the otter ran forward and bit him through the ear, piercing
the earmark where the blue initial letters of his original pack were
tattooed. Deadlock yarred through his bared teeth. Three small mouths
at the other end of the holt opened and tissed in immense fright.
Then Tarka heard a cry which he was to hear often in his wanderings; a
cry which to many otters of the Two Rivers had meant that the longest
swimming, the fastest land-looping, the quietest slipping from drain or
holt were unavailing.
_Tally Ho!_
The cry came from down the river, just above Leaning Willow Island,
from the throat of an old man in a blue coat and white breeches, who
had been leaning his bearded chin on hands clasping a ground-ash pole
nearly as long and as old as himself. From his look-out place he had
seen something moving down like brown thongweed just under the clear
and shallow water. Off came the hat, grey as lichen, to be held aloft
while he cried again,
_Tally Ho!_
The horn of the huntsman sang short and urgent notes; the air by the
holt was scored by the names of hounds as he ran with them to where,
amidst purple-streaked stems of hemlock, the old man was standing on
the shillets.
Soon afterwards the horn sounded again near the holt and the baying of
hounds grew louder. Footfalls banged the wood above Tarka's head, as a
man climbed along the trunk. The water began to lap: hound-taint from a
high-yelping throat came into the holt: the bitch grew larger along her
back when, above her head, a man's voice cried snarlingly, _Go'rn leave
it, Captain! Go'rn leave it!_ A thong swished, a lash cracked. _Go'rn
leave it, Captain!_
The high yelping lessened with the taint of breath. The cries went up
the river. The rudder of the bitch twitched. The hair on her back fell
slanting; but it rose when something scratched above. Her nose pointed,
she breathed through her mouth. She moved away uneasily. Tarka sneezed.
Tobacco smoke. A man was sitting in the branches over them.
After half an hour the cries came down to the holt again. They passed,
and then Tarka heard a new and terrible noise--the noise as of mammoth
iron-toed centipedes crossing on the stones, or shillets, at the tail
of the pool.
_Tally Ho! Look out, he's coming down!_
Iron toes scraped the shillets faster. Here, across the shallow, a
dozen men and women stood almost leg-to-leg in the water, stirring the
stream with their iron-shod poles to stop the dog-otter passing down to
the next pool.
Tarka and the cubs breathed fast again. Deadlock's great bellow swam
nearer, with the high yelping of Captain. Many wavelets slapped against
the tree. A dozen hounds were giving tongue between Canal Bridge and
the stickle above Leaning Willow Island. A shaggy face looked into
the holt and a voice cried just over Tarka's head, _Go'rn leave it,
Dewdrop! Go'rn leave it!_ Boots knocked on the trunk. _Is-isss-iss!_
_Go'rn leave it!_ And Dewdrop left it, bitten in the nose.
Unable to break the stickle, the dog-otter went back under the bridge.
Baying became fainter. The notes of the cole-tits in the ash tree were
heard again.
In the quiet hollow the otter unstiffened and scratched for ticks as
though the hunt had never come there. Hounds and men were above the
bridge, where another stickle was standing. The water flowed with
small murmurs. She heard the rustling clicks of dragonflies' wings
over the sun-plashy ripples. Silence, the tranquil _chee-chee_ of a
cole-tit seeking a grub in an oak-apple, and the sunbeam through the
woodpecker hole roving over the damp wood dust on the floor. The otter
lay down, she dozed, she jumped up when sudden cries of _Tally Ho!_
and a confused clamour arose beyond the bridge. Now all the sounds of
the past hours were increasing together, of tongues, and horns, and
cheers; and very soon they were overborne by a deep new noise like
the rumbling of the mill when the water-wheel was turning. Then with
the deep rumbling came the prolonged thin rattle of the horn, and the
triumphant whooping of whips and huntsman. The sounds slowed, and
ceased, except for the lone baying of a hound; they broke out again,
and slowed away into silence; but long afterwards the strange blowing
noises made by their mother frightened the huddled cubs.
* * * * *
Sometimes the slits of the owl's lids opened, and dark eyes would watch
a drop of water falling from one of the thin horns of lime hanging from
crevices between stones of the arch. Yellow ripple-lights no longer
passed across the stonework of Canal Bridge. The sun made shadows on
the meadow slightly longer than the trees were tall. For more than an
hour the water had been peaceful. A blackbird sang in the sycamore
growing by the bridge. The otter looked out of the holt and listened.
She feared sunlight on the field less than the taint of hounds still
coming down on the water, and, calling her cubs, she slid into the
river and ran out under the bank, and to the grass. _Iss-iss-ss!_ The
ground in patches was damp with water run off hounds' flews, flanks,
and sterns. Only a carrion crow saw them hastening across the meadow
to the leat, and its croaks followed them into the wood, where bees
were burring round purple spires of foxgloves, and chiffchaffs flitted
through honeysuckle bines. Otter and cubs passed low and swift among
the green seed-heads of the bluebells; and uphill over blackening
leaves, until they saw the river again below them, where the sunpoints
glittered, and a young kingfisher drew a blue line in the shade of oak
trees.