Chapter One

Memory is a strange thing. The earliest memory I have, I must have been about three seasons old, is of my grandfather teaching me to play a paw clapping game at the fireside in our family den. I also remember, in about the same year, my mother scolding me for climbing rocks and letting me eat the apple peel when she baked a pie, and my sister knitting me a green jumper with brown trim. None of these memories are really related in any way, except that they are the only real memories I have of my family.

I can remember their names and details, of course, and what they smelled like; Grandfather smelt of tobacco, Mother of spices and my brothers of sawdust from their workshop. I can remember that we were happy, a tight extended family unit and that we loved each other.

When I try to recall their faces though, it's as if someone has drawn a gossamer curtain around my brain. I can vaguely recall their facial features, but they start to get smudged around the edges or mixed up with other beasts'. No matter how hard I try, I cannot get a clear image. I know what they looked like, I just can't see them in my mind. But I remember them.

The only other recollection I have involving my family is one that is branded on my memory forevermore. I remember the day they died.

It was the day before my sister's wedding, and I was five seasons old. We were preparing food outside, Mother and I; it was too hot and crowded in the kitchen. We were baking strawberry flans for the feast, that is to say Mother was baking strawberry flans and I was being a nuisance by eating all the best berries before she got to them. I sat on the tabletop, watching her trim pastry and stealing pawfuls of honey when she wasn't looking. Occasionally I would swat away an interested looking bee with my 'borrowed' wooden spoon, but otherwise I wasn't being much help.

I was the youngest in the family and so entitled to be a pest. Everyone else was away from home collecting things or in the kitchen of the den; helping prepare for the big day. It was my oldest sister Arbara who was getting married, the same one who'd knitted my memory sweater, to a young hare from one of the nearby families. She was sitting outside also, putting the final touches on her trousseau.

I wasn't very graceful when it came to pinching honey. Mother turned from putting away a flan to find me trying to wipe a dollop of the golden substance off my dress with a sticky paw.

"Lupwa!"

I looked up at her with innocence written all over my face. "I soggy mummy, t'was a'naccident!" Did I mention that I was the baby, need I say more?

"You shouldn't have been at the honey in the first place," she sighed, then noticed the depleted pile of strawberries and my juice stained face. "And stop eating the strawberries, or there'll be none left to eat with cream tomorrow!"

I weighed up the pros and cons of strawberries and cream versus strawberries now. I didn't hear him creeping up behind us, didn't see his filthy paw slink over and steal some berries. "But Mummy…they's very nice stwabees!"

"That's right, mumsy, they's is very nice strawberries!"

Startled by the strange voice, I turned around and saw him. I may forget the faces of my family, I may even forget my own face, but there is one visage I will never forget. The face of the Strawberry Eater. He was a big fat weasel, with dirty fur and red berry juice dripping down his chin; he had a horrible yellow grin and smelt of leaf rot.

I hated him instantly.

So I did the only thing that a level-headed beast of my age could; I whacked him on the head with my wooden spoon. "Punnem down, dey'sa our stwabees, not youses, punnem back!" I berated him.

I still have the hairline scar on my arm where he struck at me with his blade. Arbara shrieked. I clutched my arm, but did not scream. Hot tears pricked my eyelids but did not fall. Mother bravely came up behind him and struck him on the head with a pie pan. He dropped like a log.

And it might have all ended there had he not had friends watching from the forest. Unknown to us, they had already killed my father, brothers, cousins and uncles. The women in the kitchen came out, stirred by the yelling. The first few were struck with stones and fell dead to the ground. Soon they were beset by all sides. They hadn't a chance.

Mother did the only thing she could, grabbed my sister and I and shoved us into the relative safety of a nearby hedge while pandemonium ruled around us. The three of us then watched with horror as our entire family was slaughtered. The gang of bandits ate our feast, made use of our den and destroyed the whole place. The weasel that Mother had hit on the head revived and joined in the fun. I watched, my hatred for him growing as he finished off in just a few mouthfuls all the strawberry flans we had so lovingly baked.

By the time night fell, it was very clear to us that help – my father – was not coming. We saw the scouts returning with news of our male relatives, dead, all of them. Mother and Arbara cried silently, but I was young and didn't understand the full implications of what I was hearing.

Eventually we were found. They dragged us from the bush with rough hands; Strawberry Eater recognised me immediately. "Well, lookit here! It's da young missy what tried ter brain me wid her stick. Not so brave now, eh young'un?"

He shoved his dirty face right into mine. I cringed away and tried to hide behind my mother's skirts, but he grabbed my by my collar and hoisted me into the air. I could see a slight bruise on his forehead from where I'd hit him, it made me bold. "Punnem me down, nasty mister fathead!" I protested, wriggling in his grasp.

His friends found that laughable, but I wasn't finished. I'd seem my whole family killed, but to a someone of my young age what counted more was that he'd stolen our food, made me and Mother and Arbara hide in bush all day and that now he was holding me in a most uncomfortable position. I was tired, hungry, and just plain fed up. I had some spirit left, and I unleashed it on him.

"You stoopid weasely, dum head!" I cried and laid about with my spoon, which I had managed to keep hold of. Had I the chance now, I would use something much worse than a little spoon. But it did the damage then, and he dropped me after a few hits like a hot coal. "You little..."

I never found out what a little I was. I hit the ground with a bounce and ran towards what was left of my family. Strawberry Eater Lunged at me, and Arbara very bravely stood in his way. "You keep your hands off my sister!" she defied him. He gave her a whack across the face that sent her sprawling.

With a sob, Mother also stood up and tried to stop them getting to me. She and my sister were grabbed and dragged away. I did what I could to stop them being taken, but managed only a few good spoon-hits before it was taken off me. Strawberry Eater took me in a firm hold as my sister and mother were dragged away.

Oh Arbara, on the eve of your new glorious future, why were so suddenly shoved into the past? Oh Mother, why did I not do better to defend you, you who had always tried to keep me safe?

"This un's mine," said my captor giving me a shake, "But you can do what you want with them two!"

There is no nice way to say to this, so I will just put it bluntly. My mother and sister were tied up, strung up from trees and used for target practice. I tried to look away, but the Strawberry Eater held my head in place so I could not look anywhere else. In my dreams, I can still hear their screams and pleas. I will never forget that sight; it is the one way I can see my mother's face clearly, contorted with pain.

The moles who rescued me later took what arrows they could from the bodies before burial, and I made up the rest of the number - 28 in all - with ones I fletched myself. Those arrows lie in a quiver by my bed, and when that weasel and I next meet, he will look like a hedgehog before I am through.

I have said before I was a determined little thing, and I wasn't lying. They may have taken my spoon away, but I still had teeth, strong hind legs and, now, a burning anger and hatred that needed an outlet. I twisted and writhed in his grasp, soon freeing myself by literally falling out of my dress.

For the second time that day I hit the ground hard, and ran for my life with a speed that would qualify me to be a Salamandastron runner in later life. For now, my mission was freedom; I wasn't thinking of my long gone family, that would come later, nor was I thinking what would happen next. I just ran.

They chased me for a while, then gave up. It was then that practical thought, or as much of it a five-season old has, returned to me. I stopped running and let recent events catch up with me. My whole family was gone, I had no home to go to, I was hungry, I was alone. My world, little and insignificant though it was, had been destroyed in the space of a day. I sat down right where I was and cried as I had never cried before or since.

"Burr aye, whats thattem be oi 'ear?"

I had never met a mole before, and was startled by her sudden appearance. I stopped crying for a second, but my red eyes and hiccups remained. As I choked for breath, she smiled down upon me. "Hullo, missus! What's a little'un loike 'e doin' doawn there on the ground?"

Mummy had said never talk to strangers, but mummy was dead. Besides, the mole looked friendly and smelt of biscuits. I wondered if she had any. "S'cuse me, but do you hav'ny biskies?" I asked. To my young and innocent heart it was an important question, far belying the usual courtesies.

"Boi burlioh! Ah should've known, you hares are always hungerin! Coom with me, an we'll soon 'have ye full up!"