"I can't stress enough the danger you put yourselves in today," said Alan, as he furiously reprimanded Lucy and Pipkin for their little escapade earlier that day. It was late afternoon following their adventure out on the Great Marsh. The rescue party had returned to Watership Down with the good news that luckily no one had been hurt. Then, there had followed a string of stern disciplinary actions for those responsible.
"Good intentions or no, it was still a reckless, disobedient and extremely foolish thing to do," Alan continued, "You could have both been killed!"
"I'm so sorry, Dad," muttered Lucy, holding back tears, but somehow forcing herself to stand up straight. After all, she's known from the start that there were bound to be consequences, although she'd hoped to bear them alone, "It's all my fault – it was my idea and I persuaded Pipkin to tag along with me. I'll take any punishment, but please don't punish Pipkin too. He's not to blame...!"
"Whose idea this was and who willingly and knowingly participated in it makes no difference, young lady!" retorted Alan sharply, "In this world, we don't go out playing heroes. We don't take unnecessary risks! I have spent the last four years teaching you to respect the laws of nature, so that you may learn to survive in this world. This kind of behaviour certainly goes against everything I've ever taught you!" Pipkin and Lucy lowered their heads shamefully. Alan was right; it had been a stupid, insane thing to do. There was no sugarcoating it.
"However," Alan continued, his tone softening somewhat, "Despite all the trouble you caused, you've still made me proud. You both did a very good thing by finding that letter. And I owe myself an ass – you were absolutely right about Sam, Lucy. Yet, even when most of us thought otherwise, you still did what you had to do to prove her innocence. Although I'm angry as hell with you both, I'm also very proud of what you did and I will try and make sure it's not wasted."
"So does this mean Sam can stay then?" asked Lucy excitedly. Even if they were to be punished for putting themselves in danger, she'd be content knowing that Sam and Stonecrop would be vindicated as they deserved. And she knew Pipkin would feel the same way. Alan smiled at his daughter.
"That, sweetheart, is up to Hazel to decide," he said, "But I'm fairly certain he'll relent. After all, he owes his daughter's life to Stonecrop. Which brings us back to you," he added, causing Pipkin and Lucy's faces to fall. There was no way they were worming their way out of punishment on this. But Alan was still an understanding father.
"Under normal circumstances, you'd both be spending the next whole cycle of seasons grounded and in detention," he said. Lucy couldn't suppress a nervous gulp. "However," Alan continued, "If you hadn't done what you did today, we would never have learned the truth about Sam. Therefore, just this once, I'm letting you off the hook."
Lucy and Pipkin couldn't believe their luck. At very best, they'd hoped Alan would understand and go easy on them. Instead, he was actually letting them off unpunished!
"Thank you, Dad!" exclaimed Lucy, running over to hug her father, followed by Pipkin. She kissed him on the cheek, "You're the best Dad in the whole world!" Alan patted her reassuringly on the shoulder. Suddenly, he noticed the smile had abruptly faded from Lucy's face.
"What's the matter?"
"Dad, what will happen to Sandwort?" asked Lucy timidly. Alan sighed, realising she was thinking of her friend, who was in big trouble, currently suffering the harsh consequences for what he had done out there today.
Sandwort was in total disgrace. The story of how he had lured Primrose out there and then left her to die, to save himself, had struck a devastating blow to his once great reputation. The realisation that he had also driven Stonecrop out of the warren under threat of death had only made things worse for him. The Owsla veterans were furious at this outrage and were tempted to beat Sandwort within an inch of his life, but luckily Hazel had stepped in and ordered that any punishment they gave him would not involve violence.
Bigwig had disqualified Sandwort as a cadet, revoked his Junior Owsla captaincy and given him a lifelong ban from the Owsla. Holly had been no less merciful, furiously reprimanding his eldest son for his disgraceful performance and informing him that if he didn't make up for his mistake soon, he would officially disown him. Even his closest friends and fans, disgusted by his behaviour, had turned their backs on him, shunning him. His previous status as a strong and brave buck, the star of the warren, was history.
"I'm afraid that rabbit has brought his own ruin upon himself," said Alan grimly. Although, in a way, he pitied Sandwort, his actions were still inexcusable, "Now, he's getting his just deserts." Lucy however wasn't so sure; despite what Sandwort had done, he was still her closest friend amongst the Watership rabbits and she didn't want this business to brand him forever a disgrace and a cheek.
Over at the Honeycomb, a similar meeting was in session. Stonecrop stood nervously facing Hazel and Hyzenthlay, surrounded by a crowd of curious onlookers, as the Chief Rabbit of Watership Down thanked him for his courage.
"I really don't know how to thank you, Stonecrop," said Hazel, "Hyzenthlay and I will never forget what you did for Primrose. Thank you."
Hazel had scolded Primrose for putting herself in danger and made her apologize to Stonecrop for treating him so poorly, as well as to thank him for saving her life. However, when he had demanded that Sandwort apologize too, the mean-tempered buck, still defensive of his injured pride, had flatly refused and stormed out. A furious Holly was about to go after him and beat the living daylights out of him for this impudence, but Clover had held him back, preferring that they leave Sandwort alone to cool off.
"You're a good soul, Stonecrop," Hyzenthlay put in, "Despite our daughter's poor treatment of you, you still found it within your heart to give her another chance. May Frith always smile upon you!" Sam, standing right beside Stonecrop, pulled her adoptive son into a tight hug.
"I'm so proud of you, sweetheart," she said, "Mind you, you gave me the fright of my life when you ran off like that, but you still made me proud." She kissed his cheek, causing Stonecrop to blush.
Word of Stonecrop's heroism out on the Great Marsh had spread like wildfire. Many of the rabbits had approached him to praise him for his courage and some had even had the decency to apologise for shunning him these past few months. All of them were feeling rather bad for following Sandwort's example and were more than happy to distance themselves from him now. Stonecrop had curtly accepted their apologies, reassuring them there were no hard feelings whatsoever.
"And that's not all," continued Hazel, "You've done us a great service, one which I must now reward in kind. What is it you really want, Stonecrop?" He already knew what Stonecrop was going to ask of him. Sure enough, Stonecrop considered for a moment before replying.
"Hazel, all I ask is that my stepmother be allowed to stay on. She's always been part of my life and I want her to continue being part of my life here." This caused several whispers all around, as well as a frown from Bigwig. Although the discovery of the letter had lifted the cloud from over Sam, many still remained extremely doubtful of her, although they had kept it to themselves.
"Please, parli!" Primrose begged her father, noticing his hesitation, "I promised Stonecrop that you would let her stay." Although rather doubtful himself, mostly for his people's sake, Hazel was still an understanding leader and he owed Stonecrop his daughter's life. Toppled with the fact that they now had evidence that they were all wrong about Sam, he couldn't just ignore it.
"You have my word, Stonecrop," he finally said, "Sam can stay and all the restrictions imposed upon her are removed, effective immediately." Stonecrop nodded his thanks, shooting Primrose a grateful smile as he did. Like she'd promised him on the way back, she had used her influence to convince her father to change his mind. This could be the start of a true friendship based on mutual trust between them.
Things pretty much returned to normal on Watership Down in the days following the incident on the Great Marsh. The Owsla cadets, minus Sandwort, had all been evaluated and Bigwig was glad to welcome Speedwell, Buckthorn and Acorn Junior into the Owsla. Forest had also been promoted to new Captain of the Junior Owsla, replacing the expelled Sandwort. The rest of the youngsters would unfortunately have to wait until the next cadet evaluation patrol the following season, much to their dismay.
Stonecrop had made a whole new start for himself. By saving Primrose from the quicksand, he'd received a hero's welcome, becoming the most popular rabbit in the whole warren. All of a sudden, all of the youngsters wanted to get to know him better and he'd sure earned to respect and gratitude of all of the adults. But the one who made the real difference in his life was Primrose. The two of them had become practically inseparable and would be seen everywhere together.
Stonecrop would wake up every morning to find Primrose waiting to greet him outside his burrow, so they could go out to silflay. The two of them would spend the day together, playing, talking or exchanging stories about their worlds. Stonecrop found Primrose was actually a very nice and gentle character at heart, very unlike her previous rude, snobbish disposition. The biggest bonus of having her as a friend was that the world of the future was now open to him.
Primrose had taken it upon herself to teach him Lapine, as well as all the customs and ways of the rabbits. With her help, Stonecrop was quickly fitting in with the other rabbits and was no longer the downtrodden, ignorant outcast. At long last, he had friends amongst his own kind! Now, he truly felt he was someplace that he could actually call home, just as Dr Drake had promised him. The only one who wished he'd never come was Sandwort.
Utterly humiliated and a target for insults and resentment by his former friends, even worse than Stonecrop had been, he stubbornly refused to swallow his pride. He wouldn't leave Primrose alone, stalking her everywhere and begging her to listen to his side of things. She, of course, merely gave him a cold shoulder. The situation had reached breaking point when Sandwort had found her and Stonecrop cuddling in the sun and lost his temper, calling Primrose a slut who mated with every buck in the warren. Unfortunately, Hazel had overheard him and, after furiously chastising him for his dirty remarks, had ordered him to stay away from his daughter and Stonecrop, threatening to have him confined.
After that, Sandwort had pretty much gotten the message and given up his pointless attempts to salvage his tarnished reputation. But he still wouldn't apologize to Stonecrop and instead became a bitter, spiteful recluse, avoiding everyone. The precious few who sympathized for the mess he'd made of his life had tried to reason with him, but were met with flat dismissal and even threats of violence if they didn't leave him alone. With Sandwort left to his sulking solitude, there was only one little matter left to resolve.
Woundwort's body had been recovered from the Great Marsh and brought back to Watership Down for an autopsy. Groundsel was summoned from Vleflain, along with several other witnesses, to identify the body. That was why he, along with his officers, including Campion and Moss, and his aide Vervain, found themselves gathered in Alan's lab three days after their expedition on the Great Marsh. Hazel and Bigwig were present too. The body of Woundwort lay in state before them on a worktable, wrapped inside a plastic body-bag.
All of the rabbits cringed at the appalling smell of death and decay that filled the room as Alan unzipped the bag and pulled it back from the face. Although the body had been sprinkled with methanol, to kill the bacteria, it was decomposing fast now that it had been exhumed from the anaerobic environment of the mud that had preserved it all these years and needed to be reburied soon. Groundsel drew in his breath, recognising the familiar, sinister face of Woundwort.
"So, I guess we can finally dismiss any rumours of the General having survived," he said, lowering his head in respect for his former Chief, Campion following his example, the latter looking rather sombre at the sight of the dead rabbit. Although Woundwort had left nothing behind but a history of bloodshed and enslavement, he'd still been his mentor for much of his life. Moss was giving the body a dirty look; he still couldn't believe that in another lifetime, he had actually been a minion to this monster. He smirked at the irony, remembering how Woundwort would always boast that he was invincible and could fight even the Black Rabbit of Inle himself, and yet now he lay there a rotting carcass. Vervain noticed him.
"What are you smirking at?" he snapped incredulously at Moss's lack of respect, "That's your master over there! Bow your heads in his presence, all of you!" The rabbits all glared in disgust at Vervain.
"The General's authority died with him, Vervain," Groundsel reminded him sternly, giving Vervain a warning look to mind his attitude, "We no longer owe any allegiance to him."
Vervain had taken the news of the discovery of Woundwort's body very hard indeed. For years, he'd held onto the hope that the General might return someday and restore him to his former power. Now, the discovery of his master's remains had completely shattered that hope. But Vervain, like Woundwort, was not born to accept defeat that easily. He rounded on Alan.
"You don't fool me with this trick, Johnson!" he sneered, "This is not the General! It can't be him! He's invincible...!" Alan rolled his eyes at Vervain's ridiculous conspiracy theories.
"Only his 'invincibility' didn't keep the sorry blighter from drowning like a rat, did it?" he said, smiling at the look of outrage on Vervain's face for his insulting Woundwort's memory. Bigwig smirked at Vervain.
"Like we've always told you, Vervain," he said coldly, "Your master met with a fitting sticky end, but Frith allowed Alan to live, because he, a mere ithe, actually deserved another chance at life!" Vervain looked like he was about to explode. He felt like renouncing Frith Himself for doing him the injustice of letting Woundwort die, while that miserable ithe Johnson had lived. However, the possibility of a mistaken identity hadn't slipped the other rabbits' minds. Groundsel looked at Alan intently.
"Are you absolutely certain it's him?" To prove his point, Alan showed them a lab dish with a couple of pistol bullets, which he'd pulled from the body during the autopsy.
"These were fired from my gun during our fight in the Crixa," he said, "Oh, and have I forgotten to mention the fact that this fellow was also a cannibal?" He showed them a jug, containing the putrid contents of Woundwort's stomach, which he'd found, to his horror, contained a second rabbit body – or rather the semi-digested remains of one. Looking inside that smelly soup of slime and live maggots, they could clearly see bits and pieces of rabbit fur and even a few bone fragments, including a forward buck tooth, undoubtedly rabbit.
"Any chance you can identify this one too?"
The rabbits cast one glance at the macabre mess, trying not to picture the sight of Woundwort eating a fellow rabbit, and turned away in disgust. Moss hurryingly excused himself and ran outside to throw up. Vervain let out a terrified squeak and jolted backwards in horror as if he'd been electrocuted. As he did, he collided with a table where Alan had left a tray with the slides of ISV he'd been examining under his microscope. The tray, protruding precariously from the edge of the table, acted like a see-saw. Its contents were sent flying, smashing all over the floor and Woundwort's body.
"Watch it, you idiot!" barked Alan, setting the jug aside and bending down to retrieve his precious slides, now all smashed to pieces. So much for studying that mysterious virus they'd found in the ampoule. That was why he didn't like having clumsy rabbits poking around his workplace. However, at least it left no further doubt in everyone's minds that this was indeed General Woundwort, dead and gone.
"So, what do you want us to do with the body?" he asked Groundsel, "Do you want us to burn him or would you rather give him a state funeral or something instead...?" Groundsel considered for a moment. Giving Woundwort a proper burial would indeed give his people a sense of closure, but, on the other hand, he had to think ahead. Even with Woundwort dead, he knew there were those still loyal to him who might be tempted to continue his work. A burial site alone could serve as a shrine for his former supporters and it was his duty to eliminate that prospect.
"General Woundwort did not die an honourable Chief Rabbit, who deserves to be remembered by future generations," he said, "I promised my people that we will never live in his shadow again. Therefore, I want him buried in an unmarked grave, away from our warren, where he can be forgotten in relative anonymity." Vervain looked scandalised.
"You would have the sovereign General Woundwort buried in a lonely grave in the middle of nowhere, like some common hlessi?" he roared, "It is our duty to watch over his body, honour him, preserve his legacy...!"
"That is precisely what we will not do, Varvain!" barked Groundsel, "Mark my words, all of you: the location of the General's final resting place is never to be revealed to anyone, and that is a direct order. Is that understood?" Vervain was furious. He rounded on Alan.
"So it wasn't enough that you murdered him, you insufferable ithe!" he shouted, "Now you're bent on tarnishing his respectful reputation as a great leader and warrior with your lies! Well, I swear to Frith, I will never turn my back on his legacy, never! I alone continued defending his name after you cowards threw away everything he'd given you and surrendered to the Outsiders, and I will continue to do so until the Black Rabbit takes me!"
They were all unnerved by Vervain's fierce resolve; yes, they knew Vervain was the type to make hollow threats and to play tough, not to mention being Woundwort's most fanatic follower through and through, but this was different. The only time Alan had ever seen his nemesis look like that was in another history, where he'd watched a deranged Vervain kill himself and taking Campion with him, after losing everything in the destruction of Efrafa. Groundsel had heard enough.
"Well, in that case, Vervain, you can consider yourself banished from Vleflain!" They were all caught by surprise at his severity. They'd never seen him look so angry before.
"I should have done this long ago!" continued Groundsel, "I have put up with your attitude, took mercy on you and let you stay, even after all your crimes in Efrafa, but now, this has gone too far! I will not have you endangering everything we've worked so hard to achieve as a peaceful and prosperous warren! You're not going to start a civil war by rallying our people against each other in the General's name! Now, be gone!"
Vervain was stunned, realising too late he'd tried his Chief's patience too far. But he quickly recovered, finally giving vent to all the anger and hate he'd harboured over the last four years towards the scum that had ruined his life. Now that he knew his beloved General was really dead and never coming back, banishment seemed like no big deal. He glared at each of them in turn like an angry snake.
"You haven't heard the last of me, Outsiders!" he glared at the Watershipers, "You've ruined me again but I will have the last laugh yet, you watch!" He turned to his fellow former Efrafans, "And you, you traitors! Do you really think you and the rest of these deluded fools can escape Woundwort's shadow forever, Campion? Just you wait, like the General warned you long ago, someday, you will regret him! All of you!"
Without another word, he turned and fled out the door, darting across the Down and down the slope and was gone. Hazel turned to look at Groundsel. Although he knew the Chief Rabbit of Vleflain had had no choice; Vervain spreading Woundwort's bad influence around, dead or alive, could stir up unrest and riots, even compromise the peace between the two warrens – he wasn't so sure about whether banishing Vervain was something they might regret later.
"Are you sure that was wise?"
"It had to be done, Hazel-rah," said Groundsel stiffly, "Now that he knows the General's really dead, that Vervain would spread his poison around like White Blindness! That's incitement to treason!"
"About time too, if you ask me, Hazel," put in Bigwig, backing up Groundsel, "Vervain has been asking for it for seasons! Now we're finally rid of him as we are of Cowslip! Remember Cowslip?" But in the back of his mind, Hazel still felt very uneasy about Groundsel's decision. However, it was too late to stop him now. They turned their attention back to Woundwort's body.
"All right, chaps, let's get this smelly bag of bones out of here before it stinks up the whole Down!" said Alan, "Let's bury him then."
A small funeral procession consisting of Groundsel, his officers, the humans and the Watership elders carried Woundwort's body, sewn inside a canvas shroud, to a secluded spot between Watership Down and Vleflain, well off the beaten track. Here, surrounded by thick forest, the body would be buried in an unmarked grave, where no future would-be successors of Woundwort could find it and use it as a shrine.
As per their custom, the rabbits of Vleflain insisted on being the ones to dig the grave for their former Chief Rabbit. The body was then lowered into the ground and the pit filled in. No grave marker of any kind was erected to mark Woundwort's final resting place; over time, the freshly dug earth would be overrun by grass, erasing all traces of the grave forever. At long last, the notorious General Woundwort, a bloodthirsty tyrant and conqueror, the last of Hemlock's bloodline, was laid to rest with decency – more decency than he'd even shown his enemies.
"May the souls of this evil rabbit's victims finally find peace!" announced Groundsel, after they'd finished observing a moment of silence for the deceased dictator, "And may the memory of Woundwort's cruel reign serve as a lesson to us all; that freedom and independence are the makings of a real warren. May we always treasure and defend those rights for all rabbits!" Next it was Campion's turn to make a memorial speech.
"General Woundwort always taught us that only brute strength and fierce determination can make a true leader out of a rabbit. But he was wrong. Our kittens and our kittens' kittens will be taught by their mothers from now on that if they don't do as they are told, the General's evil influence will get them. Such will be Woundwort's monument."
With Woundwort's body finally committed to the ground, the funeral was over and the attendees departed. However, on Groundsel's orders, Moss was assigned to guard the grave, much to his chagrin. Even with Vervain banished and out of their tails for good, there was still a possibility of more of Woundwort's former supporters in Vleflain deciding to visit the grave and hold secret meetings.
With this unpleasant business all nicely wrapped up, the Watershipers returned to the warren, just in time for evening silflay. Groundsel respectfully declined an invitation to join them, but Campion decided to stay over, to relieve Moss of his duty the next day, as per his Chief's orders. Not that he was complaining; being a guest on Watership Down meant he'd enjoy the company of certain attractive does, to which he was a celebrity war hero. Being a bachelor Owsla veteran definitely had its rewards when he was off-duty.
That night, all the Watershipers gathered together in the Honeycomb for an important meeting. It was at last time for Alan to read Dr Drake's letter. The rabbits listened intently as Alan read its contents out loud. By the time he was done, the rabbits were all in shock, realising what they were up against.
"It seems our old friend Sven Shertok strikes again," said Alan grimly, remembering the last surviving member of the Red Hand Brotherhood, who had fled into hiding after losing everything, evading arrest. He might have guessed that bastard, who also knew the secret of the future, would someday be back for revenge.
"According to Drake's sources, Shertok has formed an alliance with a certain Colonel Harry Crowley, a wanted war criminal and mercenary," Alan continued, "Apparently, he's leading an army of thugs, who mean to come here and take over this world by force. Make no mistake, my friends; we're dealing with a takeover attempt!"
Even the rabbits needn't be told the seriousness of their situation. If Drake's warning was true, then these hostile newcomers were intent on war – on the destruction of everything they counted most dear, on their homes, their freedom, maybe even their lives. In a world such as this, where there were no governments, no police and no military, which usually kept such public menaces under control, there would be no stopping them. This wasn't good at all.
"Are we going to be attacked?" asked Nelthilta, looking very frightened at the news. The prospect of ending up back into slavery clearly hadn't slipped her mind. Hawkbit moved closer to comfort her.
"So what do we do about it, Hazel-rah?" asked Campion, getting them back on track. As a born warrior, if there was an enemy out there who meant business, then he was prepared to fight him to the death to protect his people. Hazel considered their options; the way he could see it, they could either fight or hide. And he wasn't willing to risk his people's lives on any account.
"I think it's best if we lie low and don't go up against those invaders unless we have no other choice," he said, "As far as I can tell, they aren't lurking anywhere in our territory, or Vleflain's, or else we would have seen signs of them before now. Maybe, if we leave them alone, eventually they'll move on." Although it seemed like a wise idea, some of his friends weren't so sure.
"But we can't just stay hidden forever, Hazel! We're bound to be discovered soon or later!" growled Bigwig incredulously, "I say we form a war alliance with Vleflain and send our Owslas in! With the full element of surprise, we can eliminate those scumbags once and for all...!"
"That would not be such a good idea, Bigwig," Fiver sternly chastised him for his reckless idea, "We have no idea what their strengths are, or what weapons they possess."
"He's right," said Alan gruffly, "Assuming that downed convict transport plane we found was theirs, we could easily be going up against a hundred men or more. That would be suicide. However, I do agree with Bigwig that we can't hide forever. That's why I believe we ought to try and find them before they find us, to determine exactly what we're up against..."
At that moment, they were all caught off-guard by Forest, who had been leading the Junior Owsla on a night patrol around the warren, as he came running down the run.
"It's Little Threar, parli!" he told his father in alarm, "Something's wrong with him! You need to come now!"
The adults needn't be told twice. Fiver, accompanied by Vilthuril, Hazel, Bigwig and Alan, rushed outside. They found Little Threar lying prone on the ground, crying and moaning. His eyes were glazed, his mind somewhere far, far away, as he muttered gibberish in the midst of his trance. Lucy, Frogbit, Foxglove, Walnut and Peanut, were bending over him, looking scared out of their wits.
"What's the matter, Little Threar?" Peanut called to his brother, "Answer me, please!"
Hazel and Fiver looked at each other, instantly realising what was going on; they both knew how Little Threar had inherited his father's sixth sense but had never seen him have a vision until now – and as they soon realised this wasn't just any vision. This was much, much worse.
Finally, the vision lifted from Little Threar's mind and the small buck returned to his senses, shaking and whimpering. Fiver nuzzled his youngest son encouragingly, "What is it, Little Threar? What did you see?" Finally recovering from his ordeal, Little Threar told them what he could remember.
"It was so horrible," he cried, "I saw the Down engulfed in flames and strewn everywhere with dead bodies! And that voice! That terrible, booming voice, cold as the Black Rabbit of Inle's, yelling about his triumph...!"
"A voice?" asked Alan, "Whose voice?" Maybe if they were lucky, Little Threar could unravel the identity of whomever it was out there that threatened Watership Down and maybe they could then do something about it. But, unfortunately, Little Threar, being young and inexperienced in understanding his visions, like his father was, wasn't of much help.
"I don't know, it was unlike any voice I've ever heard before," he sobbed, "Oh, parli, it was like an awful nightmare!" He buried his head into his mother's chest, sobbing his heart out from the horror he'd just witnessed.
"It's all right, laddie, everything's all right," Alan reassured him, as he stroked his adoptive nephew between the ears, trying to calm him. Leaving Little Threar in Vilthuril's care, Alan and Fiver took Hazel and Bigwig aside, to converse in private. After witnessing Sandleford's destruction four years prior, under very similar circumstances, the Watership elders knew that this was very serious. Little Threar's vision was a premonition of doom!
"We have a problem," said Alan, "That vision means we could all be in great danger – and I bet my daily flayrah it's got something to do with those invaders out there. We need to act and we have to do it now!"
"Fat lot of good that damn vision will do us now!" scoffed Bigwig, "We'll never be able to figure out whom the lad saw in his dream, let alone where he is. Frith of Inle, Fiver, I never thought the day would come when I would actually wish you had a vision now – you could have understood that vision much better if you'd had it instead! Too bad you can't look into Little Threar's mind..."
But Bigwig's words suddenly gave Alan a great idea. Of course there was a way to look into Little Threar's mind! The answer was so obvious, Alan felt like slapping his forehead for not thinking about it sooner, when they sought to find out the truth about Sam. The same mystic rabbit that had brought him out of a comatose state four years ago could easily help them make sense out of Little Threar's vision.
"Well, I know just the rabbit for the job," he said, grinning from ear to ear, "Silverweed..."
Elsewhere, Vervain was wondering aimlessly and lost in the dark of night. Terrified out of his wits from the nerve-wracking sounds of elil circling all around, he was regretting his decision to choose exile with every passing minute. But he couldn't go back anymore. All he had left was a bad name and his never-ceasing loyalty to the late General Woundwort. Far lot of good that would do him now. And he couldn't see much of a future for himself living as a hlessi.
Figuring he had no choice now but to get as far as he could and maybe find some warren that would take him in, he pressed on in the dark, not realising he was walking straight into danger.
CLICK!
Suddenly, without warning, Vervain felt something wrap tightly around his hind leg and hoist him into the air upside down. Screaming in terror, he struggled, thinking maybe an owl or some other elil of the skies had gotten him. But it wasn't elil. Looking up, he realised it was a wire tied in a noose with a spring-triggering device that had set it off when he'd tripped it. On the ground, he saw another peculiar human devise making a loud buzzing noise. A snare, with a signalling device for the hunter!
Sure enough, he soon saw the hunters come running, alerted by their signalling device. As Vervain had feared, they were indeed ithel – not humanoids, thankfully, but instead more talking ithel, like that insufferable ithe Johnson's people, catching him completely by surprise. The strangers laughed triumphantly at their prize.
"Nice catch, Mason!" said one to his partner, who grinned, "Supper's on the table!" Before Vervain could get over his initial shock and scream, one of the thugs raised his gun and then Vervain's universe faded to black as the human clobbered him over the head.
When he finally regained consciousness, he found himself in some completely unfamiliar surroundings. His captors must have carried him quite some distance back to their stronghold. With cold dread, Vervain realised he was tied down on some flat, wet surface, which, he realised from the scent, was covered in blood. He was in great pain because the binds around his paws were very tight, keeping him stretched out like someone about to be drawn and quartered. Realising his grim predicament, he started screaming.
"Oy, shut up over there!" barked another filthy-looking ithe in greasy white clothes who was busy working over some strange device that was blowing small fires from its top. He could see he was being held inside some strange ithe habitation with soft, rippling walls, which he remembered was called a tent. With sick dread, he realised he had fallen into the paws of those threatening ithe-invaders Johnson had warned them about.
"Ah, looks like it's another talker the hunting party brought in, huh?" chuckled another ithe right behind Vervain, who was washing dishes for the upcoming mess and apparently not enjoying his dull chore one bit, but thoroughly enjoying the sight of the terrified Vervain, "Cor blimey, I still can't get used to those freak rabbits appearing all over the place! And they taste worse than your bloody beans and lard stew..." The cook didn't take kindly to that remark and grabbed a butcher's knife he'd been sharpening.
"Mind your tongue, sonny, or I'll cut it out and add it to the grill with this fellow!"
It was only then that Vervain noticed what was on the grill, in front of the cook: a skinned rabbit torso, probably some hlessi, skewered on a spit, which was roasting on the fire. He watched the ithe cook take his knife and start cutting a few juicy slices onto a dish and adding spices. Overwhelmed by this horror, Vervain let out a high-pitched scream of terror.
"Help me! Somebody help me!"
At that moment, another ithe entered the tent. This one looked cleaner and neater than the two scruffy and greasy cooks, who stood at attention as this newcomer, apparently their leader, entered.
"Good evening, Governor Crowley," saluted the cook, "Dinner will be ready presently, sir."
"Good. Is that the one Mason and Collins brought in from the hunt?' He gestured at the bound Vervain on the counter."
"Aye," replied the cook, "Not exactly the plumb one I had in mind, but it'll do to feed all mouths."
"Make sure the meat is well-done," instructed the ithe called Crowley, "That last one caused stomach upsets all around. I don't need more of my men on the sick parade." The cook nodded, "Very good, sir." Wiping his hands on his apron, he gestured to his assistant, "Hey, boy, give me a hand with the butchering, will yeah?" He passed him and electric cutter and picked up a cleaver.
The whirring sound of the electric cutter coming to life jerked Vervain out of his state of petrified shock, realising he was next. He watched helplessly as the two ithel stood over him, preparing to cut him up for cooking. Finding his voice, he started screaming again.
"No, wait! You can't eat me! I...I've got White Blindness! I've got fleas! Please, I've got a mate and kittens, hrair kittens!" The two cooks only laughed sadistically. Obviously, this wasn't the first time they'd butchered a pleading lagomorph, that could feel and think like a fellow human being, for food. With his pathetic pleas falling on deaf ears, Vervain invoked his last defence – one which he'd regularly used during his previous life as an honorary Efrafan.
"I'm the right-paw rabbit of the mighty General Woundwort!" he shouted, "I'm warning you, if you dare harm me, he'll punish you!" He saw the cook raise his cleaver, holding it right over his neck. Vervain shut his eyes in terror, tears running down his cheeks. This was surely the end. In another second, the blade would come swinging down, chopping his head off. But that never happened, because suddenly, the ithe Crowley's voice stopped them.
"Stop! I want to talk to him." The cook barely managed to stop himself in time. Crowley bent over the bound Vervain, so they were almost nose to nose, his cold, calculating eyes locking with Vervain's sly, but utterly terrified ones, "Got a name, friend?"
"Vervain. Captain Vervain," replied Vervain, regaining some of his arrogance, realising that, by some amazing stroke of luck, his invoking Woundwort's name had saved his life...for the moment. The General was definitely watching over him from the Shadowlands after all, he thought.
"What is it exactly that you know about General Woundwort?" demanded Crowley, staring down at Vervain, who returned his gaze.
"If it's any of your business, I'm his Captain of Owslafa in Efrafa!" spat Vervain arrogantly, "His most trusted and loyal subject! What is it to you?" He could tell this ithe called Crowley was interested in learning more about the General, although he hadn't the faintest idea why, or how he knew Woundwort's name in the first place. But at least, this should grant him some amnesty, he thought with relief.
Although Crowley did not appreciate this scrawny, impudent rabbit's mouth, he realised he finally had a lead on a certain lagomorph he had been instructed to track down at all costs and, by the looks of it, a very valuable informant to boot. He looked at Vervain.
"In that case, we have a lot to talk about...Vervain," he said, his stern face curling into a false friendly smile.
Far away, Lieutenant Moss was lying in a scrape he'd dug, standing watch over Woundwort's grave nearby, feeling lonesome and indignant, not to mention weary of being out in the open in the dark of night, surrounded by elil. Although he strictly wasn't the type to question his superiors' orders, this assignment felt like one big waste of time. As if Woundwort was going to go anywhere, he thought. Fighting the urge to doze, he tried to make himself comfortable best he could, longing for the dawn, unaware of what was going on beneath the ground.
When Woundwort had been buried, nobody had noticed one little and, at first glance, insignificant detail: the small glass shard of a shattered slide, from those that Vervain had accidentally sent flying back in Alan's lab, which had been overlooked and accidentally ended up inside the burial shroud with Woundwort's body.
Pinned against the corpse from the weight of the earth piled on top, a single drop of that strange amber liquid containing the unidentified virus on it had found its way into the dead tissue. Deep within the microscopic world of molecules, completely invisible to the naked eye, a strange phenomenon, unlike anything anyone had ever seen before, was beginning to transpire.
The originally dormant strand of RNA in the virus' nucleus, after coming in contact with the dead matter, which was Woundwort's decaying corpse, was suddenly active again, attaching itself to a helix of Woundwort's fragmented DNA; this process, in turn, attracted more bits of broken genetic material, slowly reconstructing the entire DNA strand. Under normal circumstances, a virus would be unable to invade and find a host in a dead organism for the simple reason that there is no functioning circulatory system in deceased bodies; but this particular hybrid virus, which had its own autonomous organ system, didn't need a living host.
The virus then began to mutate, merging with a single dead cell and turning it into a new, living one; Woundwort's restored DNA was now replicating, coding for the millions of proteins, enzymes and antibodies that stimulate cellular mitosis and growth. That single healthy cell, containing the viral strain that had brought it back to life in its core, was now rapidly replicating; dozens and dozens, then thousands and thousands and eventually millions and millions of healthy cells were spreading like a tumour throughout the entire body.
Spreading steadily from cell to cell and from tissue to tissue, the virus was doing its magic: semi-liquefied organs became whole again; new fur was starting to grow from fresh, scarless skin; old injuries, as well as all the damage caused by decomposition, were being healed, as the body completely renewed itself. Within a few hours, metabolism would resume; the lifeless heart would start beating again, restoring the body to life...
Author's note: Anybody seen that coming? Silverweed's fate will be explained in the next chapter. Until next time then. Enjoy and please review!