Vervain sat on a sofa inside Governor Crowley's posh office, facing the leader of these ithel invaders and his small inner circle, which included Lt Hirsh, Dr Guts and Sergeant Sam Mason, another hardened convict and expert combater, whom Crowley had assigned as his second-in-command. The ringleaders of this little colony of deadly war criminals sat questioning, or rather interrogating, their guest.
Crowley's living quarters were set up inside the luxury cabin of his private jet, on the edge of a heavily fortified camp, which also served as the power-house and operations centre for his base. His men, unlike him, lived in simple army tents pitched around the camp, alongside their equipment from the transport plane.
Vervain sat almost as if in a trance as he answered all of Crowley's seemingly endless questions. After narrowly escaping becoming these ithel's dinner by invoking Woundwort's name, his captors had gruelled him for hours with questions about the General, Efrafa, Robbins and even Johnson and his friends.
"So General Woundwort is dead then?" asked Crowley, looking rather displeased to learn that the rabbit he had been searching for these past few months was in fact long dead and gone. Vervain nodded grimly.
"Yes, murdered in cold blood by that insufferable ithe Alan Johnson!" he spat, "He was a great leader and warrior! That dirty coward Johnson and his Outsider cronies didn't even fight fair...!" But Crowley wasn't interested in listening to Vervain's opinion. He only needed information.
"What about Robbins?" he asked, "What happened to him?"
"He's dead too," said Vervain, who had personally witnessed the demise of Russell Robbins four years ago, "Also killed by Johnson." Crowley's face darkened; Robbins had been a valuable and respected hitman among Crowley's criminal circles and to learn of his passing at the hands of that Johnson fellow didn't please him. It seemed his employer hadn't been exaggerating when he warned him that Alan Johnson could be a grave threat to his plans. He turned to Hirsh.
"What do you have on this Dr Johnson?"
Being former MI5, Hirsh had had access to numerous classified files on top-secret military operations, as well as detailed records on every UK citizen, alive or dead. It hadn't been too difficult for him to dig up the files on all the people that had mysteriously gone missing back in 2012 and, unbeknownst to all but a handful of people, had ended up in this future world. Hirsh opened Johnson's file on the desk and read aloud.
"Name: Alan Alexander Johnson, born 1978 in London, presumed deceased circa 2013. Orphaned at the age of eleven and raised in a state orphanage. Siblings: one older brother, Royce Jack, unmarried and childless, a Royal Navy sub Commander who perished in the war in 2010. Education: PhD in Zoological Sciences and an MA in Botany from Aberdeen University. Family: spouse Mary Millard Johnson, murdered in shootout in 2011, daughter Lucy Annette, born 2004, killed alongside her mother, aged seven. Criminal record: flagged as a suspect for manslaughter for the deaths of his wife and child in 2011; exonerated. Also, he was the prime suspect in the Chelsea Ripper case in 2013, as well as the 2012 disappearances, but was ultimately cleared of all charges. A few minor brushes with the law for hot-wiring cars and brawling as a teenager, but otherwise a spotless record."
"Military experience?"
"Served as Sergeant of 232 Regiment of her Majesty's Royal Marine Corps during the war," said Hirsh, "Saw combat on the front lines, got captured and spent a year as a POW in a Chinese prison camp. Honourably discharged in 2011; posthumously awarded the George Cross for taking out the Red Hand Brotherhood terrorist faction in 2013. That's all I have."
"What about the other people in his group? What are their backgrounds?"
Hirsh flipped through the pages of the other files, "Dr Derek Robert Shaw, born in Belfast, migrated to London, where both parents died in an IRA bombing in 1987. Distinguished professor of Mechanical Engineering, worked as a military contractor during the war, but saw no combat. Presumed murdered by Russell Robbins when Red Hand was targeting his friend Johnson in 2012. Other than Johnson, the only ones with military backgrounds are Major McEwen and his crew, who have of course already been confirmed dead."
Crowley considered for a moment. From professional experience, he could tell this Dr Johnson was not to be taken lightly. The fact that he had adapted to this wild, future world all these years showed he was a natural survivor, who knew what he was doing. Toppled with the fact that he and his fellow colonists had defeated this supposedly invincible dictator Woundwort, not to mention one of the most dangerous and notorious mercenaries of the 21st century, Crowley knew he had to act.
After hearing the story of the fall of Efrafa at the hands of Johnson, Crowley realised this would require a careful strategy. He wasn't going to go out like Robbins or Woundwort by underestimating the enemy, like they had. He would plan carefully ahead before he made any move. First, he needed to determine the enemy's own strengths.
"I need to know the location of Dr Johnson's colony," he said to Vervain, "I also want the names and descriptions of those of highest hierarchy besides Johnson, as well as of his family and closest friends." Vervain fixed him with a steady gaze. So far, he'd been cooperative, answering all of the man's questions without fail, but he wasn't stupid enough to wait until he'd run out of useful information and they turned on him.
"Very well, I will divulge the location to you," he said, "But first, I have my own terms to make."
"You're in no position to bargain with us, mate!" growled Mason, perceiving Vervain's boldness as a threat. As far as he was concerned, this rabbit would only stay alive for as long as he had useful information to trade. If he needed some persuasion, then they could always hand him over to Dr Guts, to extract that information under torture. But Crowley, surprisingly enough, was willing to hear him out.
"Quiet!" he barked at Mason. He turned back to Vervain, "Let's hear your terms then, Captain Vervain."
"I want the body of my sovereign Chief Rabbit, General Woundwort recovered and given a proper burial with the full military honours he's entitled to," said Vervain, "My former traitorous fellow Efrafans, who turned their backs on his glorious legacy and sided with the Outsiders, chose to let him be forgotten like he was nothing. I wish to honour his name first, before I give you the exact location of Hazel-rah's warren – so that I can avenge him by sealing their doom!"
As far as he could tell, he would be getting his revenge against the Outsiders anyway, so he might as well do it in Woundwort's name, to bring peace to his fallen master's soul. He owed the General that much. His new human associates however weren't so sure about granting his request to steal Woundwort's body back.
"For crying out loud! We don't have time to go around, digging up useless rabbit corpses!" snapped Hirsh incredulously, "If you ask me, this is all one big waste of time, Crowley! I say, we hand him over to Dr Death Surgeon here, to extract the location by force, and then dispose of this miscreant!" He gestured at Dr Guts, who was lazily trimming his fingernails with a surgical scalpel, as if waiting for someone to deliver him his next customer.
"You hold your tongue when I'm talking, Hirsh, or I'll have Dr Guts cut it out!" growled Crowley, silencing Hirsh up. He had had to put up with this little man's petty complaints and unpopularity from the start. He would have gladly disposed of this hindrance, but Hirsh was still valuable to him, the perfect rat that could smell out a tasty bit of cheese when they needed it.
He had reluctantly allowed Hirsh to serve as his advisor and assistant, but had flatly denied him any authority over his men, always keeping him on a tight leash, in case he got it into his head to double-cross him. On the other hand, Vervain's terms were not too much to ask for and he could see great potential in this informant and his vengeful agenda. He saw no reason not to honour his little request, in exchange for his full cooperation. Finally, he spoke.
"In that case, we have a deal," he told Vervain, "We'll get a few hours sleep and set off at first light. But, be warned, Captain Vervain," he added menacingly, "This better not turn out to be a waste of my time, or else you'll find yourself roasting alive on a spit by lunchtime tomorrow, even if you are the bloody Queen's cousin!"
It was just before dawn. Lieutenant Moss sat dozing at his post, exhausted after a long night of guarding Woundwort's grave – or rather looking out for elil that could sneak up on him at any moment and rip him to pieces. In spite of his professional Owsla training for Wide Patrols, Moss couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear being out here all alone. He remembered what that doe Nyreem had gone through, but at least she'd had company to watch over her. How he wished Captain Campion had decided to stay out here with him.
At the sight of Frith slowly rising on the horizon, Moss breathed a sigh of relief. At last, he would soon be relieved of his duties and get to spend a whole day relaxing, silflaying and courting beautiful does. He may not be a bachelor like Campion, having a doe and kittens of his own back in Vleflain, but what's to keep him from meeting a few nice sweethearts while he was a guest on Watership Down?
He must have dozed off for a few minutes, because he never saw his attackers coming. As it turned out, there were much more dangerous things out here than elil. Suddenly, without warning, there was a popping noise from a net-gun and next thing he knew, Moss was entangled in a spider-web-like material, which was a nylon net, immobilizing him. Struggling to free himself, Moss saw his attackers emerge from all around him.
Several talking humans, donning camouflage ghillie suits and approaching upwind, to mask their scent, had ambushed him, catching him completely by surprise. Moss silently cursed himself for letting his guard down, realising they were those hostile human invaders Alan had warned them about. But how had they found their way here? The answer came in the form of the very familiar figure who was escorting the rabble.
"Vervain?" gasped Moss through his binds, "What are you doing with these riffraff?" One of his attackers, offended by that remark, clobbered him hard across the face with the butt of his weapon. Vervain snickered sadistically as Moss cried out in pain.
"Well, well, well, and vao hyao to you too, Lieutenant Moss," he said with a mock-like bow of salute, his oily voice dripping with malice, "Captain Campion would not be very pleased with your performance if he could see you now, would he?" Moss felt his anger rise at this taunt, realising what Vervain had done.
"You traitor!" he shouted, "You've sold us out to the enemy!" But his human captors standing above him aimed their guns in his face, threatening instant death if he made another sound, silencing Moss up. Vervain gave him a dark look.
"I warned you that you hadn't heard the last of me!" he spat, "Now, I'll finally avenge the General!"
With several of Crowley's men guarding Moss at gunpoint, the rest of them, shovels in hand, got to work exhuming Woundwort's grave. Crowley and Vervain watched as the men lifted up the shroud containing the fallen dictator's body and placed it on the grass. But when they cut it open, they made a shocking discovery.
"What the bloody hell is this?"
Vervain's mouth fell open in shock as he laid eyes on his former master's body. Where there should have been a decomposing and barely recognizable corpse was a freshly renewed and healthy-looking General Woundwort. Every trace of decomposition or old battle wounds he had sustained before death had vanished completely. His jet-black fur had regrown, looking freshly groomed like that of a young rabbit. Even his missing left eye, a memento of his past encounter with the Threarah of Sandleford, was whole again. But what really sent Vervain around the bend was when Dr Guts, who'd noticed the curiously pristine condition of the body, which certainly didn't look like that of a long-dead corpse, bent over to examine Woundwort's vitals.
"I'll be damned!" he gasped, "This poor bastard's still alive!" Everyone present was absolutely, completely gobsmacked at those words.
"What did you say?!" gasped Vervain.
They bend over Woundwort's body for a closer look. Sure enough, Crowley could clearly see on Guts' oximeter that there was a pulse, blood pressure and respiration, low, like that of a hibernating animal, but definitely there all the same. General Woundwort was indeed still alive, in a state of a deep coma it seemed.
"This is ridiculous, you crummy quack!" scoffed Hirsh, who clearly didn't believe a word of what he was hearing, "There's got to be something wrong with your instrument..."
"I don't need instruments to tell you this rabbit has a pulse!" retorted Guts incredulously. Baffled by this inexplicable development and suspecting foul play, Crowley rounded on Vervain.
"What is this?" he demanded, "You said he was dead!"
"But he was dead!" protested Vervain, feeling at a similar loss to explain this as Crowley was, "I saw his body before the Outsiders buried him!" Unbeknownst to any of them, this was the work of that mysterious virus that had infected the body before the burial, having completed its mutation cycle. But, of course, Crowley didn't know that. He frowned doubtfully at Vervain. Could this little rat be lying to them, to hide something? Or was he just some dumb rabbit, who couldn't tell the dead from the living? Whatever it was, their plans had now changed completely. They had to get this body out of here at once.
"Mason, get two of your lads to rig up a gurney so we can move the body back to base!" he ordered, "Then prepare the men to pull out. No traces! Make sure you leave behind no evidence of our presence here!"
"What about that one, sir?" asked Mason, gesturing at the captive Moss, still struggling on the ground. He might have been lucky if Crowley had decided to take him prisoner for interrogation, but Vervain, who was determined to watch Moss die out of sheer malice, stepped in.
He didn't know what kind of miracle, or perhaps a curse by the Black Rabbit of Inle, had brought Woundwort back to life, but, whatever it was, Vervain was suddenly a new rabbit. From a downtrodden, spiteful outcast with no future, he now had a whole new purpose. Woundwort was still alive and it was his duty to nurse him back to health and ultimately reinstate him to power. And, of course, to punish those traitors that had stood aside and let the Outsiders bury him alive! This cringing worm, Moss would be first.
"He doesn't know anything useful that I don't," he said in a cold voice, sealing the Owsla rabbit's doom, "Finish him off!"
On Crowley's command, Mason grabbed Moss's head in a death grip and wrung his neck. Moss struggled, but the man was far too strong for him. Vervain smirked sadistically at the sickening crack as Moss's spine snapped apart, killing him instantly. The last thought that went through Lieutenant Moss's mind, a former fanatical supporter of Woundwort and later a redeemed and kind-hearted Owsla officer, was the image of his beautiful mate Heather and their children.
Vervain smirked down at Moss's corpse, "Like I warned you, you young fool – you can never escape the General's wrath. Not you, not Campion, not any of you traitors! Woundwort will soon rise to rule again!"
He knew there was no turning back for him anymore. By murdering an Owsla officer, a capital offence, he'd made himself an outlaw. But the sly Vervain was smarter than to claim the credit right off. As a strategist, he knew how to use every given opportunity to his advantage. This killing would stir up a great deal of tension and confusion between the two warrens, hopefully straining their alliance and driving them apart. And when the time was right, he, the last loyal Efrafan standing, would strike!
Clearing up all traces of their work and sprinkling the ground with water to wash away the scent of their footprints, Crowley's mercenaries departed with Woundwort's body, leaving behind a filled-in and seemingly undisturbed grave.
Campion woke up in the burrow he was sharing with Bigwig and Silver, feeling refreshed and rested. After spending a pleasant evening catching up on old times with his Watershiper friends and entertaining the Junior Owsla with stories of his Wide Patrols, had put Woundwort's funeral out of his mind. Always an early riser, he got up, careful not to wake anyone and went outside to silflay.
As he'd expected, no one was up and about yet, not even Bigwig, who was due to take the latest additions to his Owsla out on their first patrol that very morning. How he wished he could join them; unfortunately, he had the sad duty of guarding Woundwort's grave instead. He cursed that little wretch Vervain for starting all this trouble and saddling him and Moss with this pointless task. He sure hoped Groundsel would relent soon so that they could return home and put the memory of Woundwort behind them for good.
He was just sitting there, catching the breeze, when he heard someone call his name. Looking, he saw Violet approaching, carrying some healing herbs in her mouth. The warren's healer-doe was always busy in the mornings, gathering herbs with special remedial properties, which she'd learned from Alan and Josie, for Bluebell. She greeted Campion warmly.
"Good morning, Campion, you're up early," she said, putting her herbs aside and settling down beside him. Not that Campion minded; he'd always had an eye for the beautiful Sandleford doe, but, knowing she had a mate, he'd always retained his decency. Likewise, she had always been smitten silly by the handsome, dashing Efrafan, but her staunch loyalty to Bluebell and her children kept her feelings well under wraps.
"So are you, Violet," said Campion sheepishly, feeling his heart pounding as he gazed into those beautiful sapphire eyes of hers. Violet giggled. "How come you're out so early gathering healing herbs? Frith hasn't even dried the morning dew yet..." Violet's face fell.
"They're for Bluebell, Campion," she explained. Campion silently cursed himself, realising his blunder. Everyone knew how devoted she was to her ailing mate. In a way, it hurt Campion to see a beautiful doe like her being saddled with a lifetime of caring for a dying buck, who was likely to be in the Shadowlands from one day to the next. This was so wrong, so unfair.
"Violet, please forgive me, I know it's not my place to say this, but you can't keep him alive forever," he said calmly, hoping he didn't hurt her feelings. Violet sighed, having been told that many times, including by Bluebell himself, who hated being such a burden to her. But her resolve was final.
"I know that, Campion," she finally said, "But I can't just turn my back on him, like I did his cousin Speedwell long ago." The memory of Speedwell, whose children, rather than Bluebell's, she'd secretly bore, and the regret she felt about abandoning him over Bluebell before he died, still haunted her to this day. Bluebell had always been faithful to her and that was why she'd sworn to Frith she'd never leave him for as long as he lived.
"We at least have our strong and healthy children, Campion, and that's good enough for the both of us," Violet continued, "I know you secretly love me, Campion and, I want you to know, I love you too." Campion felt himself get cold feet at these words, blushing redder than a tomato under his fur. For an instant, he was absolutely gobsmacked, torn between being thrilled to death at her finally returning his feelings for her, or else being embarrassed to no end that she knew of his secret desire for her.
"How did you know...? I mean, I...," he mumbled in embarrassment, unable to put his words together. Violet giggled again at his uneasiness – a giggle that made Campion's heart soar, marvelling just how beautiful she was when she smiled. It was like staring into the face of Frith's own heavenly doe, the beautiful Nur-Rama.
"A doe can see into the heart of a buck in ways you could never imagine, Campion," she said with a knowing smile, "And I'm deeply touched by your feelings towards me, but I'm afraid it's not possible for me to return them in kind. We can't be together Campion."
Campion nodded sadly in understanding. Of course, he would never talk her into leaving Bluebell for him, and tearing her family apart in the process, no matter how much he loved her. His honour as an Owsla officer would never allow him to do something that low. Although it was of some consolation that at least she acknowledged his feelings for her, the fact that they couldn't be together, even though they loved each other dearly, felt as if fate was letting him down...again. The first love of his life had been Hyzenthlay, before she's met Hazel, but he'd gotten over her long ago by knowing that she was happy. But Violet was another story.
Noticing his sadness, Violet nuzzled him under the chin to cheer him up. That seemed to pull Campion out of his misery and he felt himself melting under her tender touch. It got even better when she touched noses with him. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins from loving bliss. But it was short-lived however because Violet quickly pulled away. To prove her love for him, she'd given him a token of her heart, which Campion would never forget, but that was as far as it would ever go.
"Don't tell anyone I did this, Campion," she said and without another word she left to bring the herbs to Bluebell. Remembering that he too had his own duties to attend to, Campion quickly finished his silflay and hurried off down the hill, making his way into the woods, where Woundwort's grave was.
Arriving at the burial site, as he'd expected, he found the grave just as they had left it, seemingly undisturbed. But there was no sign of Moss anywhere. Campion frowned; his Lieutenant was not the type to leave his post without orders. Where could he have gotten to?
"Moss?" he called, "Moss, where are you?"
His first thought was maybe something had gotten him during the night, yet he couldn't see any blood or pick up any trace scent of elil on the ground. Thinking that perhaps Moss had wondered off to be with some Watershiper sweetheart of his for the night, which wasn't uncommon amongst headstrong young officers when they thought they could get away with it, Campion began combing the surrounding woods, looking for a loving couple's cosy little hiding spot. Alas, he hated to have to put his best friend on report for dereliction of duty, but this was going too far.
"Come on out, Moss!" he shouted, "You're only making things worse for you!" But, much to his surprise, there was still no sign of him. There were not even any tracks leading away from the grave. It was as if that rabbit had sprouted wings and flown away. Realising he had a missing comrade on his paws and suspecting there had been trouble, Campion hurried back to Watership Down to sound an alert.
The Watershipers were quick to respond. Bigwig's Owsla was taken off their morning patrol and divided into scouting parties that combed the surrounding countryside for Moss, but coming up with nothing. After several hours of futile search, the search parties finally returned to Woundwort's grave site empty-handed and utterly baffled.
"Any sign of him?" asked Hazel. Bigwig shook his head.
"We looked all over. Not a whiff of him," he growled incredulously, "I don't understand it. If the elil had gotten him, they'd at least be traces of blood or scent. Even if an owl had carried him off, we'd still find something..." But Alan, who was looking down at Woundwort's grave, had a strange feeling. Something about the pattern of freshly dug soil that filled the grave didn't look exactly the same as how they'd left it yesterday. He frowned.
"Bigwig, get your lads to start digging here. I want Woundwort exhumed right away." The rabbits all looked at him incredulously. Digging up dead bodies was quite a taboo amongst rabbits, as it was said to bring them bad luck for disturbing the dead.
"What in Frith's name do you want to dig up the General for?" demanded Campion sharply. He might have long since denounced Woundwort, but he wasn't keen on letting someone desecrate his final resting place for no good reason.
"Because I want to make sure he's still where he should be," said Alan, who had a nasty feeling that something was very wrong and they hadn't even realised it. Although sceptical, not to mention extremely irate at being made to dig, the rabbits got to work, digging up the shroud that housed Woundwort's body.
The shroud felt strangely lighter as the humans placed it onto the grass beside the grave. It was as if the body sawn inside had somehow become smaller. Alan looked at the stitching and realised it had been undone and then carelessly closed again. Someone had opened the shroud! Tearing it open, his suspicions were immediately confirmed.
"Oh, Frith of Inle!" gasped Dandelion, "Is that...?"
"Yes, it's Moss," said Campion, staring wide-eyed at the corpse of his friend, whom he'd left here on guard last night and who now occupied Woundwort's grave. Alan could see Moss's neck was twisted at an odd angle, apparently snapped by some unknown assailant, his lifeless eyes still frozen wide open in what appeared to have been sheer terror. There was no sign of Woundwort's body anywhere. "What happened to him?"
"And where in Frith's name is Woundwort?" put in Silver, noticing the peculiar disappearance of Woundwort's corpse. All of a sudden, there were hushed whispers all around. A dead rabbit seemingly climbing out of his grave in the middle of the night and walking away seemed like something out of a nightmare, as if the Black Rabbit of Inle had come to curse their warren.
"I don't know, but the dead don't just get up and take strolls down to the pub for a pint," said Alan, who, in spite of his best efforts, hadn't managed to completely suppress all those ridiculous superstitions in his friends' minds. He may not have a clue as to what had happened to Woundwort's body, but he didn't believe in zombies, "Looks like someone dug him up and took the body away."
"And killed Moss in the process!" shouted Campion, outraged at the death of his best friend. Alan had never seen him look so angry before and dreaded to think what would happen to the culprit when they found him. He turned to Hazel, "This outrage can't be ignored, Hazel-rah! Whoever did this has to be punished!"
"I fully agree, Campion," said Hazel, trying to calm the former Efrafan before his temper got the better of him. He knew there was going to be trouble when Groundsel heard of this. The death of another rabbit on his turf was a serious breach of trust between the two warrens. Worse still, Moss's body, they realised, reeked of human scent, implying that his murderer had been a human, which would not look good at all for Alan and his family.
The news of Moss's murder didn't take long to reach Vleflain. According to Blackavar, Moss's mate Heather and their children were absolutely devastated and openly blamed the Watershipers. Groundsel had arrived promptly, demanding answers.
"What is the meaning of this, Hazel-rah?" he demanded angrily, "Lieutenant Moss was a competent and loyal officer and you had a responsibility for his safety! Before I have to explain to his family, I want to know what scoundrel did this! I want him brought to justice!" He glanced sideways at Alan; the fact that they had found human scent on the murdered Moss' body, toppled with the fact that Alan had been strongly against the idea of giving Woundwort a proper burial, made him a very likely suspect in Groundsel's eyes, much to everyone's outrage. Trying to retain his own calm, Hazel tried to reason with him.
"Groundsel-rah, with all due respect, Alan is not to blame," he said, "He's a brave and loyal member of this warren, and would never harm one of our allies. I will vouch for him until the Black Rabbit takes me!"
"He's still an ithe, Hazel-rah," said Groundsel sharply, earning several frowns from the spectators, "I can understand the trust you place in him, but that doesn't mean he, or one of his friends perhaps, might not have gotten it into his head to settle some old scores with the General, by desecrating his body..."
Alan, tired of listening to such preposterous accusations, was about to speak up, but someone else beat him to it. Bigwig, who could not stand listening to his friend and comrade being accused of such a vicious crime, just because he was a human, interrupted.
"And what about your people, Groundsel?" he snapped, "Didn't it cross your mind that perhaps one of your ruffians might have been tempted to relive the glorious old days of Efrafa?" Unfortunately, as it often happened with Bigwig's short temper, that set off the fireworks.
"How dare you!" shouted Groundsel, clearly offended by Bigwig's remarks, "You wretched Watershipers and these miserable ithel you rub shoulders with have always looked down on us because of our heritage!" The two rabbits were about to come to blows, but were restrained by Campion and Hazel respectively. Getting a hold of himself, but his mind made up all the same, Groundsel turned back to Hazel.
"Hazel-rah, I'm afraid this incident can't be forgiven. You've betrayed the trust me and my people had placed in you by letting Moss get killed. I regret to inform you that I have no choice but to terminate the treaty between our warrens." Hazel shot Bigwig a furious look for interfering and causing this mess in the first place, but the damage had already been done.
"We'll be taking our leave now, Hazel-rah," said Groundsel coldly, "Your ambassador to our warren is henceforth expelled and will be asked to vacate Vleflain by the end of the day. Our ambassador will likewise be returning home with us. There's to be no further communications between our warrens or our people, except of an emergency nature. Our borders are also closed and any trespassers caught will be subject to arrest."
Hazel tried his best to make Groundsel reconsider, but the Vleflain Chief Rabbit would not be swayed. The incident with the death of Moss had set the rot in. The only thing he could do now was to try and preserve the status quo between the two warrens, least they all get dragged into a conflict.
"Very well, Groundsel-rah, I will respect your wishes and we'll keep our distance. However, you're making a big mistake. We shouldn't be breaking off our alliances now. Whoever killed Moss is still out there somewhere and he's likely to strike again. We might need each other's help in the days to come. Are you sure you don't want to reconsider?"
"The only mistake, Hazel-rah, is that we didn't go our own ways from the start," said Groundsel firmly. There was nothing more to be said. Coolly bidding Hazel farewell, Groundsel turned to Campion, "Come along, Campion. We're leaving!"
"Coming now, Groundsel-rah!" called Campion. He knew he would not be allowed to come back here and see his friends anytime soon, not with peace treaties between Watership Down and Vleflain broken off, so he wanted to say a few things to them before departing.
"I'm so sorry it had to go down like this," he said, "If it's of any consolation, I don't think you had anything to do with this, Alan. You and Moss were always on friendly terms." Alan felt touched that Campion at least was not turning his back on him, although it wouldn't do them any good.
"Thank you, Campion, that really means a lot to me," he said in spite of himself.
"I'll try and talk Groundsel into reconsidering, once he's calmed down a bit," suggested Campion, "I'll sure he'll see reason eventually."
"Ha! Fat chance at that!" scoffed Bigwig, but held his tongue under Hazel's stern glare. The two of them would be having a very serious chat soon, regarding Bigwig's rash and less than impressive attitude. Little did any of them realise that they were in fact playing right into the real enemy's dirty game, who sought to drive them apart before striking...
Not too far away, in Crowley's camp, Varvain and his associates were gathered inside Dr Guts' infirmary tent, where the living but completely unresponsive General Woundwort lay on a gurney. Guts had performed every medical procedure in the book on Woundwort and applied all the treatments he knew how, in an attempt to revive him, but without success. His diagnosis of his patient's condition still remained inconclusive.
"All his vitals seem stable, but he's still not responsive to stimuli," explained the surgeon, "His EMG readings are flat and his eye pupils are completely dilated and non-responsive to light. His muscles don't even twitch when I prod them. There's absolutely no sign of any brain activity."
"Does that mean you can't wake him up?" asked Vervain, who hadn't left his master's side from the moment they'd pulled him from his grave and carted the body back here. Guts shook his head.
"They're no sign of any brain injury or trauma that might be keeping him comatose. In fact, there isn't so much as a single mark on him, at least not as far as I can see. He displays all the symptoms of being brain-dead, but from no apparent cause. I can't explain it." Vervain felt his heart sink; if they couldn't revive Woundwort, then he'd be better off dead. Sure enough, Crowley spoke.
"Well, in that case, there's not much we can do for him. Guts, once you've finished writing up you medical report, you may put him down." Vervain jumped to his feet.
"Oh no, you can't do that! I won't allow it!"
Crowley frowned at Vervain's impudence, "If Dr Guts can't revive him, then he's beyond help. We can't afford to be saddled with a useless, comatose rabbit!"
"Don't you dare call the General useless!" yelled Vervain in outrage, shielding Woundwort from the humans, "He's more important than any of you scumbags combined!" But Crowley was sick and tired of listening to anymore of Vervain's rubbish. They'd already wasted enough time bringing Woundwort back here for nothing. He drew his revolver and aimed it directly between Vervain's beady eyes.
"I'm ordering you to stand aside right now, or I'm going to blow your head off!" he barked, "I'm going to count to three. One...two..."
Vervain was torn between staying right where he was and dying with his General, as he should have done long ago, while his never-ending cowardice was urging him to stand aside and live to tell another day. If only he had a way of bringing the General back, like that runt Fiver was rumoured to have brought his friend Johnson back from the Land Beyond Life long ago...Wait, that was it!
"Three..."
"Wait, there's still a way to save him!" cried Vervain, "I know how to bring him back!" He watched desperately as Crowley pulled back on the hammer of his revolver, preparing to fire. With no other resolve left, Vervain mustered every last ounce of courage he possessed and stared defiantly back into Crowley's eyes.
"If you kill me now, you're letting Johnson win!" he said, "He too was brought back from a similar situation. I swear I saw it with my own eyes!" Crowley seemed ready to blow Vervain away before moving on to Woundwort next, but then reluctantly lowered his gun. He needed Woundwort badly and if there was a chance in a thousand this scrawny, babbling rabbit knew some way Dr Guts didn't to bring Woundwort out of that vegetable state he was in, then he had to try.
"Consider this a state of execution, Vervain," he said coldly, "If you fail me, you're dead! So, what's your plan then?"
Following Groundsel's shaky departure and Bigwig having his ears chewed off by Hazel for making a scene, Alan took Fiver and the others aside for a talk. The death of Moss and the disappearance of Woundwort's body made it clear that they were running out of time. They had to act and soon.
"We've got to talk to Silverweed, Fiver," said Alan, "He's the only one who can help us make some sense of Little Threar's vision. At least, that's a start."
"Why even bother?" said Derek, "I'll bet you my bottom penny, it was that weasel Vervain! I knew we should have killed that little bastard when we had the chance!"
Although the Watershipers had named Vervain as the number one suspect in the murder, it had soon been pointed out that it would have been next to impossible for him to take down a strong and experienced Owsla rabbit like Moss single-handedly. There had been no traces of that rabbit's scent found anywhere near the scene of the crime (unbeknownst to them, deliberately removed by Crowley's men to cover their tracks), so there was no way to point a finger at him.
"My point exactly, Deke," said Alan, "Which means Vervain couldn't have acted alone. He's found some dangerous accomplice out there and I'll bet you anything he's going to bring more trouble upon us unless we find him! If we set off now, we should be able to make it to Cowslip's warren before sundown."
"Should I tell Bigwig to get his Owsla ready?" asked Silver.
"No, a big scouting party might attract the attention of the enemy," said Alan, "Only four of us will go: myself, Fiver, Little Threar and Sam." Sam looked up in surprise.
"Why me?" she asked, feeling a tad bit uneasy at the prospect of being out there alone with Alan Johnson. Although Alan had finally accepted her trustworthiness, it still made her extremely weary being around the man that had almost strangled her not so long ago, mistakenly thinking she'd been about to stab his daughter. She desperately looked at Derek for support. Surprisingly, he smiled.
"It's all right, Sam, there's nothing to be afraid of," he reassured her, "You just go with Al."
Before preparing to set off, Alan took Sam into his office. Pulling out a drawer from an old cabinet he always kept locked, he placed it on the table, presenting its contents to Sam: an expensive-looking leather wallet filled with a rather large stash of cash, a number of false military and high-ranking official's identity cards, an expensive gold Rolex wristwatch that was still ticking, a ring with a distinct hand-held-in-a-stop-gesture crest and, joy of all joys, a gleaming handgun, complete with a holster. Sam felt her insides twist up, realising these were her late brother's personal effects. A small, dirty inheritance left to her by the mystery sibling she'd never known, who also happened to be a common murderer.
"These are his things, aren't they?" she asked. Alan nodded.
"I figured I ought to return them to you. They're rightfully yours now anyway."
Sam stared down at Robbins' stuff. There had to be at least 700 pounds in cash in that wallet and the wristwatch alone was worth at least two thousand, much more than she'd earned in a lifetime. Unlike her meagre but honest living, her brother had made a fortune in blood money that he was being paid as a terrorist mercenary, for killing people. Her fingers shakily caressed the gun – this was the same weapon that had killed Mary Johnson, Nildrohein and Speedwell too. Repulsed, she pulled her hand away, hating to touch it.
"I...I'm sorry, but I can't take that. I've never liked guns." But Alan picked it up and placed it into her hand.
"Sorry, Sam, this isn't an option. Everybody must carry a firearm out on the field at all times, as per safety regulations. Don't worry, it won't go off in your pocket," he added, watching Sam gingerly tuck the weapon under her blouse, as if it were a fused bomb about to explode.
"Remember, if you have to use it, you just hold it steady at arm's length with both hands, disengage the safety catch under your thumb and squeeze the trigger. Nothing to it, really. Understood?" Sam reluctantly nodded, not knowing whether to feel touched that he was entrusting her with a weapon, or to feel disgusted that she now owned the personal possessions of a notorious killer.
Grabbing his own weapons and kit, Alan went to get his horse from the stable and then they were ready to go. Sam, who wasn't keen on handling a horse yet, would be riding with him. Little Threar and Fiver would be travelling on foot, as the rabbits always did. Hazel came to see them off.
"You watch yourselves out there," he said, "And make sure you listen to your parli and Uncle Alan, you hear me, Little Threar?" he added, winking at his nephew, who nodded. This was Little Threar's first long-distance patrol, making him feel real excited at the adventure, but nervous all the same. Would Silverweed be able to help him make some sense of that accursed vision of his, to relieve his guilt for supposedly bringing all this trouble upon them?
"Good luck!" called Derek, who was also off to his field workshop for the next few days, to continue work on his second, larger aircraft. His first small prototype still lay stuck out on the marsh, with no hope of salvaging it again anytime soon. Josie and Hotdog would have the run of the place while he and Alan were away.
"Remember, keep the blinds up after dark, no fires, and always retain radio silence. And you be a good girl, Lucy!" Alan called to his daughter, as he rode off down the hill with Sam, Fiver and Little Threar. Security on Watership Down was tighter than ever and Bigwig was determined to keep the warren safe, even if his Owsla and the Junior Owsla had to train and do patrols around the clock without food or sleep. Lucy waved back.
The trip to Cowslip's warren went uneventfully. Stopping only a couple of times to rest along the way, they arrived in the former Newtown Common area by late afternoon. Alan got goosebumps at the sight of the notorious warren, formerly a sinister rabbit breeding ground for humanoids, where many unsuspecting hlessil, who thought they'd found a paradise of flayrah and beautiful does, only to be sacrificed to the humanoids by the evil Cowslip.
After the Watershipers had taken out the humanoids, like they'd done Efrafa, and ruining Cowslip, who had fled into exile, never to be seen again, the abandoned warren had been left in the care of his mystic, Silverweed. Originally Cowslip's right-paw rabbit, who used his mystic powers to keep Cowslip's 'subjects' under control, like Strawberry, he'd had a change of heart and deserted his insane master.
Although he'd earned the Watershipers' undying respect and friendship for saving Alan from a catatonic state following the Battle of Efrafa, and almost dying in the process, fearful that someone else might someday try and exploit his powers again, he'd chosen to return to Cowslip's empty warren, where he now lived quietly and alone.
The Watershipers marched towards the warren, situated on the edge of a copse on the far side of a grassy meadow. Little Threar trotted along nervously alongside his father, looking really on edge about this place. Alan suspected his far sight, like his father's, could sense all the evil and horrors that had transpired here. Sam too, he noticed, was feeling her skin crawl at the eerie silence of this place. None of them realised that they were in fact being watched by a concealed group of lookouts positioned in some nearby bushes at that very moment!
They ventured into the warren. Unlike the Honeycomb, this place was unlit, cold and, at first glance, seemingly deserted. There was no sign of anyone. In fact, they hadn't heard any news of Silverweed in a long time. Perhaps the mystic had since passed away?
"Silverweed?" called Alan, "Silverweed, are you here? It's me, Alan Johnson! Anybody home?" For a moment, there was no answer. But then, suddenly a ghostly voice made them all jump. Sitting inside a nearby burrow, in a pool of light coming from a skylight in the ceiling, was Silverweed, looking as if he'd materialised out of thin air.
"Welcome, Time Traveller, Hrair-roo. I was expecting you."
Sam stared curiously at this strange rabbit. Silverweed, like his namesake, had silvery-white fur and faraway, gleaming eyes, which seemed to have an almost supernatural glow about them in this dull light, like light-bulbs. She noticed that, although he was still quite young, Silverweed looked tired and haggard, as if suffering from some terrible illness. She could remember Derek telling her the incredible story of how he'd supposedly used his psychic powers to 'send' Fiver into Alan's broken mind, to bring his soul back from the Land Beyond Life, which had led to his rapid aging.
Sam cringed as Silverweed shifted his piercing gaze over to her, making her feel as if she was being x-rayed. She noticed a frown cross the rabbit's face, probably realising who she was, but quickly shrugged it off. Apparently, he could tell that she wasn't an enemy. Alan greeted Silverweed like an old friend.
"It's good to see you again, Silverweed."
"This is a surprise, I must say," replied Silverweed good-naturedly, "So what is it I can help you with?"
Alan and Fiver told Silverweed all about Little Threar's disturbing vision, which they couldn't make heads or tails of, Vervain, the death of Moss and all the other signs of trouble that seemed to lurk on the horizon and rapidly getting closer every day.
"We think Little Threar's vision might be the key to all this wretched business," explained Alan, "So, we were wondering, perhaps you could let Fiver into Little Threar's mind, to see what he saw? Maybe, this way, we could make some sense out of this riddle?" But Silverweed shook his head sadly.
"A seer's visions are his own and his own alone, as per the will of Frith," he explained, "Although I could make Little Threar relive his vision by unlocking it in his mind, I can't see directly into his far sight. Nor could I send someone in there to get a closer look." Alan and Fiver sighed in disappointment. It seemed Little Threar's visions were impenetrable. But, Little Threar, timid and runty as he might be, was determined to get to the bottom of this one way or another.
"Then let me relive that vision, Silverweed," he said, "It's my only chance to protect my family and friends!" Alan and Fiver were touched by Little Threar's resolve, but at the same time horrified by what he was asking; both of them had experienced Silverweed's mind-penetrating powers first-hand and were not too keen on ever experiencing them again. Silverweed, in particular, was the least keen on using his powers on Little Threar.
"Young one, what you're asking of me is not to be taken so lightly," he said, "Forcefully unlocking your memories is bad enough; unlocking a vision can easily break your mind!" But Little Threar remained persistent.
"I can't live with myself if I don't at least try," he cried, "It is my fault Watership Down is now in danger in the first place!" Fiver stared firmly at his son.
"Little Threar, I've told you before, this isn't true!" he said, desperately trying to reason with him, "Our visions don't make things happen. Hasn't your Uncle Alan taught you anything?"
"You can't know that, parli," retorted Little Threar stubbornly, "Now, either we get some answers, or I can't come back to Watership Down! I'm not going to put you all in danger!" Fiver started getting angry.
"As your parli, I forbid you to...!" he was saying, but Alan stopped him. The way things were going, they were bound to end badly for everyone. Reluctantly, Fiver finally agreed to let Silverweed into Little Threar's mind.
Little Threar positioned himself in front of Silverweed, as the mystic prepared to penetrate his mind through direct eye contact. Alan and Fiver stood on standby, ready to pull Little Threar away, should things get out of hand. Sam, who was watching them, gasped as Silverweed's eyes suddenly turned glazed, glowing like a pair of headlights. Whatever was going on, the sight was freaking her out. Then, she screamed as Little Threar went into a fit.
Although having experienced it himself, Alan had never seen someone being mind-penetrated before and, he now realised, it was a terrible sight to behold. Little Threar began moaning and twitching violently under Silverweed's spell, his eyes wide open and locked with the mystic's, who sat still as a statue, beaming his mind-raping powers into the poor little seer's head like a knife. Then, Little Threar cried out.
"NOOOOOOOOOO!"
Fiver, seeing his son in such agony, couldn't take it anymore. He jumped to his feet, "Stop it, Silverweed! You're killing him, stop it!" But Silverweed didn't seem to hear him.
Alan had seen enough. Darting forward, he clapped his hand over Little Threar's eyes, breaking the mental link with Silverweed. He barely had time to catch Little Threar before he fell to the burrow floor. Although he hadn't been harmed, he was in a bad state of shock. Tears of pain and horror ran down his cheeks and his fur was soiled from vomiting. Alan could feel the young rabbit's heart pounding under his palm, beating so rapidly he thought it might burst out of his chest. Taking out his canteen, he gave him a drink of water, muttering soothing words to him.
"It's all right, laddie. It's over."
After he'd calmed down enough to speak, Little Threar explained what he'd seen. But what he told them only puzzled them.
"It was...different this time," he mumbled, catching them all by surprise, "Again, I saw Watership Down destroyed and all of our friends slaughtered, but then I saw more visions of what looked like some old human-warren, like one of those from your own time, Uncle Alan," he said to Alan, who hadn't the foggiest of what to make of this new information, "And then there was that sinister voice again, laughing, gloating of how he would be coming back to kill us all."
"Do you remember anything in particular he said?" asked Fiver.
"Just one word," said Little Threar, "Darkhaven..."
Fiver stared blankly at Silverweed, who shook his head blankly. Neither rabbit had ever heard a name like that before. They weren't even sure whether it was a name or a place. But someone else did: Alan, who was the leading expert on the tale of Watership Down and the part it had played in the rise of this world, knew exactly what they were dealing with. Fiver looked at him.
"Does this mean anything to you, Alan?" he asked his heart-brother, who nodded.
"I have to consult Drake's journals right away..."
Author's note: Originally, the chapter was longer, but I decided to cut it short. No point cramming the story into one chapter. I hope to have the next one ready by Easter. Enjoy and please review!