Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame. Part 5.
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Chapter 3 – Wild Wood
The Mole had wanted for a long time to meet the Badger. He often spoke about his wish to the Water Rat, but the Rat didn’t seem to want to do anything about it.
‘It’s all right,’ the Rat always said. ‘Badger will come past one day, and then I’ll introduce you.’
‘Couldn’t you invite him to dinner or something?’ asked the Mole.
‘He wouldn’t come,’ said the Rat. ‘He hates crowds, and parties, and dinners, and all that kind of thing.’
‘Well then, shall we go and visit him.’
‘Oh, no!’ the Rat said. ‘He’s very shy, and he wouldn’t like it at all. I know him very well, but I’ve never visited his home. And it’s not really possible to go there, because he lives right in the middle of the Wild Wood.’
‘You said you would tell me about the Wild Wood,’ said the Mole, ‘but you never did. Aren’t they – aren’t they very nice people in there?’
‘Well,’ said the Rat, ‘the squirrels are all right, and the rabbits – most of them. And Badger, of course. He likes living there. And nobody gives him any trouble.’
‘But who could give trouble?’ asked the Mole.
‘There are, well, others,’ the Rat went on slowly. ‘Weasels … stoats… ferrets, and so on. They’re alright in a way. Most of the time. But, well, you wouldn’t want to turn your back to them in the dark, and that’s a fact. Don’t worry about Badger. He’ll come along one day.’
But the summer passed and the Badger never came along.
Soon the days grew shorter, and the cold weather kept the animals inside their comfortable houses. The Rat slept a lot in the winter, going to bed early and getting up late. During his short day, he wrote songs and did small jobs in the house. And, of course, there were always animals calling in for a comfortable talk round the fire, telling stories and remembering the good times and the adventures of the past summer.
One afternoon, while the Rat was sleeping peacefully in front of the fire, the Mole decided to go out by himself and take a walk in the Wild Wood. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought, ‘I’ll meet Mr Badger, and then I can introduce myself.’
It was a cold afternoon, with a hard grey sky. The Mole hurried along, enjoying the quietness of the winter day, and after a time he saw in front of him the black shape of the Wild Wood.
He was not at all frightened at first. It was a strange, dark place, but the Mole found that exciting. He went deeper and deeper into the wood, where the light was less and the trees grew close together. Everything was very still now, and the darkness seemed to come down quickly, shutting the Mole off from the outside world.
Then the faces began.
Out of the corner of his eye, the Mole thought that he saw a face looking at him from a hole: a little narrow face, with hard unfriendly eyes. When he turned to look straight at it, the thing had disappeared.
He hurried on, telling himself not to be silly. He passed another hole, and another, and – yes! Eyes were looking at him, then disappearing again into the darkness. Soon, every one had a face, which watched him with eyes full of hate.
The Mole felt he had to get away from these faces. He lurned off the path and hurried into the thickest part of the wood.
Then the whistling began.
It was quiet, and far behind him, when he first heard it. Then it seemed to come from in front of him, more loudly. The Mole stopped and listened, then went on again. He was trying hard to stay calm, but his heart was beating very fast. He was alone, and far from help, and the night was coming down quickly.
Then the pattering began.
At first he thought it was only falling leaves, but then the noise grew louder and nearer, and the Mole knew what it was. It was the sound of little feet running – behind him, in front of him, on all sides of him. All the wood seemed to be alive, running, following, chasing something – or somebody. The frightened Mole began to run too, but he did not know where. He ran into trees and bushes, he fell over things and into things, he picked himself up and ran on. At last he found a deep dark hole in the bottom of an old tree and fell into it, too tired to run another step. He lay there, shaking with fear, and listened to the whistlings and the patterings outside. Now he understood why the Rat did not want to talk about it, and why other small animals from the fields and the river bank never came here. Because now, the Mole had felt it himself – the Terror of the Wild Wood.