THE LORD OF THE LANDS AROUND

A little story about the forest folk with an odd leader....

There was silence in the clearing, an almost tangible silence, the sort that precedes a raging storm or a promised battle with opposing armies intent on destruction.

But there was no scent of rain in the air and no tramp of jack-booted feet.

Instead, the Lord of the Lands Around was preparing to make the speech of his life. The Lord of the Lands Around had plans, mighty plans that would cost a huge amount of acorns, the currency of the clearing.

And the folk of the many lands around started gathering round a polished lectern their Lord had arranged to be plonked in the dead centre of the clearing.

It was smart, was that lectern, and evidence that whosoever stood and spouted from it was Very Important Indeed.

Squirrels were gathered on the lower boughs of ancient forest trees whilst owls scurried higher up and gazed with huge baleful eyes at the land below. Rabbits joined forces with rats in a semicircle near the lectern and field mice, always nervous and with beady eyes for a quick escape should one be called for, hovered in the background, almost out of sight. And taking up the very rear and with more than half an eye on the field mice was a hungry adder with its family of toxic offspring, licking its lips and twitching its tongue.

Then there was what was supposed to be a brazen fanfare but turned out to be an ill-blown kazoo that squeaked, and the Lord of the Lands around was heard approaching.

He rarely came to this clearing though it was the largest open space in the Old Forest. It had once been a cluster of dried old trees that had long since departed to the great woodland in the skies, but a sudden storm half a century ago had set light to their dry and brittle old timbers and quite a conflagration had ensued. Nothing had attempted to grow there since. That was the kind of place it was with crusty old stories telling of magic and mayhem and the spirits of the wild in disarray.

But he came now, did the Lord of the Lands Around.

Most of the creatures of the clearing, as well as those that travelled up to a furlong to be there, were fearful of the Old Dog Fox who wore the bilious chain of office crafted carefully from the junk left by human ne’er do wells after picnics here and there, and awarded by popular vote to the winner of a poll every five years, give or take. Old Dog Fox had worn that chain now for two long terms of office and everyone knew it would be his until the day he died, which common prayers begged should be sooner rather than later. Old Dog Fox had only been elected because he had lied about just about everything, and it wasn’t until the folk had seen the essence of those lies that their love turned very much to hate.

He had lied about protecting the weak and vulnerable and yet had proceeded to eat, in daylight and with an audience of horrified inhabitants of the Old Forest, half of Bernie Bunny’s family of the sweetest baby rabbits ever born. And he had spat out their bones even after he had declared a war on litter louts.

He had even lied about equality, declaring he was on the side of all forest creatures, be they rich or poor, large or small, land-locked or winged, and had proceeded to offer a bonus of shining, polished acorns received as taxes paid by even the lowest and poorest of the inhabitants to his own chums, who already had far more than their fair share. But that was Old Dog Fox for you.

Once, just before the polling of the forest folk, he had promised that he would create a hospital where broken bones and torn flesh could be repaired and where Mrs Squirrel and her team of nurses could ensure the good health of all forest creatures, but when he won the vote (his opponent had been a wise old owl who had seen the way things were going but whose warnings were ignored because Old Dog Fox called them fake), he skilfully forgot that promise and held a feast at which he personally consumed the rest of Bernie Bunny’s depleted family of kittens.

It was when he appointed a non-elected wildcat called Dom to his office, one that it was rumoured spent day after day whispering cruel and unhappy plans in his foxy ears, that everyone knew the kind of leader he was. But life being what it is and democracy being the order of the day, they accepted that he must remain in power until his current spell of five years was up, and it had already lasted for seven years without anyone noticing.

But hush. He has arrived in the clearing to a fanfare from a cracked kazoo.

Old Dog Fox stood by the polished lectern, and grinned. His blond hair (which was unusually not red after the normal hair of his kind) was tousled and unkempt and he reeked of stale red wine found by Dom in a discarded bottle and liberally diluted with rainwater.

He cleared his throat, and spat something or other to the ground. Everyone was attentive. Here was a despised creature, but he had about him the air of a bumbling clown, which made everyone think he was cute.

“Friends,” he began, and cleared his throat again, “friends, I have the very best of news for you. We are going to do something brave and adventurous, something that will make me very rich indeed so that I can promise to share a mountain of acorns with you.”

“What is that news, tu-whit?” asked Oscar the owl.

“Stop talking gibberish and I’ll tell you,” smirked Old Dog Fox, “we’re all friends together and I don't mind sharing my news with you! We’re all going to have to tighten our belts a little because at the end of the month we are going to leave the Old Forest!”

“Leave the Old Forest? But where shall we go?” asked a horrified Oscar from his high bough.

“Leave me to worry about that!” smirked Old Dog Fox. “What do you make of my brilliant news? What do you make of my great plan?”

“This,” growled Oscar, and he fell like a sudden stone from his high bough and bombed Old Dog Fox with so many rancid conkers that had been slowly maturing in his tree’s ancient hollow that there could be no doubt of the outcome. Old Dog Fox’s life was put to a sudden end when the drippings from the rancid conkers caused his phlegm to rise in his throat, and he choked on the toxins of his own words.

And the forest folk prepared for a fresh election. They needed a new Lord of the Lands Around. Of course they did, and next time it would be well if they listened to the wisdom from Oscar the Owl. But they wouldn’t. Forest folk, like folk everywhere, never do the sensible thing, and Old Dog Fox had a reprehensible son.

© Peter Rogerson 11.10.19