Piers Torday - The Last Wild

As the stag slowly approaches the first wall of heavy rocks, only loosely still held together, I can see dry and crusty layers of moss spread across the top, which the pigeons immediately settle on and start pecking at. The white pigeon joins them but loses his balance and tumbles over the other side in a cloud of feathers.

*Look carefully, Kester,* say the grey birds, gesturing with their wings at the walls. *This is the First Fold. It has been here since man first kept beasts as his own,* they sing together, strands of moss dangling from their beaks.

There is one small gap between the walls, marked by two slabs of stones jammed upright in the ground. Going closer, I can see that these stones are inscribed. Dotted lines, circles within circles, arrows and pointed letters, none of which makes any sense to me. And blowing in the wind, caught in a crack between two rocks, one fraying strand, damp and sour to smell — wool.

*What have some old sheep walls got to do with my gift?*

A storm cloud passes overhead, and for a moment we are in shadow. The grey birds have turned black and their eyes sparkle as they tell me.

*Everything. The dream of your gift begins here.*

*Yes,* says the white pigeon, clambering back on to the wall as the cloud moves on. *Here is your gift — some old sheep.*

The other birds peck at him crossly, knocking him off again. They’re very solemn and serious when they turn back to me though.

*This is the very spot where man first surrounded sheep with walls of stone, so he could wear their wool and eat their young.*

*So?* I shrug. *What’s that got to do with anything?*

*Do you not know the old dreams?* they ask, sounding amazed.

*Of course I don’t.*

They jump down off the top of the wall and beckon me to sit down. I find the driest patch of ground I can, leaning against the old stones to be out of the wind, and they gather around my feet in a circle.

*Animals only believe in two things,* they explain, *in calls and in dreams. Calls, which are —* they pause, as if trying to think of the right words — *well, you might think of them as songs. They are how beasts summon one another in a time of need, and how we let each other know our deepest feelings. The stag called the last wild together, and the cockroach’s call first led us to Spectrum Hall — to you.*

I try to imagine the General singing. *And dreams?*

*Dreams are our stories — how we learn about animals before us, dreams which have been passed down from beast to beast, since the very first to walk upon this land. And there is one dream we tell each other the most.*

*What dream is that?*

They hesitate, glancing at each other nervously, as if they shouldn’t be discussing this.

*Well, come on,* I say. *You’ve got to tell me now.*

The grey pigeons burst out, in a fluster –

*It’s yours.*

I stare at them in confusion as the stag steps back from where he has been looking sharply up and down at the field beyond the Fold.

*And you are not permitted to hear it,* he snaps. *That is sacred animal knowledge, for animals alone. Perhaps one day—*

I’ve had about enough of their secrets and strange ways. *You have to tell me something! I’m the one trying to help you. Like — why do you keep looking at the sky, for example?*

He sighs and looks back up at the gathering clouds.

*Whenever an animal dies, wherever we are, we shall know, because the sky weeps tears,* he says. *And when the last animal on the earth dies, the dream tells us that there will be the storm of storms, and—* The stag stops suddenly, his nose twitching. *Humans,* he says. *There have been beast-hunters here.*

*How long ago?* I ask.

*Half a sun at most — but I can still smell them.* I can’t smell anything except his fur and the dampness of the air. *And they’re coming back.*

With that, a large van comes over the brow of the hill opposite on six massive off-road tyres. Long, with a rocket-shaped front, it looks like a giant blind varmint that has crawled out of the earth, splattered with mud, a tinted windscreen hiding the people inside. The machine gives a growl as it tips up over the top of the hill before coming down with a crash, the tyres gouging muddy ditches out of the earth.

I clamber back on the stag and without another word he leaps over the Fold and we are bounding off down the grassy slope, towards the nearest trees.

We head swiftly through the cluster of trees and rocks, going downhill all the time. My heart is in my mouth, and I keep looking back, but there is no crashing or roaring of wheels coming after us, only line after line of trees which seem to close up behind as we charge through. I want to ask the stag if he thinks we were spotted, but he seems so silent and lost in his head that I don’t.

If the stag is in no mood to talk, the General is only too keen to show off. He peers out of my jacket as we bump along, teaching me more about animal ways as I fire questions at him.

*What do you call those grey trees over there?*

*What you call a tree, we call a tall-home.*

*OK. So what is the name of those red berries on that bush?*

He pauses, as if not sure what to answer at first. *You might not understand with our name.*

*Try me.*

*We call those berries — food.*

The long antennae disappear back into my pocket.

As the sun begins to set, the pigeons call down from above.

*Come on, come on — we must travel as far as we can before night falls.*

Yet again I feel like the animals can see things I can’t, know things that I don’t. A shiver of fear runs down my spine. *Why? Is the human machine catching up with us?*

*No — we just can’t see as well in the dark.*

We ride out of the trees and find ourselves surrounded by the edges of mountain tops, dark blue against the evening light. It feels much colder, and I pull my scarf tight around me, the darkness getting deeper and blacker around us. Each clash of the stag’s hoofs against the rock-hard ground vibrates right through him. My neck, shoulders and thighs are in agony from clinging on for so long, and I think my stomach is beginning to eat itself.

*I am very tired and hungry, Stag.*

He seems to ignore me, skipping down to some rocks and up again.

I feel my eyelids begin to droop, and my head sinks lower and lower on to my chest till I am nothing more than a nodding sack.

It’s hard to tell whether it’s five minutes or an hour later, but with a jerk I am sliding down his sleek side on to the damp ground. We’re standing right on the edge of a valley, looking down. It’s just possible to make out, in the moonlight, thousands of black treetops marching on for miles like an army in formation, and right in the distance, the silver flash of a river.

Here and there, the light catches a pale roof or a darkened window. There are houses and barns scattered like dice across the floor of the valley, but no electric lights and no people to be seen. I make out collapsed walls, and in places the gleam of an abandoned vehicle. There is not a noise to be heard anywhere, apart from our breathing and the wind running over the grass. I’m hoping the stag will suggest that we go down and explore — there might be old tins of food, beds … anything. But all he says is, *You may rest here for a while.*

I look around. I don’t see a bed, or anything looking like one.

*You don’t look properly. Look with your hands and feet.*

I’ve got no other option. So half crouching, half sliding, I feel my way over the edge. The short damp grass gives way to a large overhang of earth, and patting the ground beneath, it feels drier and warmer. Crawling under it, I draw my knees tight against my chest and rest my head against my shoulder, like the pigeons did by the water.