Wolves in the Woods

Ferdinand trudged on.   It was a clear, cold day and he felt almost joyful as he strode into a pretty, mixed deciduous wood.   A gentle breeze blew showers of fine snow off the branches above him, his foot falls crunched crisply, and small creatures dashed from tree to tree leaving tiny footprints in the snow.   Birds were twittering in the thin canopy and despite being footsore and running low on supplies Ferdy joined in, humming a selection from Vera Lynne's greatest hits.
On trudged and hummed Ferdinand.   Almost imperceptibly the woodland turned foresty, the chill north wind backed sou'westerly and turned milder.   A thin mist began to form and an occasional drop of water fell from arching branches.   The sky darkened.
Past the road, into the woods, shadows were intensifying, undergrowth thickening.   It really was getting quite dark and a little spooky.   The diminutive woodland creatures had all fallen silent, but out there something padded.   There were rustles and snorts and heavy breathing.
Ferns twitched and Ferdy thought he could see dark shapes keeping pace with him, slinky, lopey, probably howly sorts of shapes.   And they were all around him.
In the deepening darkness there were yelps and snarls.   Ferdy searched his knapsack and produced a small, but brilliant flash-light which he panned about the forest edge.   Emotionless, golden eyes lit up and although not visible he was sure there were fangs and dripping jowls too.
The things closed in on him.   Ferdy flashed the torch, which only seemed to make them playful.   He shouted, which they ignored.   He threw a stick and for a moment it looked as if one of the fiends would run after it, but it's companions glared it into shame.   Ferdy needed a really good plan, quickly - but nothing practical came to mind.   The whole situation was becoming extremely unsettling, when...

Was that distant music?
The encroaching creatures heard it too.   It was growing louder, stirring, Wagnerian.   The pack backed away.   Ferdy recognised The Ride of the Valkyries, not orchestral, more jingly, but deafening.   By the time two lemony beams of light flashed over a rise the thumping waves of sound were blasting the forest.   Terrified golden eyes peeped from behind the trees.   The source of the onslaught, a black van, careered along the road, slewing from side to side, horn blazing, two flashing ice-cream cones glowing eerily above the cab.   It skidded to a halt some yards from Ferdy, the door flew open and out scrambleded a Hollywood fantasy, Russian countess.
"Aunty Stella!" exclaimed the terrified bird.
The tall, slender creature stood before him, clad as last time he'd seen her, in greatcoat, piped and brass buttoned, tall boots of black leather. still the tall Astrakhan hat, but the muff was gone.   Over one shoulder was slung a cartridge belt and she carried a Browning B78, falling block, 45-70 hunting rifle, which she fired, once, into the air.   The wolves departed.
"Oh... Aunty Stella!"
Ferdy rushed at her and they stood hugging for a longtime.
"I think I might be able to rustle up some ginger biscuits, do you fancy a fortifying snack?"
"I've had rather a lot of ginger biscuits just lately," replied Ferdy, hoping he did not sound ungrateful.   "You don't have a bag of millet around do you?"

In the back of the van they partied well into the night.   There were finger snacks and tiny triangular sandwiches and a variety of sweet meats deep fried in beer batter which Aunty Stella insisted was a Scottish delicacy.   There was pop in abundance, liberated from the Strathbogie supplies  and "The Shadows Live at Doncaster Coliseum" on the Vicecream van sound system.
Next morning they had a barbecued full english, assessed their situation and surveyed the local geography.   The first signs of a thaw were now unmissable.
The Vicecream van was looking much more serviceable than when it left The Land of Green Ginger.   It now had heavy duty tyres, the more trivial pieces of baggage were missing from the roof rack, abandoned along with their owners to the music halls of Northumbria, and replaced by jerry-cans of diesel and two spare wheels, strategically placed brackets held towrope, snow-shovel, flares.   The ice-cream maker had been removed and stored in a barn somewhere north of Berwick-upon-Tweed, making room for supplies, a small primus stove and an Elsan Visa model 268.   Ready for anything.
"Last leg.   Lets get this rescue wrapped up." proposed Aunty Stella.