The Autonomous Rainbow Peace Zone

Josie must have blacked out.   When he came round Potkin was leaning against a tree.   He had been sick.   They were both still panting open mouthed, and quivering.
“Some dream that!” laughed Potkin, with only a hint of hysterics.
“I think it was real.” replied Josie.
Potkin became subdued.   "I know."
As Josie looked about, they were on the edge of gentle woodland, something in the air felt welcoming.   Perhaps, he thought, he could lighten the moment.
“Last night I dreamed about our fridge at home.   It was full of roast chicken, coley fillets, crispy bacon and Wensleydale cheese.”
“And crunchy fishy snacks?” asked Potkin.
“In the biscuit barrel.” Josie replied, “I don’t think we can have eaten for about twenty-four hours and I’m starving.   Can we try and find breakfast?”
“I’m a bit peckish myself.” said Potkin, “Can’t hang around all day.”
The trotted merrily down the sun-dappled path.

They had not gone far into the wood when they started to notice holes between the roots of some of the trees.   A jay flew low overhead and then before them chattering a warning to anyone who would listen.   They followed the bird and after a short distance a loud chatting sounded out, high in one of the trees.   A conker thudded into the ground at Josie’s feet, a second bounced off Potkin’s head.
“That hurt!”
A grey squirrel peered angrily round the tree trunk and bobbed up and down in a coded threat, but the cats continued along the path, their peace destroyed by the noisy escort.   Despite the distractions it became apparent to them that they were in a minor paradise.   The artistically spaced trees curved and twisted in soothing harmony, gentle banks were carpeted in daisies and, they realised, the holes were tunnels.   Many had fresh soil and neat piles of nugget-like spoor around the entrance.
“Who do you reckon lives in there?” asked Josie.
“I do!” replied one of the holes.
Talking holes were definitely unnerving and Josie was beginning to wonder how much more he could take, when it, the hole, began to grow ears.   It sprouted six ears in all and then three noses.   Potkin had never seen a hole like it.   He was staring, fascinated when the rabbits emerged and lined up.
I’m Blackberry Coney and this is Bilberry Coney and Strawberry Coney.   We’re part of the Coney family, we’re all named after berries.”
“I was starting to get that,” replied Potkin.
“Are you a large family?” asked Josie.
“Huge!   There’s two, three… f… lots of us.”
“So what happens when you run out of berry names?”
“Oh we just start again.   My Dad is Young Blackberry, ‘cos his dad was Old Blackberry and then my sister’s kid is Tiny Blackberry.   He’s still quite small.   We’re all pretty hard to tell apart anyway, except for Digby.   He’s a big black and white rabbit with floppy ears and lives on his own.”
“Have you ever noticed,” said Potkin to Josie, “how potential lunch animals can be really annoying while they're still uncooked?”
Strawberry Coney was jumping up and down. “Welcome to The Rainbow Woods!”
“Oh my God,” Potkin again, “they’ll sing us a song next.”
“Can we?” asked Bilberry, excitedly.
“No!”

Another conker whizzed past Potkin’s right ear. “Can you do anything about your perimeter guards? And is there anything but rabbit to eat in this warren?”
Blackberry answered, “Don’t mind Nutkin, he’s a terrible shot.   This isn’t just a warren, Rainbow Woods is neutral ground, a sort of peace commune for all the furry woodland creatures.   We live together under an armistice, though we vegetarians do tend to eat separately from the carnivores, just to be on the safe side.   They’ll probably sort you out some grub, there’s the Brock family, have a posh set just up the hill, or you could try the Todds.   They’re friendly and live under that lightning- tree over there.”
“This all seems very nice.” said Josie, “Can we go and see the Todds straight away?”
“Bit gooey, I thought.” Potkin replied, “Lightning-tree sounds exciting though.”
“Haven’t we had enough exciting for a bit?”   Josie was looking tired and a little drawn.
“Don’t worry,” Potkin enthused, “lightning never strikes in the same place twice, so a lightning-tree must be really, really safe.”

They set off across a cropped grass clearing towards a mossy hummock, criss-crossed with roots and topped by the dead, white trunk of a blasted oak.   Behind them an ever-growing crowd of brown bunnies bounced and waved.   Even the jay had stopped complaining.
As they approached a tidy entrance, framed by gnarled roots, carved in low relief and painted in earth colours, a sharp featured fox came out to meet them, fussing with her red-brown fur and somewhat distracted by the noise of cubs in the den behind her.
“Word is you two are hungry.   Daddy Todd is out looking for a nice free-range chicken, but he’s not due back till teatime.    Luckily for you I’m just serving up a tasty fruits de mère for the kids.”
“Seafood, my favourite!” gushed Josie.
Mummy Todd looked slightly puzzled, but ushered them into a large chamber.   There was straw on the floor and rush torches in brackets on the walls.   A scrubbed, farmhouse table was dominated by an immense, steaming crock-pot and the room whirled with tumbling, squeaking, fluffy, red bundles.
“The kids?” queried Potkin rhetorically.
“Sit to the table nicely.   We have guests.” the fox barked sharply, but without conviction.   Most of the cubs squeezed onto a bench alongside Josie and Potkin.   Their host passed round wooden bowls, plunged a large ladle into the pot and began to spoon out her ‘Mum's Stew’.   A huge dollop of maggots, mixed with earwigs, beetles and millipedes all floating in a greenish broth arrived in Josie’s bowl.
“Pass the worm dressing to our guests.”
“Your favourite?”   Potkin gave Josie one of his best quizzical looks.
Josie picked at his lunch without enthusiasm.   “I suppose we’ll have to be polite.”
Potkin waited till Mummy Todd was looking the other way, grabbed one of the cubs and stuffed as much of his portion into it as he could.   It looked grateful.
“My, that was wonderful.   I am completely stuffed.   Couldn’t manage another thing.”
“There’s seconds.”
“What a shame.” Josie joined in. “It’s our vet.   We have to control our cholesterol levels and he’s got us on a low slug diet.   Such a lovely spread.   If only we could stay longer.”
“You’ve been very kind,” from Potkin, “but I’m afraid we must press on.   We still have a long way to go.”

After exchanging best wishes and saying their goodbyes Potkin and Josie were again on the move. Josie was carrying a small brown paper bag of spiders that had been pressed on him as he departed.   It was discarded as soon as they were out of sight.

The Castle

Potkin spun round in surprise and, through the cat flap sized postern, was facing a thin, craggy cat of totally indeterminate colouring, flecked only sparsely with the patterning of its youth.   It wore a patchwork frock coat of every conceivable colour, squared in spots, stripes and Paisleys, had a red spotted bandana round its head and peered through small, steel rimmed tinted spectacles.   A conical, rolled paper smoke hung from the corner of its mouth and another was tucked in the bandana by its left ear.   Josie lay at its feet in a state of bemused inertia.
“Come through, quickly. It’s dangerous out there, man.”   The apparition, having spoken in a husky whisper, scampered away towards another gateway on the far side of the yard.   “Follow me, man.”
“Man?   What man?” asked Josie.
“Weird! And what is he on?”
Potkin hauled Josie to his feet and they set off in pursuit of the receding rainbow coat and its occupant.   They found themselves in the outer ward of a castle complex.   The large open area was bustling with militia.   Dark uniformed soldiers with busbies harnessed black horses to three more glistening gun carriages.   A line of scarlet-coated troopers astride powerful matching greys wheeled knee to knee across the yard.   An officer with black feathers in his cocked hat and decked out in gold braid shouted orders in French at a small group dressed in blue jackets and white trousers that busied itself around a small canon.   Beyond them infantry in grey overcoats and tall bearskin hats drilled with others clad in oilskin black shakos and bottle green uniforms.
Their guide scuttled close to the footings of a row of mismatched brick buildings that lined the courtyard.   At each corner he paused hugging the wall, looked around furtively and then dashed along the base of the next wall.   Josie and Potkin mimicked him.   At every corner Potkin peered about for signs of danger.   Josie just peered aimlessly, a feeling of dark dread welling up from his stomach to grip his chest.
Towering beyond a shabby timber and daub dwelling they observed the massive white drum of a keep, but the coat veered away and headed for a romanesque archway.   The rounded arch was supported by heavily eroded knightly figures, lords or kings, their faces weathered into zombie masks and their stone-stained armour in tatters.
“Look up!” gasped Josie hoarsely.
Above the arch, thrusting out from the crenulated roof several crows, limp and dank, hung from pikes by their broken necks.
“Chin up.” Said Potkin with less than his usual confidence.
Through the archway they were within the inner ward, a smaller, shadowed, more private cobbled court, girded tightly by tall buildings of timber or stone.   The cats bunched up, close to their strange companion, feeling unseen eyes upon them from every casement.
Their next dash took them down a short flight of steps, through a twin, gothic-arched entranceway and into a high, stone clad hallway.   They stopped to recover their breath. From open doors to their left came an uproar of shouting and singing, beating of countless rhythms and the clatter of breaking crockery.   A train of sweating, greasy people in soiled white clothing scurried back and forth between this doorway and a smaller entry opposite, across the flagged foyer.   They tottered in twos and fours bearing stretchers piled with steaming mounds of meat or crocks of veg and gravy.
Taking advantage of a gap in the stream of struggling caterers, the harlequin made another dash and our heroes followed.   They scuttled up a dark spiral stairwell and out into a carpeted area of wall hangings and carved and painted wooden pillars.   The trio stuck their heads between the candy-twist banisters of a timber balustrade and looked down.   They were in a gallery overlooking the great hall.
The din was overwhelming.   A jumble of humanity heaved back and forth in irregular waves about a long, ash table.   Mostly the throng was male, soldiers in their shirtsleeves, bracers hanging at their hips.   They swayed and wobbled and sometimes fell.   French, English and German were all being shouted in an array of regional accents.   A few laughing maidens, all rotund in low cut blouses filled tankards from large stoneware jugs or were tossed playfully above the crowd.   Smoke from small, blackened clays and ornate, ceramic bowled, long stemmed pipes twisted upwards to hang in thick clouds above the scene.
The attention of those nearest the board was fixed on a tabletop performer.   There, amidst the scattered food and crockery a diminutive white and black cat danced and  skilfully juggled a leather shako, a lethal looking cutlass and a silver pocket watch, complete with chain and fob.
“Snowdrop?”
“Man, she gets everywhere, that cat.   Arrived yesterday on that unicycle of hers.   Welcome to Bluebird’s castle.   Fancy a smoke?”
Potkin took a long drag on the fat. loosely packed roll-up.   The walls of the hall flew outwards, the fancifully stuccoed ceiling bowed and rainbow lights streamed through the tall windows.   A tiny, receding jester held out a diminutive hand for the fag to be returned.
“Cat mint.” observed Josie, “Not really my thing.”
Potkin repeated “Man.” several times as he rolled slowly over, onto his back.
Josie eyed their guide cautiously, “Who are you, who are all these people and what did you say about a blue bird?”
“Oh me, I’m nothing, man.   And this lot, they are just a historical re-enactment society out on a jolly.   It’s Bluebird you want to know about.   He is everything... amazing.   He is king pest controller, The King Pest Controller, PEST CONTROL PANTOCRATOR.   He is a philosopher, a poet, sage, high-priest, god.   He has made pest control into an art form.   To know the rat he has become Perfect Rat; the LBJ*, Perfect Sparrow.   He is ALL being, man.   I am not worthy…”
Potkin peered beyond the ceiling into the universal void.   “Flying bishops!   Wow!   The coloured lights...”
They ignored him.
Potkin blinked a couple of times and turned his head gingerly towards Josie.
“Who’s the gaudy one?   I feel a bit sad.”
“Says his name is Nothing and not Worthy, we’re in Bluebird’s castle.”
Potkin sat up.   “Good stuff.   Moroccan?”
“Afghan.” replied Nothing, “C’mon, man, I’ll show you some of the castle on the way to meet Bluebird.   If HE will see you.”
They crossed a landing and proceeded down a passageway.   Potkin had missed a couple of doorways and bumped into the wall each time, but now was recovering his composure.
“Is that something scratched into the window pane?”
“It’s a love poem, man.   I will tell you the story.
“Long ago a page to the lord of the castle so loved the castle cat that he decided to make a grand gesture.   The cat, a pretty female, liked to sit in this very window to watch the sun set.   He decided to climb the fig tree outside and, using the diamond in his dead mother’s engagement ring, scratch, in mirror writing, an expression of his passion.”
Josie and Potkin viewed the fine copper plate with its reversed ‘S’s and ‘N’s and were very impressed.
“Unfortunately the fig tree, which had never envisaged supporting the weight of a man, bent and broke away from the wall.
“As you know, regardless of which way up they are when they fall, men always land on their heads.   When he landed he was a foot shorter and stone dead.   See how the unfinished poem trails off in an 'Aaaargh...' and a long squiggle.”
“And the cat?” asked Josie, “Was she heartbroken?”
“Sadly, she had gone off with an astonishingly virile army cat, was never seen again and never knew of his futile efforts.”
“Bit of a loser.” mused Potkin, “Shall we get on?   It’s nearly teatime.”
Led down yet another corridor, they entered a strange, uneasy room, a room of mystery.   The floor was a chessboard of amber and black oak squares, the walls dark and panelled.   Box pews lined one long side of the chamber and faced a high, canopied and ornately carved pulpit.   At the far end, light from a tall, bowed window was turned a sickly lime by the thick greenish glass.   In the pale light our trembling duo observed a bone-white pyramid of tiny rodent skulls a fathom high and six feet wide at the base, occupying the greater part of a raised dais below the window, and a tableau of mummified garden birds nailed, spread-eagled to the walnut panelling.   Potkin swallowed.   This was a dark and dreadful place.
“Doomed!” Josie voiced both their thoughts.
“Wait here, man.”   Nothing stood in reverential expectation.
From the gloom of the pulpit came a harsh rattling cough and out of the deep shadows emerged a massive, blue-grey, jowelled head supported on an emaciated, frail body.   It had once been a Persian cat.   Blank eyes stared out at who knew what, certainly nothing in this world.   This was Bluebird.
“You have come to me.
“I have waited.
“I observed your inevitable approach, drew you to me.   It is cold and dark in here, but I can see so far.
“You will be made to understand, carry my wisdom to the scoffers.   THEY have no comprehension - tiny toy soldiers with tiny minds.   What can they know?
“I am committed... not out of control, cannot weaken, I hold it all together.   Can I be removed?   Who will hold the line, hold back the dark forces?
"There are rats, you know.”
“This one has definitely lost the plot.” mouthed Potkin.
“Hear the words.” intoned Nothing, “Know the truth, man.   I told you.   I told you.”
“Silence!” from the pulpit.
The room had darkened, Bluebird had disappeared.   Only the watery eyes glowed in the shadows.
“Bed them. We will talk more tomorrow.”
Nothing was about to move after a long silence, when the rasping voice sounded out again.
“Can I trust you?   Are you my salvation or my nemesis?”
As Nothing ushered them down another dank stairwell he chattered incessantly of the great philosopher, his vision, vague as it was, and his failing health.
“As the mind expands the body declines.”
They crossed a small, enclosed, claustrophobic courtyard and began the long climb towards the keep gatehouse.   Everywhere under foot crunched the scattered bones of long dead vermin.   Potkin and Josie were directed into a bare, windowless room and a sturdy door was firmly locked behind them.
“Are we in trouble?” asked Josie.
“Are we in trouble!” Potkin replied.
They did not sleep.

As the pale light of pre-dawn crept into their prison the lock scraped open and Nothing stood silhouetted in the doorway.
“HE wants you in the ice house.”
They were escorted out of the castle and across a yard to a weathered door in a mould stained rock face.   Nothing indicated they should enter and neither cat intended to go first - they entered the darkness together.   The area felt cavernous.   As their eyes adjusted and a shaft of dawn light penetrated the gloom a huge black pit was revealed ahead.   Josie tripped over something soft on the floor.   It was Bluebird.   The collapsed and withered body had finally abandoned the struggle to bear up the gigantic head.   Only the face muscles showed even the slightest hint of animation.   The blue lips curled back to reveal yellow fangs.   An unnaturally crimson tongue quivered.
“Crowsblood!” the mouth wheezed before a long sigh and horrible throaty rattle dribbled out from the hanging jaws.   The sagging body seemed to deflate.
“Scarper!” screeched Potkin.
The pair bolted through the doorway and tumbled past the slumped body of Nothing.   Wisps of catnip smoke curled from his nostrils and ears.   The adrenalin driven figures of Josie and Potkin hurtled down a gravel path and disappeared into the woods.

*LBJ = Little brown job.