The Wishbone Tree

 On the night of the storm, Marcus lay in bed with the sheets pulled up over his head, counting the seconds between claps of window-rattling thunder.

          “One, two, three, four, five….” Another enormous flash bulb popped in his room making him screw his eyes even tighter. Then he felt something jump onto the bottom of his bed. He looked down under the covers and saw a black shape inching towards him. He heard a strange whimpering noise as well as the sound of tiny claws scratching on cotton sheets. A wet tongue on his cheek, announced the arrival of midge his terrified cairn terrier.

Marcus stroked Midge’s back and felt a little less frightened. The dog was shaking and panting quickly. After a few minutes the storm got bored with terrorising this little slice of sky and moved off to the east. The firework display became less intense as did the thunder which began to sound like a faraway lorry driving over potholes.

Marcus and Midge’s breathing started to slow and deepen, until after a few minutes they were both snoring softly.  Dreaming about thunderstorms was much less scary than the real thing. Marcus felt almost invincible as he flew between the inky clouds, dodging lightning bolts. Midge, on the other hand found that barking up at the heavens made the storm clouds scurry away like next doors Persian cat. 

The next morning all was quiet outside. Inside, Marcus was throwing Midges hard rubber ball up the stairs, laughing as the little grey flash chased it down each step with an accompanying growl.

          “Marcus, what on earth are you doing down there?” said his mother propped up in bed, trying to get to the end of her latest Mills and Boon.

          “Just playing with Midge, that’s all. Why?”

          “You might as well take him for a walk.”

          “O-k.” Marcus grabbed the slobbery ball, wiped it on his trouser leg and dropped it into his coat pocket. The dog thought this was a new game and began jumping up at Marcus’s Duffle Coat, snapping at the toggles.

          “Marcus! Check the fence on your way out. Your Dad says the storm may have blown some of it down.”

          “Ok.” Marcus clipped Midge onto his lead and was out the door before his mother could say any more. Apart from a few small branches and the odd piece of smashed roof tile, Marcus’s house and garden had faired pretty well. He pushed at the wooden panelled fence as he ran down the drive, making it ripple like a Chinese dragon.

It was still quite early and the only other people in the street were Max his school friend, delivering soggy newspapers and Mrs Sopworth, an ardent all-weather jogger. She smiled briefly as she bounced by in full-velour, humming her version of The Eye of the Tiger. Midge hated Mrs Sopworth. More specifically he hated her cat, Mr Simpkins who always insisted on rubbing himself all over her pink velvet leisure suit just before she left the house. Marcus managed to yank him back before he could sink his teeth into cat velvet and flesh.

          “What’ll it be today boy, Hills or canal?’’ Midge’s refusal to cross the main road indicated to Marcus that the Canal was definitely off the menu.

          “Hills it is then’’. They took a shortcut past the old people’s bungalows and witnessed two net twitchers, one gate leaner and a half-naked man doing outside ablutions. Marcus thought he’d mention this to his Mum, who worked for social services and repeated his house number three or four times, to make it stick.

Over the roofs of the low buildings Marcus could see the top of Prospect Hill, which reminded him of a green shark’s fin, or possibly a giant dragon’s tooth. Midge could also sense he was nearing the ‘lead un –clipping’ point by the distant smell of tasty young rabbits. He strained against the mechanism, making it slip and click.

          “Steady Midge, nearly there now.”  Said Marcus, shortening the retractable lead as he crossed the last main road. He could hear the geese and ducks on Safari Lake honking away to each other but he couldn’t see them through the thick screen of weeping willows. Up ahead another dog walker was approaching. This wasn’t a problem for Marcus, but for Midge it was his worst nightmare.

Most dogs have aversions to cats, thunderstorms, bonfire night and burglars. Midge’s pet hate, was other dogs. Not certain breeds or colours. To Midge every other canine was a snapping, slavering hell-hound that would, if given the chance rip him to shreds on the spot.

Today’s ‘dog of doom’ was a rather prissy looking Schnauzer that mimicked its rather prissy looking owner, a thirty-something woman dressed to the nines, carrying a designer handbag and wearing dark glasses. Marcus thought she looked silly and had the urge to stop and tell her there were no Paparazzi about this early in the morning.

Midge was already pulling at right angles to the pavement, and Marcus let out as much lead as he dared. The dog darted underneath one of the willows and Marcus stood and waited for the woman and dog to pass by.

          “Morning.” He said, not expecting a reply. The would-be film star performed a micro-nod and the dog shot him a sideways glance that said ‘neither she nor I do autographs’. When the danger had passed, Marcus gave the lead a little tug and Midge popped his head out from under the hanging branches.

          “Yes, she’s gone. The coast is clear.” Midge sniffed the air just to make sure, before re-joining his master. It was fortunate his dog was still on the lead. A similar off- lead encounter would have meant at least a one hour search and recovery operation with lots of shouting and whistling. Marcus’s Mum had wanted to take Midge to a Doggy Psychiatrist, until she saw how much it cost.  Afterwards she was convinced he would grow out of his ‘otherdogaphobia’. That was seven years ago.

          “Go on boy,” said Marcus, unclipping the lead. Midge raced off in search of whatever recently unleashed dogs go in search of. Marcus took in a lung full of warm summer air and noticed how much greener the leaves on the trees seemed to be. It’s as if last night’s rain has washed the dust and weariness out of them. He sniffed again, deeply. Hmm, it’s like nature’s cologne.  

        

          “Where on earth did that come from?” he said, puzzled by the sudden burst of imagination. He put it down to either a lack of sleep or the six pop tarts he’d had for breakfast. Midge was already half way up the hill, sniffing the ground for signs of recent rabbit activity. He’d never caught any. They were always too quick for him and the older ones often showed their contempt by leading him through dense thickets and brambles.

Marcus finally caught Midge up at the entrance to a large freshly dug burrow. He was sniffing the piles of bunny currants scattered amongst the dark sand. Then, he glanced back at his owner, as if to say ‘I won’t be long’ and disappeared down the rabbit hole. Marcus’s heart skipped a beat and he felt one enormous knot tighten in his stomach. He raced over to the hole and, crouching down on all fours, peered into the abyss.

          “Mi-dge!”  He placed one ear close to the entrance and thought he heard a distant yap. It wasn’t so much a far-off bark as a muffled echo.  He lay down on the wet sand and shouted again.

          “Midge!”  This time there was no sound, and Marcus rolled over onto his back, beating his fists on the damp grass. He should have listened to his father. He’d warned him about terriers and rabbit holes, citing several examples of buried dogs and failed fire brigade rescues. Midge always liked chasing bunnies, but he’s never done anything like this before – never. In desperation he tried sticking his head down the hole, but only succeeded in getting a sand and pebble hair rinse. Then he stuck his arm in right up to the pit, scratching at the smooth sides of the burrow. After a few more minutes he withdrew his arm and sat down.

He wondered how deep rabbit holes could get, and pictured Midge fighting for breath in some collapsed tunnel. Then he had a sudden brainwave. He remembered the crevasses (as he called them). In reality, they were large cracks in the sandstone caused by old collapsed mine workings. He jumped to his feet and started running to the top of the hill. For some reason he grabbed a storm-tossed birch branch off the ground and tucked it under his arm like a budding Sergeant Major.

He reached the top, blowing hard and sweating. All along the ridge, where he was damn sure the crevasses were, hundreds of tiny twigs and leaves littered the ground. He dragged his feet over the ones closest to him, clearing a small path through the debris.  He used the stick as a probe, and after a frantic few minutes he felt it sink into nothingness. He lay down again, brushing away the twigs and dropped a pebble down the crack, listening as it ricocheted off the sandstone sides. Cupping his hands over his mouth he screamed Midges name over and over, until he started to lose his voice. I need to make more noise! He thought, scanning the area for discarded megaphones and cow bells. Sadly there was only a couple of damp carrier bags and child’s soggy woollen mitten.

About thirty yards away, a large elder tree had been sliced in half by what looked like a giant heated meat cleaver. Marcus winced at the sight of two splintered, charred trunks which now resembled a giant wishbone. Perhaps a bigger branch might make more noise? He ran over to the tree and pulled at the lower branches, trying to find a weak spot. No such luck. Near the base of the trunk, below the split he could see a wisp of smoke rising up into the air. He poked at it with the Birch staff, sending up clouds of ash and tiny embers.

Then he had his second and final brainwave. In any other situation he would have sat down, lit an imaginary cigarette and patted himself on the back, because this one was an absolute doozy. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an old tobacco tin. He opened it and stuffed the doggy treats back in his pocket. Then ever so carefully he leaned into the bowels of the tree and scraped a few hot embers into the tin. When he thought he had enough he placed the lid loosely back on and ran back down the hill to where Midge had vanished.

Marcus glanced at his watch and saw that two hours had elapsed. His parents would by now be on Defcon 4 Worry Alert. This meant a hand-held look through his bedroom window, a definite ‘why didn’t he take his mobile’ and a possible search party discussion. For once in his life, he didn’t envy grownups.

He sprinkled a fistful of green leaves onto the opened tin, blowing on the embers. It began to smoke. Carefully, he placed the tin as far down the burrow as he dared, and once he was satisfied it was still alight he ran back up to the Wishbone Tree. At the top, his mouth felt sticky and dry, and he longed for a cold can of pop. What if the crevasse and the burrow weren’t connected? Then all this is for nothing. He pictured his parent’s faces when he returned with an empty lead, smelling like a kipper. Ten minutes turned into fifteen, and there was no sign of any smoke.  

Eventually, after ten more, he threw the stick into the crevasse and trudged back down the hill. The earlier panic and frustration was quickly replaced by sadness and an aching loss, and he felt a hot line of tears queuing up in his eyes. For some unknown reason he went back to Midge’s burial mound to collect the tobacco tin. He bent down and reached around for the small metal box. It was still hot and smoking when he caught hold of it, and he only just managed to get it out, before dropping it at his feet. He blew on his scorched fingertips, filled the tin with a handful of wet sand and carried on down the hill. As he walked he felt an icy numbness rising up through his feet, legs and stomach stopping at his heart, which had already set like stone.

At the bottom of Prospect Hill he had one last look over his shoulder and saw another grey dog running in his direction. As it got closer Marcus’s heart leapt. It was Midge.

          “Midge!’’ he shouted, and started running towards him. He picked him up of the ground, (something Midge normally hated) and hugged him until his heart melted. As he hugged him he noticed Midge also smelled like a kipper. The little smoky dog licked his face and showered Marcus’s feet with sand and stones.

          “Didn’t you like the smoke boy?” he said lowering him to the floor, clipping his lead on. Midge looked up at him with slightly red eyes, barked a couple of times and started pulling for home. If Marcus could understand doggy-speak he would have known that Midge was saying:

          

         ‘I would have caught that baby rabbit too, if some daft devil hadn’t decided to smoke me out!’