In the kitchen, Warrigal had woken up to see the dying embers of the fire casting red shadows on the inert sleeping bodies of Brock and Perryfoot and, in the middle of the room, he saw the old couple lying fast asleep on some cushions on the floor. Everything was quiet except for the sound of the wind outside and the gentle snores and heavy breathing of Brock and Jim inside. He felt refreshed and invigorated after his long sleep and decided that he would go outside to explore for a while. Luckily a window had been left open and soon the owl was out in the night, winging his way under the stars over the gorse and heather of the silent, sleeping moorland. The rain had stopped now and the smell of the damp earth filled the air, but the storm had broken the hot weather and the wind that blew down off the mountains was cool; an autumn wind, Warrigal thought, that signals the ending of summer. The sky was clear, black and infinitely deep and although there was only a tiny arc of the new moon, the stars twinkled and danced brightly.

The cool fresh night air felt wonderful to Warrigal as he glided silently, like a dark shadow, through the night. He felt happier and more contented than he had for a long, long time. Nab, Beth and the others were safely resting inside the house; tomorrow they would leave and, if luck was with them, they would very soon arrive at the home of the mountain elves and their journey would have come to its conclusion. 'What then?’ he thought. 'Where would it all end?’ and for a few moments he allowed his mind to wander back to Silver Wood and to the early days. They seemed a long way off now, almost a dream, and when a picture of the wood as they had left it at the end flashed in front of his eyes he felt a wave of bitter grief and anger well up inside so that he wrenched his mind away from those painful memories and gave himself up to the sheer joy of flying.

He dipped and dived and swooped and glided, feeling the wind rush through his feathers and clear them of all the dust and grit that they had gathered during the long dry arid days when they had been making their way across the lowlands. He was flying back along the Roosdyche they had been following the previous day when they were being pursued by the Urkku when gradually he became aware of sounds in the air. It was nothing very much at first and he dismissed it but the further he flew back down the hill the more persistent and loud did the noise become. It seemed to be coming up the hill towards him; a steady regular noise, constant with no breaks and yet punctuated by a steady relentless rhythm in the background. Warrigal felt his brief moment of optimistic confidence evaporate until it was entirely gone and he was left with the empty sick feeling of fear with which he was becoming more and more familiar.

There was a large bushy hawthorn tree on his left and he decided to perch there in the cover of the branches until he could see what was causing the noise. He made his way silently into the thickest part of the foliage and found a good spot where he could see out quite clearly through gaps in the leaves but experience told him he could not be seen. He settled down nervously to wait and then, suddenly, way down in the valley below and just beginning the long climb up on to the moors, he saw it. At first he was not quite sure what it was; it looked like an enormous caterpillar, the body of which was black but which had a bright red streak stretching all the way along its back. It wound its slow and ponderous way through the twists and turns of the foothills, weaving like a snake alongside the meanders of the stream in the valley up which it was coming.

The owl watched mesmerized as the thing came nearer and then as it left the foothills and started out on to the edge of the moors, he realized with a shudder what it was. Its body was made up of hundreds of Urkku wearing dark clothing and walking in twos and threes as if they were in a procession. Most of them were carrying flaming torches raised above their heads and it was these that had looked at a distance like the flickering red gash along the caterpillar’s back.

He shook himself free of the nausea that had gripped him and forced himself to think. They were coming up the same path that the animals had followed yesterday, and so they would probably be at the cottage in a very short while. They must leave now. Quietly he flew out of the hawthorn and, keeping low so that he was flying just above the tops of the heather and bracken, he sped back up the hill, keeping the path in sight but flying some distance away from it so that he would be less likely to be spotted. In fact he was soon out of sight of the Urkku although he could still hear the constant low murmur of their voices and the steady drum of marching feet along the ground.

Fortunately the wind was behind him and it seemed no time at all before the little cottage loomed up out of the darkness. The immense peacefulness of the scene with its quietly slumbering croft and the gentle waving of the tall grasses in the wind contrasted jarringly with the turmoil in Warrigal’s mind and he had to stop on the wall outside and gather his thoughts. It was almost as if he had dreamt the whole thing. He flew back in through the open window and inside everything was exactly as he had left it with Brock and the old man still snoring contentedly. His first task was to wake everyone, so he flew up to the top of the Welsh dresser and called loudly. There were grunts and mumbles from the sleepers and Brock turned over but no one woke up so he called again, a piercing cry so loud that the plates rattled and the window-panes vibrated. This time Brock sat bolt upright as did Perryfoot; their eyes blinking and the hackles raised on their backs. They had heard Warrigal’s first Toowitt-Toowoo through a mist of sleepy dreams about Silver Wood but the second had been full of such intensity that it had shattered the dream and left them awake and frightened. Warrigal flew down.

‘We’ve got to leave now,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been outside and seen a whole mob of Urkku coming up the hill. I’m certain they’re coming here. Come on, rouse yourselves. Ah, good, the Eldron are awake,’ he added, looking over to the cushions where Jim and Ivy were yawning and rubbing their eyes.

‘What’s to do?’ said Jim. He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Half past three,’ he said. ‘Oh dear, what a time. Do you want to go out? I left the window open for you,’ he said, looking at Warrigal, ‘but we couldn’t leave the door open for you, Brock.’

Warrigal had flown over the windowsill and kept looking at Jim and then outside in an attempt to explain to the old man the danger that was coming up the hill.

‘Let’s have a light on,’ said Ivy, and she found the box of matches which she had left by the bed on the floor and lit a candle.

‘I think he’s trying to tell us something, ’ she said, seeing the owl on the sill. ‘We’ll have to wake up Nab and Beth.’

There was no need, for just then the bedroom door opened and they came in.

‘Warrigal,’ said Beth. ‘Was that you? What is it?’

Quickly the owl described what he had seen. When he had finished Beth repeated it to the old couple.

‘You must go now,’ said Jim. ‘It seems they know you’re here. I think perhaps they knew all along; I thought my story was accepted a bit too easily. They just wanted time to organize themselves.’

‘You must come with us then,’ said Beth. ‘If they know you’ve hidden us you’ll be in some danger, won’t you?’

Jim laughed. ‘Don’t worry about us,' he said, ‘but thank you. Now listen; there are things you ought to know about what’s been going on since you left home, Beth. You’ll have to tell Nab in his language, when you’ve both gone. There’s a lot that’s been happening that folk like Ivy and me don’t really understand so I can only tell you what we know and what we’ve heard in the village and so on. Anyway, it seems that our world, the human world, Beth, is about to collapse. The countries are all at war with one another and no one trusts anyone else. Everything is in short supply so they’re all fighting for what little is left. The rivers are dirty and stagnant, fish are dying in the sea and the crops won’t grow. It’s every man for himself, Beth. Even the police have long since stopped being able to control things; in fact they hardly even exist any more and the ones there are, are worse than useless. We’re quite lucky up here because we can grow most of what we need and we keep out of the way but it’s been terrible in the towns. And then, to make everything worse, about six months ago a terrible disease began to spread throughout the world. It started here, so they say, and was carried overseas so that now it’s everywhere. Thousands have died and those that are left scrabble over what little there is. How it started no one really knows but the rumour, and the story which the authorities put out, is that it came from you, the five of you, and that it is you who are spreading it around the country. That’s why they’re after you. There’ve been patrols out everywhere looking, spurred on by fanatical leaders who have been killing all the animals like you that they’ve seen in the hope that in the end they’ll get you. They’ve burnt great areas of the countryside in the hope of containing the disease, and the bodies of those who’ve died along with those of the animals they’ve killed, are burnt to try and stop it spreading. Fire, they think, kills the germs, and in any case nobody will dig the graves. So you see there’s not only war between countries; this disease has meant that there is virtual civil war in each country as well.’