"Wildoak" by C.C. Harrington, Chapter 38–Epilogue

He galloped over to see her, blundering into her legs and rubbing his head against her knee.

Then she opened the tin and emptied the contents into a cold, congealed heap.

Rumpus sniffed the clotted mixture suspiciously. He gave her a disdainful look.

They spent the rest of the evening immersed in rounds of Scrabble and draughts, with Fred throwing his arms up every time Maggie beat him, which was often.

“I've just had a phone call from Mabel Harris in the village. Apparently a group of Rosemullion residents have called an emergency meeting in the village hall. Noon today. She wouldn't give details but said it was a grave matter of public health and safety."

The hall consisted of a large brown room with a modest stage at one end.

Most of the chairs were already filled with people talking and gesticulating to one another.

As most of you know, my name is Mabel Harris and I'm the clerk to the Parish Council.

A number of you have raised concerns over recent sightings of a big cat in this area, a monster-cat. It has also been reported that Sid Curtis, our local postman, spotted the creature within the confines of Rosemullion village itself.

But yesterday it was brought to the committee’s attention that Nigel Williams lost two lambs in a brutal attack. He says they were dismembered.

A murmur of surprise and dismay filled the air.

A small queue of people gathered along one side of the stage.

It seems to me that this whole business has been blown well out of proportion. I'm willing to bet this so-called monster is nothing other than an oversized farm cat.

He then glanced dismissively at Fred. "You can step down, Fred. We all know you've been struggling with"—he tapped the side of his head—“health issues."

So, this was Lord Foy. He was thinner and more frail than she had imagined him.

Then one person let out a barely suppressed laugh.

"Where'd they set it?"
"Down by the main ride, I reckon. Was the only place they could get the truck in. But we'll get 'im before they do."

Night fell swiftly, and the moon receded behind a thick, heavy cloud.

Bit by bit, she carried out pieces, and they assembled a large makeshift pen in the pale light of the moon.

She glanced at the sky, at the net of bright stars and luminous moon.

“Yes. I'm going to park just outside the farm gate. You slip down the driveway and into the farmyard. Then...first of all, find Rumpus. Next, cause a diversion, and then, when you're ready, give me the signal. Together we'll load him up as quick as we can and get out.''

The door on one side opened into a tack room laden with heavy leather saddles and all sorts of bridles and ropes and horse things.

The only thing she found was a stack of hay bales and sacks of horse feed.

Several things then happened in rapid, hectic succession.

“What the hell are you doing in there?” he shouted, his face contorting with surprise and angry disbelief.

Then she felt his hand come down on her shoulder, yanking, and forcing her to a halt, his fingers pinching like a vise.

Maggie did not stop sprinting until she saw the clunky silhouette of the flying machine slowly reversing down the lane, a random assortment of lights blinking in the half-light.

Fred must have heard her, for the flying machine made a sudden, deep gravelly sound and lurched forward.

He felt his stomach contract, closed his eyes, and threw up.

Maggie felt so tired and queasy, she could hardly find the energy to coax Rumpus into the new pen.

Her head ached, and she felt groggy.

“Come along, then. And, Margaret, please, get yourself cleaned up,” he added tersely, following Fred inside.

A barrage of questions and comments flew at him.

You and your mad grandfather don't have the wherewithal to look after yourselves, let alone a wild cat.

He blew his whistle again and waved his truncheon in the air.

Gingerly, she got up.

She marveled at the interconnectedness of the stars and the vast night sky, at the rising of the moon and the setting of the sun, at the slow spinning of this one, singular planet.

She goes on to tell a story—of a distinguished international career devoted to nature conservation and of something bigger.

“Unfortunately, the old oak did not fare so well. By the su-u-u-u-u-ummer of 1963, Wildoak Forest had been fully cleared. Today, there is no trace of it."

The people in the audience begin to clap, louder and louder, until one by one, they rise from their seats in a standing ovation.