Rites of Spring, Anders Motte [reading diary .TXT] 📗

of the garden. Earlier in the summer his friend Isak had found a jawbone on the ground under the dense branches, a white bone with four yellow molars attached. Uncle Harald had said that Grandfather used to bury things there. Things he wanted to get rid of for good. That the jawbone probably belonged to a pig, and that you had to bury some things very deep to stop the foxes finding them.

He had only ever seen one fox in his life. That was when Uncle Harald, Dad and the other men laid the results of their hunt out in the yard last autumn. Narrow eyes, a shimmering red coat, sharp teeth that stuck out beneath the bloodstained nose. The dogs kept their distance from it. They seemed unsettled, almost frightened. Uncle Harald had said that you always shot foxes if you got the chance. That it was the duty of every hunter, whenever the opportunity presented itself. Because foxes were cunning, just like in fairy tales. They knew how to move without leaving a trail.

‘They’ve got incredible noses,’ he said. ‘And foxes love the smell of rabbits and little boys. So make sure you stay inside the fence, Billy!’

Then Uncle Harald had laughed, that rumbling laugh that sounded jolly and dangerous at the same time, and after a while he had started to laugh too. But he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about foxes digging for skeletons in the garden. He even dreamed about them at night. Sharp teeth, paws digging in the soil, damp, shiny noses sniffing the air. Sniffing in the direction of the house for a little boy.

He had avoided that part of the garden since then, and hadn’t protested when Isak wanted to take the pig’s jawbone home with him, even though it should really have been his.

But right now neither skeletons nor foxes could stop him. The rabbit scampered round the dry bushes and he followed it deeper into the undergrowth. A low branch caught his sleeve and he had to stop for a couple of seconds. By the time he had pulled free the rabbit had disappeared.

He hesitated for a few moments, wondering if he should turn back and go up to the house. But he was still caught up in the thrill of the chase. That gave him the courage to go on. Further in amongst the bushes. Like a proper hunter.

More branches reached out towards him, feeling for his clothes with thorny fingers. Somewhere up ahead in the gloom he thought he could see a little white tail bobbing about. Perhaps he’d reached the burrow now? The thought made him speed up, and he almost ran straight into the tall fence that marked the end of the garden.

He stopped abruptly. Just a metre or so beyond the wire fence a dense crop of maize was growing. It wasn’t going to be harvested for a while yet. Not until it had dried and turned yellow, Dad said.

Crickets were chirruping among the leaves, weaving their song into a crisp carpet of sound that almost drowned out his thoughts. The rabbit was on the other side. It was sitting right beneath the green wall of maize plants, watching him. Waiting for him.

The fence was tall. Maybe even taller than Uncle Harald, and certainly too tall for him to be able to climb over. The hunt was over. He wasn’t going to see the rabbit’s burrow. Even so, he couldn’t help feeling a bit relieved. He had never been this far in the garden on his own before. There was only a thin streak of evening light left in the sky, and the shadows among the undergrowth had turned to dense darkness almost without him noticing.

He decided to go home, and was about to turn back when he caught sight of something. A small hollow had been dug out beneath the fence, just big enough for a small boy to crawl through. He looked over towards the rabbit. It was still sitting there.

A gust of wind blew through the field of maize, then the rusty links of the wire fence and the dark bushes behind him. He looked round, then got down on his knees, then his stomach. He wriggled carefully under the jagged wire fence, stood up and brushed the dirt from his hands and knees. He was tingling with excitement. He was out now, beyond the garden, for the first time on his own. He would tell Isak about it on Monday. Maybe Mattias and Vera too. Tell them how brave he was when he caught a rabbit of his very own, only they mustn’t say anything to Mum.

There was a rustling sound among the maize and at first he thought it was the wind again. Then he saw the white tail disappear among the tall plants. The rabbit wasn’t scampering anymore, it was running, fast. Its ears were tucked flat against its head and soil was flying up from its paws. It wasn’t until the rabbit had disappeared from view that he realised what had happened. That the animal’s sensitive nose had picked up a smell belonging to someone other than him. Someone who had burrowed under a fence. Someone with a red coat and sharp teeth who loved the smell of rabbits. And little boys . . .

His heart was beating fast, racing as if it belonged to a frightened little rabbit. The maize plants loomed above him like dark, swaying giants, pushing him back towards the fence. He felt a sob rise in his throat. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of something moving, something red. He turned round and realised at the same moment that the crickets had fallen silent.

Mum! he had time to think. Mum!

About the Author

Anders de la Motte is the bestselling author of the Seasons Quartet; the first three books of which – End of Summer, Deeds of Autumn and Dead of Winter – have all been number one bestsellers in