It was dark. And cold. There was a low buzzing sound in the air.
Bigwig, where he crouched amongst the dying stalks of a nettle patch, shook his head clear of the grey leaves which had fallen from their withered plants. A strong smell of rotting was breezing from somewhere Bigwig couldn't pin-point. He peered through the nettles into the gloom ahead, looking for something, yet not really sure what. But he felt it was bad.
Gradually a thin line of dull blue light showed through the inky darkness, like a horizon at the very beginning of a misty winter sunrise. Bigwig leaned forward, watching as the light neared. When he realised that the light was not a light at all, he gave a a gurgling gasp and tried to back away. But the nettle stalks seemed to have grown suddenly dense, a fence of dying green on all sides. Bigwig was trapped.
Coming closer from directly in front of him was a Shining Wire. It gleamed by an invisible light source, floating eerily, stretched taut and sinister. Bigwig saw the fat peg at one end, like a squarish slug of wood. He was frozen with terror.
The low buzzing noise all around had intensified to a screeching whine. The wire came closer. Reached him. Bigwig tried to turn away. It pressed into his neck...
'The Wire!' he squealed.
***
Bigwig opened his eyes, kicking his back legs feebly.
General Woundwort, with his Darkhaven army, was gone.
It was bright daylight, early morning. The so-called Wire, Bigwig found by shifting position - where he lay on his side at the foot of Watership Down - was just a piece of sharp-edged flint, digging into the side of his neck.
Bigwig exhaled a long, shaky breath of relief. He lay still, listening to the sounds of dawn. Bird song, and the Nuthanger Farm dog, barking away.
However - no sounds of battle. Had the war between Woundwort's followers and Watership Down ended? It must have. But which side won?
There was a rather wild, gusty air current breezing over him from Watership Down. A gathering storm?
Bigwig tried to lift his head to look uphill. A sudden wave of weariness forced him down again. He realised his body ached like something awful, and one of his forelegs was in bad form, stiff and sore. Bigwig, prostrate on the grass and wide-eyed with uncertainty, wondered what on Earth to do.
What had happened to Hazel and the warren - to Spartina? Were they safe at Watership Down? Had they fled to find another warren, or had Woundwort managed to take them all. Dead or alive?
How could he find out, the state he was in?
What a state indeed. Bigwig was sure he could hear crows not far off. They would find him in due time. Make a meal of him, whether he stayed or moved away to hide.
And he just had to find out what happened to his friends.
He growled in frustration.
And decided.
He would lift every ounce of his battered, aching body up that hill, find out, or die trying...
A moment later Bigwig was writhing on the ground, kicking his legs like a rabbit in a snare. With teeth gritted in pain he managed to brace both his back legs firmly against the ground. And he almost cried inside, moving his fore legs, especially the one Woundwort had struck so hard. But finally he was up; tired, pain running riot in his sprained foreleg and down his back; but up.
Now he turned and faced the hill. He must be totally mad. It was a horrific climb.
But Bigwig was in one of his stubborn moods.
Grunting with effort he mounted the hill.
***
It was arduous slow going. There were times when spasms of fatigue would take hold of Bigwig, so fierce that he felt about to submit to them and slump to the ground in defeat.
His bullheadedness, so typical of Bigwig Captain of Owlsa, was what kept him going.
***
The strong wind had died down ...
Halfway up the hill. Bigwig was blind with weariness. Doggedly he limped on, but gradually feeling the energy drain from him. He was stumbling with his eyes closed.
Suddenly his fore paws met thin air. Bigwig keeled forward, slipping into the earthy semi-darkness of a scrape, one of the shallow, dead-ended burrows used by the Watership Down rabbits as shelter in bad weather, when the warren was too far to get to in time.
Bigwig stared through tired eyes into the gloom, pondering over the fierce yearning inside him - to heave himself into the shadowed recesses of the scrape and sleep, hidden from elil and those crows.
But would he be hidden? Bigwig realised he would not. The scrape was small and too shallow, and would barely take his size. Any part of him sticking out could be spotted quite easily
Up the hill then.
Find out what happened to the others. He'd dragged himself this far.
Reluctantly and with difficulty, Bigwig started reversing out of the hole. Having only fallen halfway into it, he had just the fore end of his body to push out, using his front paws.
The electric pain which twinged suddenly up his sprained foreleg, as he put some weight onto it, came as a nasty surprise. Bigwig gave a shuddering gasp of shock and flopped onto his belly, overwhelmed by the intensity of the spasm. He made himself relax, until it passed. Then tried again to get out.
Agony. No good. He felt utterly spent.
His vision under closed lids seemed to flash waveringly at every tired, heavy throb which now pulsed his head.
So this is it then, thought Bigwig. Goodbye Hazel. Fiver. Spartina, and everybody else, if you're all safe and alive. I hope you are. Happy, too...'
'They're safe, Bigwig.'
Bigwig started and opened his eyes. He'd fallen asleep for a moment; the voice - that warm, friendly voice filled with quiet confidence - had woken him up.
'Who's that?' he asked, confused by the lack of any scent to distinguish the arrival, and automatically trying to rise - and finding that he actually could lift his forequarters from the soil of the scrape, with hardly a discomfort. 'Is it Hazel?'
'No, I'm not Hazel,' came the reply, in slightly amused tones. 'Though I daresay you know me almost as well. Who knows - perhaps even better. I've come to help you on your way ... Will you come with me?'
Bigwig, to his own indescribable surprise, pulled himself easily out of the hole. The energy had returned to him, and the excruciating pain in his front leg had waned to a mild cramp. He felt no other pain.
Open-mouthed Bigwig turned to the owner of the voice.
It was a rabbit, a buck who looked fit and young, and shrewd in expression, and whose ears glowed with something like starlight. Bigwig realised who it was, guessed what was to be.
He crouched to the ground, dipping his head in deep respect and admiration.
'I'll come with you, El-ahrah,' he said. '... I'm ready.'
'No, you're not,' said El-ahrah, Prince With a Thousand Enemies. 'Not for where you think I'm taking you, anyway. You've still a life to live yet, Bigwig. A good, long one.' He stamped one of his strong hind feet and bounded a short way towards the top of Watership Down, white tail flaring bright as the sun itself.
'Come on, Bigwig. Come with me. Run with me. Honest, it's uphill from here.'
Bigwig remained where he was a second, spellbound. Then with a small shake, he followed at a limping run. Shoulder to shoulder with El-ahrah he covered the remaining distance, ears pressed to his skull and the morning breeze gently tousling the fur around his neck.
He felt truly alive.
As they neared the hill's crest, Bigwig heard familiar voices not far ahead. He pricked his ears up.
'I must leave you to run alone now,' said El-ahrah. Bigwig looked to him, but the Prince had already disappeared. Only his voice, that and the sound of his paws rustling the grass as he ran, could be heard. 'But I'll be around, watching over you and your people, as always. Goodbye Bigwig. Live well!'
His voice and presence were heard no more.
Bigwig limped on alone, his pace faltering only a little as the beech tree, standing solitary at the crest of Watership Down, came into view. And rabbits came into view. Spartina was hopping towards him, calling to him.
Bigwig smiled, feeling the strong atmosphere of safety, relief and happiness.
Life was sweet...
The End