For a while, he was content to listen to the sounds his feet made on the soft earth, and the gentle whisper of the wind in the willows, until presently he stopped and peered at his reflection in the river. He bowed, as if meeting someone important for the first time, and said to his watery alter-ego, ‘Good Morrow, Sir. Permit me to introduce myself. My name… is Nostradormouse.’

He chuckled to himself, and then continued on his way.

Chapter Five

Across the tree-tops leaps the dray-dweller;

As the feathered bard spreads wide his song,

So each visionary phrase becomes valid

And his wisdom is wisely employed.

I f Nostradormouse had looked up into the branches high above, he would have noticed a reddish-brown creature with a long, bushy tail watching him. She gazed down through the foliage, her four limbs gripping the branch she was perched on tightly. Every now and again, her head would dart from side to side, nervously keeping watch. 

With a swift, graceful movement, she scampered from one branch to another, then one tree to the next, running down the thinnest of branches, not caring how much it bowed under her weight.

For days she had been heading deeper into The Great Woods, feeling drawn towards something she didn’t fully understand. Quickening her pace, she leapt from branch to branch, tree to tree, continuing her fateful journey, pausing only briefly to eat a nut, or to hide in a hollow trunk for a moment’s rest.

And then, suddenly, there it was. It stood alone in the middle of a clearing, lifeless yet majestic. Nothing grew around its edges, and all the trees that surrounded it seemed to shrink from its touch. She scampered down the trunk of the tree and, looking nervously all around her, scurried into a hollow.

The third guardian had arrived.

One sunny morning, a small, black-feathered bird with a yellow beak alighted on a hazel tree and started to sing. A mouse came out of the hollow in the trunk of the hazel, and listened for a few moments. Then, he called to his wife, who joined him at the entrance to their home. They looked at each other in surprise, not quite believing what they’d heard.

The black bird finished his song and was about to leave, when he noticed his audience and turned to greet them.

‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ he chirped, ‘I didn’t notice you there. How rude of me!’

‘Oh, that’s no bother,’ said the mouse, ‘but could I ask you to repeat your song? It was so lovely.’

‘Why, thank-you!’ exclaimed the bird, ‘I would be honoured to repeat it!’  Proudly, he puffed out his chest, and began his song again:

‘I sing in praise of the healer of voles,

Of beavers and foxes and badgers and moles,

This giver of nostrums will know of your plight

And come to your aid when the moon shines its light.

With flowers and herbs he will mix you a drink,

Be you lizard or rabbit or turtle or mink,

And when you are well he will slip from your house,

The most humble of healers is Nostradormouse.’

‘I reckon that’s our son!’ said the mouse to his wife.

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I do. Well, would you believe it?’

The black bird listened intently to what the mice were saying. ‘There is another verse of my song,’ he chirped. ‘Do you wish to hear it?’

The mice nodded vigorously, and so the black bird continued;

‘I sing in wonder, for this healer can see

What the future may hold, both for you and for me.

Ask him the question that troubles your mind,

And he will reach into the future and find

An answer to query, question or qualm,

Which he will deliver with unruffled calm

So you may rest easy, be you pheasant or grouse,

A venerable seer is Nostradormouse.’

‘You’re right!’ said Mother, ‘Isn’t that wonderful?’

‘I knew he’d do all right!’ Father replied.

They thanked the black bird profusely.

‘Oh, think nothing of it!’ replied the bird. ‘That’s what I’m here for. Now, I must bid you farewell. There are other ears to fill with sweet song!’

With that, he took to the air in search of new audiences. When he was gone, they gave each other a long hug.

‘Do you think he’s okay?’ said Mother.

‘I hope so,’ replied Father. ‘I do worry about him.’

‘Me too,’ said Mother. ‘But I’m so proud.’

Arvic Vole was not feeling too good. For a day or so now, his limbs had seemed heavier, and his breath came in short, rasping gasps. He felt both hot and cold in turn, and would shiver and sweat in the same breath. But when his appetite dwindled, and he could no longer stomach even the simplest of meals, he decided that enough was enough. Something was most definitely wrong with him, and it needed to be fixed. But how? The one animal that could aid him had left many weeks ago, after helping his cousin Pitamus to cure his family.

Pitamus! Maybe he had some of that Nostrum stuff left? It was worth a try. Wearily, Arvic raised his aching bones from his chair and made his way through the labyrinth of tunnels that lay under the pine glade.

Pitamus’s wife, Lina, met Arvic at the entrance to their Burrow and immediately guessed what was wrong.

‘Oh, dear!’ she said, ‘you poor thing! Come in at once and lie down on our bed. Pitamus! Pitamus! Come quick!’

‘What is it, my dear?’ said Pitamus, hurrying in from another tunnel, closely followed by Piney. When he saw Arvic lying on his bed, he knew without being told. ‘Oh, dear… Oh, deary me!’ he muttered, ‘What are we to do?’

‘Well, husband,’ began Lina, ‘you can start by collecting these plants,’ and gave him a list describing each herb that Nostradormouse had given them.

‘Where did you get this?’ asked Pitamus.

‘Where do you think?’ Lina replied.

Pitamus hurried out and quickly gathered all the herbs on the list. When he returned, the copper pan was already heating the water, and Lina was dabbing a wet cloth on Arvic’s forehead.

‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered, ‘We’ll have you up and about in no time.’

After taking the newly made nostrum, Arvic slept soundly for two days. When he awoke, he found Pitamus sitting beside the bed in his favourite armchair, whittling away at a long slim piece of wood with a knot near the top.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘Oh, hello Arvic,’ replied Pitamus, looking up from his work, ‘It’s just a small gift to say thank-you.’

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have!’ said Arvic, ‘I don’t deserve such a gift!’

‘No, you don’t!’ came a voice from the entrance to the Burrow, ‘Not after hogging our bed for two days!’ Lina entered, carrying the smaller of her two children. ‘It’s for our mutual friend, not for you!’

‘Oh, of course!’ said Arvic, ‘I was just testing!’

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Pitamus, blowing away a few wood shavings from his carving.

‘Never better!’ said Arvic, confidently.

‘Good,’ said Pitamus, ‘because I need you to do something for me.’

‘You want me to take that gift of yours to Nostradormouse, don’t you?’ he said.

‘Now who’s the prophet?’ said Lina.

Arvic smiled, and then addressed his cousin once again. ‘At a guess, I take it that your gift is a staff of some kind.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Pitamus, holding the staff at arm’s length to admire it. ‘I’ve been working on this since he left.’

‘And I have, too!’ said a small voice from behind Lina.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Pitamus, ‘And so has Piney!’

‘I must admit, it’s rather a fine piece of work,’ said Arvic. He looked gratefully at Pitamus, then turned and smiled at Lina and Piney. ‘I should be proud to take this to our friend,’ he said.