the furry body. Hot breath from the creature's mouth warmed her pudgy hand.
The sudden crash of broken undergrowth from behind startled her and she drew her arm back in a reflex action.
'Josie? Where are you?' came her father's concerned voice.
'Here, Daddy,' she called out. 'Got a doggy.'
Terry brushed the leaves and branches aside and found his daughter on her knees in the mud, the white football near her feet. Her face beamed up at him in excitement.
'You wait till your mother sees the state of you,' he scolded, and reached down to scoop her up in his arms. 'Dog in there, Daddy. Can we take him home?' Her father peered into the gloom behind her, but when she turned to point to the spot where the animal had been hiding, it had gone.
The horse, chestnut in colour, cantered easily along the hoggin path, its rider immaculately clad in a light brown uniform and dark riding cap. Charles Denison, Head Keeper of Epping Forest, was content on this fine, October morning.
It was the season he loved best: the greens, yellows and browns of autumn gave the forest new life, changed its personality in a most beautiful way. The dying leaves replenished the earth, the golden, myriad carpet they formed on the woodland floor injecting the soil with fresh vitality which would be slowly processed through the winter months. The air was fresh, its sharpness exhilarating. And best of all, the people were gone.
The vast acres of woodland, rolling fields and agricultural land were a retreat for thousands upon thousands of Londoners or those living in the urbanized areas around the forest. The hordes invaded at weekends and public holidays in the summer months, scattering their litter, terrifying the shy forest creatures with their bludgeoning excursions into the wooded areas, shouting, laughing, mutilating trees and undergrowth. The public thought they owned the lush strip of land, assuming its upkeep came from the rates they paid; but it wasn't so.
Private money preserved this sanctuary.
Still, they were gone now, leaving the forest to those who cared, those who loved the vast nature reserve for its peacefulness, its constantly changing pattern, its timid wildlife. Fewer squaw ling brats, less bawling transistor radios. Weekends were still busy they always would be, whatever the weather but, ah, weekdays. Weekdays, such as this, were a joy. Denison brought his mount to a halt to examine fresh markings at the base of a birch tree.
The bark had been stripped away by some small animal, revealing the virgin wood beneath, bright and naked, a fresh wound. He lightly kicked against the sides of his mount and urged it forward for a closer inspection. Squirrels, he told himself. Damned pests, despite their bushy-tailed precociousness. If he had his way, he would trap or poison the lot of 'em. The grey squirrel, usually in early summer, attacked trees, gnawing at the main stem for the sweet, sappy layers beneath the rough bark. A tree could often die from such attacks, particularly if completely ringed. The ordinary layman just did not understand the nuisance value of these tiny creatures, didn't seem to appreciate that they were rodents. Of course, there had been no sign at all of the red squirrel. The red had been ousted from the forest by the grey many years ago and the amount of greys had increased uncontrollably; but this year, strangely, their numbers seemed to be down.
He pulled the horse away from the birch, lifting its head up from the succulent grass. Guiding it back to the path, Denison gazed around him, looking for signs of further damage. A sudden flurry of movement to his left brought him to a halt again. A section of thicket across the path from him shook frantically, then settled into an uneasy stillness. It often happened in the forest an animal or bird startled by the approach of man, a sudden attack by one animal on another it was this that made the woodland so alive.
A sudden, spasmodic twitching of leaves and a tiny, almost inaudible squeal told him that a forest creature had fallen victim to a larger enemy. He felt no sympathy, for that was the law of nature, but he was curious to know who was prey and who was predator. He clucked his tongue at the horse and lightly kicked its flanks again. The chestnut took a few steps towards the thicket, then stopped, its neck and legs suddenly stiff.
There was no movement from the undergrowth, not even the rustle of unseen leaves beneath its many layers.
'Come on, girl,' said Denison, irritated at his mount's unexpected nervousness. 'On you go.'
But the horse refused to budge. It regarded the thicket with bulging eyes. Denison became impatient with the horse's inexplicable fear and fear it was, for the keeper could feel the rising tension in the beast.
He knew horses, knew their moods, and he certainly knew this mood. The horse was ready to bolt.
'Steady now, Bettina. There's nothing there to worry you.' He patted the chestnut's long neck, speaking in soft, soothing tones. Bettina was normally the most docile of animals, rarely spooked by the abrupt actions of startled wildlife. 'Calm yourself, girl, and we'll go on our way.'
The horse skipped from hoof to hoof, jerking its head up and away from the now silent thicket. The keeper exerted pressure with his left knee and pulled the reins towards the right, trying to steer his mount down the path and away from the menacing undergrowth.
And then the horse was off. There had been no other sound, no other movement from the thicket, but the tension inside the skittish horse had finally boiled over, and the mare fled away, hoofs pounding, digging deep into the path and throwing clumps of earth high into the air behind it.
Denison tugged at the reins, his legs stiff against the stirrups, his body thrown backwards in an attempt to control the chestnut's gallop.
But the terror in the animal was stronger than the pull of its master's hands. Low branches came dangerously near Denison's face as the horse sped along the churned-up path, and he decided to let his mount have its head, to run itself out, to disperse its energy until its strength and will was more controllable.
They cleared the trees and Denison silently thanked God; open grassland was before them. The horse left the path and headed into the lush fields, the keeper praying that it would not step into a rut or a hole and break its leg. And possibly, his neck.
He tugged at the reins again and sensed some of the excitement leaving the horse now that it was out on open ground.
Whoa, girl! Stop now, girl! Whoa, Bettina!' Denison tried not to shout the words, but it was hard to keep the urgency, the near-panic, from them.
A sudden dip caused the horse to stumble, but it managed to keep its feet, though one leg twisted badly. It staggered forward, the impetus of its wild gallop carrying its powerful body onwards; but the sudden check in speed threw the head keeper forward, almost over the beast's head. He clutched desperately at the long neck, his legs losing their grip on Bettina's flanks, his body slipping from the saddle. He was fortunate, for his feet touched the
