Search for the Sunlight

Basil S. Treewood sat in his favourite elm chair, gazing out across the lagoon.

The evening sun had set behind the distant mountains and the blood orange sky reflected on the water like fire. One by one, the Pied-billed Grebes and Loons retired to the shelter of their reed bed havens, while their nocturnal neighbours, the Black Crowned Herons and Whip-poor-wills, prepared themselves for the night shift. It was their preference to hunt by moonlight.

Nearby, an owl hooted. Basil looked at his woodwatch. It was getting late. He rose from his chair and, as he stood up, thoughts of his absent grandfather filled his mind. “Another sleepless night,” he sighed.

Just then, in a flurry of tender young twigs and fresh green leaves, Herbert and Sherlock burst through the bushes like a tornado, shattering both the silence and the new fence surrounding Basil’s plot. “Hi Baz!” was all they said.

Moments later, in a second raucous assault, Harry appeared. In the fading half light, and in his haste to inform Basil of his new plan, he failed to see the garden rake.

As his foot went down hard on the spiked end, the handle shot up like a sprung lever and hit him, square on the nose. Reeling from the blow, and momentarily stunned, the young Hawthorn staggered for a few steps before tumbling face down onto the dung heap.

“We’ve come to discuss your grandfather,” he panted, picking himself up from the muck.

“We need to talk.”

Basil smiled gently and with a sideways nod of his head, he beckoned his friends indoors…

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