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towards his friend.
    ‘I’m tired of that game,’ said Rannoch as the fawns reached him. ‘I want to do something else.’
    ‘What?’ said Thistle, aimlessly nosing a beetle that he had just seen lumbering through the grass. He turned it over with his muzzle and watched it kick its legs helplessly in the air.
    ‘Don’t really know.’ Rannoch shrugged. ‘Something more adventurous.’
    ‘We could go down to the stream,’ suggested Tain.
    ‘And tease the fishes,’ added Thistle more enthusiastically. He had just upended the beetle again.
    ‘Boring,’ said Rannoch.
    ‘I could make up a story,’ suggested Tain.
    ‘No,’ said Rannoch. ‘I want to do something really fun, like. . . like. . .’ Rannoch lowered his voice and looked hard at his two friends. ‘Like going into the forest.’
    ‘Rannoch!’ said Thistle disapprovingly, losing interest in the beetle which, much relieved, scuttled away under a branch. ‘You know we’re not allowed into the forest alone. We’re still too young.’
    ‘I know, I know. But just think what an adventure it would be.’
    Thistle looked nervously at Tain.
    ‘What do you say, Tain?’ asked Rannoch, his bright eyes twinkling. The thought of the forest and all its dark places made Tain shudder.
    ‘Oh, I don’t know, Rannoch,’ he said quietly. ‘We really shouldn’t. My mother told be never to. . .’
    ‘And mine,’ agreed Thistle.
    ‘Yes. Yes. But we could just go into the edge of the trees. Down at the stream by that big oak. I was listening to some bucks the other day and one said he had seen an owl’s nest.’
    Tain’s eyes opened wide.
    ‘Well,’ said Rannoch, who had already made up his mind, ‘are you coming?’
    ‘But we’ll get into trouble,’ said Thistle.
    But Rannoch was already gone, running back up the hill. Tain and Thistle looked at each other doubtfully.
    ‘Come on then.’ Tain shrugged. ‘Just to the edge of the trees.’
    The three fawns ran as fast as their legs could carry them with Rannoch leading the way, skirting the home valley and the grazing herd. When they came to the edge of the western hill they paused and looked down. Below them was the stream and beyond it the big oak that marked the edge of the forest. They stopped and then raced down towards it. But before they had even reached the stream Rannoch pulled up suddenly and looked around him, startled, his ears standing up and his tail twitching.
    ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Tain, coming up to his side.
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Rannoch. ‘I feel funny.’
    ‘What you mean,’ said Thistle, ‘is you’ve changed your mind.’
    ‘No. I just . . . I don’t know what it is. I’ve never felt like this before.’
    ‘Felt like what?’ said Thistle irritably.
    ‘It’s a sort of tingling feeling. I can’t describe it. It’s as though it’s inside me and yet it isn’t. But I feel, I feel. . .’
    ‘What?’ asked Tain, more kindly.
    ‘I feel as if something bad is happening. Something wrong.’
    ‘You’re just frightened.’ Thistle’s thin face looked rather unkind.
    With that they heard a sound from beyond the trees to the right, where the stream curled round out of sight. The three fawns walked slowly forward until they caught sight of three more deer by the edge of the water. One of them had his back to the stream. It was a fat little fawn named Bankfoot, who everyone laughed at in the herd because he was so slow and had a stutter. The other two were prickets, young deer with their first heads; single spiked antlers that rose straight above them.
    ‘Oh, it’s only Bankfoot,’ said Thistle. ‘They’re just teasing him.’
    ‘Hush,’ said Rannoch. ’Listen.’
    The two youngsters facing Bankfoot were a year older and considerably bigger. They were pushing forward, nudging Bankfoot with their noses.
    ‘L-l-l-leave me alone,’ stammered the terrified little fawn, digging in with his feet and trying to stop them edging him into the water.
    ‘Don’t you