Emergency hog-hedging

In an extract from his new book, Pete Hartley begins the tale of a brave hedgehog named Rip

- A short story by Pete Hartley

Rip, the young hedgehog, did not know what smoke was but he knew it was bad; very bad. All the ancestors that he carried in his mind, his bones and his spines said that the smell of smoke was very, very bad.

He was in a hutch on the ground floor of Herichon Hall, where he was being fostered back to fitness after being found freezing in a churchyard next to a stone marked R.I.P.

Rip knew he had to move, but he was confused because the only way he could go was the way from which the smoke smell was coming. He'd been lost in long sleep, and it had taken a great effort to shake himself awake.

Fortunately, the fire had started high above him and by chance he'd been in that part of long sleep when hedgehogs sometimes emerge from hibernation for a short break. He was nearer wakefulness than hibernation and hence the very faintest thread of smoke was enough to be his get-out-of-bed alarm.

He slowly rustled through his bedding and out of the nest box into the cage where his food usually was. There was no breakfast this time, but a strong smell of timber toasting. To his surprise, his whiskers told him that the cage grille was no longer there, but he didn't know if he should step out.

Things did not smell good out there.

He hesitated at the edge of his cage. He twitched his slightly bent nose upwards. Smoke. What was smoke? Smoke was bad. Where was the smoke? Smoke was not far away. Which way? That way. And that way. And the other way. There was no way that he could safely go.

Some small part of Rip’s mind suddenly decided that he should return to sleep. He turned about and waddled towards his nestbox.