Fleetfoot Fletcher Warfare

While walking through the valley, the snow-capped peaks of the Highlands could be seen competing with the clouds in the distance. A little further on, pale white trails wound along the edge of the pine-covered mountains, and even further ahead, a stretch of meadow known locally as the Lowmere lay open like a soft green carpet.

Just emerging from that very meadow—look—a boy was sprinting along the mountain path. And who might that be? Surely you’ve recognised him. It is our childhood friend, Benjamin “Fleetfoot” Fletcher!

But young Ben isn’t running quite as fast as usual today. For one, he has two heavy satchels in his hands and a market bag slung round his neck. To make matters worse, a fresh gash on his ankle is bleeding steadily!

Meanwhile, far to the south of Ardenford, torrential rains were battering the G-7 Constabulary Post.

You’ve already read the account of the battle. Fleetfoot Fletcher himself had taken part in it. His men had fought with admirable courage; but in the end, they had been forced to abandon the Redridge Fort and retreat. By sheer chance, Ben alone had been left behind. But he had knocked out two enemy soldiers—again, purely by chance!—and then, leaving them unconscious, he had fled with their rifles.

He had deliberately slipped into the tall grass to escape the enemy’s sight, and now, after running for a mile or so, he stopped. No one seemed to be chasing him. There likely weren’t many Sino-Border troops stationed at that outpost. The few who were there were probably too occupied tending to their injured comrades. They clearly had neither the time nor the inclination to bother with a lone boy.

Ben’s senses had returned somewhat, but blood was still streaming from his ankle, so he halted under a tree along the mountainside. He remembered that a plant much like our Common Woundwort grew in this region—a leaf that, when crushed, worked wonders on cuts. He scraped a few leaves, pressed out their juice, and applied it to the wound before resting. The tingling relief came quickly.

Then he began to think. What now? Darkness was closing in. He would have to find a place to spend the night, but his throat was parched and there was no water nearby. If he had to climb further down—perhaps he might find a small moor-stream somewhere….

He might have found water if he had climbed further down, but descending into that marsh at the very edge of nightfall would have been far too dangerous. And if he climbed higher, the vegetation grew almost impenetrably thick. The crowns of fir, cedar, and ash trees were jutting into the fading blue sky. In that dense woodland there could easily be snakes… or lynxes… or even wild moor-cats! Venturing upward would be foolish. Far better to follow this winding path and hope it led to a village.

The monsoon had only just set in. The entire forest was alive, bursting with colour. On either side of the trail, clusters of naturally blooming wildflowers sprung out of the earth. Many of them were strange and exotic—nothing like what one sees in our Cotswold or Lakeland hills. Look there—lovely soft pink blooms. They looked delicate, almost fragile, yet their name was surprisingly fierce. Ben remembered reading about them in the Royal Botanic Garden guide. What were they called? —Ah, yes— Rhododendrons!

Fleetfoot Fletcher always found that name amusing. Even now, alone and wounded, he chuckled to himself.

Just then—tok!—a sharp sound struck the air. It was a moor-thrush. When Ben looked up, he saw the bird perched boldly on a branch, staring straight at him. The moment he noticed her, she hopped and fluttered towards the ridge.

Ben laughed, bent down, and tossed a pebble—more in mischief than malice. But hitting the thrush was impossible; she had already darted away. The stone sailed past and struck another tree.

And clearly it must have struck something else—some hidden spectator—because an enraged screech tore through the trees. Before Ben could even turn, something round and solid—a fruit the size of a large plum—came hurtling down and smacked him squarely on the head.

“Ow,” muttered Ben, bending to pick up the fallen fruit and slipping it into his pocket. He hobbled a little farther along the path and glanced up at the tree. It was a wild lemon tree, and perched on a branch thick with glossy green leaves was a black-furred moor-monkey with a pale white face, staring down at him with unmistakable indignation.

“Terribly sorry, old Chap Stupidito!” Fleetfoot Fletcher said with a playful salute before moving on.

He pulled the green, unripe fruit from his pocket and examined it. He had never seen anything quite like it—such a handsome-looking little thing. What sort of fruit could this be? he wondered. After walking another hundred steps or so, he rounded the bend of the hill—and there, suddenly, lay a tiny mountain hamlet. His heart leapt with relief.

Even with his injured ankle throbbing, he limped forward as fast as he could, burdened by his heavy load of gear.

A woodcutter was repairing the roof of a small hut on the hillside. He didn’t know a word of English, but he stared wide-eyed at the sight of this gun-carrying boy. With a gesture of concern, he guided Ben into his home.

There was already another guest inside. A sturdy monk, round of frame, robed in saffron-yellow, with thin but sharp, gleaming eyes. He, too, looked the boy up and down in amazement, and burst out:

“Good heavens! And where has this new young hero of Britannia sprung from? Come—come, my dear child!”

Though Ben found the greeting a touch theatrical, he was delighted to finally meet someone who spoke English properly. He replied at once:

“From the front lines! I came to see the fighting.”

The monk gazed into his eyes—clouded, perhaps tired, yet still shining beneath the haze. Something in that dim brilliance mesmerised the boy.

“Well then, we shall discuss all that later,” the monk—Father Aldric—said warmly. “Come. Sit down, lad.”

Sitting cross-legged on the edge of the hut’s wooden platform, Ben placed both hands protectively on the rifles laid before him and began calmly surveying the poor little dwelling.

By now, four or five villagers from the surrounding terraces had gathered in the barley field outside to gape at these odd guests. They sat silently, watching with wide eyes. One of them puffed nervously on a hand-rolled cigarette.

A tiny puppy bounded into the hut after them. Ben’s face brightened instantly at the sight of the beautiful creature, its soft brown fur bouncing with each hop.

“Whose dog is this?” he asked.

“He’s not yours, lad. He’s mine,” replied Father Aldric with a gentle smile. “His name is Pipkin.”

“He’s lovely!” Ben said, pulling the pup closer with his free hand. He ran his fingers through the soft fur and pressed the warm little body against his cheek. The puppy wriggled with delight, wagging its tail furiously before licking Ben’s cheek with affectionate devotion.

“So friendly already?” Father Aldric chuckled. “If you adore him so much, you may take him. He won’t cost you much.”

Ben’s eyes widened. “A gun?”

“A gun!”

The monk burst out laughing at Ben’s instant shift—his pale face and hands snapping defensively back towards the rifles.

“I see your priorities, my boy,” Father Aldric said, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “I knew you’d be protective of those guns. But tell me—are you willing to give up even a little something of yours for this pup?”

“Why do you need a gun, Father Aldric?” Ben asked.

“Why, indeed?—What for?” Father Aldric rolled his eyes dramatically. But the next moment his expression softened. He took Ben gently by the hand and said,

“Come outside into the fresh air. I’ll explain everything. But quickly—my evening prayers are due.”

The two stepped down the wooden steps into the small courtyard. The woodcutter and his neighbour followed curiously. Ben carried both rifles with him.

The courtyard was tidy and well swept. A great flat stone lay on one side. Father Aldric gestured for Ben to sit on it, and sat beside him. Pipkin the puppy was curled up in Ben’s lap, happily nuzzling and tugging at the monk’s robe. The others sat cross-legged on the ground below.

Night had fallen. A thin crescent moon had risen somewhere in the east—hidden behind the thick bushes—but its pale silver light filtered delicately through the lattice of leaves overhead. Someone had traced a pattern of dots—a sort of rustic rangoli—into the dust.

Pipkin purred and wriggled in bliss, delighted with his new companion.

“Father Aldric is no ordinary monk,” the woodcutter’s friend whispered to Ben in English (though their own conversation had been in English all along, I’m giving it here clearly for you). “He’s a Mahayana monk—right hand to Gyalpo Rinpoche!”

“Who?” Ben asked.

“Gyalpo Rinpoche—the Dalai Lama!”

Startled and suddenly feeling guilty for having spoken so casually to such a revered man, Ben shifted back a little. But when Father Aldric simply looked at him with warm amusement and smiled, the boy felt his courage melt away.

“Recently,” the villager continued, “several monks have come to these hills. They’ve held meetings… given teachings…”

“What sort of teachings?” Ben asked eagerly.

“They roused the people—loudly at that. The enemy is just across the ridge, isn’t he? So the villagers began gathering whatever weapons they could find, preparing to defend themselves.”

“Splendid!” Ben burst out. “They should! They must prepare! And the monks—are they inspiring the people even more?”

“Inspiring…?” The man hesitated. “Well… if you want to call it that, yes—though it’s a strange sort of inspiration.”

He lowered his voice and imitated the monks:

“‘Oh, what use are weapons? What use are they against Chinese armoured trucks? Put down those rifles! Remember—the soul is immortal! No one can destroy it. Only the Supreme can protect you. Throw away these lumps of metal and meditate upon the Divine. Chant—Buddha, guide me!’”

“They said that?” Ben cried, biting his lip.

Father Aldric was watching him sharply now.

“And what did the villagers do?” Ben demanded.

“They brought all their weapons—every last one—and laid them at the monks’ feet.”

“You absolute fools!” Ben shouted.

The woodcutter murmured something quickly. His friend translated:

“He says—he didn’t do any such thing. His nephew is a hunter. They still have his gun.”

The woodcutter had already spread the word that Ben had arrived. Before long, an old woman stepped out of a hut carrying a plate of food and a clay jug of water. She smiled sympathetically.

“Here, child—eat.”

On the plate were flatbreads and a sort of pickle. The bread was neither oatcake nor barley loaf—likely some local mountain grain. But Ben was far too thirsty to think about it…

Ben drank a little water first, then immediately began eating, tearing into the flatbread with the hunger of exhaustion.

“Father Aldric, aren’t you eating?” he asked, glancing up.

“No, lad,” the monk replied. “I eat only fruit.”

Saying this, he reached into his cloth bag, pulled out an apple, sliced it with a small knife, and handed one crisp piece to Ben.

But the boy’s face still showed the anger from before.

“So that monk fellow must be a spy for the enemy, then—what else?” Ben muttered darkly.

At once the entire group gasped. The man who had been explaining everything earlier hurried to say:

“How could that be? Father Aldric is a great Lama! He is respected everywhere. He was even meant to hold an initiation ceremony tomorrow!”

“No,” Father Aldric cut in, his voice suddenly grave. “There will be no ceremony. I have cancelled it. And I have gathered you all here so that you may hear what lies within my heart.”

He turned to the group, his expression calm but firm.

“Listen carefully. I will not say that everything this boy claims is true. Non-violence is the highest principle of our mountain Buddhists. Those other monks surely preached with the best of intentions. It would be wrong to call them enemies at once.”

He paused, the crescent moonlight catching the edges of his saffron robes.

“But even though I am a Buddhist, I do not accept this path they offer. You listened to them and laid down your weapons—but you did nothing else! Peace is not the same as helplessness.”

His voice sharpened.

“Pick up your weapons!”

“But—but where are they now?” cried the woodcutter’s nephew’s uncle in confusion. “That monk took every last one of them! All of them were piled before him and carried away—”

“See? Didn’t I tell you?” Ben said sharply, glaring at Father Aldric with eyes still burning red with anger.

“Hmph!” Father Aldric huffed. “Perhaps they acted with good intentions. Misguided, yes, but well-meant. Still—wait. I was going to tell you something about myself, wasn’t I? Listen.”

And then the truth Father Aldric revealed was this:

He was originally from Amdo. Ben had seen Amdo on the military maps earlier—it lay in the north-eastern reach of Tibet, near the Chinese frontier. From there, Aldric had travelled to Chetangla as a young man, taken initiation under a senior Lama, and spent years within a monastery.

Three years ago, when the Chinese invaded Tibet and occupied it, he had been forced to flee. Since then, he had wandered from village to village, living quietly among the mountain folk.

When the Chinese advanced into The British Empire in October, Father Aldric and his companions had crossed the high ridges along the River Camber and reached the road towards Ardenford. Their plan had been to seek refuge with the British Army—but upon learning that the post had been abandoned and seized by the Chinese, they had turned southeast and ended up in this very village.

“I have only one faithful companion in all my wandering,” Father Aldric added softly, running a hand over Pipkin’s head. “This little fellow here.”

“But—but,” Ben stammered, surprised, “what do you need a gun for, Father Aldric?”

“A gun?” The monk’s eyes gleamed suddenly with iron beneath the gentleness. As he pointed towards Ben with a smile.

“To fight the enemy, of course—whenever he comes!”