Bats: An Upware Fable

By Andy Cogan

The bats, that had hibernated all winter, behind a hole in the fascia, under the eaves, above buttressed brick wall of the Old School House in Upware, emerged in the early spring to a strange world that was silent. Silent when they rested during the heat of the day. Silent when they emerged at dusk, as darkness began to descend on Upware. There were few cars, few boats, few people. The pub seemed to be closed. The bikers and their roaring heavy engined motorbikes no longer appeared every Tuesday evening, announcing their presence as they cut down Old School Lane towards the pub. The Friday night rock, roll and soulers, and their music, no longer  blasted their airwaves on most Friday nights with thrashing guitars and drums, singing and dancing and people spilling out around the pub and down to the river, the moorings and the marinas. The Saturday parties at the marina by the lock seemed to have ended. The lunchtime pub carvery crowds and soul discos no longer intruded on the bats Sunday lunchtime snoozes. The car fumes had gone. The air was cleaner and fresher, and better than they had ever known it.

There seemed to be more insects in the air this year than other years. Was that because the farmers and their noxious sprays in the air, that they could feel, breathe and inhale when they came out at night, were no longer there. More insects around the Old School House, more insects around the pub, slipway, marinas. More insects in the air above the ditches, fields and hedgerows… And they seemed bigger, even the thin little thunderbugs, even the aphid and gnats sized bugs and the moths seemed bigger and juicier than in any other year.

Was this to be a year of plenty. When bats would flourish. When their numbers would increase? Would more baby bats be born? Would more bats grow into adulthood?

Their echolocation told them night after night that there were clouds of bugs in the air to harvest. There was no need to fly so far, to be in the air so long. There would be more time for talking, for thinking, for socialising, for reminiscing, for educating the young, for honouring the old, for celebrating bat life, bat love, bat feasting, bat learning, bat being… and where bats fitted in the great chain of being that included all life, the large, the small, the living, the dead, and those yet to come. If only every year could be like this year. This was like Nirvana, Paradise, Eden, and land of plenty, where all bats could thrive, could live long, fruitful, happy lives…

***

And then it happened. A fine young bat had gone missing. A few people towards the end of summer had reappeared.

A patio door off the kitchen in the Old School House was left ajar.

The young bat detected a cloud of distressed insects hanging about just inside the door.

The young bat investigated.

The young bat located prey.

The young bat dived into the crowd of insects.

It was a trap.

A fly trap.

The glue on the fly trap held the young bat fast.

The more he struggled, the tireder he became.

The young bat was exhausted.

His cries for help became fainter and fainter.

Wiser older bats prevented younger bats going near.

This was the hazard of easy prey, easy meals, easy living. It was a lure and a trap, and a miserable end. A bat with sticky wings would never fly again.

The young bat, as light came on, gave up the struggle.

He closed his eyes.

He accepted his entrapment.

He closed his eyes.

He listened to the well wishes and distress of his fellow bats.

His breathing became shallower and shallower until he fell into a deep sleep.

A coma…

The mood in the bat colony had gone from elation to misery from happiness to despair, from fulfilment to emptiness as they retired for the day…

***

A few hours later the young bat suddenly awoke.

He was drowning in frothy bubbly liquid.

Someone, a human, wearing thick waterproof gloves, was  washing him free of the fly paper, in repeated small bowls until the last of the glue was off his wings and body hair. He was gagging and spluttering, he was weak, but he was still alive. He was becoming free of the glue and paper that had bound him to the trap.

A few minutes later free of glue, and dried , he was resting on a log by the compost heap. A few minutes later he stretched his wings and he was in the air and flying round the garden. A few minutes later, a bit older and a bit wiser, he was back in the cool of the colony, through the hole in the fascia, under the eaves, above the buttressed wall of the Old School House.

The joy and relief among the colony was great. A son they had lost had returned.  A son they had seen crying and dying was free. A son they had mourned had survived. He had survived the fly paper, the glue, the soap suds, the washing off, the water, the spluttering, the fatigue. He ached. He croaked. He was a day older. He was more than a day  wiser. He would never go in through that open door again, even if it promised a feast of bugs, a banquet of gnats, a cornucopia of moths.

***

The summer was coming to an end.

The motorbikes resumed on Tuesday evenings.

The crowds regathered on Friday evenings and Sunday lunchtimes.

The season had been good to the Old School House bats.

They had survived mostly intact.

They had fed well.

They could hibernate early.

Andy Cogan was born in Glasgow. He lives in Upware on the river Cam between Cambridge & Ely, in the county of Cambridgeshire in England. Next door is Wicken Fen, the most biodiverse place in England. Here he reads, writes and cycles through life.