The Little Grey Men Go Down the Bright Stream, page 7
‘I believe Dodder is keeping a log every night,’ said Squirrel, ‘ever since we started from the Oak Tree he’s kept a diary.’
‘All Captains have to keep a log,’ said Baldmoney. ‘Surely you know that? The trouble is, Squirrel, I’m no hand at writing myself, engineering’s more in my line. I say,’ he cried, half sitting up, ‘what a jolly place we’re coming to!’
They had glided out of the reed bed into another smaller backwater. It really was the most fairy-like place, with the dark green water studded with pure white lilies, each with a yellow centre, a small pool not more than ten yards across.
The willows, in a lovely silver tangle, formed a wall on all sides, shutting out the distant views of river and meadows. The low sunbeams pouring down into that well-like place were gilding the tops of the bushes but the water itself was in cool shade. All manner of beautiful riverside flowers grew among the reeds and vegetation: willow herb, milk parsley, water betony and dock, and many another moisture-loving plant; each added its quota of scent, which lay heavily on the evening air.
From under some water-lily leaves they saw the trembling tails of several large fishes. To fish, the flat lily leaves were like parasols.
Waterhens swam about very busily, but when they saw the boat appear they shyly took refuge in the reed pallisades and passed watery remarks to one another.
‘Now, if we had only brought our fishing lines,’ said Squirrel, ‘we might have caught some of those big fellows hiding under the lily pads there.’
‘O, it’s too hot, even to fish,’ murmured Baldmoney, yawning widely and letting the little boat bump gently among the lilies. ‘I believe I’m enjoying this trip more than the one we had up the Folly. Hullo! See who comes!’
Squirrel turned about and saw, high above them, the huge extended vanes of grey wings, the pinions spread like fingers. It was Sir Herne the heron. He wheeled round in a wide arc and seeing the little opening below he checked himself and plunged down at a surprising speed, almost as if he had been shot. They could hear the still air burring through his feathers. When he came just above them they saw his long green legs suddenly drop down and he alighted with infinite grace a few yards away on a half-submerged willow root. It was quite remarkable to see how his silver-grey plumage toned with the willows all about them.
‘Sir Herne!’ exclaimed Baldmoney, and doffed his cap politely. Squirrel, having no cap to take off, bowed distantly.
‘Hey ho! if it isn’t the gnomes again! Why, I haven’t seen any of you since I gave your friend Dodder a lift up the Folly, let me see . . . how long ago was that? Last summer, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, he was following after us and he told us how good you’d been,’ said Baldmoney, beaming broadly.
‘But gnomes, what has happened to you? I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately. All the Stream People have left the Folly and the stream is dry. Your tree is down too. You wouldn’t recognise the place. But I said to myself, I’ll bet a pound roach to an ounce minnow the gnomes have not been caught napping, I’ll wager they’ve gone off in that boat of theirs, I’ve heard so much about!’
Baldmoney grinned from ear to ear. ‘We were caught napping, Sir Herne, we were all asleep when Watervole came and woke us up!’
‘Ah! a good friend is Watervole,’ said Sir Herne, drawing up one long leg. ‘Poor things, they’ve had to pack up too, I suppose?’
‘Indeed they have,’ said Squirrel.
‘Pardon me,’ said Sir Herne, noticing Squirrel for the first time, ‘I don’t seem to have met you before!’
‘No, he came with us down the Folly last autumn, he lived in Crow Wood, you know,’ said Baldmoney.
‘Ah . . . How’s Dodder?’ asked Sir Herne, after a pause.
‘O, he’s well and flourishing.’
‘Are you living close by?’
‘O no, we’re on our way down-river to a place Woodcock called the ‘’Severn Sea”, wherever that may be.’
‘And what, may I ask, are you going to do when you get to the Severn Sea?’ asked Sir Herne, looking rather surprised.
‘We’re going to Woodcock’s Island, where a hermit or a saint lies buried, and no Mortals will bother us. It’s right in the middle of a grey, grey loch, so Woodcock said; Ben knows the way, Woodcock told him.’
‘I expect,’ said the heron, ‘it’s Ireland that Woodcock’s talking of, he thinks a lot of the country, swears by it, says there’s no place like it! I’ve never been there. I’m rather a home-lover, I’m afraid, England’s good enough for me.’
‘It’s good enough for us,’ said Baldmoney earnestly, ‘if only the Mortals would behave themselves, but they can’t. We just can’t stand them, and now the Folly’s gone and our tree too, we feel we must clear out and find some peace before we die!’
The heron nodded gravely. ‘I know. I can quite see your point. I, too, sometimes feel the same way myself. But you’ve still some way to go to reach the Severn, and when you get there I don’t see how you’re going to get over the Irish Sea to Woodcock’s Island.’
‘We don’t quite know ourselves yet,’ confessed Baldmoney, ‘but the Bens and I have a plan, and I think we might do it.’
‘The Bens, did you say?’ asked Sir Herne. ‘Not Ben from Oak Tree House?’
‘Yes, the Ben, you know!’
‘Well I never, and where are the Bens? I haven’t seen them for ages.’
‘O, I expect they’re somewhere close-by, roosting in an oak or an elm. Anyway, they always show up at night when we do all our travelling.’
‘So they are going too, are they?’
‘O yes, we’ve decided we’ll stick together, come what may. You see, we’ve always lived in the same tree. Ben’s ancestors did too, you know what it is with old friends.’
The heron nodded wistfully. He was rather a lonely old bird and had few acquaintances. Most of the Stream People were afraid of him and truth to say, he often ate a fat water-rat on the sly. And as for frogs, he fairly wolfed them down.
‘Well, I wish I was coming with you,’ he said after a pause. ‘I do indeed. But I’ve got a wife and we’ve had a fine family this year on Poplar Island, two girls and a boy; fine children,’ he said proudly.
The sun was now well down and Baldmoney realised that, without their knowing it, the evening had advanced surprisingly quickly.
The tops of the willows were no longer bathed in light and the backwater was full of green gloom and shadow. Everywhere arose the sweetly rank scent of the herbage and a bat began to hawk about overhead.
‘Well,’ said Baldmoney, ‘goodbye, Sir Herne. We must be going. As it is, I fear we shall get in an awful row from Dodder for stopping out so late, time passes quickly with friends.’
They turned the boat about and began to paddle softly away. Baldmoney waved his cap to Sir Herne and Squirrel raised a paw.
Looking back they saw his grey form standing on the leg, his head sunk in his shoulders, and his spear couched in readiness.
‘Good hunting, brother,’ called Baldmoney. ‘Good hunting and a good trip,’ called back Sir Herne, and the next moment the clustering reeds hid him from view.
It was nearly dark when they reached the larger backwater and saw the Jeanie Deans anchored against the wall of reeds. She looked indescribably cosy, her every line reflected in the still water between the lily islands. Appetising smells were wafted from the galley stove and a dim slit of light showed through a porthole of the cabin.
They tied up the dinghy, and a minute later had scrambled aboard, hungry and tired, but feeling as though they had spent a thoroughly enjoyable evening.
Chapter 8
AT BANTLEY WEIR
ES, THOSE WERE DELICIOUS EVENings and dreamy nights, as the Jeanie Deans progressed upon her journey. What magic there was in simply watching the hundred shifting lights and shadows on the river. What ripple patterns, whorls and eddies, complicated geometrical designs, ever-changing, never repeating themselves!
The gnomes would have liked to have spent the whole of that lovely summer, pushing about like water-fowl among those secret waterways. But, after all, there was a job on hand, and if they but looked forward they could see that the time would come when the sun would cease to magic the river and those graceful beds of reeds and lush green pastures would be shrivelled and yellow under rude winter’s breath.
When those days came, woe betide them should the snow and frost find them shelterless! They were gathering no harvest to see them through the cold, this idle water-gipsy experience was all very nice and soothing, but they had to finish up somewhere, somewhere that was friendly, warm and undisturbed.
After sunset a river is as mysterious as a dense wood. The sounds one hears are echoed and magnified by the water, as from a sounding board; the plop of a rat, whistle of otter, or splash of some hefty fish, are startlingly clear.
On one of these soft luminous nights the Jeanie Deans was churning steadily along down the centre of the river. The angling season had not yet begun, otherwise it is unlikely the gnomes would have dared mid-stream. But at that late hour (it was well after midnight) not a Mortal was abroad, they had the witchery all to themselves. Dodder, as usual, was steering. Supper was over and Squirrel and the others were up on deck; it was too hot down in the cabin. Now and then the gnomes heard the quavering hoot of the Bens as they glided about the flat meadows on either side, where faint mists smoked whitely just above the tips of the mowing grass.
Occasionally one or the other wheeled over the boat, peering down at them with their big eyes.
Dodder puffed at his pipe, the tiny glow from the bowl gleaming on his nose and whiskers. He was enjoying himself. Only Dodder and Baldmoney ever steered the Jeanie Deans, though once, for a treat, Dodder had let Squirrel do so, when they were on their journey down the Folly from Crow Wood.
Below him, sitting up near the fo’castle, Dodder could see Sneezewort mending a rent in the back of his skin breeches. Baldmoney was busy over his notebook, drawing plans, sucking his pencil and wrinkling his forehead occasionally. Cloudberry was trying to peep over his shoulder to see what he was doing and Squirrel was up on the bridge with Dodder.
Squirrel was watching Dodder’s knotted little claws resting on the wheel. How easily their skipper steered. How he would like to steer, just for a minute or two! But he dare not ask Dodder; he sighed deeply.
Dodder looked at his companion. ‘What’s up, Squirrel? Out of sorts? Something worrying you?’
‘No, nothing,’ said Squirrel a trifle sadly, ‘only I . . .’
‘Yes, what?’
It came with a rush. ‘I was only thinking how I should love to steer, for just a little while, just one lap.’ By ‘lap’ Squirrel meant the full ten minutes which it took for the spring of the Jeanie Deans to run down, for she was driven by clockwork and not steam.
Now Dodder was in a particularly good mood that night. The weather was calm and warm, not a breeze disturbed the silent waters, and they had made good progress lately, indeed Ben had said only that morning that in another week or two they would see the end of their journey down the river.
Like all birds, Ben was a good judge of distance and Woodcock had told him exactly how far it was to the Sea.
‘O, well, Squirrel, I don’t mind, just for a treat. And I shall be glad to take a walk along the deck.’
Squirrel was so overcome he could hardly gulp his thanks. So when the engine was re-wound Dodder handed the wheel over to him with a few cautionary remarks. ‘Don’t lug on it, the slightest touch is enough, she’ll answer to it and — keep clear of the banks.’ Squirrel nodded. His heart was beating fast with excitement. Dodder went down below to the cabin to fetch his tobacco pouch and Squirrel was at last alone, the ship was his obedient slave! How proud he felt, to think that Dodder trusted him! Trusted him with this wonderful craft! How smoothly she glided along! How sympathetic she was to every little touch on the wheel! What poetry of motion!
He glanced at the massive dark trees fringing the river, one willow branch hung right over like the arch of a bridge, and he watched it swim towards him and pass overhead, soundlessly, and on one of its graceful branches he saw two birds rolled up fast asleep. Nightingales were singing from the gardens of a riverside bungalow ‘weet weet, jug, jug, pew, pew, pew!’ the last beautiful sorrowful note beginning faintly and growing louder on the ear was magical.
Across the moonlit path of water he saw a vole swim busily and quickly. And Squirrel sniffed deeply, drawing his lungs full of the sweet night air. What a life, thought he, what a pity they could not go on like this always and always!
Meanwhile, Cloudberry, that restless spirit, baulked of his curiosity over Baldmoney’s task, saw Dodder come down from the bridge and go into the cabin. That meant Squirrel was steering.
That wasn’t fair! Dodder would never let him steer, so why should Squirrel? And a burning jealousy arose in his heart. He walked up the little stairs on to the bridge.
‘Hullo, Squirrel, who said you could steer?’
‘Dodder, of course,’ said Squirrel, with a superior air. ‘You don’t think I’d steer without his permission do you?’
‘Well, he won’t let me steer ever,’ grumbled Cloudberry. ‘It isn’t fair. Why should he favour you and not me?’
‘Oh, don’t start a quarrel, Cloudberry,’ said Squirrel wearily. ‘Why must you come and upset me like this, just when I’m enjoying it so? Why can’t you clear off and play Acorn Hop or something with Sneezewort?’
‘He’s busy, besides I don’t want to play Acorn Hop, I want to steer!’ Then Cloudberry bent forward and whispered, ‘Come on, Squirrel, old fellow, be a sport. Dodder’s below, he won’t know; do let’s steer for a bit, just to know what it feels like!
‘Dodder wouldn’t like it,’ said Squirrel. ‘Besides, I want to steer.’
‘Oh, come on, Squirrel,’ wheedled Cloudberry, ‘you can stand by me, and if we hear Dodder coming back you can take over right away; he’ll never know! Come on, be a sport. After all, I took you for the row down the river in the dinghy, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, and what happened?’ said Squirrel with some truth. ‘We lost the Jeanie Deans, didn’t we?’
Cloudberry relapsed into moody silence. ‘What a stuffy crowd you are,’ he said pettishly. ‘The Heaven Hounds were far nicer to me, I wish I’d never come back.’
There was a long silence. As Squirrel continued to steer, he seemed to hear, far away, a distant murmur. Was it the night breeze in the trees and reeds? Sometimes it wasn’t there at all, then it loudened.
‘Wind’s getting up,’ said Cloudberry. ‘Hark!’
‘Well, what of it?’ asked Squirrel. ‘It’s only the night wind or maybe it’s a mill somewhere.’
Overhead the stars shone brightly and the moon gleamed on the spacious water meadows so that they looked like mysterious greenish plains. Sedge warblers chattered in the reeds. The wake of the Jeanie Deans made no more gleam than that from a rising fish, but even those minute ripples could be heard gently washing among the riverside vegetation.
Dead ahead the river took a sudden turn to the right and very dark trees hung over, the water was intensely black just there.
Cloudberry began to wheedle again. ‘Come on, be a sport, Squirrel, let me take her round the bend!’
Now Squirrel was a good-natured animal. He knew if he refused Cloudberry’s request he would sulk for a day after and he remembered that Cloudberry had always asked him to go with him on many little trips and excursions. It did seem a little churlish perhaps, and selfish too. Se he heaved a sigh and said ‘Very well then, but be careful round the bend, and if I hear Dodder coming back, I’ll take over.’
Cloudberry, secretly elated at the success of his cajolings, but not thinking any more of Squirrel for acceding to his request, took over.
They went gliding round the corner in great style, but as they did so, that distant murmur, which had been trembling in the background for some little time, became suddenly insistent. ‘Sounds as if another stream comes in just ahead,’ said Squirrel uneasily, and then he caught sight of a glimmering white square against the background of black shadow on the bank. It was a notice-board, and peering through the gloom Squirrel could just make out three words: MIND THE WEIR.
Cloudberry had not noticed the board and Squirrel did not draw his attention to it. He suddenly felt at all costs he must regain the wheel of the Jeanie Deans. So he laid his hand on Cloudberry’s arm and said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Right-o, Cloudberry, I’ll take the wheel now.’
‘O no, we’re not round the corner yet!’
‘Yes we are. Come on, let’s have it.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Cloudberry, shaking him roughly off, ‘my time isn’t up yet. Do you hear that funny roaring noise, whatever it is?’
Squirrel was nervous now, for Cloudberry was steering far too near the right bank, close to the noticeboard.
‘Keep her out, it’s a weir!’ he cried.
‘O goody, goody, goody,’ squeaked Cloudberry. ‘I’ll steer right past it, and then you can have the wheel!’
The unfortunate Squirrel was now dancing with anxiety, and in desperation he thought of a plan.
‘Quick, quick, here comes Dodder!’
But Cloudberry was too wise to be caught that way. ‘O no, he doesn’t, you’re having me on — my, but doesn’t that weir make a noise!’
This was too much for Squirrel. He seized hold of Cloudberry’s arm and then began a silent but fierce wrestling match. Squirrel, being the larger, had an advantage and with a terrrific jerk he threw Cloudberry full-length on the decking. Alas, it was too late. Though he twirled the wheel frantically, some hidden power seemed to have gripped the Jeanie Deans. She turned sideways to the current, but that was all. She would not answer to the helm and they were sweeping in towards that hideous precipice with gathering momentum. It was a terrible moment.
Stumbling steps came hobbling up the stairs to the bridge.
