The Borrowers Afloat (11 page)

Chapter Nineteen

They settled themselves more comfortably, preparing for a vigil. Homily reached behind her into the bedding and pulled out the piece of red blanket. "Look, Pod," she said in an interested voice as she tucked it around her knees, "what's he up to now?" They watched intently as Mild Eye, taking up his rod again, turned toward the bushes. "You don't think he's given it up?" she added as Mild Eye, making for the towpath, disappeared from view.

"Not a hope," said Pod, "not Mild Eye. Not once he's seen us and knows we're here for the taking."

"He can't get at us here," said Homily again, "and it'll be dark soon." She seemed strangely calm.

"Maybe," said Pod, "but look at that moon rising. And we'll still be here in the morning." He took up his razor blade. "Might as well free that kettle: it's only a weight on the sticks...."

Homily watched him slice through the twine, and, a little sadly, they watched the kettle sink.

"Poor Spiller," said Arrietty, "he was kind of fond of that kettle...."

"Well, it served its purpose," said Pod.

"What if we made a raft?" suggested Homily suddenly. Pod looked about at the sticks and down at the twine in his hand. "We could do," he said, "but it would take a bit of time. And with him about"—he jerked his head toward the bushes—"I reckon we're as safe here as anywhere."

"And it's better here," said Arrietty, "for being seen."

Homily, startled, turned and looked at her. "Whatever do you want to be seen for?"

"I was thinking of Spiller," said Arrietty. "With this kind of moon and this sort of weather, he'll come tonight most likely."

"Pretty well bound to," agreed Pod.

"Oh dear," said Homily, pulling the blanket around her, "whatever will he think? I mean, finding me like this—in Arrietty's petticoat?"

"Nice and bright," said Pod, "catch his eye nicely, that petticoat would."

"Not short and shrunk up like it is," complained Homily unhappily, "and a great tear in the side like."

"It's still bright," said Pod, "a kind of landmark. And I'm sorry now we sunk the kettle. He'd have seen that too. Well, can't be helped...."

"Look—" whispered Arrietty, gazing at the bank.

There stood Mild Eye. Just beside them he seemed now: he had walked down the towpath behind the bushes and had emerged on the bank beside the leaning hazel. In the clear shadowless light he seemed extraordinarily close: they could even see the pallor of his one blue eye in contrast to the fiercely shadowed black one; they could see the joints in his fishing rod and the clothes pegs and coils of clothesline in his basket, which he carried half slung on his forearm and tilted toward them. Had it been dry land between them, four good strides would have brought him across.

"Oh dear," muttered Homily, "now what?"

Mild Eye, leaning his rod against the hazel, set down the basket from which he took two fair-sized fish strung together by the gills. These he wrapped carefully in several layers of dock leaves.

"Rainbow trout," said Arrietty.

"How do you know?" asked Homily.

Arrietty blinked her eyelids. "I just know," she said.

"Young Tom," said Pod, "that's how she knows, I reckon—seeing his granddad's the gamekeeper. And that's how she knew about poachers, eh, Arrietty?"

Arrietty did not reply: she was watching Mild Eye as he returned the fish to the basket. Very carefully he seemed to be placing them, deep among the clothes pegs. He then took up two coils of clothesline and laid these carelessly on top.

Arrietty laughed. "As if," she whispered scornfully, "they wouldn't search his basket!"

"Quiet, Arrietty," said Homily, watching intently as Mild Eye, staring across at them, advanced to the edge of the bank. "It's early yet to laugh...."

On the edge of the bank Mild Eye sat down and, his eyes still fixed on the borrowers, began to unlace his boots.

"Oh, Pod," moaned Homily suddenly, "you see those boots? They are the same, aren't they? I mean—to think we lived in one of them! Which was it, Pod, left or right?"

"The one with the patch," said Pod, alert and watching. "He won't make it," he added throughtfully, "not by paddling."

"Think of him wearing a boot patched up by you, Pod."

"Quiet, Homily—" pleaded Pod as Mild Eye, barefoot by now, began to roll up his trousers. "Get ready to move back."

"And me getting
fond
of that boot!" exclaimed Homily just above her breath. She seemed fascinated by the pair of them, set neatly together now, on the grassy verge of the stream.

They watched as Mild Eye, a hand on the leaning hazel, lowered himself into the water. It came to just above his ankles. "Oh, my," muttered Homily, "it's shallow. Better we move back...."

"Wait a minute," said Pod. "You watch!"

The next step took Mild Eye in to well above the knee, wetting the turnup of his trousers. He stood, a little nonplussed, holding tight to the leaning branch of the hazel.

"Bet it's cold," whispered Arrietty.

Mild Eye stared as though measuring the distance between them, and then he glanced back at the bank. Sliding his hand farther out along the branch, he took a second step. This brought him in almost to the thigh. They saw him start as the coldness of the water seeped through his trousers to his skin. He glanced at the branch above. It was already bending; he could not with safety move farther. Then, his free arm outstretched toward them, he began to lean....

"Oh, my—" moaned Homily, as the swarthy face came nearer. The outstretched fingers had a greedy steadiness about them. Reaching, reaching...

"It's quite all right," said Pod.

It was as though Mild Eye heard him. The black eye widened slightly while the blue one smoothly stared. The stream moved gently past the soaking corduroys. They could hear the gypsy's breathing.

Pod cleared his throat. "You can't do it," he said. Again the black eye widened and Mild Eye opened his mouth. He did not speak, but his breathing became even deeper and he glanced again at the shore. Then clumsily he began to retreat, clinging to his branch, and feeling backwards with his feet for rising ground on the slimy bottom. The branch creaked ominously under his weight and, once in

shallower water, he quickly let it go and splashed back unaided to the bank. He stood there dripping and gasping and staring at them heavily. There was still no expression on his face. After a while he sat down; and rather unsteadily, still staring, he rolled himself a cigarette.

Chapter Twenty

"I told you he couldn't make it," said Pod. "Needed a good half yard or another couple of feet...." He patted Homily on the arm. "All we've got to do now is to hold out till dark, and Spiller will come for sure."

They sat in a row on the same stick, facing upstream. To watch Mild Eye, they had to turn slightly sideways to the left.

"Look at him now," whispered Homily. "He's still thinking."

"Let him think," said Pod.

"Supposing Spiller came now?" suggested Arrietty, gazing hopefully along the water.

"He couldn't do anything," said Pod, "not under Mild Eye's nose. Say he did come now, he'd see we were all right like and he'd take cover near until dark. Then he'd bring his boat alongside on the far side of the island and take us all aboard. That's what I reckon he'd do."

"But it won't ever get dark," Arrietty protested, "not with a full moon."

"Moon or no moon," said Pod, "Mild Eye won't sit there all night. He'll be getting peckish soon. And as far as he calculates, he's got us all tied up like and safe to leave for morning. He'll come along then, soon as it's light, with all the proper tackle."

"What is the proper tackle?" asked Homily uneasily.

"I hope," said Pod, "that not being here, we won't never need to know."

"How does he know we can't swim?" asked Arrietty.

"For the same reason as we know he can't: if he could've swum, he'd have swum. And the same applies to us."

"Look," said Arrietty, "he's standing up again ... he's getting something out of the basket!"

They watched intently as Mild Eye, cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, fumbled among the clothes pegs.

"Oh my," said Homily, "see what's he doing? He's got a coil of clothesline. Oh, I don't like this, Pod. This looks to me"—she caught her breath—"a bit like the proper tackle."

"Stay quiet and watch," said Pod.

Mild Eye, cigarette in mouth, was deliberately unfolding several lengths of line, which, new and stiff, hung in curious angles. Then, an end of rope in his hand, he stared at the trunk of the hazel. "I see what he's going to do," breathed Homily.

"Quiet, Homily—we all see. But"—Pod narrowed his eyes, watching intently as Mild Eye attached the length of rope above a branch high on the trunk of the hazel—"I can't quite figure where it gets him...."

Climbing down off a curve of root, Mild Eye pulled on the rope, testing the strength of the knot. Then, turning toward them, he gazed across the river. They all turned round, following the direction of his eyes. Homily gasped. "He's going to tie the other end to that ash tree...." Instinctively she ducked as the coil of rope came sailing above their heads and landed on the opposite bank. The slack of rope, missing their island by inches, trailed on the surface of the water. "Wish we could get at it," muttered Homily, but, even as she spoke, the current widened the loop and carried it farther away. The main coil seemed caught in the brambles below the alder. Mild Eye had disappeared again. He emerged, at last, a long way farther down the towpath almost beside the bridge.

"Can't make out what he's up to," said Homily, as Mild Eye, barefoot still, hurried across the bridge, "throwing that rope across. What's he going to do—walk the tightrope or something?"

"Not exactly," said Pod. "The other way round like: it's a kind of overhead bridge as you might say, and you get across by handholds. Done it myself once, from a chair back to lamp table."

"Well, you need both hands for that," exclaimed Homily. "I mean, he couldn't pick us up on the way. Unless he does it with his feet..."

"He doesn't need to get right across," explained Pod. He sounded rather worried. "He just needs something to hang onto that's a bit longer than that hazel branch, something he knows won't give way. He just wants a bit more reach, a bit more safe lean-over.... He was pretty close to us that time he waded, remember?"

"Yes..." said Homily uneasily, watching as Mild Eye picked his way rather painfully along the left bank and made toward the ash tree. "That field's full of stubble," she remarked after a moment.

The rope flew up, scattering them with drops, as Mild Eye pulled it level and made it fast. It quivered above them, still dripping slightly—taut, straight, and very strong-looking. "Bear a couple of men his weight," said Pod.

"Oh, my goodness..." whispered Homily.

They stared at the ash tree: a cut end of clothesline hung the length of the bole, still swinging slightly from Mild Eye's efforts. "Knows how to tie a knot..." remarked Homily.

"Yes," agreed Pod, looking even more glum. "You wouldn't undo that in a hurry."

Mild Eye took his rime walking back. He paused on the bridge and stared awhile up the river as though to admire his handiwork; confident, he seemed suddenly, and in no particular hurry.

"Can he see us from there?" asked Homily, narrowing her eyes.

"I doubt it," said Pod, "not if we're still. Might get a glimpse of the petticoat..."

"Not that it matters either way," said Homily.

"No, it don't matter now," said Pod. "Come on now," he added as Mild Eye left the bridge and behind the bushes was starting along the towpath. "What we better do, I reckon, is get over to the far side of the island and each of us straddle a good thick twig: something to hold onto. He may make it and he may not, but we got to keep steady now, all three of us, and take our chance. There ain't nothing else we can do."

They each chose a thickish twig, picking the ones that seemed light enough to float and sufficiently furnished with handholds. Pod helped Homily, who was trembling so violently that she could hardly keep her balance. "Oh, Pod," she moaned, "I don't know what I feel like—perched up here on my own. Wish we could all be together."

"We'll be close enough," said Pod. "And maybe he won't even get within touching distance. Now you hold tight and, no matter what happens, don't you let go. Not even if you end up in the water."

Arrietty sat on her twig as though it were a bicycle: there were two footholds and places for both hands. She felt curiously confident: if the twig broke loose, she felt, she could hold on with her hands and use her feet as paddles. "You know," she explained to her mother, "like a water beetle...." But Homily who, in shape, was more like a water beetle than any of them, did not seem comforted.

Pod took his seat on a knobbly branch of elder. "And make for this far bank," he said, jerking his head toward the ash tree, "if you find you can make for anywhere. See that piece of rope he's left dangling? Well, we might make a grab at that. Or some of those brambles where they trail down into the water ... get a hold on one of them. Depends where you fetch up..."

They were high enough to see across the sticks of their island, and Homily, from her perch, had been watching Mild Eye. "He's coming now," she said grimly. In her dead, expressionless voice there was a dreadful kind of calm.

They saw that this time he laid both hands on the rope and lowered himself more easily into the water. Two careful steps brought him thigh-deep on his foremost leg; here he seemed to hesitate. "Only wants that other couple of feet," said Pod.

Mild Eye moved his foremost hand from the rope and, leaning carefully, stretched out his arm toward them. He waggled his fingers slightly, calculating distance. The rope, which had been so taut, sagged a little under his weight and the leaves of the hazel rustled. He glanced behind him, as he had done before, and seemed reassured by the lissome strength of the tree; but the light was fading, and from across where they waited, they could not see his expression. Somewhere in the dusk a cow lowed sadly and they heard a bicycle bell. If only Spiller would come...

Mild Eye, sliding his grasp forward, steadied himself a moment and took another step. He seemed to go in deep, but he was so close now that the height of their floating island hid him from the waistline down. They could no longer see the stretching fingers, but they heard the sticks creak and felt the movement: he was drawing their island toward him.

"Oh, Pod," cried Homily, as she felt the merciless pull of that unseen hand and the squeakings and scrapings below her, "you've been so good to me. All your life you've been so good. I never thought to tell you, Pod—never once—how good you've always been..."

She broke off sharply as the island lurched, caught on the barbed-wire obstruction, and, terror-stricken, clutched at her twig. There was a dull crack and two outside branches dislodged themselves slowly and bobbed away downstream.

"You all right, Homily?" called Pod.

"So far," she gasped.

Then everything seemed to happen at once. She saw Mild Eye's expression turn to utter surprise as, lurching forward to grab their island, he pitched face downwards into the water. They went down with him in one resounding splash—or rather, as it seemed to Homily, the water rushed up to them. She had opened her mouth to scream but closed it just in time. Bubbles streamed past her face and tendrils of clinging weed. The water was icily cold but alive with noise and movement. No sooner had she let go her twig, which seemed to be dragging her down, than the hold on the sticks was released and the island rushed up again. Gasping and coughing, Homily broke surface; she saw the trees again, the rising moon, and the dim, rich evening sky. Loudly she called out for Pod.

"I'm here," cried a choked voice from somewhere behind her. There was a sound of coughing. "And Arrietty too. Hold tight, like I said! The island's moving..."

The island swung, as though on a pivot, caught by one end on the wire. They were circling round in a graceful curve toward the bank of the ash tree. Homily realized, as she grabbed for a handhold, that Mild Eye in falling had pushed on their floating sticks.

They stopped a little short of the bank, and Homily could see the trailing brambles and the trunk of the ash tree with its piece of hanging cord. She saw Pod and Arrietty had clambered down to the sticks that were nearest the shore, at which, with their backs to Homily, they seemed to be staring intently. As she made her way toward them, slipping and sliding on the wet branches, she heard Arrietty talking excitedly, clutching her father by the arm. "It is..." she kept saying, "it is..."

Pod turned as Homily approached to help her across the sticks. He seemed preoccupied and rather dazed. A long piece of weed hung down his back in a slimy kind of pigtail. "What's the matter, Pod? You all right?"

Behind them they heard bellows of fright as Mild Eye, emerging from the depths, struggled to find a foothold. Homily, alarmed, gripped Pod by the arm. "It's all right," he told her. "He won't bother with us. Not again tonight at any rate..."

"What happened, Pod? The rope broke—or what? Or was it the tree?"

"Seemingly," said Pod, "it were the rope. But I can't see how. Hark at Arrietty." He nodded toward the bank.

"She says it's Spiller's boat..."

"Where?"

"There under the brambles."

Homily, steadying herself by clinging to Pod, peered forward. The bank was very close now—barely a foot away.

"It is, I know it is," cried Arrietty again, "that thing under there like a log."

"It's like a log," said Pod, "because it is a log."

"Spiller!" called Homily on a gentle rising note, peering into the brambles.

"No good," said Pod, "we've been calling. And, say it was his boat, he'd answer. Spiller—" he called again in a vehement whisper. "You there?"

There was no reply.

"What's that?" cried Pod, turning. A light had flashed on the opposite bank somewhere near the towpath. "Someone's coming," he whispered. Homily heard the sudden jangle of a bicycle and the squeak of brakes as it skidded to a stop. Mild Eye had ceased his swearing and his spitting and, though still in the water, it seemed he had ceased to move. The silence was absolute, except for the running of the river. Homily, about to speak, felt a warning grip on her arm. "Quiet," whispered Pod. A human being on the opposite bank was crashing through the bushes. The light flashed on again and circled about: this time it seemed more blinding, turning the dusk into darkness.

"Hallo ...hallo ...hallo...'alio..." said a voice. It was a young voice, both stern and gay. It was a voice that seemed familiar to Homily, though, for the moment, she could not put a name to it. Then she remembered that last day at Firbank, under the kitchen floor: the goings on above and the ordeal down below. It was the voice, she realized, of Mrs. Driver's old enemy—Ernie Runacre, the policeman.

She turned to Pod. "Quiet!" he warned her again as the circle of light trembled across the water. On the sticks—if none of them moved—he knew they would not be seen. Homily, in spite of this, gave a sudden loud gasp. "Oh, Pod—" she exclaimed.

"Hush," urged Pod, tightening his grip on her arm.

"It's our nail scissor," persisted Homily, dropping her voice to a breathy kind of whisper. "You must look, Pod. Halfway down the ash tree..."

Pod swiveled his eyes round: there it hung, glittering against the bark. It seemed attached in some way to the spare end of rope that Mild Eye had left dangling.

"Then it was Spiller's boat," Arrietty whispered excitedly.

"Keep quiet, can't you—" begged Pod through barely opened lips, "till he shifts the beam of the light!"

But Ernie Runacre, on the opposite bank, seemed taken up with Mild Eye. "Now then," they heard him say in the same brisk policeman's voice, "what's going on here?" And the light beam flicked away to concentrate on the gypsy.

Pod drew a sigh of relief. "That's better," he said, relaxing slightly and using his normal voice.

"But where is Spiller?" fussed Homily, her teeth chattering with cold. "Maybe he's met with an accident."