by Mary Norton
“Where are you, Arrietty?” Homily called from above. “Come up here where it’s dry. . . .”
But Arrietty seemed not to hear: she had found a hen’s feather, a tuft of sheep’s wool, and half a ping-pong ball, which still smelled strongly of celluloid. Pleased with these borrowings, she finally emerged. Her parents were suitably impressed, and Homily made a cushion of the sheep’s wool, wedged it neatly in the half-ball, and used it as a seat. “And very comfortable too,” she assured them warmly, wobbling slightly on the curved base.
Once two small humans crossed the bridge, country boys of nine or ten. They dawdled and laughed and climbed about and threw sticks into the water. The borrowers froze, staring intently as, with backs turned, the two boys hung on the railings, watching their sticks drift downstream.
“Good thing we’re upstream,” murmured Pod from between still lips.
The sun was sinking and the river had turned to molten gold. Arrietty screwed up her eyelids against the glitter. “Even if they saw us,” she whispered, her eyes on the bridge, “they couldn’t get at us—out here in deep water.”
“Maybe not,” said Pod, “but the word would get around. . . .”
The boys at length disappeared. But the borrowers remained still, staring at the bushes and trying to hear above the bubble of the river any sound of human beings passing along the footpath.
“I think they must have gone across the fields,” said Pod at last. “Come on, Arrietty, give me a hand with this waterproof. . . .”
Pod had been preparing a hammock bed for the night where four stout sticks lay lengthwise in a hollow: a mackintosh ground sheet, their dry clothes laid out on top, the piece of lamb’s wool for a pillow and, to cover them, another ground sheet above the piece of red blanket. Snug, they would be, in a deep cocoon—protected from rain and dew and invisible from the bank.
As the flood water began to subside, their island seemed to rise higher; slimy depths were revealed among the structure, and gazing down between the sticks at the rusted wire, they discovered a waterlogged shoe.
“Nothing to salvage there,” remarked Pod after a moment’s thoughtful silence, “except maybe the laces. . . .”
Homily, who had followed them downwards, gazed wonderingly about her. It had taken courage to climb down into the depths. She had tested every foothold: some of the branches were rotten and broke away at a touch; others less securely wedged were apt to become detached, and quivers and slidings took place elsewhere—like a distant disturbance in a vast erection of spilikins. Their curious island was only held together, she realized, by the interrelation of every leaf, stick, and floating strand of weed. All the same, on the way up, she snapped off a living twig of hawthorn for the sake of the green leaf buds. “A bit of salad like, to eat with our supper,” she explained to Arrietty. “You can’t go on forever just on egg and banana. . . .”
Chapter Eighteen
They ate their supper on the upstream side of the island, where the ripples broke at their feet and where the kettle, tied on its side, had risen clear of the water. The level of the stream was sinking fast and the water seemed far less muddy.
It was not much of a supper—the tail end of the banana that had become rather sticky. They still felt hungry, even after they had finished off the hawthorn shoots, washing them down with draughts of cold water. They spoke wistfully of Spiller and a boat chock-full of borrowings.
“Suppose we miss him?” said Homily. “Suppose he comes in the night?”
“I’ll keep watch for Spiller,” said Pod.
“Oh, Pod,” exclaimed Homily, “you’ve got to have your eight hours!”
“Not tonight,” said Pod, “nor tomorrow night. Nor any night while there’s a full moon.”
“We could take it in turns,” suggested Homily.
“I’ll watch tonight,” said Pod, “and we’ll see how we go.”
Homily was silent, staring down at the water. It was a dreamlike evening: as the moon rose, the warmth of the day still lingered on the landscape in a glow of tranquil light. Colors seemed enriched from within, vivid but softly muted.
“What’s that?” said Homily suddenly, gazing down at the ripples. “Something pink . . .”
They followed the direction of her eyes. Just below the surface something wriggled, held up against the current.
“It’s a worm,” said Arrietty after a moment.
Homily stared at it thoughtfully. “You said right, Pod,” she admitted after a moment. “I have changed. . . .”
“In what way?” asked Pod.
“Looking at that worm,” said Homily, “all scoured and scrubbed like—clean as a whistle—I was thinking”—she hesitated—“well, I was thinking . . . I could eat a worm like that. . . .”
“What, raw?” exclaimed Pod, amazed.
“No, stewed of course,” retorted Homily crossly, “with a bit of wild garlic.” She stared again at the water. “What’s it caught up on?”
Pod craned forward. “I can’t quite see . . .” Suddenly his face became startled and his gaze, sharply intent, slid away on a rising curve toward the bushes.
“What’s the matter, Pod?” asked Homily.
He looked at her aghast—a slow stare. “Someone’s fishing,” he breathed, scarcely above his breath.
“Where?” whispered Homily.
Pod jerked his head toward the stunted willows. “There—behind those bushes . . .”
Then Homily, raising her eyes at last, made out the fishing line. Arrietty saw it too. Only in glimpses was it visible: not at all under water but against the surface here and there they perceived the hair-thin shadow. As it rose, it became invisible again, lost against the dimness of the willows, but they could follow its direction.
“Can’t see nobody,” whispered Homily.
“Course you can’t,” snapped Pod. “A trout’s got eyes, remember, just like you and me. . . .”
“Not just like—” protested Homily.
“You don’t want to show yourself,” Pod went on, “not when you’re fishing.”
“Especially if you’re poaching,” put in Arrietty. Why are we whispering, she wondered—our voices can’t be heard above the voices of the river?
“That’s right, lass,” said Pod, “especially if you’re poaching. And that’s just what he is, I shouldn’t wonder—a poacher.”
“What’s a poacher?” whispered Homily.
Pod hushed her, raising his hand. “Quiet, Homily.” And then he added aside, “a kind of human borrower.”
“A human borrower . . .” repeated Homily in a bewildered whisper: it seemed a contradiction in terms.
“Quiet, Homily,” pleaded Pod.
“He can’t hear us,” said Arrietty, “not from the bank. Look—” she exclaimed. “The worm’s gone.”
So it had, and the line had gone too.
“Wait a minute,” said Pod. “You’ll see—he sends it down on the current.”
Straining their eyes, they made out the curves of floating line and, just below the surface, the pinkness of the worm sailing before them. The worm fetched up in the same spot, just below their feet, where again it was held against the current.
Something flicked out from under the sticks below them; there was a flurry of shadow, a swift half-turn, and most of the worm had gone.
“A fish?” whispered Arrietty.
Pod nodded.
Homily craned forward: she was becoming quite excited. “Look, Arrietty—now you can see the hook!”
Arrietty caught just a glimpse of it and then the hook was gone.
“He felt that,” said Pod, referring to the fisherman. “Thinks he got a bite.”
“But he did get a bite,” said Arrietty.
“He got a bite but he didn’t get a fish. Here it comes again. . . .”
It was a new worm this time, darker in color.
Homily shuddered. “I wouldn’t fancy that one, whichever way you cooked it.”
“Quiet, Homily,” sai
d Pod as the worm whisked away.
“You know,” exclaimed Homily excitedly, “what we could do—say we had some kind of fire. We could take the fish off the hook and cook and eat it ourselves. . . .”
“Say there was a fish on the hook—” remarked Pod, gazing soberly toward the bushes. Suddenly he gave a cry and ducked sideways, his hands across his face. “Look out!” he yelled in a frantic voice.
It was too late: there was the hook in Homily’s skirt, worm and all. They ran to her, holding her against the pull of the line while her wild shrieks echoed down the river.
“Unbutton it, Homily! Take the skirt off! Quick . . .”
But Homily couldn’t or wouldn’t. It might have had something to do with the fact that underneath she was wearing a very short red flannel petticoat that once had belonged to Arrietty and did not think it would look seemly, or she might quite simply just have lost her head. She clung to Pod, and dragged out of his grasp, she clung to Arrietty. Then she clung to the twigs and sticks as she was dragged past them toward the ripples.
They got her out of the water as the line for a moment went slack, and Arrietty fumbled with the small jet bead that served Homily’s skirt as a button. Then the line went taut again. As Pod grabbed hold of Homily, he saw out of the corner of his eye that the fisherman was standing up.
From this position, on the very edge of the bank, he could play his rod more freely. A sudden upward jerk, and Homily, caught by her skirt and shrieking loudly, flew upside down into the air with Pod and Arrietty fiercely clinging each to an arm. Then the jet button burst off, the skirt sailed away with the worm, and the borrowers, in a huddle, fell back on the sticks. The sticks sank slightly beneath the impact and rose again as gently, breaking the force of their fall.
“That was a near one,” gasped Pod, pulling his leg out of a cleft between the branches. Arrietty, who had come down on her seat, remained sitting: she seemed shaken but unhurt. Homily, crossing her arms, tenderly massaged her shoulders: she had a long graze on one cheek and a jagged tear in the red flannel petticoat. “You all right, Homily?”
Homily nodded, and her bun unrolled slowly. White-faced and shaking, she felt mechanically for hairpins: she was staring fixedly at the bank.
“And the sticks held,” said Pod, examining his grazed shin: he swung the leg slightly. “Nothing broken,” he said. Homily took no notice: she sat, as though mesmerized, staring at the fisherman.
“It’s Mild Eye,” she announced grimly after a moment.
Pod swung round, narrowing his eyes. Arrietty stood up to see better: Mild Eye, the gypsy . . . there was no mistaking the apelike build, the heavy eyebrows, the thatch of graying hair.
“Now we’ll be for it,” said Homily.
Pod was silent a moment. “He can’t get at us here,” he decided at last, “right out in midstream; the water’s good and deep out here, on both sides of us like.”
“He could stand in the shallows and reach,” said Homily.
“Doubt if he’d make it,” said Pod.
“He knows us and he’s seen us,” said Homily in the same expressionless voice. She drew a long, quivering breath. “And, you mark my words, he’s not going to miss again!”
There was silence except for the voices of the river. The babbling murmur, unperturbed and even, seemed suddenly alien and heartless.
“Why doesn’t he move?” asked Arrietty.
“He’s thinking,” said Homily.
After a moment Arrietty ventured timidly, “Of what he’s going to charge for us, and that, when he’s got us in a cage?”
“Of what he’s going to do next,” said Homily.
They were silent a moment, watching Mild Eye.
“Look,” said Arrietty.
“What’s he up to now?” asked Pod.
“He’s taking the skin off the hook!”
“And the worm too,” said Pod. “Look out!” he cried as the fisherman’s arm flew up. There was a sudden jerk among the sticks, a shuddering series of elastic quivers. “He’s casting for us,” shouted Pod. “Better we get under cover.”
“No,” said Homily, as their island became still again; she watched the caught branch, hooked loose, bobbing away down river. “Say he drags this obstruction to bits, we’re safer on top than below. Better we take to the kettle—”
But even as she spoke, the next throw caught the cork in the rust hole. The kettle, hooked by its stopper and tied to the sticks, resisted the drag of the rod: they clung together in silent panic as just below them branches began to slide. Then the cork bounced free and leapt away, dancing on the end of the line. Their island subsided again, and unclasping each other, they moved apart listening wide-eyed to the rhythmic gurgle of water filling the kettle.
The next throw caught a key branch, one on which they stood. They could see the hook well and truly in, and the trembling strain on the twine. Pod clambered alongside and, leaning back, tugged downwards against the pull. But strain as he might, the line stayed taut and the hook as deeply embedded.
“Cut it,” cried someone above the creaking and groaning. “Cut it . . .” the voice cried again, tremulously faint, like the rippling voice of the river.
“Then give me the razor blade,” gasped Pod. Arrietty brought it in a breathless scramble. There was a gentle twang, and they all ducked down as the severed line flew free. “Now why,” exclaimed Pod, “didn’t I think of that in the first place?”
He glanced toward the shore. Mild Eye was reeling in; the line, too light now, trailed softly on the breeze.
“He’s not very pleased,” said Homily.
“No,” agreed Pod, sitting down beside her, “he wouldn’t be.”
“Don’t think he’s got another hook,” said Homily.
They watched Mild Eye examine the end of his line, and they met his baleful gaze as, throwing the rod aside, he angrily stared across at them.
“Round one to us,” said Pod.
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 shrun
k 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.