by BB
‘That’s a pity,’ said Watervole ruefully; ‘do you think I can do anything with him?’
‘You can try,’ whispered Sneezewort, ‘but I don’t think anyone can make him change his mind. There’s no earthly reason why he shouldn’t go, because the King of Fishers has given him a brand new leg and he’d be as right as rain. But see what you can do: tell him we’re starting before sun up.’ So Watervole went into the cave.
Dodder was a mere shapeless ball inside his moleskin. He had drawn it right over his head and refused to emerge. Watervole shook him gently, wheedling and coaxing, but was only answered by stifled sobs.
‘It’s no good, gnomes,’ Watervole told them on his return. ‘Dodder won’t come, he won’t say a word and seems very upset. If you take my advice you will get off as soon as you can.’
Baldmoney and Sneezewort tiptoed back into the cave: ‘Well, goodbye, dear Dodder, we’ll soon be back, we will really; and we’ll bring Cloudberry with us, you see if we don’t!’ There was no answer from the darkness, so, each shedding a tear, the gnomes tiptoed out and quietly closed the door.
They climbed into the boat and untied the grass rope. As they pushed off into the Oak Pool they were aware of rustlings and flutterings on every hand.
All the animals of the stream were assembled to see them off—Spink and Bub’m, watervoles and woodpigs, dormice, moles and squirrels; they never knew they had so many friends! There was quite a flutter of excitement as the gnomes manned the paddles and turned the nose of the Dragonfly upstream.
Within the root Dodder heard the commotion on the bank and hastily slipping out of his sleeping bag he scrambled for the door. He was in such a hurry he quite forgot to strap on his leg and fell sprawling among the rushes. Sobbing bitterly, the poor little gnome hobbled to the door and peeped out.
A fine rain was falling, making tiny rings on the brown water, and away behind the willows the first flush of a red-eyed dawn was brightening the eastern sky.
He saw the animals gathered on the bank, and the waterside trees and bushes thick with hopping birds and far away, at the other end of the pool, the tiny blur of the boat with Baldmoney and Sneezewort working at the paddles as they headed for the rapids. Smaller and smaller they grew until they reached the bend in the stream and in another moment they were hidden from view.
It was the most bitter, indeed the only bitter moment, in the little gnome’s life. There seemed nothing to live for now, and the future was black with the horror of loneliness.
A cloud of birds, thrushes, finches, reed buntings, and titmice were hovering over the Stickle beyond, circling round and round, all singing; truly a right royal send off! He watched the birds drifting away over the tops of the bushes, their silver voices becoming fainter and fainter, and then there was nothing but the gentle dribble of rain falling into the smooth water of the oak pool.
He crawled back into his sleeping bag and wished he were dead.
•
The Dragonfly made light of the rapids, for with Watervole’s help, the gnomes soon gained the deep reach above. One by one the circling birds dropped away to get their breakfasts, and the attendant flotilla of moorhens and watervoles fell away and dispersed.
The gnomes worked hard at the paddles and in smoother water made fine progress. Familiar bends in the stream came into view; the osier thicket veiled in new green; the clumps of wild iris, all breaking into bud, and here and there the big flat lily pads, just breaking surface, dotted with rain drops so that they seemed studded with pearls. It was a great pity that the sun was not shining; instead, the rain fell steadily. But it was warm rain and not unpleasant, and the scents and smells of the waterside vegetation were glorious. In one little bay which opened out from the stream there was a perfect carpet of water daisy as white as snow, in another, some early water-lily buds, like huge poppy heads from which the petals had fallen, covered a deep backwater.
The gnomes had not much time to notice all these wonders as for the most part their eyes were fixed on the floor of the boat.
They passed the old red-roofed cattle shed which stands in the corner of Lucking’s meadow and saw the sable-backed swallows gathered along the roof ridge. The Folly turned this way and that, always wonderfully interesting and never monotonous.
Before long they had passed under Pingle Bridge which carries the farm track to Lucking’s place, and glimpsed the rose-red chimneys and the black-and-white half timbering peeping through the apple orchard.
The cocks were crowing in the straw-yard and from a wild crab-tree a cuckoo was shouting ‘cuckoo, cuckoo!’
Watervole swam easily alongside, sometimes going far ahead to see if the coast was clear.
The gnomes found that after a while their backs began to ache with the unaccustomed effort of paddling, and towards midday they were glad to tie up under a willow thicket and have a ‘breather’. Watervole had disappeared; no doubt he was higher up the brook, but as he was a reliable person the gnomes did not worry. After all, they would soon have to get used to relying on themselves, for as they got higher up the Folly, the water voles living along the banks would become few and far between.
The rain stopped and soon the sun burst forth, gilding every bush and twig, from which hung rows of glittering drops which flashed back a multitude of exquisite colours. All the lush new vegetation was steaming, and a white mist was smoking over the surface of the stream.
‘Where are we now?’ queried Sneezewort, standing up in the boat and peeping through the thicket of willow.
‘Must be somewhere near the Dingles, below Moss Mill, I should think,’ replied Baldmoney, rather breathlessly, for he was still feeling the effects of the constant bending. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Sneezewort, we’re going to have terrible lumbago tomorrow,’ he pressed his hand gingerly behind his back. ‘It’ll take us a bit of time to get used to this paddling, you know.’
After a pause Sneezewort wiped a tear from his left eye. ‘I do wish Dodder had come with us. I wonder what he’s doing now; in the cave, I expect, crying his heart out!’
‘Oh, don’t let’s think about it,’ said Baldmoney with some irritation, ‘if he likes to be so stupid and stubborn it isn’t our fault. He’ll soon get used to being alone, and probably quite like it after a bit.’
Neither spoke. They lay full length on the bottom of the boat and watched a green caterpillar swinging to and fro by a long thread from a willow leaf.
A marsh tit with a black head came flitting through the thicket. He never saw the gnomes down amongst the tangle below. But he saw the caterpillar, and there was a tiny snap as his bill closed over it. He then flew away higher up the thicket.
The water, chuckling among the willow roots, made such a sleepy sound that Baldmoney found himself nodding. ‘Here, this won’t do,’ he exclaimed, jumping up, ‘we will never get up the Folly at this rate; come on, Sneezewort, back to work. We’ve got to make Moss Mill before the bats are out.’
‘I wonder where Watervole’s got to,’ murmured Sneezewort sleepily, not moving from his comfortable position. ‘I hope he won’t just go off and leave us.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about him; he’s probably swum on to the next lot of rapids; you can’t expect him to keep with us all the time.’
After attending to a hurried toilet the gnomes re-embarked and pushed on.
The sun was now very hot, so much so that they had to keep under the bushes which grew along the bank. Luckily the water was quite deep (about five inches) and as they were out of the force of the main current they made better progress. Even so it was warm work and soon the gnomes were fairly dripping. But they stuck to it and by the middle of the afternoon they saw the two tall black poplars which marked the site of Moss Mill, on the other side of the Dingle meadows.
Moss Mill was an attractive place and the mill was in working order. It was surrounded by willows, loud with the sound of many waters and rank with the rather exciting ‘river smell’ which always seems to pervade such places.
There was a large square mill pond, bright green in colour, like a lawn (it looked as though you could walk on it), and here the miller’s white ducks played about, pushing their way amongst the green weed and leaving an inky black path behind them which, however, quickly closed again after they had passed.
In high summer Moss Mill was embowered with trees, willows, elms, oaks, and thickets of alder. Being a damp sort of place, weeds of all kinds flourished: all those plants which love water crowded round; giant dock, appearing not unlike the riverside plants of a tropical stream, with huge hairy columns for stalks as thick round as trees, with curious beetles and flies crawling about on the undersides of their green umbrella-like leaves, Fool’s Parsley, Bog Myrtle, Water Betony, Marsh Marigold, and huge buttercups.
All through the summer you could hear the murmur of the weir hidden under some alders twenty yards above the mill, a sort of sleepy sound which was not unlike the whisper of the wind in the tall black poplars at the head of the mill pond. The place fairly smelt of pike, trout, and all sorts of cool silvery-scaled water creatures.
The Folly divided above the mill, one arm going down the mill leat which fed the giant, chunking wheel and the other, the main branch of the stream, wound away through willow groves to join up with the leat about thirty yards below.
Mighty trout were to be found under the wheelhouse, where the force of the water had scoured out a deep hole. It was rather an awesome place, for the darkness there was loud with the wheel’s thunder and full of a roaring and a rushing. Sinister green hart’s tongue ferns grew out of the stonework; the spined perch (their backs banded like zebras and with sealing-wax red fins) mouthed and backed in the shadowed depths. A pleasant place in which to be on a hot day in May or June.
•
The gnomes paddled onwards until they were too weary to go farther, and finding a dense bed of graceful reeds they pushed their way in as far as they could and tied up to a stem. Already they were feeling the pangs of hunger, for they had had nothing to eat since breakfast.
Baldmoney got out the kippered minnows and gave Sneezewort one of them, eating two himself when Sneezewort had his back turned. Washed down with Folly water the little fish tasted delicious.
There was a reed warbler’s nest slung in the tall reeds close by, a cunning little basket as deep as a purse. The hen was sitting and her little sulphur and brown head could just be seen peeping over the edge at them. The nest was deep because when the wind smote the tall slender wands there was a danger of the eggs or young falling out.
The gnomes did not know the reed warblers well because no tall reeds grew downstream. These birds will only build in a certain species of reed and never nest in the low broad-bladed sedges.
‘We’d better have a sleep,’ said Baldmoney; ‘it’s no good passing Moss Mill in daylight. We must wait until dusk or we might be seen. Besides, the village lovers are fond of sitting by the mill bridge; really we should not start until it’s dark.’
‘Lovers won’t notice us,’ replied Sneezewort scornfully; ‘they’re always far too occupied with each other. Lucking’s carter was in love two years ago and he and his wench used to walk along the Folly by Pingle Bridge. I was often fishing there, but they never saw me. I saw them, though,’ he added darkly.
Baldmoney ignored this last remark. ‘We’d better get our nap now; besides, if we chatter too much we shall disturb Mrs Reed-warbler.’ And having said this Baldmoney pulled up his skin bag to make himself a pillow and soon both gnomes were fast asleep, lying on their backs with their thumbs together, lulled by the sweet breeze, rushing, rushing, through the stately reeds, and by the murmur of the stream.
In the quiet of evening the gnomes paddle along happily: there is a smell of water weeds and fish
When they awakened it was late evening. The gnats were a-dance over the water in fairy fountains, and now and again there was a loud plop as a trout jumped for a fly.
After the heat of the day it was wonderful on the stream. You must remember that the time the gnomes had picked for their journey was the best of the whole year; May and June in the heart of England, given the right weather, are our finest months. And you must not for a moment imagine that the gnomes were blind to these beauties—indeed, being halfway between the animals and our unhappy selves, they appreciated the beauties of the world far more than a great many mortals. To them the whole year was lovely (as indeed it is to all right-thinking folk), and not an hour passed by but they found something to admire and relish.
A faint sound of chewing came from the reeds close at hand and they saw Watervole, sucking a juicy bit of reed stalk.
‘Hullo, Watervole, we thought you’d left us,’ exclaimed Baldmoney, half in fun.
‘Oh no, I’ve been close to you all the time. I want to see you past Moss Mill.’
He hunched himself with a curious little shuffle into a more comfortable position on his reed pad and went on chewing busily.
‘Well, what about it, Sneezewort?’ Baldmoney stretched and yawned.
‘Yes, I’m ready, Baldmoney—all aboard!’
They untied the boat and pushed her off into the stream. ‘You’d better look out, gnomes,’ called the watervole after them; ‘the old Colonel from Joppa Manor is fishing just below the Mill, but I don’t think he’ll spot you, because when I last saw him his line was hung up in a hawthorn, and he was using the most awful language!’
They kept the Dragonfly well into the reeds and when at last they turned the corner, they saw that the Colonel was indeed in difficulties. His rod was on the ground and he was sitting on the fence wrestling with a tangled cast, a white handkerchief under his cap to keep off the midges.
‘He won’t see us,’ whispered Baldmoney; ‘keep her well into the side.’
Here and there a tangle of gnats were weaving about in clouds just above the surface of the water and white-tailed moorhens jerked among the lily pads. As the gnomes approached the mill they moved with the utmost wariness.
When they were about a hundred yards from the engrossed fisherman they stopped paddling and begged a tow from Watervole for the splash of the paddles might have attracted attention.
They had hardly got going again when, without warning, Watervole dived. Quick as lightning (for gnomes can move so fast you can hardly follow them) they slipped the tow rope and let the Dragonfly drift in among the water-betony which grew by the edge of the stream.
For the Colonel, having retied his cast, was now flogging the water and, to the gnomes’ horror, he began to move slowly towards them!
‘I wish we’d waited until it got dark,’ breathed Sneezewort, feverishly working the boat in among the water plants by pulling at the tough stems. ‘Wouldn’t it be perfectly awful if he saw us! What should we do?’
Just at that moment, as bad luck would have it, the Colonel was into a big trout. They heard the scream of the reel and in another second something like a torpedo shot downstream, sending a furl of water slapping among the weeds. The bank vibrated with heavy footfalls and in a moment they could hear violent breathing close at hand.
The trout, which was a big one, fought about with much splashing just opposite the gnomes. Then to their horror it came diving in, right among the water plants at their feet. They heard the gut twanging as it tightened, and muttered curses from the perspiring and excited Colonel.
‘It’s all right,’ whispered Sneezewort; ‘he’s so intent on his fish he won’t see us. And he’s playing it well, too; just see the way he keeps the line tight!’ Sneezewort and Baldmoney, being great fishermen, could appreciate every move in the game.
The trout refused to leave his lair and in a moment or two the stifled grunts from the bank were redoubled.
‘What’s he doing?’ whispered Baldmoney, trying to peep between two water-betony stems.
‘He’s taking off his boots,’ gasped Sneezewort in a horror-stricken whisper—‘he’s going to wade in!’
The Colonel, having rolled up his pants to above hi
s knees, began gingerly to enter the water, growling and cursing all the while.
‘How cross he is,’ said Baldmoney.
‘What hairy legs!’ whispered Sneezewort. ‘We’d better cut the line or he’ll be right on top of us.’
The silvery silky gut was close to them, taut as a bowstring, going down into the centre of the weeds. Sneezewort drew his knife from his belt and, leaning out of the boat, gently scraped the tight gut. It parted instantly and there was a violent outburst from the Colonel.
The gnomes lay low, hugging themselves. Then a quiver in the reed bed told them the big fish had bolted upstream.
Winding in his line, the Colonel got out on to the bank and, after putting on his stockings and boots, walked away, still muttering to himself.
When all was quiet the gnomes emerged. They found Watervole chuckling among the reeds.
‘That was as neat a bit of work, gnomes, as ever I saw; I was quite anxious at one time, especially when I saw him taking off his boots. It’s all quiet now, the old fellow’s gone home.’
Away over the water meadows the sun had long dipped down and bats were out, hawking over the willow swamps. Sedge warblers chattered unceasingly and there was a lovely smell of wet water-weed and fish.
‘Hark!’ Baldmoney suddenly stopped paddling.
Far away they heard the faint ‘chunk, chunk’ of the mill-wheel. ‘Miller’s working late,’ said Sneezewort in a puzzled tone; ‘he usually stops before now. I wonder why it is.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Baldmoney; ‘he’ll be so busy with his corn grinding he won’t see you, and there are no lovers on the bridge.’
‘Don’t you be too sure,’ broke in Watervole; ‘they may be lying on the other side of the green palings, where the village boys bathe. I’d better go on and see.’
He pushed off, cleaving the water in a V which glimmered and lapped among the red willow roots on the opposite bank. He soon returned with the news that the coast was clear and so the boat got under way again.