The Little Grey Men

by BB

  He was fishing as usual from his favourite perch (a branch which overhung the water) and as he gazed down into the clear depths below he was aware of a vast dim shape, slowly rising under the log. It was quite a second or two before he realized what it was, a monstrous fish quite three feet long, barred like a giant mackerel and with a cruel shovel mouth. Its wicked little eyes swivelled this way and that and its barred fins trembled ever so slightly. It rose from the dark depths exactly like an airship and at last came to rest about a foot below the surface, its pale gills blowing slightly as it hung poised in the water.

  It was a monster pike, the shark of fresh water! Dodder was so horrified, he was incapable of movement; he just sat rooted to the log not daring to lift his line. He could see the red worm impaled on his hook wriggling frantically, but he dare not lift it out.

  Then there was a sudden ‘boil’ and the rod was torn from his grasp. Away it went, hook, line, rod, everything, and Dodder fell off the stump backwards, landing by the merest chance on the very fringe of the water, among the ground ivy.

  He gathered himself together and hurried away, as fast as his game leg would carry him, towards their camp.

  He found the others bent over their task.

  ‘Oh! dear, I’ve had such a scare,’ he gasped, flinging himself down among the willow chips and scraps of skin.

  ‘What is it, Dodder?’

  But poor old Dodder could only lie and gasp. Baldmoney sprang to his feet, drawing his knife and glaring into the shadows under the trees.

  ‘What is it, Dodder . . . a wood dog?’

  ‘No . . . a shark, a perfectly enormous shark, as big . . . as big, as . . . ’ Dodder was at a loss to give them any comparison. He stretched wide his arms, but that was not wide enough, he looked about him but there was nothing large enough to demonstrate the length of the pike. At last he gasped, ‘Well, it was the biggest fish I’ve ever seen; it could swallow us all up, Dragonfly as well, and then have room for more!’

  The others shuddered.

  ‘That’s why we can’t catch any fish here; that’s why even the waterhens won’t come near us. It’s the shark, that’s what it is!’

  ‘And something else has happened,’ added Dodder, nearly on the verge of tears: ‘he’s gone off with my rod, line, hook and everything; we’re sick to death of mussels and we have finished the honey. Unless we can get away soon we’re going to starve!’

  Baldmoney looked at the coracle. It was nearly completed, it only needed drying in the sun and one more willow strut adding. The mast was fitted, it should be ready soon. One thing was evident, if they did get safely away from Poplar Island they must turn for home. To continue the journey provisionless and without fishing tackle (which would take too long to make) was a risky proceeding. Besides, the new boat would not sail so well as the Dragonfly, and it would be impossible to tack up the Folly with so small a mainsail.

  No, there was nothing for it, once safely away they must turn for home, and let the current carry them back downstream. It was disappointing, bitterly disappointing, but there it was. They must acknowledge defeat with a good grace. After all, they had had good fun, one way or another, and their adventure in Crow Wood alone was worth all the perils they had survived so successfully.

  •

  Two mornings later Baldmoney announced that the coracle was finished.

  A slight breeze was blowing from the west and the sky was overcast.

  The gnomes were not sorry to leave. The diet of mussel had little nourishment in it and they wanted a change of food. A little after sunrise they pulled the craft down the bank and pushed it into the water. It floated well, though it was a ticklish business getting aboard, for coracles are easily upset. There was calm water close to the shore, so they had to paddle with sticks.

  As they drew slowly away they looked back at the island, which they fondly hoped they were leaving for good. Gradually the land receded. They could see the tree where they found the wild bees’ nest, and the marks of their camp fire among the stones, and they felt no regretful pangs. They could see also the lone pine where they had built their house, but they were not sorry to see the last of it, either.

  A string of duck passed across, slanting down in a long line. They were the first ducks the gnomes had seen since they were cast away. On all sides were signs and sounds of autumn. Rooks cawed lazily, climbing round and round in an immense spiral, high in the sky, a habit they have in fine autumn weather. Mist lay over the land but as the sun rose it began to clear and there was the pearly prospect of a glorious day.

  The coracle sailed well, Baldmoney and Sneezewort were proud of their handiwork. And indeed, the little craft was beautifully constructed, completely watertight and it rode the ripples splendidly. As there were no seats the gnomes had to sit on the floor, all together in a bunch. It would not have taken much to capsize the whole affair and Dodder remarked it was a good thing that they were heading for home. Once clear of the island they felt the breeze and Baldmoney gingerly hoisted the dock-leaf sail.

  When they were about forty yards out from the island, Dodder, who was helping to steer with the aid of his paddle, went hot all over, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. Three little heads swivelled round, six little eyes bulged, two beards bristled.

  ‘The shark!’

  ‘Where? Where?’

  ‘Behind us; it’s following us—we’re lost!’

  Looking closely through the little clear ripples which were breaking over one another in tiny bubbles under their wake they saw the ghostly shape of the giant shark. It was coming after them without effort, seeming never to move a fin, just steadily gliding along like a submarine.

  ‘Don’t splash the paddles,’ whispered the terrified Dodder; ‘when we get into the breeze we may draw away.’

  But after a second or two it looked as if the pike meant business. He was coming closer and they could see the wicked green head, shaped like an enormous boot, with two little holes which might have been his nose.

  And then the worst happened!

  The wind, which had been quite fresh, suddenly dropped, and the coracle, slowly spinning round, came almost to a standstill—becalmed!

  Baldmoney and Sneezewort snatched up the paddles. They were still only a short way from the island and it was a very long way to the mainland—they could hardly see it for mist. Dodder shuddered when he thought of the deep deep water below them and only the thin skin of the coracle between them and the dark ocean and rows of devouring teeth!

  Splash! splash! went the paddles as the coracle began to head back towards the island which they so fondly hoped to have left for ever. Better starvation than to be eaten alive by a shark! Yes indeed! But they were still many yards from the shore and Sneezewort, getting panicky, began to ‘catch crabs’, which meant he was dipping his paddle too deeply under the surface.

  The coracle began to rock like a cork. But they were working their way back by degrees. First it was fifty yards, then thirty, then twenty. Nearer and nearer came Poplar Island; they saw the comfortable solid look of the stones, the ground ivy, the thick bushes, and the tall trees.

  Meanwhile the pike, who was still following, saw his prey escaping. He did not know exactly what the thing was which scurried in front of him, but it moved swiftly and looked uncommonly like the round body of a duckling, and he was hungry.

  With one stroke of his broad tail he dashed in, so quickly the eye could scarcely follow, and the next moment the coracle, Dodder, Sneezewort, and Baldmoney disappeared in a swirl of bubbles!

  •

  By some merciful chance (perhaps Pan was taking care of them) all three gnomes were flung clear when the pike attacked them. And more fortunate still, the mast of the coracle became wedged across the cruel mouth, with its fearsome array of needle-like teeth, gagging the hideous monster.

  He would have liked to swallow the three gnomes, but he could not; he lashed and threshed like a huge whale, his glaring eyes rolling, and his barred tail chur
ning the water, sending the spray flying in all directions in spasms of impotent rage.

  Meanwhile, Baldmoney had got Dodder by the collar and was pulling him ashore. Sneezewort had already scrambled out unhurt and all three were none the worse for their adventure. But it had been a narrow shave.

  Not far away the water still continued to swirl and boil, for the monster fish was vainly endeavouring to rid himself of the sharp gag which wedged his cruel jaws apart.

  But the gnomes did not wait to see what happened to him. They scurried away among the ground ivy and a few seconds later were back in their old camp.

  •

  ‘Well,’ said Dodder rather grimly (they had got the fire going and were now dry once more), ‘here we are, back on this beastly desert island, and here, if you ask me, we shall stop. The only thing we have is our sleeping-bags’ (these had floated clear when the coracle overturned), ‘and we’ve no fishing-lines—even if we had it wouldn’t be much use, we’ve no boat—no honey, all we’ve got to eat is mussel, and I’m sick at the sight of the stuff. If we eat much more we shall get scurvy; all mariners suffer from scurvy. I’ve never known such a barren, beastly, uninhabited island. Unless Heron or somebody comes along we’re in a nice mess,’ and Dodder kicked savagely at a stone with his good leg.

  ‘I think we ought to be jolly glad we aren’t inside the shark,’ remarked Baldmoney in a relieved voice.

  ‘Well said,’ squeaked Sneezewort; ‘we must be thankful for all small mercies. Something will turn up, you mark my words.’ But Sneezewort didn’t really hold much hope in his heart of hearts.

  ‘We’ll be here until the first frosts, if you ask me,’ growled Dodder, ‘and then we shall die of cold.’

  ‘Well, the lake might freeze over,’ remarked Baldmoney brightly, ‘and then we could walk ashore!’

  ‘Oh yes! and walk all the way back to the Oak Pool, I suppose,’ sneered Dodder, ‘with no food, no warm clothes, and no place to sleep at night, save in the snow—very sensible!’

  It was obviously no good arguing with Dodder while he was in this mood, so the others kept wisely silent.

  All they could do was to wait and hope that something would turn up, or some kind friend carry word of their plight to the otters or the Stream People. The gnomes knew that the Stream Folk would move heaven and earth to save them, were they told of the state of things.

  Next day they made a thorough exploration of the island in search of some hidden source of food. Had it been earlier in the year there would have been birds’ eggs, but nearly all the feathered folk, even the tree creeper, had gone away and there was nothing left but empty nests.

  A few young swallows still haunted the willow, but they were so taken up with their coming journey they wouldn’t even deign to notice the gnomes.

  Truth to say, things were looking very black indeed. The continued diet of mussel was making them all ill, and Dodder was so weak he could hardly get about. He lay all day inside the house, rolled up in his sleeping-bag. There wasn’t even a blackberry on the island. Sneezewort, exploring the southern end, found a few unripe nuts, but they were soon eaten.

  •

  The golden autumn weather seemed to be making amends—the sunlight was different, hazy, and more silver than gold.

  Quite miraculously spiders’ webs appeared on every leaf and bush, like silver hammocks slung to catch the morning dew, beautifully fashioned and anchored by long silken cables to stick and leaf. The tall poplars began to burn with spots of yellow, and from the distant shore came the clatter of binders in the cornfields. The gnomes could see little figures working among the leaves, stooking them up in neat rows in readiness for the carts.

  A foolish red robin haunted the island for a week. The gnomes implored it to take a message to the Stream People, or Heron, but it was either too stupid or too lazy to do so. It just sat on a yellowing sprig of dogwood and sang melancholy piping songs all day long until the gnomes threw stones at it. They needed cheering up anyway!

  If only the King of Fishers would come along! He would do all he could to help; but why should he come along? There were no fish to be caught by the island.

  I don’t know what would have happened had not Sneezewort, walking one evening round the shore, found the body of the shark washed up on the shingle. It was quite fresh, though rather thin. The gag of wood, which was the mast of the coracle, was still wedged firmly in its jaws and it had starved to death. Pike live on small fish or, indeed, anything they can catch and master, but they catch their prey with their deft snapping jaws. This monster had been powerless.

  There was not much meat on the long rakish body, and luckily the water-rats had not had a chance at it, otherwise there would have been little left.

  But for the first time for days they had a good square meal and felt new gnomes after it.

  Now that the shark was dead, perhaps the little fish would come back, though the gnomes had no hooks and lines to catch them with. It is true they could soon make more hooks, but on the island there was no horsehair which they could use for gut, and the hook alone would he useless.

  Perhaps they could build another boat. But they had used up all the frogskins, and they had not the heart to build another wooden boat, or, for that matter, the strength. For these poor little gnomes were really slowly starving to death. But while there is life there is hope, and perhaps the finding of the pike marked a new turn of events and meant that their luck had changed.

  Dodder remembered the night in Crow Wood when he had prayed to Pan to deliver the Wood People from Giant Grum. He would pray again.

  He went off alone under the dark bushes and was gone for an hour. Perhaps Pan would hear them and send deliverance. But prayers are not always answered by return of post, so to speak, or in the way we think they should be answered.

  When next morning no Heron appeared, or the sleek and friendly head of an otter did not bob out of the mist-wreathed water, Dodder thought that Pan had not heard and that he had forgotten his children. Perhaps Pan willed them to die; after all, they had lived for a very long time.

  How fast the summer was going now! It was sad to see the leaves falling. They drifted in coloured rafts upon the quiet waters, so solid that you might have thought you could walk upon them! They lay all over the island among the ivy, and sometimes a puff of wind made them swirl and dance round and round as though they were alive.

  One by one the swallows departed until there were no birds left at all; even the gloomy little robin (useless bird) went away, and the only song was the wind in the trees and the melancholy lap, lap of ripples on the barren stones.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The ‘Jeanie Deans’

  he twenty-ninth of September was Robin Clobber’s birthday, and what a day to look forward to!

  You know what it is to go to bed on Christmas Eve, or some other important ‘eve’, and think ‘Tomorrow is the great day: I’m going to do so and so!’

  So it was with Robin. He couldn’t for the life of him go to sleep. He tossed and turned in his little bed, his mind would give him no rest.

  It was a cosy little room, this bedroom, with white walls hung with gay John Hassall prints, a toy cupboard full of lead soldiers, model tanks and aeroplanes, kites and I don’t know what. Some boys might have been spoilt, but Robin wasn’t. He was a sensible boy for his age.

  Now, what would Daddy and Mummy give him for a birthday present? Not a bicycle—he had one at Christmas; he didn’t want any more tanks, though he could do with some ‘Valentines’ to complete his collection, and a Spitfire wouldn’t come amiss, one that really flew (all his others were model ones which couldn’t fly a yard). A gun? No, he wasn’t quite old enough; he’d like to have a new .410 double barrel, the one in the red Army and Navy catalogue downstairs.

  A knife? No, he had a good knife. He couldn’t think what it would be, but it was sure to be nice.

  •

  On the wall was a cuckoo clock with fir cone weights. When it struck the hour
a little blue and white bird came out of its house and bowed, and one of the fir cones rattled down quickly, swinging against the wall. ‘Tick tock, tick tock!’ Robin thought on. A fishing-rod? Well, that was a good guess, a fishing-rod would be nice. He might go down to the bridge on the lake and catch some trout with it. He would fry them in a pan like the little men he saw that day by the stone bridge. Robin wondered where they were now, what they were doing; he would like to see them again.

  ‘Tick tock, tick tock.’ Robin’s eyes slowly closed. ‘Tick tock, tick tock!’

  •

  On the breakfast table was a heap of parcels and letters, all for Robin. A scribbling diary from the maids, complete with pencil, which fitted neatly in the back, a fountain pen from Jarvis the butler, chocolates, books, a Spitfire from Uncle Ernest (but it couldn’t fly), a big box of peppermint creams, and then . . . this long heavy parcel from Daddy and Mummy.

  It was wrapped up in brown paper and tied securely with string and it had a Basset Lowke label. Good omen! He saved this parcel until last, then, with trembling fingers, undid the string.

  Two layers of paper, one thick and one thin, and then a big white cardboard box.

  Off came the lid . . . Tissue paper carefully wrapped round something heavy, long, and hard. What could it be? When Robin unwrapped the heavy thing he was quite dazed for a minute with delight.

  It was an exquisite model of a coasting steamer, the Jeanie Deans, smelling of spick and span enamel! It had a proper hold, full of little hooped wooden barrels and sacks, two derricks which really worked with chains and hooks, lifeboats slung on working davits, heavy iron anchors which were just like real ones, a funnel, black and red, portholes, and coils of rope neatly stacked on pine decking, a cosy cabin with a companion way, little pictures on the walls and a proper fo’castle, with a door which opened and shut. It even had a wireless aerial. Was there ever such a thing made as this wonderful ship? You wound it up by a key inside the funnel. This was not as it should be, of course, but you couldn’t have everything, and anyway you would never have noticed it, so cleverly was the mechanism concealed, and there was a spare winding key which was kept in the fo’castle. Robin gazed at the wondrous ship in a trance.