The Little Grey Men

by BB

  ‘I believe you are right,’ said Baldmoney; ‘we ought to turn before the end of the month.’

  ‘We’ll go just a little higher,’ said Dodder, asserting his authority. ‘Cloudberry may always be just round the next bend, you know.’

  The others did not reply; they felt perhaps a little rebellious, but Dodder was right.

  They gathered up their baggage, and each carrying an empty barrel, went back to the boat and were speedily on board, tucked up in their cosy bunks.

  •

  The red sparks of the embers burnt like rubies, fanned now and again by a passing gust. One by one they were snuffed out, and when the last had gone, a lithe shadow stole out of the bushes.

  It was a wood dog. It gingerly sniffed all round the dead fire and ate up a few fish bones and crumbs that the gnomes had left. Its cunning eyes were like slits, and its brush switched to and fro like an angry cat’s!

  Suddenly it stopped sniffing; and crouched down on the ground with pricked ears. From the outer darkness by the stream it had heard a most curious sound. It crept slowly forward, its brush still twitching. Then it saw the silent bulk of the Jeanie Deans anchored serenely to the bank. The hairs on its back bristled and it backed away into the shadows.

  And inside the cosy cabin, Dodder lay on his back, the moleskin bag drawn up over his head, snoring so loudly that the little wooden bunk vibrated, not caring if all the wood dogs in the world were prowling about outside!

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A Smell in the Air

  hey got away next morning bright and early, with a frosty sun showing its cheery red face through the tangled branches of the streamside thorns. It was quite a business cutting a way for the ship through the flood jam, but at last it was done and the ship safely through.

  Dodder, as usual, was steering, Baldmoney was polishing the brass fittings on deck until they winked and flashed, and Sneezewort was busy washing up the breakfast things in the galley (poor Sneezewort always seemed to get the more menial jobs). It would have done any sailor’s heart good to see the way they kept that ship.

  ‘Baldmoney’ (it was Dodder who called).

  Baldmoney stopped polishing and looked up to see Dodder sniffing the air.

  ‘Yes, skipper—did you call?’

  ‘Come up here a moment.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir’ (they had become very nautical lately). He climbed the little ladder to the bridge.

  ‘Do you smell anything?’

  Baldmoney sniffed and sniffed.

  ‘Ye—e—es, I think I do.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Wood dog!’

  ‘Right, just as I thought,’ said Dodder triumphantly.

  Baldmoney looked fearfully at the banks, passing in slow procession on either side; dense blackthorn, clothed in unbelievably lovely colours, rose-red brambles, and old withered rush; a continuous jungle of exquisite beauty on either hand. At other times the gnomes would have journeyed slowly, noting every painted leaf and examining, with the keenest delight, this wonderful pageantry of autumn, but time was passing swiftly and there was so much work to be done. In vain did they strive to see through the tangle of leaves.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ muttered Dodder, taking out his pipe and filling it slowly as Baldmoney took over the wheel. ‘I’ve smelt it a lot lately; I believe we’re being trailed.’

  Baldmoney shuddered. ‘But surely we should have seen THEM?’

  ‘Not necessarily—they’re cunning brutes. They trail you for days, waiting their chance. Then one night, when you are sitting round the fire perhaps, talking as we were last night, spinning yarns, they’re on you before you can say knife!’ Dodder, his pipe drawing well, resumed steering.

  ‘Horrible,’ Baldmoney blew his nose loudly; ‘worse than stoats! We’d better keep a good fire burning tonight and go to bed early.’

  ‘It might be wiser,’ said Dodder reflectively, his eyes still searching the banks; ‘it won’t do to run any risks. I know what these wood dogs are. They are bold and hunt by day in this wild country.’

  •

  For the rest of the morning they kept a sharp look out but saw no trace; now and then, however, an eddy of wind would bring them just a hint of something that shouldn’t be there. Mixed with the delicious spicy smell of the autumn foliage and the hint of frost was this faint rank odour of fox. It was most unsettling.

  After midday the sun turned a dull rose-red and gradually the distant hedgerows and trees began to vanish silently in mist; it would be dark early.

  The beat of the Jeanie Deans’ screw seemed quite loud, for the Folly was sluggish and silent, flowing tortuously by spinneys and woods, past high hedges and motionless reed beds, where the bulrush heads were a dark vandyke brown.

  Moorhens scattered when they saw the ship, diving in great alarm. At last they came to a little copse composed mostly of birch with an underwood of hazel. Dodder’s attention was immediately arrested by quantities of ripe nuts hanging in clusters among the round yellowing leaves. Never before had he seen nuts in such abundance or of such size. It was a late crop too, due no doubt to the sheltered valley. They had run out of nuts long ago and had not tasted really ripe ones since they had been Squirrel’s guests in Tree Top House. There were enough here to fill the hold. It was an opportunity not to be missed. Already the blackberries had been finished and the fruit barrels were empty.

  The anchor went down and the ship swung round under the overhanging branches. They could pick quite a number without even stirring from the deck, but the finest were a little way up the bank.

  ‘There’s enough here to carry us right through the winter,’ said the delighted Baldmoney, reaching up and picking a beautiful bunch hanging just over his head. ‘Why not fill the hold; we shan’t get a chance like this again, and we shall travel better with more ballast.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Dodder; ‘but keep a sharp look out! I’ll stay on board and look after the ship. Don’t go out of call. There are some beauties just up the bank.’

  Baldmoney and Sneezewort, glad of the opportunity of stretching their legs, were soon ashore. Dodder could see them moving about among the bundles of hazel rods.

  The hazel has a curious growth. Round the root it sends up straight rod-like suckers, and as the gnomes had to climb the trees to get the fruit it took them quite a time to force their way through. Dodder saw the branches shaking, and now and then a yellow leaf dropped to the ground.

  What a lovely afternoon it was to be sure, golden and pearly, with no sound but the ‘caw, caw’ of the rooks feasting on the acorns in the oaks, and the robins singing all around. One was sitting on a yellow hazel bough just across the stream, watching them, and now and again piping its mournful but sweet little song, which sounded like falling water. It was rather shy and would not talk, and seemed quite as selfish and self-centred as the robin on Poplar Island. From a great distance came the sleepy hum of a threshing machine at some lonely farm steading. Industrious men, like the bees, were busy over their harvest from the fields, the golden fruits of the summer sunlight.

  The hazel bushes shook and rustled as nut after nut was thrown down from above until the grass was littered with fruit. Dodder smoked his pipe contentedly. He was thinking very deeply as he puffed away, watching tiny blue smoke rings go up and up into the tranquil air. There was nothing he enjoyed more than a quiet pipe of nettle tobacco.

  It was time they gave up looking for Cloudberry, and as for the chance of finding the Folly Source, it was as far away as ever. There was certainly no time to reach it now with winter so close, and this frost was exceptional for early November. Not only that, the stream was becoming difficult to navigate. At Rampike Dam it had been an awful business cutting a way for the ship, and the higher they got the worse it would be. It only needed a big ‘fall’ of timber to entirely block their passage.

  His word was law: if he decided they must go no farther, well, that was that.

  Dodder suddenly noticed that the robin was
not singing. It was sitting on its branch and flirting its tail and saying ‘tic, tic, tic!’ in an urgent voice and cocking its bright black eye.

  Baldmoney and Sneezewort were so busy packing the nuts into the little bags and barrels (they had carried them ashore) that they never even heard the alarm note of the robin.

  Dodder’s long pointed ears moved like a donkey’s and he had put his pipe back in his pocket. The robin began to be quite hysterical. It had certainly seen something among the bushes and soon a blackbird flew across and began crying ‘zinc, zinc! zinc!’ in a very loud voice.

  Baldmoney and Sneezewort stopped work; their woodcraft told them something was amiss.

  Dodder called to them, ‘Better come back, there’s something in the bushes!’

  They came staggering down the bank, each carrying a load; so well had they worked that all the barrels and sacks were full, neatly stacked in the grass. The gangway was down and they carried up their precious cargo, dumping it in a neat row on the deck, working as deftly as mice.

  ‘What a racket!’ exclaimed Dodder; ‘there must be something there.’

  The blackbird was a handsome rogue with the bright gold bill of an old bird, which matched the hazel leaves, and he sat among the autumn foliage, flirting his tail. Zinc! Zinc! Zinc!

  ‘Hurry up!’ said Dodder; ‘it might be the wood dog. It isn’t worth taking chances.’ (He could only just see Sneezewort’s head among the leaves.)

  ‘There are only two more loads,’ called Baldmoney, scurrying back down the bank.

  Sneezewort grabbed a barrel and Baldmoney a sack as they began to run towards the gangway.

  Things happened very quickly. The blackbird flew up into the air with a shriek, and the robin flicked into the bushes as the red lithe form of a wood dog sprang out like a panther.

  Dodder had a snapshot glimpse of Baldmoney, still clutching the sack, making a leap for the gangway, of a barrel rolling down the bank into the stream, spilling the nuts broadcast, of a scuffle of leaves and grass, a despairing shriek from Sneezewort, a further rustling and then—all was still!

  ‘Where is he?’ shouted Dodder; ‘where’s Sneezewort?’

  Baldmoney lay sobbing and trembling on the deck with nuts scattered all around.

  ‘The wood dog got him,’ he gasped; ‘it all happened so quickly. Oh! Oh! Oh!’

  Dodder, with surprising agility, was on the bank in an instant, peering into the thick bushes.

  Parting the slender hazel rods he saw, a few yards away, the form of a fox. It was standing looking back over its shoulder, and there, sticking out of its mouth were two kicking legs. Sneezewort! The fox had not killed him; he was going to play with him as a cat plays with a mouse. With superb courage Dodder advanced on the wood dog waving his stick.

  ‘You great brute, put him down—put him down, I tell you! If you kill him I’ll tell Pan; we are the last gnomes in England—you shall not kill him!’

  The fox could not reply because he had to keep a tight hold on the wriggling Sneezewort. He was going to have some fun and games with the juicy little morsel, so he just grinned and laid back his ears.

  Then he lay down, pretending to take no notice of Dodder, and opened his mouth. With a shrill shriek his victim made to dart away, but out shot a velvet paw and pinned the unhappy Sneezewort to the leaves, where he lay squealing like a pig.

  ‘Come nearer, little gnome,’ wheedled the fox to Dodder; ‘come nearer and I’ll let him go.’

  Dodder was playing for time; also he was frantically praying to Pan under his breath.

  ‘O good god Pan, help Sneezewort to get away; never mind me—I don’t mind dying, but let Sneezewort live!’

  Dodder advanced on the fox, quietly and unafraid. Just then, with an extra wriggle, Sneezewort broke away but he was deftly caught by the back of his skin breeches. Sneezewort, half crazed with fear, drew his knife. The fox tossed him up and caught him by the middle and shook him like a terrier shakes a rat. The bright blade flew sideways into the hazel; Sneezewort lay horribly still.

  ‘No, you don’t, my fine fellow,’ growled the fox; ‘I’m only going to let you go when your brother comes a little closer. I want to talk to him.’

  ‘I talk with you first, Red Robber,’ said Dodder, ‘and you will listen. Many cuckoo summers ago, long before even your forebears were thought of, I was a-hunting up the Folly. A wood dog trailed and caught me. I got away, how makes no matter, but ever since I have gone through life maimed and halting. Pan heard of it, and he put a curse upon you and all your kind. From thenceforth you have been hunted by the Devil Hounds, and so you shall be hunted to the end.’

  Dodder came still nearer, his little eyes ablaze, fixed on the grinning, mocking mask of the fox. It was looking down at Sneezewort, lying motionless between its front paws; the eyes almost vanished in a wide smile, its long pink tongue hung out.

  ‘Ah, ha, see how still he lies! I’ve killed him, and in a minute I shall kill you too, one-legged gnome who cannot run away. But first I will eat Sneezewort; I’ve been tracking you gnomes for days. I have watched you round your fires at night, but I feared the bright sparks that burn.’

  ‘Listen, red wood dog—do you hear what I hear?’

  The fox lowered its head and snarled. ‘I hear nothing but the Folly water and a frightened blackbird among the bushes. I hear nothing but wild sounds, and I smell nothing but warm blood, Dodder,’ and a little rope of saliva drooled from his jaws.

  ‘Then an old lame gnome must have better ears than the young red wood dog,’ observed Dodder. ‘Listen again—listen well, Red Stinker to Heaven.’

  The fox’s ears switched abruptly.

  Far away came the sound of a horn and the faint ‘tow row’ of hounds.

  He snarled once, looked down at the motionless figure of Sneezewort, then at Dodder, stood irresolute, swung round and vanished like a shadow!

  •

  Dodder ran to the little figure which lay face downwards among the leaves.

  ‘Dear old Sneezewort, are you hurt?’ asked Dodder tenderly, bending over him.

  The wee mouseskin jacket was ripped and the toothless mouth agape. Sneezewort did not reply.

  Despite his game leg Dodder picked him up as if he were a baby and with Baldmoney’s help laid him on the deck, and took off his coat. There was an ugly gash across the breastbone, but it was only a surface wound.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ said Dodder. ‘Let’s get him down into his bunk; he’s only knocked out.’ They brewed some nettle tea and covered him up with skins. After a while Sneezewort opened his eyes wonderingly.

  ‘You’ll be all right, little man,’ said Dodder, ‘just lie still. The wood dog’s gone now and won’t come back—ever!’

  •

  He went up on deck again. In the distance was the thundering of hooves, loud cracklings and crashings in the bushes. The tip of a hound’s stern waved among the hazels and the terrified blackbird, silent now, flew swiftly down the stream. Other hounds were coming up the Folly on either bank.

  As Dodder stood watching, well screened under the hanging branches and hazel trunks, he saw the huge barrel of a horse’s body, a grey horse with a scarlet rider on his back, shoot like a bolt from one side of the stream to the other, landing with a soft double-thud. The man had a hand across his face to shield it from the whip of the branches. The next instant rider and horse had vanished.

  In the distance were excited shouts, and the tremendous, blood-stirring sounds of a pack of hounds in full cry. Fainter and fainter they became until at last all was still. Dodder felt a movement behind him; Baldmoney, still very white about the gills, was at his elbow.

  ‘How is he?’ asked Dodder, tossing his head towards the cabin.

  ‘Oh, he’s all right, only a bit shaken; he’ll be as right as rain in the morning.’

  ‘Good . . . Baldmoney.’

  ‘Yes, Dodder?’

  ‘We’re turning back tomorrow.’

  ‘Aye, aye, skipper, I’m
mighty glad.’

  Silence fell. The robin began to sing again and a broken nut branch, with leaves still green, came floating down the stream. It had been knocked off by the jumping horseman.

  Dodder held up his hand. ‘Hark!’

  Baldmoney listened, his teeth faintly chattering.

  From quite a distance they heard the horn again, a burst of short clear notes. It was sounding the ‘kill’.

  Dodder slowly removed his cap.

  ‘Amen,’ said Baldmoney in a low voice, ‘so perish all the enemies of the Little People.’

  •

  Robin Clobber, attired in tweed jacket, breeches, gaiters, a velvet hunting cap, and mounted on a globular Shetland pony ‘Sweep’, was hacking home with Daddy, feeling quite grown up.

  ‘Well, Robin,’ his father said, ‘you’ve had your first run with hounds; how did you like it?’

  ‘Ripping,’ gasped Robin, almost speechless with happiness, for the huntsman had given him the brush.

  They jogged on until they came to the Folly bank and they stopped the horses to look at the brown rushing water with its hurrying leaves. Something caught Robin’s eye, a minute pale object which bobbed swiftly down the current. It was a tiny barrel! Why, it must have come from the Jeanie Deans—however did it get there? Robin remembered the bitter moment when he saw his lovely ship sailing away. Still . . . he had Sweep now; Daddy had bought him the pony to make up for his disappointment, and a pony was ever so much better than a boat! Funny about the barrel, though; perhaps those little men he saw by the bridge had a hand in it. Perhaps they’d even got hold of the Jeanie Deans. Well, if they had he was glad; she would be in good custody, and they would find more use for her.

  They rode on towards the house.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Down Stream