The Borrowers Afloat Read online

  "Now, we are stuck," remarked Pod, "good and proper."

  "Get me up, Pod—do..." they heard Homily calling from below.

  They got her up and showed her what had happened. Pod, peering down, saw part of a gatepost and coils of rusted wire: on this projection a mass of rubbish was entangled, brought down by the flood, a kind of floating island, knitted up by the current and hopelessly intertwined.

  No good shoving with his pin: the current held them head on and, with each successive bump, wedged them more securely.

  "It could be worse," remarked Homily surprisingly, when she had got her breath. She took stock of the nest-like structure: some of the sticks, forced above water, had already dried in the sun; the whole contraption, to Homily, looked pleasantly like dry land. "I mean," she went on, "we could walk about on this. I wouldn't say, really, but what I don't prefer it to the kettle ... better than floating on and on and on, and ending up, as might well be, in the Indian Ocean. Spiller could find us here easy enough ... plumb in the middle of the view."

  "There's something in that," agreed Pod. He glanced up at the banks: the stream here was wider, he noticed. On the left bank, among the stunted willows that shrouded the towpath, a tall hazel leaned over the water; on the right bank, the meadows came sloping down to the stream and, beside the muddy cow tracks, stood a sturdy clump of ash. The tall boles, ash and hazel, stood like sentinels, one each side of the river. Yes, it was the kind of spot Spiller would know well; the kind of place, Pod thought to himself, to which humans might give a name. The water on either side of the midstream obstruction flowed dark and deep, scooped out by the current into pools. Yes, it was the kind of place he decided—with a slight inward tremor of his "feeling"—where in the summer human beings might come to bathe. Then, glancing downstream, he saw the bridge.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was not much of a bridge—wooden, moss-grown, with a single handrail—but, in their predicament, even a modest bridge was still a bridge too many: bridges are highways, built for humans, and command long views of the river...

  Homily, when he pointed it out, seemed strangely unperturbed: shading her eyes against the sunlight, she gazed intently down river. "No human being that distance away," she decided at last, "could make out what's on these sticks...."

  "You'd be surprised," said Pod. "They spot the movement like..."

  "Not before we've spotted them. Come on, Pod; let's unload the kettle and get some stuff dried out."

  They went below, and by shifting the ballast, they got the kettle well heeled over. When they had achieved sufficient list, Pod took his twine and made the handle fast to the sunken wire netting. In this way, with the kettle held firm, they could crawl in and out through the lid hole. Soon all the gear was spread out in the warmth, and sitting in a row on a baked branch of alder, they each fell to on a slice of banana.

  "This could be a lot worse," said Homily, munching and looking about her. She was thankful for the silence and the sudden lack of motion. Down between the tangled sticks were well-like glintings of dark water, but it was quiet water and, from her high perch, far enough away to be ignored.

  Arrietty, on the contrary, had taken off her shoes and stockings and was trailing her feet in the delicate ripples that played about the outer edges.

  The river seemed full of voices, endless, mysterious murmurs like half-heard conversations. But conversations without pauses—breathless, steady recountings.... "She said to me, I said to her. And then ... and then ... and then...." After a while Arrietty ceased to listen as, so often, she ceased to listen to her mother when Homily, in the vein, went on and on and on. But she was aware of the sound and the deadening effect it would have on sounds made farther afield. Against this noise, she thought, something could creep up on you and, without hint or warning, suddenly be there. And then she realized that nothing could creep up on an island unless it were afloat or could swim. But, even as she thought this thought, a blue tit flew down from above and perched beside her on a twig. It cocked its head sideways at the pale ring of banana skin that had enclosed her luncheon slice. She picked it up and threw it sideways toward him—like a quoit—and the blue tit flew away.

  Then she crept back into the nest of flotsam. Sometimes she climbed under the dry twigs onto the wet ones below. In these curious hollows, cut with sunlight and shadow, there was a vast choice of handholds and notches on which to tread. Above her a network of branches crisscrossed against the sun. Once she went right down to the shadowed water and, hanging perilously above it, saw in its blackness her pale reflected face. She found a water snail clinging to the underside of a leaf, and once, with a foot, she touched some frogs' spawn, disturbing a nest of tadpoles. She tried to pull up a water weed by the roots but, slimily, it resisted her efforts—stretching pan way like a piece of elasticized rubber, then suddenly springing free.

  "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," said 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 sacks 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 goo 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?"

&nb
sp; "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.