The Little Grey Men Page 5

  As they neared Moss Mill the Folly widened; here and there masses of arrow-head weed grew near the bank and the yellow knobs of the water-lilies showed between their round flat leaves.

  They saw before them the rose-red tiles on the mill roof splashed with grey and gold lichen seals, and behind, the rounded masses of horse chestnut trees, now a patterned curtain of white candles from top to bottom which glimmered in the fragrant dusk. The rooks in the upper branches were quite hidden by the foliage, only a sleepy ‘caw, caw’ told of a wakeful rookling.

  Farther away still, the course of the brook was marked at intervals by more poplars, and beyond that again lay the unknown country which the gnomes had never seen, as mysterious and alluring as the darkest African interior.

  Though it was now barely three hours to midnight there was a great deal of light in the sky, and from the mill the chunking of the wheel sounded louder and louder as the Dragonfly approached.

  Numerous bats were hawking about, dipping and flittering over the reeds, and from all sides came the splash of rising fish.

  A new sound filled the air, a distant thunder which, like the mill-wheel’s beat, grew louder with every stroke of the Dragonfly’s paddles. This was the water going down the leat. Where the two streams joined below the mill the Folly swirled and bored.

  The gnomes did not like the look of this maelstrom; the rapids above the Oak Pool were insignificant by comparison. But by keeping to the bank and with Watervole’s help they got past without much bother, and in a short time won through to the smooth water above the mill. Now they were on the threshold of the unknown and the first of the obstacles seemed behind them.

  Baldmoney, working at the paddles with unvarying rhythm, felt elated at their success. Watervole, having slipped the tow rope, came through the duskiness, a gleaming ripple at his nose, for he was coming downstream to them.

  ‘Well, gnomes, you’re past Moss Mill. I’ll leave you now—good luck!’

  ‘Good luck, Watervole, and thank you for your help; we won’t forget you, and we shall be with you again before long. Tell Dodder to cheer up and say we’ll soon be back!’ And, with a final word, Watervole glided away towards the mill which was bulking behind them against the afterglow of the sunset.

  And then—a dreadful thing happened.

  The two gnomes were working at the paddles, all was going swimmingly in every sense of the word, when, without warning, Sneezewort’s paddle broke! They had struck a half submerged snag which was almost invisible in the dark reflection of the chestnut trees. In another moment the Dragonfly was spinning slowly and aimlessly in mid current, back, back, towards the mill.

  For a moment or two neither of the gnomes realized what had happened. Sneezewort only knew that the paddle handle spun round in a foolish sort of way and would not ‘bite’ the water. Baldmoney tried to head the Dragonfly for the bank, but with only one paddle they simply described a circle which took them farther from the shore and more into the pull of the current. I do not think that either gnome knew of the real danger of the situation. They thought that, at worst, they would be carried below Moss Mill and bring up in the calm reach by the lily pads.

  But their peril was soon abundantly clear. Instead of following the by-pass stream, the current, ever quickening, bore then straight for the mill house.

  With sudden horror the two gnomes saw the huge cliff of brick drawing nearer with an ever-increasing impetus, and the ghastly rumble of the water was soon drowned in the rumbling thresh of the massive wheel.

  ‘We must swim for it!’ shouted Baldmoney, seizing a bundle of his most cherished possessions, for the turmoil was now so loud as to almost drown speech.

  ‘Quick, over you go, take your bundle with you, make for the brickwork!’

  Gnomes are splendid swimmers in calm water, but this sucking Niagara was something very different. It whirled them like dead twigs, or drowning beetles, helpless.

  They saw the ill-fated Dragonfly spinning round and round. The hideous yawning gulf of the archway, through which the mill-stream fed the great wheel, rushed on them. Nearer, nearer . . . Baldmoney was gasping; fighting for air, Sneezewort had vanished. The tunnel advanced like a mammoth mouth and engulfed them; Baldmoney, Sneezewort, and boat were as minnows to a giant whale. A thunder which drowned all, flying spray, and streams of shimmering bubbles.

  Baldmoney had a nightmarish glimpse of black iron bars rising and falling, was dimly aware of a clanging and a crashing, and the stifling inrush of water to his lungs; tons and tons of water pressing him down, down into the very depths; down! down! down! . . .

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dodder

  or some hours after the departure of the Dragonfly and her intrepid crew Dodder lay in the cave, sobbing violently.

  Nobody came near him, no one showed him sympathy. And because of this he was brought to his senses. Self-pity never helped anybody, least of all a gnome. He dried his tears at last, and putting on his leg, came out from under the root to find a new world of sunshine and glistening raindrops.

  From the overhanging boughs of the oak tree, spots of moisture kept plopping into the pool, sending miniature ringlets which quivered away, to be lost in the smooth breast of the sliding stream.

  He took his fishing-rod and hobbled up to the Folly Stickle.

  After the shower the minnows were hungry, and it was not long before he was playing a fat one which took him all over the place until it was brought to bank. He soon became so engrossed with his fishing that he forgot all his troubles, and the glorious morning put new life into him.

  A faint breeze brought him the scent of cowslips and ladies’ smocks in the meadow, and the fragrance of the hawthorn. A cuckoo was calling continuously from the coppice in the corner.

  Sable swallows swept the Oak Pool from end to end, dipping lightly with fairy touch into the crinkling surface of the stream. A tattered tortoise-shell butterfly (which had been hibernating in a crevice of the old oak tree) settled on the withered head of a reed mace close by, spreading its wings luxuriantly in the warm sun.

  Dodder fished on until he had caught seven fat minnows and a stickleback. The latter was a cock fish, very smart in a rose-red gorget and with a beautiful blue back, shot with all the colours in the spectrum. Then he wound in his line and watched the little fishes swimming past in the shallow water, questing about among the stones on the Folly bed, and bringing up against the current.

  As the minutes passed he was aware of a growing desire for company. All the animals and birds were too busy to stop and talk, for nearly everybody had families to look after, nests to build and food to collect for clamouring babies and sitting wives.

  Putting his catch in the rush creel slung across his back, Dodder walked up the bank. As he went along he began to think very hard. One thing was soon apparent, he could not stand this loneliness, which was becoming more menacing every moment. Some way or another he must go after Baldmoney and Sneezewort and find them; the perils of the journey would be nothing to this intense feeling of desolation.

  But the question was, how? He was lame, he could only progress at half the pace of his brothers even when walking. To attempt to overtake the Dragonfly was a hopeless task.

  There was a fallen willow above the stickle, a very old tree which had been riven by lightning. The searing bolt had split the tree in half and it had fallen athwart the stream, bridging it from bank to bank. Along the top of the trunk there was a hollow, like a trough, and into this the rains had washed mud and dead leaves. Bright green grass grew there and strange leathery-lipped fungus. Dodder climbed up and sat down in the hollow, his one sound leg dangling over the stream and his game leg straight out in front of him.

  From here he could look down into the brook. There was quite a deep pool beneath, but the water was gin clear and he could see every pebble on the sandy floor. It looked so inviting he almost wished he was a fish.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the shadows and play of sunlight on the stream-bed th
ings began to take shape.

  If the sun is shining on a clear stream it is not easy for the unpractised eye to see fish, even for Dodder it was difficult. By shifting his position he at last could make out the form of a very large perch which was lying on the bed of the pool, its head upstream and with faintly quivering fins. It was a handsome fish, the bars on its back were like branch shadows, and only the occasional whitish gleam of its blowing gills showed that it was a fish at all. The spines along its back were almost invisible, for a perch will not raise them unless excited or frightened.

  Dodder was very astonished. Such monsters rarely came up the Folly as far as this and, if he could catch it, he would be assured of some days’ supply. He put a wriggling brandling on his hook (brandlings are most appetizing worms of a clear red colour) and with great skill threw it in just above the perch in such a way that it looked as if it had fallen off the willow.

  Immediately it touched the water Dodder saw it wriggling this way and that, borne by the current, but sinking lower and lower until it came to rest an inch or two above the sluggish fish.

  Perch are unlike the dace or roach—they do not cruise about in lightsome shoals, but rest on the mud and sand waiting, like Mr Micawber, for what may turn up.

  As soon as the worm touched the sandy floor it began to crawl about and the perch showed signs of movement. Its fins trembled slightly and the spines rose on its back. Then there was a little swirl of sand particles and the line tightened.

  Luckily Dodder was such a thorough fisherman he had plenty of line, wound on a reel made of the leg bone of a weasel. Immediately the perch felt the hook it made a great rush upstream and ran out nearly two yards of tackle. It was luck Dodder had a reel or he might have been pulled in, for you must remember that the perch was a big fish and weighed almost as much as himself. But he was a good angler and he played it with the skill of a practised salmon fisher.

  In about an hour it began to tire and show its white tummy. Dodder scrambled down off the log and pulled it to the side. It took all his strength to get it up the bank. It was a magnificent fish, the best he had caught for a long time. He drew his hunting knife and began to skin it, making an incision down the stomach and pulling hard at the thick leathery skin, folding it back as he worked his knife along. The flesh was veined with blue threads, juicy and firm. He skilfully cut himself fillets about two inches in length and soon there was nothing left but the bones.

  He twisted a sedge into four thongs, tying the fillets up neatly into a bundle and with this on his back made his way to the oak root. He went into the cave and collected his moleskin sleeping bag and took a bundle of wheat cakes from the store cupboard.

  For Dodder had finally made up his mind: somehow or other he was going up the Folly to join the others. The thought of a night alone in the cave was unbearable, he must be up and doing.

  •

  There was no excited company of animals to wish him God Speed, and nobody saw the little halting figure, with a bundle on its back, making its way up the Folly brook.

  By nightfall he had made good progress and was in sight of the reed bed where the other gnomes had rested in the heat of the day. His sharp eyes soon found traces in the soft mud where Baldmoney and Sneezewort had pulled the boat among the sedges, and from the reed warbler he learnt how they had rested awhile before going on up to the mill.

  The little gnome was very tired and his leg was aching, so he decided to look for a place to sleep. It was still a long way to Moss Mill and he would have no chance of reaching it before the following night.

  He found a hollow under the roots of an ash tree growing on the bank of the Folly and dumped all his gear in a dry cavity. He undid the bundle of perch steaks and, making a little fire, grilled two of them in several thicknesses of water dock leaf. They tasted delicious and he felt much stronger. Truth to say, Dodder was even beginning to enjoy himself. He lit a pipe of nettle tobacco and sat on a log, puffing away contentedly, and watched the light die off the stream.

  As darkness fell, the sound of the water was intensified, for the banks and bushes seemed to send back an echo. Water voles swam across under the hawthorns, whose blossom-laden boughs hung low over the water, almost dipping into it. Dead sticks and dried grass still hung in swinging curtains from these lower branches, relics of the last floods of March.

  Dodder finished his pipe and turned in, snuggling down inside his bag. He slept soundly, only waking once when some animal, he did not know what, came down to drink just before dawn. Had he known it was a wood dog he would have been terribly scared.

  He awakened just as the east was greying and the first lark singing somewhere up on the high arables above the farm. Though it was May a cold wind was astir, and the water meadows were cloaked in a milky mist.

  Dodder lay curled up under his root listening to the birds. For some time only the lark held the stage, its thin pure notes faint and far, dropping down from an immense height. No doubt it could view the sun, peeping over the rim of the world. Then a wren sang very loudly just outside the ash root. Dodder could see it, perched on a mossy stone. It was amazing that such a tiny creature could make so much noise.

  Dodder called out to it. ‘Hullo there, wren, you’re early astir!’

  The little bird sat for a moment looking rather alarmed, for it could not see Dodder under the root, and its quick little head turned this way and that. It seemed so scared that Dodder laughed, and then the wren saw him, sitting up in his moleskin bag with his hands clasped round his one good knee.

  ‘Why, gnome, whatever are you doing up here? I never knew the Little People came up as far as this!’

  ‘Well, we don’t usually; we live by the Oak Pool. But I’m going up the Folly to find my brothers. They made a boat, and a very fine one too, and said they were going up above the mill to find Cloudberry.’

  And Dodder told the wren the whole story.

  •

  By now the birds were getting into their stride and the dawn chorus was quite deafening. Few of us hear this wonderful hymn of praise, for we lie snoring in our beds like pigs in a sty, thereby missing one of the most lovely things in the whole of Nature.

  Blackbirds and thrushes warbled and piped, the sedge warblers chattered their songs full of water music copied from the Folly, and two cuckoos competed with each other from their respective hawthorn trees. They made so much noise that Dodder at last had to block his ears. The cuckoo’s song is maddening if repeated incessantly. And all the while, as it grew lighter and lighter, and the hawthorn bushes more distinct, the bird chorus increased in volume.

  At this time of year, when all the birds are so busy with their domestic affairs, the dawn and late evening are the only times that they can spare for singing: their only chance to show their love for this wonderful earth and the gift of life.

  Dodder must have been sung to sleep, for when he next opened his eyes it was quite light and the sun was beginning to pierce the river mists. Only the tops of the poplars by the farm were visible, looking like monks’ peaked cowls above the white vapour. There was all the promise of a glorious day, and Dodder began at once to get his breakfast, which he made of beechnuts, another steak of perch (eaten raw) and two wheat cakes. He finished off with a starling’s egg which he had found on his way up the stream. This was a great delicacy. It was not often they had the chance of a fresh egg, for the birds were their friends and the gnomes did not like robbing their nests, though I’m afraid they sometimes did so when the birds were absent.

  This egg he had found among some ladies’ smocks; dropped by a starling on its way to its nest. They are slovenly birds and frequently do this. Like the perch steak, Dodder ate it raw, and then finished up with a draught of searing cold Folly water, which is the best drink anyone could wish for.

  The sun was well up when he at length started again on his journey. It was difficult, slow work, for at times thick bushes came right down to the water’s edge and barred his way so that he had to make long detours to g
et back to the stream. He knew its course fairly well for he had been up almost to Moss Mill years ago on a fishing expedition.

  By midday he was quite exhausted, and to make matters worse, his poor leg was sore from unaccustomed violent exercise. He was still far from the mill and he began to wish he had not undertaken the journey after all. At this rate he would never catch the others, by now they would be many miles away. From a water vole, however, he gathered some information. It had seen the two gnomes below Moss Mill and the boat was going well. And a moorhen also gave encouragement. Dodder found her sitting a clutch of fine spotted eggs under an overhanging branch. The nest was built on a sunken log and was quite a massive affair, made of dead water weeds and reeds.

  Dodder begins his lonely journey up the Folly Brook

  ‘Well, little gnome, this is a surprise to be sure!’ said she. ‘I saw two of your brothers yesterday: they passed me in a very fine boat. Where are you going? Not leaving the Oak Pool, surely?’

  ‘Oh no,’ replied Dodder hastily, ‘we are going to find Cloudberry, who went up the stream and never came back.’

  ‘Well, I wish you luck, little gnome. If I wasn’t chained to my nest I’d come with you, but my babies will be hatching tomorrow. Are they not lovely eggs?’ And she stood up fluffing out her feathers. Dodder saw a clutch of six big eggs, blotched and streaked with handsome chestnut markings. He could not help thinking what a delicious meal one of them would have made him, new laid. He duly admired the eggs and asked how far it was to Moss Mill.

  ‘Well, it takes me six minutes to fly to the mill pool. But that’s across the meadow,’ replied the moorhen.

  Dodder’s heart sank. He would never reach the mill by nightfall, and he sat down among the willow herb utterly spent.

  He must have fallen asleep, for when next he awakened it was early evening. The first thing he saw was a very tall, aristocratic-looking bird, standing in the shallows of the next bend. It had long greenish legs, a grey body, and a neck like a snake. Its bill was sharp, broad at the base, and a handsome crest drooped backwards from the crown of his head.