The Borrowers Afloat (9 page)

Chapter Fifteen

It was a good thing they moved, however: the stream had risen almost to the base of the bluff round which they must pass to get to the kettle. Even as it was, they had to wade. The water looked thick and brownish. The delicate ripples had become muscular and fierce, and as they hurried across the second beach, they saw great branches borne on the flood, sinking and rising as the water galloped past.

"Spiller can't travel in this..." moaned Homily as they changed their clothes in the kettle. She had to raise her voice against the drumming of the raindrops on the lid. Below them, almost as it might be in their cellar, they heard the thunder of the stream. But the kettle perched on its stone and wedged against the bank felt steady as a citadel. The spout was turned away from the wind and no drop got in through the lid. "Double rim," explained Pod. "Well made, these old fashioned kettles...."

Banking on Spiller's arrival, they had eaten the last of the egg. They felt very hungry and stared with tragic eyes through the rust hole when, just below them, a half loaf went by on the flood.

At last it grew dark and they pulled in the cork and prepared to go to sleep. "Anyway," said Pod, "we're warm and dry. And it's bound to clear up soon...."

But it rained all the next day. And the next. "He'll never come in this," moaned Homily.

"I wouldn't put it past him," said Pod. "That's a good solid craft that knife box, and well covered in. The current flows in close here under those brambles. That's why he chose this corner. You mark my words, Homily, he might fetch up here any moment. Spiller's not one to be frightened by a drop of rain...."

That was the day of the banana. Pod had gone out to reconnoiter, climbing gingerly along the slippery shelf of mud beneath the brambles. The current, twisting in, was pouring steadily through Spiller's boathouse, pulling the trailing brambles in its wake. Caught up in the branches where they touched the water, Pod had found half a packet of sodden cigarettes, a strip of water-logged sacking, and a whole, rather overripe banana.

Homily had screamed when he pushed it in inch by inch through the rust hole. She did not recognize it at first, and later, as she saw what it was, she began to laugh and cry at the same time.

"Steady, Homily," said Pod, after the final push, as he peered in, grave-faced, through the rust hole. "Get a hold on yourself."

Homily did—almost at once. "You should have warned us," she protested, still gasping a little and wiping her eyes on her apron.

"I did call out," said Pod, "but what with the noise of the rain..."

They ate their fill of the banana—it was overripe already and would not last for long. Pod sliced it across, skin and all; he thus kept it decently covered. The sound of the rain made talking difficult. "Coming down faster," said Pod. Homily leaned forward, mouthing the words. "Do you think he's met with an accident?"

Pod shook his head. "He'll come when it stops. We got to have patience," he added.

"Have what?" shouted Homily above the downpour.

"Patience," repeated Pod.

"I can't hear you...."

"Patience!" roared Pod.

Rain began to come in down the spout. There was nothing for it but to sacrifice the blanket. Homily stuffed it in as tightly as she could, and the kettle became very airless. "Might go on for a month," she grumbled.

"What?" shouted Pod.

"For a month," repeated Homily.

"What about it?"

"The rain," shouted Homily.

After that they gave up talking: the effort seemed hardly worthwhile. Instead, they lay down in the layers of dried grasses and tried to go to sleep. Full-fed and in that airless warmth, it did not take them long. Arrietty dreamed she was at sea in Spiller's boat: there was a gentle rocking motion, which at first seemed rather pleasant, and then in her dream the boat began to spin. The spinning increased and the boat became a wheel, turning ... turning.... She clung to the spokes, which became like straw and broke away in her grasp. She clung to the rim, which opened outwards and seemed to fling her off, and a voice was calling again and again, "Wake up, Arrietty, wake up...."

Dizzily she opened her eyes, and the kettle seemed full of a whirling half-light. It was morning, she realized, and someone had pulled the blanket from the spout. Close behind her she made out the outline of Pod; he seemed in some strange way to be glued to the side of the kettle. Opposite her she perceived the form of her mother, spreadeagled likewise in the same fixed, curious manner. She herself, half sitting, half lying, felt gripped by some dreamlike force.

"We're afloat," cried Pod, "and spinning." And Arrietty, besides the kettle's spin, was aware of a dipping and swaying. "We've come adrift. We're in the current," he went on, "and going downstream fast...."

"Oh, my..." moaned Homily, casting up her eyes. It was the only gesture she could make, stuck as she was like a fly to flypaper. But even as she spoke, the speed slackened and the spinning turns slowed down, and Arrietty watched her mother slide slowly down to a sitting position on the squelching, waterlogged floor. "Oh, my goodness..." Homily muttered again.

Her voice, Arrietty noticed, sounded strangely audible: the rain had stopped at last.

"I'm going to get the lid off," said Pod. He, too, as the kettle ceased twisting, had fallen forward to his knees and now rose slowly, steadying himself by a hand on the wall, against the swaying half-turns. "Give me a hand with the twine, Arrietty,"

They pulled together. Water had seeped in past the cork in the rust hole and the floor was awash with sodden grass. As they pulled, they slid and slithered, but gradually the lid rose and above them they saw, at last, a circle of bright sky.

"Oh, my goodness," Homily kept saying, and sometimes she changed it to, "Oh, my goodness me...." But she helped them stack up Pod's bundles. "We got to get out on deck like," Pod had insisted. "We don't stand a chance down below."

It was a scramble: they used the twine, they used the hatpin, they used the banana, they used the bundles, and somehow—the kettle listing steeply—they climbed out on the rim to hot sunshine and a cloudless sky. Homily sat crouched, her arms gripped rightly round the stem of the arched handle, her legs dangling below. Arrietty sat beside her holding onto the rim. To lighten the weight, Pod cut the lid free and cast it overboard: they watched it float away.

"...seems a waste," said Homily.

Chapter Sixteen

The kettle turned slowly as it drifted—more gently now—downstream. The sun stood high in a brilliant sky: it was later than they had thought. The water looked muddy and yellowish after the recent storm, and in some places had overflowed the banks. To the right of them lay open fields and to the left a scrub of stunted willows and taller hazels. Above their heads golden lamb's tails trembled against the sky and armies of rushes marched down into the water.

"Fetch up against the bank any minute now," said Pod hopefully, watching the flow of the stream. "One side or another," he added, "a kettle like this don't drift on forever...."

"I should sincerely hope not," said Homily. She had slightly relaxed her grip on the handle and, interested in spite of herself, was gazing about her.

Once they heard a bicycle bell, and some seconds later a policeman's helmet sailed past just above the level of the bushes. "Oh, my goodness," muttered Homily, "that means a footpath...."

"Don't worry," said Pod. But Arrietty, glancing quickly at her father's face, saw he seemed perturbed.

"He'd only have to glance sideways," Homily pointed out.

"It's all right," said Pod, "he's gone now. And he didn't."

"What about Spiller?" Homily went on.

"What about him?"

"He'll never find us now."

"Why not?" said Pod. "He'll see the kettle's gone. As far as Spiller's concerned, all we've got to do is bide our time, wait quietly—wherever we happen to fetch up."

"Suppose we don't fetch up and go on past Little Fordham?"

"Spiller'll come on past looking for us."

"Suppose we fetch up amongst all those people...?"

"What people?" asked Pod a trifle wearily. "The plaster ones?"

"No, those human beings who swarm about on the paths..."

"Now, Homily," said Pod, "no good meeting trouble halfway."

"Trouble?" exclaimed Homily. "What are we in now, I'd like to know?" She glanced down past her knees at the sodden straw below. "And I suppose this kettle'll fill up in no time..."

"Not with the cork swollen up like it is," said Pod. "The wetter it gets, the tighter it holds. All you got to do, Homily, is to sit there and hold on tight; and, say, we come near land, get yourself ready to jump." As he spoke, he was busy making a grappling hook out of his hatpin, twisting and knotting a length of twine about the head of the pin.

Arrietty, meanwhile, lay flat on her stomach gazing into the water below. She was perfectly happy: the cracked enamel was warm from the sun and with one elbow crooked round the base of the handle she felt curiously safe. Once in the turgid water she saw the ghostly outline of a large fish, fanning its shadowy fins and standing backwards against the current. Sometimes there were little forests of water weeds, where blackish minnows flicked and darted. Once a water rat swam swiftly past the kettle, almost under her nose: she called out then excitedly—as though she had seen a whale. Even Homily craned over to watch it pass, admiring the tiny air bubbles that clung like moonstones among the misted fur. They all stood up to watch it climb out on the bank and shake itself hurriedly into a cloud of spray before it scampered away into the grasses. "Well I never," remarked Homily. "...natural history," she added reflectively.

Then, raising her eyes, she saw the cow. It stood quite motionless above its own vast shadow, hock deep and silent in the fragrant mud. Homily stared aghast and even Arrietty felt grateful for a smoothly floating kettle and a stretch of water between. Almost impertinently safe

she felt—so near and yet so far—until a sudden eddy in the current swung them in toward the bank.

"It's all right," called Pod as Arrietty started back. "It won't hurt you...."

"Oh, my goodness..." exclaimed Homily, making as though to climb down inside the rim. The kettle lurched.

"Steady," cried Pod, alarmed, "keep her trimmed!" And, as the kettle slid swiftly shoreward, he flung his weight sideways, leaning out from the handle. "Stand by..." he shouted as with a vicious twist they veered round sharply, gliding against the mud. "Hold fast!" The great cow backed two paces as they careered up under her nose. She lowered her head and swayed slightly as though embarrassed, and then, sniffing the air, she clumsily backed again.

The kettle teetered against the walls and craters of the cow tracks, pressed by the current's flow; a faint vibration of drumming water quivered through the iron. Then Pod, leaning outwards, clinging with one hand to the rim, shoved his hatpin against a stone; the kettle bounced slightly, turning into the current, and, in a series of bumps and quivers, began to turn away.

"Thank goodness for that, Pod..." cried Homily, "thank goodness ... thank goodness ... oh my, oh my, oh my!" She sat clinging to the base of the handle, white-faced and shaking.

"It would never hurt you," said Pod as they glided out to midstream, "not a cow wouldn't..."

"Might tread on us," gasped Homily.

"Not once it's seen you, it wouldn't."

"And it did see us," cried Arrietty gazing backward. "It's looking at us still..."

Watching the cow, relaxed and relieved, they were none of them prepared for the bump. Homily, thrown off balance, slid forward with a cry—down through the lid hole onto the straw below. Pod just in time caught hold of the handle rail, and Arrietty caught hold of Pod. Steadying Arrietty, Pod turned his head; the kettle, he saw, had fetched up against an island of sticks and branches, plumb in the middle of the stream. Again the kettle thrummed, banging and trembling against the obstructing sticks; little ripples rose up and broke like waves among and around the weed-strewn, trembling mass.

"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.