"But the stone is wet," called Tip.
"Not here under the overhang," drifted up Bekki's reply.
Tip flopped down and slid to the edge and held his breath more than once, closing his eyes at times, as Bekki edged downward to the blossoms.
"It's gwynthyme, all right," exclaimed Tip, grinning, comparing the sketch Beau had drawn to the sprig in Bekki's hand.
Bekki grinned fiercely, too, and growled, "Serrated trifoliate aromatic leaves and all," then burst out laughing.
Giggling, Tip folded the vellum and slipped it back into his pocket. As they made their way toward camp, Tip said, "Tomorrow we will begin marking all the places where the gwynthyme grows, and when comes the full moon of September-um, twenty-six days from now-then we begin the harvest."
Now that he had a task to do, Tipperton was much less timorous at the lip of the massif. Rain or shine, he and Bekki spent the next eleven days roaming along the verge of the precipice and stacking small piles of stones at each place along the rim where they could see the pale yellow blossoms of gwynthyme growing in cracks and crevices below.
But on the twelfth day, when they came again to the lip, Tip looked over the rim to see blossoms and petals falling away in the wind, spiralling downward in a pale golden shower, as the gwynthyme shed its flowers.
"Oh my, but this will make it harder to spot the mint below."
Bekki nodded but then said, "Harder for us but nevertheless a good sign, for the gwynthyme is coming to fruition."
"I wonder why it picks now to do so?" asked Tip. "I mean, cast off its flowers."
Bekki frowned, then his visage brightened. "You said it yourself, Tipperton, months past."
Tip looked at Bekki in puzzlement. "I did?"
"Aye. This mission, the gwynthyme, all is governed by Elwydd's light, and this day, this night, is the dark of the moon altogether."
"Ah, so it is, Bekki. So it is."
Later that day, it began to rain along the massif and to snow in the mountains above. Tipperton sighed and said, "I say, Bekki, does it seem to you it's been raining more lately?"
Bekki looked up into the drizzle. "Aye, it does."
Tip shook his head, then said, "What do you suppose causes it? Could it have something to do with the dust high in the sky, blowing about on the wind? I mean, even on the best of days, still the sky is a bit grey and the sun seems pale and there is a chill in the air. And add to that the frequent rain. So what do you think, eh?"
Bekki shrugged. "Who knows how Garlon makes the rain?"
Tip frowned. "Garlon?"
Bekki looked at Tip in surprise. "He is master of water. How else do you think it rains?"
Tip turned up his hands. "I dunno. The wind. Water. Perhaps the wind blows across the water and lifts some up to come down elsewhere as rain."
Bekki snorted. "Then how would you explain the Karoo?"
"The Karoo?"
"Aye. The great desert beyond the Avagon Sea. It has wind. It has the ocean at hand. Yet it seldom rains in that place of dunes, full of sand as it were. And even when it does rain there, the water is pure and not salt from the sea. -Windblown water? Nay, Tipperton. I'll take Garlon instead."
Tip shook his head but remained silent, and he and Bekki continued along the rim.
That night under the gloom above, Bekki awakened Tipperton, a finger to the buccan's lips.
"What is it?" whispered Tip.
"Someone comes along the rim," gritted Bekki, a shield on his arm, his war hammer in hand.
Tipperton listened, and to the east he could hear the thud of jogging feet. "More than one someone," hissed the Warrow, reaching for his bow and quiver.
"The ponies," growled Bekki. "We must keep them quiet."
And he and Tipperton slipped among the trees to the rope pen where the steeds dozed.
Long moments later in the distance the thud of shod feet passed by to finally fade away westerly.
"Who was it?" breathed Tipperton. "A squad of Squam?"
"Who else?" growled Bekki.
"Oh my, but this does complicate things. I mean, if there's a maggot-folk holt nearby, we may have trouble harvesting the mint."
In that moment came a prolonged low calling, as of a mournful horn winded afar.
Tip's eyes flew wide. "Goodness, what was that? A Spaunen signal, do you think?"
Bekki shook his head. "It's not like any Squam horn I've ever heard, nor any owl for that matter. But horn or no, owl or no, I deem we need move our camp farther back among the trees, farther back from the rim."
"Now? Tonight?"
"Aye."
The next day, in the rain-dampened soil along the rim they found boot tracks heading westerly.
"Hobnails," said Tipperton. "Rupt, all right, twenty or so, I gauge. It's good we had no fire in the rain, else they would have spotted us. From now on any fire we set will have to be in the day and smokeless."
"If it were not for the gathering of the mint," growled Bekki, "we would track them down and kill them all."
Tip looked southward, where in the distance Nordlake lay like a dull iron sheet in the wan morning sun. "The gwynthyme takes precedence o'er all, Bekki, including getting it back to Beau. And speaking of gwynthyme"-Tip looked over his shoulder-"I think our searching for more patches of mint is over, at least in the daytime. I mean, they may see us walking out on the rim. They may, in fact, be watching us even now."
Bekki sighed. "Aye. Let us get back among the trees."
As they slipped into the woodland again, Bekki said, "I will pull down our old lean-to and move it to our new camp."
In the next several days, it rained off and on and, even though they heard no more Squam pass by, neither Tip nor Bekki ventured forth in the light of the day from the woodland where they camped. During these same days the moon grew toward fullness, advancing from a fingernail-thin crescent to a half-moon and then onward.
And when it grew on toward fullness, in the nights Tip and Bekki slipped through the woodland and to the rim and searched through the argent light spilling down the precipice for more gwynthyme below.
And still no Rupt passed by.
"Perhaps it was a one-time occurrence," said Tipperton. "Mayhap there is no maggot-folk holt at hand."
Bekki shrugged. "Mayhap you are right, Tipperton, but then again mayhap not."
Tip sighed. "I know. I know. It's better we don't gamble."
[br]At last the September moon came full, and the mint turned golden overnight, and down the massif on spindly ropes dangled a Dwarf and a Warrow, Tip having forced himself over the lip and down. Each wore a sack on a strap 'round his shoulder, and in the moonlight each cut the aromatic mint, leaving one sprig behind for every one they took. Bekki with great climbing skill harvested twice over what Tip could take, the Dwarf on his rope walking sideways across the face of the massif to gather in more sprigs.
During the morning light of the day ere taking turns at sleeping, they sat in camp and bundled the sprigs together, rolled and bound in strips of cloth, eleven to the bunch.
And as he rolled another packet, Tip said, "I say, Bekki, I believe I once told you that Phais taught Beau and me to climb, but you put us to shame. I mean, you are a splendid climber. Where did you ever learn?"
"Nine, ten, eleven," said Bekki, counting out sprigs of golden mint onto a swathe of cloth. Then he looked up from the array. "Nearly all Chakka have climbing skills, for the inside of the mountain needs more climbing than the outside ever did. As for me, my sire spent time teaching me, and his skills put mine to shame."
"Oh," said Tip, "then what a wonder it must be to see him climb if he's better than you."