amazement at the dancing monster as it jigged about, holding the stave high in
its murderous claws.
Log-a-Log tugged at the warrior's paw. "Come on, Martin. Let's get going while
we can. That crab doesn't seem to want to let go of the stave!'*
"Ha!" Gonff snorted. "It's not a case of wanting. It hasn't got the sense to
release the stave. Can't you see?"
As if to prove his point, the little mousethief joined the crab and actually
began dancing along with it. Round and round they went, Gonff comically
following his strange partner's every twist and turn. Furiously the crab
waggled its stalked eyes, opening and closing its mouth as it pranced crazily
around, still clasping the stave tightly.
Martin and his friends nursed their arching ribs, trying not to laugh too
hard. Tears streamed down their cheeks at Gonff's antics.
"Oh hahahahooohooo. Stoppit, Gonff, please," Martin
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begged. "Heeheeheehahaha. Come away and leave the silly beast alone.
Hahahaha!"
Gonff halted; he doffed a courtly bow at the enraged crab, "My thanks to you,
sir. You truly are a wonderful dancer."
The crab stood glaring at Gonff, with a mixture of ferocity and bafflement as
the mousethief continued his polite compliments.
"Oh, I do hope we meet again at the next annual Rockpool Ball. Those shrimps
are such clumsy fellows, you know. They tread all over one's paws. They're not
half as good as you. Incidentally, who taught you to dance so well? Keeping
all those legs going together, you didn't trip once. My, my. We really must do
this again sometime."
The crab stood stock-still with the stave held high. It watched the four
travelers depart along the shore, their laughter and jesting mingled on the
breeze.
"Hahahaha! Wait'111 tell Columbine. Maybe he'll give her dancing lessons if we
ever chance this way again, hahaha!"
"Burr, 'ee'm a wunnerful futt tapper."
"What about you, Din? You could have joined them for a threesome reel."
It had been an eventful day. Now, as the noon shadows began lengthening, the
tide flooded in. The friends wended their weary way along the interminable
shoreline. Saiamandastron stood firm in the distance, never seeming to get any
closer.
Tired and dispirited, they trekked onward, feeling the pangs of hunger and
thirst. Apart from the odd seabird whose curiosity had to be fended off
forcefully, they were completely isolated.
Log-a-Log shielded his eyes, pointing ahead. "Look, what are those birds up to
over yonder?''
Some distance further on, gulls were wheeling and diving. There were two black
shapeless objects upon the sand. The birds were concentrating their attack on
the smaller of these.
Eager to see what was happening, the travelers broke into a trot. As they drew
near to the scene, it became apparent that the gulls were harassing a living
creature. Not far from where it lay there was a ramshackle lean-to.
Martin whirled his sling as he began running.
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"Come on, mates. Let's drive those scavengers off. Charge!"
The creature was a thin ragged rat. Gulls pecked and tore ruthlessly at it as
it lay unprotected on the sand.
Under the fierce onslaught of stones and staves, the sea-birds took to the
air, screeching and wheeling above the intruders who had robbed them of their
prey, and finally flying off to seek easier victims.
Martin knelt and lifted the rat's head. The creature was very old and
emaciated.
"There, there, now, old one," he said, stroking sand out of its watery eyes.
"We're friends. You're safe now."
Log-a-Log touched the rat's limp paw. "Save your breath, Martin. This one has
gone to the gates of Dark Forest."
"Dead?"
"Aye. Dead as stone. He must have been on his last legs when the birds found
him. Let's get him to his hut."
Between them they bore the rat into the tattered dwelling. Placing it gently
in a corner, they covered the body with an old piece of sailcloth. Then Gonff
explored the contents of the hut.
"Look, mateys, water and supplies," he said triumphantly.
There was a small quantity of dried shrimp and seaweed and a pouch of broken
biscuit, but best of all there were two hollow gourds filled with clean fresh
water. Dinny found a cache of driftwood. He began setting a small fire, using
a flint from Martin's sling pouch and the steel of GonfTs dagger.
"Pore beasten. Oi wunder who'm *ee wurr." The mole shook his head sadly.
Log-a-Log poured water into cockle shells.
"Sea rat. No question of it. He's been chained to an oar, too. I saw the scars
on his paws. Mine were like that once."
Martin found a thick deep shell, blackened by fire on its outside. He began
shredding shrimp and seaweed into it.
"But you said they used other creatures as oar slaves, yet this one was a
rat?"
Log-a-Log poured water onto the ingredients and set the shell on two stones
over the flames.
"Aye, but there's no telling with sea rats. They're savage
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and cruel. Maybe that one did something to offend his Captain. I've seen them
laughing and drinking together, then suddenly fighting to the death next
moment over some silly little incident."
Night fell purple and gray in long rolling clouds; a stiff breeze sprang up
from seaward as the four companions stood for a moment in silence around the
pitiful canvas-wrapped figure in the small grave Dinny had dug in the sand.
After the brief ceremony, they watched as the mole filled in the hole,
decorating the mound with colored seashells he had found. "Baint much, but far
better'n sea ratten ud do furr 'ee." Salamandastron flared crimson against the
dark sky as Gonff began to sing,
Always the tide comes flowing in. Ever it goes out again. Sleep 'neath the
shore evermore, Free from hunger and pain. Morning light will bring the sun;
Seasons go rolling on. Questing ever far from home, For Salamandastron.
Log-a-Log shivered. He turned to the hut. "Come on, you three. That soup
should be ready now."
Martin bowed his farewell to their benefactor and followed the shrew inside.
"Aye, life must go on," he agreed. "A dry place to sleep, a warm fire, some
food and a night's rest is what we all need. Tomorrow we go to the fire
mountain."
Far to the northwest of Camp Willow, the moles were making ready within sight
of the river bank. The great tunneling was about to begin.
Chibb watched them from a plane tree. The feathered spy was now in
semi-retirement. He had amassed a considerable store of candied chestnuts for
his services. Still, he thought, there was no harm earning the odd extra nut
by standing guard here.
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Foremole and Old Dinny paced and measured, mole digging terms were bandied
about freely.
"Needen furm ground. Roots t'make shorin's too, urr."
"Ho urr, good down'ards gradin' t'make waiter flow roight."
"An* rockmovers, Billum. *Ee be a gurt rockmover."
"Aye, but moind 'ee doant crossen no owd tunnellen. Doant want fludd goen
wrongways, hurr."
Above in the trees, Amber's crew were dropping down timber for the
sluicegates.
"Mind out below!"
"Tip that end up, Barklad."
"Come out of the way, young un."
"Right. Let 'ergo!"
On the ground, Loamhedge mice were stripping, cleaning and jointing the wood.
Abbess Germaine rolled up her wide sleeves and joined in with a will.
"Columbine! Here, child, sit on the end of this log and keep it still," she
called out. "I'll mark it here, where the joint should be."