“Mudge,” Jon-Tom said warily, “if we go in there at night we’re liable to find ourselves good and lost by morning.”
“Don’t worry, mate. It ain’t far.”
“What ain’t—what isn’t far?”
“Why, the music, o’ course. Sounds like celebratin’. Mebbe ‘tis our friends, ‘avin’ themselves a high drunken old time. Mebbee drunk enough so’s they won’t know we’re about and we can sneak right up on ‘em before they know where their bleedin’ pants are an’ steal sweet Weege away.”
“I still don’t hear any music.”
“Trust me, mate. Well, trust me ears, anyways.”
Jon-Tom sighed, adjusted the sail. “All right, but just the ears.”
As the vines and tangled branches closed in over them he grew steadily more apprehensive. Bogart had a hell of a time getting the African Queen out of country like this and he wasn’t Bogart. At last he was able to draw some relief from the knowledge that Mudge hadn’t been affected by the heat. The otter was no crazier than usual.
There was definitely music coming from up ahead.
Mudge stood in the bow, sniffing nervously at the air, his small round ears cocked sharply forward. The tangle of roots and branches began to thin until they found themselves sailing up a slow-moving river whose banks were festooned with low-hanging vegetation. It was almost night now, but the otter’s eyes saw clearly in the dark.
“Over there.” Squinting, Jon-Tom was just able to make out not one but several small boats of unfamiliar design. The big pirate ketch was not in sight. “Anchored somewhere else,” the otter muttered. “Mebbee still out at sea. They ‘ave to use them smaller craft to make it through the swamp.”
A large bonfire lirthe woods behind the beached boats, which were drawn up on the first bit of solid land they’d encountered since leaving Yarrowl. Something small and leathery landed on Jon-Tom’s forearm. He let out a muffled yelp of pain and slapped at it, watched as it fell, twitching and stunned, into the bottom of the zodiac. The half-inch long reptile had thin, membranous wings, a narrow, pointed muzzle. His forearm was starting to redden and swell where the invader had bitten him.
Mudge turned from his lookout position near the bow and picked it up. After a cursory inspection, he tossed it over the side. “Bloodsucker. Bet there are plenty in this country. Foulness with wings, wot?”
“I don’t see anyone guarding the boats.”
“Who’d they ‘ave to guard ‘em from? Anyways, sounds like they’re ‘avin’ too much fun. Crikey, that looks like a row o’ bloomin’ ‘ouses. Mighty domestic, this lot.”
The line of shacks, lean-tos and cabins’ hardly qualified as houses. Shelters would’ve been a more accurate description. Some appeared to stand erect in defiance of gravity.
Jon-Tom was nonplussed by the sight. “This doesn’t look right, Mudge. The houses don’t fit, there’s no sign of the ketch, and that singing doesn’t sound like the chorus of a bunch of drunken brigands to me. I’d swear some of the voices are female.”
“One way to find out.”
They tied the zodiac to a downstream cypress and cautiously headed toward the makeshift village, Jon-Tom cursing the low-hanging branches and thick roots as he fought to follow the agile otter. There was a small gap between a couple of the cabins and they slowly followed it toward the light and singing. All of the cabins were built on stilts, a necessity in a swampland that doubtless flooded every wet season.
Beyond the semicircle of structures was the bonfire whose glow they’d spotted from the river. A covey of musicians were playing a rollicking tune to which numerous members of the little community were dancing and jumping. None of them were dressed like pirates. Mudge’s black nose was working overtime.
“They don’t cook like pirates, neither. Wonderful smells! You know wot?” He glanced up at his friend. “I bloody well think we’ve come to the wrong place. These folks ain’t buccaneers.”
“Of course we no buccaneers. What you two?”
Jon-Tom spun, to see a young lady muskrat leaning out of a cabin window looking down at him. She had a corncob pipe stuck in one comer of her mouth and a bright yellow polka-dot bandana wrapped around her head.
“Yeah, ever’body!” she yelled.
The dancing slowed and the music stopped as the villagers turned in the direction of the shout.
“Right, let’s not overstay the welcome we ain’t been given.” Mudge started to back up the way they’d come, but Jon-Tom put out a hand to hold him. The otter shook it off.
“Wot’s the ‘old-up, mate? Wot are you waitin’ for? Let’s make a run for the boat while we still ‘ave the time.”
“So we can do what? Continue sailing blindly along the coast until we hit a submerged root or something? Maybe these people can help us.”
Reluctantly Mudge held his ground, muttering. “Aye, *elp us into the cookpot.”
A fox, several squirrels, and a sleepy-eyed porcupine approached to confront the strangers. “Now what we got here, you think?” The fox’s clothes were of simple materials and design, frayed at the edges but clean. Nor did Jon-Tom fail to note the long sharp skinning knife sheathed at his waist. One of the lady squirrels walked right up to Mudge and put her nose against his, sniffing interestedly. He drew back.
“ ‘Ave a care for the familiarities, luv. We ain’t been properly introduced.”
“Doen flatter youself, water rat. I already married.” She looked up at the fox. “Smell clean, no blood on ‘em. Not recently, anyways.”
“You’re not pirates,” said Jon-Tom.
The fox and the squirrel looked at each other and then burst out laughing. The porcupine let out a gruff guffaw.
“Us, pirates?” said the fox. “We fisherman, crabbers, swampfolk. What you?” He had to lean back to look up at Jon-Tom, since he was no taller than Mudge. “Big man; never seen one big like you. Pirates. You hungry?”
The thought of a hot meal overcame Mudge’s initial hesitations. Also his second and third ones. “Now that you mention it, mate, I could do with a spot o’ tea an’ fish.”
“Good!” The fox turned to yell over his shoulder. “Play-on music! Get the food ready.” He grinned up at Jon-Tom, showing sharp teeth. “Time to eat anyway, an’ now we got company time.” Putting a paw on the tall human’s arm, he gently led Jon-Tom toward the roaring, crackling blaze.
“Hey, Porge, what you stop playin’ for? The field mouse who sat in the front of the band was staring at Jon-Tom.
“Hey, I doen know.” He put his lips to his double harmonica. The other musicians resumed their serenade and a few of the villagers struck up a brisk dance, but most were moving toward a line of roughhewn tables laden with food. There was a lot of red and yellow in the food, though whether from spices or natural coloring Jon-Tom couldn’t tell. He didn’t care. Not after a day eating cold rations in an open boat.
One thing they didn’t have to worry about was poison. All the food came out of common pots and portable ovens and casseroles. Jon-Tom and Mudge joined the other villagers in heaping it on individual plates.
“So where you two funny fellas come from?” the fox asked him.
“Up north.” Someone shoved a ladle full of vegetables and two or three different kinds of meat onto his plate. He hunted around until he located a cut-off stump that would do service as a chair. “North by a roundabout route.” Since no one profferred a fork or any other silverware, he dug in with his fingers.
The first bite nearly blew his palate off. There was a big pitcher of cool water nearby and he gulped a third of it without wasting time hunting for a glass.
“Take small bites,” the lady squirrel advised him. Jon-Tom nodded, picked carefully at his plate as he enviously watched Mudge downing huge mouthfuls of the fiery concoction. The otter saw him staring, sidled over to sit on the ground next to the stump. He gestured at the village, the fire, the inhabitants.