The Little Grey Men

by BB

  Once again the gnomes told the story of their journey to find Cloudberry.

  Otter listened attentively before he spoke. ‘Well, I think I can help you, gnomes; but I can’t think why you’ve taken so long to come up from the Oak Pool—it’s only a few flicks of a rudder to Moss Mill!’

  ‘Indeed it is not!’ exclaimed Sneezewort (rather rudely); ‘we’ve been tramping for hours, it must be miles away!’

  Otter was a tactful beast, so he changed the subject. ‘It was a pity you lost the boat, especially after you spent all that time in making it. I don’t mind telling you gnomes that at the rate you are going, it’s going to take you a very long time to reach Crow Wood, and you may not see Cloudberry there. I shouldn’t be surprised if he has gone up the Folly Source, and that’s a long long way, even for me!’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Baldmoney doggedly, ‘we’re going, however long it takes us, even if we have to winter up the stream.’

  ‘Well, I admire your spirit, gnomes; I wish you all the luck in the world, I’m sure. Even I have not been up to the Folly Source, for there’s no fish so high up, not even a minnow. But you will find fish right through the wood and as far as the bridge, beyond there I haven’t been. But you must look out for trouble in Crow Wood.’

  When he had gone Baldmoney whispered, ‘I do wish the Stream People would stop talking about Crow Wood, I’m not afraid of any beastly giant or any dark wood. I love woods anyway, and why should we be afraid?’

  A second after both gnomes froze in their tracks. For, from high up the course of the Folly, from somewhere in the direction of where Crow Wood might conceivably be, came a high thin wailing sound which died away to a profound silence. Even the willows seemed to shiver and both gnomes felt very afraid. It was the howl of a wood dog, a sound they were to hear many times before the journey was over.

  A tiny chattering noise followed. Sneezewort jumped round and clutched Baldmoney’s arm. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ stuttered Baldmoney, ‘it’s only my t-t-teeth; yours would b-b-be ch-ch-chattering t-t-too if you had any t-t-to ch-ch-chatter with!’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid,’ whimpered Sneezewort. ‘I’m afraid, Baldmoney; let’s go back to the Oak Pool and Dodder.’

  ‘Pooh!’ said Baldmoney, trying to control his teeth, ‘who’s afraid of wood dogs? They never harmed us by the Oak Pool; you can go home if you like, but I’m going on.’

  Truth to say, Baldmoney was secretly thinking just then how nice it would be to be inside the old oak tree, watching the embers dying in the fire. But he kept this to himself.

  They stood quite still in the damp grass looking upstream. Before and over them towered an old willow tree, its ivy-clad crown rustling, its slender graceful leaves drooped downwards with here and there a shy star peeping.

  The cry came again, fainter now, which seemed to make it all the more lonely and dreadful; never had explorers in the pine-clad barrens of the North felt greater fear when, from out of the wilderness, came the far howling of a wolf.

  ‘Pooh,’ said Baldmoney again, ‘wood dogs don’t eat gnomes in summertime, only in winter when they’re hard put to for food. Everybody has enough to eat just now; he’d much rather have a nice young rabbit than a tough old gnome without any teeth.’

  ‘Or a long scraggy beard,’ put in Sneezewort spitefully.

  An owl flew noiselessly across, his great head turning, his eyes like lamps. His face was like a skull peering down at them. For an instant he checked his flight with fanning wings and some instinct made the gnomes crouch. It was a stranger owl, not Ben; when he saw they were gnomes he shrugged his shoulders and vanished.

  ‘Look here,’ said Baldmoney, ‘we must pull ourselves together; you’ll get me rattled soon, there’s nothing to be afraid of—all the Stream People are our friends. As to stoats and wood dogs we can give a good account of ourselves. Anyway, wood dogs don’t like us; we smell too much like humans. Let’s get going; the dawn will be coming and we haven’t walked a mile yet. Come on!’ And picking up his stick again, and settling his pack on his back once more, he led the way up the stream.

  The white hawthorn petals (like confetti in the half darkness) were scattered over the grass and bushes; they had fallen everywhere, even in the stream, where the current carried them away. Some, caught in miniature whirlpools and eddies, spun round and round, circular rafts of them revolving like fairy wheels.

  The crab-trees, too, were shedding their pink blossoms, white and shell-pink mingled, and the Folly hurried them all along on its crinkling tawny breast.

  The gnomes made good progress for the next two hours and nothing untoward happened. The Folly was getting smaller, there was no doubt of that, and there were next to no bushes growing on the banks. Their way led through hayfields not yet cut, full of all manner of wild flowers, delicate cuckoo-pint predominating. In contrast with noonday it was a silent land through which they journeyed, for no birds were singing and they were now beyond the haunts of reed and sedge warblers which sing during the hours of darkness.

  I wish I could describe that lovely summer night, the sweet softness of it, the peace. Only the Folly sang to them, a different tune at every bend. They came to a broad ford, where the water scrambled over shingle with a loud clatter.

  ‘We will call this the Meadow of Talking Water,’ said Baldmoney (he always found an apt name for places), and so he wrote it on his waistcoat, at their next camping place.

  Moths buzzed about among the grass stems, big cockchafers blundered by. One struck Sneezewort in the chest and he cried ‘ouch!’, which made Baldmoney jump.

  Baldmoney and Sneezewort continue the journey on foot: the hawthorn is in blossom and white petals fall on the dark water

  They heard some cows grazing over the stream, the ‘scrush, scrush’ as they tore the grass and the smell of newly plucked blades drifted to them. So quiet was it that they could hear the tummies of the great beasts rumbling, the same sound that guides the elephant hunter in the long grass. Many were lying down, very still and silent as though hewn of rock—perhaps they were asleep.

  Sneezewort tugged Baldmoney’s arm. ‘Let’s have some milk,’ he whispered. They stole across the shallows, altering the song of the Folly, and crept through the grass to where the cloudy shadows of the drowsy beasts lay.

  The smell of these recumbent monsters was strong, a beautiful buttercup and grass smell, mixed with the rough mud-caked hairs on their motionless flanks. It was not the first time that the gnomes had milked cows. It was an old trick they had learnt, ages back, before the steel railroad was made up the valley.

  Baldmoney held a mussel shell half under one of the teats and Sneezewort squeezed with skill. Working away under the huge dome of the udder the gnomes looked up to the sky. The side of the recumbent cow was like a black mountain against the stars. The beast’s eye opened wider as Sneezewort squeezed, the heavy lashes parted and it whisked its tail uneasily. In another moment it might have stood up, but the shell was full and overflowing with rich, steaming milk, which looked so white in the half darkness.

  Carrying their precious burden back to the stream, they drank their fill and felt refreshed. ‘There’s nothing like fresh warm milk for putting new life into you,’ remarked Baldmoney.

  ‘Ah,’ sighed Sneezewort, wiping his toothless little mouth, ‘that’s better, a lot better. I was ready for that; I feel I can face anything now . . . hark!’

  From away over the mowing grass a lark began to sing. Dawn was breaking, stealing like a silver ghost over the eastern sky.

  ‘The morning sun,’ whispered Baldmoney, ‘the sun is coming, soon it will be day!’

  Sneezewort yawned a toothless yawn. ‘Oh, I’m so tired . . . so tired, Baldmoney.’

  ‘We must not rest until the flowers wake up,’ said Baldmoney; ‘we must push on.’

  So, as minute by minute the silver in the east paled, and all the meadows grew more distinct, Baldmoney and Sneezewort, stifling their yawns, stump
ed onwards, following every bend, noticing every pool, until the sky was full of singing birds and the glory of morning.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Trespassers will be Prosecuted!

  hen the gnomes awakened on the following evening they found a change in the weather. They had slept during the day in a willow root close to a deep brown pool, bored out by the floods of many winters. Hunger demanded immediate appeasement, and they began at once to put their fishing lines together.

  Gone was the golden weather which had so far favoured their trip; instead the sky was overcast and gloomy, and a strong wind was whipping the trees and bushes, turning the pale undersides of the leaves uppermost. Curious swirls and V-shaped eddy-marks creased the pool by the willow; the reeds bent and bent again before the rude breath of the stormy wind, their sharp tips cutting the water.

  On all sides stretched the lush meadows; the gnomes could see the waves of wind passing over the mowing grass so that the surface was undulating exactly like the surface of the sea, the rollers following behind one another, a sea of grass instead of water. Though the evening was not cold, the gnomes were glad of their skin coats.

  In a very short time they had caught some thumping perch, and they fished until they had broken all their hooks. They were not used to these heavy game fish. Seven fat fellows lay on the root of the willow when they at last wound in their lines, and you may depend upon it, it was not long before those fish were neatly cut up and grilled over a fire. They ate themselves cross-eyed and for some time were quite incapable of movement.

  ‘It’s almost like an autumn night,’ remarked Baldmoney at length, as he lit his pipe with an ember from the fire; ‘we’re going to have rain before dawn, that’s why the fish are biting.’

  Sneezewort was homesick and also very full of perch, so he did not answer. He watched the wind ripples passing over the mowing grass and the spots of yellow foam spinning slowly round the pool; a little higher upstream there was a big clot of it caught against a submerged reed.

  He was thinking how cosy the oak root would be on a night like this, and how the glow of the fire used to light up the rugged interior of the tree. How was the owl family getting on, and Dodder, and Watervole? Perhaps after all they had made a mistake to come on this trip; a lot might have happened to Cloudberry in all those months which had passed since he went away. And truth to say, there was something a little sinister in this gloomy evening, and the chasing ripples and sighing wind seemed heavy with foreboding.

  The next instant his heart gave a bump, and all these sentimental thoughts had gone in the instinct of self-preservation. For downstream, threading its way close to the water, was the lithe brown form of one of their most dreaded of enemies, Stoat! He was puzzling on their scent. Unknown to them he had followed them for a long way along the Folly bank, now the scent was getting stale and he was almost on the point of giving up.

  With a lightning-like movement both gnomes were on their feet, for both had seen their dreaded enemy almost at the same instant. There was no chance of climbing up inside the willow, for the barrel of the tree was not hollow. They must make a break for it while there was time. To be cornered inside the root would be disastrous.

  Each had the presence of mind to grab his stick and bundle. They slipped out of the tree, keeping it between them and their pursuer, and made their way as fast as they could up the stream. Not far distant it took a wide bend to the left and the bank was clothed with thick bushes, but stoats can climb bushes with agility.

  Their safest chance lay in a tree up which they could climb. Unfortunately, as you may have noticed, few trees have branches very low to the ground which would have given them a start, and, anyway, there was not a tree in sight save some elms across the meadow. The gnomes might have made a dash for these, but if the stoat was really hot on their trail, he could overtake them. When in a hurry the little devil in brown can move like lightning.

  One point was in their favour, they had a good start, and stoats do not as a rule hunt by sight until they are very near their quarry.

  The gnomes ran as fast as they could up the shingle; now and again they glanced over their shoulders. Stoat had gone inside the willow stump and was smelling around. Perhaps he would find the heads and bones of the perch which might delay him, but it was a forlorn hope. Such things happened at the Oak Pool, but they were never far from the old tree, and when chased could simply run inside and bar the door.

  For the next ten minutes they ran as fast as their short legs could carry them. Baldmoney led, but after a while began to get a little puffed. Sneezewort, in better training and lighter build, began to make the running.

  They reached the bend and the next moment their pursuer was hidden from view; perhaps he would give up the chase and content himself with exploring the willow root. Both gnomes were now puffing and blowing; their little anxious faces, always red at the best of times, were deep crimson and beads of sweat rolled off them. The heavy bundles hampered them in their flight, but they contained all they possessed and would not be abandoned unless things became very hot indeed.

  ‘I can’t see him,’ gasped Sneezewort, looking back.

  ‘Don’t stop running,’ puffed Baldmoney, ‘he’s very likely still on our trail.’

  Round the bend there was a fallen log which lay almost across the stream. The water gurgled and swilled round the end of it, deep and swift, but it was jumpable. They scurried across the log and landed safely on the far bank, though Baldmoney, tired and spent, wet his right leg to the knee. They found themselves in a dense sedge-bed. The ground was miry and black, but they plunged in among the reeds.

  A startled water vole plopped into the stream and a reed-bunting flew up, excitedly flirting his white-edged tail and looking about on all sides at the shaking reeds.

  Had you or I been standing on the bank we should have thought a rat or mouse was rustling through the water plants, for the gnomes were quite hidden, only the sedges quivered. At last, the reeds thinned and in their place a forest of sturdy dock plants, with stout and hairy stems, raised their broad umbrellas overhead. It was fine cover, but no cover in the world avails a gnome or rabbit when a stoat is once on the hunting trail, so they pushed on.

  Then the docks thinned and they could see the light once more and the brown Folly open to the sky, crinkling in a thousand catspaws over a wide shallow, and beyond, a deep pool. They crossed the shallows to their original bank hoping that the stoat would lose the scent in the running water. They were now utterly spent and must find some sort of hiding-place. Leaning over the pool was a willow branch, its main stem half awash, and the slender rods grew straight up in a thick pallisade. Right at the end the gnomes caught sight of a moorhen’s nest; it might have been one of the many ‘rest’ nests that the cock bird builds as rafts for his babies when they are hatched. You will nearly always find two moorhen’s nests belonging to the same pair of birds.

  They would have liked to have gone farther, but both were blown, and this was the only possible cover in sight. They crept out along the half-submerged branch, squeezing in between the willow wands until they reached the nest, and into it they tumbled, one on top of the other.

  The nest, which contained three handsome eggs (quite cold, for the hen had not begun to sit), was substantially built, but very damp. They made themselves as small as possible, squeezing in between the eggs and taking care not to break them, and lay peeping fearfully down the stream.

  Below them the brown water slid and hissed, strings of bubbles showed far down under the surface and the gnomes could see shoals of little silver minnows, a whole school of them, passing like a cloud.

  ‘Is he following us?’ whispered Baldmoney when he had got his breath. ‘I can’t see a sign of anything.’

  Sneezewort did not reply. He was breathing so fast and his heart was a-hammering so quickly he could hardly see.

  Downstream they could just discern the log where they had crossed to the far bank; beyond that, the bend and the steep sand
y bank hid everything. There was nothing to be seen save an old rook flying across the rim of the meadow. He came soaring his way along and alighted on the shingle at the shallows where, after a quick look round on all sides, he began to hunt for mussels. Rooks and crows love freshwater mussels.

  He waddled about in the shallow water and along the edge of the reed bed, turning over some old empty shells which he found lying about.

  A large spot of rain came plop! into the pool, then another and another. They rattled on the leaves like bullets, the falling drops making little tents in the water. As the minutes passed the heavy breathing of the gnomes quietened and they began to feel secure. The rain, lashed by the wind, increased in violence and the gnomes began to shiver.

  Up by the reed bed the rook had at last found a mussel and he flew away with it over the fields. The vista downstream showed no sign of life.

  ‘I think he’s given up,’ whispered Baldmoney; ‘he hasn’t come any farther than the willow.’

  Sneezewort, knowing the ways of stoats, was not so sure. It all depended whether the stoat was hungry.

  As the gnomes lay in the bottom of the nest with their chins on the rim of it, it occurred to them what a fine meal the eggs would make. A big black water-boatman came from the depths of the pool and lay on the surface with his oars outspread. And close to the nest a whole crowd of tiny silver beetles were weaving about on the surface of the water; they moved and glistened like minute racing cars.

  Then the gnomes saw Stoat. He was puzzling up the bank, quartering the ground like a hound. He went along the log and stopped, for it was a big jump for him, and he did not like the look of it. At other times it might have been interesting to watch the little hunter at work, but it was no fun when the quarry was yourself, and Baldmoney and Sneezewort trembled with apprehension. Stoat ran back along the log and began coming up the bank on the other side. Then the gnomes realized that they had made a mistake—that they should not have recrossed the brook. Had they remained in the reed bed they would have been safe. But Stoat now had nothing to guide him. He came along slowly with frequent pauses, showing his yellowish-white chest as he sat up in the grass. When he ran, his body was arched in a hump, the black-tipped tail held high. Nearer and nearer he came, and the poor little gnomes crouched lower in the nest.