"Here you are," he said and Arrietty, staring, saw some kind of angry beetle.
"What is it?" she asked.
"A cricket. They're nice. Take it."
"To eat?" asked Arrietty, aghast.
"Eat? No. You take it home and keep it. Sings a treat," he added.
Arrietty hesitated. "You carry it," she said, without committing herself.
When they came abreast of the alcove, Arrietty looked up and saw that Homily, tired of waiting, had dozed off. She was sitting on the sunlit sand and had slumped against the boot.
"Mother—" she called softly from below and Homily woke at once. "Here's Spiller..." Arrietty went on, a trifle uncertainly.
"Here's what?" asked Homily, without interest. "Did you get the horse hair?"
Arrietty glancing sideways at Spiller saw that he was in one of his stillnesses and had become invisible. "It's my mother," she whispered. "Speak to her. Go on."
Homily, hearing a whisper, peered down, screwing her eyelids against the setting sun.
"What shall I say?" asked Spiller. Then, clearing his voice, he made an effort. "I got a cricket," he said. Homily screamed: it took her a moment to add the dun-colored patches together into the shapes of face, eyes and hands; it was to Homily as though the grass had spoken.
"What ever is it?" she gasped. "Oh, my goodness gracious, Arrietty, whatever have you got there?"
"It's a cricket" said Spiller again, but it was not to this insect Homily referred.
"It's Spiller," Arrietty repeated more loudly, and in an aside she whispered to Spiller, "Drop that dead thing and come on up...."
Spiller not only dropped the field mouse but a fleeting echo of some dim, half-forgotten code must have flicked his memory, and he laid aside his bow as well. Unarmed, he climbed the bank.
Homily stared at Spiller rather rudely when he stepped onto the sandy platform before the boot. She moved right forward, keeping him at bay. "Good afternoon," she said coldly. It was as though she spoke from the threshold.
Spiller dropped the cricket and propelled it toward her with his toe. "Here you are," he said. Homily screamed again, very loudly and angrily, as the cricket scuttled, knee high, past her skirts and made for the darker shadow behind the boot. "It's a present, Mother," Arrietty explained indignantly. "It's a cricket: it sings—"
But Homily would not listen. "How dare you! How dare you! How dare you! You naughty, dirty, unwashed boy." She was nearly in tears. "How could you? You go straight out of my house this minute. Lucky," she went on, "that my husband's not at home, nor my brother Hendreary neither...."
"Uncle Hendreary—" began Arrietty, surprised, and, if looks could kill, Homily would have struck her dead.
"Take your beetle," Homily went on to Spiller, "and go! And never let me see you here again!" As Spiller hesitated, she added in a fury, "Do you hear what I say?"
Spiller threw a swift look toward the rear of the boot and a somewhat pathetic one toward Arrietty. "You can keep it," he said gruffly, and dived off down the bank.
"Oh, Mother—" exclaimed Arrietty reproachfully: she stared at the "tea" her mother had set out, and even the fact that her mother had filled the half hips with clover honey milked from the blooms, failed to interest her. "Poor Spiller! You were rude...."
"Well, who is he? What does he want here? Where did you find him? Forcing his way on respectable people and flinging beetles about! Wouldn't be surprised if we all woke up one day with our throats cut. Did you see the dirt! Ingrained! I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't left a flea—" and she seized the thistle-broom and briskly swept the spot where the miserable Spiller had placed his unwelcome feet. "I never had such an experience as this. Never! Not in all my born days. Now, that's the type," she concluded fiercely, "who would steal a hat pin!"
Secretly, Arrietty thought so too but she did not say so, using her tongue instead to lick a little of the honey out of the split rose hip. She also thought, as she savored the sun-warmed sweetness, that Spiller, the huntsman, would make better use of the hat pin than either her mother or father could. She wondered why he wanted the half nail scissor. "Have you had your tea?" she asked Homily after a moment.
"I've eaten a couple of wheat grains," admitted Homily in a martyred voice. "Now I must air the bedding."
Arrietty smiled, gazing out across the sun-lit field. The bedding was one piece of sock—poor Homily with practically no housework had little on which to vent her energy. Well, now she'd had Spiller and it had done her good—her eyes looked brighter and her cheeks pinker. Idly, Arrietty watched a small bird picking its way amongst the grasses—no, it was too steady for a bird. "Here comes Papa," she said after a moment.
They ran down to meet him. "Well?" cried Homily eagerly, but as they drew closer, she saw by his face that the news he brought was bad. "You didn't find it?" she asked in a disappointed voice.
"I found it all right," said Pod.
"What's the matter then? Why do you look so down? You mean—they weren't there? You mean—they've left?"
"They've left, all right. Or been eaten." Pod stared unhappily.
"What can you mean, Pod?" stammered Homily.
"It's full o' foxes," he told them ponderously, his eyes still round with shock. "Smells awful..." he added after a moment.
Chapter Eleven
"Misfortunes make us wise."
Sultan of Turkey deposed 1876
[Extract from Arrietty's Diary and
Proverb Book, August 30th]
HOMILY carried on a bit that evening: it was understandable—what were they faced with now? This kind of Robinson Crusoe existence for the rest of their lives? Raw food in the summer was bad enough but in the stark cold of winter, Homily protested, it could not sustain life. Not that they had the faintest chance of surviving the winter, anyway, without some form of heat. A bit of wax candle would not last for ever. Nor would their few wax matches. And supposing they made a fire of sticks, it would have to be colossal—an absolute conflagration it would appear to a borrower—to keep alight at all. And the smoke of this, she pointed out, would be seen for miles. No, she concluded gloomily, they were in for it now and no two ways about it, as Pod and Arrietty would see for themselves, poor things, when the first frosts came.
It was the sight of Spiller perhaps which had shaken Homily, confirming her worst premonitions—uncouth, unwashed, dishonest, and ill-bred, that's what she summed him up to be, everything she most detested and feared. And this was the level (as she had often warned them back home) to which borrowers must sink if ever, for their sins, they attempted to live out-of-doors.
To make matters worse, they were awakened that night by a strange sound—a prolonged and maniac bellow, it sounded to Arrietty, as she lay there trembling—breath held and heart racing. "What was it?" she whispered to Pod when at last she dare speak.
The boot creaked as Pod sat up in bed: "'Tis a donkey," he said, "but close." After a moment he added, "Funny—I ain't ever seen a donkey hereabouts."
"Nor I," whispered Arrietty. But she felt somehow relieved and was just preparing to settle down again when another sound, closer, caught her ear. "Listen!" she said sharply, sitting up.
"You don't want to lie awake listening," Pod grumbled, turning over and pulling after him an unfair share of the sock. "Not at night, you don't."
"It's in the annex," whispered Arrietty.
The boot creaked again as Pod sat up. "Keep quiet, Pod, do," grumbled Homily who had managed to doze off.
"Quiet yourself," said Pod, trying to concentrate. It was a small whirring sound he heard, very regular. "You're right," he breathed to Arrietty, "it's in the annex." He threw off the sock which Homily clutched at angrily, pulling it back about her shoulders. "I'm going out," he said.
"No, Pod, you don't!" implored Homily huskily. "We're all right here, laced up. Stay quiet...."
"No, Homily, I got to see." He felt his way along the ankle of the boot. "Stay quiet, the two of you. I won't be long."
&n
bsp; "Oh, dear," exclaimed Homily in a scared voice. "Then take the hat pin," she implored nervously as she saw him begin to unthread the laces. Arrietty, watching, saw the boot fall open and her father's head and shoulders appear suddenly against the night sky: there was a scrabbling, a rustling and a skittering—and Pod's voice shouting, "Dang you ... dang you ... dang you!" Then there was silence.
Arrietty crept along the ankle of the boot and put her head out into the air: their cave was filled with bright moonlight, and every object could be plainly seen. Arrietty stepped out and looked about her. A silvery Pod stood on the lip of the alcove, staring down at the moon-drenched field.
"What was it?" called Homily from the depths of the boot.
"Danged field mice," called Pod, "been at the corn."
And Arrietty saw in that pale, friendly light that the sandy floor of the annex was strewn with empty husks.
"Well, that's that," said Pod, turning back and kicking the scattered husks. "Better get the thistle," he added, "and sweep up the mess."
Arrietty did so, almost dancing. Enchanted, she felt, by this friendly radiance which lent an unfamiliar magic to even the most matter-of-fact objects such as Pod's bell-clapper hanging from its nail and the whitened stitching on the boot. When she had made three neat piles of husks, she joined Pod at the lip of the alcove and they sat silent for a while on the still warm sand, listening to the night.
An owl called from the spinney beside the brook—a fluting, musical note which was answered, at great distance, by a note as haunting in a slightly higher key: weaving a shuttle of sound back and forth across the sleeping pasture, linking the sea of moonlight and the velvet shadowed woods.
Whatever the danger, Arrietty thought, sitting there at peace beside her father, whatever the difficulty, I still am glad we came.
"What we need in this place," said Pod at last, breaking the long silence, "is some kind of tin."
"Tin?" repeated Arrietty vaguely, not sure she had understood.
"Or a couple of tins. A cocoa tin would do. Or one of them they use for 'baccy." He was silent awhile, and then he added, "That pit we dug weren't deep enough: bet them danged field mice have been at the nuts."
"Couldn't you learn to shoot a bow and arrow?" asked Arrietty after a moment.
"Whatever for?" asked Pod.
Arrietty hesitated. Then, all in a breath, she told him about Spiller; the well-sprung bow, the thorn-tipped, deadly arrows. And she described how Spiller had been watching them from the darkness when they played out their scene with the moth on the stage of the lighted alcove.
"I don't like that," said Pod after a moment's thought, "not neighbors watching, I don't like. Can't have that, you know. Not by night nor by day neither; it ain't healthy, if you get my meaning."
Arrietty did get his meaning. "What we want here is some kind of shutter or door. A piece of chicken wire might do. Or that cheese-grater, perhaps—the one we had at home. It would have to be something that lets the light in, I mean," she went on. "We can't go back to living in the dark."
"I got an idea," said Pod suddenly. He stood up and, turning about, craned his neck upwards to the overhang above. The slender sapling, silvery with moonlight, leaned above the bank. Pod stared a moment at the leaves against the sky as though calculating distances; then, looking down, he kicked about the sand with his feet.
"What is it?" whispered Arrietty, thinking he had lost something.
"Ah—" said Pod, in a pleased voice ¿nd went down on his knees. "This 'ould do." And he shoveled about with his hands, uncovering after a moment a snaking loop of tough root, seemingly endless. "Yes," he repeated. "This'll do fine."
"What for?" asked Arrietty, wildly curious.
"Get me the twine," said Pod. "There on that shelf, where the tools are—"
Arrietty, standing on tiptoe, reached her hand into the sandy recess and found the ball of twine.
"Give it here," said Pod, "and get me the bell-clapper."
Arrietty watched her father tie a length of twine on to the bell-clapper and, balancing a little perilously on the very edge of their terrace, take careful aim and, with a violent effort, fling the clapper up into the branches above: it caught hold, like an anchor, among a network of twigs.
"Now, come on," said Pod to Arrietty, breathing steadily. "Take hold and pull. Gently does it ... steady now. Gently ... gently..." And leaning together, their full weight on the twine, hand over hand they drew down the stooping branch. The alcove became dark suddenly with broken shadow, cut and trembling with filtered moonlight.
"Hold on," panted Pod, guiding the twine to the loop of root, "while I make her fast." He gave a grunt. "There," he said and stood up, rubbing the strain out of his hands (he was flecked all over, Arrietty noticed, with blobs of silver). "Get me the half scissor. Dang it, I forgot—the fret-saw will do."
It was hard to lay hands on the fret-saw in this sudden darkness, but at last she found it and Pod cut his halliard. "There," he said again in a satisfied voice. "She's fast—and we're covered. How's that for an idea? You can let her up or down, depending on what goes on, wind, weather and all the rest of it...."
He removed the bell-clapper and made the twine fast to the main branch. "Won't keep the field mice out, nor them kind of cattle—but," he gave a satisfied laugh, "there won't be no more watching."
"It's wonderful," said Arrietty, her face among the leaves, "—and we can still see out."
"That's the idea," said Pod. "Come on now: time we got back to bed!"
As they felt their way toward the mouth of the boot, Pod tripped against a pile of wheat husks and stumbled, coughing, into their dusty scatter. As he stood up and brushed himself down, he remarked thoughtfully, "Spiller—you said his name was?" He was silent a moment and then added thoughtfully, "There's a lot worse food, when you come to think of it, than a piping-hot, savory stew made of corn-fed field mouse."
Chapter Twelve
"Better suffer ill, than do ill."
Disastrous Earthquake at Charleston, U. S., 1866
[Extract from Arrietty's Diary and
Proverb Book, August 31st]
HOMILY was in a worried mood next morning. "What's all this?" she grumbled when, a little tousled, she crept out of the boot and saw that the alcove was filled with a greenish, underwater light.
"Oh, Mother," exclaimed Arrietty reproachfully. "It's lovely!" A faint breeze stirred the clustered leaves which, parting and closing, let pass bright spears and arrows of dancing light—a delightful blend of mystery and gaiety (or so it seemed to Arrietty). "Don't you see," she went on as its inventor preserved a proud silence, "Papa made it: it's quick cover—lets in the light but keeps out the rain; and we can see out but they can't see in."
"Who's they?" asked Homily.
"Anything ... anybody passing. Spiller," she added on a gleam of inspiration.
Homily relented. "H'mm," she vouchsafed in a noncommittal tone but she examined the uncovered root in the floor, noted the clove-hitch, and ran a thoughtful finger down the taut twine.
"The thing to remember," Pod explained earnestly, aware of her tardy approval, "is—when you let her go—keep hold of the halliard: you don't want this here halliard ever to leave the root. See what I mean?"
Homily saw. "But you don't want to waste the sunshine," she pointed out, "not while it's summer, you don't. Soon it will be—" she shuddered slightly and tightened her lips, unable to say the word.
"Well, winter ain't here yet," exclaimed Pod lightly. "Sufficient unto the day, as they say—" He was busy with the halliard. "Here you are—up she goes!" and, as the twine ran squeaking under the root, the leaves flew up out of sight and the alcove leaped into light.
"See what I mean?" said Pod again, in a satisfied voice.
During breakfast the donkey brayed again, loud and long, and was answered almost at once by the neigh of a horse.
"I don't like it," said Homily suddenly, setting down her half hazel shell of honey and water. Even as she
spoke, a dog yelped—too close for comfort. Homily started—and over went the honey and water, a dark stain on the sandy floor. "Me nerves is all pieces—" Homily wailed, then clapped her hands to her temples and looked from side to side with wild eyes.
"It's nothing, Mother," Arrietty explained, irritated. "There's a lane just below the spinney: I saw it from the top of the hedge. It's people passing, that's all. They're bound to pass sometimes...."
"That's right," agreed Pod. "You don't want to worry. You eat up your grain—"
Homily stared distasefully at the bitten-into grain of corn (dry and hard as a breakfast roll three days after a picnic). "Me teeth ain't up to it," she said unhappily.
"According to Arrietty," explained Pod, holding up the spread fingers of his left hand and knocking each back in turn, "between us and that lane we got five barriers—the stream down at the corner—one; them posts with rusty wire across the stream—two; a fair-sized wood—three; another hedge—four; and a bit o' rough grazing ground—five." He turned to Arrietty. "Ain't that right, lass? You been up the hedge?"
Arrietty agreed. "But that bit of grazing ground belongs to the lane—a kind of grass verge."
"There you are then," exclaimed Pod triumphantly, slapping Homily on the back. "Common land! And someone's tethered a donkey there. What's wrong with that? Donkeys don't eat you—no more don't horses."
"A dog might," said Homily. "I heard a dog."
"And what of it?" exclaimed Pod. "It wasn't the first time and it won't be the last. When I was a lad, down at the big house, the place was awash with setters, as you might say. Dogs is all right: you can talk to dogs."
Homily was silent a moment, rolling the wheat grain backwards and forwards on the flat piece of slate which they used as a table.
"It's no good," she said at last.