thrown off balance, slid forward with a cry—down through the lid hole onto the straw below. Pod just in time caught hold of the handle rail, and Arrietty caught hold of Pod. Steadying Arrietty, Pod turned his head; the kettle, he saw, had fetched up against an island of sticks and branches, plumb in the middle of the stream. Again the kettle thrummed, banging and trembling against the obstructing sticks; little ripples rose up and broke like waves among and around the weed-strewn, trembling mass.
"Now, we are stuck," remarked Pod, "good and proper."
"Get me up, Pod—do..." they heard Homily calling from below.
They got her up and showed her what had happened. Pod, peering down, saw part of a gatepost and coils of rusted wire: on this projection a mass of rubbish was entangled, brought down by the flood, a kind of floating island, knitted up by the current and hopelessly intertwined.
No good shoving with his pin: the current held them head on and, with each successive bump, wedged them more securely.
"It could be worse," remarked Homily surprisingly, when she had got her breath. She took stock of the nest-like structure: some of the sticks, forced above water, had already dried in the sun; the whole contraption, to Homily, looked pleasantly like dry land. "I mean," she went on, "we could walk about on this. I wouldn't say, really, but what I don't prefer it to the kettle ... better than floating on and on and on, and ending up, as might well be, in the Indian Ocean. Spiller could find us here easy enough ... plumb in the middle of the view."
"There's something in that," agreed Pod. He glanced up at the banks: the stream here was wider, he noticed. On the left bank, among the stunted willows that shrouded the towpath, a tall hazel leaned over the water; on the right bank, the meadows came sloping down to the stream and, beside the muddy cow tracks, stood a sturdy clump of ash. The tall boles, ash and hazel, stood like sentinels, one each side of the river. Yes, it was the kind of spot Spiller would know well; the kind of place, Pod thought to himself, to which humans might give a name. The water on either side of the midstream obstruction flowed dark and deep, scooped out by the current into pools. Yes, it was the kind of place he decided—with a slight inward tremor of his "feeling"—where in the summer human beings might come to bathe. Then, glancing downstream, he saw the bridge.
Chapter Seventeen
It was not much of a bridge—wooden, moss-grown, with a single handrail—but, in their predicament, even a modest bridge was still a bridge too many: bridges are highways, built for humans, and command long views of the river...
Homily, when he pointed it out, seemed strangely unperturbed: shading her eyes against the sunlight, she gazed intently down river. "No human being that distance away," she decided at last, "could make out what's on these sticks...."
"You'd be surprised," said Pod. "They spot the movement like..."
"Not before we've spotted them. Come on, Pod; let's unload the kettle and get some stuff dried out."
They went below, and by shifting the ballast, they got the kettle well heeled over. When they had achieved sufficient list, Pod took his twine and made the handle fast to the sunken wire netting. In this way, with the kettle held firm, they could crawl in and out through the lid hole. Soon all the gear was spread out in the warmth, and sitting in a row on a baked branch of alder, they each fell to on a slice of banana.
"This could be a lot worse," said Homily, munching and looking about her. She was thankful for the silence and the sudden lack of motion. Down between the tangled sticks were well-like glintings of dark water, but it was quiet water and, from her high perch, far enough away to be ignored.
Arrietty, on the contrary, had taken off her shoes and stockings and was trailing her feet in the delicate ripples that played about the outer edges.
The river seemed full of voices, endless,
"Now, we are stuck," remarked Pod, "good and proper."
"Get me up, Pod—do..." they heard Homily calling from below.
They got her up and showed her what had happened. Pod, peering down, saw part of a gatepost and coils of rusted wire: on this projection a mass of rubbish was entangled, brought down by the flood, a kind of floating island, knitted up by the current and hopelessly intertwined.
No good shoving with his pin: the current held them head on and, with each successive bump, wedged them more securely.
"It could be worse," remarked Homily surprisingly, when she had got her breath. She took stock of the nest-like structure: some of the sticks, forced above water, had already dried in the sun; the whole contraption, to Homily, looked pleasantly like dry land. "I mean," she went on, "we could walk about on this. I wouldn't say, really, but what I don't prefer it to the kettle ... better than floating on and on and on, and ending up, as might well be, in the Indian Ocean. Spiller could find us here easy enough ... plumb in the middle of the view."
"There's something in that," agreed Pod. He glanced up at the banks: the stream here was wider, he noticed. On the left bank, among the stunted willows that shrouded the towpath, a tall hazel leaned over the water; on the right bank, the meadows came sloping down to the stream and, beside the muddy cow tracks, stood a sturdy clump of ash. The tall boles, ash and hazel, stood like sentinels, one each side of the river. Yes, it was the kind of spot Spiller would know well; the kind of place, Pod thought to himself, to which humans might give a name. The water on either side of the midstream obstruction flowed dark and deep, scooped out by the current into pools. Yes, it was the kind of place he decided—with a slight inward tremor of his "feeling"—where in the summer human beings might come to bathe. Then, glancing downstream, he saw the bridge.
Chapter Seventeen
It was not much of a bridge—wooden, moss-grown, with a single handrail—but, in their predicament, even a modest bridge was still a bridge too many: bridges are highways, built for humans, and command long views of the river...
Homily, when he pointed it out, seemed strangely unperturbed: shading her eyes against the sunlight, she gazed intently down river. "No human being that distance away," she decided at last, "could make out what's on these sticks...."
"You'd be surprised," said Pod. "They spot the movement like..."
"Not before we've spotted them. Come on, Pod; let's unload the kettle and get some stuff dried out."
They went below, and by shifting the ballast, they got the kettle well heeled over. When they had achieved sufficient list, Pod took his twine and made the handle fast to the sunken wire netting. In this way, with the kettle held firm, they could crawl in and out through the lid hole. Soon all the gear was spread out in the warmth, and sitting in a row on a baked branch of alder, they each fell to on a slice of banana.
"This could be a lot worse," said Homily, munching and looking about her. She was thankful for the silence and the sudden lack of motion. Down between the tangled sticks were well-like glintings of dark water, but it was quiet water and, from her high perch, far enough away to be ignored.
Arrietty, on the contrary, had taken off her shoes and stockings and was trailing her feet in the delicate ripples that played about the outer edges.
The river seemed full of voices, endless,
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