the muslin would be damp by now, and she would have to hang it on the trees to dry. The daisies would look so pretty against the muslin, and Lady Aspen had always liked pretty things.
The cairn stood bare. There was no muslin. Gleaner stared and shivered.
Who would take the muslin from Lady Aspen’s grave? Gleaner could think of only one name, the name that was already being whispered with fear all over the island. Husk. She ran to the bushes, pulling at thorns with her paws. Not a shred of muslin remained. Around the cairn, she pressed close to the ground to search for paw prints. The ground was very dry, but—yes, that was a squirrel print. Definitely a squirrel print. She pressed her own paw beside it. It wasn’t hers. Fearfully, she glanced over her shoulder and all around her.
She should tell someone. Really, she should tell them at the tower, but they wouldn’t listen to her. And she didn’t want other animals knowing about Lady Aspen’s grave, crowding about it, gawping and touching things. They’d spoil it.
“Scatter!” called Fingal. “Is your nose any good? I’ve got really important work to do!”
Scatter’s ears twitched with interest.
“Streams need investigating,” said Fingal. “That might be where the fouldrought’s coming from. But if anything smells, it must be a long way up in the hilltops, because nobody’s found it yet, even in this weather. You can come if you like, but it won’t be much fun.”
“Fun!” said Scatter, and drew herself up in indignation. “Fun!”
“Come on, then!” said Fingal. “We may as well go at once.”
They chose a stream that, as far as they could tell, wasn’t being inspected by anyone else and set out to follow it uphill to its source. On these hot autumn days, leaves were falling and dancing around the island so that Scatter, who longed to play with them, had to make a great effort to concentrate on what she was meant to be doing. As they climbed, Fingal said the scents were confusing. Farther uphill, he paused.
“There’s a whiff of some strong pong, but I can’t tell where from,” he said. “With all these animals catching diseases, there’s every sort of unpleasant whiff around.” He sniffed again. “Can’t smell a thing in this wind, can you? We’ll keep going farther up. How do you fancy a long trek? All the way up to the top?”
“I’ll do anything for Mistmantle!” said Scatter earnestly. Looking for polluted streams wasn’t as exciting as saving a baby, but at least she was doing something useful. So she scampered on uphill, chatting to Fingal, pausing to raise her head and sniff the air. They climbed farther up and farther north, where trees were sparser.
“Hang on,” said Fingal, and stopped. His nose twitched. “Something nasty. This way, I think. Farther up, and follow this stream.” A waft of south wind cooled their faces, and he turned his head in disgust. “Fire and flood, something’s deader than it ought to be! Are you sure you want to come with me?”
“Yes, please!” said Scatter. It was getting exciting now. And her nose wasn’t as sensitive as Fingal’s.
Crackle was tired, dispirited, and lonely. She hadn’t meant to come this far. She had just meant to go to the top of the next ridge—then she’d thought she’d go on to the trees—then she’d decided she may as well go to the rock, which didn’t look far, and would give her such a good view—now she was tired, hot, thirsty, and a long way from home. She’d rationed the water in her flask, but even so, climbing uphill on a hot day, she’d finished every last drop.
She flopped down in the heather. She hadn’t found a trace of Linty and the baby. She wasn’t the rescuing heroine who would bring the baby home. She was a long way from home and alone, with a wasted morning behind her. With both paws she pulled up a stalk of bracken and fanned herself.
A pleasant, musical sound of water reached her, making her ears twitch. She must be
The cairn stood bare. There was no muslin. Gleaner stared and shivered.
Who would take the muslin from Lady Aspen’s grave? Gleaner could think of only one name, the name that was already being whispered with fear all over the island. Husk. She ran to the bushes, pulling at thorns with her paws. Not a shred of muslin remained. Around the cairn, she pressed close to the ground to search for paw prints. The ground was very dry, but—yes, that was a squirrel print. Definitely a squirrel print. She pressed her own paw beside it. It wasn’t hers. Fearfully, she glanced over her shoulder and all around her.
She should tell someone. Really, she should tell them at the tower, but they wouldn’t listen to her. And she didn’t want other animals knowing about Lady Aspen’s grave, crowding about it, gawping and touching things. They’d spoil it.
“Scatter!” called Fingal. “Is your nose any good? I’ve got really important work to do!”
Scatter’s ears twitched with interest.
“Streams need investigating,” said Fingal. “That might be where the fouldrought’s coming from. But if anything smells, it must be a long way up in the hilltops, because nobody’s found it yet, even in this weather. You can come if you like, but it won’t be much fun.”
“Fun!” said Scatter, and drew herself up in indignation. “Fun!”
“Come on, then!” said Fingal. “We may as well go at once.”
They chose a stream that, as far as they could tell, wasn’t being inspected by anyone else and set out to follow it uphill to its source. On these hot autumn days, leaves were falling and dancing around the island so that Scatter, who longed to play with them, had to make a great effort to concentrate on what she was meant to be doing. As they climbed, Fingal said the scents were confusing. Farther uphill, he paused.
“There’s a whiff of some strong pong, but I can’t tell where from,” he said. “With all these animals catching diseases, there’s every sort of unpleasant whiff around.” He sniffed again. “Can’t smell a thing in this wind, can you? We’ll keep going farther up. How do you fancy a long trek? All the way up to the top?”
“I’ll do anything for Mistmantle!” said Scatter earnestly. Looking for polluted streams wasn’t as exciting as saving a baby, but at least she was doing something useful. So she scampered on uphill, chatting to Fingal, pausing to raise her head and sniff the air. They climbed farther up and farther north, where trees were sparser.
“Hang on,” said Fingal, and stopped. His nose twitched. “Something nasty. This way, I think. Farther up, and follow this stream.” A waft of south wind cooled their faces, and he turned his head in disgust. “Fire and flood, something’s deader than it ought to be! Are you sure you want to come with me?”
“Yes, please!” said Scatter. It was getting exciting now. And her nose wasn’t as sensitive as Fingal’s.
Crackle was tired, dispirited, and lonely. She hadn’t meant to come this far. She had just meant to go to the top of the next ridge—then she’d thought she’d go on to the trees—then she’d decided she may as well go to the rock, which didn’t look far, and would give her such a good view—now she was tired, hot, thirsty, and a long way from home. She’d rationed the water in her flask, but even so, climbing uphill on a hot day, she’d finished every last drop.
She flopped down in the heather. She hadn’t found a trace of Linty and the baby. She wasn’t the rescuing heroine who would bring the baby home. She was a long way from home and alone, with a wasted morning behind her. With both paws she pulled up a stalk of bracken and fanned herself.
A pleasant, musical sound of water reached her, making her ears twitch. She must be
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