Fingal. “And more sticks. We need something long to prod in the water, find out what’s making the smell and the—whatever that scummy stuff is—and get it out. But before that, we need to get a fire going, because whatever it is, it should be burned.”
“That’s brilliant!” said Scatter.
“It won’t burn,” said Crackle. “It’ll be wet.”
“Then we’ll make it a really good fire,” said Fingal with confidence, dragging a branch clear of the woods, “and a long way from the trees. We’ve got enough trouble without setting the hillside alight.” He stopped, thought for a moment, and turned to Crackle.
“You’re quick, Crackle,” he said. “A lot quicker than I am. Get down to the shore. There are otters on watch all around the island. Get a message to the king, and everybody else, and let them know this stream is the bad one, and nobody’s to go near it. Fast as you can. Follow the path of the stream so you don’t get lost, but mind you don’t get a paw wet.”
Crackle nodded. It wasn’t quite the same as rescuing the baby, but it was doing something to save the island. And she’d get away from that awful stench at the same time. She turned and bolted down the hill.
“Scatter,” said Fingal, “go with her. She might get lost.”
Scatter hesitated. She didn’t want to get any nearer to that water than she absolutely had to. But she couldn’t leave Fingal to manage this on his own.
“She won’t get lost,” she said. “I’m staying with you.”
“Scatter,” said Fingal, suddenly sounding grown-up. “Go with her. I won’t catch anything. Squirrels aren’t immune, but otters are.”
“No, you’re not,” argued Scatter, scraping up an armful of twigs to add to Fingal’s heap of branches. “I think the otters don’t catch it because they don’t drink from places like this. If you get anywhere near that water—and whatever’s in it…”
“Bit of rotting fish, I think,” said Fingal.
“Whatever it is, it could make you ill,” said Scatter.
“Then it could do the same to you,” said Fingal, rather shortly, as he was dragging a heavy branch at the time.
“I’m from Whitewings,” said Scatter, building the sticks into a bonfire. “The queen thinks we may be immune to it, and she’s been out healing, and she hasn’t caught it, and anyway the queen should know, because she…”
“Just go , Scatter!” snapped Fingal, and turned his back on her to face the pool. Scatter didn’t say another word. He heard a scampering of paws running downhill.
That was better. He hadn’t liked sending Scatter away, and pretending to be cross with her had been very hard, but he couldn’t put her at risk. It was up to him now. One animal in danger, not two. It would be better that way.
He bunched together the kindling and struck dry sticks until a spark flew into the brittle leaves. Cupping his paws around the smoldering heap, he blew softly, coaxing the flame into life. The fire must become a powerful blaze before he could leave it long enough to retrieve the blockage from the pool. When the flames leaped and roared and the smoke blurred his eyes, he took the longest and sturdiest branch he had found and, warily, carrying it at arm’s length, approached the pool.
Cautiously, holding his breath, he used the branch to nudge the thick covering of decay onto the rocks. He could see something now, lodged against a stone, green and black and bloated. He couldn’t see what it was and didn’t want to know, but he guessed that it was an old and diseased fish. Standing as far back as he could, he poked at it with the branch until the corrupted body floated free. Lumps of rotting flesh dripped from it as he lifted it on the branch’s end from the water and dropped it into the heart of the fire, pushing it in as far as possible. It spat sparks and twisted. Acrid gray smoke curled from it.
“Done,” he said.
A sudden breeze caught the flames so that they flared, roared, and
“That’s brilliant!” said Scatter.
“It won’t burn,” said Crackle. “It’ll be wet.”
“Then we’ll make it a really good fire,” said Fingal with confidence, dragging a branch clear of the woods, “and a long way from the trees. We’ve got enough trouble without setting the hillside alight.” He stopped, thought for a moment, and turned to Crackle.
“You’re quick, Crackle,” he said. “A lot quicker than I am. Get down to the shore. There are otters on watch all around the island. Get a message to the king, and everybody else, and let them know this stream is the bad one, and nobody’s to go near it. Fast as you can. Follow the path of the stream so you don’t get lost, but mind you don’t get a paw wet.”
Crackle nodded. It wasn’t quite the same as rescuing the baby, but it was doing something to save the island. And she’d get away from that awful stench at the same time. She turned and bolted down the hill.
“Scatter,” said Fingal, “go with her. She might get lost.”
Scatter hesitated. She didn’t want to get any nearer to that water than she absolutely had to. But she couldn’t leave Fingal to manage this on his own.
“She won’t get lost,” she said. “I’m staying with you.”
“Scatter,” said Fingal, suddenly sounding grown-up. “Go with her. I won’t catch anything. Squirrels aren’t immune, but otters are.”
“No, you’re not,” argued Scatter, scraping up an armful of twigs to add to Fingal’s heap of branches. “I think the otters don’t catch it because they don’t drink from places like this. If you get anywhere near that water—and whatever’s in it…”
“Bit of rotting fish, I think,” said Fingal.
“Whatever it is, it could make you ill,” said Scatter.
“Then it could do the same to you,” said Fingal, rather shortly, as he was dragging a heavy branch at the time.
“I’m from Whitewings,” said Scatter, building the sticks into a bonfire. “The queen thinks we may be immune to it, and she’s been out healing, and she hasn’t caught it, and anyway the queen should know, because she…”
“Just go , Scatter!” snapped Fingal, and turned his back on her to face the pool. Scatter didn’t say another word. He heard a scampering of paws running downhill.
That was better. He hadn’t liked sending Scatter away, and pretending to be cross with her had been very hard, but he couldn’t put her at risk. It was up to him now. One animal in danger, not two. It would be better that way.
He bunched together the kindling and struck dry sticks until a spark flew into the brittle leaves. Cupping his paws around the smoldering heap, he blew softly, coaxing the flame into life. The fire must become a powerful blaze before he could leave it long enough to retrieve the blockage from the pool. When the flames leaped and roared and the smoke blurred his eyes, he took the longest and sturdiest branch he had found and, warily, carrying it at arm’s length, approached the pool.
Cautiously, holding his breath, he used the branch to nudge the thick covering of decay onto the rocks. He could see something now, lodged against a stone, green and black and bloated. He couldn’t see what it was and didn’t want to know, but he guessed that it was an old and diseased fish. Standing as far back as he could, he poked at it with the branch until the corrupted body floated free. Lumps of rotting flesh dripped from it as he lifted it on the branch’s end from the water and dropped it into the heart of the fire, pushing it in as far as possible. It spat sparks and twisted. Acrid gray smoke curled from it.
“Done,” he said.
A sudden breeze caught the flames so that they flared, roared, and
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