The Wind Singer by William Nicholson

short sturdy legs were immensely strong, like all the mudpeople’s, and soon the children felt themselves rising up out of the clinging mud.
    With a spluttering gasp, Kestrel freed her face, and drew a huge gulping breath. Mumpo spat the mud out of his mouth and started howling again. And Bowman, panting, heart hammering, tried hard not to think what would have happened to them if the mudman hadn’t found them.
    When they felt the solid land of the trail beneath them, they collapsed and lay there in a mud-coated heap, made weak by the shock of it all. Willum bent over Mumpo and took the tixa leaves from his hand.
    ‘That’ll do. Thanky kindly.’
    He was very pleased. He broke off the tip of one leaf, brushed the mud off, and popped it in his mouth. The rest went in his little bag.
    He turned then to studying the children he had pulled out of the lake. Who were they? Not mud people, certainly. They were far too thin, and no mud people wandered off the trails into the deeps, not without being roped. They must have come from up yonder.
    ‘I know who you’m are,’ he said to them. ‘You’m skinnies.’
    They followed the small round mudman down winding trails that only he could see, across the dark surface of the Underlake. Too exhausted to ask questions, they tramped along behind him in single file, still holding the rope. Their legs ached from the effort of pulling them in and out of the mud, but on and on they went, until dusk started to gather in the great sky-holes above.
    Willum sung softly as he went along, and occasionally chuckled to himself. What a stroke of luck it was finding the skinnies! he was thinking. Won’t Jum be surprised! And he laughed aloud just thinking about it.
    Willum had wandered far in his day’s hunting, and by the time they were back again by his home it was almost night. The shadows were so deep that the children could no longer see where they were going, and kept to the trail by feeling the tug of the rope. But now at last, Willum had come to a stop, and with a sigh of satisfaction announced to them,
    ‘No place like home, eh?’
    No place indeed: there were no signs of any house or shelter of any kind, but for a thin wisp of smoke rising from a small hole in the ground. The children stood and shivered, fearful and exhausted, and looked round.
    ‘Follow me, little skinnies. Mind the steps.’
    With these words, he walked straight down into the ground. Kestrel, following behind, found that her feet went through the mud into a sudden hole, where there seemed to be a descending staircase.
    ‘Mouth shut,’ said Willum. ‘Eyes shut.’
    One moment Kestrel felt the mud round her neck, the next moment her mouth and nose and eyes were clogged and smothered, and the next moment she had stepped down into a smoky firelit underground room. Bowman followed, and then Mumpo, both spitting and pushing mud from their eyes. Above them, at the top of the staircase, the mud had resealed itself like a lid.
    ‘Well, Willum,’ said a cross voice. ‘A pretty time you’ve been.’
    ‘Ah, but looky, Jum!’
    Willum stood aside, to display the children. A round mud-coated woman sat on a stool by the fire, stirring a pot and scowling.
    ‘What’s this, then?’ she said.
    ‘Skinnies, my love.’
    ‘Skinnies, is it?’
    She lumbered up from her seat and came over to them. She patted them with her muddy hand and stroked their trembling cheeks.
    ‘Poor little mites.’
    Then she turned to Willum and said sharply,
    ‘Teeth!’
    Obediently, Willum bared his teeth. They were stained a yellowy-brown.
    ‘Tixy. I knew it.’
    ‘Only the smallest leaf, my dearest.’
    ‘And harvest tomorrow. For shame, Willum! You should lie down and die.’
    ‘Mudnuts, Jum,’ he said placatingly. Untying the long nut-socks, he fingered out a surprisingly large number of brown lumps.
    Jum stumped off back to the fire, refusing to acknowledge the fruit of his labours.
    ‘But, my love! My sweet bun! My sugar