The Wind Singer by William Nicholson Page B

skinnies?’
    ‘What’s squotch?’ said Bowman.
    ‘What’s squotch?’ Jum was baffled. Pollum started to giggle. ‘Why, it’s – squotch.’
    Willum now entered the discussion.
    ‘Why, so it is squotch,’ he said. ‘And why not? Everything goes into the sweet earth, and makes for the flavour. One great big stew-pot, that’s what it is.’
    He dipped the ladle into the stew-pot and drew out a spoonful of thick stew.
    ‘One day I shall lay my body down, and the sweet earth will take it, and make it good again, and give it back. Don’t you mind about squotch, little skinnies. We’m all squotch, if you only see it aright. We’m all part of the sweet earth.’
    He consumed the stew straight from the ladle. Jum watched him, nodding with approval.
    ‘Sometimes you do surprise me, Willum,’ she said.
    Mumpo finished his stew first. As soon as he was done, he lay down on the rug-covered floor, curled himself up into a tight ball, and went to sleep.
    ‘That’s the way, little skinny,’ said Jum, pulling a rug over the top of him.
    Bowman and Kestrel wanted to go to sleep too, but first they wanted to remove the mud that was caked hard all over them.
    ‘Please, ma’am,’ said Bowman. ‘Where can I wash?’
    ‘A bath is it you’re wanting?’
    ‘Yes, ma’am.’
    ‘Pollum! Get the bath ready!’
    Pollum went to the fire and unhooked the steaming kettle. She heaved it over to one side of the burrow, where there was a saucer-shaped depression in the earth floor. There she poured the hot water from the kettle in a swirling stream straight on to the ground. It slicked the sides of the hollow, and gathered in a shallow steaming puddle at the bottom.
    ‘Who’s go first?’ said Jum.
    Bowman and Kestrel stared.
    ‘Show’ee, Pollum,’ called out the aunt. ‘No baths up yonder. Poor little things.’
    It wasn’t often Pollum was allowed first roll in the bath, when the water was new, so she jumped in without waiting to be told twice. Down on to her back, splayed out like a crab, and then over and over, wriggling and turning, covering herself with a fresh coat of warm slime. She giggled as she writhed about, obviously loving it.
    ‘That’s enough, Pollum. Leave some for the skinnies.’
    Bowman and Kestrel said it was very kind of them, but they were too tired to have a bath after all. So Jum made them up nests on the floor among the piles of rugs, and they curled up as Mumpo had done. Bowman, worn out by the terrors of the day, was soon deeply asleep, but Kestrel’s eyes stayed open a little longer, and she lay there watching the mudpeople and listening to what they were saying. Willum had taken something out of his bag and was giving it to the old man, and they were chuckling together softly in the corner. Jum was cooking by the fire, making what seemed to be an enormous amount of stew. Pollumwas asking questions.
    ‘Why are they so thin, mum?’
    ‘Not enough to eat. No mudnuts up yonder, see.’
    ‘No mudnuts!’
    ‘They don’t have the mud for it.’
    ‘No mud!’
    ‘Don’t’ee forget, Pollum. You’m a lucky girl.’
    Kestrel tried to listen, but the voices seemed to be getting softer and fuzzier all the time, and the flame-shadows flickering on the domed ceiling softened into a warm blur. She snuggled deeper into her cosy nest, and thought how much her legs ached, and how good it was to be in bed, and her eyes felt so heavy she closed them properly, and a moment later she was fast asleep.

11
    The mudnut harvest
    W hen they awoke, soft grey daylight was filtering into the burrow through the smoke-hole above the fire. Everybody had gone except for Pollum, who was sitting quietly by the fire waiting for them to wake. Mumpo was nowhere to be seen.
    ‘Your friend’s out on the lake,’ said Pollum. ‘Helping with the harvest.’
    She had breakfast waiting for them: a plate of what looked like biscuits, but turned out to be fried sliced mudnuts.
    ‘Don’t you ever eat anything but mudnuts?’