High Rhulain

Hillyah explained eagerly. “The bed fitted square to the walls in one corner. I noticed that the leg that fitted into that angle was broken off short. It was propped up by two thick books. One was called Gatewatcher’s Poems, written by somebeast named Porgil Longspike, and the other was Tales of Ancient Life, by Minegay. They’re still in the same place, I never got round to asking Brink Cellarhog if he’d make a new bedleg for me.”

Little Sister Snowdrop, walking slightly behind Hillyah, cried out. “Huh, Minegay, I’ll wager that’s one of the names Sister Geminya made up for herself. Same letters!”

Old Quelt was last to arrive inside the gatehouse. He saw three pairs of footpaws sticking out from beneath the big, old four-poster bed. “What have you found, is there anything there?”

Girry’s voice sounded rather hollow and stifled. “Oh, the book’s here alright, sir, but it’s jammed tight, and this bed’s far too heavy to lift!”

Grudd Foremole moved Quelt gently to one side. “You’m cummen out’n thurr, youngbeasts. This yurr bee’s a tarsk furr moi crew. Rorbul, fetch oi summ proppen an’ foive gudd liften beasts!”

Foremole’s sturdy assistant, Rorbul, ambled out of the gatehouse. He returned in a short while with five able-looking moles and two blocks of beechwood from the kindling pile by the north wall. Headed by Grudd Foremole, the crew scrambled under the bed. The watchers saw the big bed slowly begin to rise under Grudd’s directions.

“Yurr naow molers, put ee backs oop agin et an’ lift. Wun, two, h’up she cumms. Hurr, roight crew, ’old et thurr!”

Following some knocking and bumping, Grudd called out, “Hurr, take et daown noice’n’easy, moi ’earties.”

Effortlessly, the bed fell down into its former position. The molecrew emerged, dusting their digging claws off, satisfied with a chore well done.

Grudd passed the books over to Quelt. “Yurr, zurr, they’m cummed to no gurt ’arm.” He tugged his snout politely to Hillyah. “Thoi bed bee’s as furm an’ cumfy as ever ’twas, marm.”

The onlookers crowded out onto the sun-warmed wallsteps alongside the gatehouse. Old Quelt sat in their midst. He opened the book in question and sought the appropriate page, from which he read aloud, “ ‘Chapter two. Fabled Weapons. Concerning the lance of Corriam Wildlough, brother of the High Queen Rhulain.’ ”

Two logboats sailed downstream. Tiria sat in the stern of the leading craft, listening as both Guosim crews plied their vessels skillfully, singing a shrew waterchant in their gruff bass tones.

“Pass to me my good ole paddle, steady as ye go,

bend y’backs ye sons o’ Guosim, row mates row!

First a spring comes from the mountains,

fed by rainfall from the sky,

’til it joins up with another,

bubblin’ from the rocks on high,

spring to rill an’ rill to brook,

growin’ stronger constantly,

blendin’ flowin’ always goin’,

on its journey to the sea.

Pass to me good ole paddle, steady as ye go,

bend y’backs ye sons o’ Guosim, row mates row!

As the day runs into night,

brooks do meet t’form a stream,

travellin’ through dark an’ light,

where the silver fishes gleam,

here’s a river deep an’ han’some,

windin’ o’er the grassy plain,

speedin’ with the current onward,

soon we’ll taste the salty main.

Pass to me my good ole paddle, steady as ye go,

bend y’backs ye sons o’ Guosim, row mates row!”

Morning sun twinkled through the tree foliage which formed a leafy canopy over the water. The current was fairly fast, running through a high-banked slope, chuckling as though it were enjoying a secret joke of its own. Dobra was in the prow of the second logboat, which had a crew of four Guosim paddlers and was carrying a cargo of food. Log a Log Urfa commanded the leading craft. Tiria could see his back, forward of their four shrew crew. Skipper sat amidships with Brink alongside him. The Cellarhog’s face looked drawn and wan. Not the best of sailors, he clung to the slim logboat’s side miserably.

Feeling sorry for the poor hedgehog, Tiria called out to Urfa, “How long will we be on this River Moss, sir?”

There was a hint of laughter in the Guosim chieftain’s voice as he shouted back to her. “This ain’t the Moss, beauty.’Tis only a sidestream that leads to it. See the bend up yonder? Well, the river lies beyond it. Hold tight now, miss, it gets a bit bumpy soon. We’ll be headin’ downhill, y’see, over a few rapids, but nothin’ t’worry about. Ye’ll know yore on the River Moss when we jump the ripflow that joins it with this stream. If’n ye likes sailin’, then ye’ll enjoy that part.”

Though Tiria sympathised with Brink’s discomfort, she had to admit to herself that she was enjoying the experience immensely. As the crew slewed the logboat deftly around the bend, spray cascaded high, and the stream really began to race along downhill. The ottermaid felt like yelling aloud with joy at the wildness of it all.