quiet and hoarse as to be almost indistinguishable from the wind moving through the riverside trees. âBeware of ⦠appearances. He will seem yer ⦠best friend. And he will come.â
His head fell back onto the stretcher. His arm dangled limply.
âWhat was all that about?â said Viola as they stared after Doc Nettletree, who was scuttling in the stretcher partyâs wake.
âIâm not really sure,â Sylvester said slowly. He seemed to be in some kind of trance.
âAre you all right?â
âI guess so.â He twitched his head as if to shake away cobwebs. âA bit shaken. You were a while fetching the doc.â
âHe was fast asleep. His wife had a devil of a job wakening him.â
âI thought it must be something like that. Letâs follow them to the clinic to see if the ferret pulls through.â
She looked down at her soggy clothes, then at his. âWe ought to get into something dry and warm. Iâm freezing.â
âOkay, letâs get you home then. Iâll go to Doc Nettletreeâs after.â
More than once, as they walked back to Foxglove, Sylvester started to tell her about the strange conversation heâd had with Keelhaul Levantes. Each time the words seem to die in his throat. So much had happened in such a short space of time, more than had happened in all the rest of his life, it seemed. He needed to get it sorted out in his own head before talking about it with someone else, even Viola, or perhaps especially Viola. Seemingly unaware of the dark, confused thoughts racing through his mind, she spent the trip prattling away about such inconsequentialities he wondered if she might be trying consciously to forget all that had occurred.
But there was another reason Sylvester was eager to get Viola to the safety of her home.
Soon after Doc Nettletree and his two nurses had left them alone on the riverbank, the sense had begun creeping through Sylvester that there was someone watching them from the darkness, and that sense had grown until he could no longer ignore it.
Although he could see and hear nothing, he was certain that someone was following them.
â¿ â¿ â¿ â¿ â¿.
âSylvester,â said a voice.
Sylvester stirred. He was flying smoothly and aerobatically in great, long loops from one little white cloud to the next as he made his slow descent toward the welcoming surface of his friend, the Great Wet Without End. Viola was to his left, flying as gracefully as he. Between them, they had solved the mystery of the Mighty Enormous Cliff, and he was proud in the knowledge theyâd done this â even though he couldnât remember what the solution actually was.
Now this damned intrusive voice was disrupting his bliss. âSylvester.â
âPush off.â
âSylvester, wake up. Itâs me, Doctor Nettletree.â
The bright light wasnât the sky, he realized. It was the inside of Doc Nettletreeâs little clinic in the center of Foxglove. He must have stretched himself out along a row of three or four of the hard upright chairs in the waiting room and, despite the discomfort, dozed off.
âWhaaaâ?â
âItâs about your friend.â
âHeâs not my friend.â Except maybe he is. Those warnings he gave me; that was the act of a friend. âWhat about him?â
Doctor Nettletree lowered his gaze. âIâm sorry to tell you this, but . . .â the portly lemming took a deep breath and looked Sylvester in the eye, âhe didnât make it.â
âDied?â
âYes. I did everything I could, but â¦â The doctor shrugged.
âDid he die of that hole in his shoulder?â
âYes. If itâd been treated right away, heâd have nothing left but a scar to show for it by now. He must have suffered it days ago, perhaps a week or more, and the wound had festered. He had the black rot, and it was reaching