Free Eulalia! by Brian Jacques Page B

shallow edge, letting forth a sigh, which sounded like a deflating balloon. Water, fresh running water! Orkwil sucked up huge draughts of the clean, cold liquid. Then he rolled into the ford and went deeper, allowing the current to carry him downriver for a distance. Grabbing the hanging branches of a willow tree, he halted his progress. His footpaws just barely touched bottom, the river came up to his chin. After ducking his head several times, Orkwil clung there, feeling the soothing current washing him clean and refreshing his body. What a wonderful thing riverwater is, he thought. Then he noticed the watervole watching him from the far bank. Redwall Abbey had taught Orkwil manners, he nodded amiably to the creature. “Good day to ye, sir.”
    The watervole was a big, bushy old beast, his dark brown fur heavily streaked with grey. He squinted at the young hedgehog, snapping out a reply. “Never mind what sort o’ day ’tis, what’re ye trespassin’ round here for, eh?”
    Orkwil put on a friendly smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was trespassin’, I was only taking a bath.”
    The watervole nodded, first up-, then downriver.
    â€œPlenty o’ river both sides, without dirtyin’ up my stretch. Are ye stealin’ my watercress, is that it, eh?”
    Orkwil shook his head, still acting friendly. “No, sir, honestly. Matter o’ fact, I’ve had all my supplies stolen from me. Back there, down the path. It was a bunch o’ magpies that did it.”
    The watervole smiled maliciously. “Serves ye right then, don’t it. No thievin’ magpie’d get near my watercress. Not my fault yore vittles got pinched, ’tis yore own! Nobeast takes a bath round here ’cept me, so get movin’, ’edgepig!”
    Orkwil had been building up a dislike for the watervole. He was about to deliver a few cutting insults, when the watervole suddenly spoke cordially to him.
    â€œDo y’see these big clumps o’ watercress growin’ by the bank, matey? Would ye pick some of ’em for me?”
    Orkwil saw his opportunity to do what he had been planning. Help somebeast out, who lived by the river. Maybe this watervole wasn’t such a bad old codger. There might be a chance that he could live with him for the season, helping out. Holding his chin high, he waded across, to where the watercress grew in profusion. “Certainly, sir. My name’s Orkwil Prink, now you just let me know when I’ve thrown enough watercress over. Here comes the first lot!”
    He began heaving bunches of the plant to the watervole, who caught them eagerly, stacking them high. The young hedgehog went to his task with a right good will, conversing as he did. “This looks like good, fresh cress, sir, what’ll ye be makin’ with it, a salad?”
    The watervole nodded. “Aye, salad, though that’ll do for lunch tomorrow. I’m goin’ to make a big pot o’ my favourite, watercress, mushroom an’ watershrimp soup.”
    The young hedgehog chuckled. “Sounds wonderful, I’ve never tasted a soup like that before, sir.”
    The watervole clambered out onto the bank. He picked up a bow and arrows. Notching a shaft to his bowstring, he sneered, in a cold, hard voice, “An’ yore not likely to taste it, Orful Stink, or wotever yore name is. Now leave that watercress alone, an’ get out o’ here, afore I puts an arrow in yer. Go an’ find yore own food someplace else, you ain’t gittin’ none o’ mine. Move!”
    Orkwil was shocked by the watervole’s meanness, and told him so in no uncertain terms. “Why, ye nasty old skinflint, y’selfish, crafty, graspin’, cressgrabber! If I’d have known…”
    The watervole aimed the arrow, drawing back his bowstring threateningly. “Shut yore mouth, ’edgepig, an’ make yoreself scarce. I’ll give ye