Free The Curse of the Giant Hogweed by Charlotte MacLeod Page A

rooster for his years, but he wouldn’t be able to stand much more of this. He’d keep going till he dropped, of course, rather than admit he was done in, but how soon was he going to drop? It was an ineffable relief to come upon an open, grassy bank with a genteel creek meandering through. Better still, the sun they’d seen back at the cave mouth and hardly been able to glimpse since then in the thick forest was warming the grass nicely.
    They all crouched at the water’s edge and took long drinks. Then Peter remarked, “Great day for the wash,” stripped off his soiled robe, and waded in with it over his arm, leaving the harp, the feathers, and his three sticks on the bank.
    “How’s the water, Pete?” Tim asked him.
    “Great. Come on in, everybody. Good for what ails you.”
    Torchyld plunged in as a warrior should, splashing and wallowing and insisting it wasn’t a bit cold once you got ducked. Tim followed, then Dan Stott, still wearing his white robe and looking a bit like Moby Dick. At last Medrus waded in ankle deep and dithered there moaning until Torchyld picked him up by the ankles and pitched him in head first. Once over the initial shock, he paddled around like a puppy and put on airs about his bravery in entering this foreign element.
    Without soap, they couldn’t get themselves or their clothes really clean. They did their best, however, all except Medrus, who couldn’t seem to grasp the principle of washing. At last, refreshed and at least semipurified, they came ashore, spread out their garments to dry on the grass, and eased themselves down to rest. Before long, Torchyld caught the older men yawning.
    “How can ye sleep?” he chided. “Men on ye march drowse not without first setting a sentry.”
    He sounded as if he hoped they’d talk him out of the idea, but nobody did so he had to sit alone listening to Tim snore, Dan snuffle, and Medrus emit strange whuffling noises like a dog dreaming of chasing a rabbit. Peter merely slept, or tried to until he felt himself being prodded in the ribs.
    “Hist, druid,” whispered the self-appointed sentry. “Something cometh.”
    “What cometh?” Peter growled back. “Why couldn’t you wake somebody else?”
    “Because ye old one and ye fat one outrank me, and ye scrawny runt I trust not. Behold.”
    Peter sat up and beheld. “Well, I’ll be jiggered,” he exclaimed when he’d spotted the object bobbing toward them down we stream. “A floating washtub. Is that what they call a coracle?”
    The vessel looked to be about the size and shape of his grandmother’s zinc bathtub, woven basketwise of osiers or some such withy material, and covered with stretched cowhide. Shandy had seen pictures of them, but had never really believed anybody would voluntarily set out from shore in so flimsy a craft.
    “Who’s in it?” he asked Torchyld. “Can you see?”
    “I see nobody. It floateth high on ye water, yet acts as if it were being steered.”
    Torchyld waded out into the stream, his staff held ready just in case. In a moment, the coracle had bobbed close enough for him to look inside.
    “Empty,” he announced. “Unless there be a disembodied boatman.”
    “That be entirely possible.”
    It was Medrus who’d spoken. Their talk had wakened him and Timothy Ames, who were both eyeing the coracle with keen interest.
    “Bring it ashore, son,” Tim called out.
    Before Torchyld could obey, the little boat of itself changed course and swerved in the direction of Tim’s voice.
    “It obeyeth ye archdruid,” laughed the king’s great-nephew. “Come hither, boat.” He waded ashore. Sure enough, the coracle bobbed along behind him, into the shallows next to the bank.
    Now that he could get a good look at it, Peter saw that the wicker frame was skillfully woven and the hide covering shrunk so tight to it that it made a dry, light, and probably efficient craft. It would be tippy and cranky to steer until you got the hang of it, but could be rowed or