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

paddled without much effort.
    He’d heard Welsh fishermen would take their coracles out off the coast in all weathers. He’d hate to try that himself, but on a meandering creek like this one, the little boat might be at least a temporary answer to Tim’s fatigue. The problem was, how could they all fit in? The coracle looked as if it would founder under the weight of Torchyld and Dan alone, not to mention trying to squeeze the others in around them.
    Maybe it would be possible to make a rope of vines or strips from their robes, and float the coracle along with Tim and that poor shrimp Medrus in it while the rest towed from the bank. That was, of course, provided the stream flowed in the direction they wanted to take. He asked Torchyld. The young giant only stared at him.
    “Dost expect me to know? I thought ye did.”
    “But how the hell—” Peter caught himself. He’d forgotten he was supposed to be infallible. While he was wondering how to save face, Dan Stott blinked, opened his eyes without undue haste, and slowly sat up.
    “Ah,” he remarked. “The boat has arrived.”
    “Cripes, Dan, you sound as if you’ve been expecting it,” said Tim.
    “Let us rather say that I am not surprised. Such craft are frequent manifestations in the vignettes of local history to which I alluded earlier. It has come to take us on the next leg of our journey.”
    “The hell it has. Where’s that?”
    “We shall no doubt be informed when we get there.”
    Stott arose, picked up his now dry robe, shook it free of lounging grasshoppers, and put it on. He adjusted the gold fillet around his head-covering, made a discreet trip behind a convenient tree, came back, and announced, “I am ready.”
    “You’re actually going to ride in that boat?” Tim demanded.
    “We all are, are we not?”
    “How the hell can we? The damn thing’s no bigger than my Aunt Winona’s old sitz bath.”
    “I suggest that Sir Torchyld and I, because of our greater weight and girth, take the bow and stern respectively. If you and Medrus sit side by side in front of me and Peter takes his place between you two and Sir Torchyld, we should be able to trim the boat adequately.”
    “Trim, hell! She’ll be slam on the bottom with all hands before we can get our rumps planted.”
    “I believe not. Such an occurrence has not cropped up in any of the literature sent by my sister Matilda. Passengers are merely wafted over the rippling waters while gentle breezes fan their temples. Sometimes ethereal music is heard, sometimes not.”
    “Sometimes there’s a rudder and sail, or a pair of oars, or some damn thing to navigate with, isn’t there?” Tim insisted.
    “Such accoutrements are not strictly necessary,” Dan informed him. “The boat is guided by mysterious forces.”
    “What forces?”
    “That detail is never explained, possibly to enhance the atmosphere of mystery. One merely trusts. Sir Torchyld, if you and I get in simultaneously from opposite sides, I believe we shall thus minimize the danger of capsizing.”
    Tim snickered meanly. “Some trust. Go ahead, Dan. We can all use a good laugh. Might bring down something else to eat.”
    “There is, as I rather anticipated, a lunch basket in the boat,” Dan replied mildly, setting one large foot in the flimsy craft and pulling the other in after it.
    Torchyld stepped briskly aboard at the same time. Shandy watched for the coracle to founder. To his astonishment, it appeared to ride almost as high in the water as before. Stott and Torchyld were now passing chicken legs, jam tarts, and bunches of grapes back and forth like two ladies at a tea party. Medrus moaned.
    “Might I not go in ye coracle, great druids? It be so long, so very long—”
    “Oh, what the hell? Come on. Here, boys, take your staves.”
    Peter got Tim and Medrus stowed aboard, then he climbed over the gunwale himself. It was a tight squeeze, even with his knees up under his chin, but at least he got his jam tart before