Performing endlessly.

I’m free I’m free, companions we,

Travel the highways happily,

Performing deeds of derring-do,

And plays of heroes good and true,

Tumbling singing in merry attire,

Pray tell me, sir, what’s your desire?

Come fiddle dum twiddle dum derrydownday,

A harum-scarum hoopallahey,

Come one come all this day to see

The Wandering Noonvale Companeeeeeeeeee!”

At the very heart of Mossflower country the vastness of lordly, wide-trunked trees gave way to an expansive watermeadow, formed in a wide shallow basin at the juncture of two streams. Midafternoon heat haze shimmered on the far margin as Log a Log, Chieftain of the Guosim, stood waist deep at the fringe of the tall reeds with his shrews. Though usually a loud argumentative band, the Guerrilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower were unusually quiet. Each small scruffy furred fighter, equipped with varicolored headband and short rapier, watched their leader as he parted bulrush and marsh-wort. Raising himself on tip-paw, Log a Log shaded his eyes, peering about over the reaches of water lily, crowfoot and brookweed. A large striped dragonfly hovered near the shrew Chieftain’s face, investigating him. He growled at it. “Buzz off!” Surprisingly, it did. He watched a brown trout fin idly by him, just beneath the surface. Log a Log wished that he could forget his tribe’s troubles and go fishing. Behind him a young shrew chewed noisily at some watercress, and Log a Log turned and fixed him with a severe stare. The young Guosim shrew stopped chewing and swallowed guiltily. An older shrew pointed across Log a Log’s shoulder.

“Over there, Chief!”

Log a Log’s eyes narrowed as he turned and stared searchingly out over the sunstill reaches of the watermeadow. Over at the eastern edge, by a stand of weeping willows, an oar poked itself in the air, waving back and forth thrice. He cupped both paws around his mouth and let forth a long ululating call.

“Logalogalogalogaaaaaa!”

Immediately the shrews behind him relaxed and began chattering.

“That’ll be Bargle an’ the others!”

“Then the coast mebbe clear, eh?”

“Well, the Chief wouldn’t have called if ’twasn’t, stump’ead!”

Log a Log followed as they waded back onto dry ground, still disputing and debating.

“Stump’ead yerself, wobblesnout. ’Ow d’you know they ain’t still around?”

“Wobblesnout? Lissen, matey, if I ’ad a snout like yores I’d keep me gob shut about others’.”

“Mebbe Bargle was alone. The others might’ve been ambushed.”

“Nah, Splikker was with ’em. He wouldn’t let hisself get ambushed.”

“Oh, wouldn’t ’e, then? Remember that time by the south rapids . . .”

“Stow the gab an’ latch yore lips, mates. Mayon, see to the vittles!”