Martin knelt and lifted the rat’s head. The creature was very old and emaciated.

“There, there, now, old one,” he said, stroking sand out of its watery eyes. “We’re friends. You’re safe now.”

Log-a-Log touched the rat’s limp paw. “Save your breath, Martin. This one has gone to the gates of Dark Forest.”

“Dead?”

“Aye. Dead as a stone. He must have been on his last legs when the birds found him. Let’s get him to his hut.”

Between them they bore the rat into the tattered dwelling. Placing it gently in a corner, they covered the body with an old piece of sailcloth. Then Gonff explored the contents of the hut.

“Look, mateys, water and supplies,” he said triumphantly.

There was a small quantity of dried shrimp and seaweed and a pouch of broken biscuit, but best of all there were two hollow gourds filled with clean fresh water. Dinny found a cache of driftwood. He began setting a small fire, using a flint from Martin’s sling pouch and the steel of Gonff’s dagger.

“Pore beasten. Oi wunder who’m ’ee wurr.” The mole shook his head sadly.

Log-a-Log poured water into cockle shells.

“Sea rat. No question of it. He’s been chained to an oar, too. I saw the scars on his paws. Mine were like that once.”

Martin found a thick deep shell, blackened by fire on its outside. He began shredding shrimp and seaweed into it.

“But you said they used other creatures as oar slaves, yet this one was a rat?”

Log-a-Log poured water onto the ingredients and set the shell on two stones over the flames.

“Aye, but there’s no telling with sea rats. They’re savage and cruel. Maybe that one did something to offend his Captain. I’ve seen them laughing and drinking together, then suddenly fighting to the death next moment over some silly little incident.”

* * *

Night fell purple and gray in long rolling clouds; a stiff breeze sprang up from seaward as the four companions stood for a moment in silence around the pitiful canvas-wrapped figure in the small grave Dinny had dug in the sand. After the brief ceremony, they watched as the mole filled in the hole, decorating the mound with colored seashells he had found.

“Baint much, but far better’n sea ratten ud do furr ’ee.”

Salamandastron flared crimson against the dark sky as Gonff began to sing,

Always the tide comes flowing in.
Ever it goes out again.
Sleep ’neath the shore evermore,
Free from hunger and pain.
Morning light will bring the sun;
Seasons go rolling on.
Questing ever far from home,
For Salamandastron.

Log-a-Log shivered. He turned to the hut. “Come on, you three. That soup should be ready now.”

Martin bowed his farewell to their benefactor and followed the shrew inside.

“Aye, life must go on,” he agreed. “A dry place to sleep, a warm fire, some food and a night’s rest is what we all need. Tomorrow we go to the fire mountain.”