Slowly the sun began sinking in the west. The sky was a warm peach color with dove-gray pennants of cloud showing silver underbellies. Heatwaves still shimmered in the distance.

Thrugg sat awhile, gazing sadly at the beauty of it all. “Hmm, it ain’t too bad for an’ old streamdog like me. I’ve had a good innin’s an’ enjoyed meself. But you two young uns, I wish you could’ve seen more seasons to yore string afore you ’ave to go. Still an’ all, we’re all good mateys, so we’ll take a load of ’em with us an’ go out in the good company of each other.”

Dumble had found a stick. He peered over the bank, wrinkling his nose, fearless in his babyish innocence. “Why are all the crones quiet, ’Ocangus?”

The young falcon winced as he settled his fractured wing right. “Ye’d best hope those birds stay quiet, laddie. When the beasties start up their chantin’ again, that’s when they’ll come for us.”

“Can Dumble have some squashy blackb’rries an’ pears, Mista Thugg?”

Thrugg undid the haversack that he had used as a flail upon the bodies of many crows. The once tasty contents were squashed flat. “Bless yer ’eart, liddle un, ’course you can. ’Elp yourself.” The otter sat with a sad smile on his face, watching Dumble eat.

Rocangus touched his paw with the uninjured wing. “Dinna worry, streamdog, we’ll give yon birds a battle tae remember and sing aboot—those that are left alive.”

The last gleam of twilight was showing on the horizon when the massed army of crows began to chant themselves into a frenzy. It echoed dirgelike across the deserted countryside.

22

A half-moon hung in a sky of aquamarine. Paddles dipped noiselessly into the high-banked waters as two logboats threaded their way down a tributary far from the Great South Stream. Both craft were loaded to the gunwales with Guosssom shrews. Mara and Pikkle traveled in the front vessel. They had been going since dawn, sailing along an intricate network of backwaters. Beside them Log-a-log and Nordo checked the barkcloth charts showing the route.

“How much farther before we’re there, Nordo?” Mara murmured sleepily.

“We should get there by dawn, with any luck. Get some sleep, you two. We’re running downstream—put your paddles up.”

Pikkle looked around. Save for the watch shrews, all the others had settled down to catch some rest. He patted his stomach. “Bit of tucker wouldn’t go amiss, wot! How’s a chap supposed to sleep when the old tum starts growlin’ an’ keepin’ him awake, that’s what I’d like t’ know!”

Reaching into a sack that was stowed in the bows, Log-a-log passed two large round flat objects to the hare. “Try these, Pikkle. They’re shrews’ long-voyage hardtack biscuits. They might have been baked quite a few seasons ago but they’re full of nourishment. You should enjoy them.”