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“I think it’s my meadow,” he said doubtfully. “It’s all so different from up here. If only I could pick out a landmark.”
A bird careered by and called out a greeting to Toad. Catching sight of the Mole, it uttered a squawk of disbelief. It was the very same Swift of earlier acquaintance. He landed on the rim of the basket and affixed the Mole with a beady gaze.
“I don’t believe it!” he said. “You there, Mole, you are a creature out of place. It’s most unnatural, this business. First the water, now the air. I shall have to report you to … to the authorities.”
“Oh?” retorted Mole cheekily. “And who might that be?”
The Swift struggled with this and finally said, “Surely there’s a … a bureau of something or other I can complain to. And you, Toad, I’m surprised at you for encouraging this sort of behavior in others. Bad enough that you’re up here where you don’t belong.”
“Bilge,” declared Toad. “And if you’re going to ride with us, at least be polite about it. Otherwise, be off with you.”
Once again Mole’s brain hummed feverishly to produce a clever reply, but once again the Swift was gone before he could deliver up some sizzling repartee. (Just as well, for not all rudeness needs to be returned, measure for measure. Sometimes one just has to take the high road of good behavior, even if one is elbowed onto that path by the bad behavior of others.)
“Oh, look!” Mole cried, and pointed at a tiny boat on the River with an even tinier figure plying the oars. “Could that be Ratty? Hullooo, Ratty!” he called, but the figure took no notice. “Up here!” He momentarily forgot himself and waved vigorously, which sent the basket jig-jogging sideways. He grabbed the rim in a panic. And then, after taking a few deep steadying breaths, he let go again. He surveyed the world below him, and thought … Yes.
Yes, there was something to this ballooning business after all, with the fresh air in one’s face, and the ripple of the bellying silk, and the faint creak of the basket. Yes. He raised his snout to taste the breeze and was shocked and enchanted to find alluring clues to a thousand and one tales unknown to him, whole volumes of information he’d never read before. There—yes, just there—came the faintest fragrance of strange wildflowers; from over there wafted the damp piney smell of unexplored forests; from there, the intriguing smell of murky marshes teeming with exotic life. And there was a hint of something else tickling his nose. Something briny that he’d never smelled before. Why should the air smell of salt? What could it be?
Mole sniffed deeply and pondered this thrilling question while Toad investigated the contents of the luncheon basket. Our aeronauts’ attention was not focused on their course as closely as it should have been, so that neither one of them noticed they were drifting toward Toadsworth at a lower-than-recommended altitude.
The bewitched Mole said, “What is that smell, Toad, the one far off in the distance? That odd, particular smell that’s … well … like salt?”
Toad paid him no attention. He was busy pawing through various wax-paper parcels and working himself into a snit. “Oh, drat,” he grumbled peevishly. “Cook forgot to pack me a bottle of black currant cordial. What a bother. She knows it’s my favorite. I’ll have to speak to her about it.”
“But that smell,” Mole went on. “Why should the air smell like pickling brine?”
“Oh, here it is,” said Toad, extracting a bottle swathed in straw. “Hmm? Oh, they tell me that’s the Ocean, although I’ve never seen it.”
“So that’s the Ocean,” said Mole in wonder. “I’ve read about it in books. They say it’s a place where all the water in the world ends up, every stream and lake, every drop of rain. Do you think that includes our own River?”
“I s’pose,” said Toad, unwrapping a packet of sandwiches. “Dig in, old thing.”
Mole stared into the distance and said, “I wonder what it looks like, this Ocean?”
“They tell me it’s huge. Water as far as the eye can see. And big waves, enormous waves. And terrible tides, and p’tickly nasty weather.”
“Oh,” said Mole diffidently, “but it does smell so very interesting. I think I’d like to see it one day, just for a little while. Could we get there by balloon, d’you think?” For Mole, having overcome his initial fear, had decided that ballooning was quite the way to go.
“Not really a place for Riverbankers,” said Toad. “I say, do you want the cheese or the roast bee—”
His words were interrupted by a tremendous thump and a hair-raising screech, followed by the appalling sight of some kind of harpoon thrusting its way upward through the bottom of the basket.
“What’s happening? What’s happening?” yelled Toad.
The Mole danced out of the way of the sharp metal point as it rose between them until it loomed over their heads.
“What is it?” cried Toad.
The Mole took a tentative step closer and examined the strange object which had so ignominiously impaled their airship. “Oh, no,” he moaned. “We’ve come down on the steeple.”
CHAPTER THREE
Down to Earth
In which Mole learns an important lesson, and Toad, being Toad, does not.
Toad exclaimed, “The steeple? That’s ridiculous! We’ve got miles of room.…” He waved his paw and looked about him, and his voice trailed off, for indeed they were lodged—embarrassingly so—on top of the Toadsworth church. Below them, a gaggle of excited animals was already gathering on the cobblestones, for the sleepy village was generally short on such electrifying entertainment. The more sympathetic souls clasped their paws in consternation, while others of harder character nudged one another and snickered.
“Oh,” groaned Toad, “my lovely balloon. What’ll we do now, Moly? Should I turn up the gas? Or should I turn down the gas? I just can’t think.”
“Don’t touch the gas! Don’t touch a thing!” shouted the Mole. “As far as I can tell, we’re stuck. We have to climb down somehow and send for a wagon to collect the balloon.” He was most cross with Toad, who was, after all, the pilot in charge.
Toad heard the ire in his friend’s voice and deemed it unfair. “It was the wind, you know. Not my fault at all. I did warn you there’s no steering these things.”
“Oh, blast,” fumed Mole. “You’re absolutely right, Toad. It’s actually all my fault for putting myself in your hands in the first place. Ratty tried to warn me, and he was absolutely right. Any creature with the slightest sense would have recognized it for a bad idea. Last year there were boat smashes, then there were car crashes, and now we have this. Oh, yes, the signs were there, all right, but did I heed them? No, I did not!” The Mole ranted away in severe tones about his own lack of judgment.
Toad listened in astonishment, for he had never seen the normally placid Mole so angry. On the other hand, he, Toad, had never been let off the hook so easily. But after listening to the Mole berate himself for a full minute, Toad began to feel decidedly uncomfortable. After yet another minute, Toad couldn’t stand it anymore and, being a decent sort at heart, burst out with, “Moly, old fellow, please don’t be so cross with yourself. It’s all my fault, really, every single bit of it, and I’m terribly sorry.” Tears brimmed in his pleading eyes. “I’m a very silly Toad. Can you ever forgive me?”
The Mole swallowed a bitter retort and sighed heavily. “Toad, we both should have watched where we were going. There’s no use standing around dividing up the blame. It doesn’t help us in getting down from here. We’ve got to abandon ship.”
“Er,” said Toad nervously, “how do we do that?”
“You do have a length of rope somewhere, don’t you?”
“Erm, yes … but why?”
“We’ve got to climb down, of course.”
Toad turned pale. “Are you sure, Moly? It’s just that I’m, well”—his voice dropped—“you might not guess this about me since I’m otherwise extraordinarily athletic … but mountaineering’s not really my sport, you see. I’m not a terribly keen climber.”
Mole fished about and found a coil of rope. “Well, you’re going to become one now—or perhaps you’d rather live out the rest of your days up here. How long d’you think those sandwiches will last you?”
Toad turned paler. Mole made several knots in the rope and secured it to the basket. He threw the length over the side. Looking down, he could see that it stopped far short of the ground. Dismay wrinkled his brow as he considered their plight. The rope was only long enough to get them to the roof. But it would have to do.
On the street below, a family of hedgehogs (who had considerably more sense than the rabbits and squirrels) had run home and fetched a bedspread and were now holding it stretched wide in case of catastrophe. Mole suppressed a shudder and said, “Come on, Toady, I’ll go first. Just follow me and do what I do. And remember: Don’t. Look. Down.”
Toad moaned, “Moly, I don’t think I can do it.”
“’Course you can,” said Mole, “for the simple reason that you have to. Now, come along.” The Mole eased himself over the rim and began to lower himself down the knotted rope, assiduously avoiding looking at the ground. He said, “Are you coming, Toad?”
A faint whimper issued from the basket.
“Toad!” snapped Mole, whose nerves were stretched to the breaking point. “Come along this instant!” Toad, his eyes bulging in fear, peered over the rim. Mole glared at him and said, “Don’t make me come back up there.”
Toad mutely shook his head and remained stuck fast.
Mole, who was now halfway down the rope, realized that threats were inadequate to the job. He made the decision to alter his tactics (not easily done when one is concentrating on climbing down a steeple) and employ the use of embarrassment as a corrective tool. “I know I warned you not to look down, Toad, but I’ve changed my mind. Look down and tell me what you see.”
Toad stared at the gawking throng. A couple of the younger rabbits, under the impression that this was all some delightful amusement staged just for them, waved at him cheerfully.
“The whole village must be down there by now,” said Mole. “And what do you think they’re doing?”
Toad shook his head.
“Why, they’re all staring at you. They’re talking about you, every single one of them. And what do you think they’re going to say tomorrow when they come back after breakfast and find you’re still in the basket?”
Toad looked at Mole uncertainly.
“Oh, I can just hear them now,” said Mole.
Toad frowned.
“Can you?” said Mole.
Toad frowned harder.
“They’ll be laughing about it for years.”
Thunder settled on Toad’s brow; grim was his expression.
“They’re probably making book about how long you’ll be stuck up here.”4 Mole lowered himself the last few feet onto the slate roof, and before he could dust himself off, he was joined in a flash by Toad. A distant cheer rose from the crowd.
“So,” said Mole, “I’m glad you decided to come along after all.”
Toad, gasping for breath, said, “Thought you might need my help.” He looked with dismay at the ground, still some distance below. “What do we do now, Moly?”
The Mole cast about and spied a series of gutters, which drained into a downpipe. “We’ll just have to go down that drain. I can’t see any other way.”
Toad gnawed his lip. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll go first. Follow me and do what I do.”
The Mole crouched down and began to crawl along the lead gutter where it met the roof, the terrified Toad crowding him from behind. The soft lead gutters sagged alarmingly beneath their combined weight. Mole broke into a sweat.
“Toad,” he rasped, “I know I told you to follow me, but we’re too heavy together. Stay well back.”
“Shan’t,” wheezed Toad.
Mole spoke through gritted teeth. “You are. A very. Provoking. Animal.” The gutter protested under them. The noise so alarmed the Mole that he practically scampered the rest of the way to the downpipe, Toad hard on his heels. They caught their breath, and Toad waved to the onlookers. He was rewarded with a faint huzzah.
“Stop playing to the crowd,” chided Mole. “This is serious business.”
But there was no worse encouragement to Toad’s vanity than the attention of an adoring crowd. He bowed deeply. The next second, he lost his balance, uttered a strangled cry, and for one terrible moment teetered on the edge of the roof, frantically windmilling his arms.
The Mole made a sudden grab for his coattails and saved him from a certain plunge to the ground. The audience made an ooohing sound and gave the Mole a hearty round of applause.
“Do stop flailing about,” said Mole. “We’ve got to concentrate on getting down from here in one piece.”
“S-sorry,” stammered the chastened Toad, and truly meant it. The Mole had just saved his life, and one should always be appreciative about such things.
“Right,” said Mole. “We’ve got to negotiate this downpipe. Hold tight with all fours and lower yourself as if you’re climbing down a tree. I’ll go first. And for heaven’s sake, don’t push me this time.”
Mole held on to the gutter and eased himself backward over the edge. The downpipe, having been in the sun all day, was uncomfortably hot to the touch. He lowered himself and was most of the way to the bottom when he looked up to see Toad sliding down the pipe toward him at an alarming rate.
“Grab hold, Toad. Slow down!”
“I can’t! It’s too hot.”
Fortunately, they were only a foot or two from the ground when the Toad’s feet collided with the Mole’s head, causing our heroes to land in a tangle of limbs. Mole gingerly massaged his aching scalp while Toad bowed and saluted the cheering assembly.
Mole eventually managed to drag him away, and together they begged a ride to Toad Hall in the back of a coal wagon. Toad spent the ride bragging to the coal man about his own derring-do, and how he’d masterminded the hair-raising descent from the steeple. “And then I realized,” he nattered on, “that the only way down was by rope. Fortunately, I, Toad, am a terribly keen climber. I, Toad, am a gifted athlete. One of those fortunate beings whom Nature has blessed with both strength and agility. To say nothing of supple grace. And quick wits. Even Mole here (who’s not bad with a rope himself) learned a thing or two from me today. It’s too bad he blundered into my path on the final descent and ruined what would have been a perfect landing. I did warn him to get out of the way, but instead he sprained my foot with his head, and now I have this dreadful injury. But no matter, for I am cut from stalwart cloth.…”
Such was the Mole’s reward for all his courageous service that day.
Our adventurers finally made it home, filthy, sunburned, exhausted. The first thing Toad did was to send a message for a crack team of salvage squirrels to retrieve the balloon. Mole, while outwardly commiserating about the damage to the airship, was inwardly content, for he had gone into the lists, done combat with his fears, and overcome them.5 Valiant, doughty creature!
Now, if he could only think of what to tell Ratty.
CHAPTER FOUR
The May Fair
In which our heroes celebrate the arrival of summer, and two of them taste grief, although of different flavors.
The frisky Mole trotted along the path to the River, pausing now and then to admire a daisy here and snuffle at a lily of the valley there. He was in the finest mood, for not only was it the day of the May Fair, but the Rat had left his tiny boat at the landing for him so that he could float down to his friend’s house in ease and comfort. (Toad had managed to resurrect his balloon, but Mole had sworn off flight forever, even if it meant never seeing the Ocean.)
“Good old Ratty,” he said. “So considerate of others. Always thinks of his friends, Ratty does. Unlike some other creatures I could think of. Such as toads.”
Now, while it was true that the pleasure of Toad’s company was best appreciated in small do
ses, no sooner had Mole admitted this to himself than he felt a flush of shame, for he was a thoroughly decent sort and disliked speaking ill of neighbors (even those who might genuinely deserve it). He resolved to look for the best in Toad, who did have—in spite of his essential Toadness—a few endearing qualities.
Mole stepped lightly into the boat and loosed the painter the way Ratty had taught him.6 A moment later, he was on his way.
The Mole looked forward to the day when he might have his own tiny boat cunningly fitted with comfy cushions and gleaming brass appointments. He would name it … he would name it … Mole’s Boat. Oh, dear, how dreadfully unimaginative.7 No, that wouldn’t do at all. A delightful little boat called out for a delightful little name. He mulled this over but could not come up with something suitable. Never mind. The day was too fine to be taxing one’s brain with such matters. The breeze, shuttling merrily back and forth along the banks, set the rushes to singing and the reeds to clacking in joyous counterpoint: The first of May! The first of May! All creatures shall give thanks this day! Before he knew it, he caught sight of the canted willow that marked the Rat’s snug bijou residence under the bank.
“Hullo, Mole!” Rat hailed him from his doorway as Mole secured the boat.
“Hullo, Ratty. What a fine day for the Fair.”
“The finest. Half a mo’— I’m almost ready.” Ratty finished sleeking back his brilliantined fur with a pair of silver brushes. “Right,” he said. “We’re off.”
The pair clambered up the shady bank and emerged into the marshy meadow. In the full sunlight, the Mole’s new waistcoat glowed an alarming orange hue not often seen in Nature. The Water Rat looked startled and then studied his friend’s new togs with a narrowed eye and furrowed brow.
“What is it, Ratty?” asked Mole.
After a moment, the Rat replied, “Oh, nothing. It’s just…”