CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Old Gypsy

In which we follow Ratty into the Wild Wood, and we learn that some weasels are not as bright as they should be.

The Rat finally fell asleep five whole minutes before Badger shook him awake. Yawning and groaning, he allowed himself to be led downstairs by his friends and dressed in faded finery: a trailing skirt of moldering velvet, patched in many places, the flowery fringed shawl, and several cheap clanking bracelets. This getup was crowned by a scarf of multicolored silk knotted low across his brow and dangling earrings of mock gold.

Mole and Badger stood back and surveyed their gaudy creation.

“Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you,” said Badger. “You’ll do.”

“Wait,” said Mole. He ran to the weapons room and came back with a pistol and compass and wordlessly offered them to the Rat, who slipped them into his pockets before selecting a stout blackthorn staff for a walking stick and also—perish the thought—as a weapon, should the need arise. They set out single-file in the dark, each wrapped in his own thoughts. By the time they got to the edge of the Wild Wood, the morning birds were tuning up.

Badger gave last-minute instructions. “Remember, Ratty, you must be out before dark, or things could go very badly for you.” The Mole was grim and silent, his heart so full of worry for his friend that he could not speak.

Ratty said, “Try not to worry too much, Moly. I’ll be all right.”

They gravely shook paws. Rat turned and walked into the forest. His friends watched in silence, their eyes fixed upon the gaily colored figure as it grew smaller and smaller, until it finally disappeared, devoured by the impenetrable shadows of the Wild Wood.

*   *   *

By the time the Rat reached the depths of the forest, he had thoroughly transformed himself. He hobbled stiffly, as if his joints ached; he was bent over like a crochet hook; he moved slowly and leaned on his staff for support.

Up ahead, a scruffy, half-grown stoat stepped out from behind a tree and shouted, “Halt! Who goes there?”

“Well,” muttered the Rat, “that’s certainly original.”

“What was that?” cried the sentry.

“I said my name is Seraphina Original.”

“That’s a funny name,” said the stoat. “Wot’s the password, then?”

“Password? I don’t have any password. I am just an old gypsy woman, as you can plainly see. And besides, young man, it’s very rude to remark upon someone’s name.”

The sentry looked abashed and ground his toe into the dirt. “Sorry,” he said.

“That’s all right,” said the gypsy kindly. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Digby, ma’am.”

“Will you take me to your camp, Digby? For I have had a vision that there is a wondrous flying machine hidden in the forest. Do you know of it?”

“Know of it? Why, mother”—here the sentry looked immensely proud—“I’ll have you know we’ve got it. The Chief Weasel’s promised to make it fly again. He said we could all take turns having a go.”

“Is that so?” marveled the gypsy. “Will you take me there?”

“I dunno,” said the sentry doubtfully. “I’m not s’posed to let anyone by without the password. I could get in big trouble.”

“I understand perfectly, Digby,” said the gypsy. “You’re only doing your job, and I must say you’re doing a fine job for such a young lad. Look, I tell you what. Why don’t you just whisper the password to me, and then when you ask me again, I can give it back to you?”

Digby pondered this. There seemed to be something a bit off about this suggestion, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what. He gave up the struggle and whispered in the gypsy’s ear, “It’s gob-stopper.”67

“Good boy,” whispered the gypsy, and then said loudly, “You can ask me the password now, Digby.”

“Rightio.” He took a step back, thrust out his chest, and threw up his arm. “Halt!” he cried in proper military fashion. “Who goes there?”

“No, Digby,” said the gypsy mildly. “We’ve already done that bit. Move on to the next bit.”

“Oh ri’, ri’. Wot’s the password, then?”

“Gob-stopper.”

“Very good, madam. You may pass.” He tipped his cap.

The gypsy hobbled on, thinking that if Digby was the best the Chief Weasel could do for a sentry, the job of recovering Humphrey might not be so difficult after all.

But the next sentry, an adult weasel, was a different story. He was lean and hard-bitten and examined the gypsy with a gimlet eye.

“Password!” he barked nastily.

“Gob-stopper,” replied the crone.

“Well, drat,” said the weasel. “I s’pose I have to let you pass. Although, old woman”—he paused and looked the gypsy up and down—“there’s something not quite right about you. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll be keeping my eye on you. Proceed.”

Ratty thanked his lucky stars for Digby and resolved to go easy on the poor featherbrained stoat, come the time of reckoning. He limped on, taking deep breaths and concentrating on keeping his hackles down, for he was now in the dark heart of the Chief Weasel’s territory, where no Riverbanker had ever been. He checked his pockets. The cool brass disk of the compass and the heft of the pistol gave him some comfort. “Right, Ratty,” he whispered. “Think of Humphrey.”

He soon found himself in a clearing filled with a throng of busy stoats and weasels. So alarming were their numbers that a chill ran through him. Many of them swarmed over some kind of platform they were building. Others rushed first this way with lumber, and then that way with nails. There was a good deal of hammering and shouting and confusion. The platform was already four weasels high and looked as if it was meant to go much higher. In the middle of all the bustle lounged the Chief Weasel, enjoying a biscuit and a cup of tea. At his elbow stood the Under-Stoat, barking orders in a bossy manner and sending the workers scurrying to do his bidding. There was no sign of the balloon. There was no sign of Humphrey.

“Good morning, mother,” the Chief Weasel hailed him. “Come and stop for a moment. Sit down and rest yourself. You’re no doubt a long way from home.”

“Indeed,” said the Under-Stoat, examining the gypsy through narrowed eyes. “A long way from ’ome. I don’t remember seeing you before. Pray tell us what, exactly, you are doing here?”

“Oh, come now,” said the Chief Weasel amiably. “I’m sure there’s no need to take that tone. Sit and rest, mother. Cuppa tea?”

“Th-thank you,” stammered the Rat in a quavery voice. He lowered himself with gratitude onto a nearby log, for his knees had suddenly become untrustworthy. A cup and saucer were thrust into his paw, and he sipped the strong tea, grateful for an excuse to be silent for a minute. His cup clinked against the saucer. The Under-Stoat glared at him and said, “Why are you all a-shiver, old woman? Why do you quake and tremble so?”

The Rat said in a faint voice, “F-forgive me, sir. I have the palsy, and I have walked far. Just let me catch my breath.”

“See?” said the Chief Weasel. “Nothing to bother about, just an old gypsy woman. Collect yourself, mother.”

“Yes, do that,” said the Under-Stoat mulishly. “And then tell us what brings you here.”

“Bikkie?” said the Chief Weasel, offering a plate of biscuits.

“You are most kind,” said the Rat. He munched on a piece of shortbread and finished his tea, keeping his eyes lowered but all the while taking stock of the activity swirling around him. He delicately wiped the crumbs from his whiskers and said with growing confidence, “I have come to see”—he paused dramatically—“it.”

“It?” said the Under-Stoat sarcastically. “Wotcher mean, it? There’s no it to see here.”

The Chief said, “Speak plain, mother.”

“I have come to see the flying machine,” said Rat.

“What?” they exclaimed, jumping up and demanding, “How did you know?” and “Who told you?” The Under-Stoat looked very menacing indeed.

“G-gentlemen,” quailed the Rat, “no one told me. I had a d-dream, a vision, if you will, that there is a flying machine here.”

“You can do that?” said the Chief Weasel, impressed.

“Aye, sir. I have the gift of second sight. It comes down on my mother’s side in the family. I inherited it from my mother, who inherited it from my granny Lavinia, and my great-aunt Sylvia also—”

“Yes, yes, never mind all that,” said the Chief Weasel. “Can you tell fortunes, too? And read palms?”

“Of course I can,” said the Rat enthusiastically, getting into his part and letting it carry him away. “Just cross my palm with silver, gentlemen, and you too can know the future. It’s like I told you, it runs in the family. Now, my great-great-grandmother Eugenie…” He gassed on about his fictitious family tree until, at a signal from the Chief Weasel, the Under-Stoat scampered away and returned a minute later with a small leather bag. The Chief rummaged in it and extracted two silver coins, which he held out to the Rat, who had by now progressed to his great-grand-uncle Algernon. He stopped and said, “Uh, what’s that for?”

“It’s payment for your services,” said the Chief. “I want you to tell my fortune.”

“Well, I, um, I’m somewhat rusty, you see,” said the Rat, backtracking as fast as he could. “It’s been a while, and I’m out of practice. You wouldn’t want your fortune told by someone out of practice, would you? Because it, um, might be defective in some way. I mean to say—”

The Chief pressed the coins into the Rat’s paw. “Now,” he said, “will you read my palm? Or do you use the cards?”

Ratty protested weakly, “I don’t have my cards with me.”

“I’m sure we’ve got a deck around here somewhere, don’t we, Under-Stoat?”

“Oh, no, no,” said the Rat hurriedly. “That won’t work. They have to be special cards, you see, not just ordinary old cards.”

“Then read my palm,” said the Chief Weasel. He sat down beside the Rat and held out his hand expectantly. “Go on. I’ve always wanted to have my fortune told.”

Rat’s thoughts buzzed in his head like bees when the hive is being robbed. He told himself sternly, Ratty, for goodness’ sake, grab hold of yourself. You, Rat, are a poet. You are a writer. That means you know how to make things up, right? So make something up now. And make it good.

He studied the weasel’s palm.

“This,” he said, “is your, ah, life line. Yes. See how long it is? That means you’re going to live to be a great old age.”

The Chief looked deeply gratified.

“And this one here is your, um, heart line. Yes. And a strong one it is, too. It shows that you have a, er, bold nature. You are unafraid of a fight.”

The Chief looked deeply pleased with himself.

“You are, hmm, fearless in battle,” said the Rat.

The Chief preened unashamedly and called out to his underlings, “My goodness, this old woman certainly knows her stuff!” and with these words, the Rat realized he’d stumbled inadvertently on the secret of fortune telling, which is that a gullible public will swallow any old nonsense, as long as it is flattering. He larded on the compliments until even the Chief had had enough and interrupted him with, “What about my balloon? Can you see my balloon?”

Your balloon! thought Ratty. That’s cheek if ever I heard it. He closed his eyes and tried to look as if he was concentrating hard on something. He said, “It’s … it’s a bit faint.”

“Is it flying? Do you see it flying?” said the Chief.

“I can’t tell. It’s too far away,” said Rat. “But wait!” He squeezed his eyes tighter and furrowed his brow.

“Go on,” urged the Chief. “What do you see?”

“I see … I see a small animal … doing something. He … he appears to be working on it. Repairing it, possibly? Can that be true?”

The Chief and Under-Stoat exchanged glances of disbelief.

“There’s something odd about the picture, though,” said Rat. “The creature appears to be … it’s coming clearer to me now … not a stoat … not a weasel … but a toad. How strange. You don’t happen to have a young toad in your employ, do you?”

The weasels gawked at him.

“W-we do,” stammered the Chief. “He’s what you might call a sort of guest of ours.”

“I would dearly love to see a flying machine, and if you take me to it, I can tell you if it will fly,” said the Rat slyly. “The signal will come in stronger. Is it far from here?”

“Not far at all,” said the Chief. “It’s just the next clearing over. If you feel up to it, I’ll take you there, and you can have a look.”

“Oh, yes,” said the Rat, jumping up. “I feel positively refreshed. Shall we go?” He dropped the silver coins into his skirt pocket.

“Why, mother, you’re walking so much better now,” said the Chief. “That cup of tea’s done you the world of good. I’ve always said it’s positively medicinal stuff.”

Ratty caught himself and leaned heavily on his staff. He sneaked a surreptitious glance at his compass.

“What is that?” said the Under-Stoat suspiciously. “What is that thing that you study in your pocket? Is it a compass?”

“No, no,” said the Rat hurriedly. “Well, that is to say, I s’pose it technically is a compass, but that’s not what I use it for—no, no, not at all. It’s more like a talisman, a magical token. It helps me, erm, concentrate my powers.”

The Under-Stoat did not look completely convinced, but they set off walking. After five minutes, they came to the edge of another clearing. The Rat’s heart beat fast. He slipped his paw into his pocket and grasped the pistol for courage.

On the far side of the clearing lay the balloon, still puddled on the ground, but now with many patches on the canopy. The basket had resumed something of its former shape. A score of weasels, looking very short-tempered, were trying to sort out the tangle of lines, cutting and matching and splicing and generally getting in one another’s way. And there, there was Humphrey, perched on a low stool, weaving together a bunch of supple willow twigs.

Ratty studied the small figure bent over his work. Despite a forlorn attitude, the little toad appeared to be well-fed, and someone had given him an oversized cardigan to wear against the chill of the forest. For one wild second, the Rat entertained a fantasy of snatching him up, tucking him under his arm like a rugby ball, and running for their lives, but he knew he’d never make it to the edge of the wood. The plan was squelched for certain when he spotted a thin chain snaking across the ground from Humphrey’s ankle to a nearby oak. The Rat’s blood boiled. The brutes had chained the poor lad to a tree!

“So,” said the Chief Weasel, gesturing grandly, “what d’you see now, mother? Do you see the machine in the air?”

Humphrey paused in his work, turned, and looked at the brightly clad gypsy. In disbelief, he gasped, “What are you doing here dressed like that, Ratty?”