Magnus Mills - Explorers of the New Century

He advanced without hurry, setting off in a casual manner as if embarking on a country stroll. The mule appeared to ignore his approach, her attention seemingly otherwise engaged; but when he drew near she moved out of reach again. Summerfield paused. He could now see what was occupying her. She was toying with a smooth blue pebble, the size and shape of a small egg. Sometimes she tossed it up and down, or weighed it in the palm of her hand; sometimes she rubbed it against her skin, carefully examining the blue stain it left behind. Still Summerfield did not stir, but continued to regard her in silence. Finally, curiosity got the better of her and she glanced across at him. With a faint smile on his face, Summerfield reached into his pocket and produced a similar pebble.

“Snap,” he said.

“Snap yourself,” said the mule.

He held his pebble towards her. “Would you like this?”

“I don’t mind.”

“Catch then.”

After catching the pebble and comparing it with her own, the mule then apparently lost interest in both and let the hand holding them fall idly to her side.

“Did you have enough to eat?” Summerfield enquired.

“Just about.”

“Good.” He smiled again. “Ready to go then?”

“Who?”

“You.”

The mule stared at Summerfield and said, “I do have a name, you know.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course. What is it?”

“You didn’t think I had a name, did you? You just thought I was one of those ‘wretched mules’. The pretty female.”

“Well…”

“Gribble.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s my name. Nice, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Summerfield. “Gribble. Yes, it is very nice. Now we really should be thinking about moving.”

The mule ignored this comment. Instead she said quietly, “Your friend came and spoke to me last night.”

“What friend?”

“Peewit.”

“Ah,” said Summerfield. “You mean Plover.”

“We call him Peewit.”

“He’s not really a friend. Just a travelling companion.”

“He told me I should watch my step. He said I’d do well to remember which side my bread was buttered.”

“Yes, that sounds like Plover. Well, don’t worry about what he says. He has no authority.”

“I told him it wasn’t buttered either side.”

Summerfield laughed. “Very good, Gribble. Yes, that’s very good indeed.”

“I wouldn’t laugh too loudly,” she replied. “Grim the Collier is watching us.”

She nodded in the direction of the camp, and Summerfield turned to see Scagg standing some distance away, observing proceedings.

“Why do you call him Grim the Collier?”

“On account of his big black beard.”

“Oh, I see.”

“And we call your leader Dock.”

“What about me?” said Summerfield. “Have you given me a name too?”

“No,” answered the mule. “We haven’t.”

“Maybe you will after a while.”

“Maybe.”

Again Summerfield glanced towards the camp. Even from this distance it was evident that most of the gear had been packed and loaded. Soon it would be time to leave, yet he was making little headway with the mule.

“Your leader doesn’t allow us any buttered bread,” she said.

“No, he doesn’t,” acknowledged Summerfield. “Nevertheless, your welfare is of great concern to him.”

“But we live our lives dressed in sackcloth!”

“That is a simple matter of expedience; generally speaking you’re not treated badly at all. Mr Johns sees to it you’re sufficiently fed and watered; and as for the sackcloth, you should actually consider yourself fortunate: in some societies mules are made to wear bells around their necks.”

“And that makes me fortunate, does it?”

“Now listen, Gribble!” snapped Summerfield. “I’ve been patient with you so far, but I must tell you you’re seriously pushing your luck. You’ve already won a major concession in not being tethered at night, yet you continue to be troublesome. Now what’s brought this on exactly?”

“My burden is too great.”

“But you already carry less than the others.”

“It’s still too much.”

“Well, it can’t be helped. You must at least shoulder your fair share.”

“For what purpose?” said Gribble. “So that you can take us to the back of beyond and leave us there?”

“How on earth do you know about that?” demanded Summerfield.

“Because I’m not stupid!”

“Summerfield!” came a cry from the encampment. “What’s keeping you?!”

It was Scagg.

“Nothing of importance!” Summerfield called back. “Give me another minute, will you?!”

“All right, but we need to get going shortly!”

“You heard him,” said Summerfield to the mule. “Now do come on or you’ll get left behind.”

“What about my burden?” she asked.

“I’ll do everything I can to get it reduced. It may not be straight away but I promise I’ll try. Now, please, can we make a move?”

“I suppose so.”

“Follow me then.”

Without further debate, Summerfield turned and headed back towards the main group. Gribble trailed in his wake, still clasping her blue pebbles. She passed under the critical eye of Scagg, who shook his head but said nothing when Summerfield selected a few lightweight items for her to carry. Soon afterwards the signal to depart was given. United again, the five mules fell into line one behind the other, and the expedition resumed its northward course. Johns was keen to take advantage of the gradually improving light, which had been of great help recently despite the shortages and the ceaseless gales. The days were brief in length, and chiefly overcast, but compared to the weeks of perpetual darkness the situation had improved no end. In this respect, said Johns, they could commend themselves.

“Our original plan is at last approaching fruition,” he told Scagg that evening. “As you know, the idea of the winter journey was so we would reach our destination at the start of spring: the best time of year to establish any kind of settlement. Obviously the success of that remains in the balance, but at least it now appears likely we’ll arrive when we said we would, which is most gratifying.”

“‘The light at the end of the tunnel’,” offered Scagg.

“Indeed yes,” said Johns. “Day by day we’re getting a clearer picture of the type of landscape we’re set to encounter. A blank canvas, I suppose one might call it, on which we hope to make a mark.”

“I’m sure we will, sir.”

“Thank you, Scagg. Your support has been quite invaluable.”

“Have you come to any conclusions about the settlement itself?”

“Only dim ones, I’m afraid; but we must always live in hope. Now I wonder where Chase has got to. He said he was just going out to stretch his legs, but he’s been absent a good half hour.”

“This sounds like him now.”

Some boots scuffed outside; then the tent flaps parted and Chase entered.

“Sony about the delay,” he said, when Johns glanced at his pocket watch. “I detected a change in the atmosphere, a sort of heaviness, and I’ve been trying to define exactly what it is.”

“The possibility of rain?” enquired Johns.

“Sadly, no, sir,” replied Chase. “Rather a dry element, as a matter of fact.” He held out his sleeve to show them. “The air is laden with dust particles,” he explained. “This is a mere half hour’s worth.”

“Dust!” said Johns. “The last thing we need!”

“Blowing down from the north, too,” Chase added.

They listened as the canvas thudded laboriously in the wind.

“We seem to be under constant siege by harsh external forces,” remarked Johns. “Yet I wonder how we’d feel if we woke tomorrow and heard the gentle pitter-patter of rain on the roof? Homesick beyond measure, I don’t doubt.”