Sorry, but I'm running late. The Mole Rider and the River Beneath the River

More about Sorry, but I'm running late. The Mole Rider and the River Beneath the River

The Mole Rider and the River Beneath the River
Pipkin Thistlehorn had three rules for travelling by giant mole. First: never pull both reins at once. Second: never carry sandwiches containing onions, because Bumbles could smell them through three layers of leather and would forget where he was going. Third: if Bumbles suddenly stopped digging, pay attention. On the morning they discovered the river beneath the river, Pipkin broke the third rule. “Come on, Bumbles. We’re already late.” The enormous black mole stood halfway out of a fresh tunnel on the hillside, his pink nose twitching. Beyond them stretched the peaceful valley of Willowmere. Cows grazed among wildflowers, the river sparkled beneath the morning sun, and beside it stood Old Merrin’s watermill. Its wheel turned steadily. Nobody had lived there for a hundred years. Nobody knew why the wheel still turned. Willowmere villagers had decided this was a mystery best appreciated from a distance. Pipkin disagreed whenever a mystery looked interesting. Unfortunately, today he was supposed to deliver a lantern to Farmer Bell. “Bumbles.” The mole refused to move. Pipkin lowered his lantern. “What is it?” Bumbles pressed one enormous paw against the earth. Pipkin felt it too. A vibration. Something deep beneath them. A rushing sound. “There’s water down there.” Bumbles snorted. “Yes, I know there’s a river over there. I mean under us.” Bumbles began digging. “That was not permission.” Dirt exploded behind them. Pipkin grabbed the saddle. “Farmer Bell is going to be furious!” They plunged beneath the meadow. Roots swept overhead. Stones bounced from Bumbles’s claws. Pipkin’s lantern cast a golden circle through the darkness. Then the tunnel wall collapsed. Bumbles stopped so abruptly that Pipkin nearly continued without him. Before them was an underground cavern large enough to contain Willowmere twice. Across its floor flowed a broad silver river. Pipkin stared. Directly above it he could hear the ordinary river flowing east. The underground river flowed west. “That,” he whispered, “is extremely inconvenient.” Bumbles sniffed the water. A tiny wooden boat floated past. Then another followed. Each was no larger than Pipkin’s hand. Both were empty. Bumbles stepped into the water. “No. Bumbles, you are a mole. Moles are traditionally associated with soil.” Bumbles continued. Pipkin sighed and raised his lantern. The riverbed was paved with smooth black stones. Between them ran two narrow grooves. Tracks. “Someone built a road under the river.” The current suddenly slowed. Every tiny boat stopped. From upstream came a wooden creak. Then the underground river began flowing backward. Pipkin stared as the boats returned past them. “I dislike rivers that change their minds.” Bumbles turned upstream. They followed until a huge shadow appeared ahead. An enormous wooden waterwheel filled the cavern from floor to ceiling, turning slowly in the silver current. A vertical shaft rose from its centre into the rock overhead. Pipkin knew exactly what stood above them. Old Merrin’s mill. “Oh.” Bumbles sneezed. “Yes. Oh.” The abandoned mill wheel above was not driving anything below. The hidden wheel below was driving the mill above. On the cavern wall were hundreds of small wooden doors. From metal hooks beside them hung tiny objects: a brass button, a spoon, a ribbon, a marble, a horseshoe, a key. Pipkin approached. “Lost things.” He recognized Widow Carrow’s missing silver thimble and Farmer Bell’s gate key. A click echoed across the cavern. One little door opened. Water flowed out carrying a wooden toy horse. The toy caught on a hook. The door closed. The great wheel turned once. Far overhead, the mill groaned. Pipkin smiled. “The mill collects what the river loses.” Then he noticed the empty hooks. There were thousands. Beneath the wheel stood a stone basin containing something larger than a lost button. Inside lay a wooden sign, soaked but perfectly preserved. WILLOWMERE — 3 MILES. “That sign stands on the northern road.” Bumbles gave a worried chirp. Another door opened. A fence post floated through. Then a boot. Then an entire garden gate. The wheel began turning faster. Above them, the underground river roared. Pipkin suddenly understood. “It isn’t collecting what the river has lost.” The stone beneath his feet trembled. Somewhere overhead a cow mooed in alarm. Pipkin grabbed Bumbles’s reins. “It’s collecting what the river is about to lose.”