Glenda the Wendle Chapter 9

               Chapter 9.

 

Glenda The Wendle Gets Wet Feet

 

It had been raining in Feggy Wood—steadily, endlessly—for three days and three nights. On the fourth morning, Glenda got out of bed, placed her feet on the ground, and found herself paddling.

Like most wild creatures, Glenda had waterproof fur and did not mind getting wet, but she really hated getting her feet wet. She recalled her mother’s warning:

“You must always keep your feet dry, or you will get the terrible collywobbles.”

Glenda had no idea what collywobbles were, but they sounded bad, so she always tried to keep her feet dry.

She sat on her bed and looked down at the floor of her den. To her surprise, it was covered in water. Wendles do not wear shoes, so she had no Wellington boots to put on. She paddled across to her door and opened it.

“Oh dear,” she murmured. The whole of Feggy Wood was flooded.

“This is not right,” she said to herself. She stepped outside. A sprew was perched on a branch above her head.

 

 

The Sprew.

“This is not right,” it said. “I cannot get down to the ground to look for black crunchies for my breakfast.”

“We must find out why the Wood is covered in water,” said Glenda. “Perhaps the treechewers will be able to help—they know a lot about water.”

The sprew scrambled down the branch and perched on Glenda’s shoulder.

“I am not going in the water,” it declared firmly.

Glenda paddled through the trees. Soon, they encountered a snoke resting on a branch.

 

 

               The glizzard. 

 

“This is not right,” it grizzled. “My nest in the grass below is under water.”

“We are going to see if the treechewers know anything about this flood,” said Glenda.

“I will come with you,” it grizzled, climbing down the tree onto Glenda’s other shoulder.

As they continued, they met a squarrel sitting on a branch.

 

 

The Squarrel.

“This is not right,” it grumbled. “My store of nuts is in that tree over there, and I cannot get to them.”

“We are going to see if the treechewers know anything about this water,” said Glenda.

“I will come with you,” grumbled the squarrel. It clambered down and settled on Glenda’s head.

Glenda paddled further until she met a family of digunders, huddled together on a tiny patch of dry ground under a tree.

 

The Digunder.

 

“This is not right,” Father Digunder peeped. “Our tunnels are full of water, and we cannot go snuffling for wurrums.”

“We are going to see if the treechewers know anything about this water,” said Glenda.

“We will come with you,” said Father Digunder.

“I cannot carry any more creatures,” Glenda said, looking around. She spotted a flat piece of wood floating on the water and pushed it towards the digunders. They climbed aboard, followed by the sprew, the snoke, and the squarrel.

Glenda pushed the wood ahead of her until they reached the Trip-Trap Bridge at the edge of Feggy Wood. There was no water on the bridge. There was no water on one side of the bridge. But Feggy Wood itself was submerged.

 

          The Trip-Trap Bridge.

 

Father Treechewer was standing, gazing over the side.

“Hello,” said Glenda. “We came to ask what is happening with all this water in Feggy Wood.”

“Hello to you,” said Father Treechewer. “The rain has washed many branches down the river, and they are stuck under the bridge. The water cannot get through. My house used to sit in the middle of a lovely lake, but now the water is gone, and my house is dry.”

 

 

           The Treechewer.

Glenda peered over the side of the bridge. Father Treechewer was right—his house was no longer surrounded by water, as it had always been.

“Can’t you pull the branches away and let the water through again?” asked Glenda.

Father Treechewer shook his head. “If we did that, the water would rush through so quickly, it would wash my house away.”

“But all our homes are under water, except yours,” said Glenda. “We have to do something.”

“We have,” said Father Treechewer. “Come, I will show you.

Father Treechewer led Glenda down to the water’s edge.

“We have dug a new river from here to below our house,” he explained. “We will let the water flow down it until the flood has subsided, and then we will remove the branches from under the bridge.”

Glenda clapped her hands. “That’s very clever!” she said.

Father Treechewer shook his head. “There is a problem, though. A big rock is blocking the way, and it is too heavy—even for my entire family—to move.”

“Can’t you dig around it?” asked Glenda.

Father Treechewer shook his head again. “The new river must follow the course we’ve dug, or it won’t work.”

“Perhaps we can move the rock,” said Glenda.

She led the glizzard, the sprew, the squarrel, and the digunders to the obstruction, where the Treechewer family stood waiting. They all pushed together, but the rock would not budge.

“Maybe we could lift it?” suggested the glizzard.

Everyone tried, but the rock was too heavy.

Father Digunder walked around it thoughtfully.

“You know,” he said, “the best thing to do would be to dig a hole beneath it so the water can flow over the top. We digunders are very good at tunnelling under things. We could make lots of tunnels under the rock and see if it sinks.”

“That’s a great idea,” said Father Treechewer. “Just be careful—the rock mustn’t collapse on top of you.”

“We know how to tunnel so that things do not fall on top of us,” said Father Digunder.

Soon, he and his family had disappeared beneath the rock, digging furiously. Glenda and her friends gathered the soil they kicked up and piled it far away.

At last, Father Digunder emerged with his family. “We dare not dig any further,” he announced. “If we do, it could fall on our heads.”

But the rock did not sink.

“Perhaps if we all sit on it,” suggested Glenda.

She scrambled onto the rock. The treechewers sat beside her. The sprew, the glizzard and the squarrel climbed onto Glenda’s shoulders and head. The digunder family squeezed onto her lap.

Still, the rock did not sink.

“Maybe we should dig a little more,” suggested Mother Digunder.

Father Digunder shook his head. “Too dangerous. We need more weight,”

“We need the heaviest creature in Feggy Wood,” said Father Treechewer.

“Who is that?” asked Glenda.

“The two-horned Flump,” replied Father Treechewer. “He lives somewhere along the riverbank. He is very shy, so he might not want to help—and he definitely wouldn’t like a crowd searching for him. One of us must go and find him.”

“I’ll go,” said Glenda. “I used to be shy, so I know what it’s like.”

She paddled off into Feggy Wood. Before long, she came across a huge creature sheltering under a tree. It looked very sad.

“Hello,” said Glenda.

The creature sighed heavily.

“You sound very sad,” Glenda observed. “Can I help?”

 

The Two-Horned Flump.

“I don’t know,” said the creature gloomily. “This is not right. I like to sit in the river with just my nose out of the water—otherwise, I get terribly sunburnt. But now, with all this flooding, I cannot find the river.”

It sighed again.“ Two-horned Flumps need deep water.”

Quickly, Glenda explained the treechewers’ plan to channel the flood away.

“We need more weight to make the rock sink,” she said.

The two-horned Flump nodded. “I will come and sit on the rock for you.”

Together, they returned to the Trip-Trap Bridge, and the two-horned Flump sat on the rock.

The rock did not sink.

Glenda climbed onto the Flump’s back.

The rock did not sink.

The treechewers clambered onto the rock beside the Flump.

The rock did not sink.

The digunders squeezed in.

The rock did not sink.

The squarrel perched on Glenda’s shoulder.

The rock did not sink.

The snoke glizzard slithered onto Glenda’s other shoulder.

The rock did not sink.

The sprew scrambled onto Glenda’s head.

Slowly—very slowly—the rock began to sink into the ground, until the top of it was level with the surface.

Everyone jumped off and cheered.

Father Treechewer hurried to where the new river met the old and carefully dug away a section of the bank.

The water began to slurp down the new channel. It bumbled and chuckered, rushing over the rock. All the creatures followed it, watching as it burbled along until it reached the old river below the treechewers’ house.

Everyone cheered.

Father Treechewer dug away more of the bank, and even more water splodged down the riverbed.

All the creatures gathered on the Trip-Trap Bridge, watching as the trickle became a stream, then a proper river. Mrs. Treechewer appeared with birch juice for everyone.

Slowly, the water level dropped, and the grass in Feggy Wood began to reappear.

The Treechewer family worked busily, removing the branches from under the bridge. The river started flowing gently beneath the Trip-Trap Bridge once again, and soon, the Treechewers’ house sat perfectly in its lake.

It didn’t take long for the flood to drain away completely.

Then the treechewers built a dam across the new river channel.

“We just need a nice flat piece of wood to finish it off,” said Father Treechewer.

“There’s the one I brought,” said Glenda.

“Perfect!” said Father Treechewer.

Everyone worked together, plastering the dam with mud, and soon, the river flowed beautifully under the Trip-Trap Bridge—as if nothing had ever happened.

Then the sun came out.

“I see my river now,” said the two-horned Flump. “I am going to sit in it—out of the sun.”

“My nest in the grass will be dry now,” said the glizzard. “I am going to tidy it up.”

“I can get to my store of nuts now,” said the squarrel. “I am going to count them.”

“There will be plenty of black crunchies about,” said the sprew. “I am going to catch and eat them.”

“Our tunnels will be dry, and we can go slurping for wurrums,” said Father Digunder. “We are going tunnelling.”

“I can walk home—and my feet will stay dry,” said Glenda. “I am not going to get the terrible collywobbles.”