Thura made no reply. Dingeye sniffed moodily. ‘All right then, you stop ’ere awhile till yer feelin’ better. I won’t go too fast so that y’can catch up with me.’
Still receiving no reply from his companion, he set off into the forest, travelling south and slightly west, talking aloud to reassure himself. ‘Must be somethin’ he’s et, greedy ol’ toad. Prob’ly catch me up ter night when ’e gets hungry again.’
The trail of the two stoats was not difficult to follow. Samkim and Arula could see plainly the slashed and damaged vegetation which Dingeye had hacked at with the sword. Despite the urgency of their mission, neither of the two young ones could help noticing the beauty of Mossflower, draped in summer green and studded with small islands of colour from flowering bush and shrub. Their paws made little or no sound as they padded along over the carpet of soft brown leaf loam. Samkim pointed ahead to where a strip of bark had been wantonly sliced from the trunk of a white willow, exposing the pale sapped wood beneath.
‘Easy to see which way they went. Look at that.’
Arula nodded. ‘Urr, Foremole’d tan thurr ’ides for doen that to a livin’ tree. Ho urr, they’m surely two nastybeasts.’
Samkim touched the trunk, noting the dampness of sap on his paw. ‘If we travel a little faster we may catch them up by late afternoon. They can’t be too far ahead. Come on, Arula.’
‘No need to worry, young Redwallers, heh heh heh!’
The thin reedy voice had come from nowhere. Samkim and Arula halted, staring at the leafy screen about them.
The voice spoke again. ‘Worry, hurry, that’s all some creatures do. No time to live to a ripe old age. Look at me – I can’t count the summers I’ve seen and I’m fit as a flea. Heh heh heh!’
Samkim fitted an arrow to his bowstring. ‘Show yourself!’
A bed of tall ferns stirred and a woodvole stepped into view. He was small and thin, dressed in a long smock of brown barkcloth, and his face was framed by the biggest white beard they had ever beheld on any creature – it fuzzed out like a cloud, and only his bright black eyes were visible through it. The woodvole laughed and cut a little caper. He was astonishingly agile for such an ancient creature.
‘Heh heh heh! You can put the bow down. I’m not going to hurt you, Redwaller. How do I know you’re a Redwaller? Easy! You talk with the accent of an Abbeydweller. I’m Furgle the Hermit. I live here all alone – always have done, can’t stand the company of any creature for too long, prefer my own. I suppose you’re tracking the two stoats who came by here earlier?’
‘You’m seen ’em then, zurr?’
Furgle did an angry little dance around Arula. ‘Why can’t moles ever learn to speak properly? Seen them! Of course I did, two evil smelly vermin, slashing away at my woods as if they owned them. You don’t need to hurry to catch those two, though.’
Samkim bowed politely to the hermit. ‘My name is Samkim. This is Arula. You are right, of course – we are both from Redwall Abbey. Why do you say that we have no need to hurry?’
Furgle waited until Samkim had unnotched his arrow. ‘Because one of them is very ill. He won’t go much further. I’ve never been ill a day in my life. Come on then, Redwallers. I’ll go along with you – I know Mossflower better than you ever will. By the oak and the ash, I’ll give that stoat a piece of my mind when I meet him. How dare he go about chopping up my woodlands!’
Without further ado the woodvole set off. In a short while both Samkim and Arula were having difficulty keeping up with the energetic pace he set.
An hour’s swift journey found them on the edge of a clearing.
Arula sighted Thura lying curled up. ‘Lookum o’er thurr. ’Ee must be the sick un!’
‘Wait!’ Furgle restrained them both from running over to Thura. ‘You can never tell with vermin. Give me an arrow, Samkim. We’ll see if he’s sick or shamming – better careful than careless I always say, generally to myself though.’
Furgle snapped the point from the arrow and tied a pad of leaves in its place, then returned it to Samkim. ‘Fire that at the creature, young squirrel.’
Samkim shot the shaft perfectly. It thudded against Thura’s back and bounced off on to the grass. The stoat made no move.
‘As I thought, he’s finished.’ The hermit nodded knowingly.
The two young ones dashed over to the body. Furgle was right: Thura was freshly dead. Samkim rolled the stoat over. ‘Dead? I can’t believe it. Only yesterday he was as lively as you or I.’
‘Humm, ee’m dead aroight. Deader’n ’ee black acorn.’ Arula scratched her head with a huge digging claw.
Furgle pulled them away from the body. ‘Don’t get too close – that stoat died of some form of fever or ague. Well, it was nice meeting you, but now I must go about my business. If you are going to bury him then do it quickly, but try not to touch him. Er, sorry, there’s some urgent business I must attend to. See you later. Goodbye.’
In the twinkling of an eye he had vanished back into the depths of Mossflower. Samkim and Arula stood looking at each other, slightly disappointed at Furgle’s abrupt departure.
‘Burr, yon owd un doant ’ang about, do ’ee?’
Samkim shook his head. ‘Not the action of a true forest dweller, I’d say. Still, I suppose he had his reasons. Now, we’ll bury this one and track his friend Dingeye. Huh, some friend, leaving his pal here to die like that. Can’t see the sword anywhere – Dingeye must have it. Arula, where are you?’
The little molemaid was swiftly excavating a tunnel beside Thura’s body. A shower of dark earth flew upwards as she dug in with powerful blunt claws. Before long she vanished into the hole, and the ground trembled and heaved alongside the dead stoat. Samkim blinked with surprise as she emerged from the ground near Thura’s ears. Arula dusted herself down.
‘Thurr, that be done! Jus’ tip’m in with ’ee bow, Sanken.’
Samkim levered the body over with his bow. It plopped on to the tunnel top and the earth gave way. Arula covered it with the earth she had pushed out from the excavation.
‘Best oi c’n do fer ’ee, pore stoater, tho’ ’ee’m wurra bad lot.’
Though the lunch at Redwall had only been a light summer salad and some blackberry scones, Friar Bellows found himself weary and perspiring. He left the Abbey kitchens and went to sit out by the pond where it was cool. The fat mouse took off his cap and apron and mopped his brow with a dock leaf. Thrugg came over, shaking out his shrimp net.
‘Avast there, ol’ Bellers. No scones to bake for teatime?’
The Friar sat down rather heavily, shaking his head. ‘Oh, scones. I’ll get to ’em later. Very good, very g—D’you know, Thrugg, I feel terribly dizzy today.’
Thrugg sat down beside him. ‘I ’spect it’s wi’ workin’ around those hot ovens, matey.’
‘No, I never lit the ovens today. Brrrr! It’s cold out here!’
The jovial otter looked at him quizzically. ‘Cold? It’s the middle of summer, me ’eartie. I don’t know as ’ow y’can say it’s cold when you’re all asweat.’
Bellows lay back and wiped his whiskers. ‘You’re right. I’m sweating but I feel cold. Those scones, must get the ovens lit. Mrs Spinney’ll help me with the mixin’. . . . Very good, very good. . . . Hmmmm.’
Brother Hollyberry was shaking a blanket from the Infirmary window to freshen it when Thrugg called up to him, ‘Ahoy there, Brother. Friar Bellows ain’t lookin’ too chipper. D’you want me to tote him up to sickbay so’s you can give the pore mouse a look over?’
Hollyberry folded the blanket neatly. ‘Bring him up, Thrugg, there’s a good fellow.’
When Thrugg had gone, Hollyberry turned to a very downcast young hedgehog sitting on the edge of one of the beds.
‘Now close your eyes and open your mouth, young Brinkle. Be brave, this physick will make you feel better and stop all that shivering and sweating. You’ll be right as rain by teatime, believe me, young feller.’
Tudd Spinney found his old frie
nd Burrley Mole seated with his back to a barrel of October ale down in the wine cellars. He shook his stick disapprovingly. ‘You been oversamplin’ of our October ale again, Burrley?’
The mole’s normally bright eyes lacked lustre. He waved a hefty digging claw at his hedgehog companion. ‘Hummm! Go ’way, Tudd. Oi feels orful an’ drefful, nor a drop’n of ’ee Nextober ale ’as passed moi lips t’day!’
Tudd heaved Burrley up on to his paws. ‘C’mon, ol’ mate. May’ap yore sickenin’ for summat. Let’s git you up to the ’Firmary.’
By evening the Infirmary was full. Abbess Vale and Hollyberry were discussing using one of the upper galleries of the Abbey as a sickbay when Baby Dumble began his interminable tugging upon her habit.
‘Muvva Vale, Muvva Vale, there’s a funny old un wiv a cloud stucked on ’is face at the main gate. Wantsa see you, Muvva!’
The Abbess prised Dumble free from her gown. ‘Yes yes, Dumble. Now go and play like a good little dormouse. I’ll be down as soon as I can.’
However, there was no need for the Abbess to go to the main gate. Mrs Faith Spinney had opened it to the stranger, and she brought him to the upper gallery.
‘Vale, my dear, this is Furgle Woodvole the Hermit. Would you believe, he met Samkim and Arula today. I think he wants to speak with you.’
Abbess Vale took Furgle’s paw. ‘So good of you to come with news of our young ones, Mr Furgle. You must be tired and hungry coming such a long way. Come with me and I’ll see you’re fed and rested. Mrs Spinney, would you take over here with Brother Hollyberry whilst I see to our visitor.’
Seated in the privacy of the Abbess’s room, Furgle took elderberry wine and plumcake with relish. When he had satisfied his hunger he turned to the Abbess with a look of concern upon his face.
‘You look like a sensible lady, Abbess. I’ve got something serious to say to you, so listen carefully.’
Vale’s paws plucked nervously at her sleeve. ‘Is it Samkim or Arula? Oh please, Mr Furgle, tell me that they’re all right!’
The hermit refilled his beaker with the dark red wine. ‘Oh, they’re fine, madam, just fine. It’s the stoat I’ve come to tell you about – one of the two that were here at Redwall. This very day at sometime before noon he dropped dead. I’ve gone over all the possibilities on the way to your Abbey. I’m certain now: by the look of that creature he died from Dryditch Fever!’
The Abbess’s paws knotted into the hem of her sleeve and her eyes were wide with fright as she breathed the terrible name. ‘Dryditch Fever! Are you sure, Mr Furgle?’
The woodland recluse nodded his head sadly. ‘I wish I weren’t, Abbess, but it’s Dryditch Fever all right!’
15
Mara was awakened by something heavy descending upon her. The air was filled with wild gleeful croaking as she tried to stand but fell flat with the smothering weight. Her voice sounded muffled as she called out. ‘What’s going on? Pikkle, wake up!’
Beside her she felt Pikkle stirring into action. ‘Phwaw! I say, what’s apaw? This thing stinks!’
Mara managed to push him flat. She lay still a moment as she tried to make some sense of the situation. Instantly it became clear and the icy paw of fear gripped her. They were both enveloped in the meshes of a sprawling net fashioned from tough dried reedgrass and weighted all around with boulders. Through the small apertures she could see literally hundreds of large toads; the slimy creatures were waddling and hopping about in a primitive victory dance, their baggy throats puffing and swelling as they croaked a horrid tuneless chant. Most of them were armed with tridents or a curious type of flail with stone-tipped thongs.
The sand lizard Swinkee leaped triumphantly forward, brandishing the dagger and broken javelin that had been their only weapons. Thrusting his leering face close to the net, he slithered his tongue in and out as he watched the plight of Pikkle and Mara.
‘Ksss! Howja feel now? Kaha kaha! Want ta pull me tail off, steal me den, abeat me up? Kksss!’
Mara was about to say that they had not harmed him, but she thought better of it. Unknowingly they had made a dangerous enemy. She tried reasoning with Swinkee. ‘I’m sorry about what happened. We didn’t mean to upset you. We promised to reward you if you took us back home.’
‘Kksss! Liarssss!’ The lizard spat through the meshes at her. ‘Youa don’t fool Swinkee. Kahaha! I got plenty swampflies ’n’ marshworms off King Glagweb inna trade for you. Swinkee-a like revenge. Kksss!’
Pikkle pawed at the net in helpless fury. ‘You’re an absolute bounder, Stinkee. D’you hear me? If I could get out of this confounded shrimp trap I’d raise a blister on your noggin that wouldn’t go down in a season!’
Before they could exchange further insults, the lizard was swept aside by a massively bloated toad, red-eyed and covered in repulsive yellow warts which blotched its slime-green skin from end to end. The toad prodded a long trident through the meshes, narrowly missing their eyes. ‘Thrrruk! Foodslaves be silent, krrik! Or you die!’
‘Best do as he says – I think he means it!’ Mara whispered under her breath to Pikkle.
The lizard bowed fawningly before the massive toad. ‘Kksss, Swinkee bring you gooda trade King Glagweb.’
The King of the toads nodded ponderously and waved his trident. Two smaller toads came forward, carrying between them a sack which moved with a wriggling, writhing motion.
Swinkee snatched it from them and backed off, bowing and scraping. ‘Kkss, kaha, swampflies, marshworms, no need t’ counta them, Swinkee trust great King, always good to-a do trade with.’
Dragging the sack off into the dunes, he waved to Mara and Pikkle. ‘Kahahaha, bye bye, Foodslaves. Kksss!’
The badger maid and the young hare were made to march with the net still over them. Stumbling and spitting sand, they struggled across the dunes, surrounded by hopping, croaking toads who were only too willing to jab at them with tridents or lash out with wicked flails, should they fall or attempt to stop. Some of the smaller toads thought it was good fun to sit on the trailing net ends and be towed along. Pikkle was soon exhausted, but Mara put out all her strength to aid her friend. Holding the net up so that he could walk freely, she bunched her muscles and dragged the whole thing along on her own, ignoring the trident and flail stings, impervious to the sand and stones that were thrown at her by the mocking amphibians. Pikkle crouched low, doing his best to keep her footpaws from being snared or tripped in the net.
Night had long fallen over the dunes, and the captives were still lugging the enormous weight. Mara was forced now to travel on all fours; the strain of standing upright had proved too much. Pikkle crawled doggedly at her side. Blinded by sand and smarting from the cuts and blows of goading weapons, the young ones ploughed wearily onward, oblivious of where they were bound, hoping only to be allowed to stop and rest. It gradually filtered through to their numbed senses that they were travelling along flat damp ground – there were tussocks of grass and patches of mud.
One of the toads produced a conch shell. Puffing out its throat, the creature blew into it. There was an answering call from up ahead and lights began to show.
King Glagweb prodded Mara cruelly with his trident. ‘Krrroik! Move, stripedog. Hurry, krrrik! Nearly there!’
When they reached their destination the two captives flopped gratefully to the soggy ground, panting with exertion. Other toads, carrying lanterns full of fireflies, came waddling over to inspect the prisoners. One firefly settled on Pikkle’s ear, which was sticking out of the netting.
Pikkle gave a yelp of pain. ‘Yowch! That blighter bit me!’
King Glagweb laid about with the handle of his trident, scattering the onlookers as he called out to his guard, ‘Krroikl! Get these Foodslaves into the pit. Krrrk!’
The net was roughly dragged for a short distance then tipped by a score of guards. Mara and Pikkle were upended into a deep dank hole. They splashed pawsfirst into muddy water almost to their middles. Squelching to a low ledge at one side, the two fr
iends slumped down together.
Covered in sludge and mud, they lay waiting until the sounds of the toad guards retreated. Pikkle immediately jumped up and tried to scale the slippery clay sides of the pit, but slid back hopelessly.
There was a murmur of voices from the darkness, one louder than the rest.
‘You’re wasting time and strength trying to get out. Don’t try again. If the guards come back we’ll all be punished.’
Mara felt about until her paw encountered short muddy fur. ‘Who are you, what are you doing here?’
The shape of a small creature loomed up out of the gloom. ‘We’re prisoners, Foodslaves, just like you. What name do they call you?’
‘I am Mara of Salamandastron. This is my friend Pikkle Ffolger. He also comes from the mountain.’
The small creature offered his paw. ‘I am Nordo, only son of Log-a-Log. My father is leader of Guosssom, the Guerrilla Union of South Stream Shrews of Mossflower. There are thirty-four of us all told down here.’
Mara and Pikkle shook Nordo’s paw.
Pikkle pawed sludge from his ear in disgust. ‘Please t’ meet you, Nordo. Hah, Foodslaves indeed. We’d be filthy if we attempted to serve ’em food in this bally state!’
Several shrew voices piped up. ‘Oh, you won’t be servin’ food, matey. You are the food!’
‘Aye, the mud’ll roast off pretty easy in a cookin’ fire!’
‘Foodslave’s only good for one thing matey. Food!’
Mara was horrified. ‘You mean they intend to eat us?’
Nordo led them to a small cave scooped out in the pitside. He sat them down and explained.
‘Glagweb and his tribe are cannibal toads. If there are no captives they eat the weaker ones of their own kind – you wouldn’t believe some of the stories about King Glagweb and his band. At the moment we are lucky; yesterday we numbered forty, but they took six of us last night. We have a temporary reprieve. I heard some of the guards talking today, and it seems that we are to be kept and fed until the King’s Feastday, then it’s our turn.’
Salamandastron (Redwall) Page 11
