Salamandastron (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

Thrugg grinned cheerfully at the raggedy fox. ‘Four unconscious foxes with their tails chopped off who tried stealin’ our vittles. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Hee hee, we’ve got a funny un ’ere mates!’ one of the foxes sniggered.

  Another fox drew his sword, testing the edge with his paw.

  ‘Yeh, wonder if ’e’s tough as ’e’s funny?’

  Thrugg twirled his sling ominously. ‘Why don’t you come an’ find out, mudface?’

  The first fox saw that the big otter was no easy proposition, so he adopted a whining tone. ‘Now be reasonable, friend. We’re not lookin’ fer trouble. You wouldn’t begrudge four starvin’ creatures a bite, would yer?’

  Thrugg took a step toward him. ‘Begrudge a starvin’ creature a bite? Not me, matey. You come ’ere an’ I’ll bite you anytime. Now listen, you lot: be off with you. Go an’ scare some crows.’

  The fourth fox pulled out his rusty sword and began swinging it. ‘Yah, we’re four to one. Gerrim, lads!’

  Baby Dumble let out a terrified squeak. Suddenly Thrugg realized that he could not fight and look after the infant; escape was the only solution.

  ‘Hold tight, Dumble. ’Ere we go!’ Bulling through the foxes, Thrugg bowled them aside as he rushed off the path into the woods. Dodging and ducking, he skirted tree and bush with the outraged cries of his pursuers ringing behind him.

  An idea began to form in Thrugg’s head. He put on an extra burst of speed to gain a little time.

  The foxes stumbled and bumped into each other as they hurried into the woodlands. They ran a short distance and halted. Thrugg was lost to sight.

  ‘The coward, ’e’s ’idin’ somewheres!’

  ‘Yeh, spread out an’ search. We’ll find ’im.’

  ‘Hee hee, roasted dormouse – ages since I tasted that. Ringworm, you go with Splidge. Me an’ Blitch’ll fan out the other way.’

  They had not been searching long when the one called Ringworm spotted their quarry. He gave a low secret whistle to the others. When they came he cautioned silence, pointing forward as he whispered, ‘Ssshh! There they are, mates – ’idin’ be’ind that there bush. See the liddle brat settin’ on top of the ’avvysack?’

  Sure enough, the haversack and the back of Baby Dumble were visible above the spread of a thick clump of willowherb.

  ‘Now let’s do this quiet like. Sneak up an’ jump ’em!’

  ‘Yeh, good idea. Clubs ’n’ swords ready. Let’s go!’

  Within feet of the vegetation they threw caution to the winds and leapt at the clump of willowherb, stabbing and striking.

  Whack! Bonk! Thwack! Thud!

  Four foxes lay senseless on the ground, half in and half out of the clump of rosebay willowherb.

  Seated atop the haversack, which was strapped to a low sycamore branch that dipped into the willowherb, Baby Dumble looked as if he were still perched on his friend’s shoulders. The trick had worked perfectly! The infant dormouse shouted excitedly: ‘Mista Thugg! Did ya biff th’ foxes, Mista Thugg!’

  Thrugg stood over the prostrate foxes, twirling his heavy stone-loaded sling. ‘Aye, matey, I raised lumps like duck eggs on the villains!’

  The big otter disarmed the foxes, throwing their weapons off into the surrounding shrubbery. Breaking off a whippy willow switch, he revived them with a few smarting cuts. ‘Come on, hearties. Snooze time’s over. Up on yer paws!’

  Each contributing a shoulder, the four foxes were made to bear the haversack with Dumble sitting on it between them. Thrugg walked behind as they trekked along the north path, making sure they did not flag or lag with his willow switch. By nightfall the foxes were sore, hungry, weary and in tears. Thrugg had driven them a fair distance, even at double speed through a ford where pike lurked.

  ‘Waaahahhooh!’ The fox named Ringworm bawled unashamedly. ‘A pike bit me back there. It ain’t fair!’

  Thrugg waggled the cane under his nose. ‘Stop moanin’, mate. You won’t die, though maybe the pike will. Righty-ho then, you scruffy bandits, ’ad enough?’

  ‘Oh, let us go, sir. We’ve ’ad enough!’ The foxes collapsed weeping in the road.

  Dumble took charge. Swishing the cane perilously dose to them, he made them repeat extravagant promises never to be naughty, to help other creatures and to get a good wash every night. Thrugg chuckled at the sight of the infant dormouse making sure each fox repeated his lines word for word. The otter then took out his sling and loaded it.

  ‘Right, me lucky lads, I’m goin’ to count ten. Then if I can still see you I’m comin’ after you. We need porters for tomorrow, see. One, two, three . . .’

  Before he had reached seven the four foxes were rapidly vanishing into the distance down the dusky path.

  Thrugg and Dumble camped at the edge of the path that night, beside two curiously shaped stones known to travellers as ‘the otter and his wife’ because of their odd contours. Seated by a merry little fire they had a good supper of beechnut scones, cherry cake and cider.

  Thrugg stirred the flames with a stick as he ruminated. ‘Harr, who knows what lies beyond the ’orizon tomorrer, matey.’

  Baby Dumble also picked up a stick and prodded the fire, nodding his head seriously he imitated his big otter friend. ‘Oh harr, matey. Might be more foxes an’ serpinks. But you stick wiv Dumble, Mista Thugg. I’ll take care of ya.’

  Stifling his laughter, Thrugg tossed his warm jerkin at the infant. ‘You liddle villain, I’ll take care of you if you’re not asleep soon. Wrap y’self in that there jerkin.’

  The quarter-moon hung like a golden sickle in the summer night. Hardly a breeze stirred the mantle of the woodlands as the two adventurers settled down to rest by the fire’s glowing embers.

  19

  The Guossom shrew flotilla cut off down sidestreams and weaved its course along barely navigable waterways shrouded by hanging vegetation from tree, bush and foliage. Mara and Pikkle had lost all sense of direction, but the voyage was soothing and the quiet waters transmitted a sense of tranquillity. The young badger maid lay across the prow, half asleep as she watched sunlight dappling through a tunnel of willows on to the barely rippling waters. Dragonflies hummed and once a kingfisher flashed past like a brilliant jewel. Her sense of urgency over returning to Salamandastron waned as, lulled by the steady dip and fall of shrew paddles, she was overcome by lassitude and slipped into the realm of sleep.

  The treetrunk boats drifted to rest with a slight bump against a bank overhung by lavender, willow and rowan. Nordo cupped his paws and gave a short call.

  ‘Logalogalog, Guosssom home!’

  Only half-awake, Mara and Pikkle were escorted through a tunnel in the bankside which opened out into a well-lit and spacious cave. All around them shrews were bustling hither and thither, carrying food from earth ovens to long shelves around the side of the cave which served as tables.

  ‘I say, this is more like it, wot?’ Pikkle rubbed his paws together in anticipation. ‘Shrew tucker and loads of it, by the look of things. Lead on, old Log-a-thing!’

  Log-a-log and Nordo seated them at a semicircular ledge. Immediately they had sat down, a large fat shrew, accompanied by two small thin ones, approached them with a scowl on his face. He prodded Mara and Pikkle roughly.

  ‘You’ve taken our places. Those seats are for Guosssom shrews, not for ragtag stripedogs an’ rabbits!’

  Before either of them could say anything, Log-a-log gave the fat shrew a sharp shove. ‘Mind your manners, Tubgutt. These are my friends. Go and sit at the other end with your pals, do you hear me?’

  Log-a-log’s paw strayed to the rapier at his side. Nordo stood beside his father, grim-jawed and ready for trouble. Tubgutt gave them a surly glance and retreated to the seats at the other side of the table, muttering something to the two thin shrews, who nodded and sniggered rudely.

  The shrew fare was excellent, starting with shrimp and watercress soup, then on to an admirable salad served with soft white bankcheese, and after that there was a magnifi
cent pastie of chestnuts, mushrooms and leeks, followed by hot spiced apple pudding. The two friends did the food full justice, washing it down with beakers of sweet shrewbeer.

  Log-a-log watched Pikkle eating and shook his head in amazement. ‘Witherin’ waterweeds! Where do you put it all, Pikkle?’

  The young hare demolished his second portion of apple pudding and licked the spoon clean. ‘No bother, old Log-a-thing. Scoffin’ is me fav’rite sport, wot!’

  ‘Rabbits can’t scoff, it takes a shrew to do real scof-fin’.’ The loud remark came from Tubgutt, who was sneering openly at them across the table.

  Pikkle chuckled as he waved his spoon. ‘Maybe rabbits can’t scoff, m’ fat friend, but I’m Pikkle Ffolger, a hare from Salamandastron, and I’ll scoff you under the table any day in the season!’

  Tubgutt stood up, his face dark with temper. ‘Nobeast can outscoff Tubgutt of the Guosssom!’

  Pikkle turned to Log-a-log. ‘May I?’

  Log-a-log nodded. ‘Certainly, Pikkle. But watch out for Tubgutt – he’s sly. I’ve noticed that he was waiting to challenge you, so he has hardly touched any food.’

  Pikkle shrugged. ‘Well I only did a quick practice scoff m’self.’

  A table that was formed from an old oak stump in the centre of the cave was cleared. Seated at it, Pikkle and Tubgutt faced each other as Log-a-log stated the rules.

  ‘Do both contestants agree to hot spiced apple pudding?’

  Both the protagonists nodded and picked up their spoons.

  Log-a-log waved a paw to the servers as he continued, ‘It is a contest to a pawstill, then. Bowley the cook will count the dishes emptied by each creature. Shrewbeer may be drunk whilst eating. No half-finished dishes will count, and no throwing food on the floor or hiding it in clothing. First one unable to raise his spoon from the bowl must admit defeat. Make it a good clean scoff and best of luck to you both. Spoons ready . . . then begin!’

  Servers fought their way to the table through the throng of Guerrilla Shrews packing round the two contestants. Steaming hot spiced apple puddings were stacked at its centre as hare ate against shrew. Tubgutt went to it in a rush, spooning out three bowls of pudding in record time, his fat jaws working madly as the spoon ploughed up and down in a blur. Pikkle paced himself, eating slow but big mouthfuls, chewing each morsel with relish. A large contingent of the shrews began cheering for Tubgutt. Mara stood between Log-a-log and Nordo, viewing the proceedings from a ledge some distance away.

  Tubgutt had downed five bowls to Pikkle’s two. Nordo was beginning to look worried.

  ‘That Tubgutt – look at the speed of him! He’s picking up his sixth bowl. What’s the matter with Pikkle? He’s awfully slow, Mara.’

  The badger maid merely smiled. ‘Don’t fret yourself. Pikkle can hold his own with creatures twice his size. He’s eating slowly because he’s enjoying it. Tubgutt may be fast, but he’s no Pikkle Ffolger. You watch!’

  Back at the table, Pikkle licked his spoon clean, quaffed down a beaker of shrewbeer and began on his third pudding. ‘Absolutely delicious pud, wot? You must tell cook to give me the recipe. Old Tubbyguts is enjoyin’ it too, aren’t you old lad? My my, you are a messy eater, Tubbyguts!’

  With pudding festooning his chin and apple smeared across his face, the fat shrew lifted his head and glared at Pikkle. ‘The name’s Tubgutt, hare, and I’ll make you sorry you ever went into a contest against me!’

  ‘Sorry, old chap? One could never be sorry with all this beautiful scoff about. May I pour you some more shrewbeer?’

  At the end of his eighth bowl Tubgutt began to slow down. He put the bowl aside and reached for another. Bowley the cook rapped his paw with a ladle.

  ‘Bowl not finished there. Still puddin’ in it, see.’

  ‘Never mind, chum.’ Pikkle grabbed the bowl from Tubgutt. ‘You carry on – I’ll finish it. Waste not want not, that’s what we always say back at the mountain!’

  Pikkle was becoming very popular with the shrews. His good humour and impeccable table manners endeared him to them. The Gousssom began to cheer support for the young hare.

  ‘Come on, Pik. Slow and easy does the trick!’

  ‘I’ll bet a barrel of shrewbeer he beats Tubgutt!’

  ‘I’ll take that bet. Tubgutt’s eaten nine; he’s only on his sixth.’

  ‘I’ll bet my sword the mountain hare wins. He’s a good un!’

  The banter went back and forth as the two contestants battled on. Tubgutt undid his belt and leaned back. A look of disgust crossed his face as he picked up his eleventh pudding and dug a spoon half-heartedly into it. Pikkle now had eight empty bowls to his credit and was halfway through his ninth. The incorrigible hare drank another beaker of shrewbeer, wiped his lips delicately on a napkin and winked at his opponent.

  ‘Good stuff this. I say, Tubbyguts, don’t take that one – it looks bigger than the rest. Leave it for me. Try that little one – it only looks half full, wot!’

  On his thirteenth pudding Tubgutt stopped. He was breathing heavily and his mouth hung slackly open. The two little thin shrews fanned him with napkins and gave him a beaker of shrewbeer, but he pushed it away with a flabby paw.

  Mara nudged Nordo. ‘Now watch Pikkle really take off!’

  The young hare now had eleven empty bowls to his credit. He licked his spoon shiny clean and selected a twelfth.

  ‘Tubbyguts old pal, you’ve gone green. I must say, you looked much better your other colour. Pass another pudden, will you?’

  With the spoon halfway to his lips, Tubgutt’s stomach heaved and his paw went limp. The spoon clattered back into the bowl.

  A hushed silence fell over the onlookers.

  Completely ignoring his fellow contestant, Pikkle polished off the twelfth pudding and chose another as he licked his spoon.

  Bowley the cook watched Tubgutt carefully. ‘Can you raise spoon or paw, shrew?’

  Tubgutt collapsed, his head squelching into the pudding in front of him. Pikkle blinked and tut-tutted at his table manners. ‘Is he finished already? Ah well, never mind, Tubbygutts. It’s not the victory but playin’ the jolly old game that counts. Anybeast want to take his place?’

  A wild cheer went up from the shrews. Log-a-log laughed heartily. ‘Well done, Pikkle! I liked that little joke about anyone else taking Tubgutt’s place. Good, eh, Mara?’

  Mara gave Log-a-log a blank look. ‘That was no joke. Pikkle meant it. Look, he’s on his sixteenth!’

  The Guosssom shrews were laughing, patting Pikkle’s back and cheering him to the echo. Bowley the cook held Pikkle’s paw aloft.

  ‘The winner by a clear four bowls of pudding, Pikkle the hare from Salamandastron is the champion!’

  Amid the cheering and applause Pikkle smiled modestly, trying to pull his spooning paw from Bowley’s grasp. ‘Steady on, chaps. Leggo me paw will you, Bowley old lad. It’s bad form to stop a fellow in midscoff!’

  Covered by a blanket, Pikkle lay on a ledge, snoring loudly. Mara sat with Log-a-log and his son Nordo. The other shrews had retired for the night.

  Though Mara had been glad to escape Salamandastron she could not reconcile herself to the idea of Urthstripe being besieged along with the hares inside the mountain. A sudden yearning to be back there, giving what aid she could, caused the young badger maid to turn to the shrew leader.

  ‘Log-a-log, I want to thank you and your tribe for rescuing us and showing us the hospitality of your home, but I am anxious to go back to Salamandastron. I have told you about what will be happening there, so why can I not go?’

  ‘All in good time, Mara. All in good time.’ Log-a-log patted her paw. ‘When you do go, the Guosssom warriors and I will be with you. I have crossed swords with this Klitch you speak of – aye, and his father Ferahgo. The blue-eyed ones are our enemies; we would wear out logboats travelling to fight against them.’

  Mara nodded. ‘Then why do we not go now?’

  Log-a-log took a sip of shrewbeer from his tankard. ‘B
ecause I need you to do something for me. Listen and I will tell you. I am leader of the Guosssom because I am the strongest; that is the only thing that keeps our tribe together without the Blackstone. The Guosssom will follow the shrew who holds the Blackstone – it is sacred to us shrews. I held the Blackstone from the time it was passed to me by my father, who got it from his father before him. It makes the holder undisputed leader of all shrews. Well, one day when my son Nordo was little he took it from around my neck as I slept. I did not worry too much because Nordo was a baby who liked to play with the Blackstone. I let him, thinking that one day it would be his by right. However, Nordo lost the stone. I took the blame on myself, not wanting him to be shunned by the Guosssom, and since then I have been leader only by my authority and fighting skills.’

  ‘Where did Nordo lose the Blackstone?’ Mara could not help interrupting. ‘And how does it concern me?’

  Nordo took up the story from his father. ‘You must understand our ways Mara. The importance of the Blackstone is great in our tribe. Without it my father leads only by his strength; if he possesses the stone then he is leader not only by his toughness, but by Guosssom law. . . . But let me tell you my story. ‘One of the tributaries of the Great South Stream leads out on to a large lake, so big it is like an inland sea. I drifted out there in a little logboat that my father made for me – actually I fell asleep and the logboat took its own course. The oars were lost overboard as I slept. I drifted around on the big lake for more than two days, then I sighted an island near its centre. Paddling with my paws, I made it to the island. There I searched the woods, looking for suitable wood to make oars so that I could row back home. Having no knife or sword I could not cut wood. I searched all day without success. When night fell I went to sleep in the woods. It was like a dream. I was suddenly wakened by a dreadful roar. A huge white creature stood over me. It was terrifying, more ghost than fur or blood. It had hold of the Blackstone. I screamed and ran off, leaving the Blackstone and the broken thong that it had hung from. The ghost had it. I made it back to my little logboat and drifted round until the evening of the next day, when I was found by my father and a search party who were scouring the lake with the big logboat fleet. Since then no shrew has been near the big lake or the island where the ghost lives. But with you along I might be able to get the Blackstone.’