Rocangus had conquered his fear of the fire. In fact, he had rather come to like it. The young falcon spent the night feeding the flames with heather and bracken whilst Thrugg and Baby Dumble slept peacefully in the high snowcapped mountains of the north.
Dawn in the high mountains was a strange sight. Thrugg shivered as he peered into the whiteness. Clouds had descended upon the peaks, turning the whole place into a land of cotton wool. There was no sky, horizon or ground, save for that beneath the otter’s paws.
Settling Dumble into the near empty haversack, Thrugg cautioned him. ‘Stay put, matey, an’ keep yore head down. Ye’ll be nice an’ warm in there.’
The Laird Mactalon flew in low and hovered outside the cave. ‘A guid mornin’ to ye, Thrugg. Are ye ready the noo?’
Thrugg gave his sling to Rocangus. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be. Lead on, Yore Lordship!’
Rocangus stood waving with his good wing, watching them until they were swallowed up in the mists.
It was a perilous journey. Thrugg needed all his strength and sure-pawed skill. Sliding down glacial valleys and ascending slopes of crusted snow, scaling bare freezing rocks, the otter pushed on, keeping Mactalon in sight all the time. Seeking for holds in crevices, Thrugg dug his paws in, hauling himself strenuously upwards. Ledges with thick icicles hanging like sets of organ pipes ranged each side of him. Grunting and panting, he watched the falcon ahead flying upward, ever upward. Battling almost blindly through the world of snow, ice and white cloudbanks, the otter often slipped and slid back, but he was always back on the trail immediately, gritting his teeth and wiping away the perspiration that threatened to freeze on his nose and whiskers, ever mindful of the infant dormouse in the haversack strapped to his powerful shoulders. Thrugg lost all sense of time and space as he plugged doggedly onward and upward. It was at the exact moment that he thought he could go on no more that Laird Mactalon wheeled down through the shrouding mist.
‘Guid show, laddie. Ye’ve made it! Yon’s the eyrie of King MacPhearsome. Ah’ll be waitin’ here for ye when you’re done. The rest is up to ye now, Thrugg. Ah wish ye the best o’ fortune.’
Raising his eyes, Thrugg saw the eyrie. Swathed in clouds, it sat on a rocky pinnacle, strewn with heather, bracken, gorse, thistles and branches, all faded, dried and dead. The only living plant that could be seen sprouting through the debris was the Icetor flower, small, delicate, white, starlike, with blue tinged petals, almost invisible in the surrounding snow, but mysterious and beautiful in its mountain isolation.
Thrugg called up at the nest in a friendly tone, ‘Ahoy there, Yer Majesty. It’s me, Thrugg of Redwall Abbey. I’ve come to visit the Wild King himself.’
There was a crackling of heather and twigs, the nest stirred slightly, then MacPhearsome himself flew out.
The sight completely took Thrugg’s breath away. He had not been prepared for something like this. Snow flurried around his head as the great expanse of wings flapped downward and the Wild King landed in front of him. It was an awesome thing to see! The colossal golden eagle towered over Thrugg, two massive feet sinking slightly into the snow, lethal orange-scaled talons digging in for leverage. Each of the heavily feathered golden brown legs was as thick as the otter’s body; the eagle stood rooted on them as if they were twin oaks. The staggering canopy of wings swooshed noisily as the bird folded them both over his mighty back. The head dipped towards Thrugg, lighter brown-gold feathers framing the wild eyes afire with hunting lights.
MacPhearsome opened his curving amber beak, like two bone scimitars parting. ‘Ah doant like mah breakfast comin’ up here tae meet me. Hie awa’ an’ hide, riverdog. Ah’ll come an’ hunt for ye!’
Thrugg swallowed hard and stood his ground. ‘Majesty, I’ve not come to harm yeh. It’s the Flowers of Icetor I’m after. They’re needed by my friends at Redwall Abbey, where there’s a great sickness.’
The eagle King clacked his beak together like steel striking rock. ‘Aye, so Ah’ve heard. Yon Mactalon flew up an’ told me of this. Yer a tasty-looking beastie, Thrugg o’ Redwall. Tell me, pray, why should the Mac-Phearsome gi’e ye his flow’rs?’
Thrugg took a bold step forward and raised his voice. ‘Because, O King, there’s creatures goin’ to die if’n they don’t get the medicine made from your Icetor Flowers. You wouldn’t want the deaths of honest Redwallers on yer mind, now would Yer Majesty?’
A fierce smile hovered about the Wild King’s eyes. ‘Ah care no’ a whit fer beasties that doant live in mah mountains. Ach, it wouldnae bother mah mind a wee bit. Tell me this, Thrugg o’ Redwall: whit would ye do if Ah refused tae give ye mah flow’rs. Answer true now, riverdog!’
Thrugg took off the haversack. Placing it carefully to one side, setting his paws apart, he stared the eagle coolly in the eye. ‘Then if you’ll forgive me for sayin’, Majesty, I’d fight you for them. The lives of my mateys at the Abbey means a lot ter me, sir.’
The golden eagle’s raucous laughter set the mountain peaks ringing. He flew up, knocking Thrugg flat with the backdraught from his wings, circling and soaring in and out of the drifting mists. MacPhearsome’s ear-splitting screeches of merriment echoed and re-echoed until the very air was full of the sound.
As suddenly as he had started, the Wild King stopped. He landed back on the snow in front of Thrugg and cocked his head, one glittering eye staring at his challenger. ‘Och weel, Ah’ve heard everythin’ noo. Ye’d fight me? Jings, yer a braw beastie, a’right – Ah’ll say that for ye, Thrugg o’ Redwall. Mind, yer the on’y livin’ creature ever tae stand there an’ say that tae the Wild MacPhearsome. Yer friends must mean a great deal to ye, ye bonny riverdog. Fight me? It’d mak’ me grieve sair tae eat ye!’
At that Baby Dumble clambered from the haversack and began attacking the golden eagle’s leg, or at least one talon of it. ‘You leave Mista Thugg alone, ya big bully. Dumble fight you!’
One of the formidable talons looped through the infant dormouse’s smock and he was swung aloft, close to the golden eagle’s huge eye. ‘Name o’ crags! Whit have we here? Ah’m scairt an’ affrighted for mah life. Ye wouldnae kill me, would ye, mousie?’
Dumble swung a chubby paw at the eagle King. ‘Dumble knock you beak off if you ’urt Mista Thugg!’
MacPhearsome plopped him neatly back into Thrugg’s outstretched paws, astonishment written on his savage features. ‘Och, Ah dinnae ken whit they feed ye on at Redwall, but it must be guid tae produce sich braw beasties. Ah’m thinkin’ Ah’d best gi’e ye the Icetor Flow’rs afore Ah’m slain by the pair of ye!’
The great golden eagle spread his pinions, beating wildly as snow flew up all around, laughing and screeching in high good humour at his own joke.
On the snowy crag below them the Laird Mactalon pressed a wing hard over his heart to stop its racing beat and sat down flat, glad to be off his trembling legs.
The High King’s strange mood had favoured Thrugg and Dumble. Instead of MacPhearsome’s wrath they were receiving the Icetor Flowers. It was a huge relief for the falcon Chieftain.
30
‘Ee. . . . Oo . . . . Lay . . . . Lee . . . . Aaaaaahhhhh!’
Again the loud haunting cry rang through the wooded heights of the lake island above their heads. Shrews sprang up wide-eyed and quivering with fright.
Mara detached Pikkle from her paws and grabbed a paddle. ‘Whatever that is, it had better keep clear of us because if it comes down on to this ledge I’ll brain it, ghost badger or not!’
Nordo piled more driftwood on to the fire. It burned bright, crackling sparks up into the still summer night. By its light Mara looked around at the ashen faces of the Guosssom shrews; even Log-a-log seemed shaken by the unearthly call. The badger maid knew they were close to panic, so she set about dispelling their fears.
‘Hah! That’s an old trick to keep us awake. Lord Urthstripe used to do things like that at Salamandastron to keep his hares alert, didn’t he, Pikkle?’ She nudged the young hare sharply. He jumped.
‘Ow! Who? What? Oh er, rather, I’ll say! Old Thingummy was always runnin’ about in his nightshirt scarin’ the tail off some chap or other, doncha know. Oh yes! Of course he couldn’t frighten me or ol’ Mara here, we just snoozed through it all.’
Mara backed him up, watching the Guosssom beginning to relax.
‘Haha, yes. Remember he terrified Bart Thistledown and the poor fellow fell backward into a pot of hot vegetable soup? Hahaha!’
‘Hohoho, will I ever forget it, chum?’ Pikkle slapped his sides as he expanded on the tale. ‘There was ol’ Barty with the pan stuck to his bottom, chargin’ about yellin’ blue murder!’
The shrews began smiling and tittering. Soon they were rocking with laughter as Pikkle continued with the comical incident.
‘Hahahaha! Dearie me, I tell you, fellers, Barty was the only one among us who’d never look at vegetable soup again. He’s eaten nothin’ but jolly old porridge from that day t’ this. If ever you ask him to tell you the tale. . . . Hahahaha! Shall I tell y’ wot he says . . .? Heeheehee! He says, “Don’t mention the tale – it was cooked to a turn!” Ohohoho! Tail, tale, cooked to a turn – get it?’
Reciting stories and telling jokes, the two friends continued into the night until the incident was all but forgotten. Log-a-log posted sentries on the rock ledge, the fire was stoked up higher and gradually the shrews dozed off one by one. Mara lay watching the fire; Pikkle lay some distance away, though he could still see his friend’s face in the firelight. She looked sad. Softly the young hare called across to her, ‘I say, old gel, what’s up? Y’ look like a wet wallflower on a windy day.’
The badger maid sighed and closed her eyes. ‘All those stories we told, Pikkle – lies, the whole lot. I wish it had been like that back at Salamandastron. I’d never have left. Ah well, let’s get some sleep. Goodnight, Pikkle.’
Pikkle watched as a single teardrop oozed from his friend’s closed eyelid.
‘I say, steady on. Maybe we did tell a blinkin’ pack of fibs, but it certainly calmed down those shrew chappies. Look, they’re fast asleep, the lot o’ them, just like we should be. G’night Mara ol’ gel, happy dreams, wot?’
Log-a-log roused them as he threw more wood on the fire. It had been light for nearly three hours. ‘Come on, you lot. Roll me log, are you going to doze there all day?’
Breakfast was a hasty affair of meagre rations. Preparations for the day were mapped out by the shrew leader. Log-a-log elected to go with Nordo and the foraging party, saying he would search for logboat repairing materials whilst they gathered what food the island had to offer. Six shrews were to remain behind on the ledge to guard the boats and keep the fire going.
Mara and Pikkle studiously avoided mentioning the nature of their quest, so as not to upset the others. Arming themselves with rapiers and slings, and accompanied by Tubgutt, as promised, they climbed up the cliffs to the woodlands above and struck out for the centre of the island, leaving the Guosssom to their chores.
It was a thickly wooded island. Small birds twittered in the foliage, sunlight shafted through the leaves of beech, elm, oak, ash, sycamore and cedar, tracing patterns of light and shade on the pretty forest flowers carpeting the ground. Pikkle found a cherry tree in full fruit and they sat beneath it, eating the softest dark red cherries. Apples and pears too grew in profusion.
Pikkle flicked a cherry stone in the air. ‘I say, this is all rather nice, chaps. A body could get used to this, the blinkin’ place is a paradise. Look, there’s a sweet-chest-nut tree – beech and hazelnut as well. Flop my ears, if a ghost does live here he must be a blinkin’ well-fed old spook. Yowch! Go easy with those cherry stones, Mara!’
‘What are you gabbling on about, Ffolger?’ The badger maid looked at him quizzically.
‘Gabblin’? I’m not gabblin’, m’dear gel. Just quit chuckin’ jolly ol’ cherry stones at me, that’s all.’
Mara indicated a small heap of cherry pits at her side. ‘I’ve not thrown a one. Mine are here – see?’
Pikkle clapped a paw to his eye. ‘Yowch! Now listen, old Tubthing, throw one more cherry stone at me an’ I’ll squidge a cherry right on your bally nose!’
Tubgutt was a serious shrew, not given to practical jokes. ‘I don’t throw pips at other creatures, Pikkle. Don’t blame me!’
‘Yowch! Well, who the – ow! There goes another one!’
Mara looked up swiftly and caught a glance of a fleeting greyish creature flitting through the treetops. ‘Aha! There’s somebeast up there. Come on. It went that way!’
Dashing between the close-growing trunks, they chased after the shadowy figure, but it was a pointless exercise; whatever it was had them easily outdistanced. The three friends stopped in a small clearing, panting from the hard run. A pool of crystal-clear water provided them with a refreshing drink.
As they drank, Pikkle watched the treetops reflected in the surface of the water. Leaning close to Mara, he whispered, ‘It’s back again. The bally thing’s watchin’ us from the top of that beech tree yonder. What’ll we do?’
Mara kept her face down and her paws cupped as she drank water. ‘Ah yes, I see it now. Pay no attention. We’ll let its own curiosity get the better of it. Look, it’s coming lower.’
Travelling in small jerky runs, the creature was moving down the beech trunk towards the ground. Tubgutt watched the reflection in the pool with Mara and Pikkle.
‘What do you suggest we do now, Mara? It’s down on the grass.’
Now Mara had lost the reflected picture, she took a quick glance over her shoulder. The creature had started moving across the clearing behind them.
‘It’s a squirrel!’ the badger maid hissed to her friends. ‘When I give the word we must move fast, cut it off from the trees and surround it in this clearing. Pikkle, you’re the fastest – get behind it. Tubgutt, go to the left. I’ll go to the right. That way the only place it will have left to run will be straight into this pool. Ready. . . . Go!’
The plan worked neatly. Dashing out, they had the squirrel boxed in. As they moved closer, it backed towards the pool. It was a female, incredibly small and thin, traces of its former red showing beneath the fur that was heavily greyed with age. She stood with her back to the water, baring toothless gums at them. Mara held out her paws in a sign of peace.
‘I am Mara, this is Pikkle, and Tubgutt. We mean you no harm. Why were you throwing cherry stones at us? I could understand if you were a young playful squirrel, but one of your seasons. . . . You surprise me with your infantile behaviour.’
The ancient creature did not reply. She swayed from side to side, seeking a chance to dash off, but there was no escape likely.
Pikkle stepped closer, wagging a paw at her. ‘How would you like it if I aimed cherry stones at your bonce, marm? What I mean is, hang it all, can’t a chap scoff cherries in peace on this island?’
The squirrel opened her mouth wide and let out a long shrill call.
‘Eulaliaaaaaa!’
There followed a silence. Pikkle shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself, old lady? Dearie me, I can see this conversation’s goin’ nowhere fast, wot?’
There was a rustling in the woodland at their backs. The squirrel nodded with satisfaction before speaking.
‘You’ll be sorry you came to this island. It’s you who are surrounded now, not me.’
A heavy crashing in the undergrowth caused the three friends to turn round. Two badgers came thundering out of the woods, one a female as old as the squirrel, but the other was a huge male, white as driven snow and whirling a big knotted oak club. They roared as they burst into the clearing.
‘Eulaliaaaaaa!’
Pikkle and Tubgutt stood open-mouthed with shock, but Mara stood forward, a tiny shrew rapier in one paw, twirling a loaded sling in the other. The battle light shone in her eyes.
‘I am Mara of Salamandastron! Stay out of the way, old mother. You, white one, come a step closer and I’ll slay you!’
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The white badger looked for a moment as if he were going to charge forward, but Mara noted the fierceness dim suddenly from his face, and his massive paws quivered as he stood undecided.
‘Get in there and fight, Urthwyte!’ The old female badger stamped her paw down angrily. ‘Go on, she’s a mere puppy compared to you. Flatten her!’
Mara came forward lightly, poised on ready pawpads, her neckfur bristling, fangs bared. ‘Aye, come on, Urthwyte. You’re a fine big beast. Let’s see if you fight as good as you growl!’
Pikkle and Tubgutt stood to one side, out of the whole thing. The confrontation was between two badgers; to get in the way meant certain death. Pikkle, however, noticed as Mara did that the white badger, for all his size and muscle, seemed unwilling to offer battle. The young hare called encouragement to his friend.
‘Watch him, Mara. Remember Sergeant Sapwood – dodge and weave. Don’t try a paw to paw with this rascal. He’s too big!’
Mara was still moving forward.
‘Urthwyte, what have we taught you?’ The old squirrel chattered angrily. ‘Kill the creature! Ooooh! Loambudd, kick his tail for him, good ’n’ hard!’
As Mara advanced, the older badger, Loambudd, gave Urthwyte a hefty shove in the back.
‘Go on, you big lump. Fight!’
The white badger stumbled forward into Mara, accidentally catching her off guard. He closed his eyes, averting his head as he grabbed her. The breath left Mara’s body in a great whoosh, two enormous vicelike paws lifted her dear of the ground, and she was pinned helpless in mid-air, with the great white badger shouting, ‘Look, just leave me alone, will you? I don’t want to fight. Let me be, or I’ll squeeze you hard!’
Mara felt as though her whole body was trapped in a mighty press. Her eyes bulged and she fought for breath. Pikkle pushed Tubgutt aside as the shrew ran forward, drawing his rapier. The young hare set his jaw grimly as he thwacked down a loaded sling viciously on the white badger’s footpaw.
Salamandastron (Redwall) Page 23
