Eulalia!

by Brian Jacques

  “It’ll be that ole watervole, I’ve spotted ’im round ’ere afore. We’ll just charge in, knock the livin’ daylights outta the ole fool, an’ rob ’is vittles!”

  His mate took a saw-toothed knife from her ragged smock. “Aye, drag ’im out onto the bank, then when we’ve ate the food, we kin ’ave a bit o’ fun with ’im!”

  Orkwil had never encountered hostile vermin before. He was horrified at their savagery. Peeping around the sycamore trunk, he watched as they searched the bankside. The female found the entrance to their victim’s home. Smothering her sniggers, she pranced about, waving the knife in anticipation.

  Her mate brandished his club, muttering a warning. “Don’t yew go stickin’ ’im with that thing right away, couple o’ taps on the noggin with this’ll send ’im t’sleep. We can play games with ’im later. Alright, foller me!”

  They vanished into the entrance. Orkwil had a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach about what was going to happen next. He stayed behind the tree trunk, trying to reason things out. Really speaking, it was none of his business. The old watervole had been very nasty to him, why would he want to help a creature like that? Then there was the question of two fierce river rats, carrying weapons. They were obviously killers. Suppose they’d caught him, would the watervole come running to offer his help? Huh, hardly!

  The spikes on the young hedgehog’s back stood rigid, as agonised squeals and cruel laughter issued forth from the victim’s dwelling. There was a moment’s silence, then the river rat emerged, dragging the watervole by his footpaws, and calling to his mate.

  “Fetch that soup out ’ere, I’m starvin’. Heeheehee, did ye ’ear the way this ’un squealed? Bumblin’ idjit, wouldn’t ’old still so I could knock ’im out proper. Huh, ’e near fell in the soup twice!” He set about binding the unconscious creature with a rope he had found in the dwelling.

  His mate staggered out, bent double with the weight of a cauldron full of hot soup. She set it down, licking her paws. “Mmmm, s’good soup, this, fulla watershrimps!”

  Both rats leaned over the soup, dabbing their paws in, alternately blowing and licking on them, as they planned their captive’s fate.

  “We could shove ’im in the empty soup pot with a few rocks, an’ see if it’ll float in the river. Heeheehee!”

  “Nah, best if’n we jus’ puts ’im inna pot, lights a fire under it an’ cooks ’im. Watervole soup, heehee!”

  It was at that moment Orkwil decided he could not cower in hiding from the vermin, something had to be done immediately. Grabbing his staff tightly, he leapt out of hiding and charged the rats. Fortunately, they had their backs to him, and did not see the young hedgehog until too late.

  One mighty whack of the yew staff between the club carrier’s ears knocked him out cold. As the rat crumpled to the ground, his mate whirled around. She drew her knife swiftly, but Orkwil, aided by the speed of panic, was even quicker than she.

  Crack! He hit both her paws, sending the knife flying. Thud! He thumped the butt end of his weapon hard into her stomach. As the river rat doubled over, with the breath whooshing from her, Orkwil struck again. Thwock! Right on the crown of her head. The vermin stood staring at him for a split second, then her eyes crossed as she tumbled facedown on the riverbank.

  Orkwil was shaken from snout to spikes with the audacity of his rapid attack. It took him a few moments to regain his composure. Never having been involved in serious combat before, he had to think about what to do next. Of course, tie both the rats up before they came to.

  He loosed the rope from the unconscious watervole, and dragged the rats, one by one, to a nearby beech tree. Placing their backs to the trunk, Orkwil tied their forepaws together, so they had the tree in a backward embrace. Then he attended to the vole. Grabbing some bankmoss and mud, he piled it on the old creature’s head wound, and spoke to him. “There, you’ll live to grumble again, old misery. Though you don’t deserve any help, after the way you treated me. So I’m going to charge you a bowl of soup for my help. I think that’s fair enough.”

  Orkwil got a bowl from inside the dwelling. He filled it, and drained it, three times before he was satisfied. The watervole was beginning to stir, groaning feebly. Orkwil placed the empty bowl alongside him, and took his leave. “I’ve left ye those two rats to deal with, old ’un. I don’t suppose they’ll get much mercy from ye, though. Oh, an’ thanks for the soup, ’twas very tasty!”

  This time, instead of going back to the ford, he headed downriver a short way. Not far from the bank, he found a large patch of ferns. A sudden weariness overcame Orkwil Prink. This was due to the excitement brought on by his first fight, plus the three bowls of soup, which he had guzzled with unseemly haste. The young hedgehog made his way to the centre of the fern bed and curled up there. Within moments he was fast asleep.

  He was also sinking slowly into the ground, because Orkwil had unwittingly chosen to sleep in a swamp.

  8

  Once the Bludgullet’s lookout sighted land off the portside, Vizka Longtooth gave orders to heave to, and follow the coastline. The weather had become milder and was considerably warmer. It had been four days, and Gorath was still chained to the mast. The young badger had received nothing to eat, or drink, apart from a few mouthfuls of rainwater. He looked gaunt and ill, with his head wound now solidified to a hardened scab, which stuck out on his brow like some grotesque decoration. But he would not give in, either to blandishments, starvation or beatings, which were regularly inflicted upon him. The golden fox, however, still lived in hopes of converting Gorath to the life of a Sea Raider.

  It was a calm summer morn, and Vizka was taking breakfast, as usual, just out of reach, but well in sight of his prisoner. He spooned warm oatmeal and honey from a bowl, making much show of enjoying it, as he taunted Gorath. “I’ll wager ye worked ’ard ter grow dese oats, an’ yore honey is jus’ der way I likes it. Sweet’n’thick!”

  The badger kept his head down, not bothering to look up at his tormentor. Vizka held the partially filled bowl out to him.

  “Ye knows yer like it, Rock’ead, cummon, talk ter me, d’yer want some, eh?” When he received no reaction, the golden fox merely emptied the remainder of the bowl over the side. “I had enough o’ dat, let d’fishes eat it!” Vizka picked up the length of tarred and knotted rope. “Ha, lookit wot I found, d’yer wanna taste o’ dis, eh?” He was about to swing it, when his brother, Codj, approached, pointing landward.

  “See, Cap’n, a river, crossin’ der shore, off dat way!”

  Shading his eyes, Vizka peered at the wide estuary. It ran across the sands, into the sea. “Anybeast knows dis river? Ask der crew, brother.”

  Codj saluted, going off to the main cabin, where some of the crew were breakfasting. He returned with Glurma, the fat, greasy ratwife, who was ship’s cook. She had served on other ships before coming aboard the Bludgullet. Vizka nodded toward the river.

  “You know dis place, eh?”

  Glurma wiped grimy paws on her stained apron. “Aye, Cap’n, dat’s der River Moss, runs out o’ Mossflower Country.”

  Vizka signalled his steersbeast to take Bludgullet in closer. “Big river, did ye ever sail up it?”

  The ratwife gnawed at a dirty paw claw. “Long time back, afore yew was borned.”

  The golden fox cuffed Glurma’s paw away from her mouth. “Tell me ’bout it!”

  Glurma sniffed and spat into the sea. “Sailed up dere wid Cap’n Boljan, in der Sharkfin, lookin’ fer Red Abbeywalls. Never got dat far, though, only to der fordplace. Shrewbeasts, an’ h’otters, ’undreds of ’em, druv us away. Mad fighters dose shrewbeasts an’ h’otters, we wuz lucky ter gerrout alive. Huh, never went back dere!”

  Vizka Longtooth mulled over the information, murmuring, “Yew was lucky t’git anyplace in a vessel liddle as der Sharkfin. An’ wid Boljan, too, hah, dat ’un was scared’ve ’is own shadder. Red Abbeywalls, eh?” Vizka suddenly realised what the cook was trying to say. “Ye mean Redwall Abbey,
was dat der name o’ d’place?” The golden fox suddenly seized the ratwife, shaking her. “Redwall Abbey! Wot did Cap’n Boljan say about it?”

  Glurma struggled to free herself of the golden fox’s grip. “I’ll tell ye if’n y’stop rattlin’ me bones!” Vizka released the cook, who spoke willingly. “Aye, Redwall Abbey, dat’s wot Boljan called it. An’ ’e knew der way, ’cos ’e ’ad a chart. It wuz straight up der River Moss, carry on through der trees, ’til ye comes to a ford. Den yew abandons ship, an’ marches south down der road fer mebbe a day or more, an’ ye kin sight it, plain as a pikestaff. Biggest place ye ever clapped yore eyes on, an’ der richest, too. Dat’s wot Boljan said!”

  Gorath still sat beside the mast, his head hanging low, and both eyes closed, the picture of a hopelessly beaten prisoner. However, inside his heart was thumping wildly, he had heard everything the cook had said. Redwall Abbey! This was the land of Mossflower that his grandfather had told him of. Suppressing the quivers of excitement that threatened to betray his feelings, the young badger slouched even lower, allowing his wounded forehead and muzzle to touch the deck. He listened carefully to what was said.

  Vizka Longtooth issued orders. “Drop anchor an’ furl dat sail. Codj, git all paws up ’ere on deck. I got summat ter say!”

  With its prow facing inland, the Bludgullet rode at anchor in the river mouth. Gorath raised his head a fraction. He stared across the shore, to the coarse-grassed dunes, and the woodland fringe in the distance. Somewhere out there the Abbey of Redwall lay basking in the still summer haze. The golden fox flicked him across his back with a long, knotted rope.

  “Looks nice, don’t it, Rock’ead? But yew won’t be seein’ none of it, ’til ya learns some sense, or starves t’death. Makes no diff’rence t’me, ’tis yore choice.”

  Vizka Longtooth leaned on the tiller, waiting until all his crew had arrived. The deck was jam-packed with vermin of all types, eager to hear their captain’s pronouncement. The golden fox took Gorath’s pitchfork, Tung, pointing landward with it. “Ye’ve all ’eard o’ Redwall Abbey, I wager?” A murmur of anticipation ran through the ranks. He gave it time to die away, then continued. “Dere’s some says ’tis only a pretty story, an’ others says ’tis real. The biggest, richest place anywheres. Well, wot d’ye say buckoes, would ye like to find out?”

  The vermin crew roared their approval. Now Vizka was really talking, this was better than scrounging around the barren Northern Isles, robbing impoverished farms. If there was such a place as the Abbey of Redwall, what secrets, and treasures, lay waiting there to be taken?

  The fox captain’s long teeth gleamed as he smiled. “Aye, mates, Redwall Abbey, dat’s where we’re bound! But mark ye, I only wants loyal crewbeasts at me back when I takes dat place on. Are ye wid me, eh?”

  Brandishing a bristling array of weapons, the crew roared aloud. “Aye, Cap’n!”

  Suddenly the tines of the pitchfork were pointing at the ferret, Grivel, and the two rats, Feerog and Durgy. Vizka’s tone was almost cajoling them. “Haharr, an’ worrabout yew three, which one of ye’d like ter lead der shore party to Redwall?”

  The trio jostled one another as they strode forward, each pointing to himself.

  “I’ll do it, Cap’n!”

  “Pick me, Cap’n!”

  “Y’can trust me t’do der job, Cap’n!”

  Codj gave his brother an injured look, figuring that he had been passed over as leader of the shore party. Vizka winked at Codj, widening his toothy smile. Codj kept wisely silent, knowing the coming danger to somebeast, which his brother’s smile always heralded.

  Vizka waved the pitchfork at his crew. “Avast, who o’ these three do I choose?”

  Now everybeast was shouting out, calling the name of the one they fancied. The golden fox let them carry on awhile, then waved the pitchfork for silence.

  “I think we should let ’em choose atwixt ’emselves, by test o’ combat. Last beast standin’ alive gits der job!”

  Shrieks of delight echoed from the barbaric crew. “Aye, Cap’n! Test o’ combat! Aye!”

  A ring was quickly formed, with the three contestants at its centre. They stared uneasily at each other, then began circling. Each knew that nobeast refused an order from Vizka Longtooth, whose smile had become a wide grin of enjoyment. He signalled with the pitchfork. “Haharr, go to it, me lucky buckoes, no mercy an’ no quarter. We’ll see who’s fit ter be der leader!”

  Grivel had his cutlass out halfheartedly, he shrugged at Feerog. “We ain’t got no choice, mate!”

  Feerog did not hesitate; whipping out his sword, he ran Grivel through. As he did, the big, black rat, Durgy, jumped him from behind. Durgy did not have a sword, but he was expert with his dagger. Feerog gave a gasp of surprise as the blade plunged between his ribs, he collapsed silently. It was all over in the twinkling of an eye. A hush fell over the crew as they gazed at the two who had just met death.

  Durgy turned to face his captain, pointing to himself with the dagger. “I think it’ll be meself who’ll be leadin’ yore shore party, Cap’n!”

  Vizka shook his head. “Not after ye’ve slayed three o’ my crew, Durgy.”

  Codj looked puzzled. “Three? But dere’s only two of ’em.”

  Vizka was enjoying himself, he nodded affably to the crew. “Three if’n ye counts pore Snikey. Durgy an’ ’is two mates was plottin’ agin me, but Snikey ’eard ’em, so Durgy did ’im in, an’ tossed ’im o’er der side. Ain’t dat right, mate?”

  Durgy was at a loss for words. Vizka winked at him.

  “Thought ye’d fooled me, didn’t ya, but der cap’n o’ de Bludgullet knows everyt’ink. Don’t ’e, Cooky?”

  The fat, greasy cook, Glurma, nodded.

  The crew knew then who had informed on the plotters.

  Glurma ducked off silently to her galley. One or two of her vermin shipmates cast glances of disgust at her. But Vizka distracted their attention, carrying on with his summation of the good times ahead for his loyal crew.

  “Belay, buckoes, I nominates Codj t’be der shore party leader. We’ll take dis Redwall Abbey, an’ loot it down to der stones. Loads o’ booty fer all paws, eh!”

  At the mention of looting and booty, the crew cheered lustily. Everybeast was firmly on the golden fox’s side.

  He leaned on the pitchfork, smiling indulgently at them. “Aye, booty, grog an’ vittles fer my trusty cullies!” He paused, shaking his head sadly. “All ’cept fer one, an’ I’ll leave ’im to yew, ain’t no room aboard Bludgullet fer mutineers. Harr, ’tis a sad day for yore ole cap’n. I’ll go an’ mourn in me cabin.”

  The circle of drawn weapons closed in on Durgy.

  Vizka Longtooth paused before entering his cabin. He listened to Durgy’s last scream, and heard the splash as his carcass hit the water. Then he wiped away a mock tear. “Harr, a sad day indeed!”

  That evening the Sea Raiders poled their vessel up the navigable channel across the sands. Codj commanded two squads, both tugging on hawsers attached to the ship’s bows. By dusk they were into the dunes. Gorath stared at the sandy walls, either side of the deck. Freedom had never looked so near, yet been so far from him. The young badger waited until the crew took to their bunks and hammocks. When the decks were deserted, he inspected the chain that held him to the mast. It was neither old nor thin, but a thick, solid iron chain, which could not be broken by any score of strong beasts. The lock went between two links, holding the chain tightly about his waist, a big lock, stout and secure. He did not know who was the key holder, though he suspected it was either Vizka or his brother. Gorath knew nothing of locks, this was the first one he had ever encountered. His big, blunt claws made no impression on it, though he tugged, heaved and even bit at the thing. Somehow, someway, he had to free himself, and escape from these vermin. He had to reach Redwall if he had any chance of staying alive.

  Hunger, weariness and anxiety cast him into a sleep that was more of a faint than a slumber. He dreamed of a mouse, a fearle
ss-looking creature, who wore armour, and carried a shining sword. The mouse spoke words into his exhausted mind.

  “To perish midst vermin will not be thy fate, watch for the young thief, be still and wait!”

  9

  Mad Maudie (the Hon.) Mugberry Thropple was neither a whiner nor a pleader. Being surrounded by lizards, and bound to a tree, did nothing to dampen her fighting spirit. When the big lizard leaned over her, hissing and threatening, the haremaid managed to give him a hard kick in his green, mottled stomach. The big lizard gave a curious gurgle, and collapsed clasping his injured midriff. Maudie booted out again, dealing him another kick in the back, at about the spot where she imagined a lizard’s bottom would be. Then she gave him a piece of her mind.

  “Now then, you slinky blighter, pay attention! You don’t frighten me in the slightest, not you, or those other caddish types skulkin’ over yonder, wot!”

  The big sand lizard crawled out of Maudie’s reach. His face had taken on a sickly pallor, but he staggered upright, hissing viciously. “You will die forrrr thisssssss!”

  Maudie twiddled her ears at him. “Yah, boo an’ sucks t’you! Just wait’ll I get loose, I’ll boot your blinkin’ tail into the middle of next season, you great, slithery wretch!” She wriggled and tugged at the rope, but to little avail, it still held her fast to the trunk of the oak. Whilst she struggled, Maudie kept an eye on the reptiles.

  The big lizard had gone over to consult with the others. They huddled together, making lots of lizardlike noises, and constantly pointing in the haremaid’s direction. Maudie kept her spirits up by shouting insults at them.

  “’Strewth, a fine lot you bounders are, d’you have to hold a full-blown conference to decide a simple maiden’s fate? Hah! What’s all the hissin’ for? You sound like a load of old kettles, boilin’ away at teatime. Now, if I were you, which I’m jolly well glad I’m not, I’d go an’ find some types who’d be scared of you. Off ye go, an’ frighten some frogs, or torment some toads, wot!”