Dinko was not so sure. “Ye’ll get us both killed if’n Zwilt comes back. Don’t chance it, Glob!”
Globby carried on climbing. “Yore like an ole frog wirra warty bum. Stop worryin’. Look, you stay ’ere—this won’t take long. I’ll be in an’ out afore ye knows it. Tell yer wot, I’ll bring ye a pie back, all for yoreself. How’d ye like that?”
Dinko spat out a sour blackberry. “Wot sorta pie?”
Globby, having reached the desired branch, looked down. “I dunno. Wot sort d’yer like? Apple or maybe plum? Suit yerself.”
Dinko gave it some thought. “See if’n they got apple an’ plum, an’ damson, too, or strawberry.”
Globby sniggered. “Wot, all in one pie?”
Dinko looked indignant. “Well, ye never know. Daclaw said they must ’ave a big cookin’ place in there. I betcha they could cook all sorts o’ pies.”
Globby ventured out onto the branch, halting as it wobbled slightly. “Righto. I’ll see wot I kin get!”
A moment later, he made his daring leap and was clinging to the battlements, hauling himself up, muttering, “Knowed I could do it. Now, where’s the big cookin’ place?”
4
The endless hiss of breaking waves was softened to a weary sigh by the ebbing tide. Gulls wheeled and soared over the dawn-lit sea. Clear skies and a rapidly blooming sun predicted another fine summer day. Leaving two sets of pawtracks in their wake, Buckler and Diggs travelled east from Salamandastron.
Buckler was packing one of the bellropes next to his long blade. He marched energetically, with a spring to his paw-step. Diggs, however, was already lagging behind, panting and blowing. He was burdened down by an overfull haversack, bulging with food. The bellrope he carried trailed the ground, constantly tripping him. Buckler halted, waiting for him to catch up.
“Pick those paws up, mate. It’s a wonder you can walk at all. The size of that breakfast you scoffed would’ve staggered a regiment. Where’d you shove it all?”
The tubby Diggs hitched up his huge backpack. “Take my tip, old scout. A chap needs lots o’ fodder t’keep himself goin’, wot. Ever heard the sayin’ that an army marches on its jolly old stomach?”
Hiding a smile, Buckler jollied him along. “I’ll march on your jolly old stomach, if y’don’t keep up. Hup two three, Diggs—let’s see you stepping out. I’d like to get to Redwall while I’m still young enough to enjoy the place.”
Diggs caught up with an amazing burst of speed. “Red flippin’ wall! Y’mean the blinkin’ Abbey?”
Buckler nodded. “Must be. I’ve not heard of any other Abbeys called Redwall, have you?”
The revelation spurred Diggs to increase his pace further. “I say, simply spiffin’, wot! All those wonderful vittles, the banquets an’ whatnot, picnics an’ super suppers. Hoho, I’ll bet breakfast’s a real treat. Wonder if they serve it t’you in bed, wot?”
He halted suddenly in a swirl of sand, rounding wrathfully upon his companion. “Just a tick . . . you cad! You flippin’ rotter! You never said anything t’me about goin’ to Redwall. I thought we were goin’ to visit your bally brother. Oh, yah boo sucks t’you, Buckler blinkin’ Kordyne. Some friend you jolly well turned out t’be, wot!”
Buckler had to double march to keep up with his indignant companion. “Sorry, mate. I must’ve forgotten to tell you we were going to Redwall first. But what d’you suppose these ropes are for?”
Diggs continued his rapid pace, waving his paws about in agitation. “How’m I supposed t’know, eh? You said your brother was a flippin’ farmer. I thought ropes were things farmers used for . . . for tyin’ up their confounded crops, or whatever. Alls I know is that this rope I’m carryin’ is jolly heavy, heavier’n yours, I bet, wot!”
Buckler explained. “They’re both the same weight, because they’re bellropes. A gift from Lord Brang to Abbess Marjoram. He asked me to deliver them.”
Diggs huffed. “Oh, very kind of him, t’be sure. Hah, you’d think a chap could deliver his own bloomin’ bellropes instead o’ weighin’ a couple o’ poor, weary young travellers down with the blighters, eh, wot!”
Leaving behind the shoreline, they cut off into the dunelands, digging their paws deep into the warm sand as they surmounted each hill. Diggs was immensely cheered by the prospect of a Redwall visit. However, he had still not completely forgiven Buckler for his loss of memory on the previous evening. So he spoke his mixed thoughts aloud.
“Hahahoho, Redwall, wot wot! Loads o’ munchables, I’ll be bound. I’ve heard the scoff there’s second to none. Indeed, they prob’ly serve seconds all the time, eh! But you, y’scoundrel, wouldn’t give a chap a single clue we were goin’ to the place. Sneaky codwoofler! Er, I say, Buck old lad, it must be about time for lunch. What say we halt an’ break out the old nosebag? All this trampin’ about gets a chap confounded hungry.”
His companion pointed up at the sun. “See, when that’s in the centre of the sky, it’ll be midday. That’s the correct time to eat lunch. Until then, we keep going, alright?”
Diggs was a notorious creature at chunnering. He began dropping behind again, muttering darkly, “Huh, bally sun in the centre o’ the bloomin’ sky? Might be all season before that happens. A chap could starve t’death, shrivel up like a leaf an’ be carted off by the blinkin’ breeze. ’Tain’t right, that’s what ’tain’t. Bet you won’t shed a tear for me, though!”
To stem the tide of chunnering, Buckler made a suggestion. “How about striking up a cheery marchin’ song, to help us along the way, eh?”
Diggs was not enchanted with the idea. “Yah, go’n’ boil your beastly bottom! How can a chap skip along warblin’ some jolly song when he’s about to collapse from starvation? I’d die before we got much further. Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, wot? A grinnin’ young skeleton whose last words were a line from some silly marchin’ ditty. Indeed, ’tis a sad fact, my fiendish friend, that’d fit in with your wicked old plan. Then you could trot on alone to Redwall an’ scoff all the tuck yourself. Well, you don’t fool me for a ruddy moment. Shame on you, my one-time travellin’ companion. Shame an’ fie, I say!”
Buckler turned, glaring at his laggardly friend. “Are you goin’ t’stop that bloomin’ chunnerin’, or do I have to kick your tail into the middle of next season to get a bit of peace!”
This threat did not bother Diggs, who carried on in full flow. “So, this is what it’s come to, eh? Well, kick my tender young tail as much as y’please, sah. There’s no law against a chap chunnering. I’ll chunner as much as I bally well like—so there!”
Admitting defeat, Buckler dropped the haversack from his back. He sat down in the lee of a high sandhill, calling wearily to Diggs, “Righto, mate, let’s have lunch, before you either starve or drive me insane with your chunnering!”
The plump complainer plopped down beside him, rubbing his paws and chortling gleefully. “Splendid day for a spot o’ lunch, wot. Shall we dine from my rations or yours? Better make it yours, ’cos you’ve already got your haversack off. Heehee!”
Tearing open Buckler’s supplies, he enthused happily, “Oh, I say, just the ticket, bread’n’cheese, an’ a drop o’ good old cider. What ho, Buck—nothin’ like simple fare when a feller’s famished. Hello, what’s this? A jar of plums preserved in honey, what luck. That’ll hit the jolly old spot, wot wot! Well, well, who’d have thought old Cooky would bung in some vegetable turnovers? Raspberry cordial, too, an’ a hefty old fruitcake. It’ll lighten your load once I’ve dealt with that. Hah, an’ will you look at this—”
Buckler rapped his paw with the wooden bellrope end. “Hold up, there. This is only a light lunch, not a midsummer-eve banquet. Glutton, you’d wolf the lot if I let you!”
Diggs sucked his paw resentfully. “No need to break a chap’s limb over a mouthful of tuck!”
Buckler shared out enough for a frugal repast. They dined on bread and cheese, a slice of fruitcake apiece and some cider. Diggs finished his in record time, then sa
t watching every mouthful his friend ate, licking his lips longingly.
When it became clear he was getting no more, he lay back upon the sun-warmed sand, complaining, “Hope we have afternoon tea at a respectable time. I’m still pretty hungry, y’know. Another cob o’ that good cheese an’ a pasty wouldn’t go amiss, wot!”
Buckler ignored the irrepressible Diggs, who drew patterns in the sand, belched, excused himself, then lay back, closing his eyes.
Buckler snorted. “Y’great, idle lump, you’re not going to nod off. We haven’t made a half day’s march yet!”
Diggs twitched his nose. “ ’Sno good talkin’ t’me, old lad. I’m asleep, y’see. Didn’t sleep much last night, what with this bally journey hangin’ over me, an’ after all that fibbin’ you did, not lettin’ on about a visit to Redwall. Dearie me, it’s depressin’ my spirit so much I’ll need a good few hours’ shuteye before I even think about more pawsloggin’ again.”
Buckler decided he had taken just about enough. Shouldering his haversack, he rolled Diggs roughly over, relieving him of the bellrope and his backpack. He walked off, carrying the lot, without looking back.
Diggs sat bolt upright. “I say, where’n the name o’ fiddle-sticks d’you think you’re goin?”
Without turning, Buckler shouted back, “I’m goin’ it alone—don’t need you. Report back to Lord Brang, see what he has to say!”
Suddenly Diggs was alongside him, claiming back his equipment. “Well, hoity-toity sirrah, who said I wasn’t goin’, wot? Just you try an’ stop me. They don’t call me old Determined Diggs for nothin’, y’know. Step along lively now, laddie buck. I know, what about a good old marchin’ song? Remember that one we made up when we were both leverets?”
Buckler suddenly found himself smiling. “I certainly do, mate. Go on, you lead off!”
Away they went at the double, often changing step and back kicking. It was more of a comic dance, which they had performed at mess parties as cadets. Sometimes they sang solo, though mostly together.“They call me Diggs . . . an’ my name’s Buck,
If you draw a blade on us you’re out o’ luck!
I’m an expert with a sword!
I’m a champion with a spoon!
We’ll fight or feast with anybeast
come mornin’, night or noon.
So left right left right,
Wot ho, me pretty one!
Is your ma a good ole cook,
an’ where do you come from?
Let’s walk you home . . . don’t go alone,
you charmin’ little duck.
Then introduce your ma to us,
our names are Diggs an’ Buck!
So left right left right,
are we nearly there?
Salute the Colonel’s daughter,
parade around the square.
We’re jolly brave an’ handsome,
at war or scoffin’ tuck,
we’re perilously perfect ’cos . . .
they call us Diggs an’ Buck!”
They sang it through again, trying to outdo each other with sidesteps and fancy twiddles. When they halted, both hares were panting and laughing.
Buckler adjusted his backpack. “It’s been a few seasons since we sang that together.”
Diggs flopped down on the warm sand. “Rather. Blinkin’ wonder we still remember it, wot!”
Buckler noticed that the sandhills were getting smaller. “That’s the worst of the dunes behind us, mate, though there’s a tidy bit o’ this heath an’ scrubland still to go. Come on, matey, up y’come—there’s plenty o’ daylight left yet.”
They pressed onward, with Diggs beginning to lag and chunner again.
“Blinkin’ grasshoppers chirrupin’—it’s enough t’drive a poor beast potty. Aye, an’ those bees could pick better tunes to hum. Bloomin’ monotonous buzzin’, eh?”
Buckler suddenly held up a paw. “Hush—can you hear that noise?”
Diggs carried on until he bumped into his friend’s back. “Noise? What confounded noise? A rowdy butterfly, d’ye think!”
Buckler clapped a paw around Diggs’s mouth. “Give your jaws a rest an’ listen. Sounds like somebeast in trouble t’me. Over there, behind that hill—d’ye hear it?”
Diggs cocked up his ears, removing Buckler’s paw. “More’n one beast, I think. Shall we take a peep?”
Dropping their haversacks, the pair crouched low, then crept toward the source of the outcry.
A scrawny-looking fox and a hulking weasel had captured a young shrewmaid. They were trying to get a rope halter around her neck, threatening her with all manner of torments.
“Yew better ’old still, missy, or I’ll knock yer snout outta joint, so ’elp me I will!”
However, the shrewmaid was a feisty little creature, giving back as good as she got. She swung the rope, striking the scrawny fox in one eye.
“Leggo a me, ye snot-bubblin’ grubbers. Git yore filfy paws offa me!”
The hulking weasel drew a wicked-looking knife. “Grab ’er neck, mate. We’ll see wot she ’as t’say when I carves ’er tongue out!”
Watching from the tall grass to one side of the hill, the two hares realised it was time to step in on the vermin. Buckler drew his long rapier, but Diggs stayed his paw.
“Allow me t’deal with this little fracas, old lad. I’ll give you a hoot if I need you t’lend a jolly old paw, wot?”
Buckler watched as Diggs unwound his sling and loaded it with a sizeable rock.
“Go ahead, then, be my guest. But I don’t think those vermin’ll fall for that old trick.”
Diggs winked confidently, as he swaggered toward the scene. “We’ll bally well see what we shall see, matey!”
The tubby young hare called out in a commanding tone. (He could be rather good at commanding tones, when required.) “I say, you two, scraggy-bottom an’ clod-head! Take your foul paws off that young creature this very instant! Refrain an’ desist, sirrahs, an’ pack it in!”
The weasel advanced on Diggs, wielding his blade. “Are you talkin’ to us, rabbet?”
Diggs halted half a pace from the weasel. “Rabbet, is it? Have a care, barrelbottom—you happen to be addressing Subaltern Meliton Gubthorpe Digglethwaite. But let’s not stand on ceremony. You can address me as sir. Now, unpaw that charmin’ shrew.”
The scraggy fox let the rope go. Joining the weasel, he sneered at the newcomer. “Or wot, eh?”
As he was saying this, the fox produced a wooden club.
The shrewmaid called out a warning. “Watch them—they’re sly, dangerous vermin!”
Diggs chuckled nonchalantly, edging around until he was standing close to both his enemies. “Pish tush, m’dear, sly, dangerous?” He faced the weasel squarely, still twirling the loaded sling playfully. “Let me give you a demonstration of my prowess before you decide on attacking me, wot! D’ye see that skylark up there?”
The weasel stared up at the empty sky. “Where? Wot skylark—”
That was as far as he got. Diggs swung the heavily loaded sling up, thwacking it hard beneath the vermin’s chin. He carried on with the blow, up and over. The rock-loaded sling made a distinctive Bonk! as it struck the scraggy fox between both ears.
The fox was out cold, but the weasel was sitting on the ground, making odd noises as he hugged his chin.
Buckler walked up, shaking his head. “When’ll you ever learn, mate? You should’ve belted the fox under the chin first. The second hit would’ve put that weasel’s spark out, if you’d have smacked him over the head.”
Diggs consulted the half-stunned weasel. “You must have a flippin’ granite jaw. Didn’t that knock you out, old lad?”
The weasel looked dully up, nursing broken teeth and a bitten tongue. He said what sounded like, “Mmmmufffm!”
Diggs nodded sympathetically. “Sorry about that, old scout. Here, try this one!”
Whop! The sling bounced off the vermin’s brutish head. He fell back, out to the world.
; Diggs nodded to his friend. “I’ll remember that next time—little un to the chin, big un right on the bonce, wot!”
The little shrewmaid was watching them both, giggling merrily. “Youse two are funny rabbets.”
Diggs huffed as he proffered her a sweeping bow. “Hares, marm, Salamandastron hares of the Long Patrol. I’m Diggs, an’ this is my friend Buck, wot! Pray, who have we the pleasure of addressing?”
The shrewmaid bobbed a quick curtsy. “Me name’s Flib ber, but youse kin call me Flib.”
Buckler prodded the unconscious vermin with a f ootpaw.
“Pleased to meet ye, Flib. What did these two want with you?”
Flib shrugged. “Huh, I dunno. They jus’ snucked up on me an’ tried t’drag me off sumplace, dunno where!”
She took the knife from the weasel and the club from the scraggy fox, commenting grimly, “But they won’t do it again—no blunkin’ vermins will. Hah, jus’ lerrem try, now that I’ve gorra few weppins meself!”
Diggs enquired, “What are you doin’ out here on your own, missy? Where are you from, wot?”
She pointed the blade at him aggressively. “None of yer bizness, nosey!”
Diggs went off to get their supply haversacks, chunnering as usual. “Mind my own jolly business, indeed. There’s flippin’ gratitude for you. Lay two vermin low, save the wretch’s life, an’ that’s all the bloomin’ thanks one gets. If I hadn’t made her my business, she’d be in a bally bad spot now, indeed she would, ungrateful liddle snip. Huh, young uns these days, wot!”
Buckler tried reasoning with Flib. “It wouldn’t hurt to say where you hail from, Flib. What about your parents? I’ll wager they’re prob’ly quite worried about you.”
It was all to no avail. She scowled at him. “Yore nosier ’n yer pal, you are. Lissen, yew attend to yore bizness, an’ I’ll see t’mine, alright?”
Buckler turned away from her. “Suit y’self, miss.”
Diggs, returning with their gear, was greatly cheered when his friend announced that they would camp there for the night. He promptly began setting up preparations for a meal. Flib feigned indifference, though she spoke to Diggs.
The Sable Quean Page 4
