At first there was only Flib shouting. She began seizing others and shaking them. “Shout out, will ye? We want vittles. Shout! Shout!”
For some unknown reason, everybeast obeyed. Not only did they cry out, but they repeated, louder and louder, “We want vittles! We want vittles!”
The stern-faced ferret guard bellowed back at them, “Alright, stop that noise. The vittles are on their way!”
Flib felt triumphant. Her mood changed to one of optimism. She grinned at Flandor.
“See? I told ye so. If’n ye shout loud enough, they gotta do somethin’ about it. Ahoy, wot’s that you’ve got?”
Flandor held up a small wooden spoon. “It’s my spoon. I had it with me when I was captured.”
Flib took the spoon. She inspected it carefully before putting out a general question to all the prisoners. “Who else has a spoon, or anythin’ like one?”
Several creatures had spoons, but the one who caught the shrewmaid’s eye was a young mole. She had what looked like an old broken knife made of iron. “Et wurr moi ole granfer’s, but et bee’d broked, so ee give’d et to oi.”
Flib took it, along with several other spoons that were strongly made and a fork carved from some type of thick bone.
Midda cautioned her sister, “Hide ’em. The foxes are here with our vittles!”
Thwip had armed himself with a spear. He waved it at Flib. “Keep yer distance, shrew. I ain’t servin’ yer. Wot’s left in the cauldron after they’ve all been served will do fer you!”
Flib silently joined the back of the line. When it was her turn, she scraped out the remains of the meagre meal. Plop-ping it on the piece of slate which Midda used as a plate, Flib said gruffly, “I don’t want any o’ that bilge. Give it t’ Borti.”
When the meal was over, the foxes removed the cauldron and the water tub, leaving the captives alone in the gloomy cavern.
Flib posted Jinty and Jiddle Witherspyk at the entrance. “Youse two, keep yer eyes peeled an’ yer ears open. If’n ye hear anybeast comin’, let us know, sharpish! Flandor, fetch me those tools—the knife’n’fork an’ those spoons I picked out.”
Tura the squirrelmaid watched Flib going to the rear of the cavern. “What are you goin’ to do?”
The Guosim shrewmaid stared at the walls specula tively. “I was keepin’ me eyes open when they carried me ’ere hangin’ from that spearpole. I think this whole place is built underneath an ole giant of an oaktree. Look up. Can ye see the great thick roots runnin’ all ways above us? My guess is right, eh?”
Flandor passed over the eating implements. “Maybe so, but wot does that prove?”
Flib explained, “No tree as big as an oak could grow on solid rock. Trees need earth, soil to grow in. Now, you there, molemaid, wot’s yore name?”
The molemaid who had donated the broken iron knife curtsied, introducing herself. “Oi’m Gurchen, marm.”
Flib could not help smiling. “Well then, Gurchen, yore a mole—take a look round this place an’ tell me, where’s the softest spot t’start diggin’?”
“Hurr, oi’d say roight yurr whurr oi be a settin’.” It was Guffy, the Redwall Dibbun.
Gurchen toddled over. She scratched the caveside where Guffy sat. “Burr aye, ee’m coorect, ’tis gurtly soily!”
Flib dug the broken knife in. It went easily, right up to the hilt. She chuckled happily.
“Good enough! This is where I starts diggin’ the tunnel. Seein’ as we can’t fight our way out o’ the front entrance, we’ll dig our way outta the back!”
This news caused shouts of joy. Tura waved her paws frantically at the young ones.
“Hush! Be quiet all of ye, we don’t want the vermin to know. Flib, we’re all with ye, friend. Now, what can we do to help?”
The shrewmaid was in full charge; she began issuing her orders. “The two liddle moles kin ’elp me. Flandor, I want you to make a cover. Use moss, beddin’, anythin’ that we can disguise the hole with. Tura, get some o’ the others to ’elp ye. When the soil comes out, it’ll need spreadin’ over the floor, so it ain’t noticed.”
Midda approached; she was hugging Borti, who was weeping softly for his mother. “Petunia . . . sorry, I mean Flib, wot can I do to help ye?”
Flib smiled as she stroked little Borti’s head. “Just keep the babe from cryin’ for his ma. Much more o’ that, an’ I’ll be weepin’ meself!”
Tassy the Redwall Dibbun smiled prettily at Flib. “Fank yoo for ’elpin’ us all, nice shrew!”
Flib wiped a paw roughly across her eyes. “Don’t thank me yet, darlin’. Not ’til we’re outta this mouldy ole place.”
Tura murmured to Flandor, “I don’t think anybeast’d snitch to the vermin to get extra vittles, d’you?”
The young otter wagged his rudder. “Certainly not. Look at ’em—you can see hope in their eyes. Hope, at the chance o’ freedom!”
Subaltern Meliton Gubthorpe Digglethwaite was consumed by a longing to be at Redwall Abbey as soon as possible. By that token, so were his travelling companions. Accordingly, they were all awake and on the march long before dawn. The prospect of breakfast at the Abbey lent a spring to their steps.
Young Auroria Witherspyk began singing—she was noted in the troupe for her sweet voice. It was not a particularly rousing marching song, but the beauty of it soon took effect. Everybeast felt lightpawed, dreamy almost, as the hogmaid’s clear tones rose to the softly dawning day.“When gentle dawn bedecks the land,
through woodlands green I roam,
where friendly trees stirred by the breeze,
shed deep their leafy loam.
Small birds sing sweetly to the sky,
‘Pray turn dark night to day.’
By copse and hill, o’er brook and rill,
I wend my happy way.
“For there ’mid joyous scenes like these,
a heart finds rest and ease.
“Where moss and fern and forest flow’rs,
of every rainbow hue,
play host to bee and butterfly,
all bathed in early dew.
Whilst hawthorn, oak and sycamore
in every quiet glade
do please the eye of passersby,
with dappling sun and shade.
“For there ’mid joyous scenes like these,
my heart finds rest and ease.”
The last tremulous notes of the lovely melody had scarce died in the pale dawnlight when Diggs roared out, “There ’tis, there ’tis! Wot ho, chaps, Redwall Abbey! The very place, wot!”
He was pointing through a break in the trees at a dim, distant shape.
Log a Log Jango confirmed the sighting. “Aye, that’s the Abbey rooftops ye can see. When we gets closer, ye’ll see the belltower alongside it.”
Old Crumfiss shook her greyspike head. “I doubt we’ll be in time for brekkist. ’Tis too far off yet. These paws o’ mine can’t go any faster. Unless ye all want to run along an’ I’ll follow.”
Oakheart Witherspyk would hear of no such thing. “We all go together, Mother dear, even if I have to carry you on my back!”
Buckler drew his long blade. “There’s no need for that, Oakie. Here, you Guosim, let’s see if we can’t make a litter. Let’s lop some good branches off that fallen hazel!”
The combined swords of Buckler and four shrews had soon hewed six useful branches. These were bound, two to either side, with the remaining two spaced crossways to form a stretcher. Oakheart volunteered his tattered cloak as a seat.
They pressed on, with Crumfiss perched comfortably. Diggs, Buckler, Oakheart and Jango, with the assistance of several stout Guosim, shouldered the old hogwife. Not missing an opportunity, Dymphnia passed the hogbabe Dubdub over to Crumfiss.
They bobbed along, with Dubdub repeating the end of his grandmother’s sentences.
“My my, this is comfy!”
“Comfee comfee!”
“It’ll rest my ole paws, indeed it will!”
“Deed �
�twill, deed ’twill!”
The going was good, with other volunteers taking the bearers’ places. They trotted at a fair rate. Buckler was striding along in the van when he discerned a figure upon the walls, which had grown much closer.
“Look, there’s somebeast pacing the walltops yonder!”
Oakheart stood on tippaw, peering keenly. “Hah, ’pon me spikes, there’s only one as tall as that at Redwall, as I recall. I’ll hail him, eh?”
Being a member of the acting profession, Oakheart prided himself upon his vocal powers. He winked at Buckler. “Projection, sirrah—that’s what ’tis all about!”
Drawing forth his funnel-shaped bark hailer, the portly troupe leader boomed majestically forth, “Ahoy, there! Is that a rascally riverdog a-beatin’ the bounds? Somebeast name o’ Skipper?”
When put to the test, the Otter Chieftain was no slouch at the bellowing game. Leaping up on a battlement, he waved vigorously and gave voice. “Haharrharr! Is that an ole pincushion rollin’ this way? Why, salt me rudder, ’tis Oakie Witherspyk ’imself. I’ll tell ’em to hold brekkist for ye!”
He vanished with a backward leap. Diggs waggled his ears admiringly at the hedgehog. “You have my thanks, sir. Anybeast who can delay breakfast ’til I jolly well get there is an absolute star amongst creatures, wot!”
Word had spread around the Abbey like wildfire: a travelling troupe, Guosim visitors and two strange hares. Skipper guarded the open north wall wickergate with good-natured banter for the press of Redwallers who had gathered there.
“Give ’em a chance to get in, mates. Move back there, Granvy. Here they come, now—stand back. Let the Abbess greet ’er guests!”
Abbess Marjoram took Oakheart’s paws warmly, knowing it was not always wise to embrace large hedgehogs.
“May I be the first to welcome old friends, the Witherspyk troupe and our stout Guosim allies!”
Sweeping off his floppy hat, Oakheart bowed low. “Faith, ye can indeed, but let’s not stand on ceremony. I’m still Oakie, if you’re still Marjy!”
Dubdub piped up, “Still Marjy, still Marjy!”
Amidst the laughter which followed, the Abbess took the hogbabe from Crumfiss’s lap. “Well, good morning, little nutnose—and what’s your name?”
The infant pointed a chubby paw at himself. “I Dubdub!”
Log a Log Jango nodded to Skipper. “Sorry t’say this, mate, but we’re here on business. Bad business—some of our young uns are missin’.”
Abbess Marjoram left off tickling Dubdub. “Aye, we’ve got the same problem. Two of our Dibbuns ain’t nowheres t’be found.”
Marjoram waved her paws for silence. “Please, friends, the day is still young. There’s time aplenty for bad news later. But for now let’s all go to breakfast together, be introduced to those we haven’t met and mayhaps hear a bit of good news. Follow me to the orchard—it’s all set out there.”
Picnic mats had been arranged on the grass, laden with food to suit every taste.
Diggs was almost incoherent at the sight. “I say! Burn me blinkin’ scut an’ rip me old auntie’s pinnyfore! It’s . . . it’s . . . oh, corks!”
Skipper checked the tubby glutton from diving in headfirst. “Ahoy, young feller, let the Abbess say the grace afore ye start vittlin’.”
Marjoram spoke quietly in the silence.“All hail upon this summer morn,
thrice welcome to ye all,
who visit us in friendship here,
good comrades of Redwall!”
Skipper chuckled. “That’s what I like—short’n’sweet!”
He released Diggs, who, at a sharp nudge from Buckler, sat down sedately on the grass and passed a beaker of dandelion and burdock cordial to Trajidia. That done, he fell like a famine-stricken wolf on the food.
Buckler introduced them both to the Abbess. “He’s Subaltern Digglethwaite, an’ I’m Blademaster Buckler Kordyne, from Salamandastron, marm. Call us Diggs’n’Buck, everybeast does.”
The Abbess smiled fondly. “Ah, Salamandastron! Tell me, Buck, how is my old friend Lord Brang?”
Buckler loosed his long blade, setting it beside him. “Lord Brang is as mighty as he ever was, marm. He sends his compliments an’ good wishes to ye. Oh, an’ a pair of new bellropes woven by his own paws. He said they are to replace the old uns. Diggs, pass me that rope.”
Diggs was too far gone sampling the delights of mushroom, spring onion and gravy pasties. So his companion had to retrieve the rope from him.
Marjoram ran her paws slowly across both ropes. She produced a kerchief and wiped her eyes. “Poor Brother Tollum would have appreciated these fine gifts. I’ll tell you more about that later. Big Bartij, our Gardener and Infirmary aide, has taken over as Bellringer to the Abbey now. Bartij, what d’you think of Lord Brang’s present to us—look!”
The sturdy hog inspected the ropes admiringly. “What a pair o’ beauties, Mother! Just look it the weave o’ these ropes, all gold’n’green, too. With fine carved elmwood handles on ’em. Hoho, these’ll make ole Methuselah an’ Matthias sound out o’er our Abbey like honeyed thunder. I’ll fix ’em up right after brekkist. Thank ye, Buck, thank ye kindly!”
Several Dibbuns had gathered around to watch the gluttonous Diggs foddering up. They gazed wide-eyed at the tubby hare, who winked roguishly at them.
A tiny molemaid threw her frilly apron over her face. “Boi ’okey, whurr bee’s ee a putten et all?”
Diggs relinquished a hefty fruitcake for a brief moment. “Hollow legs, little beauty—least that’s what our regimental cooks says I’ve bloomin’ well got.”
Jango’s wife, Furm, looked up from her mint tea. “Aye, an’ hollow stummick, tail, ears an’ head. Invite an ’are-beast t’dinner an’ ye’ll regret it all yore days. That’s wot my ole ma used t’say.”
Sister Fumbril was feeding Dubdub his second bowl of arrowroot cream pudding. She grinned. “Land sakes—it looks like this liddle rascal’s about t’catch Mister Diggs up, ain’t ye, young master?”
The hogbabe echoed her dutifully, “Younger masta!”
The morning was almost half gone when the guests sat back, replete and sighing. Even Diggs was heard to remark, “Hope they hold off with the bally lunch for a while, wot!”
Abbess Marjoram called for their attention. “Now, let’s address our problems. Oakie, who have you lost from your family?”
Oakheart sighed. “Two, alas—our lovely little twins, Jiddle an’ Jinty, scarce four seasons old. There’s another, too, a young shrewmaid, calls herself Flib.”
Log a Log Jango made his report. “We lost three, if’n ye count the one Oakie just mentioned. She’s a daughter o’ mine, y’see.”
Furm, the mother of all three shrews, sobbed, “Petunia Rosebud, the one who calls ’erself Flib, is the eldest o’ the three. She’s always wanderin’ off an’ gettin’ into scrapes. Flib can take care of ’erself, but the other two, Midda an’ Borti, ain’t never gone off afore. My Midda’s very young, but she always looks after Borti, pore liddle mite—’e’s only a babe. Oh, I ’ope my Borti ain’t come to any ’arm!”
Furm broke down weeping; Jango could only stand awkwardly by. Guosim Log a Logs are not supposed to cry, though he did wipe a paw roughly across his eyes.
“Now, now, me ole darlin’, don’t worry, we’ll find ’em sooner or later. You say you lost young uns, marm?”
Marjoram placed a comforting paw around Furm. “A little squirrelmaid called Tassy and a molebabe, Guffy. They’ve been gone half a day and a night now.”
Buckler commented, “Hmm, seven young uns in all just vanished into thin air. There’s got to be an explanation. Mother Abbess. Has anything unusual happened round Redwall lately? Have ye spotted any strangebeasts lurkin’ about?”
Skipper spoke. “Aye, we caught a vermin, a young stoat, early yesterday. Sittin’ as pretty as ye please, stuffin’ ’imself with vittles in Friar Soogum’s kitchens.”
The good Friar piped up, “Huh, typical vermin, made a
right old mess—food scattered everywhere. Skipper caught the villain, though. Gave ’im a right ole pastin’ with an oven paddle an’ made him clean it all up!”
Diggs heaved himself upright, stifling a belch. “Just as the blighter deserved, wot. Do ye still have the rogue? Me’n Buck should have a word with the blighter.”
Marjoram explained, “Alas, no. The Dibbuns went missing, so we all went off to search for them. The stoat escaped and hid himself up in the attics. He was seen, and we went up there to get him. That was when the tragedy occurred. Poor Brother Tollum and the wretched stoat were killed in the attempt to recapture him.”
Buckler paced up and down, deliberating. “The vermin must’ve had an accomplice outside the walls. Whoever it was is the one who took your babes!”
Foremole Darbee nodded his velvety head sagely. “Hurr, wee’m figgered that owt already, zurr. But wot do us’ns doos abowt et?”
Abbess Marjoram interrupted. “May I say something? Coming from Salamandastron, no doubt you’ve heard of our Abbey founder, Martin the Warrior. Now, I know this is hard for you to grasp, Buck, but Martin spoke to me in a dream.”
The young hare shrugged. “Nothing new, Mother Abbess. Our Badger Lords have been known to have many visions that can’t be explained. What did Martin say?”
Marjoram repeated the words carefully. “Corim Althier—just those two words. I don’t know what they mean. However, just before the stoat died, I repeated the words to him. He didn’t seem at all familiar with the first word, Corim. But when I mentioned Althier, he looked very frightened. Globby—that was the stoat’s name—sat up and pointed to the open attic window. Then he said, ‘Althier . . . Sable Quean!’ That was all. He went limp and died. So that’s what we know. Corim, Althier, Sable Quean. What d’you make of it, Buck?”
Buckler stopped pacing. He remained silent awhile, thinking hard. Then he gave his verdict. “Well, I don’t know what either Corim or Althier means. You say the vermin looked frightened when you said Althier, then he said Sable Quean. To my mind, Sable Quean must be the title for some vermin ruler. So it follows that she has others in her service. Many others, that’s why she’s a Quean. The young ones were stolen from three different areas. So for some reason unknown to us, she’s stealing small woodlanders. Hedgehogs, shrews, a mole and a squirrelmaid. Right?”
The Sable Quean Page 12
