Simeon rose slowly, straightening up his old frame with a grimace. ‘That’s the wisest thing I’ve heard all day, Rosie.’
Joseph stood and offered his paw for Simeon to lean on. ‘Right! We’ve got the five and we know which direction to travel. That’s good enough for me! Tomorrow at first light we set out, to find Mariel and Dandin!’
8
THE DEAD HEAT of a still summer night was rudely broken. Columns of grey rats, armed to the fangs with all manner of weaponry, flooded out of Castle Floret. Nagru was abroad with his horde, out to hunt down Serena, her son and their otter allies. The Foxwolf and his Captains led the army out across the valley floor, speeding their trot to a run as they raced up the wooded tor. Bringing up the rear was a cage. Six rats with cross-hilted pikes pushed it from behind, whilst up front, sweaty with fear, Mingol and Vengro pulled on the towing ropes. The wheeled cage rattled forward with the two rats tugging in panic, keeping the ropes taut to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the occupants of the close-barred prison cage.
Thrusting his paws into the metal-sheathed wolf claws, Nagru threw back his head, baying a hunting call to the night sky.
‘Owwwooooorrrr!’
Like an icy wind it chilled the blood of every horderat. The Urgan Nagru, their master the Foxwolf, was out with his Dirgecallers to taste blood. Stumbling and clanking amid weapons and arms, the lead platoons crested the hill, grinding to a breathless, quivering halt at their Captains’ signals. Leaving the escape trail of Serena and the otters clear, they dispersed into the surrounding woodland. There they concealed themselves in many places, some even climbing up into the trees. Trembling with terror and exertion, Mingol and Vengro arrived with the cage. Nagru dismissed them with a growl, and they fled thankfully into the thickets with the others.
The Foxwolf drew two scraps of cloth from his belt. One was a torn kerchief which had belonged to Queen Serena, the other a feeding bib of Truffen’s. The barred cage door faced head-on to the path taken by the fugitives. Nagru dangled the pitiful rags against the cage door, chanting in a singsong voice:
‘Ho Dirgecallers, swift and sleek,
You shall have your share.
Fangs will rip and blood will leak,
Scent your victims. There!’
He jumped back laughing as the bits of fabric were snatched inside the bars. The cage began reverberating; eerie screamlike growls mingled with the rake of scratching claws and grinding teeth. Shreds of ripped cloth flew from the madly buffeting pen. Fascinated and fearful, the horderats peeked from their hiding places at the spectacle. The Urgan Nagru gave a throaty chuckle, enjoying the sight of his Dirgecallers working themselves into a blood frenzy as they took the scent of their quarry. The wolfhide swirled out, starlight pinpointing Nagru’s metal claws. He called to his horde:
‘What is black and what is red?’
The answer echoed back from the trees and bushes.
‘Night is black and blood is red!’
Placing a claw on the cage latch he shouted:
‘What is the colour of death?’
The reply rang out to the dark skies.
‘Foxwolf and his Dirgecallers know the colour of death!’
The cage door sprang open with a clang and the Dirgecallers came bounding out.
Brought across seasons of heaving seas from the lands of ice by Nagru, maddened through a life of confinement, crazed from lack of live prey, two fully grown female ermine snuffled and wailed. Sleek maniac killers both, glazed red eyes shining against the dull brown of summer coats, teeth white as snow and sharp as spikes. Flexing claws as black as their tailtips, the two predators intertwined sinuously, weaving together into a perilous blur of teeth, claws and eyes. The Dirgecallers suddenly went rigid, then with an earsplitting wail they sped off down the trail into the darkness. Nagru charged after them, his whole being suffused by their bloodlust.
‘They’ve found the scent, the hunt is on! Ooowwooorrr!’
Bush, shrub and flower were trampled underpaw as the horde chased their savage master and his trackers; masses of armed rats thundered out along the trail. Then their cries died into the distance. The scene that moments ago had echoed to chaos, regained its silence and the lonely tor slipped back into the deep of night.
In the hour before dawn Serena found herself shaken into wakefulness by Iris. She picked Truffen up as the otter hustled them both to the streambank.
‘Hurry, Serena, it will not be safe here soon, get aboard this log!’
The Squirrelqueen and her son hopped aboard the broad trunk of a dead fir laying in the shallows. Faint noises from afar floated on the pre-dawn breeze. Serena rubbed sleep from her eyes, asking, ‘Iris, what is it, where are we going?’
Greenbeck’s strong head broke the surface by the log. ‘The Foxwolf is comin’ this way marm, huntin’ with a full pack. He’ll find this place by dawn, but don’t fret yoreself, we’ll take you somewheres safe by water. That’ll put ’is foul snout off the scent, stream water don’t leave many tracks to follow, otters know that!’
Truffen was still asleep aboard the broad log. Serena covered him with her cloak, lying alongside him as the quiet waters rippled by. Powered by a small contingent of otters, the fir trunk swept onward smoothly. Greenbeck and his friend Troutlad held a murmured conversation as they swam with the log.
‘Squirrelqueen’s goin’ t’get ’erself an’ the liddle un captured if’n she don’t leave Southsward, mark my words matey. That scum Nagru won’t rest ’til they’re both slain.’
‘Aye, that’s true, but you ’eard ’er, she’s stayin’ put. Trouble is, where’s a good cove to ’ide ’em?’
‘If’n we puts Nagru off their scent Iris should take ’em to ole Furpp’s dwellin’ in the mounds by the wastelands. They’ll be snug’n’safe enough there, I reckons.’
Iris’s head popped up between them. ‘Stow the gab and save your energy for pushin’. Hear that!’
Greenbeck blew stream water from his nostrils. ‘Sounds like more’n rats in our wake . . .’
‘Wonder what’s makin’ that awful wailin’ din?’ Trputlad said as he began shoving the trunk faster. ‘Come on mate, put yore back into it an’ let’s get movin’!’
Serena stared anxiously back over her shoulder, pulling little Truffen close. Her teeth chattered with fright at the unearthly, dirgelike wails of the pack that were on the trail of her and the babe.
It was a bright blue summer morn when the questors and a party of wellwishers left Redwall Abbey. Above the breeze the sky was ridged with high white clouds, patterned like rippled sand after the tide leaves a beach. Many Redwallers had turned out to march along with the five to the River Moss. They lined the banks, passing supplies from paw to paw to the shrews aboard four logboats. Abbot Saxtus embraced the shrew Chieftain warmly.
‘Log a Log, old friend, thank you for the warmth and help you have always shown to us.’
Log a Log brushed aside the compliment modestly. ‘Aye, Guosim, the Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower, that’s us, always here to help our chums. But let’s go over these plans again, Father Abbot. You say that I’ve got to take your five to the sea in our logboats. Fair enough, but what happens then?’
Saxtus hummed and hawed as he filled a beaker with October Ale for the shrew, knowing he was about to ask rather a lot from the Chieftain of the Guosim. ‘Er, well, haha, hmmm, it’s rather hard to explain . . .’
Log a Log sipped his ale, both eyes never leaving Saxtus. ‘Come on, spit it out Saxtus, what d’you really want?’
Plucking up courage, the Abbot ventured forth on his tale, from the night of Joseph’s dream. Log a Log sat swirling the ale in his beaker as he listened open-mouthed to the strange story. When Saxtus had finished he looked hopefully at the shrew, asking, ‘Well, my old friend, what do you say?’
Log a Log sat silent awhile, watching his quarrelsome tribe of Guosim shrews – small, spiky furred, each wearing a coloured headband, broad belt and s
hort rapier. They argued and fought constantly, over who would sit where, which paddle was to be wielded by one or another, how best to stow the supplies and accommodate the passengers. Their gruff bass voices and aggressive manners marked them indelibly as Guosim shrews. Log a Log shook his head.
‘Adventures, quests, battles and the seasons knows what! That’s just what my tribe needs, they’re gettin’ too fat and argumentative sittin’ on the riverbank fishin’ their days away. But I’m afraid we don’t have what you want, Saxtus. Let me explain. A shrew logboat is fine for rivers, streams and big lakes, but you couldn’t put to sea in one, they’re not built big or strong enough to stand high seas, waves or gales. A good storm’d send our logboats straight to the bottom, that’s the truth, friend.’
Saxtus was crestfallen. All the hopes and plans of Redwall’s five questors had been dashed by Log a Log’s announcement. Then the shrew’s eyes twinkled merrily and he slapped the Abbot’s back soundly.
‘Cheer up, old frogfeatures, I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, did I? There’s more’n one way of shellin’ an acorn. Hah! Imagine trying to leave the Guosim out of adventures an’ battles and so on!’
Saxtus immediately brightened up. ‘You’re going to help us,’ he said. ‘I knew we could count on you!’
Log a Log stood up, resting both paws on his large belt. ‘Aye, what we’ll need is a real ship and I happen to know just the creature who’ll get us one. Bear in mind, a ship needs a proper crew, watershrews, not landlubbers. Anyway, don’t worry, me and the Guosim’ll be going along for the voyage. Now don’t go pestering me with more questions, I’ve got work to do before we get underway. Hi Bandle! What d’you think yore doin’ with those casks, put ’em abaft of the bundles in the stem of my boat. Fatch! Make that headrope secure or somebeast’ll fall in the water trying to get aboard – tighten the backspring too!’
He strode off issuing orders left and right, leaving Saxtus to join the rest in bidding farewell to the five travellers. Log a Log’s shrews were getting more quarrelsome and impatient to be off, so most of the Redwallers’ goodbyes were shouted as they ran along the banks when the logboats paddled off.
‘You’m taken gurt care of eeself zurrs, doant fall in ee h’ocean, burr no, tis vurry wetten!’
‘Have a super time, Rosie old gel, don’t fret over the young uns – I’ll look after the blighters. Oh, an’ try not to laugh too much, those shrew chappies y’know, pretty short tempered an’ not too jolly, wot?’
‘I’ve packed October Ale aplenty for ye Durry, think of yore ole pals when you sup it!’
‘Don’t worry about the bellringing, Rufe, we’ll all take turns. Be good and come home safe!’
‘Joseph ole mate, next time I see that grizzly gob of yourn I’d like to see Mariel kissin’ it. Good luck mate!’
‘Cheerio mater, pip pip an’ all that, bring us back somethin’ tasty to eat, toodle pip!’
Blind Simeon spread both paws wide, his reedy voice carrying on the breeze. ‘Fortune, fates and fair seasons be with you, may the spirit of Martin guide and guard you all!’
The cries grew fainter and dimmer as the logboats picked up the centre current and swept away, sped skilfully on by the paddles of Log a Log’s tribe.
Joseph sat in the prow of Log a Log’s boat, listening to the shrew Chieftain.
‘Finnbarr Galedeep, there’s a rogue for you, if anybeast can get us a ship he can. You ever met a sea otter, Joseph?’
‘Never, though I’ve heard tell of them. What’s this Finnbarr Galedeep like?’
Log a Log dug his paddle deep, chuckling. ‘Oho, you’ll find out soon enough my friend!’
Day turned into night and back again twice as the four logboats sped downstream travelling seaward. Overhanging trees, resounding with Mossflower birdsong, cast speckled shade and gave way to shimmering water meadows and silent green fields. The fields changed gradually into high, sunwarmed banks where yellow-horned poppy, purslane and pink-flowered thrift were visited by bees, as they danced gently with the breeze. Peaceful and ancient, the landscape skimmed quietly by. Guosim shrews were not so quarrelsome once they were waterborne and paddling awhile. Often they would break out into river shanties, gruff bass voices resounding into the countryside –
‘I was born on a stream and fed from a paddle,
Shrum a doo rye ’ey, shrum a doo rye ’ey,
And here I’ll stay ’til me tail don’t waggle,
See longweeds grow where the currents flow,
Aye that’s the way I like it soooooooooooo.
Shrum a doo rye ’ey, shrum a doo rye ’ey,
Ho run you river, run my way,
Ho ummm, Ho ummmm, Ho ummmm!’
The final daybreak of their voyage found Hon Rosie wakened from a cramped position. ‘Oohh! I feel like a jolly old frog in a jug, wot? I say though, the old footpaws are rather warm’n’comfy.’
‘Burr aye, they’m should be marm, ee be’n sticken ’em daown moi ears all noight long. Hurr!’
Foremole pulled himself up to enjoy the spectacle of dawn across the dunes. Powder-blue skies were barred by rollers of pearl-grey clouds, their tops tinged apricot and rose by a sun rising in the east. Sounds of waves and seabirds stirred Rufe from his slumber. He lay still as the logboats nosed aground in a sandy cove, twixt two high dunes at the shore edge. ‘Are we in the sea, Durry?’ he asked.
The hedgehog splashed, over the side into the shallows. ‘Bless yer ’eart no, Rufe, this ’ere’s still the stream. We’ll ’ave to trek across the shore to reach seawater.’
Log a Log had jumped to land first. ‘Don’t show yourselves, stay here close by the boats until I return,’ he cautioned them. ‘Bandle, keep a lookout from the top of that dune, the rest of you keep your heads down. The seashore can be a dangerous place sometimes.’ With that he was gone.
Rosie shrugged and started unpacking breakfast. ‘I’m bally well famished, what ho you lot, who’s for nose-bags. Whoo . . .’
Foremole’s paw damped across her mouth, cutting off the strident laugh. ‘Yurr naow marm, ee doant wants t’be oopsettin’ everybeast do ee, koindly keep from larfin’ thankee.’
The shrews lit a smokeless little fire from tinder-dry grass and charcoal. It burned low and red. Breakfast was a simple affair of honey, hot shrewbread and mint tea.
About halfway through the morning Bandle hopped down from his lookout perch high on the dune, crying ‘Log a Log’s back an’ he’s brought company!’
The Redwallers were quite taken aback by the appearance of the shrew Chieftain’s companion. Log a Log introduced the newcomer briefly.
‘Meet Finnbarr Galedeep, the sea otter.’
One time in the distant past the big malebeast might have been a handsome creature, but the long scars of old battles tracing a course over his muscular form, coupled with a musselshell eyepatch and a missing ear, gave him a fearsome look. A curved swordhilt protruded over each of his shoulders, carried in crossbelted sheaths strapped to his back. Grinning good naturedly at his wide-eyed audience, Finnbarr thrust forth a heavily tattooed limb. ‘’Ere’s me flipper, it’s as good as me true ’eart, the Galedeep’s at y’service!’
Introductions were made all round and food was brought for the guest. He seated himself on the landward side of the dune, enjoying the mid-morning sun. Winking roguishly at the assemblage, Finnbarr went through pasties, salad and October Ale as though he had survived a seven-season famine. Then, wiping foam and crumbs from his mouth, the sea otter got right down to business.
‘Belay mateys, as I sees it yore wantin’ t’sail far south o’er deep seas. Well fer that you needs a good stout ship. Ole Log a Log’s canoes wouldn’t take ye a rough sea league out there on the waves.’
Joseph looked the sea otter directly in his good eye. ‘Are we to take it that you have such a ship, Finnbarr?’ he asked.
The big fellow laughed uproariously, as if at some private joke, clapping Joseph soundly on the back. ‘Hohoho! Bless yer cockles, mouse, I a
in’t got so much as a waterlogged twig t’me name!’
Foremole wrinkled his nose in consternation. ‘Burr, b’aint no larfen matter zurr, if’n you’m doant ’ave a gurt shipper, whurr’ll us’n’s get one?’
‘We steals it o’ course!’
A loud cry rang out from both shrews and Redwallers. ‘Steal a ship?’
‘Quiet now and listen to Finnbarr’s plan,’ Log a Log silenced them curtly.
The sea otter gestured over his shoulder. ‘Not ’arf a day’s march round yon ’eadland lays two big searat galleons, the Pearl Queen is the best of the twain, she was my craft once, but that’s another story. Now she belongs to a scurvy-backed bilgerat called Cap’n Slipp. The other vessel’s the Shalloo, ’er master’s Cap’n Strapp. They’re brothers, Slipp’n’Strapp, Corsairs, dangerous an’ sly, both of ’em, always fightin’ among themselves.’
Hon Rosie could contain herself no longer, and she blurted out, ‘Oh I say, pinchin’ a ship off some rotten ol’ searats, what a super wheeze. Whoohahahahoo!’
Finnbarr winced, waggling a paw in his good ear. ‘A hare, eh, I likes hares, mad an’ perilous beasts. Tho’ I’d be beholden if ye’d stow the hootin’ marm, sound carries round thisaways. Lissen now, the plan’s simple. We sinks the Shalloo an’ steals the Pearl Queen an’ sails off in ’er, wot d’yer say, mates?’
Log a Log spoke for them all. ‘It sounds like a desperate scheme, Finnbarr, but we’re with you all the way, everybeast!’
The sea otter showed glittering white teeth in a swift grin. Whipping out one of his swords, he began outlining a map of his plan in the damp sand of the streambank.
‘Hearken now, cullies, ’ere’s where the two ships lie at anchor, in the shallows offshore. Both crews will be on the beach tonight, feastin’ around a fire, so there should be only a few aboard each vessel keepin’ watch. We wait ’til the swell of ’igh water when the tide’s aturn after midnight, then ’tis quick’n’silent. In these ’ere shrewboats you lot sail seaward, come in on a curve to board Pearl Queen an’ take ’er. Meself an’ Log a Log’ll swim o’er t’the Shalloo to bore some ’oles in ’er side an’ scuttle ’er in the bay. Then it’s out on to the wide blue briny fer us all!’
The Bellmaker Page 7
