The Bellmaker

by Brian Jacques

  Joseph selected a slab of heavy fruit cake. ‘So that’s how you became a Bulgum, eh Durry, by saving Glogalog’s life? But how did you figure out the language?’

  ‘I never, that was Rosie,’ shrugged Durry, sipping his October Ale. ‘It weren’t two ticks before ’er an’ the King was Bulgummin’ an’ Blogalogin’ an’ hoolyahoyin’ together. She picks things up very quick y’know – ain’t that right, Mrs Rosie?’

  Hon Rosie Woodsorrel gave up ravaging the apple and blackberry flan momentarily. ‘Right you are, us Bulgum types are pretty sharp in the lingo business, wot? Woohahahooh!’

  King Glogalog winced and stuffed a webbed claw in one ear. When the laughter had subsided he pointed to Rosie, saying, ‘Bulgum umutcha Glogalog, umutcha kug yettayur!’

  Rosie shook her head and pointed seaward. ‘Numutch Bulgum Glogalog, Bulgum yuggafurr yur yur!’

  Joseph put aside his fruit cake. ‘What’s going on Rosie?’ he said. ‘I don’t like his tone.’

  The hare translated. ‘It seems the old King gets a bit cheesed off bein’ the only Bulgum in this neck o’ the woods, he wants me to stay here forever as official Bulgum to the jolly old toads. But I’ve just told him that this particular Bulgum has other plans – I’m sailin’ off with you lot when we’ve patched the Pearl Queen up. You’ll notice he doesn’t look too happy about it.’

  Glogalog shook his lizard skull sceptre at Rosie and the crew. ‘Yutcha slugg! Bulgum yuggafurr!’

  Rosie took a dainty sip of mint tea. ‘Says he’ll kill us all before he’ll let me sail away, I’ve got to stay here forever. I say, this is all gettin’ a bit tiresome, wot? Very basic chaps, marshtoads.’

  ‘Look, I’ll stay here as Bulgum if Glogalog lets you all sail away without any trouble,’ said Durry glumly.

  Rufe picked up a jug of seaweed grog. ‘No, you won’t mate. Come on Rosie, I’ll need an interpreter. Tell Glogalog to come with me to the galley. The fire is still lit there – I’ll teach him to be the greatest fire raisin’ Bulgum these toads have ever seen!’

  20

  LATE THAT NIGHT Joseph took delivery of the broken foremast from a squad of toads who had lugged it back from the marshes to the Pearl Queen. Finnbarr had rigged a block and tackle to haul it aboard, and Joseph, Rosie and some others stood by with rope lashings, metal pins, wooden splints and spars to fix the mast firm when it was hoisted. Durry and Rufe helped the Guosim to patch the hole in the for’ard locker – the shrews were expert boat repairers and worked well under Log a Log’s direction. With melted pitch, rope caulking and planks, they soon had the gap sealed and the hull seaworthy again.

  A fire had been built further along the shore. Fatch tended it carefully until it was reduced to glowing embers. Countless fireflies, trapped inside lanterns, glimmered and twinkled as the marshtoads surrounded the nearly extinct fire. Fatch hailed the ship. ‘Ahoy, Pearl Queen, if this fire gets any lower Glogalog won’t be able to do his magic. You’d best fetch him now!’

  Rosie left the mast repair gang to supervise the loading of the King, together with ten jugs of seaweed grog, on to the framed hammock. Finnbarr nodded to her. ‘You an’ Fatch git back aboard sharpish, miz, the tide’s arisin’ an’ waits for nobeast.’

  Marshtoads moved aside to let the hammock be set down beside the fire. Glogalog grunted as they heaved him out of his comfortable bed. Rosie gave him a swig of seaweed grog; his bulging eyes popped out further as he held it without swallowing. Skipping around the edge of the circle Rosie began singing in a serious baritone voice, a song she had made up for the occasion.

  ‘Stand back and watch this Bulgum toad,

  He’s goin’ to do some magic,

  But if young Rufe has taught him wrong,

  It could turn out quite tragic.

  Get back to the ship now, Fatch,

  I’ll be right behind you,

  Glogalog oh please don’t sneeze,

  Or they will never find you.

  Careful when you spit that grog,

  Don’t stand near the venue,

  Or you’ll end up crispy fried,

  On the marshtoad menu!’

  With a twitch of her ears, Rosie signalled to Glogalog, who spat the grog over the embers, causing a sheet of flame to flare skyward. The marshtoads hopped about croaking with fright and excitement at their King’s magical skill. Glogalog took another swig and, swallowing half, he spat out the rest, causing another upburst of flame. Rosie took advantage of the jubilant mêlée to make good her escape.

  Smiling foolishly, Glogalog continued to swig great quantities of the lethal seaweed grog. Some he spat at the fire, but for the most part he was happy to guzzle the grog, now that he had a taste for it. Spraying and spitting the stuff at random he soon had several marshtoads croaking in distress as they hurled wet sand on their smouldering webs and beat out threads of flame racing round their gills.

  Pearl Queen righted herself on the incoming tide, and bobbed in the water with her keel free of the sand. Joseph watched anxiously as the large rollers started to crash along the tideline, rapidly eating up the land. The breeze was springing up stiffly as he helped Durry and Rufe to haul their friend Fatch aboard.

  Finnbarr stood ready with a heaving line. ‘Where’s Rosie? We can’t wait, even with slack sails!’ he shouted.

  Out of the darkness Rosie made herself heard. ‘Whoohahahooh! Over here chaps, comin’ aboard, ahoy an’ all that nautical nonsense!’

  The sea otter shot the line out to the long-limbed figure pounding through the surf towards his vessel. Rosie caught it with her usual accuracy and was soon pulled aboard. She lay on the deck chortling helplessly. ‘Whooha! Better pile on all sail Finn, the way old Glogathing was performin’ back there, I think it’s all goin’ to end in tears. Whoohahahooh!’

  Directly she had finished speaking there was a loud bang from the shore, and sheets of flame shot up high into the night sky. Finnbarr took Rosie’s advice quickly.

  ‘Hoist all sail mates, sharp now, jump to it, on to those yardarms an’ loose every stitch of canvas on ’er!’

  By the light of following explosions masses of angry marshtoads could be seen, hopping across the beach towards Pearl Queen. Having unfurled the sails, the crew took boarding pikes and any long timbers they could find, and pushing hard, they punted the vessel, trying their best to get her into deep water, away from the hordes of maddened toads speeding over the shore towards them.

  Pearl Queen bobbed on the incoming waves, slow and stately, despite the frantic pushing of her crew. Rufe, Durry and Fatch sweated and struggled at the stern. Then there was a massive bang as the jugs of grog and the canopied hammock rose skyward in a searing column of flame. The three friends felt a blast of heat from the explosion. Marshtoads threw themselves flat across the sand and in the shallows of the tideline. Finnbarr slammed the tiller hard over, sending Pearl Queen listing perilously as she turned side on to the shore.

  Rosie was propelled across the deck; she cannoned into the rail glaring at the sea otter. ‘I say, what’n the name of seasons are you up to?’

  Finnbarr Galedeep kept an experienced eye on the sails. ‘You leave it to an able-bodied seabeast, marm, we’re goin’ to run the rollers!’

  The toads had begun clambering up the stern now. Striking out with their long spars and pikes, the defenders knocked them off into the water. Other toads climbed on the heads of their floundering companions to leap at the ship.

  The sea otter gave a triumphant shout. ‘Avast cullies, ’ang on tight, we’re away!’

  A prolonged gust of wind howling down out of the north clouted Pearl Queen’s sails and she took off like a javelin. Bows lifting high, the great ship scudded free on the roller crests, speeding along parallel to the shore. Finnbarr played the tiller deftly, skipping her from one wavetop to the next, veering and tacking out to open sea in a dainty sidestepping dance.

  Behind on the shore a scorched and blackened Glogalog sat smouldering in helpless rage, watching his marshtoads
flopping helplessly in the waves, as the ship carrying his former Bulgums sailed off into the night. Struggling upright, he shook his sceptre at the receding vessel and croaked venomously, ‘Yurrg Golchukkum furgalumm Boolawugg!’ A combination of marshtoad curse and insult that would have caused any interpreter to blush deeply.

  Dawn light reflected twinkling greengold across the restless waves. Finnbarr yawned aloud as he relinquished the tiller to Joseph. ‘I don’t knows wot I want first, matey, a good sleep or a decent breakfast, ’twas a long ’ard night.’

  The Bellmaker shoved his sea otter friend playfully. ‘Get along with you, go on, I’ll hold her head south. The shrews are making you a victory breakfast for sailing us out of that scrape last night – only a Galedeep like yourself could have done it.’

  Finnbarr was instantly revived as he sniffed the delicious aromas wafting from the galley. Guosim shrews laid the food out on the hatch covers amidships; there was October Ale, raspberry cordial and hot mint tea, a plum and pear pudding, meadowcheese, and fresh farls of shrewbread, piping hot from the oven. Pearl Queen’s crew cheered their skipper until the summer morning air rang to their cries.

  Finnbarr bowed modestly before launching himself at the food with a formidable appetite. ‘Fall to messmates, ’elp an ole seadog to dear these vittles! Ahoy there, Foremole, wot’s that thing yore carryin’?’

  ‘Oi found et zurr, ’twurr ’idden in ee for’ard cabin!’ Reverently the sea otter took the small melodeon that Foremole presented to him.

  ‘Wallopin’ clamshells, ’tis me ole ottercordion, I thought it were lost. Wonder if she still works?’

  Twiddling his paws across the buttons, he expanded the instrument’s ribbed bellows and it produced a melodic chord. Much to the delight of everybeast Finnbarr threw back his head and began singing a merry sea otter ditty. Durry, Rufe and Fatch stamped their paws on the deck rhythmically in time to the comic song. It was a happy release for them all after the perils they had endured, and Finnbarr could play as well as he could sing.

  ‘Whoa there was an ole lobster who married a cod,

  Boggle me barnacles, sail off t’sea,

  And tho’ all the cockles an’ clams thought it odd,

  Boggle me barnacles, over the brine,

  I knows yer a codfish but darlin’ yore mine!

  For a weddin’ brekkfist the pair ’ad to feed,

  Boggle me barnacles, sail off t’sea,

  On rootybag cake an’ the best of seaweed,

  Boggle me barnacles, over the brine,

  I knows yer a lobster but I loves yer fine!

  They was married offshore by a little fat whale,

  Boggle me barnacles, sail off t’sea,

  An’ the guests drank barrels of deepwater ale,

  Boggle me barnacles over the brine,

  Pass me that flagon of green ocean wine!

  The party went on ’til an hour before dark,

  Boggle me barnacles, sail off t’sea,

  An’ they were ate up by an iggerant shark,

  Boggle me barnacles over the brine,

  A shark don’t ’ave manners when he’s out to dine!’

  Amid hoots of laughter and loud applause Finnbarr did an encore, with Rosie and Foremole dancing the parts of lobster and cod. They breakfasted until mid-morning, the weather being calm and the seas mild. Joseph lashed the tiller straight south. Having missed a full night’s sleep, the entire crew lay about on the sunwarmed decks to take a few hours of much needed rest.

  In the heat of mid-noon Rufe woke parched. Bleary-eyed he drew a dipper of water from the ship’s drinking cask and drank half, pouring the rest over his head to waken himself properly. Blinking water from his eyes, the young squirrel stared out over the gently swelling deep.

  Finnbarr was wakened by Rufe shaking him. ‘Eh, wot time is it, mate? Musta been asleep ’alf o’ the day! Rufey – somethin’ the matter, young un?’

  The squirrel tried to keep his voice calm. ‘Er, this morning, Mr Finnbarr, you sang a song about cods an’ lobsters being eaten up by a shark . . .’

  The sea otter stretched luxuriously. ‘Aye, so I did Rufey, d’ye want me to teach ye the words?’

  ‘No sir, I’d just like to know what a shark looks like.’

  ‘Bless yer ’eart matey, you don’t sees much of em, an’ you don’t wants to neither. Mainly all you’ll see is a great dark fin stickin’ up out o’ the water.’

  Rufe took the sea otter’s tattooed paw and led him to the rail. ‘Does it look like this one circling our ship, sir?’

  21

  IN THE SAME noontide Tarquin L. Woodsorrel was beginning to get really worried. Since dawn he had headed a major search party in Mossflower Wood. Without stopping to rest or eat, they had combed copse and thicket alike with no success – the two Dibbuns were still missing. Brother Mallen poked fruitlessly at the undergrowth, his staff clacking against that of Sister Sage. He shook his head. ‘I’m beginning to think this is a complete waste of time, Sage. Are there any deep swamps hereabouts?’

  The Sister dropped her staff. ‘Mallen, how could you even think that!’

  ‘Hearken, silence in the ranks there, somebeast comin’!’ At Tarquin’s low warning the search party became still.

  The pretty squirrel Treerose dropped from the boughs of an elm, directly in front of Tarquin. ‘Are you looking for two Dibbuns, a mouse and molemaid?’ she asked.

  The hare perked up considerably. ‘Indeed we are, Treerose, d’you know where the little blighters are at?’

  Treerose pointed east and slightly south. ‘Over that way. My Tom’s with them, follow me.’

  Slipp and Blaggut did not like the look of Oak Tom. The big sturdy squirrel stood perched on a bough, an arrow notched meaningfully on his bowstring.

  ‘Dibbuns, come over here to this tree,’ he ordered. ‘You rats, stay where you are or I’ll let daylight into you.’

  The pair did as they were told, though Slipp was figuring the odds of either seizing the Dibbuns as a shield, or attempting a rush attack on the stem squirrel. Blaggut heard the search party approaching and whispered, ‘Psst Cap’n, there’s more of ’em comin’.’

  In a moment they were surrounded by Redwallers armed with stout ash staves. Slipp gave Blaggut a swift vicious kick. ‘See wot you’ve got us into now, leave the talkin’ t’me.’

  Tarquin thought Slipp was talking to him and he leaned closer, asking ’Eh, what’s that y’say?’

  The searat Captain put on his best oily smile. ‘Good noontide to ye sir, I ’ope yore not ’ere to rob ’onest travellers like us.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks,’ said the hare, waggling his ears indignantly. ‘The very idea of it, we’re Redwallers sir, but more t’the point, where d’you think you’re takin’ those two Dibbuns off to, eh?’

  The mousebabe avoided Sister Sage’s paws and piped up, ‘Wazzen taken us nowhere, huh! Me an’ Furrtil was takin’ them to the h’abbey, they’s losted, like us!’

  Sage was of the old-fashioned school. She caught the mousebabe by his ear, saying, ‘What’ve you been told? Don’t interrupt your elders, even if they are searats!’

  Blaggut was unsure what the proper protocol was, so he held his coat edges and dropped an elaborate curtsey. ‘Don’t be ’ard on the liddle un marm, ’tis the truth ’e’s tellin’ yer. Bless their liddle paws, they was takin’ me an’ me mate ’ere back to Redwalls h’abbey, we’re lost yer see.’

  Sage was sceptical. ‘Lost? What are two searats doing this far inland?’

  Slipp adopted his look of injured dignity. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon marm, but we’re not searats, ho no, my name’s Slipp an’ I’m a cook, this ’ere’s me mate Blaggut an’ e’s a, er, er, carpenter, aye, that’s wot ’e is, a carpenter!’

  Tarquin took over from Sister Sage. ‘You still haven’t told us what you’re doin’ round here.’

  Slipp wrung the tails of his coat in both claws, as if the tale was too harrowing for him to tell. ‘Well y’see, yer Lordship, we�
�re the only two beasts left alive from the wreck of the Muddy Duck, that was our ship, she was sunken by a storm an’ all our mates was drownded, ain’t that right messmate?’ He gave Blaggut a sly kick.

  ‘Oh er, that’s right Cap’n,’ the searat stammered, ‘the ole Dirty Swan was lost at sea right enough, there’s on’y me ’n’ the Cap’n left alive to tell the tale.’

  ‘Why does that one keep calling you Captain?’ said Brother Mallen, smartly relieving Slipp of his cutlass.

  ‘You’ll ’ave ter forgive ole Blaggy sir, ’e’s a bit slow in the ’ead, Cap’n is his nickname fer me.’ Slipp gave Blaggut a playful buffet, as hard as he could.

  Mallen inspected the chipped cutlass blade. ‘One of you said your ship was the Muddy Duck, but the other said it was the Dirty Swan, now which is it?’

  Both searats started contradicting each other. ‘The Muddy Swan, er, the Dirty Duck, er, the Mucky Dud, er, er, the Swanny Duck, the Dirty Mud . . .’

  ‘You mean you can’t remember the name of your own ship?’ Sage interrupted sharply.

  Slipp collapsed to the ground, covering both eyes with his claws as he made weeping noises. ‘It’s the shock an’ ’unger! O it was awful. Awful!’

  Blaggut produced a grubby kerchief and began comforting Slipp. ‘Don’t go gittin’ upsetted now Cap’n, ’ere, blow yer snout an’ you’ll feel better.’

  Blaggut performed a silent dance of agony as Slipp bit savagely on his paw. Tarquin separated them. ‘Steady on there chaps, that’s enough of that. Well, we’ve got our young uns back no worse for wear an’ I s’pose it’s you two we’ve got to thank. S’pose you’d better come back to the Abbey with us. Tom, Treerose, will you follow up the rear in case anybeast gets lost again? Tom, Treerose?’ But the two reclusive squirrels had vanished into the fastnesses of Mossflower.

  Supper that evening was served in Cavern Hole, a smaller, less decorated venue than the Great Hall. Blind Simeon sat next to Mother Mellus. ‘So Mellus, your two Dibbuns are back safe and sound,’ he said.