Lord Brocktree

by Brian Jacques

  When Udara had gone, Fleetscut slumped down angrily by the fire. ‘Great feathered buffoon, wot?’

  Jukka squatted in front of him, shaking her head knowingly.’ ’Tis ye who art the buffoon, hare. Hadst thou not given up thy pack so quick I could have bargained and got thine information for one pack. An’ thee, Ruro, what were ye thinking of, adding thy pack to his so quickly? I only gave up my ration to Udara when the situation became hopeless. Udara was insulted by thee, longears. Hadst thou walked away with the pack, he’d have hunted an’ killed thee. That bird is not named Udara Groundslay for nothing. Now put a latch on thy tongue an’ get some sleep!’

  Feeling rather foolish and properly chastened, Fleetscut lay down. However, before he closed his eyes, the old hare patted Ruro’s shoulder. ‘You’re a jolly good pal, Ruro. I won’t forget the way you offered up your pack to get my information. Thanks!’

  Ruro lay staring into the fire as she replied, ‘Jukka Sling was right, we be nought but two fools. Aye, an’ we’ll find that out soon enough, methinks, when we have to march on empty bellies. Good night to thee.’

  Udara returned in the dawn hour, when most of the squirrels were still sleeping, thanks to the previous day’s marching. Jukka and Fleetscut hastily got a fire going and made mint and dandelion tea, sweetening it with lots of honey to suit the owl’s taste. Sunlight was beginning to flood gold into the aquamarine skies of the eastern horizon before Udara deemed it fit to begin his narrative, which he did with much deliberation.

  ‘Humrumrum! There is a certain longears, a hare, not of the mountain from which you come. They say he is a March hare, wild and perilous. I have not met him – I do not know. Many longears are gathering to him at a secret place. I have heard them whisper his name, King Bucko Bigbones!’

  Fleetscut could not help cutting in. ‘King?’

  Udara’s huge golden eyes blinked reprovingly. ‘I did not ask you to interrupt me. If you want to talk, then carry on, and I will hold my silence, longears!’

  Jukka apologised for Fleetscut hastily. ‘Forgive him. It is the manner of longears to be excited. I will vouch for his silence. Please, the floor is thine.’ She shot a warning glance at the old hare.

  Udara continued: ‘Whoohum! One of the longears dropped a piece of bark scroll. Reading is not part of my wisdom and of no interest to me. That is all I have to say. You will begone from my land before noontide. Here is the writing – you may keep it.’

  Lifting his left wing slightly, with great effort, Udara allowed a small folded scroll to drop near the fire. Fleetscut pounced upon it before it rolled into the flames. Without a backward glance, Udara Groundslay, the flightless owl, ambled off to pursue his solitary existence.

  ‘Read thee aloud. I wouldst hear this longear message!’

  Jukka’s arrogant words got the better of Fleetscut’s temper. ‘Now just a bloomin’ moment, bushtail. Hah! I see y’don’t like me callin’ you that, do you? Well, I’m sick an’ fed up o’ bein’ called longears, see! I’ll call you Jukka, you call me Fleetscut, I’ll call your blinkin’ lot squirrels, an’ you call my flippin’ lot hares, wot, wot?’

  Jukka feigned an air of indifference. ‘As thou pleasest.’

  ‘You can bet your jolly life I pleasest!’

  ‘Then calm thee down an’ read, Ion — Fleetscut.’

  Jukka’s tribe were awake by this time. They gathered round to hear what was on the scroll as the old hare read aloud.

  ‘Two points north of dawn,

  Find stone and shade and drink,

  Follow where no water runs,

  March on through two moons and suns,

  My sign you’ll see, I think.

  Discover then a streamwolf’s ford,

  Tug thrice upon the royal cord,

  Then my honour guard will bring,

  Loyal subjects to their king!’

  Fleetscut’s paw thwacked against the parchment. ‘Tchah, the very idea of it, a hare promotin’ himself to king, the pollywoggle, an’ doubtless lurin’ our young Salamandastron warriors to his side. Who does he think he is, wot wot?’

  Jukka could not help smiling at Fleetscut’s indignation. ‘For sure, he thinks he’s king. Canst thou solve any of this riddle poem, hare?’

  Fleetscut snorted. ‘Of course I canst . . . squirrel! Us chaps from Salamandastron eat lots o’ salad – good for the old brain, doncha know. We try not to scoff large amounts o’ nuts – makes the tail bushy an’ next thing y’know you want to go climbin’ trees!’ He paused to note the look on Jukka’s face, then continued, ‘Ahem, now let me see. Ah yes, the place where stone an’ shade an’ drink can be found is right here. Hmm, the directions are clear enough, but two points north o’ dawn, er, that’s a bit of a poser, ain’t it?’

  Ruro provided the answer. ‘Dawn is in the east where the sun rises; two points north of that is northeast. We must go northeast, methinks.’

  Fleetscut sniffed. ‘I knew that, just testin’ you chaps. But what about a spot o’ brekkers first? I’ve only had a drop of tea so far today. Chap can’t go far on that, wot!’

  Ruro thrust two hard green apples at him. ‘Remember, friend, thou hast no rations, nor have I or Jukka. Come now, we’ll travel o’er the top of this Rockwood, and mayhap we’ll find our way with a view from there.’

  A wearying and difficult climb brought them to Rockwood’s peak by mid-morning. As they sat down in the tree shade, breathing hard, a solemn call hailed them from one of Udara’s hiding places.

  ‘Kuwhoohuuuh! You are still on my land and the morn is half gone. Beware if you are still here at noon!’

  Fleetscut was trying to climb an old gnarled rowan to scout out the countryside. When the owl called he slipped and barked his shin. Biting his lip, he shouted back, ‘Yah! Go an’ boil your beak, mattressbottom.’

  Ruro helped him down to earth before bounding easily up into the branches, saying to the old hare, who was wincing and rubbing his shin, ‘Bide there, friend. After all, I’ve scoffed large amounts of nuts!’

  She was back down to report, almost as swiftly as she had gone up, pointing northeast. ‘A dried-up streambed that way, going off into the distance.’

  Fleetscut was up and about, feeling much better. ‘Strewth, just like the poem said: “Follow where no water runs.” Solved that pretty smart, wot wot, Jukka?’

  Jukka led off the march, informing the old hare, ‘I had already figured that much, O thou who art fleet of scut.’

  Ruro took up the rear, with her friend muttering by her side. ‘Huh, fleet o’ scut, indeed! Can’t even pronounce a bally chap’s name right. How’d she like it if I called her Sling the Jukka? I say, that’s a good idea, why don’t we sling her?’

  It is never a good thing to be hungry, and Fleetscut felt the pangs on that day’s march. Single file they went, through a twisting, turning, long dried-out streambed, with the hare plodding along in the rear, coughing and sniffling from the dust of others tramping ahead. He had neither food nor drink, having bolted the two little sour apples the moment Ruro gave them to him earlier on. First he tried sucking on a pebble to allay his thirst, but when moisture came to his mouth it formed a nasty paste with the dust he was inhaling. Next he began grabbing at pawfuls of grass as he passed, but when he chomped on the first clump he gave a muffled yelp and spat it out, glaring at the yellow and black banded body humming angrily amid the dust.

  ‘Confounded bloomin’ wasp, loungin’ about in the middle of a chap’s tuck. Oh, it ain’t fair! I’m starvin’!’

  Ruro turned and tugged his paw to make him keep up. ‘Carry on trying to feed thyself and thou wilt be left behind. No time for stopping when we’re on the march!’

  Late that evening Jukka called a halt. Fleetscut flopped exhausted alongside Ruro in the dry watercourse, gazing longingly at the other squirrels. Opening their packs, they sipped from little flasks and ate sparingly of the honey-soaked, fruit-filled farls. With a face the picture of misery and despair he begged them, ‘I say, chaps, how
about sharin’ supper with a pal, wot?’

  Ignoring Fleetscut, they carried on eating and drinking. The old hare tried a different approach.

  ‘Aha, this is the life, mates – comrades together, wot! Marchin’, sleepin’, singin’, firm friends on life’s jolly old highway, wot. I say there, old pal, old chum, throw your messmate a cob of that stuff over, an’ a drop t’drink, ye good old treewalloper!’

  The squirrel in question stowed his food away carefully, glaring hatred at Fleetscut. ‘Give thy foolish gob a rest, longears. ‘Tweren’t for thee we’d be snug in our pine grove, instead of tramping about on some wild goose chase because of thy bad-mouthing our leader. Put a gag on thy tongue – aye, an’ eat that!’

  Fleetscut slumped back and sulked a bit, watching an ant crawl over his footpaw. He was about to reach for it and try his first taste of insect when a fresh idea struck him. Scooting over on his tail, he got closer to Jukka. She wondered what he was about until he winked, smiled at her and whispered, ‘Bet you’re rather peckish too, old gel, wot. Rotten bunch o’ cads this lot, aren’t they? Look at that bounder over yonder, stuffin’ his face like a frog at a fry-up. Listen, you’re the leader, ain’t you? I’ve got a rippin’ idea – now how does this sound t’you? Suppose you issue a stem order for one or two of ’em to give you half their rations. I mean, they daren’t refuse Jukka the Sling, the old boss tailkicker, could they? Then we just divvy the grub between us, half for my clever wheeze, half for your position as chief. Heeheehee. Spiffin’ scheme, ain’t it, wot?’

  The look Jukka gave him would have split a solid rock.

  Fleetscut scooted hastily back, resigned to a night of hunger and thirst. He lay down, closed his eyes and shouted, ‘G’night, you grubgrabbm’ foul perishin’ mob o’ skinflints. Hope the noise me tummy’s makin’ keeps you awake all bloomin’ night. Hope you dream of me starvin’ to death of hunger. Tailtwitchin’ nut-eatin’ bark-wallopers!’

  Morning brought Fleetscut no relief. As soon as he opened his eyes he was complaining.

  ‘Yaaagh! Ooh, the famine cramps, me paws’ve gone dead, I can’t see, it’s the Scoffless Lurgy, I’ve been struck down with the Witherin’ Ear Fever. Food! Somebeast save me!’

  Whump!

  Jukka landed slam in his middle, bringing him down flat and stifling his mouth with both paws as she hissed angrily, ‘Fool, shoutin’ and wailin’ across the country. Didn’t thou hear Beddle calling for all to keep low, there be vermin abroad? Lie still and silent or I’ll slay thee myself!’

  She peeped over the top of the dried streambank. Ruro and Grood scuttled up to join her.

  ‘Something be moving o’er there, Ruro, see!’

  ‘Aye, I see it well enough. The grass is long out there, and ’tis moving the opposite way to the breeze.’

  ‘I wonder how many of them there be?’

  Young Grood was about to make an estimate when Jukka cuffed his ear lightly. ‘Curb thy language, Grood! Stay low, everybeast, and mayhap they’ll pass us by. No sense inviting trouble.’

  Rubbing his stomach, Fleetscut popped his head up, took a quick glimpse of the waving grass and called out, ‘Wot ho there, show yourselves, we’re friends!’

  Immediately the spiked heads of two hedgehogs rose above the grass as they strode towards the streambed.

  Jukka fixed the old hare with her gimlet eye. ‘How didst thou know they were hedgedogs?’

  Fleetscut waggled his ears in cavalier fashion. ‘I’m a Salamandastron hare, y’see. We can scent vermin a day away, or at least we used to in the old days. Well now, you chaps, whom have we the honour of addressin’, wot?’

  The two burly male beasts rolled awkwardly into the ditch.

  ‘G’day to yer. I’m Grassum an’ this ’ere’s my brother Reedum. You ain’t by any chance spotted an ’ogbabe wand’rin’ loose in these parts, ’ave yer?’

  The hare shook their paws, carefully avoiding the spikes. ‘Can’t say we have, really. Give us a description an’ we’ll keep a weather eye out for the little tyke.’

  Grassum did all the talking, his brother merely nodding and saying aye to emphasise the case.

  ‘Skittles be ’is given name. We took ’im off’n some foxes last season. Doesn’t know who ’is mum’n’dad are, or where they be, ain’t that right, Reedum?’

  ‘Aye!’

  ‘A right liddle pawful ’e is if’n you ask me, talks very h’educated, very imperdent, very cheeky. An old ’ead on young shoulders, that’s wot ’e is, right, Reedum?’

  ‘Aye!’

  ‘Calls us ’is two wicked uncles, jus’ ’cos we makes ’im go t’bed early an’ wash reg’lar, eh, Reedum?’

  ‘Aye!’

  ‘Enny’ow, Skittles done a bunk on us an’ got hisself lost. We been a-searchin’ for ’im two days now, me’n’Reedum.’

  ‘Aye!’

  ‘Enny’ow, if’n yew goodbeasts finds ’im an’ we ain’t about, y’d best leave ’im wid the first ’edge’og fambly or tribe y’come across. That’s best, ain’t it, Reedum?’

  ‘Aye!’

  Laboriously they began climbing out of the streambed. Fleetscut called hopefully after them, ‘I say, you chaps haven’t got the odd morsel of grub about you – a leftover apple pie or some unwanted salad, wot?’

  Grassum looked down on him from the banktop. ‘We ain’t got a crust t’spare atween us, ’ave we, Reedum?’

  ‘Nay!’

  The old hare smiled ruefully. ‘Good day, sirs. Thanks for the information, Grassum. Oh, and thanks for your scintillating conversation, Reedum. I actually got quite excited when you switched from aye to nay. Dashed clever trick that, wot?’

  Jukka cast a jaundiced eye over Fleetscut as she marched off. ‘I wish thou wert as talkative as yon Reedum!’

  The day passed uneventfully, hot, dusty and tiring, wearying on both paws and spirits of the trekkers. Fleetscut became convinced his end was near from starvation. Jukka and Ruro bore their hunger steadfastly, neither asking nor taking sustenance from the sparse rations of their tribal comrades. At evening the dried streambed petered out, and they made camp for the night on the open moor, squatting around a fire they had kindled in the lee of a boulder. Fleetscut’s moods had ranged from outrage and name-calling to silent high dudgeon and finally a fatalistic resignation. He lay apart from the others, quiet for a while, then began to moan his thoughts aloud.

  ‘Oh dearie dearie me, ’tis a hard life an’ a jolly old sad death, wot. Perishin’ out here on the grassy plains without anybeast to mourn over me benighted bones. Hunger, thirst, the Scoffless Lurgy, Witherin’ Ear Fever an’ the Dreaded Numb Deadpaw. That’s besides Tummyshrink Ague an’ Fearsome Red Scutrot. Oho yes, mates, you name it an’ old Fleetscut’s suffered it! A walkin’ bonebag, courageous t’the last, too proud to beg a crust from me messmates. Fadin’ away sad an’ slow. Wonder if they’ll strike a medal for me, wot? A skinny hare with a brave smile, that’d be about right. Oh, an’ in the background, lots of fat wobbly squirrels, grinnin’ like stuffed toads. Eh, wozzat?’

  A slingstone bounced off the ground close to his head. Jukka was whirling her sling, fully loaded with a rock, and she had a wild determined glint in her eye.

  ‘We’ve stood enough o’ thy ceaseless whimperin’ an’ whining, longears. Speak one more word an’ this rock will find thee!’

  Fleetscut turned quickly over and shut his eyes tight. ‘Oh, right y’are, marm. Nighty night now!’

  As a new day dawned, Fleetscut, unable to sleep because of hunger pangs, leapt up roaring: ‘Aha! I think I see his sign, chaps. There ’tis!’

  13

  SILENCE REIGNED IN the hidden cavern beneath Salamandastron, broken only by the dripping of water and the snores of Lord Stonepaw and his hares. Not knowing the time of day or night, they had succumbed to their natural urge to sleep.

  ‘Where in the name o’ fang’n’fur have they got to?’

  Stiffener Medick came awake at the sound of voices outside the cave. It was the tw
o Blue Horderats Rotface and Grinak, returning with the food and drink they had been sent for. The boxing hare listened to their conversation; they were obviously lost.

  ‘Huh, don’t ask me. Y’d think they’d ’ave left us some sign for direction, or jus’ sat an’ waited fer us!’

  ‘Well, wot d’y’say we jus’ sit down an’ wait for them?’

  ‘Can’t do that. They might be miles away. We could be down ’ere for ever!’

  ‘Aha, but they won’t last long, will they? We’ve got the food. Heeheehee, d’yer fancy some o’ this plum pudden from the Lord Badger’s kitchens, eh, Grinak?’

  ‘You must be jokin’, Rotface. Cap’n Swinch’d ’ave the hide off’n our backs fer stealin’ vittles!’

  The voices receded down the passage. Stiffener slipped through the rift and went after them, silent as a shadow. Before long he could see the flicker of their torch up ahead. He followed, hoping they would soon stop to rest, but the rats wandered on, willy nilly, from chamber to corridor and cavern to tunnel, for what seemed an age. Finally Stiffener’s hopes were rewarded. Grinak found a low rock shelf and plonked himself down on it.

  ‘This is ’opeless. We’re lost, aye, an’ by the looks of it they are too. We’ve not ’ad sound nor sight of ’em yet!’

  Rotface sat down next to his companion. ‘Yer right there, Grin. These flasks of ale are weighin’ me down – me paws are killin’ me. Wot say we swap, you carry the drink awhile, I’ll carry the food, eh?’

  Grinak snorted. ‘No chance, mate. You thought they’d be lighter – that’s why you ran t’pick ’em up.’

  ‘Over here, idiots, over here!’ A voice was calling them. Both rats jumped up, scared of being caught sitting down. Rotface peered into the darkness behind them.

  ‘Sounds like they’re down there, wot d’you think, Grin?’

  ‘Sounds go different ways down ’ere. Mebbe they’re up yonder.’

  ‘Wot’ll we do, then?’

  ‘Give me the torch. I’ll go an’ look where you reckon they are. Stay ’ere an’ wait fer me.’