Horty favoured him with a kindly smile. “Aye old lad, Burcha Glugg, indeed, wot! Yowhoooo, y’little savage. Gerroff!” The ratbabe, who had bitten Horty’s footpaw, clung on grimly. High Kappin Birug pulled the ratbabe off and cuffed it.
Hemper Figlugg nodded at his prisoners. “Glugg cayjizz!”
They were picked up bodily and borne to two large cages, formed of thick branches lashed together, one of which was open. Into this the three companions were thrown. The Darrat tribe dispersed and went about their business. Seeing they were being ignored, Springald began loosing herself from the ropes binding her forepaws and the running rope about her right footpaw. The other two did likewise.
Fenna watched the fat Hemper Figlugg settling himself back into the hammock. “What now, I wonder?”
Springald answered hopefully. “Well, we’re still alive, aren’t we? Where there’s life there’s hope, they say.”
Horty rubbed his stomach—as usual, his mind was on food. “I won’t be alive much longer if somebody doesn’t feed us. Chap gets hungry, bein’ captured an’ all that, wot?” He called out to a passing rat. “Hi there, I say, me old vermin, how about somethin’ to jolly well eat?”
He pantomimed eating and pointed inside his mouth. “Eat! Y’know, just like starvin’ chaps do. Grub, food or whatever you savages call it.”
The rat grinned and pointed to his own mouth. “Glugg!”
Horty clapped his paws together. “Hoho, that’s the stuff. Glugg!”
Something suddenly dawned on Fenna. “Glugg, that must be their word for food. Oh, great seasons!”
Horty winked. “Leave it to me eh, wot! I can translate any bally thing when it comes to food!”
Springald understood all too well. She clapped a paw to her brow. “Glugg, that’s what we are. Food!”
Horty patted her reassuringly. “No no, old gel, you’ve got it all wrong. They said Burcha Glugg—that prob’ly means feed them, or give these bally prisoners some food, they look hungry.”
Just then, four Darrat males bore a big cauldron to the cage. They placed it outside the bars, within the captives’ reach. It was filled with a form of porridge, full of berries and sliced fruit.
One of the rats indicated they should eat. “Burcha Glugg, you eat all up.”
Horty smiled. “Told you so!”
Fenna asked the rat, “What does Burcha Glugg mean?”
The rat shrugged. “Old Darrat way of saying good food.”
Springald’s worst fears were confirmed. She whispered in a shaky voice. “They’re fattening us up before they eat us!”
Horty dipped a paw into the cauldron and scooped some up. “Oh, don’t be silly! Nobeast’d dare to eat us, shockin’ idea. I say, this tastes rather good, wot. Come on, you two!”
They shrank to the back of the cage, shaking their heads. “I couldn’t bear to touch it!”
“Oh Horty, how could you eat at a time like this?”
One of the rats unwound a whip from about his waist, gave it a sharp crack and shouted at the pair. “Eat or whip!” They were forced to dip their paws in and eat. However, with the prospect of what they were being fed for, the food, as good as Horty said it was, turned to ashes in their mouths.
Fenna and Springald could only manage a small mouthful apiece, but Horty bolted the porridge down until his snout and whiskers were crusted with it.
“Mmmch, no sense in a chap bein’ eaten, grmmfff munch, on an empty stomach. Capital stuff, wot!”
Night fell, bringing a cloudless vault of carnelian blue, dusted with stars. Bragoon lay alongside Sarobando, among some rocky hillocks that skirted the Darrat camp. The otter watched as campfires glimmered low.
“Let the vermin settle down, they prob’ly outnumber us by a couple o’ hundred to two.”
Saro chewed on a dandelion stalk. “What then?”
Bragoon raised his head, risking a glimpse of the camp area. “They’re in a cage, over by that long rocky ledge. We’ll have to work out a plan to break ’em out an’ escape without bein’ seen.”
The squirrel lay back and closed her eyes. “Yore good at schemin’, mate. What’s the plan?”
The otter lay down and closed his eyes also. “First a short sleep, wait’ll the camp’s quiet.”
Saro opened one eye. “An’ then?”
Bragoon stuck Martin’s sword into the ground, close to paw. “I don’t know just yet, but ye’ll be the firstbeast I tell when a good idea comes along. I’m goin’ to sleep, wake me in an hour. Otters get good ideas when they take naps.”
Saro rolled over onto her side. “No, you wake me, ’tis your turn.”
Her companion watched the starlight playing along the swordblade. “How can I wake ye when I’m makin’ the plan? You wake me!”
The squirrel grumbled. “Huh, ’tis always me. Alright, you take a nap an’ do all the plannin’, I’ll wake ye in an hour.” The only answer she received was a pretend snore from the otter.
The midnight hour had just passed. Silence reigned over the Darrat camp, broken only by protracted snores mingled with nighttime woodland sounds.
In the cage, Horty sat clasping his stomach and grimacing. Fenna came over to sit by him. “Tummyache, eh?”
The young hare answered dolefully. “Absolute agony, doncha know. No use upsettin’ you an’ Springald, so a chap’s got to be brave an’ silent, even though he’s dyin’. It must’ve been somethin’ I ate.”
Springald overheard him and snorted. “Something? You great glutton, ’tis not something, but how much of that something you ate. That big cauldron’s almost empty!”
Horty winced. “Ah me! Maids can be beautiful but cruel. I only scoffed that porridge because you two wouldn’t touch it after the first mouthful. Ha, ’twas me that saved you a jolly good whippin’. Sacrificed meself for your rotten sakes, that’s all the gratitude a chap gets, wot?”
One of the three guards in front of the cage snuffled and grunted at the sound of Horty’s raised voice. The captives sat in frozen silence until he settled back down with the other two rats. The three guards snorted in soft unison.
Springald whispered, “Look at them—not a care in the world. We’d be that way, too, snoring in the dormitory. Huh, that’s if we’d had the sense to listen to the Abbot and your sister Martha. Wish we were back at Redwall now.”
Fenna murmured, “Wishing isn’t much use. What we should be doing now is escaping while the guards are asleep.”
Horty forgot his pains for a moment. “By jingo, you’re right, old gel. Escape, that’s the bally idea! Right, chaps, anybeast got a scheme or a plan of some type, wot?”
They sat racking their brains for a while, until Fenna admitted limply, “We’ve got no chance, locked in a cage and surrounded by armed guards. They’d cut us down before we managed to get two paces!”
Numbly they stared at one another. A tear trickled down Springald’s cheek; Fenna’s lower lip started quivering. Horty blinked and sniffed.
“We’ve really gone an’ done it now, haven’t we, chaps, wot!”
Then a rope fell from above, close to the cage. Attached to it was a sharp knife and a piece of bark that had charcoal writing scrawled on it: “Hush, take knife, escape. Tie rope to pot. Wait.”
Horty peered up through the bars at the overhead rock ledge. Bragoon’s tough-lined face was staring back at him. The otter held a paw to his mouth, signalling silence. Working feverishly, Springald took the knife and tied the rope to the cauldron handle. At a wave from Fenna, the cauldron rose upward, halting just above the cage.
Gripping the rope firmly, Bragoon began swinging the iron cauldron from side to side until it moved back and forth in mighty sweeps like a giant pendulum. Horty watched it as it swung, lower and lower, whizzing close to the cage front, until it reached the level of the three snoring Ratguards. Then the cauldron jerked outward. Kurblunggggggg! It struck two of the rats, laying them out senseless. The remaining one sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“Wot was th . . .” Podongggg!
The cauldron caught the third rat on the return swing, knocking him head over paws.
Springald was sitting on Fenna’s shoulders, slashing at the ropes which kept the wooden roof bars in place. The sharp knife made short work of them.
Hemper Figlugg awoke. He heard the cauldron toll like a muted bell as it hit the last rat. Waddling out of his hammock, he went to investigate the noise. Seeing Fenna’s head poking out of the cagetop, he hastened forward, shouting wheezily, “Burcha Glugg ’scapin’! Wakey wakey, Darrats!”
Borlongggggggg! The swinging cauldron biffed him on the back of his great fat head. Hemper Figlugg performed a somersault, raising a big puff of dust as his back hit the ground. His shout, however, had roused the Darrat horde, who came staggering from under the ledges and thick bushes, grabbing for weapons.
Bragoon roared down to the escapers, “Cut that pot loose an’ grab on to the rope!”
Springald slashed the cauldron free, and they took hold of the rope.
Saro’s head appeared above the high ledgetop. “One at a time, we can’t pull ye all up t’gether!”
Horty grabbed the spear from a fallen Ratguard. Taking charge, he rapped out orders like a veteran sergeant. “Steady the buffs, chaps! Spring, you go first, Fenna next! I’ll hold these bounders off, wot!”
The Darrat had just realised what was taking place. Around half a dozen of the boldest came at the young hare.
Spear at the ready, Horty challenged them bravely. “Step up there, laddie bucks, meet a flippin’ Redwall warrior, wot! Two or ten at a time, doesn’t blinkin’ matter to Bonebreaker Braebuck. Have at ye, scurvy nosewipes! Come on, don’t be shy, ye wiltin’ wallflowers. Wot!”
A big broad mottled rat charged at him, waving a hatchet. A slingstone flew from above, and the rat stood still, tottered, then collapsed in a heap.
Horty threw himself at the other five rats, who had been advancing on him slowly. He was in his element.
“I’m the son o’ the roarin’ buck! D’ye want to visit your ugly ancestors, eh? Well, I’m the one who’ll send ye to Hellgates. Yaaaaaaah!”
At the top of the ledge, Fenna and Springald stood with their rescuers. Bragoon shook his head. “Is he mad? Look at ’im!”
Horty was like a whirling demon, lashing out with his long hind legs as he thwacked wildly about with the spear. Rats went down like ninepins before his onslaught.
Sarobando nodded in admiration. “That young ’un’s got the makins of a powerful warrior, but he’s still a hotheaded learner. Soon as he tires they’ll overpower ’im an’ bring ’im down.”
Springald yelled down to her friend. “Horty, get to the rope, hurry!”
The young hare looked at the pack of rats charging toward him. “Right away, marm, cover me jolly old back, chaps!”
Saro used her sling, while the others pelted the rats with rocks from the ledge as Horty ran for it. He reached the rope and looped it about his waist.
“Haul away!”
Kappin Birug flung a wooden club that caught Horty square between both ears, before bouncing off his head.
Horty grinned. “Yah missed me!” Then he fell unconscious.
Ducking slingstones and a few arrows, the rescuers—along with Fenna and Springald—hauled Horty’s limp figure up onto the ledgetop.
Bragoon peered anxiously down as more archers began appearing. “Better get goin’ an’ move out o’ range. They mean business!”
They struck off into some thick pinewoods, carrying the senseless figure of the hare between them.
20
It was a long and wearying night, but the Redwallers kept going. Pines grew thick about them, obscuring even the stars in the sky. Stumbling on through the dense carpet of rotting pine needles, Springald bumped into a tree trunk.
“Oof! There won’t be a part of me that’s undamaged if we go on at this rate. A torch would help us to see where we’re going.”
Bragoon urged her on. “Just keep goin’, missy, there’ll be no torches. One spark can start a fire among pine trees, an’ the whole woodland’d be ablaze bafore ye could blink. Besides, a torch would be like a beacon for those vermin to follow.”
Springald felt foolish. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”
The otter said nothing, but he was exhausted and bad-tempered after having to run all night, burdened with Horty. He snapped at the mousemaid. “ ’Tis not much good bein’ sorry now, Miss Mouse. If’n you three would’ve stayed put at the Abbey, we wouldn’t be in this fix!”
Fenna came to her friend’s defence. “We only came after you because we thought we could help. Besides, now that we’re free, we can get on searching for Loamhedge.”
But Bragoon was not to be appeased. “Free, eh, don’t make me laugh! You think those rats won’t come after us? Lissen, I know rats, they won’t rest ’til they’ve got us all in the cookin’ pot. Ask Saro, we’ve fought flesh eaters like them afore. The only way to make ’em give up is to kill ’em, an’ there’s too many of the scum for that!”
A quavery voice echoed out of nowhere. “Oh, far too many! They’ve eaten most of us, you know.”
Bragoon stood stock still, his eyes scouring the night woods. “Who said that?”
From a small hillock of pine needles built up round the base of a trunk, the voice answered, “If you remove your great heavy rudder from my neck, I’ll tell you!”
The otter leaped to one side as an old rabbit shoved his head through the mound.
“Sorry to startle you like that, I’m sure. If the Darrat are hunting you, I’d be pleased to hide you. Only for awhile, though—they eat anybeast who harbours fugitives.” The ancient rabbit shrugged. “But Darrat will eat a creature for no reason at all. So, d’you want me to hide you?”
Saro indicated the unconscious Horty. “Just until this ’un’s fit for travel agin, thankee.”
The rabbit’s name was Cosbro. He took them to the hollow log in which he lived. It was a cunningly contrived dwelling, a great elm trunk overgrown with all manner of moss and nettles. One end of it backed against a standing rock, the other was artfully concealed by thistles and wild lupins. Cosbro carefully parted these, creating a little gap which allowed them to squeeze through one at a time. Once they were all inside, the old rabbit rearranged the outer thistles and lupins, rendering the entrance invisible to the casual observer.
Springald looked about: it was a very neat little home. Lit by four lanterns containing fireflies, its illumination dim but adequate. They sat down on a carpet of dried grass and springy moss.
Fenna made Horty comfortable, remarking, “I’ve never heard of a rabbit living inside of a tree before.”
Cosbro preened his meagre whiskers. “Neither have the Darrat, young ’un. That’s what makes it such a perfect place. I’ve often sat in here, listening to them digging holes as they searched for rabbits—they dig out anything that looks like a burrow. Clods, they have no imagination at all.”
Bragoon smiled at the old one. “But where do the other rabbits around here live?”
Cosbro shook his head sadly. “There are no other rabbits left. Only me, sitting inside this log, poor fool that I am.”
Saro patted his paw gently. “You ain’t no fool, me friend. It takes a clever beast to survive in this country. How many rabbits were there, an’ how’d ye come to be livin’ here?”
Cosbro shrugged. “We were too many to count one time, long ago. Our families had no written history. All I have to remember my ancestors by are ancient poems and ballads passed down by word of mouth. Woe is me, sometimes I think I must be the last rabbit left in all the land.”
Saro felt sorry for the pitiful old creature. She passed him a flask of dandelion and burdock cordial.
“Wet yore whistle with this, ole mate. Maybe ye’d like to tell us one of yore poems from the ole days, eh?”
Cosbro sipped the cordial, closing his eyes blissfully. “Ahhh, dandelion and burdock, tastes like nectar to me. Aye, ’tis many long seasons since I tasted ought a
s good as this. Have you ever heard of a poem called ‘The Shadowslayers’?”
He looked from one to the other, but they shook their heads. Helping himself to a longer sip, Cosbro licked his lips. “When I was younger, I could skip through such verses. But, alas, the weight of seasons has descended upon me. My mind forgets a lot of things these days. So, my friends, here is the poem, as best as I can recall it.
“Lo the golden days are gone,
the happy laughter long fled,
now silence falls o’er Loamhedge walls,
lone winds lament the dead.
The Shadowslayers sent us forth,
some south and east, some west and north.
The wise ones said ’twas vermin foul,
their blood, their teeth, their fur,
which brought the plague that laid us low,
with more than we could bear.
When families die before our eyes,
we learned, ’tis folly to be wise.
Leave everything ye own now, flee,
run if ye can, go far and wide,
linger not here, to grieve and weep,
those tears have all been cried.
The mouse Germaine said, ‘Woe, ’tis true,
The Shadowslayers will come for you.’
The mice went first, escaped their fate,
they traversed north and west;
what was left of us remained,
to lay our dead to rest.
We travelled then, us piteous few,
who’d seen what Shadowslayers could do.
My father’s father spake these words,
as had his kin, from time untold,
wand’ring exiled o’er the land,
growing up, and growing old.
Recalling to their dying breath,
how once the Shadowslayers brought death.”
Cosbro took another drink and sighed wearily. “I myself wrote that final verse, though there were many more. They told of our family names and histories. But I’ve forgotten the words, shame on me!”
Fenna thought it was the saddest thing she had ever heard.
Loamhedge Page 17