‘Yes, Milady.’
‘Will you stop interrupting me and listen! All anyone ever says around here is “yes, Milady” or “no, Milady”.’
‘Yes, Milady.’
‘Shut up!’ Tsarmina shouted irritably. ‘Get them one by one in a cell, pull their whiskers, then check their fur. Is their tail their own tail?’
‘Er, is it, Milady?’
‘That’s what I want you to find out, nitwit.’
‘Oh yes. But why, Milady?’
Tsarmina paced the room, her voice rising to a cracked crescendo. ‘Because one of them is Gingivere in disguise, you clod. He’s here, in my fortress, plotting against me. Get out and find him!’
Later Brogg sat at a barrack room table, joined by Ratflank and several other cronies. They were reduced to eating hard bread and woodland plants. Brogg sipped from a flagon.
‘Huh, at least there’s still a drop of cider left. I tell you, mates, the Queen has definitely taken a funny turn.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Ratflank smirked. ‘She’s still got the sense to recognize a good stoat when she sees one. Look at me, I’m a Captain now.’
One of the ferrets spat out a mouldy crust.
‘Is that some kind of ceremony you carried out, Brogg?’ he asked.
‘What ceremony, what are you talking about, Dogfur?’
‘Well, the way you took Ratflank down to the cells and twitched his whiskers, then you pinched his fur and twitched his tail before you gave him the Captain’s cloak.’
‘Oh, no. Matter of fact, you’ve all got to have it done.’
‘What, you mean we’re all going to be made Captains?’
‘Caw, I wish old Lord Greeneyes was here now, mates,’ Brogg sighed gloomily as he cupped his head in his paws. ‘Or even the other one, Gingivere.’
Warm sunrays cascading through the leaves mingled in harmony with the peace of Mossflower Woods. Somewhere a cuckoo was calling, and young ferns curled their tendril tops toward blossom on the bramble.
Gingivere had travelled east since early morning, never once turning his head to look back toward Brockhall. He sat with his back to a sycamore and opened the satchel of food given him by the woodlanders. The very sight of a homely oatcake brought a lump to his throat at the thought of the good friends he had left behind, especially of little Ferdy and Coggs.
With unshed tears bright in his eyes Gingivere wrapped the food up. He continued walking east through the peaceful flowering forest.
33
MARTIN LEAPT TO the fore as the crab came charging forward. ‘Hurry, get down to the sands,’ he shouted urgently. ‘I’ll try to hold this thing off. Go on, get going!’
The three travellers would not run and desert their friend. They backed away slowly to the edge of the rocks, while Martin, facing the crab as a rearguard, followed them.
The crab would make a scurrying attack then back off, suddenly changing tack to shuffle in sideways. Not having time to use his sling, Martin hurled several well-placed stones at the maddened creature. They made a hollow clunking noise as they bounced off the tough crabshell. Each time it was hit, the crab would halt, pulling its eyes in on their long stalks. Holding one claw high and the other out level toward them, it advanced – for all the world like a fencer minus his sword. The huge claws opened and shut, clacking viciously.
From the top of the rocky outcrop where they stood to the sand below was a forbiddingly long drop. Log-a-Log teetered on the brink, shutting his eyes tight at the dizzy height. Without a second thought, Gonff grabbed the shrew’s scrubby coat with one paw, held tight to Dinny’s digging claw with the other, and jumped.
As Dinny felt himself being pulled from the smooth rock surface, he seized Martin’s tail with his free digging claw.
The crab dashed forward, only to find its pincers nipping nothing. Clutching paw to fur to claw to tail, the travellers sailed out into midair and plummeted downwards, narrowly missing the jutting rocks which projected from the main mass.
Bump!
They landed flat upon the beach sand with a dull thud that knocked the breath from their bodies.
Martin was first to recover. He sat up, rubbing his back, feeling as if his tail had been dragged out by the roots. Dinny lay face down. He lifted his head, snorted sand and looked up at the rock face.
‘Hoo arr. Lookout, ’ee commen doawn!’ he warned.
Sure enough, the crab was scrambling and scuttling sideways down the rocks toward them with surprising agility.
Ignoring his injuries, Martin ran to face the armoured menace as his friends recovered from the fall. Grabbing a stave, he hit out strongly at the creature.
With a loud clack, the crustacean caught the flailing stave between both its claws, immediately locking tight onto it, wrenching the weapon from the warrior’s grasp.
Martin felt totally helpless as he readied himself for the crab’s next move.
Whirling and prancing about on the sand with its slitlike mouth gaping and frothing, the crab clutched madly at the stave. Martin could only stare in amazement at the dancing monster as it jigged about, holding the stave high in its murderous claws.
Log-a-Log tugged at the warrior’s paw. ‘Come on, Martin. Let’s get going while we can. That crab doesn’t seem to want to let go of the stave!’
‘Ha!’ Gonff snorted. ‘It’s not a case of wanting. It hasn’t got the sense to release the stave. Can’t you see?’
As if to prove his point, the little mousethief joined the crab and actually began dancing along with it. Round and round they went, Gonff comically following his strange partner’s every twist and turn. Furiously the crab waggled its stalked eyes, opening and closing its mouth as it pranced crazily around, still clasping the stave tightly.
Martin and his friends nursed their aching ribs, trying not to laugh too hard. Tears streamed down their cheeks at Gonff’s antics.
‘Oh hahahahooohooo. Stoppit, Gonff, please,’ Martin begged. ‘Heeheeheehahaha. Come away and leave the silly beast alone. Hahahaha!’
Gonff halted, he doffed a courtly bow at the enraged crab, ‘My thanks to you, sir. You truly are a wonderful dancer.’
The crab stood glaring at Gonff, with a mixture of ferocity and bafflement as the mousethief continued his polite compliments.
‘Oh, I do hope we meet again at the next annual Rockpool Ball. Those shrimps are such clumsy fellows, you know. They tread all over one’s paws. They’re not half as good as you. Incidentally, who taught you to dance so well? Keeping all those legs going together, you didn’t trip once. My, my. We really must do this again sometime.’
The crab stood stock still with the stave held high. It watched the four travellers depart along the shore, their laughter and jesting mingled on the breeze.
‘Hahahaha! Wait’ll I tell Columbine. Maybe he’ll give her dancing lessons if we ever chance this way again, hahaha!’
‘Burr, ’ee’m a wunnerful futt tapper.’
‘What about you, Din? You could have joined them for a threesome reel.’
It had been an eventful day. Now, as the noon shadows began lengthening, the tide flooded in. The friends wended their weary way along the interminable shoreline. Salamandastron stood firm in the distance, never seeming to get any closer.
Tired and dispirited, they trekked onward, feeling the pangs of hunger and thirst. Apart from the odd seabird whose curiosity had to be fended off forcefully, they were completely isolated.
Log-a-Log shielded his eyes, pointing ahead. ‘Look, what are those birds up to over yonder?’
Some distance further on, gulls were wheeling and diving. There were two black shapeless objects upon the sand. The birds were concentrating their attack on the smaller of these.
Eager to see what was happening, the travellers broke into a trot. As they drew near to the scene, it became apparent that the gulls were harrassing a living creature. Not far from where it lay there was a ramshackle lean-to.
Martin whirled his sling as he began ru
nning.
‘Come on, mates. Let’s drive those scavengers off. Charge!’
The creature was a thin ragged rat. Gulls pecked and tore ruthlessly at it as it lay unprotected on the sand.
Under the fierce onslaught of stones and staves, the seabirds took to the air, screeching and wheeling above the intruders who had robbed them of their prey, and finally flying off to seek easier victims.
Martin knelt and lifted the rat’s head. The creature was very old and emaciated.
‘There there now, old one,’ he said, stroking sand out of its watery eyes. ‘We’re friends. You’re safe now.’
Log-a-Log touched the rat’s limp paw. ‘Save your breath, Martin. This one has gone to the gates of Dark Forest.’
‘Dead?’
‘Aye. Dead as a stone. He must have been on his last legs when the birds found him. Let’s get him to his hut.’
Between them they bore the rat into the tattered dwelling. Placing it gently in a corner, they covered the body with an old piece of sailcloth. Then Gonff explored the contents of the hut.
‘Look, mateys, water and supplies,’ he said triumphantly.
There was a small quantity of dried shrimp and seaweed and a pouch of broken biscuit, but best of all there were two hollow gourds filled with clean fresh water. Dinny found a cache of driftwood. He began setting a small fire, using a flint from Martin’s sling pouch and the steel of Gonff’s dagger.
‘Pore beasten. Oi wunder who’m ’ee wurr.’ The mole shook his head sadly.
Log-a-Log poured water into cockle shells.
‘Sea rat. No question of it. He’s been chained to an oar, too. I saw the scars on his paws. Mine were like that once.’
Martin found a thick deep shell, blackened by fire on its outside. He began shredding shrimp and seaweed into it.
‘But you said they used other creatures as oar slaves, yet this one was a rat?’
Log-a-Log poured water onto the ingredients and set the shell on two stones over the flames.
‘Aye, but there’s no telling with sea rats. They’re savage and cruel. Maybe that one did something to offend his Captain. I’ve seen them laughing and drinking together, then suddenly fighting to the death next moment over some silly little incident.’
Night fell purple and grey in long rolling clouds; a stiff breeze sprang up from seaward as the four companions stood for a moment in silence around the pitiful canvas-wrapped figure in the small grave Dinny had dug in the sand. After the brief ceremony, they watched as the mole filled in the hole, decorating the mound with coloured seashells he had found.
‘Baint much, but far better’n sea ratten ud do furr ’ee.’
Salamandastron flared crimson against the dark sky as Gonff began to sing,
‘Always the tide comes flowing in.
Ever it goes out again.
Sleep ‘neath the shore evermore,
Free from hunger and pain.
Morning light will bring the sun;
Seasons go rolling on.
Questing ever far from home,
For Salamandastron.’
Log-a-Log shivered. He turned to the hut. ‘Come on, you three. That soup should be ready now.’
Martin bowed his farewell to their benefactor and followed the shrew inside.
‘Aye, life must go on,’ he agreed. ‘A dry place to sleep, a warm fire, some food and a night’s rest is what we all need. Tomorrow we go to the fire mountain.’
Far to the northwest of Camp Willow, the moles were making ready within sight of the river bank. The great tunnelling was about to begin.
Chibb watched them from a plane tree. The feathered spy was now in semi-retirement. He had amassed a considerable store of candied chestnuts for his services. Still, he thought, there was no harm earning the odd extra nut by standing guard here.
Foremole and Old Dinny paced and measured, mole digging terms were bandied about freely.
‘Needen furm ground. Roots t’make shorin’s too, urr.’
‘Ho urr, good down’ards gradin’ t’make watter flow roight.’
‘An’ rockmovers, Billum. ‘Ee be a gurt rockmover.’
‘Aye, but moind ’ee doant crossen no owd tunnellen. Doant want fludd goen wrongways, hurr.’
Above in the trees, Amber’s crew were dropping down timber for the sluicegates.
‘Mind out below!’
‘Tip that end up, Barklad.’
‘Come out of the way, young un.’
‘Right. Let ’er go!’
On the ground, Loamhedge mice were stripping, cleaning and jointing the wood. Abbess Germaine rolled up her wide sleeves and joined in with a will.
‘Columbine! Here, child, sit on the end of this log and keep it still,’ she called out. ‘I’ll mark it here, where the joint should be.’
‘’Scuse me, Abbess. Where do we put these pine branches?’ a strong young mouse asked.
‘Take them over there. Mr Stickle has his little ones pulling the bark and twigs off all the new wood.’
‘Hey, Ferdy, I think I might like to be a carpenter instead of a warrior. What about you?’ Coggs decided.
‘Oh, I’m going to be a warrior carpenter, Coggs. Posy, will you stop carving patterns and strip that bark.’
‘Ooh, look! Here’s Miz Bella with some big stones. My, isn’t she strong!’ Posy exclaimed.
‘Can I put these stones here, Spike? Whew! I’ll have to go back for more now. I saw Goody coming through the woods – I think it’s beechnut crumble and elderberry fritters for lunch.’
‘Hurray, my favourite!’ Ferdy said delightedly.
‘Don’t forget to wash those paws in the river before you eat.’ Bella reminded them.
‘But, Miz Bella, all us workbeasts get mucky paws.’ Coggs protested. ‘Shows we’ve been working hard.’
‘Oh, and what about littlebeasts? They get mucky paws just playing. You scrub ’em with some bank sand, young Coggs.’
The woodlanders stood by after lunch until Old Dinny was brought to the spot where the tunnels would begin. Three young champion digging moles were there – Billum, Soilflyer and Urthclaw. They stood respectfully to one side as Foremole escorted Old Dinny forward. Billum presented the ancient one with a beakerful of October ale. He quaffed most of it in one gulp. Emptying the rest on the ground where the work was to take place, Old Dinny recited,
‘Moles a-tunnellen, deep an’ far.
Moles a-diggen, urr that we are.’
Foremole nodded approvingly. Old Dinny was quite a solemn mole versifier. He raised a gnarled claw to the three champions. They went to it with a will amid loud cheers. Other teams would follow up, widening and shoring in their wake.
The great tunnelling of Mossflower had begun!
Hidden by a screen of leaves in a high elm, a woodpigeon was witness to a very strange scene in the woods south of Kotir. Tsarmina, armed with a bow and arrows, was talking to the surrounding foliage.
‘I know you’re there, brother. Oh, it’s no use hiding. The Queen of the Thousand Eyes will find you, you can be sure.’
The woodpigeon remained perfectly still. No point in offering a handy target to a wildcat with bow and arrows, he decided, even if she were looking for someone else.
‘Come on out, Gingivere. Show yourself. This is between me and you.’
Silence greeted the challenge. Tsarmina smiled slyly.
‘Think you’re clever, don’t you? Haha, not half as clever as your sister. I know your little game. I’ll find you!’
The wildcat Queen continued padding through the still forest, sometimes hiding behind a tree, often doubling back on her own tracks, always on the alert.
Brogg and Ratflank were sitting in the larder. As Captains, they decided it was their prerogative to sample some of the remaining rations. The two officers stuffed bread and guzzled cider from a half-empty cask.
There was a knock at the door. Hastily they swallowed and wiped their whiskers. Brogg stamped about kicking sacks and checking cask
s as he called out, ‘Yes? Who is it?’
‘It’s Squint the stoat, Cap’n,’ a thin reedy voice piped back at him.
The pair relaxed.
‘Come in, Squint. What d’you want?’ Brogg asked.
The stoat entered. He stood to attention before his superiors. ‘I followed Her Majesty, just like you told me to, Cap’n Brogg.’
‘Well, where did she go?’
‘South into Mossflower. She took a bow and arrows with her. I kept well out of sight and watched. Funny though, she kept ducking here and bobbing there, hiding behind trees and so on.’
‘What for?’
‘Her brother – you know, Gingivere. She kept calling out his name. Went on like that for ages. I thought I’d better come back here and report to you.’
Ratflank wiped a crumb from his paw. ‘You did well Squint,’ he began.
Brogg silenced him. ‘You keep quiet. I’m giving the orders around here.’
He turned on the unfortunate stoat. ‘You thought you’d better come back and report, eh. Who told you that you had permission to think? D’you realize that you’ve left your Queen out there alone in the forest, at the mercy of any roving band of woodlanders?’
‘But Cap’n, you told me to—’
‘Silence! Speak when you’re spoken to, stoat. Now you get back out there on the double, me bucko, and don’t come back until Milady does, and that’s an order!’
Squint stood bewildered until Ratflank joined in the chastisement.
‘You heard Captain Brogg. On the double now. One-two, one-two, one-two. Step lively, Squint!’
The stoat double-marched backwards out of the larder. Brogg and Ratflank fell back upon the sacks, laughing.
‘Hohohoho, proper thick’ead, that one. Hey, it’s not too bad this officer lark, Brogg.’
‘I’ll say it isn’t,’ Brogg agreed. ‘Keep the troops on their mettle while I inspect the larder, eh.’
Mossflower (Redwall) Page 25