Grumm turned the pancake over. ‘Gurrout you’m darft liddle moler. ’Ow could oi furget zoop! Yurr, doant stir et too farst, you’m ull spoil et.’
Bungo’s tiny paws were a blur as he stirred faster and faster. ‘You’m doant tell oi ’ow to stir zoop, oi been doin’ et since oi were nought but a liddle un. Pay ‘tenshun to thoi pancakers!’
Tables and forms had been set out under the trees in the sun-splashed shade, and creatures bustled to and fro with breakfast items. Rose dashed by Martin. She was carrying a tray of hot pancakes spread with honey and decorated with pear slices and raspberries. ‘Out of my way, sir, or you won’t get breakfast today!’
Martin sprang nimbly aside and bowed low. ‘My apologies, marm. Nothing should get in the way of good food!’
‘Then don’t get in the way, lend a paw over here!’ Pallum shouted across as he staggered under an immense beechwood bowl of fruit salad.
Mice, hedgehogs, moles and squirrels called out their morning greetings to each other as they went about their chores. Every creature helped until the tables were ready. Little ones scrubbed from tail to eartip and freshly besmocked clambered up on to familiar laps. Young ones, giggling and gossiping together, sat next to their closest friends. Old ones and parents made sure their families were comfortable before perching in their time-honoured positions at table. When every creature was settled, Urran Voh recited the grace and the meal began in earnest.
‘Pass the barleybread, please!’
‘Ooh, it’s hot! Mind your paws.’
‘We’m bain’t ’ad a gudd pancake since Grumm been away. Parss they yurr, Gumbler!’
‘Martin, would you like some fruit salad? It’s very good!’
‘Thank you, Rose. Here, try some of this maple and buttercup wafer.’
‘Oh yes please. Auntie Poppy baked them – they’re my favourite. Teaslepaw, can you stop baby Bungo dipping those pancakes in the soup!’
The hedgehog maid put aside her maplescone and tried to prevent the infant mole from dipping a pancake that oozed honey into the leek and mushroom soup.
Bungo eyed her indignantly. ‘Keep thoi spoiky paws offen oi an’ eat thoi own brekkist, mizzy.’
Grumm nudged Pallum as the hedgehog finished off a heavy slice of nutbread. ‘That Bungo be a liddle savage. He’m rooned a gurt pot o’ zoop sturrin’ et loik a wurly-wind. Oi maked a speshul pot, jus’ fur you’n oi. Do ’ave some.’
Pallum ladled the broth into his bowl.
‘Thankee, Grumm. Mmm, smells nice!’
‘An’ so et should, hurr. Oi maked et wi’ roses an’ onions an’ daisies an’ carrot, an’ plums an’ turnip too, ho aye, gudd zoop! An’ oi sturred et slow, not loik some villyuns not arf a league from wurr oi sits!’
After breakfast, Rose showed Martin round the orchard. Plums, greengages and damsons hung red, yellow and purple amid other trees bearing pears, apples and cherries. Neat rows of raspberry, blackcurrants, bilberry and redcurrants provided a border between the orchard and the vegetable garden. At the far end of the orchard a crew of moles were digging around a gaunt dead sycamore tree. Grumm was helping. He greeted them with a wave of his huge digging paw.
‘Hurr, look at oi, not ’ome a twoday an’ oi’m back at work!’ He explained that they were digging to bring the dead sycamore down. It would be cut up and used as stump seats around the waterfall pool. Martin immediately rolled up the sleeves of his smock and began to help. Rose watched for a while, then tossing off her headband of woven flowers, she jumped into the hole alongside Martin.
All through the day they toiled. Six holes had been bored in and around the base of the dead forest giant and still the sycamore refused to budge. A crowd of Noonvale creatures who had finished their chores gathered round to watch. Grumm and several other moles shook soil from their digging claws and wiped perspiring snouts.
‘Gurr, that thurr old tree doant want to budge, Grumm!’
‘Hurr no, Gumbler. Nor wudd you’m iffen thoi roots ’ad been thurr for all they long seasons.’
‘Hurr, us’ns be yurr till winter shiften this’n!’
‘Wot’s ’olden et up? We’m digged deep all round et?’
Grumm vanished down a hole and reappeared, spraying earth about. ‘Taproot, gurt fat un. Et ull ’ave to break afore she moves, hurrr!’
Martin took a small mole axe and climbed into the hole. ‘I’m going to have a go at that taproot. Rose, take all these spectators and find the longest, thickest piece of wood you can. Bring it over here and give me a shout when you do.’
Rose and her party scoured Noonvale. The only thing they could come up with was a long thick rowan trunk, forked at one end. Urran Voh watched them rolling it away.
‘Where are you taking that? We were going to reinforce the ridgepole rafter of the Council Lodge with it.’
Rose tugged her father’s beard playfully. ‘Martin wants it to move the old sycamore. Don’t worry, we’ll bring it back.’
Urran Voh snorted. ‘I should hope you will, though how you plan to move that big sycamore with it is beyond me.’
Baby Bungo took the Patriarch’s paw. ‘Hurr, then coom an’ watch. You’m never too seasoned to lurn, zurr!’
Martin tossed aside the axe. He had cut as deep into the taproot as the limited space in the hole allowed. Climbing out of the hole, he directed the group rolling the rowan trunk into position.
‘Push it over here. That’s it! Let the forked end down towards me. Grumm, build up some earth and stones at the edge of the main hole here. Watch out! Let the rowan slide down. Good!’
The rowan trunk stood at an angle down into the main hole, its twin forks buried in two more holes at the sycamore’s roots.
Martin climbed from the hole and inspected it.
Urran Voh nodded. ‘A lever. Don’t you think it’s a bit big, Martin?’
The young mouse shook his head. ‘The bigger the better, sir. Right, come on, everybeast climb up it and perch on the high end. You too, Bungo. Every little helps.’
Amid much merriment and whooping, the crowd climbed up the rowan trunk. They balanced precariously at its tilted top, hanging on to each other.
Urran Voh looked up at them. ‘There’s too few. Not enough room for all up there. Get some ropes.’
It was not long before Aryah and the otters who had sung in quartette came hurrying along, carrying coils of stout vine rope. ‘This is all we could find, dear. Will these do, Martin?’
The young mouse threw a rope up to the creatures balanced on the end of the rowan. ‘Perfect, marm! Tie those ropes fast up there, the rest of you swing on the ends for all your worth. You on top, when I give the word, jump up and down. Ready!’
Every creature waited on Martin’s word.
‘Right, jump up and down, now! Swing hard on the ropes. Swing!’
The rowan dipped and bent slightly, then loud crack was heard from beneath the sycamore. Martin and Urran Voh threw themselves on the ropes, yelling aloud to the others crowding above and below.
‘Jump! Swing! Jump! Swing!’
There was more rumbling and cracking from beneath the base of the sycamore. It began to tipple as the rowan bent under the strain.
Rose and her mother laughed aloud as they swung on the ropes. ‘It’s going, see, it’s starting to topple!’
The sycamore could take no more. With a groan of creaking and splitting wood it crashed slowly over.
Krrrraaaaakkkkk!
The end of the rowan lever had dipped so low that it almost touched the ground. Loud cheers rang through the valley, Martin and Urran Voh pounded each other’s ‘backs. ‘We did it, hooray!’
The moles were quite carried away, and went into a wild stamping dance. Rose and her mother kicked up their paws happily at its centre. Soon everybeast was dandng, singing and cheering. The great sycamore stood nearly as high as Council Lodge at its upturned base, a forest of roots, soil and rocks.
By evening a sprawling picnic had broken out along the fallen tre
etrunk, and strawberry cordial and waterfall-cooled gourds of cider flowed freely. Singing lustily in chorus, the moles brought out ten of their deeper ’n’ ever turnip ’n’ tater ’n’ beetroot pies, huge, deep, hot and satisfying, made in traditional mole manner with massive patterned shining piecrusts topping each one.
‘Give ’ee, give you, give them’n give oi,
Turnip ’n’ tater ’n’ beetroot poi,
Gurt platters each morn, an’ more at ’ee noight,
Fill oi a bowlful, et tasters jus’ roight.
An’ iffen ’ee infant wakes, starten to croi,
Feed ’im turnip ’n’ tater ’n’ beetroot poi.
Et’s gudd furr ’ee stummick, et’s good furr’ ee jaws,
Makes’ em grow oop wi’ big strong diggen claws.
Nought gives us molers more pleasure ’n’ joy
Than turnip ’n’ tater ’n’ beetroot poi!’
Pallum, Rose, Martin and Grumm lay back exhausted, picking idly at half-filled bowls and sipping their drinks, contented after the long hard day’s work.
It was then that Boldred dropped out of the sky like a thunderbolt with her news.
36
THREE PAIRS OF eyes watched Felldoh set off silently into the rosy dawn that tinged the clifftops. Brome nodded to his two otter companions. ‘There he goes, laden with enough javelins to stock an army. Come on, let’s follow him!’
Felldoh’s mood was light and carefree now that he had set out to complete his lone mission. With a bundle of javelins beneath each arm and his thrower strapped across his back, he hummed a cheerful little tune. What need of armies and hordes? He could rid the world of Badrang by himself. Once the Tyrant was dead, Marshank would be a snake without a head.
White-crested rollers boomed in over the shore, the sun seemed to smile out of a cloudless sky of powder blue, and a cooling breeze drove the thin layer of sun-warmed sand aimlessly around the foot of the cliffs.
For the first time in many seasons Felldoh’s heart felt light.
Cautiously the gates of Marshank creaked open, and a phalanx of hordebeasts, armed to the fangs, filed outside. Crosstooth looked all around to reassure himself there was no immediate danger of attack.
Badrang appeared on the walltop with scores of archers and slingers. He shielded his eyes against the sun’s glare as he issued orders. ‘Search every rock, hollow, dune and outcrop from here to the sea!’ He stood enjoying the morning’s warmth, the light wind blowing his cloak playfully about as he watched his soldiers scouring the beach.
Crosstooth was near the tideline. He waved his spear from side to side, calling aloud, ‘All clear down here, Lord. No sign of anybeast!’
Badrang cupped paws about his mouth, shouting a reply. ‘Get those beasts dug in where they can’t be seen!’
Crosstooth ran back and forth, placing the soldiers in position. Some were behind rocks, others lay flat on the seaward side of low dunes, the rest dug shallow trenches above the tideline.
Tramun Clogg rested one clogged paw on his spade, cackling as he called up to the Tyrant, ‘Haharrharr, you got those beauties diggin’ their own graves. That’ll save me some work, matey!’
Nipwort and Frogbit, the two rat guards who had been left in charge of the corsair, prodded him with their spears. ‘They’re diggin’ slit trenches to keep themselves alive in case of attack. You get on with buryin’ the dead.’
Clogg dug with ferocious energy, muttering to himself, ‘Haharr, wait’ll ole Tramun’s diggin’ yer grave, Badrang. I’ll dig it deep an’ ’andsome. Aye, an’ put a great rock atop of it so’s you won’t be a-climbin’ out again. Ho, that’ll be a glorious day in the life of Cap’n Tramun Josiah Cuttlefish Clogg, to give me my full title. Ye won’t be able to badmouth me when I’m throwin’ spadefuls o’ good earth in yer ugly gob, Badrang!’
Boggs stood atop the battlements, peering southward. He leaped down and ran to make his report. ‘Onebeast comin’ along the cliffs in this direction, Lord!’
Badrang was slightly taken aback. ‘Only one?’
‘Aye, just a loner, still a fair way off, but I spotted ’im.’
The Tyrant pulled the closest two archers to him. ‘Rotnose, Wetpaw, get down there as quick as you can. Tell Crosstooth to hide with the others. You two do the same. When I shout the word Marshank aloud, break cover and capture this one. Hurry now. Tell everybeast to be totally silent. If he sniffs a trap he’ll be off!’
Once the two messengers had departed, Badrang turned to his archers. ‘Down, all of you. Be quiet and keep your heads low. Remember, the word is Marshank. You, Wulpp, go and shut the front gates.’
As Felldoh trotted along from the cliffs to the shore, he hardly noticed the unusual silence that hung over the fortress. Had he been more vigilant he might have noticed the telltale signs that the foe were lying in concealment on the beach. But the squirrel’s vengeful eyes were riveted on just one thing, Badrang, standing out bold and alone on the walltop over the gates. Felldoh’s paws gripped the javelins like vices and his teeth made a grinding noise as his jaw muscles bulged, the breath hissing fiercely from both his nostrils. Now he broke into a run, his paws pounding rock and dry sand as he sped along, oblivious to all else but the figure of his most hated enemy.
At the edge of the cliffs, Brome threw himself flat with Keyla and Tullgrew either side of him. ‘Is he mad? Look at him!’
They watched the javelin-carrying squirrel skid to a halt within earshot of Badrang.
Tullgrew bit her clenched paw. ‘He’s going to be killed, I can feel it in my bones. Surely they wouldn’t let a lone escaped slave run up to the place like that in broad daylight?’
Keyla watched in horrified fascination, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene. ‘You’re right, I’ll bet my rudder he’s walked into some sort of trap. Maybe we can shout a warning.’
Brome was doubtful. ‘I think we’re too far away, but let’s give it a try. Shout his name. One, two, three. Shout!’
‘Felldoooooooooh!’ The three voices rang out as one.
Tullgrew struck the clifftop with her clenched paw. ‘I don’t think he heard us, or even if he did he isn’t paying any heed to us. What in the name of thunder is he doing down there?’
Keyla shook his head. ‘I don’t know, but something awful is going to happen, I’d take my oath on that. I think one of us should go back to camp and bring help quickly.’
‘I’ll go!’ Brome cast off his healing bag and began wriggling backwards.
Keyla went into a low crouch, dashing past Brome. ‘You stay here, mate. I’m the best runner in these parts!’ Leaping upright, he took off with dust spurting from his heels.
Wordlessly Felldoh dropped his bundles of javelins. Taking the throwing stick, he fitted one along it. Bending his whole body back, he sighted along the shaft and hurled it with tremendous force at Badrang.
The Tyrant was a fair distance away. He saw the javelin launched and leaped to one side, watching it as it sped harmlessly by. Leaning on the wall, he called out scornfully, ‘Try another one, squirrel!’
Felldoh did, this time with a short run and skip to give his javelin impetus. Badrang had dropped below the wall as the missile was thrown. He heard the thin whistle of wind as it passed overhead. Smiling, he stood up and shouted at the squirrel, who was just about within earshot, ‘Best you can do, slave?’
‘I am not a slave of yours,’ Felldoh’s voice roared back at him. ‘My name is Felldoh and I’ve come here to kill you, Badrang!’
Another javelin came hurtling through the air. This time Badrang jumped back to his former position, shrugging expressively as the pointed wood sailed off towards the back wall of the fortress. ‘Tut, tut, missed again. You’ll run out of those things soon!’
Quivering with rage, Felldoh held up a javelin in both paws. He broke it as if it were a straw. ‘I could break you like that if you weren’t such a mud-sucking coward. Come down and fight me, paw to paw, beast to beast!’
Bad
rang swept his paws wide. ‘No doubt you have laid a trap for me. Those cliffs will be swarming with your friends, ready to leap up and come running to the attack at your signal, the same group you had with you last night, treacherously slaying my creatures in the darkness. Do you take me for a fool?’
Felldoh moved closer to the fortress, as Badrang hoped he would. Throwing caution to the winds as his temper got the better of him, the squirrel curled his lip contemptuously.
‘You are both a fool and a coward! Last night there was only me out here. I am as you see me now, without any army or horde and without a fortress wall to hide behind like you have. So come out and fight. Poltroon, craven cur! Dithering idiot!’
Suddenly the positions were reversed. Badrang could hear his archers below the wall sniggering. Stung by Felldoh’s insults, the Tyrant drew his sword.
‘Nobeast uses words like that to me. I am Lord Badrang. Get ready to die, squirrel. I am coming down!’
Even in his rage the Tyrant was still playing the odds. Armed with a sword, he was sure he could defeat the squirrel, who had only some short wooden stakes to defend himself. As a last resort he could always call in his soldiers; they had his adversary surrounded. As Badrang pushed past the grinning archers, he swore silently to himself that he would slay the bold squirrel, wiping away any doubts in the minds of his horde that he, Badrang, was a leader to be feared and respected.
Brome gasped in amazement as the fortress gates swung open and Badrang walked out alone to face Felldoh.
Tullgrew shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it. Whatever Felldoh’s been saying must have stung Badrang into action. Look, they’re going to fight!’
Brome stared at the lone figure, and all his hostility to Felldoh evaporated. He remembered the squirrel’s words, that he would die if it was necessary to bring down Badrang and Marshank. The young mouse found himself wishing that he possessed the bravery to be a warrior and help his friend by standing alongside him.
Martin The Warrior (Redwall) Page 28