Washing his paws meticulously, the black fox seated himself and ate his fill. Oatcakes, warm and fresh from the ovens – he spread them with comb honey and chewed them with relish, washing them down with gulps of old golden cider; summer vegetable pasties and beechnut crumble, crusty brown bread with mountain cheese – the black fox sampled each one in turn. When he had finished, Farran wiped his lips daintily on a napkin and set about poisoning it all.
Having finished in the kitchen, he sought out the store room that led off it. Sacks of flour, vegetable racks, apple boxes, salad bins, nut containers – nothing escaped the deadly potions of Farran the Poisoner. A scattering of powder here, a few drops of liquid there . . . it was accomplished with his evil, but natural skill.
21
Mid-morning was cloudy, but promising to clear up later. Thrugg and Dumble had been wakened by the dawn drizzle. The otter sat the little dormouse in the top of the haversack and covered his head with the flap. Shouldering the lot, he strode off northwards.
‘Better on the move than sittin’ round gettin’ a wet bottom, eh, matey. Come on, give ol’ Thrugg a song t’ keep his paws goin’.’
Anybeast on the road at that time would have marvelled at the sight of the big otter stepping out with a singing haversack strapped to his back. Dumble sang his dormouse song.
‘There’s no roof mouse, nor chimbley mouse,
No winder mouse or floor mouse,
An’ I ain’t gotta nokker on me nose,
but I’m a likkle dormouse.
There’s a fieldmouse anna ’arvest mouse,
An ’edgemouse an’ prob’ly a shoremouse,
But I’m the bestest of the lot,
’Cos I’m a likkle dormouse.
Ohahaha an’ heeheehee,
Yes I’m a likkle dormouse.
So I’ll eat me dinner an’ grow big,
An’ then I’ll be enor-mouse!’
‘Ahoy up there, don’t yer know no songs about otters, matey?’
By noon the weather had cleared. White clouds scudded across a sunny blue sky on the light breeze. Dumble was freed from the haversack. He skipped along at Thrugg’s side, enjoying the freedom of the open road. The otter slowed down, placing a restraining paw on his small friend.
‘Whoa there, shipmate. What’s that sittin’ in the road up ahead?’
The shapeless mass lying on the path some distance ahead started moving awkwardly to one side, making for the thinning forest on the right. Dumble skipped round Thrugg and began racing towards the object.
‘Dumble, come back ’ere, you liddle thick ’ead!’ Thrugg roared out as the infant dashed towards the thing.
But Dumble had a good headstart and plunged onwards, ignoring his friend’s shouts. Thrugg stamped his paws down hard several times; but then, deciding it was useless, he gave chase.
It was a falcon, a season fledged and of no great size. The bird flopped about with its right wing hanging awkwardly as it struggled to seek shelter in the thinning woodlands at the path’s east side. Dumble cut off its escape and squatted in front of it, holding out a friendly paw.
‘Aaahhh, poor birdie, is your wing ’urted?’
The falcon halted, its fierce golden eyes distending as it hissed a warning through its dangerous hooked beak:
‘Kaarrhzz! Stan’ oot o’ mah way, bairn, or I’ll mak’ dead meat o’ ye.’
The little dormouse chuckled and tossed a piece of candied chestnut in front of the savage creature. ‘Dumble won’t ’urt you. ’Ave some food. It’s nice . . .’
The bird hopped to the nut and devoured it hungrily. Thrugg arrived just then. He decided Dumble and the falcon were too close to each other for him to intervene. Holding his breath anxiously, the otter stood to one side. The bird cocked its head and squinted at him through one eye.
‘Hauld yer wheesht, riverdog! Hey, canna this wee bairn no onnerstand me? Does he not know he’s in peril? Ah’mno a sparrow, ye ken. Ah’m a falcon!’
When Thrugg had got the meaning of the bird’s high northland accent he replied, ‘Oh, I can see you’re a falcon all right, matey. Lookit me, I’m an otter. An’ I hopes you don’t mean my liddle pal any harm, ’cos I’d hate to ’ave ter slay you with this ’ere sling!’ The big otter twirled his loaded sling meaningfully.
Dumble held out his paw, offering the falcon more bits of candied chestnut. The bird ate them gently, keeping a wary eye on Thrugg and talking conversationally.
‘Aye, Ah catch yer drift. We’re both warriors the noo. Ach! Ye’ve no need tae be feared for the wee yin, Ah couldnae hurt a fly wi’ mah wing breaked an’ hurtin’ like ’tis. Mind, though, Ah’m a falcon, not an eedjit, an’ Ah’d no be slow in givin’ a guid account of mahsel’, even to a big bonnie laddie the like o’ you!’
Thrugg unshouldered his pack and sat down, smiling good-naturedly. ‘Call it quits then, matey. You don’t hurt us an’ we won’t hurt you. I’m Thrugg an’ this is Dumble. We’re from Redwall.’ He set out oatcake and cheese in three portions.
The falcon relaxed as all three set to eating lunch. ‘Ah’m beholden to yer for the guid food, Thrugg. Mah name is Rocangus, only son o’ Mactalon, Laird O’ the High Crags. Och aye, mah home is in the great northern mountains, a braw place tae live. Ah was lost an’ driven by the wind some days ago, and had tae land in yon woods, ye ken. ’Twas there the crows set upon me. Ach! They’re a sair lot o’ cowards. Ten o’ them it took tae bring me down. That’s how mah wing was breakit.’
Thrugg took a careful look at the wing. Rocangus stood still, bravely bearing up under the otter’s searching paw.
‘You’re got a fractured bone there, shipmate. Still, I don’t suppose one more passenger will break me old back. Come along with us. We’re bound for the mountains of the north in search of the Flowers of Icetor.’
Rocangus looked incredulously at him. ‘Ach, ye mean Ah’m stuck wi’ two landbound dunderheads lookin’ for the Flowers of Icetor an’ Ah cannae fly?’
Dumble stroked the falcon’s back. ‘Come wiv us, ’Ocangus. Mista Thugg is a good carrier, y’know.’
Thrugg searched out bindweed, motherwort and pine resin. He made a compound and bound the injured wing, using a willow twig and wild rhubarb fibres to secure the dressing.
‘There, that’ll do the trick! Once that pine resin sets firm, the wort ’n’ weed will do their work. Don’t try to move that there wing, mate. The more you keep it still the quicker it’ll heal up. Now, young Rocangus, you can be our navigator. Which way is it to the north mountains?’
The young falcon held the wing stiffly at his side as he pointed into the woodlands to the northeast. ‘Yonder, though Ah’m no certain sure. ’Tis different when a bird’s no up in the sky, ye ken. Still, dinna fash yersel’. We’ll get there all right.’
Dumble refused to ride in the haversack. He trotted along at Thrugg’s side. Despite his pleas, Rocangus was made to perch on top of the haversack on Thrugg’s back. Latching his powerful talons into the straps, he hung on gamely.
‘If mah faither could see me now he’d kick mah tail-feathers. Intae the woods wi’ ye, Thrugg, ya great bonnie riverdog!’
The curious-looking trio struck northeast into the far tip of the Mossflower woodlands.
The trees were beginning to thin out into flat bush-strewn country, and by mid-afternoon they had covered a fair distance. Dumble found ripe blackberries and a tree thick with small soft pears, so they stocked up on both. Thrugg rested awhile, watching both the young creatures feeding each other the choicest berries, their faces, both whisker and beak, were heavily stained with the purple juice.
The otter hefted the pack up onto his back, calling to Rocangus, ‘Up on yore perch, matey. There’s plenty o’ daylight left yet.’
The falcon nodded towards a thick grove of pine and spruce ahead. ‘Keep your wits aboot ye, Thrugg. That’s crow territory!’
The afternoon was hot and still. Thrugg cast a glance at the grove. Placing Dumble on his left side, he slipped lo
ose his sling, testing the thongs as he loaded a flat pebble into it. There was no sign of crows circling in the air above the trees, but the trio took no chances. They travelled cautiously, keeping hidden among the low brush, fern clumps and any cover the land could afford. Giving the pine grove a wide berth, they went in a curving line, moving at a moderate pace, not too slowly or too quickly, knowing the crows would be down upon them if they betrayed their presence by unnecessary noise. Even Dumble was aware of their precarious position. Every now and then he would give his friends a wink and hold a paw up to his lips as they trekked along in silence.
Everything went well, until the little dormouse stepped on a thistle.
‘Wowhoo! I stood onna fissle, Mista Thrugg. Ouch!’
The pine- and sprucetops rustled, loud cawing cut the still air, and ragged black shapes came flapping out of the grove.
Rocangus gave a shrill cry. ‘Ach! It’s crows. We’re for it, laddies!’
The sandy bed of a dried stream formed a depression in the land ahead of them. Thrugg grabbed Dumble by his smock and made a dash for it. The running otter was soon spotted by the crows. Winging swiftly, they came after him as he ran heavy-laden for the streambed. Calling harshly to each other, the crows zoomed down at Thrugg’s back. Rocangus dealt the first one a savage rip with his curved beak as it tried to latch its claws into the back of Thrugg’s neck. Whisker over tail, the otter threw himself into the shallow bottom. Throwing off the haversack, he brained a low-flying crow with his loaded sling. Loosing off the stone, he watched another crow fall crazily amid a jumble of tail-feathers as the pebble struck it. Thrugg’s fighting blood was up now. Standing tall, he whirled the sling, roaring out the Abbey warcry:
‘Redwaaaalll! Come on, you lousy-feathered fleabags. I’m Thrugg, the Warrior of the Waterways! Redwaaaaalllll!’
Little Dumble tugged the thistle from his footpad, seized a long stick which lay nearby and stood alongside the haversack where Rocangus was perched, ready with beak and talon. Together they sang out their battle calls.
‘I’m Dumble from Reedddwwaaaaallll!’
‘Ah’m Rocangus, son o’ the great Laird Mactalon!’ Kreeegaaarr!’
Two crows landed and came hopskipping fiercely toward Dumble, their vicious beaks like dirty yellow daggers. Dumble thwacked out hard, cracking the spindly legs of the first one. Rocangus bowled the other one over, tearing madly at it with his hooked beak. Thrugg took several sharp pecks in his back. Laying one crow senseless with a hefty smack of his rudder-like tail, he whirled about, kicking one high in a cloud of black feathers as he thudded the loaded sling into the chest of another. Rocangus was scrabbling in the sand against three more crows, ripping with his talons and stabbing with his beak. He did not see the crow that pecked Dumble’s paw. The little dormouse squeaked with pain and dropped his stick. Immediately two huge crows seized him and began bearing him aloft. He hovered in the air, shrieking.
‘Mista Thuuuuuggg!’
With a bellow of rage, the brawny otter grabbed the haversack by its straps. Swinging it round, he threw the laden pack and smashed the two crows out of the air.
Dumble fell, did a tumble and snatched up his stick. Falling on the two crows, he beat them mercilessly, pounding beaks, tails, legs and wings furiously. ‘Ya nasty ol’ crones, takin’ Dumble up inna sky!’
The three friends fought so fiercely that they drove off the crows. The birds cawed angrily, perching on low bushes and performing a curious hopskip dance on the ground as they chanted, ‘Krak krak, yah yah, killa beast, eata mouse, killa ’ookbeak!’
From the slight cover of the streambed Rocangus stood with Thrugg and Dumble, watching the performance.
‘Have ye ever seen sich a bunch o’ cowards?’ The falcon clacked his beak contemptuously. ‘If mah wing was better Ah’d go o’er there an’ send ’em weepin’ tae their mammies!’
Thrugg wrapped a hasty dressing round Dumble’s pecked paw. ‘They’ll be back, mate. You can bet on it. They’re just gettin’ their nerve up agin. Look, there’s more o’ the villains comin’ out o’ the pines.’
Dumble brandished his stick in a warlike manner. ‘Let them come, Mista Thugg. Dumble’ll smack their bottoms wiv this big stick!’
Rocangus set his beak in a grim line. ‘Ah’ve nae doubt ye will, laddie, but they crows can come doon like leaves in autumn wind. Yon’s only a few of ’em!’
‘Stand by, mates. Here they come agin!’
‘Aye, an’ there’s more o’ the blaggards circlin’ in from behind!’
‘Come on, crones. Dumble’s ready. Redwaaaaalllll!’
Skimming low over the grass, the crows came winging in to the attack. Thrugg blinded the first four with double pawfuls of dry sand. A crow was about to land on top of his head with beak open ready to bite, when Dumble thrust the stick straight down its throat. Four crows flung themselves upon Rocangus; all that could be seen was an explosion of black feathers mottled with the brown ones of the falcon as they fought with mad savagery. Two more landed and attacked Thrugg from behind. Again his ruddered tail came into heavy action, breaking the neck of one bird. The other shot backwards, stunned by a kick from his backpaw. Dumble’s stick broke across an enemy head. He snatched up both halves and went at the landing crows like a miniature thunderstorm. The crows were beginning to win by sheer weight of numbers. They swooped in and landed in gangs upon the three friends until none of them could be seen under the mass of black feathers, beaks and scratching claws. Dumble screamed in pain as a beak pecked him hard between his ears.
Suddenly Thrugg could stand it no more. The sound of the infant dormouse being tormented by the crows drove him into a towering rage. Kicking, butting and punching birds, he arose from the tangle with blood dripping from his bared teeth. Fighting his way across the dry streambed, he grabbed hold of Dumble and Rocangus. Standing in front of them, he hefted the laden haversack in both paws and began swinging it like some terrible engine of destruction. Crows exploded into the air, wing over beak over tail over tip. Dark feathers showered the air, together with beak fragments and broken claws. The haversack was a thudding, banging, swishing blur of destruction as Thrugg’s head went back and his mouth opened like a scarlet cavern.
‘Redwaaaaaaaaallllll!!!’
The crows fled, some hopping, others flapping as they fought each other to get away from Thrugg’s mighty retaliation.
As late afternoon faded into evening, the three companions sat tending to each other’s wounds.
Thrugg winced as Rocangus dug a beak fragment from his back. ‘Ouch! Go easy there, you feathered fiend!’
‘Hah, stop grievin’, planktail. Ye’ll live. Haud still while Ah get this crowclaw out o’ yer thick heid.’
Baby Dumble was counting his war wounds. ‘Two, free, six, nine, twennyfifteen. Wow, that’s a lot!’
‘Aye, an’ that’s a lot out there, matey. Look!’
They followed the direction of Thrugg’s pointing paw. Halfway between the pinegrove and the streambed the land was black with crows. They crowded together like beetles in a cellar.
Thrugg sat down with his back against the sun-dried bank. ‘Nobeast could fight off that many, Rocangus. We’re done for.’
The falcon preened his tattered breastfeathers. ‘Aye, but by the crag we’ll go oot a-fightin’!’
Dumble searched in the sand of the streambed. ‘I wanna new stick to fight more crones wiv!’
Slowly the sun began sinking in the west. The sky was a warm peach colour with dove-grey pennants of cloud showing silver underbellies. Heatwaves still shimmered in the distance.
Thrugg sat awhile, gazing sadly at the beauty of it all. ‘Hmm, it ain’t too bad for an’ old streamdog like me. I’ve had a good innin’s an’ enjoyed meself. But you two young uns, I wish you could’ve seen more seasons to yore string afore you ’ave to go. Still an’ all, we’re all good mateys, so we’ll take a load of ’em with us an’ go out in the good company of each other.’
Dumble had found a
stick. He peered over the bank, wrinkling his nose, fearless in his babyish innocence. ‘Why are all the crones quiet, ’Ocangus?’
The young falcon winced as he settled his fractured wing right. ‘Ye’d best hope those birds stay quiet, laddie. When the beasties start up their chantin’ again, that’s when they’ll come for us.’
‘Can Dumble have some squashy blackb’rries an’ pears, Mista Thugg?’
Thrugg undid the haversack that he had used as a flail upon the bodies of many crows. The once tasty contents were squashed flat. ’Bless yer ’eart, liddle un, ’course you can. ‘Elp yourself.’ The otter sat with a sad smile on his face, watching Dumble eat.
Rocangus touched his paw with the uninjured wing. ‘Dinna worry, streamdog, we’ll give yon birds a battle tae remember and sing aboot – those that are left alive.’
The last gleam of twilight was showing on the horizon when the massed army of crows began to chant themselves into a frenzy. It echoed dirgelike across the deserted countryside.
22
A half-moon hung in a sky of aquamarine. Paddles dipped noiselessly into the high-banked waters as two logboats threaded their way down a tributary far from the Great South Stream. Both craft were loaded to the gunwales with Guosssom shrews. Mara and Pikkle travelled in the front vessel. They had been going since dawn, sailing along an intricate network of backwaters. Beside them Log-a-log and Nordo checked the barkcloth charts showing the route.
‘How much further before we’re there, Nordo?’ Mara murmured sleepily.
‘We should get there by dawn, with any luck. Get some sleep, you two. We’re running downstream – put your paddles up.’
Pikkle looked around. Save for the watch shrews, all the others had settled down to catch some rest. He patted his stomach. ‘Bit of tucker wouldn’t go amiss, wot! How’s a chap supposed to sleep when the old tum starts growlin’ an’ keepin’ him awake, that’s what I’d like t’ know!’
Salamandastron (Redwall) Page 17