“I ain’t no fool, an’ I ain’t so little, either. I’m growin’ fast. One day they’ll call me Big Redd.”
Skrodd got to the point. “Lissen, mate, I want ye t’do me a favour. Do ye think yore smart enough t’be useful to me?”
Little Redd walked on tippaw, swelling his chest out. “Just tell me wot ye want doin’, mate!”
Skrodd leaned close. “Keep an eye on the gang, especially Dargle. That rat’s gettin’ too big fer his boots. I want ye to watch my back, sort o’ be my second in command.”
Redd hid his delight, replying gruffly, “I’ll do that, just watch me. Soon they’ll be callin’ me Big Redd. I won’t let ye down, mate!”
Skrodd patted the small fox’s back. “Good! When I gets this gang sorted out, we’ll give ye a proper vermin name. Big Redd don’t mean nothin’. How does Badredd sound to ye, eh?”
The young fox was squirming inside with joy. However, he kept his voice tough, in keeping with his new position. “Sounds great t’me, mate. Badredd—I like that! ’Tis a real killer’s name. Badredd!”
After a fruitless night rambling through woodland thickets, the gang watched a rose-tinged dawn break over the treetops. They were soaked through by heavy dew, which was dripping everywhere from boughs and leaves.
Dargle’s temper was on a short fuse. Emerging into a clearing on the bank of a stream, he struck out at Little Redd with his spear haft.
“Keep outta my way, runt! Every time ye come near me, I get soaked wid the water ye knock off the bushes.”
Redd looked appealingly at Skrodd. The big fox cast a glance of mock pity at Dargle and snarled scornfully. “Scared of a few drips o’ dew, are ye? Look at us, we’re all wet through, an’ we ain’t moanin’.”
Dargle faced up to Skrodd right away. “Hah! Wet through an’ weary, an’ wot for, eh? We never found the otter an’ the squirrel. No, we just tramped around all night followin’ you, an’ now we’re good an’ lost. Some leader you are, Skrodd!”
The big fox bristled. “Don’t talk silly, we ain’t lost!”
It was Dargle’s turn to sound scornful. “Oh, ain’t we now? See that rowan tree, I marked it wid me spearblade not long after we started marchin’. Look!”
Flinky inspected the fresh scar on the rowan bark. “Aye, ’tis a new spearmark sure enuff. Dargle’s right!”
Leaning on his spearbutt, the hefty rat grinned teasingly. “We’ve been goin’ round in circles, mates, an’ now our great leader’s got us lost. Well, Skrodd?”
The fox held his blade at the ready and challenged Dargle. “If’n yore so clever, then you find the way. ’Tis easy to stand there talkin’ smart all day, Dargle. Go on, show us how ye are, an’ find the right way!”
The rat squatted down on his haunches, chuckling. “Sort out yore own mess, I’m stoppin’ here an’ restin’.”
Halfchop ventured a suggestion. “Burrad would’ve sent Plumnose to find the way, ’cos he’s a good tracker.”
Relief flooded through Skrodd as he realised that Halfchop had provided the solution to a sticky problem. Taking advantage, he quickly re-established his position as leader of the gang.
“Right, Plumnose, get on yore way! Ferget the two beasts we were trackin’, they’ll keep for another day. Find us the way to this Redwall Abbey place an’ report back here.”
Always one to seize an opportunity, Flinky nodded his head admiringly. “Ah, that’s a grand ould move, Chief. I see ye noticed the fine campsite we’re at. We can lay up here fer a day or two an’ rest, once we’re sure of the way. Lookit, we got a stream wid fish an’ freshwater an’ lots o’ trees full of fat birds sittin’ on nests packed wid eggs. The place is filled wid roots an’ fruit an’ firewood!”
Skrodd looked sage. “That’s wot I was thinkin’, a day or two here’ll freshen us up for the rest o’ the journey. We’ll make camp an’ rest awhile, mates.”
Only Plumnose was not happy with the new plans. His huge nose wobbled from side to side as he complained. “Duh, id’s nod right. I’b tired, too, j’know!”
Rogg and Floggo, the weasel brothers, notched arrows to their bows and fired a pair of shafts near Plumnose’s paws.
“Yore the tracker, Plum, now git goin’!”
“Aye, ye could track a butterfly underwater wid a hooter like that. Hohoho!”
Throwing twigs and grass clumps at the unfortunate creature, the gang drove Plumnose from the camp. Glad they had not been selected to go tracking, they shouted after him.
“Don’t trip over yer nose, Plum!”
“Aye, an’ don’t sniff any big boulders up. Heeheehee!”
The tension was broken for the moment. Gathering wood and foraging for victuals, the gang busied themselves.
Flinky dug a firepit on the streambank, singing a cheery ditty.
“Ah ’tis luvverly bein’ a vermin,
’cos ye lead a simple life,
leave the snufflin’ babes behind,
run off from the naggin’ wife.
There’s nought to do but ramble,
an’ plunder on the way,
just look bold, rob all ye can hold,
an’ bid ’em all good day.
A vermin, a vermin, that’s wot I’ll always be,
I’m base an’ vile, ’cos that’s me style,
an’ I’ll bet ye envy me!”
By late morn they had a good fire burning. Flinky and his mate, Crinktail, were in their element. They boiled woodpigeon eggs, grilled fish, and made a passable vegetable stew from various roots and wild produce which grew plentifully roundabout. Neither Dargle nor Skrodd made any move to help. Sitting close to the fire, they helped themselves, glaring at each other across the flames.
Skrodd collared Little Redd and gave him whispered orders. “Scout round an’ find me somewheres safe to rest. Make sure ’tis soft an’ comfortable. Pick a place far away from that rat, an’ someplace close for yourself, so ye can guard me. Go on!”
Puffed up with his own importance, Redd went to seek a suitable resting spot. He chose the base of a spreading oak, not too close to the stream. It was a basin-shaped depression between two thick roots.
When the gang finished eating, they settled down for a much-needed sleep. Most of them stayed by the fire, but Dargle chose a fernbed on the opposite side of the camp from Skrodd. From there the rat could see his enemy and lay plans.
Little Redd proudly showed Skrodd the spot at the base of the oak trunk. “That’s it, mate, nice an’ snug, see!”
The small fox lay down, gesturing. “There’s plenty o’ room for both of us. I can guard ye good from here, mate.”
Skrodd shook his head disapprovingly. “Nah, ye go an’ lay by the fire with the others. That’ll put ye halfway twixt me’n Dargle. But don’t go sleepin’, keep yore eyes peeled on those ferns where he’s layin’ low. Soon as Dargle makes a move, come runnin’ an’ let me know.”
Little Redd rose reluctantly. “I kin watch him just as well if’n I stop ’ere with you, mate.”
Skrodd hauled him roughly upward, thrusting him toward the fire. “Ye’d do better to heed my orders. Now get goin’. I’m chief round ’ere, see!”
Stinging from the rebuke, Redd slouched over to the fire. Sullenly, he slunk down amid the snoring vermin.
With not a breeze to rustle the trees, warm noon sunlight shone down on the camp. Bees hummed gently, and butterflies fluttered silently around blossoming bushes. Near the ashy embers of the cooking fire, Little Redd drifted into a slumber. Only one of the gang was still awake—Dargle. Now was the time to put his plan into action. Draping his cloak over the ferns so it would look like he was still there, the rat inched his way backward out of the foliage. Flat on his stomach, he took a careful route, circling the campsite. When the rear of the spreading oak came in sight, Dargle rose into a half crouch. Gripping his spear firmly, he crept up on his sleeping enemy.
Skrodd woke momentarily, but only to die. A muffled grunt of agony escaped him as Dargle’s spear th
rust into his body.
Dargle leaned down on the spearhilt, grinning triumphantly. “Now who’s the chief, eh?”
It was the rat’s only mistake—it turned out to be his last. Skrodd had lain down to sleep with the cutlass held tight in his paw. Now, with one spasmodic jerk, he whipped the broad blade across his assassin’s neck, almost severing Dargle’s head. The ambitious rat fell slain on top of his victim’s dead body.
Little Redd was wakened by Flinky kicking him in the back. The small fox sat up rubbing his eyes and muttering at the still-sleeping stoat. “Keep yore paws to yoreself, ye great lump!”
Flinky rolled over and emitted a huge snore. To avoid a second kick, Redd rose stiffly and looked around. Dargle’s cloak was still draped over the ferns. He let out a sigh of relief and wandered over to check on Skrodd. Redd was dumbfounded by the sight that greeted him—Skrodd and Dargle, both dead!
Little Redd circled them slowly, poking both beasts with a stick and uttering their names softly. There was no doubt about it, they were still as stones. His first thought was to run and tell the others. He had already opened his mouth to shout when a thought struck him. Who would be the next to claim leadership of the gang? Little Redd sat down and did some serious thinking. It did not take him long to reach a decision. He would be the new chief. Getting the cutlass loose from Skrodd’s paw was a difficult task, but he managed it somehow. Dargle was almost decapitated by Skrodd’s death blow. Two good chops of the hefty blade finished the job.
Flinky was roused by a painful feeling he knew well, the slap of a flat cutlass blade. He sprang upright, rubbing his rump, expecting to see Skrodd standing over him. Instead, there stood the small fox, whacking away at the other gang vermin and yelling aloud.
“Up on yore hunkers, all of ye!”
The weasel Juppa grabbed a chunk of firewood and advanced on the small fox, snarling. “Ye snotty liddle runt, who do ye think y’are, smackin’ me wid the chief’s blade?”
Redd jarred the wood from Juppa’s paws with a blow from the cutlass. His voice was shrill but commanding. “I’m the new chief round here, that’s who I am. Come an’ see this, all of ye!”
The gang stood around the two carcasses in awed silence as the small fox explained. “I saw Dargle run Skrodd through with his spear. So I rushed in, grabbed the cutlass an’ slew the dirty murderin’ sneak with one swipe!”
Crinktail looked at him disbelievingly. “You, Little Redd, took off Dargle’s block in one go?”
Redd was getting the feel of the heavy sword now. He took a pace back, then leaped forward, swinging the cutlass in both paws, shouting fiercely. “Aye, one swipe! D’ye want me to show ye how? I’m the chief now, this sword’s mine, I killed to get it!”
He was gratified to see fear shining from Crinktail’s eyes as she backed away from him swiftly. “No, no,” she pleaded, “if you say ye did it, I’m not one to argue with ye!”
Ever the one to seize an opportunity, however, Flinky confronted Redd and held out his paws placatingly. “Ah now, don’t go upsettin’ yoreself, Little Redd. We all think ye’ll make a grand chief. Anyway, better’n the last two. Isn’t that right, mates?”
He turned to the gang, winking broadly at them but making sure the small fox could not see his gesture.
“C’mon now, raise yer paws an’ salute the great new chief!”
A newfound confidence flooded through Redd as he watched the remaining nine vermin acknowledging his leadership with raised paws. He suppressed a shudder of joy. For as long as he could recall he had been ignored, bullied or pushed about. Now, in the course of one day, he was in command of the gang.
Deciding to assert his authority, Little Redd glared haughtily at the ratbag vermin. “My name ain’t Little Redd no more. From now on ye’ll all call me Badredd. Is that clear?”
Flinky threw him an elaborate salute. “Badredd it is, yer honour, sure an’ a fine ould name it is! Well now, Badredd sir, wot’s yore pleasure—do we stop ’ere awhile in this grand camp? There’s water an’ vittles aplenty roundabout, an’ ’tis a pleasant spot.”
Badredd nodded imperiously. “Aye, we’ll stop ’ere awhile!”
As they prepared the evening meal, Flinky’s mate, Crinktail, whispered to him. “Badredd, huh! Wot’n the name o’ blood made ye support that liddle fool?”
Flinky winked at her as he turned a roasting woodpigeon on a willow spit over the fire. “Trust me, mate, better a liddle fool than a big bully. I can ’andle this ’un. Badredd’ll do like I suggest, ye’ll see. We’ve ’ad enough o’ weasels, big foxes an’ bullyrats in this gang. This Mossflower territory’s a good soft place to stay, plenty of everythin’. Better’n those ould Northlands. Leave the thinkin’ t’me, we’ll live the good life from now on. Badredd’ll do like I tell ’im.”
The newly elected Badredd sat on the streambank, picking a roasted woodpigeon leg and watching the westering sun die in a crimson haze. He listened to Flinky singing as he dished out supper to the gang, who lay about looking contented enough.
“Oh this is the place to be,
where the fruit falls from the tree,
where eggs an’ birds jump out of the nest,
right in me pan they come to rest.
Oh this is the place for me,
far from that Northland sea.
Here the good ould fish leap out of the stream,
an shout, ‘Please, sir, cook me,’
where the sun shines all the day,
an’ the cold wind stops away,
an’ the water’s clean ’n’ fresh ’n’ clear,
I’ll make ye a promise now, me dear,
I’ll take a bath so don’t ye fear,
in ten summers’ time if I’m still here,
’cos this is the place for me!”
Badredd, however, had totally different plans. Not for him all this lying about on sunny streambanks. Ambition had entered his being. To be the owner of the magic sword and ruler of that place Skrodd had spoken of—Redwall Abbey.
8
Lonna Bowstripe sat outside the cave, savouring the approach of summer in the harsh northeast coastlands. Pale sunlight glimmered out of a watery, cloud-flecked sky. It was breezy, but the chill had died out of the wind. Green buds were shooting out of the scrublands, seabirds mewed across the marshes.
The huge badger shifted his position near the fire, wincing momentarily and arching his back. Young Stugg sat beside him like some constant shadow, always close to the big creature. Lonna fascinated the young sea otter.
“You back still be hurted, Lonn’?”
Lonna smiled down at his companion. “A bit, but it’s getting better every day, mate. Pass me the bow, please.”
Stugg ambled across and carried the yew sapling to him. Out of six lengths, this was the one Lonna had chosen to use for fashioning his bow. Stugg inspected it closely. The wood had seasoned out until it was strong as sprung metal. Lonna had shaved away the bark, leaving a broad band at its centre that he had bound and whipped with green cord to make a pawhold. At both ends, the wood was circled and notched deep to accommodate bowstrings. Stugg watched as the badger tested the yew’s strength by bending it against his footpaws.
“Wot you think, Lonn’, bee’s it ready?”
The badger applied heavy pressure, bending the bow until it formed a deep arc. He straightened it slowly and then responded. “As ready as it will ever be, young ’un. This is a good bow!”
Stugg jumped up and down impatiently. “Putta string on it, Lonn’. Fire a h’arrow for Stugg!”
Abruc wandered out of the main holt cave toward them. “Ahoy there, young pestilence! Are ye still botherin’ Lonna? Yore more trouble than a sack o’ frogs!”
The giant badger tugged Stugg’s little rudder fondly. “Oh, he’s no trouble, Abruc. Stugg’s my good old workmate.”
Abruc sat down beside them. He could not keep the curiosity out of his voice. “Well, bigbeast, is yore bow finally ready?”
Lonna used the
bowstaff to pull himself upright. “Let’s string it and see, shall we?”
A short time thereafter, all the sea otters had gathered to watch the testing of the bow. Lonna limped slightly as he went back into the cave to fetch his quiver of arrows.
Stugg stood outside, holding the bow and declaiming proudly to everybeast, “All stan’ back now, please. I help Lonn’ to make dis bow. ’Tis a very dangerful weapon, so watch out!”
The big badger emerged with the birch bark quiver. It was packed heavily with two score of long ashwood shafts, which Abruc and Shoredog had helped to fashion. Each one was fletched with grey gull feathers, gleaned from the shoreline. The arrows were tipped with flint shards, sharpened and ground to lethal points.
Lonna took the bowstring which Abruc had woven and looped it over the notch in the yew staff.
After knotting it with a skilful hitch, he remarked, “If this bow fails, it won’t be for want of a good string. This is the finest one I’ve ever seen, thanks to you, friend.”
Abruc flushed with pleasure. “Thankee. ’Tis a special string, worthy of a mighty bow.”
Lonna braced the yew sapling against his footpaw, with the string at the bottom end. Tying a loop into the free end, he leaned down heavily on the centre of the wood.
A gasp arose from the otters as the yew bent in a great arc. With the graceful ease of an expert bowbeast, Lonna slipped the loop deftly over the notched top end. It was a bow now, a mighty and formidable longbow that only a beast the size and strength of Lonna Bowstripe could draw. Taking three arrows, he set them point down in the earth and selected one, explaining as he did, “Height, distance and accuracy are what an archer needs.”
Whipping the bow up, he laid the first arrow on it, heaved back powerfully and let fly, all in a split second. Swift as lightning the shaft sped upward and was immediately lost to sight.
Shoredog let out a growl of surprise. “Whoo! Where did it go?”
Loamhedge: A Novel of Redwall Page 7