Eulalia!

by Brian Jacques

  Orkwil was dancing up and down with excitement, shouting at everybeast. “That was Vizka Longtooth an’ some of his crew!”

  Barbowla chuckled as he blinked after the vanishing dustcloud. “Aye, an’ that was Kurdly’s Brownrats after their blood. I wonder wot happened there?”

  Foremole Burff was shaking with merriment. “Hurrhurrhurr, who’d a-thought ee foebeasters wurrn’t a-gettin’ on together. Ho dearie oi!”

  Abbot Daucus came skipping up the wallsteps, holding his robe like a mousewife with a trailing gown. “Will somebeast please let me in on the joke?” The Father Abbot’s face lit up in a smile when he was told the news. Climbing onto a battlement, he peered northward, but both hunters and quarry were long gone. Daucus dusted off his paws. “Well well, what a lovely surprise, friends. I know this may not sound very charitable, but let me express the hope that the vermin wipe one another out, solving our problem once and for all.”

  Maudie helped the Abbot down from his perch. “Rather good, wot! I say, Father old thing, d’you think it’d be a jolly good idea to celebrate this cheerful moment, with something like a…er, er, what’s the confounded word I’m lookin’ for?”

  The Abbot provided it. “A feast?”

  Maudie shook his paw heartily. “What a wise mouse you are, t’be sure!”

  Rangval seconded the haremaid slyly. “Ah sure, we’d all be delighted to attend yore feast, sir, ’tis a grand ould beast y’are for askin’ us!”

  Laughingly, the Abbot shook his head. “Well, I walked right into that one, didn’t I? A feast, eh, well, why not? Orkwil, go and tell Friar Chondrus to get preparations under way. Skipper, where d’you suggest we hold this affair, Great Hall, or Cavern Hole maybe?”

  The otter chieftain was ever practical. “I’d say somewhere outside, Father. We don’t want t’be caught nappin’ if’n there’s vermin still abroad.”

  Maudie came up with a bright idea. “Why not have it up here on the walltop? Southwest corner, in fact. The scoff could be laid on the wallsteps, with us guard types up here, an’ other ranks, the oldsters an’ young ’uns, down below on the lawn, by the jolly old pond, wot!”

  “That’s a great idea, then me’n you could have a little word t’gether, marm, about my sudden faintin’ fit.” The haremaid found herself staring into the angry eyes of the Guosim’s new Log a Log, Osbil. Caught unawares, Maudie tried to woffle her way out of a quandary. “Wot, er, Osbil old lad, y’look remarkably chipper, wot! Well well, who’d have thought a stout chap like you would go into a faint, just like that, eh?”

  Osbil’s paw was on his rapier hilt as he replied. “Aye, just like that. Would ye like to try yore luck one more time, miz, then we’ll see wot’s faster, yore punch, or my blade-point?”

  The smouldering resentment in Osbil’s tone alerted Rangval, he stepped smartly between hare and shrew. “Ah now, don’t be drawin’ yore steel round here, bhoyo. Sure ’twas only to save ye bein’ slaughtered by a rat horde that darlin’ Maudie did wot she had to. Can ye not see that ye should be thankful to her?”

  Now every eye was on Osbil and Maudie as they stood clear of the rogue squirrel. Keeping a watchful eye on the shrew’s swordpaw, Maudie shrugged. “He’s right, actually, I was only tryin’ to save your life—”

  Osbil interrupted her sharply. “Aye, an’ shame me before all my Guosim, that’s a great start for a new Log a Log. Tell me, would you be grateful to somebeast who knocked ye out with a trick punch, an’ stopped ye avengin’ the death of yore father by the vermin. Would ye?”

  The full force of Osbil’s predicament dawned upon Maudie; totally humbled, she bowed her head. “I did what I did with every good intention, but how can you forgive me? I wouldn’t blame you for drawing your sword this instant, I acted like a thoughtless fool. If there is any way I can make up my stupid actions to you, just say the word, my friend.”

  Osbil, who had been expecting a challenge, was taken aback by Maudie’s sincere apology. He stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do. The situation was saved by Abbot Daucus, who joined the paws of them both.

  “I think it was very big of Miz Maudie to apologize like that. If you could realise this, and forget your anger, maybe these Guosim may see that their Log a Log has the qualities of a good chieftain. Well, what do you say?”

  Osbil gripped Maudie’s paw. “Thanks for savin’ my life, friend!”

  The haremaid shook Osbil’s paw in return. “Aye, an’ thanks for sparin’ my life, friend. We’ll pay Kurdly’s lot back tenfold before this business is done, believe me. Luglug wasn’t only your dad, he was a fine leader, an’ a good pal of mine. Remember, just say the jolly old word an’ I’m with you ’til the end, sah!”

  Rangval parted their paws, with an expression of comic concern on his face. “Ah sure, ’twas all well said an’ grand, but can’t we have a bit of an ould feast afore ye go chargin’ off to pay back the Brownrats?”

  25

  Gruntan Kurdly was not built for speed. He stayed back in his position at the woodland fringe, facing the south Abbey wall. A dozen litter bearers, and the two scouts, Noggo and Biklo, were with him. The rest of the horde, led by Stringle, had gone off to chase the Sea Raiders. Gruntan lounged on the mossy sward, relishing a substantial clutch of partridge eggs, which the scouts had found in some long grass, not far from the ditchside. He swigged nettle beer from a small pail, wolfing down the hard-boiled eggs as fast as his lackeys could peel them. Wiping a grimy paw across his mouth, Gruntan belched happily. “By the ’ells teeth, I do like a good patteridge egg, more tasty than woodpigeons, eh, Laggle?”

  The old female rat, who acted as his healer and physician, commented caustically, “I’ll tell ye if’n I ever gits the chance to taste one. Sometimes I thinks yore goin’ to grow feathers, ye eat so many eggs!”

  Gruntan slung a pawful of crushed eggshells at Laggle. “Yew mind yore mouth, granny, go an’ do summat useful, fetch me more beer. Noggo, cummere an’ talk to me, tell me more about that raggedy bottomed bunch.”

  The scout had already told Gruntan all he knew, several times, but he was obliged to recount it all again. “There wuz about twoscore of ’em, Boss. After our lot run ’em off, me’n Biklo took a look at wot they’d been up to. The main bunch had started diggin’ an ’ole in the side o’ the ditch, facin’ Redwall.”

  Gruntan probed his snaggle teeth with a hooked claw, spitting out eggshell fragments. “Wot d’ye reckon they was up to?”

  Noggo said what he had already surmised the first time. “Only one thing they coulda been doin’, Boss, diggin’ their way into the Abbey.”

  Again, Gruntan Kurdly became highly indignant. “But that’s our Abbey, not theirs, we’re the ones who’s gonna take that place. Thud’n’blunder, the nerve o’ those animals!” He took a deep swig from the beer pail, coughing and spluttering, as his resentment against Vizka Longtooth’s crew heightened. “It ain’t right, that’s wot it ain’t! By cracky, I ’opes Stringle collars a few o’ those villains alive. I’ll teach ’em to steal our Abbey, I’ll skin ’em alive an’ feed ’em their hides. Youse lot over there, can’t ye even peel the shell off’n a patteridge’s egg atween ye? I’m swallowin’ more shell than egg. ’Ere, Laggle, lookit this ’un!” He tossed the boiled egg to the old healer, who immediately ate it whole. She shook her head.

  “Nah, that wasn’t fit for ye to eat, yore right. Git them eggs peeled proper, ye lazy lot!”

  Gruntan moved back onto his litter, commenting sourly, “Ye can’t git nuthin’ done right these days. Noggo, wot’s that noise, go an’ find out. I dunno, can’t even take a decent nap now, widout all kindsa funny noises.”

  Noggo saluted and crept off, following the direction of voices raised in song. It was coming from behind the southwest wall gable.

  A small group of young moles were providing the bass line, swaying back and forth as they kept up a constant chant.

  “Rubbledy dum be dum be dum,

  rubbledy dum be dum be dum.”

  T
he main contingent, who were all young Redwallers, marched in a circle, singing the verses aloud.

  “I’ll sit me down in my bestest gown,

  an’ joyfully I’ll sing,

  when a happy beast attends a feast,

  he’ll eat most anything!

  “I think I’ll start with a mushroom tart,

  and some good Friar’s cheese,

  a pastie or two, or maybe a few,

  and a salad if you please!

  “O rumble tumble, fetch me a crumble,

  that’s what I’m yearnin’ for,

  if they’re servin’ second helpings,

  I’ll try to manage some more!

  “Now bring me a pudd’n an’ make it a good ’un

  well-drenched with honey sauce,

  an’ a flagon o’ rasp’berry cordial,

  to swig whenever I pause!

  “A trifle for me, a flan for you,

  let’s raise our tankards all,

  what a happy day for a feast we say,

  at the Abbey of Redwall!”

  Before Noggo could return to make his report, Laggle gazed wistfully in the direction of the Abbey. “Sounds like they’re ’avin’ a feast in there, Boss.”

  Gruntan, who had been trying to ignore the song, found his interest aroused at the mention of a feast. “Huh, I wonder wot they’re ’avin’ to eat. Did yew ’ear wot they wuz sayin’, Noggo?”

  The scout, who was returning, began recounting various dishes. “Er, lessee, there wuz mushroom tart, cheese, pasties, salad, crumble, pudden with ’oney sauce…nyeeeerk!”

  Gruntan had Noggo by the nose, twisting it viciously. “Yew rotten liddle fibber, nobeast has vittles as good as that!”

  Laggle confirmed what Noggo had reported. “Noggo wasn’t fibbin’, I ’eard it meself, an’ they was drinkin’ raspberry cordial, an’ scoffin’ flans an’ trifles. Me gob was waterin’ jus’ lissenin’ to ’em!”

  Gruntan released the scout’s nose, turning on the old healer. “Then ye must be goin’ soft in the ’ead, if’n yew believes all that. Huh, all sorts o’ fancy rubbish like crumbles an’ trifles. Did they say they was ’avin’ ’ard-boiled eggs, betcha they never?”

  Noggo kept out of Gruntan’s reach. “No, Boss, they never said nothin’ about ’ard-boiled eggs.”

  Gruntan Kurdly spat out an eggshell fragment contemptuously. “Hah, see, I told ye. A feast ain’t no good widout ’ard-boiled eggs. Fetch me some nice, soft moss to plug me lugs with, I needs me nap!”

  Vizka Longtooth’s second in command, the weasel Magger, and the rest of Bludgullet’s crew were enjoying the good life in North Mossflower woodlands. They had brought grog from the ship, and gathered eggs, fish, birds, fruit and berries locally. Magger had become quite popular with the vermin crew, he was easygoing, and not given to making the others fear him, like Vizka did.

  An air of enjoyment and relaxation pervaded the woodland camp. After grubbing about the cold seas for seasons, suffering hard chores and short rations, the warm climate and sheltered surroundings suited the vermin fine. Nobeast was overeager for the return of their captain, that would only mean more discipline, marching, orders and fighting, to fulfill the golden fox’s ambitions. Accordingly they lay about, taking their ease, and enjoying the welcome respite whilst they were able.

  Two shipmates, a stoat called Saltear and a ferret named Ragchin, were wandering along the ditchbed, picking blackberries. They had almost filled Ragchin’s floppy old hat with the fruit, and were sitting on the side of the path, debating what use the berries might be put to.

  Saltear sorted out a large juicy one, musing, “Wodja t’ink, Rag, we could make grog outta dese.”

  Ragchin shook his head. “Nah, takes too long, an’ de uthers would only drink it on us. Worrabout cookin’ ’em up in a skilly’n’duff?”

  Saltear spat into the ditch, not relishing the idea. “Dat Magger’d soon yaffle it down, ’ave ya seen ’im eatin’ skilly’n’duff, ’e’s like a wildbeast!” He popped the berry he had been holding into his mouth, grinning. “Why don’t we jus’ eat ’em ourselves?”

  Ragchin immediately grabbed a pawful, stuffing them into his mouth, and wolfing them down. “Yore right, Salt, it wuz us wot picked ’em, eh!”

  Purple juice was running down both their chins as they devoured the blackberries. Saltear suddenly paused, a berry halfway to his lips, he held up a paw. “Ahoy, kin yew ’ear sumthin’, thunder, I think?”

  Ragchin stood up, gazing at the sky. “Thunder, on a day like dis, nah, give over, mate….” Then he saw the dustcloud rising in the south, it was coming from the ditchbed. He pointed. “Dat’s wot’s makin’ der noise, lookit.”

  Saltear joined him, they stood watching the rising dustcloud awhile, until a figure at the head of it came into view.

  Ragchin could hardly believe his eyes, as more shapes became visible. Grabbing his shipmate’s tattered jerkin, he fled, pulling him along. “It’s der cap’n, bein’ chased by an army o’ durty, big Brownrats, mus’ be a t’ousand of ’em. Come on!”

  The two vermin came hurtling into camp. Magger and some other crew vermin had heard the rumbling, they were looking uneasy. Saltear and Ragchin shot past Magger, calling as they hurried to hide in the woodland depths, “Cap’n Vizka’s bein’ chased by t’ousands o’ big rats, real big ’uns, dey’re ’eaded dis way!”

  Vizka Longtooth and the remains of his tunnelling party were running for their lives. Over a dozen of the Bludgullet’s crew were lying behind them, slain and trampled by Kurdly’s horde. Though his breath was coming in ragged bursts, the golden fox drove himself on relentlessly, propelled by naked terror. The Brownrats pounded along in his wake, their weird, paint-striped bodies strung with necklets and bracelets made from the bones of past victims, waving clubs and spears.

  Vizka plunged onward, out of the ditchbed, and into the woodlands. Magger and the rest of Bludgullet’s crew were to be his hope of salvation from the foebeasts. If he could make it to the camp, he would repel the Brownrat horde with the aid of his own considerable numbers. The Brownrats would be hit by a sudden retaliation from the vermin Sea Raiders. Behind him he heard one of his crew give an agonised screech as he fell victim to a stoneheaded axe. The golden fox leapt into the camp, his paws kicking up ashes from campfire embers as he shouted, “Magger, rally der crew! Magger…Magger?”

  The realisation that he had arrived at an empty camp hit Vizka Longtooth like a thunderbolt. There was nothing for it but to keep running. Deserted by his own crew, traitors and cowards who had fled their captain! The golden fox sucked in air, running even faster, this time spurred on by rage. He was a fool to have left Magger in charge back at camp. Ducking and weaving around the trunks of mighty oaks, elms, conifers and other woodland giants, Vizka began outpacing his pursuers, their sounds grew faint in his wake.

  He was in the heart of ancient Mossflower now. Sunlight rarely penetrated the overgrown tree canopy, it was a world of misty green gloom. The golden fox’s eyes searched the area, he knew it was not possible to run ceaselessly. There had to be a refuge, someplace to hide….

  There it was! A massive, old beech tree, its huge, knotted trunk supporting widespread boughs, branches and foliage. Resting against it was a small spurge laurel, which had perished from lack of sunlight. Vizka Longtooth went up the laurel, into the lower forks of the beech, with all the agility of a cat. A lifetime spent on shipboard left him no stranger to scaling, after all the masts and rigging he had encountered.

  Leaning down, he shoved at the slender, dead laurel, watching as it fell flat on the leafy, woodland floor. He went nimbly upward into the high reaches of the beech, choosing a wide, well-foliaged limb. Vizka settled himself there, knowing he was completely invisible from below. He lay there, tongue lolling, as he panted and gasped, relaxing his body, whilst his mind worked frantically, planning and scheming.

  The golden fox was not a beast to be taken lightly. It would not be the first time he had snatched victory fro
m the jaws of defeat.

  It was night before the Brownrats ceased searching the woodlands for Vizka’s crewbeasts. They retired to the camp, formerly set up by Magger, where they relit the fire and settled down to consume what food remained there. Stringle sat watching Tantail and Dirril, they were boiling a variety of eggs, which the Bludgullet’s crew had gathered. Stringle was quite pleased with himself.

  “Haharr, lookit that now! Woodpigeon, coot, plover an’ quail eggs. Ole Kurdly’d enjoy that lot, eh?” He watched Tantail and Dirril nodding their heads ruefully, then Stringle laughed aloud. “Hohoho, mates, well, Kurdly ain’t gittin’ none, ’cos we’re gonna eat ’em ourselves!”

  Giggling like three Dibbuns, the Brownrats began shelling and gobbling down the eggs. Tantail found the partially full keg of ship’s grog, she sampled it, drawing in a deep breath. “Whfaw, this is the stuff t’put a curl in yore tail!”

  Soon they were all enjoying the fiery liquor, laughing and gurgling uproariously at Dirril’s imitation of Gruntan Kurdly, which was fairly accurate. She stuck out her stomach, belching cavernously. “Ahoy there, peel me more eggs, ye swabs, or ye’ll find yoreselves sufferin’ an attack o’ the Kurdlys!”

  Stringle swigged more grog, wiping tears of merriment from his eyes. “Heeheehee, the ole lardbucket, let ’im wait, we’ll camp here an’ go back tomorrer, mates. Make the best of it while ye can. Ahoy there, wot’s this?”

  A band of returning Brownrats swaggered in, dragging a prisoner. It was Magger, with his paws bound behind him and a rope halter about his neck. Their leader, Bladj, gave the weasel a kick, sending him sprawling close to the fire.

  “We collared one of ’em, Cap’n, guess wot ’is name is, Maggot, ain’t that a daft ’andle?”