Eulalia!

by Brian Jacques

  Stringle placed his footpaw on Magger’s cheek, forcing the terrified weasel’s face into the dirt. “Maggot, eh, yore an ugly-lookin’ cove. Wot’ll we do with ye, Maggot, let y’live, or slay ye?”

  Magger gazed fearfully up at the savage, painted face of the Brownrat captain, stammering, “Let me live, sir, I’m no ’arm ter anybeast!”

  Tantail tickled his nose with a knifepoint, watching him flinch. “An ’armless maggot, eh, where’s yore boss, Fizker summat, that’s ’is name, ain’t it?”

  Magger pronounced his captain’s name properly. “It’s Vizka Longtooth, an’ I don’t know where ’e is.”

  Stringle took a burning stick from the fire. Magger yelped, arching his back, as the Brownrat ran the flaming timber down it, cautioning him, “Then ye’d better find out where this Vizka Longtooth is, if’n ye want to live. Is ’e alive or dead?”

  Taking what he thought was the easy option, Magger whined, “Prob’ly dead by now, I t’ink.”

  Stringle took Tantail’s knife, he held it against Magger’s throat. “Prob’ly dead ye think, wot sort o’ talk’s that? I’ll tell ye wot, shall I slit yore gizzard an’ see if I think yore prob’ly dead, eh? Now, let me set ye straight about all this, Maggot. I can’t go back to Gruntan Kurdly an’ tell ’im ’is enemy’s ‘prob’ly’ dead. My boss is a Brownrat warlord, wot ’e wants to ’ear is that ole Vizka Longtooth is stiffer’n a cold frog wot’s been flattened by a fallin’ tree in a snowstorm. There ain’t no prob’lys with Kurdly. So I’m goin’ to ask ye jus’ once more. Is Vizka dead?”

  Magger knew his life depended on the answer, he replied without hesitation. “He’s dead!”

  Stringle smiled and stroked his captive’s head. “Well said, good ole Maggot! Now, tell me agin, but this time say it was me wot killed ’im.”

  Magger was past caring about the truth, he would have said anything Stringle wanted. “Aye, Vizka’s dead, an yore der one wot slayed ’im!”

  Stringle waggled the knifepoint close to Magger’s eyeball. “Very good! Now don’t yew ferget it, keep sayin’ it to yoreself, Maggot, ye’ll live long’n’ ’appy if ye do.”

  26

  At about the same time the Brownrats had been pursuing Vizka up the ditch, Gorath opened his eyes. The young badger felt strangely calm. There was a little molemaid sitting by the bed, watching him. Raising his head slightly, he smiled at her. “Hello, what’s your name, miss?”

  She fell from the bedside stool, and shot up, throwing her small, flowered apron over her face as she fled. “Oi’m Dawbul, zurr, you’m ascuze oi, mus’ be fetchen Sisarta, zurr!” Gorath could hear her cries as she tottered downstairs. “Eem gurt badgerer bee’s wokened, Sisarta, ’urry!”

  Gorath sat up. At first he felt dizzy, but the sensation died off as he breathed deeply. He had no idea where he was, except that it was someplace within Redwall Abbey. How long had he been here? Within moments he heard a rush of paws pounding the stairs. Next thing he knew, the little sickbay room was full of creatures. Sister Atrata hurried to his side, he sat quite still as she checked him out.

  After awhile, the Sister announced to the visitors, “At least he’s over the fever, thank goodness. How do you feel, Gorath?”

  The young badger touched the deep, flame-shaped scar on his forehead, and spoke quietly. “I feel hungry, Sister.”

  Rangval muttered to Maudie in an audible whisper, “Hungry, is he? Faith, an’ ’tis goin’ to keep the ould cook busy vittlin’ that bhoyo up. Will ye look at the size o’ the beast, shure I’d sooner be feedin’ him for a day than for a season, that’s for certain!” For some obscure reason, the roguish squirrel’s remark amused Gorath, it made him chuckle.

  Abbot Daucus observed the pleasure it gave all the Redwallers, to see a happy smile on the face of their guest. The Abbot winked at Orkwil, indicating Gorath with a gesture. “Tell your friend why he’s fortunate to wake up hungry at this time.”

  Orkwil grabbed Gorath’s huge paw, and started tugging him out of bed. “’Cos we’re havin’ a feast out in the grounds, d’ye want to come, mate?”

  Gorath allowed Maudie and several others to heave him upright, he shuffled once, then regained his balance. “It would be a pleasure to attend your feast, that’s if it isn’t too much trouble.”

  Skipper threw a paw around the big badger’s shoulder. “Too much trouble, matey? Hahaarharharrrr!” Everybeast pointed their paws at Gorath, breaking out into an old Abbey feasting song.

  “To the feast! To the feast!

  Now don’t be shy, goodbeast!

  “Yore doubly warm an’ welcome here,

  don’t stand on ceremony,

  we’ve set a place so never fear,

  just come along with me.

  “To the feast! To the feast!

  Now don’t be shy, goodbeast!

  “Ho move ye up an’ make a space,

  let our friend sit at table,

  to drink the best our cellars brew,

  an’ eat all that he’s able.

  “To the feast! To the feast!

  Now don’t be shy, goodbeast!

  “Come please us with yore company,

  pray bring yore appetite,

  sing loud if you’ve a mind to sing,

  or dance throughout the night.

  “To the feast! To the feast!

  Now don’t be shy, goodbeast!”

  Surrounded by happy Redwallers, Gorath allowed himself to be led downstairs, out of the Abbey building. It was a perfect summer afternoon outdoors, with a gentle breeze, and the sun beaming from a cloudless blue sky. Maudie and Orkwil led him to the tables, which had been placed on the lawn betwixt the Abbey pond and the south wall.

  Barbowla called down to them from the walltop, “Bring the big feller up here, mates, those little ’uns will pester the life out of him down there, that’s if’n Gorath can manage the wallsteps.”

  Dibbuns, otterbabes and tiny Guosim infants were already clamouring around the big, young badger. Some had perched upon his footpaws, and were beginning to climb upward. Foremole Burff and Granspike Niblo disentangled them from Gorath, reproaching the babes.

  “Yurr, coom off’n ee pore beast, get ee daown, oi says!”

  “You’m likkle villyuns, ee’m badgerer loike t’be toppled o’er with you’m a clamberin’ on ’im loike h’ants!”

  Maudie took Gorath’s paw. “I say, old lad, Barbowla’s right, are you able to manage the wallsteps, wot?”

  The badger gave a rumbling chuckle. “I might just be able to, if there’s food up there.”

  There was indeed food to be had on the ramparts, the best Gorath had ever tasted. Seating himself on the top step, he allowed Benjo Tipps to press a tankard of finest October Ale upon him. This was followed by Friar Chondrus, who placed a loaded tray close to Gorath’s paw.

  “This is one o’ my mushroom an’ leek pasties, I hope ye like it. There’s some fresh made cheesebread, an’ summer vegetable soup. Oh, an’ a portion of tater, onion an’ carrot bake to nibble afore dessert. Eat ’earty now, young sir!”

  Gorath was joined by Orkwil and Maudie. As he ate with an astounding appetite, the young hedgehog and the haremaid related how Vizka Longtooth and some of his vermin had been chased off by the Brownrats.

  Gorath expressed concern over the incident. “I hope Longtooth doesn’t run off altogether, I’ve got a score to settle with that fox!”

  Orkwil took a bite of pastie, fanning a paw across his mouth to cool it. “First you’ve got to get yoreself fit an’ well, mate, then ye can think about slayin’ yore enemies. I wouldn’t worry too much over Longtooth, he’ll come slinkin’ back around Redwall sooner or later.”

  Rangval had been sitting close by, eavesdropping on the conversation. He called over to Maudie, “Why don’t ye save a few of those good ould uppercut punches for the fox, if’n ye meet him, miss?”

  Orkwil replied for the haremaid. “You don’t trade punches with a vermin like Longtooth, have ye seen that wicked-lookin�
�� mace an’ chain he carries? One swipe o’ that would be all it takes!”

  Maudie was not impressed. “He could jolly well swipe with his mace all flippin’ season, but he wouldn’t touch a hair of me if I didn’t want the rotter to.”

  Gorath looked at her curiously. “How so?”

  Maudie took a kerchief from her sleeve. Spreading it on the walkway, she placed her footpaws on it, one slightly in front of the other. Then she gave forth a challenge. “Righty-o chaps, anybeast wants to try landin’ a bloomin’ punch on me, step up. I won’t attempt to hit back, word of honour an’ all that, wot!”

  No sooner was the challenge out than Log a Log Osbil accepted it. He leapt up, paws clenched tight, milling about in small, businesslike circles. As he stood in front of Maudie, Osbil gave her a sly wink.

  “My turn this time, marm, ye’ll feel how hard I can punch. Are ye good an’ ready?”

  Maudie winked cheerily back at her adversary. “Ready as I’ll ever be, bucko, you punch away whenever y’feel like. I won’t move from this kerchief.”

  A crowd gathered along the walltop to watch. Some of Osbil’s Guosim friends shouted out, “Go on, Chief, give ’er a good ’un!”

  “Aye, an’ belt ’er harder’n she hit you!”

  Osbil never hesitated, he swung a big roundhouse right. Maudie seemed just to sway, ever so slightly. The punch spun Osbil around with its force, but it never touched the haremaid. The Guosim chieftain looked astonished. Maudie grinned at him. “Nice try, old chap!”

  Osbil gritted his teeth and threw a huge uppercut. The haremaid bent gracefully backward, letting her opponent strike air. Osbil came back with a flurry of punches. Maudie evaded every one of them, swaying left, right, forward and back, with a lithe ease.

  The Guosim were yelling encouragement to Osbil.

  “Give ’er the ole one-two, Chief!”

  “Try hookin’ with yore left!”

  “Go for the breadbasket, knock the wind out of ’er!”

  Osbil tried them all, and a few more beside, but to no avail. Maudie could not be touched. He gave up and stood there, head bowed, panting heavily. Maudie folded up her kerchief, throwing a paw about Osbil’s shoulders.

  “Come on, friend, let’s have a jolly old tankard of the good October together, what d’ye say?”

  The shrew chieftain grinned ruefully. “How did ye learn to do that, mate?”

  Rangval bounded between them, hopping about and ducking. “Practice, me ould tater, that’s how ye learn t’do anythin’ well. Go on, go on, try to hit me, I dare ye!”

  Osbil merely held out his clenched paw, and Rangval danced straight into it, knocking himself flat. Everybeast roared laughing, except Rangval, who sat up holding his chin. “I took lots o’ bobbin’ lessons, but none on the weavin’. So I bobbed when I should’ve weaved, an’ that’s how ye got me. Oh, an’ then there’s the duckin’ an’ divin’ lessons, I’ll have to start takin’ those soon. Then I’ll wipe the smiles off yore gobs. Maudie, me darlin’, how’s about givin’ me a few tips?”

  The haremaid issued a generous offer. “Why, certainly, old top, in fact I’ll give anybeast a list of hints. Who wants to learn, any of you chaps?” Virtually everybeast on the ramparts, young and old, began clamouring for instructions. Maudie held up her paws for silence before giving them the benefit of her experience.

  “Right, listen up now, chaps. My old pa was the finest boxin’ hare ever to come out of Salamandastron. He could box the blinkin’ whiskers off the best of ’em, an’ that jolly well includes me. From the time I was only a totterin’ leveret, he had me skippin’ a rope an’ singin’ this song. I’ll show you, who’s got a piece of rope that I can borrow, wot?”

  Abbot Daucus untied his white habit cord. “How would this do, miss?”

  Maudie tried a few practice skips. “Nicely thank you, Father. Right, here we jolly well go!” She started with slow hops, twirling the rope easily as she broke into the song taught by her father in bygone seasons.

  “Duck an’ weave an’ weave an’ duck,

  you’ll learn the noble art,

  don’t lash out an’ trust to luck,

  use science, skill and heart.

  Make your paws show him who’s boss.

  Hook jab! Punch jab! Feint jab cross!

  Show commonsense, have confidence,

  keep one eye on that blighter,

  do what he least expects you to,

  an’ you’ll become a fighter.

  “Make your paws show him who’s boss.

  Hook jab! Punch jab! Feint jab cross!

  Sway an’ bob an’ bob an’ sway,

  an’ keep your guard up tight,

  tuck in that chin, aye that’s the style

  the way you learn to fight.

  Make your paws show him who’s boss.

  Hook jab! Punch jab! Feint jab cross!”

  Maudie repeated the last two lines several times, skipping so fast that the rope became a blur. She finished to enthusiastic applause.

  Abbot Daucus retrieved his habit cord, commenting wryly, “If they’re all as good as you at Salamandastron, I wonder why they want a badger, you’ve got a real skill there, miss. Oh dearie me, it looks like you’ve started something, just look at that lot!”

  Everybeast, including the Dibbuns and old ones, down on the lawn was using habit cords, belts, even pieces of trailing vine, as they leapt wildly about. Benjo Tipps, who was far too weighty for such exercise, donated his belt to a pair of shrewbabes. He chuckled as they skipped awkwardly off. “We’ll soon be havin’ an Abbeyful o’ boxin’ beasts. Lookit ole Foremole Burff there!” The mole chieftain had forgotten the words, but he bounced about solemnly, chanting. “Duck bobby duck bobby, ’ook duck bob!”

  Maudie covered her eyes with a paw. “Good grief, if my old pa could see that, he’d have a flippin’ purple fit, wot!”

  The feast continued on into the warm summer evening, with other songs, dances and games taking the place of skipping. It was turning dusk as Maudie returned to the walltops, after helping to carry up more food from the kitchens. She plumped down beside Friar Chondrus, accepting a beaker of strawberry fizz from him. The haremaid cast a glance at Gorath’s empty seat, calling to Orkwil, “I say, old lad, where’s our big feller got to?”

  The young hedgehog shrugged, but Skipper nodded toward the Abbey building. “Said he was goin’ back to the sickbay to put his paws up.”

  Sister Atrata nodded sagely. “Probably the best thing for him, after recovering from the fever. Orkwil, why don’t you and Miss Maudie go and check on your friend. Gorath might not know his way back to the infirmary.”

  Rangval joined them, rubbing his stomach ruefully. “Sure, a stretch o’ the paws might do me a bit o’ good, I think I overdid the ould feastin’ a touch!”

  Orkwil prodded the rogue squirrel’s distended midriff. “Overdid the feastin’ a touch, did you say? I think you must have a heavier touch than a regiment of starved squirrels, it’s a wonder you haven’t burst!”

  Rangval wrinkled his nose at Maudie. “Faith, will ye lissen t’the creature, I suppose ye’ll begrudge me second helpin’s when we return t’the feast!”

  As dusk darkened to night, lanterns were lit on the ramparts. Down on the lawn some of the elders lit a fire, to roast some of last autumn’s chestnuts, which Marja Dubbidge had stored in the belltower. Skipper Rorc was helping Barbowla and Kachooch to carry sleeping Dibbuns up to the dormitory, when they met Maudie and her two friends hurrying down the stairs into Great Hall. The otter chieftain stood aside to let them pass. “Where are ye off to in such a rush, missie?”

  The haremaid’s jaw was set in a grim line as she explained. “We’re looking for Gorath, he’s not in his room.”

  Barbowla shrugged. “It’s a warm night, Maudie, yore big badger might’ve chose to sleep out in the open. Maybe the orchard, or over by the pond.”

  Orkwil shook his head. “Then why would he want to take Tung, his big pitchfork, with him? It a
in’t in the room, an’ Gorath’s not in his bed. I’m worried!”

  “Owow, git yer paws off me, I ain’t done nothin’!”

  Benjo Tipps pushed the surly watervole through the doorway. The burly Cellarhog had him tight by one ear.

  Skipper Rorc eyed him with dislike. “Ahoy, Benjo, where’d ye come across this mis’rable sneak?”

  The Cellarhog gestured with his free paw. “By the little north wallgate, Skip, he tried t’run off but I collared him smartish.”

  The vole, who had his head bandaged due to his fall from the walltop, squealed unmercifully. “Yeek, yowch! Lemme go, yore ’urtin’ my wound!”

  Benjo gave his ear an extra tweak, and spoke severely. “If’n ye don’t tell us wot you were up to at the wallgate, yore in danger of losin’ a lug. Now speak!”

  The vole’s explanation was a mixture of indignation and self-pity. “I went up t’the healers room, to see if’n that Atrata mouse’d change the dressin’ on me injury, but she wasn’t there. Suddenly I was grabbed, by that giant stripedog. He ’eld a big pitchfork to me stummick. I thought he was goin’ to kill me!”

  Orkwil had not liked the vole from their first encounter. He expressed this in no uncertain terms. “Listen, sourface, I’ll kill ye meself if’n ye don’t tell us where Gorath went. Get on with it!”

  Hanging on to Benjo’s paw, to ease the pressure on his ear, the vole explained rapidly. “The stripedog said he had business with the golden fox. He made me take ’im t’the north wallgate, said I wasn’t to tell nobeast, an’ told me to lock the gate after he’d left. So I did, an’ that’s when this fat spikepig laid paws on me. Yeeeek, yore draggin’ me ear off, leggo leggo!”

  Benjo squeezed the ear harder. “Tell me, slutchface, who was the fat hedgepig that laid paws on ye? I can’t see no fat hedgepig round here, can you, Skip?”

  The otter chieftain scratched his rudder thoughtfully. “We ain’t never had a fat ’edgepig at Redwall, only a fine, big, ’andsome Cellarhog!”