The Sable Quean (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  “You’ll soon find out about Thwip. He’s a wicked ole fox who’s in charge of us. Him an’ his mate, Binta—she carries a cane, an’ he uses a whip. ’Spect that’s how he got ’is name. Don’t do anythin’ to anger either of ’em. They enjoy bein’ cruel an’ tormentin’ us. Best thing t’do is just be quiet an’ do as they tell ye.”

  Midda leaned back against the rock wall. She felt bone weary. “I’ll do as I’m told, but the first chance I get, me’n Borti are goin’ to escape.”

  Tura grasped Midda’s paw tightly. “That’s foolish talk, friend. Have ye heard of the Ravagers, a big vermin mob? The one called Zwilt is their commander—nobeast can run from them. Huh, escape? D’ye know where you are? None of us do. Even if’n ye did get out o’ here, where would you run to, eh?”

  Midda roused herself indignantly. “I’m a Guosim, an’ my father’s Jango Bigboat. He’s a Log a Log, Chieftain of all Mossflower shrews. So if’n me’n Borti are prisoners here, he’ll find out. Hah, an’ when he does, that Zwilt, aye, an’ the one they call the Sable Quean, they’ll be sorry, believe me!”

  A gaunt-eyed bankvole nearby scoffed, “Huh, everybeast says somethin’ like that when they first get here. Ferget about escapin’. Ye’ll soon see it ain’t no use, right, Flandor?”

  The young otter gritted his teeth. “Maybe, maybe not. Someway, somehow, there’s got t’be a way out to freedom. I’d sooner die now than spend the rest o’ my days rottin’ in here, mate. But we can’t rush things. First we’ve got to make a proper plan. Another thing, we’ll only tell those we can trust.”

  Midda was surprised. “Y’mean there’s prisoners here who’d tell Thwip that we were escapin’?”

  Tura nodded. “Aye, poor sillybeasts who’d do anythin’ for an extra mouthful o’ food. That’s the way it gets some, after a while in here. Quiet now—here comes Thwip an’ Binta!”

  The door was opened. Two guards dragged a steaming cauldron in, followed by another two lugging a tub of water. Then the foxes swaggered in. Thwip was large and fat; he flourished a long whip, making it crack. Binta leaned on her yew cane, favouring a limp. Thwip folded his whiplash.

  “Well, ain’t yew lot the luckybeasts? A nice, dry roof over yore ’eads, comfy’n’warm. Good vittles an’ drink aplenty—huh, ye don’t ’ave t’do a thing to earn ’em. Just sit there nice an’ quiet, eh, Binta?”

  The vixen drew an imaginary line with her cane. “Line up single file an’ be still. Anybeast pushin’ or shovin’ will get a taste o’ this rod an’ no vittles. Two pawfuls apiece, then line up over there for water.”

  As they hurried to get into line, Thwip pushed his whip stock under Midda’s chin. He leered at her.

  “New, are ye? Well, git t’the back o’ the line, go on!”

  Tura went with her, whispering, “You’ll have to fetch Borti, or he’ll get none.”

  Midda glanced at her baby brother sleeping peacefully. “Leave him there. He needs his rest. I’ll try to get enough in my paws for both of us.”

  The gaunt squirrelmaid replied, “I’ll see if I can manage to grab a bit extra, too.”

  It was the poorest of food, obviously the remains of their captors’ meal mashed up with roots, leaves and a bit of wild oatmeal, all boiled in water to produce a pitiful gruel. There was also a single ladle of brackish water apiece for the young prisoners.

  Borti woke briefly. He ate some of the mixture, which his sister and her squirrelfriend had saved for him, murmuring drowsily, “M’wanna go ’ome . . . go ’ome. . . .”

  Midda picked him up and rocked him, singing a little song she had made up specially for him.“Borti, Borti, my liddle Borti,

  don’t you weep an’ don’t be naughty.

  If you promise to be good,

  we will play in Mossflow’r Wood.

  Sleep now, sleep now, close those eyes.

  Midda’s got a nice surprise.

  When you waken up again,

  I’ll make you a daisy chain,

  a daisy chain and y’know ’tis true,

  my liddle Borti, I love you.”

  The baby shrew fell into a slumber, sucking his paw.

  Midda watched him, trying to sleep herself. But the tears would not allow her to shut her eyes. So she sat staring into the gloom, quietly weeping for her mother and father, and the big logboat she called home.

  6

  Drull Hogwife was often up earlier than anybeast at Redwall. Being Friar Soogum’s faithful assistant, she would go straight to the kitchens. Though he hated to admit it, the good Friar often slept a bit late, and who could deny him the privilege?

  Being advanced in seasons, labouring hard and late into the night, Soogum slept on a little bed in his office, next door to the larder. Drull crept into the kitchens an hour before dawn, planning to start readying breakfast and wake her friend Soogum with a hot beaker of honeyed mint tea. It was a refreshment the Friar was always thankful for. Drull felt the warmth from the ovens as she took off her cloak and donned a rather flowery work apron. That was when she saw it!

  Ruark, the Skipper of Otters, had taken to sleeping in the gatehouse of late. Granvy, the old hedgehog Recorder, always slept there, in his armchair, leaving the big, comfortable bed vacant. Ruark took full advantage of this. It was not yet daylight when urgent knocking roused him.

  Granvy blinked drowsily from his armchair. “Eh, who’s that? It’s still dark out there!”

  The big otter made a beeline for the door. “You stay there, mate. I’ll see who ’tis.”

  He opened the door, to be confronted by an almost incoherent hogwife.

  Drull kept covering her face with the flowery apron, gabbling nonstop. “Oh, corks a mercy me, wotever’s ’a ppened—I never seen ought like it in all me borned days, so I never!”

  Skipper pulled the hysterical creature inside and pushed her down into a chair, questioning her. “Wot haven’t ye seen, marm? Slow down, now, what is it?”

  Drull jumped up. Waving her paws, she bustled out of the gatehouse, still alarmingly talkative. “Come an’ see, come an’ see for yoreself, sir. Oh, corks’n’crabshells, y’ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. There’s a vermin in the kitchens!”

  Grabbing his javelin from behind the door, Skipper sped past her. “A vermin y’say, marm—stay away, an’ keep everybeast out o’ the kitchens!”

  The young stoat, Globby, had indeed found the big cooking place, after a long, furtive search. Friar Soogum lay asleep in his office, unnoticed by the intruder. Globby had never seen so much food in one place. It was like paradise to the hungry young vermin. Trays of freshly baked scones, biscuits and breakfast bread were cooling on the shelves. The aroma almost sent him into ecstasy.

  He was stuffing his face with a scone, a thin almond biscuit and a small crispy farl when he spotted the large earthenware jars with wooden ladles beside them. Honey, damson preserve, plum jam. In a moment, he was dripping with a combination of all three, his paws, chin, snout and cheeks literally plastered with the mixture. Then he discovered the flasks of pale cider, October Ale and elderberry wine. After a protracted period of sheer gluttony, gorging and swigging, Globby curled up on a ready floured table surface, nestling his head on a heap of unkneaded dough. He slumped into a satisfied sleep amidst the culinary wreckage he had created. Scones, bread, biscuits lay scattered in a soggy mess, with honey, preserves, spilled drink and an upset cauldron of cold oatmeal porridge.

  Skipper Ruark spotted Globby as soon as he entered the kitchens. Knowing the slumbering vermin presented no immediate danger, the Otter Chieftain moved silently, searching the area for other foebeasts. He found Friar Soogum, who had just wakened. The old water vole yawned, rubbed his eyes and smiled.

  ‘G’mornin’, Skip. I’ll get breakfast goin’ right away.” Skipper placed a paw to his lips. “Nay, sir. You stay there until I call ye. Don’t come out!”

  Word had swiftly gone around the early risers. Abbess Marjoram, Foremole Darbee, several of his crew and Cellarmole Gurjee cr
owded the doorway as Skipper roused Globby into consciousness.

  The young stoat blinked, stared at the otter for a moment, then bounded from the table with the mound of dough still stuck to the side of his face. The brawny Skipper seized him by the tail, slamming him back onto the table. Grabbing a breadknife, he put the point against Globby’s nosetip.

  “If’n ye value yore mizzrubble life, mudface, ye’ll start talkin’ fast. Wot are ye doin’ here, eh?”

  The young Ravager had expected to be slain on the spot. Finding himself still alive, his natural insolence came to the fore. He grinned cheekily. “I was ’ungry, so I thought ye wouldn’t mind me borrowin’ a bite o’ vikkles an’ a drop t’drink.”

  Abbess Marjoram came to the table, staring at him coldly. “And tell us, pray, how did you get into this Abbey?”

  Globby wrinkled his jam-smeared snout at her. “That’s my liddle secret, missis. I ain’t tellin’ yer!”

  That was when Skipper ’s temper got the better of him. Throwing aside the breadknife, he grabbed a wooden oven paddle. Roughly flopping Globby over on his stomach, he proceeded spanking away with the paddle.

  Thwack! Splat! Thwack! Splat! Thwack! Splat!

  Skipper roared over the Ravager’s squeals and screeches. “Who d’ye think ye are, talkin’ to the Mother Abbess o’ Redwall like that, ye hardfaced liddle whelp!”

  Marjoram stayed the big otter’s paw in midspank. “You’d best stop before you injure him seriously!”

  Skipper released Globby, who immediately fell to the floor holding his rear end as he wriggled about in a horizontal dance.

  “Waaaahwaaaah! Eeeeeeyowwww! Hoohoohoowaaaah!”

  Foremole Darbee shook a hefty digging claw at him. “Hurrhurr, may’aps ee’ll keepen a siverful tongue in you’m ’ead, moi bold vurrmint. Naow, you’m answer ee h’Abbess, noice an’ perloit loike!”

  Kicking his footpaws frenziedly, Globby continued his agonised howls. Skipper grabbed the scruff of his neck, hauling him back over the table.

  “I don’t reckon he ’eard ye, sir. I’ll just carry on ’til his manners improves.”

  Globby wailed brokenly, “Waaaahaaah—don’t ’it me no more. I’ll tell ye. I climbed over the back wall!”

  Marjoram continued her interrogation of the stoat. “The back wall? You mean our eastern rampart? How in the name of seasons did you manage that?”

  One glance at Skipper ’s stern face convinced Globby to reply truthfully. “Climbed uppa big tree an’ went along a branch near the wall. I jumped it.”

  Skipper clapped a paw to his brow. “We’ve forgotten to trim back the branches for three seasons now. They must’ve grown good’n’long!”

  Marjoram reassured him. “It’s my fault, friend. There’s been peace for so long that there’s been no need of tree trimming. So, let’s remedy the situation today!”

  Skipper Ruark saluted. “Leave it t’me, marm. Gurjee, bring any axes, saws or cuttin’ tools up from yore cellars. Brother Tollum, gather the best climbin’ squirrels t’gether. Foremole, take yore crews up to the walltops. Drull, marm, tell the Friar we’ll need packed lunches for the workers, if’n ye please.”

  The hogwife fidgeted anxiously with her apron strings. “But nobeast’s ’ad brekkist yet, sir.”

  The Abbess interrupted. “I’m sure the branch trimming is far more important, Drull. Besides, breakfast is already ruined, and it’ll take time to clear up the mess, no thanks to this scruffy savage!”

  Friar Soogum emerged from his makeshift bedroom. The old water vole shook his head in disbelief. “You mean t’tell me one vermin did all this to my kitchen? Drull, you see to the packed lunches. You, what’s your name?”

  The young stoat avoided the Friar’s icy stare. “Globby.”

  Soogum rolled up his habit sleeves in a businesslike manner. “Well, listen to me, Globby. You’re goin’ to clean this kitchen from top t’bottom. What are you goin’ t’do?”

  Globby saw the Friar pick up the oven paddle and give the air a few experimental whacks.

  “Er, leave it t’me, sir. I’ll ’ave the ole place shinin’ like a new pin afore ye knows it!”

  Dawn was streaking the skies with pale light as Dinko dropped into the ditch beside Daclaw and Raddi. His arrival wakened Daclaw, who had been catching a nap. He glared sourly at the young rat.

  ‘Wot are yew doin’ ’ere? Yore supposed t’be watchin’ the back gate with yer mate.”

  Dinko told his group leader what had taken place. “Well, it’s like this, y’see. When we was round there last night, Globby kept on about the nice vittles wot must be inside. So ’e climbed a big tree, crawled along an ’igh branch an’ jumped onto the top of the wall. Said ’e was goin’ t’look for stuff to eat. Any’ow, he went in, an’ I ain’t seen ’ide nor ’air of ’im since, Chief. So I thought I’d better tell ye.”

  Daclaw paced up and down the ditchbed irately. “Went into Redwall, did ’e? Jelly-brained idjit! Young Globby’s dead either way. If’n those inside don’t slay ’im, Zwilt the Shade will fer disobeyin’ orders. Frogskins an’ ’ells teeth, wot am I goin’ t’do now, eh?”

  Raddi came to his help. “Git the others round ’ere, where we can keep an eye on ’em. We’ll carry on watchin’ this front gate for a while.”

  Dinko shrugged. “Wot good’ll that do?”

  Daclaw cuffed him across the ears before speaking. “Aye, wot good’ll that do, eh?”

  Raddi explained, “Well, if’n they’ve slayed Globby, they’ll throw ’is carcass out ’ere in this ditch, mebbe. Then we can tell Zwilt wot ’appened. It’ll show ’im that at least we was carryin’ out orders properly. Don’t stand there gawpin’, young Dinko. Get the others an’ bring ’em round ’ere, go on!”

  Granvy unbolted the small east wickergate, peering out at the verdant woodland. “It looks peaceful enough to me.”

  Skipper strode out ahead of Brother Tollum and some squirrels, all of whom were carrying woodcutting tools. He paced the tree line closest to the wall. Looking up, he noted several long limbs and branches, some of them almost touching the battlements.

  “Brother Tollum, start with yonder sycamore, then take that beech next to it. Oh, an’ there’s an oak further along. Tell yore crew t’chop ’em well back, all those long branches.”

  The gaunt Bellringer nodded solemnly. “Right y’are, Skip. We’ll get right to it!”

  The Otter Chieftain made for the east wallsteps, where he met a group of Dibbuns about to go up.

  “Ahoy, mateys! Where do ye think yore off to?”

  Guffy the molebabe was waving a table fork, which he deemed a very useful implement. “Ho, doan’t ee fret about us’n’s, zurr. We’m a-goin’ up thurr to ’elp out, hurr aye!”

  The big otter smiled. “Well, thankee, mates, but you ain’t allowed on the walltops until you’ve growed a bit. I’m afraid ’tis a bit dangerous for Dibbuns. Run off an’ play, now, there’s good liddle beasts.”

  Foremole Darbee and his crew were on the ramparts. Though not greatly fond of heights, the moles worked industriously. Tollum’s squirrels would tie ropes to the chosen branches, throwing them across to the moles. Tugging hard on the ropes, the molecrew stopped the branches springing and bouncing. It was a lot easier to cut the wood once it was held steady. Whenever one was sawn or chopped through, Skipper would yell, “Ahoy, mates, heave ’er away!”

  Some hefty limbs were hauled onto the walltops. They were dropped down to the Abbey lawns, where other Redwallers would cut them into small lengths, either for Friar Soogum’s firewood store or for Cellarmole Gurjee’s workshop. Good timber was never wasted.

  The Ravager group were crouching in the ditch by the west wall, when Daclaw held up a paw for silence. He listened intently.

  “Where’s all that noise comin’ from?”

  “Shall I go an’ see, Chief?” Dinko volunteered.

  Daclaw ignored him, pointing to a fat weasel. “Slopgut, you go. See wot it is an’ report straight back.”
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br />   Dinko did not like being left out. He was curious. “Wot d’ye think it is, Chief?”

  Daclaw stamped on the young rat’s tail. “We’ll get t’know when Slopgut gits back. Why d’ye think I sent ’im, thick’ead? Now, shut yer trap!”

  The work was going well on the east side. Stout branches of sycamore, beech, oak and hornbeam were being sawn into manageable sections by Sister Fumbril and a big hedgehog named Bartij, who besides being the Infirmary Sister’s aide, was also Redwall’s orchard gardener. Together they worked a double-pawed logsaw, keeping up a steady rhythm.

  Brother Tollum called out to Skipper, “There goes the last branch, Skip, a nice piece o’ spruce!”

  Darbee Foremole waved to his crew. “Haul ’er in, moi beauties. Ee job bee’s well dunn!”

  Granvy clapped his paws cheerfully. “Aye, an’ just in time, here comes lunch!”

  Hogwife Drull and her kitchen helpers hove into view. They were wheeling two trolleys piled high with good things to eat. Abbess Marjoram was with them. Molebabe Guffy and his friend, a squirrel Dibbun called Tassy, took the Abbess by her paws.

  “Yurr, marm, cumm an’ see all ee wudd we’m chop pered up furr ee—b’ain’t that roight, Tassy?”

  Marjoram chuckled. “Is that little Miss Tassy under all that sawdust and woodchips?”

  The tiny squirrelmaid piped up, “I been very, very bizzy wivva natchet, chop chop!”

  The Abbess dusted bark chips from Tassy’s ears. “Then you should be ready for some mushroom and leek soup and vegetable pasties. Then we’ve got apple and black currant crumble with arrowroot sauce.”

  Everybeast surged forward at the mention of the treats to come. They were halted by Skipper’s shout.

  “Sit down where y’are, all of ye, or there’ll be no lunch!”

  He bowed gallantly to Drull and the Abbess. “Serve away, marms. Feed these savage beasts, if ye please!”