The Sable Quean (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  The water vole set about pulling hot food from a clay oven at the back of her fire. “If’n Axtel’s a warrior, as ye say he is, well, he should be well able o’ takin’ care of hisself. I’ll find him for ye when things quietens down out there. Here, now, have ye ever tasted whortleberry an’ chestnut flan? ’Tis a fine ould recipe I got from me good uncle Shaym, an’ he was after bein’ a top champeen cook, so he was!”

  The flan was exceedingly tasty but rather hot.

  Flib did not seem to want either food or drink.

  Mumzy sat in front of her, staring into the shrewmaid’s blank gaze. “Hmm, an’ ye say she’s a shrew, one o’ those Guosim, I’ll wager. I spent a few o’ me salad seasons with ’em. Sure, they were a grand lot, those beasts. Maybe I can snap Flib out of her mood. Let’s try an ould Guosim lullaby. Reach me that there vole o’lin, young Guff.”

  Guffy passed Mumzy the instrument. It was a tiny three-stringed fiddle, which she played by bowing it with a dried water-violet stalk. The water vole had such a pleasant, soothing voice that Guffy dropped off to sleep on a moss-covered ledge.

  Gurchen politely stayed awake, though Flib’s eyelids began drooping as Mumzy sang the Guosim lullaby.“When the warm sun sinks gently from out of the sky,

  hear the tired old breeze sigh a yawn,

  and the bees cease a-humming, now dark night is

  coming,

  to blanket the earth until dawn.

  “Then the logboat of dreams drifts away o’er the

  streams,

  as we sail on it, baby and me,

  past meadow and vale, without paddle or sail,

  we both slumber on down to the sea.

  “Where birds circle silently, winging on high,

  deep waters run silent and calm,

  ’neath the soft gentle bloom of a honeydew moon,

  with no wind or wave to cause harm.

  “Then the logboat of dreams will grant wishes it

  seems,

  all a little one’s heart could require

  ’til rainbow-hued dawn turns to fresh summer morn,

  and a world full of hope and desire.”

  No sooner had the last strains of the quaint vole o’lin faded than Flib blinked, as though waking from a dream. “My ma used t’sing that un. I never bothered learnin’ it, but me sister Midda did. She sings it t’Borti—he’s our l iddle brother.”

  Mumzy busied herself, chatting away to Flib with no mention of the shrewmaid’s former state. “Ah, ’tis a grand ould song, sure enough. C’mon now, darlin’. Try a drop o’ me hot cordial an’ a piece o’ me good flan.”

  Flib sat up straight. “Thankee, marm, that’d be nice. By the way, my name’s Flib. Wot’s yores?”

  The water vole served Flib. “Ah, sure, ye can just call me Mumzy. There now, Flib, ye’ll enjoy that!”

  As Flib concentrated her attention on the food, Gurchen whispered to Mumzy, “Yurr, marm, she’m lukkin’ ee lot betterer.”

  The water vole kept her voice low. “That’s ’cos she’s blanked out the slayin’ o’ that ould fox. I’ve seen such things happen afore. But ye must never mention that she killed the fox. Don’t want her t’go all funny agin, do we now?”

  Mumzy paused a moment, then warned her guests, holding a paw to her mouth, “Husha now—somebeast’s outside!”

  They sat with bated breath. The water vole murmured, “You stay here, now, I’ll go an’ take a peek.”

  Flib was right at her side. “I’m comin’ with ye—don’t argue, it’ll do ye no good!”

  Zwilt the Shade stood on top of the rocky streambank. He watched his four Ravager guards climb down to the water. They drank from the cold, clear-running stream, then, seeing the abundant watercress, began stuffing mouthfuls. The tall sable allowed them only a moment before he gave orders.

  “Enough of that. Get back up here whilst the trail is still fresh. I intend to catch those runaway deserters today. Come on, move yourselves!” The vermin guards knew better than to disobey. They scrambled hastily up, trotting after their leader, who was already marching swiftly off into the woodlands.

  Two heads popped over the banktop—Mumzy and Flib.

  The water vole rubbed a paw on the grass. “Ah, sure, that was close. I don’t know fer the life o’ me how they managed not t’see us. That last eejit trod right on me paw. Are you alright, Flib darlin’?”

  The shrewmaid smiled grimly. “Oh, I’m fine, but wait’ll ole Zwilt sees that fox. Hah, that’s one piece o’ scum won’t be goin’ back with him!”

  Mumzy stared at her companion. “Ye remember wot happened to the fox, do ye?”

  Flib narrowed her eyes fiercely. “Of course I do. It was him or us. That lousy vermin woulda murdered me an’ the two liddle moles without blinkin’ an’ eye. So I got in first an’ killed him. An’ I ain’t sorry I did, so there. I’d do it agin if’n I had to!”

  Mumzy chuckled. “An’ here was meself, tryin’ to spare yore feelin’s. Sure, a real ould killer you’ve turned out t’be, Missy Flib!”

  The shrewmaid stared after the retreating vermin. “That’s ’cos I’m from a line o’ Guosim warriors—nothin’ can change that!”

  Dawn broke pale over the eastern treetops as Buckler and his friends made their way cautiously through the woodlands. They could not move at a fast pace, because of the Guosim Tracker, Sniffy, scouting the ground ahead of them. On fording a small streamlet, they saw him on the other side, seated on a fallen alder trunk, waiting for them.

  They sat down with him—it had been a long trek through the Mossflower night, avoiding obstacles, skirting swampland and other such hazards. Sharing a flask of October Ale, they broke their fast with oat farls and cheese. As they ate, Sniffy made his report.

  “I cut four sets o’ tracks up yonder—two vermin, a weasel an’ a stoat, runnin’ alongside two foxes, one of them a vixen. Then they split in different directions, vermin headin’ nor ’east, an’ the foxes travellin’ more southerly.”

  Buckler questioned him further. “No sign o’ that tall sable, Zwilt?”

  Sniffy took a pull from the flask. “None. Just the weasel, the stoat an’ the foxes.”

  Skipper consulted the young hare. “Wot d’ye say, Buck? Shall we split up an’ follow ’em?”

  Buckler took a flat piece of shale. Spitting on one side, he tossed it in the air. “Your call, Jango—wet or dry?”

  The Guosim Log a Log called, “I say dry.”

  Buckler looked at the fallen stone. “Dry it is, mate. What do ye want t’do?”

  Jango looked at Sniffy. “Which of ’em’ll be the hardest to track?”

  Sniffy replied after a moment’s hesitation. “Foxes I reckon, Chief. They seems t’know the ins an’ outs of most places—allus been slybeasts, those foxes.”

  Skipper cut in. “Then me’n Buck’ll trail the foxes.”

  Jango shrugged. “Suit yoreselves, but ye best take Sniffy. No fox could give him the slip. I’ll take Big Bartij. We’ll go after the other two, right?”

  Buckler nodded. “Right, mate. Later on we can either meet back here or pick up each other ’s trail.”

  After putting Jango and Bartij on the vermin trail, Sniffy set off with Skipper and Buckler on the track left by Thwip and Binta.

  Axtel Sturnclaw, the Warrior mole, had regained his senses. He woke to the sound of Tassy and Borti weeping. The pain in Axtel’s footpaw was agonising; it had swollen with the spearhead still impaling it. However, his first thoughts were not for himself, but for the two babes.

  Tassy was hugging little Borti, trying to comfort him, even though she herself was in tears. It was a pitiable sight.

  Axtel beckoned to them. “Cumm yurr, likkle uns. ’Ush you’m weepin’—oi’ll take gudd care of ee.”

  They sat close to him, leaning against his velvety fur. With an effort, Tassy got her sniffling under control. The Redwall squirrel Dibbun winced at the sight of the big mole’s wound.

  “Yore paw is very hurted sir. ’Ow
you goin’ t’fix it?”

  Axtel sat up slowly, leaning forward to inspect the impaled limb. “Furst thing we’m got to do, likkle mizzy, is to be getten you spearpoint owt. Yurr, foind oi a gudd stone—that un o’er thurr.”

  Tassy had to struggle a bit, but she fetched the chunk of limestone over to him.

  Axtel smiled at her. “Gudd! Naow, put et unner moi futtpaw, so ’tis restin’ agin’ ee spearpoint.”

  The squirrelbabe did as she was bidden. Axtel took a deep breath, readying himself. “You’m stan’ clear, naow, an’ moind ee babby sh’ew.”

  Tassy obeyed without question. The mole took out his war hammer and set the haft between his teeth. He took hold of the stump of spear pole. Squinching his eyes tight shut, he shoved the spearpoint hard against the stone whilst at the same time giving the stump a swift, strong heave. Axtel roared. “Hoooouuuurrrr! Hooooaaaarggggh!”

  He went backward, lying flat out, with the freed spearpoint grasped in his forepaws.

  Carrying Borti, Tassy hurried to his side. “It’s out—you did it! But it’ bleedin’ blood!”

  The big mole prised his jaws loose from the war hammer. “Hurr, so ’tis. Oi’ll needs to bandage et upp!”

  Tassy placed Borti at her friend’s side. “You mind Borti. I know how t’make dressin’s—Sista Fumb’l teached me. Jus’ wait here, sir. I don’t be long.” She dashed off to find what she needed.

  Seeing her go, Borti began wailing again. “Waaah, want my mamma!”

  Axtel sat the little fellow on his chest, chuckling. “Hurr, an’ so do oi, zurr, but b’ain’t no use a-howlin’ fur hurr. Coom on, naow. Make ee gurt smile fur oi!” He tickled the shrewbabe with his snout.

  Borti was very susceptible to tickles. He was soon wriggling and giggling through his tears.

  Tassy returned with an apronful of stuff. She took over like a proper little Infirmary nurse. “Now, you lie still an’ I fix a paw up!”

  Axtel adopted a look of serious obedience.

  “Yuss, marm, oi’ll do azzakerly loike ee says!”

  He watched in pleasurable wonder as the Redwall squirrelmaid worked on the injured footpaw. Wiping the wound clean with crushed sanicle flowers, poulticing the bleeding with soft moss, she dressed it with dockleaves and sainfoin, tying the whole thing off with chickweed stems, which she knotted neatly.

  “There, now. ’Ow doo’s that feel?”

  Axtel winked at Borti. “Yurr, she’m a vurry clever creetur, b’ain’t ’er?”

  Tassy declared proudly, “I gonna work inna ’firmary wiv Sista Fumb’l when I growed h’up!”

  The Warrior mole chuckled. “Oi’m shure ee will, miz!”

  A sound of approaching creatures alerted Axtel. “You’m hoide in ee bushers, naow. ‘Urry—sumbeast bee’s a-comen!”

  They ran for the bushes, practically bumping into Sniffy. He swept Borti up in his paws joyfully.

  “Seasons o’ streams, lookit wot I found. ’Tis Jango an’ Furm’s babe. Borti, ain’t it?”

  Tassy gave a delighted squeal. She ran right up Skipper, as if scaling a tree. “Yeeeheee! Skippa, it me, Tassy!”

  The Otter Chieftain hugged her happily. “Well, burn me rudder if it ain’t. Where’s the other little uns, Tass?”

  Axtel saw that the newcomers were friendly. He tried to stand upright. “They’m mostly apprisoned, zurr, tho’ oi manarged t’get they two owt. Hurr aye, an’ three more who bee’s at moi camp!”

  Buckler strode up to the mole and shook his paw warmly. “We’re grateful to ye, sir. Are you badly hurt?”

  Favouring the wounded paw, Axtel leaned against the hare. “Oi was, zurr, but oi’m gurtly attended to boi likkle Mizzy Tass, thankee.”

  Buckler drew his sword, tossing it to Sniffy. “See if’n ye can cut this bravebeast a crutch, mate.”

  Skipper fed them from his pack. The big mole was enjoying October Ale with cheese and onion pasty so much that Buckler had to wait before asking him, “Have you noticed two foxes hereabouts of late?”

  Axtel held out his beaker to be refilled. “Two foxers? Nay, zurr, nary a sightin’ of ’em.”

  Sniffy, who was hacking at a forked hazel limb, snorted with displeasure. “We’ve lost the rascals. Told ye foxes were slybeasts, didn’t I? We’ll ’ave to backtrack, sorry.”

  Buckler broke a pasty, sharing it between the young ones. “I only asked about the foxes out of curiosity—they’re not important now. The main thing is that we’ve found the little uns or, should I say, our molefriend has.”

  The Warrior mole tugged his snout politely. “Axtel Sturnclaw at you’m survice, zurrs!”

  Whilst Buckler introduced himself and his companions, Sniffy passed Axtel the crutch he had hewed from the hazel.

  “There y’are. That should serve ye well enough.” He went chasing off after little Borti, who was toddling away on his own into the trees. “Gotcha, ye liddle rogue. You stick close by ole Uncle Sniffy, now, d’ye hear . . . ahah, wot’s this?”

  Dropping on all fours, the Tracker inspected the ground. “Ahoy, mates, I never lost the foxes—here’s their trail, I’ve picked it up agin. Aye, this is it, one dogfox an’ one vixen, headed over that way.”

  Axtel followed the direction Sniffy’s paw was pointing. “Yurr, moi camp’s o’er thurr, with ee uther three likkle uns. They’m foxers bee’s sure t’foind et!”

  Buckler issued swift orders. “Skip, you follow with Axtel and the young uns. Sniffy, lead the way, mate. We’ll have t’move fast if the other three babes are alone in that camp!”

  Shortly thereafter, the Guosim Tracker and the hare arrived at Axtel’s camp. They found it deserted, except for the presence of Thwip’s grisly carcass. Sniffy wrenched the spear from the dead fox’s midriff, passing it to Buckler.

  “I dunno wot went on round ’ere, but it looks like we’re only trackin’ one fox now, the vixen. You stand still there, Buck. Let me cast around for more tracks.”

  Whilst Sniffy was engaged in his task, Skipper and the others arrived.

  Buckler held up the homemade spear. “Stay back. Sniffy’s lookin’ for fresh tracks. There was nobeast here—just this fox, he was slain with this.”

  Axtel took the spear. “Hurr, that’ll be ee likkle sh’ewmaid, Flib. She’m a boldbeast, oi kin tell ee!”

  Buckler relaxed slightly. “Aye, she is that. Flib can take care of herself, but what about the other two?”

  Axtel shook his large velvety head. “H’only babbies, two likkle molers, cuddn’t ’arm anybeast.”

  Skipper, who was carrying Borti on his shoulders, enquired, “Any trace of ’em, Sniff?”

  The Tracker scratched his head. “There’s trails goin’ everyplace, mate. Here’s the foxes, two arrivin’ an’ only one leavin’, alone. The vixen didn’t take the molebabes—some otherbeast did. Whether ’twas friend or foebeast, I dunno. Thick tail, long fuzzy prints, big ’airy paws, prob’ly.”

  Buckler grasped his long rapier hilt. “Which way has it gone—can ye make out the little moleprints?”

  Sniffy had his nose practically stuck to the ground. “Little uns that size don’t leave much trail t’follow. They don’t weigh much, y’see. Now, as for this otherbeast, a female, I think, an’ she really knows ’er way round this neck o’ the woods, I can tell ye. Nah, this is a creature wot won’t be found by any if’n she don’t want ’em to. Still, let’s see if’n I can’t pick up the track.”

  The going was slow and hard, with many a false trail. Mumzy had spent a lifetime avoiding pursuers in Mossflower. Sniffy commented on this as they crawled on their stomachs beneath widespread thick bush and shrubbery. “Like tryin’ to track a fish unnerwater, this is!”

  They pressed on laboriously, unaware that they were being watched by evil eyes.

  BOOK THREE

  Escape from Althier!

  17

  Back at Redwall Abbey, there was some slight disagreement about who was responsible for guarding the walls. Diggs and Oakheart Witherspyk were not se
eing eye-to-eye on the business of guard duties. Moreover, an officious shrew named Divvery had decided that the Guosim were not going to take orders from anybeast who was not of their tribe.

  Diggs had selected all the able-bodied creatures he could find, regardless of who they were. The tubby young hare split his command into two shifts, one for daytime, the other for night. It was a good and fair system: Moles, Abbeybeasts, Guosim and Witherspyks found themselves standing together on the ramparts.

  Those not on guard were employed at making weapons. Bows, arrows, slings and spears were being constructed down in Cellarmole Gurjee’s cellars. The whole scheme worked fine for a day. Then things started to go awry.

  Friar Soogum forgot to send lunch up to the walltops, so Divvery took the shrews off to the kitchens. Instead of taking their food back up to the walltops, they went into the orchard to eat. Oakheart was not too pleased at being left lunchless on sentry duty. The large, florid hedgehog was halfway down the wallsteps when he ran into Diggs, who blocked his path.

  “Tut, tut, Oakie, wot’s this? Desertin’ your bloomin’ post? Back up t’the jolly old walltops, this instant!”

  Oakheart pushed past him indignantly. “Back up y’self, sirrah. There’s only my goodself and a mere scattering of guards up there. Those shrew chappies have taken themselves off to lunch, if y’please!”

  Diggs was taken aback. “Gone off to lunch? Deserted, just to feed their blinkin’ faces! Right, leave this t’me. One thing I will not tolerate is rank disobedience. An’ as for you, laddie me hog, back up on duty, before I put you on a bloomin’ fizzer. On the double!”

  Oakheart’s stomach began rumbling. This made him take umbrage against Diggs. “Pish tush, laddie. I’m senior to you, both in season an’ rank, and I intend to take lunch forthwith. You stop me at your peril, I warn ye!”

  Trajidia came hurrying down the wallsteps. “Oh, Father, pray, do not strike him down!”

  Foremole Darbee came trundling along the ramparts. “Yurr, thur’ll be no strikin’ h’inside ee Abbey!”