The Sable Quean (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Oakheart held up his paws. “Who said I was goin’ to strike him?”

  Drull Hogwife pointed a paw at Trajidia. “She did!”

  Young Rambuculus Witherspyk sniggered. “Can I come to lunch with ye, Pa? I’ll help ye to strike him!”

  Oakheart was incensed at his son’s insolence. “One more word out of you an’ I’ll tan your hide!”

  “What’s all this about beasts being struck within my walls? The very idea of it!”

  Everybeast fell silent at the sudden appearance of Abbess Marjoram. Oakheart faltered lamely. “But we’ve had no lunch. . . .”

  Marjoram faced him squarely, her voice stern. “Is that any reason for argument and talk of striking?”

  Trajidia uttered a dramatic sob. “My dear father is the gentlest of creatures. He would never strike another beast!”

  Drull Hogwife spoke out. “Then why did ye say he would?”

  Rambuculus chortled. “She’s always sayin’ things like that.”

  Marjoram had heard Rambuculus volunteering to help his father strike Diggs. She fixed both young hogs with a severe stare. “You two are relieved of wall duty. Go and see Gurjee. Tell him that you’re on cellar-sweeping duty for the next two days.”

  She turned to Drull for further information. “Now, how did all this disagreement start?”

  Drull explained, “All the shrews marched off to lunch.”

  Diggs spoke. “Leavin’ the walls only half defended, marm.”

  Oakheart could not resist adding, “Aye, and us only half fed!”

  The Abbess relieved the situation. “I’ll have Friar Soogum send up lunch for you all. Stay by your posts—it’ll be here shortly. Diggs, Mister Oakheart, stay up here in joint command. As for the shrews, leave them to me.”

  Divvery and the other Guosim were enjoying a post-lunch nap in the orchard when the Mother Abbess, backed up by Sister Fumbril, marched in on them. Marjoram did not hesitate.

  “Excuse me, are we disturbing anything?”

  Divvery did not even bother rising. “No, you ain’t. We’re havin’ our lunch, marm.”

  Marjoram nodded. “So I see. And what about guarding the walltops? Doesn’t that interest you?”

  Divvery shrugged. “Ain’t no lunch up there. We came down to get somethin’ to eat. Got a right to vittles, ain’t we?”

  The Abbess kept her voice level, betraying nothing. “Yes, of course you have. But now you’re finished, perhaps you’d better resume guard duties.”

  The other shrews looked to their self-appointed leader. Divvery had not stirred, so they stayed put.

  Marjoram turned, as if to walk away. “Log a Log Jango will be pleased to hear of your conduct when he returns.”

  They leapt up immediately and began hurrying off. No Guosim wanted to face his Log a Log for disobedience.

  The Abbess called Divvery back. “Not you. I’ve got a different job I need taking care of.”

  Sister Fumbril, who was much bigger and stronger than the shrew, tripped him and neatly relieved him of his short rapier. She held him firmly as he blustered, “Wot d’ye think yore doin’? Git yer paws offa me!”

  Fumbril smiled sweetly, retaining her strong hold. “I will, young sir, as soon as yore down in the cellars with a sweepin’ broom in yore paws. Come along now!”

  Granvy had been watching the incident from a distance. He approached Marjoram. Together they watched the rebellious shrew being hauled off to the cellars.

  The Recorder commented, “Was he troubling you, Mother Abbess?”

  Marjoram settled both paws in her wide sleeves. “Not at all, my friend. The only thing troubling me is those missing Dibbuns. I can’t help thinking about them, wondering if they’re still alive and well.”

  In the caverns beneath Althier or—to give the place its real title—Brockhall, the remaining young ones were alive. However, they were not well. Confinement, rough treatment and poor food were taking their toll. Slack li mbed, and dull-eyed, Tura and Midda wandered amongst the youngest creatures, trying to comfort them by telling them to sleep. Mostly the young ones wept, either for their mothers or for food. Calla and Urfa, the leverets, were the youngest of all, mere babes who could hardly talk. Tura and Midda nursed the little hares, rocking them gently, murmuring softly to them.

  “There, now, get some dinner soon, sleep now, hush.”

  A mousebabe tugged Midda’s sleeve. His name was Diggla, and he was at that age when young ones feel compelled to question everything. “Why d’we got t’go asleep?”

  Midda pushed him gently down, tucking in his tattered smock. “Because it’s time t’go to sleep.”

  Diggla persisted. “But wot time’s sleep time?”

  Midda explained patiently, “Nighttime is sleep time. Now, close your eyes.”

  However, Diggla was not about to comply. “Is it nighttime now?”

  Midda pondered the question briefly, then spoke to Tura. “D’you know, I can’t tell whether ’tis night or daytime down here, can you?”

  The squirrelmaid yawned, lying back wearily. “It’s got t’be nighttime ’cos I feel sleepy.”

  Midda snuggled down next to Diggla. “I suppose you’re right. Let’s all get some rest. If they bring vittles, those guards’ll soon wake us.”

  Diggla tugged her sleeve again. “Singa warmer teddo song f’me.”

  Tura opened one eye. “Warmer teddo, what’s that?”

  Midda sighed. “He means the watermeadow song.”

  A molebabe piped up gruffly, “Hoi loikes that un. You’m can sing et furr uz.”

  The Guosim maid chuckled wearily. “How can I refuse? But don’t blame me if’n I falls asleep before I finishes it.”

  Diggla giggled. “Silly, y’can’t sing y’self to sleep.”

  Midda answered wryly, “Huh, can’t I, though!” She began singing the beautiful watermeadow ballad, beloved of all creatures who used streams and waterways.“Hear that hum in the lazy noontide,

  that’s a bee who’ll rest a day or so,

  all around the summer watermeadow,

  creatures come and go.

  Damselflies on gossamer wings,

  water beetles, funny little things,

  caddis, stone and mayfly, too,

  skim and hover all round you.

  Let your paw trail in the greeny water.

  Paddle in the shallows, wade around,

  where the bleak and tiny minnows quiver,

  chub rise up with ne’er a sound.

  Mid the bulrush and the reed,

  sundew cleavers and brookweed,

  toothwort, comfrey, watercress,

  waterlilies calmly rest.

  Watermeadow, rainbow-flow’red, spreading far and

  wide,

  shimmering ’neath golden sun, ’til shades of eventide.”

  The final line trailed off as Midda fell into a doze, which soon deepened into sleep. It was not cold in the captives’ cavern, merely gloomy and depressing to the spirit. Everybeast lay slumbering in the feeble glow of two small lanterns. All except Diggla the mousebabe.

  The little fellow had decided that sleep was not for him—he felt active and restless. Crawling out from beneath the limp restraint of the shrewmaid’s paw, Diggla toddled off to explore his surroundings, free and unhampered.

  Sometime later, the guards hauled food and water in for the prisoners. They were roused by a stoat banging a ladle on the side of the meal cauldron, shouting with heavy-pawed humour, “Sooner sleep than eat, would ye? An’ us ’ere with the best o’ vittles to tempt ye. Wot a fine life youse lucky lot leads, eh? Nothin’ t’do but eat, sleep’n play. Well, if’n yer ain’t in line afore I counts three, we’ll take this feast out an’ toss it in the stream. One . . .”

  The captives hurried into line, some little ones still half asleep, rubbing paws into eyes as they tottered about.

  Midda kept hold of Calla and Urfa, the harebabes, whilst Tura tended to some others. Having been served with the thin gruel of leftovers an
d edible roots, they collected their water ration and sat down to eat.

  Tura was feeding a molebabe when she noticed one of their charges was missing. She turned to Midda. “Where’s the mousebabe, wotsisname, Diggla?”

  The Guosim maid cast a searching glance about. “I don’t know. Wasn’t he with you?”

  Tura shook her head, questioning the others, “Jiddle, have you or Jinty seen little Diggla? Has anybeast caught sight of that rascal? Where in the name o’ seasons has the mousebabe gone?” Her voice rose in concern. “We’d best ask the guards. He might’ve wandered past them when they went to fetch the vittles.”

  Midda silenced her friend. “Sshh! You’ll have them back here upsettin’ us all. Jinty, sneak up to the entrance and see if ye can spot Diggla anywhere.” The Witherspyk hogmaid was not gone long. She scurried back, whispering, “No sign of him out there—those guards are all sitting round nappin’. Must be time for ’em t’sleep.”

  Midda nodded. “Give ’em a few moments t’drop off, then you an’ Jiddle have a good search about this cave. If Diggla ain’t out there, he’s got t’be in here.”

  Tura was in agreement. “Aye, hiding someplace, I shouldn’t wonder, an’ he’s missed his dinner. When he’s found, I’m goin’ to have a word or two with little Master Diggla!”

  After the required time, Jinty went to check on the guards. On her return she reported to Midda and Tura, “They’re snorin’ up a gale, ’specially that big fat stoat. I peeked out into the passage. The two guards at both ends are still awake.”

  Midda rose slowly. “Right, you’n’Jiddle search to the left. Me an’ Tura will take the right. Do it quietly, though, or we’ll have the guards in here yellin’ an’ shoutin’. They’ll be in trouble if’n their Quean knows one of us is missin’.”

  There was not much to look at—one dusty ledge, a few crannies. It was a fairly basic old cave. Midda checked the little ones again on the off chance that Diggla had crept back and mingled in with the rest. She shook her head, baffled at the turn of events.

  “If he’d wandered outside, those guards would have him by now. Where in the world has that infant vanished to?”

  Jinty came hurrying back—she was all agog. “Found him, the blinkin’ liddle rogue!”

  Tura and Midda followed her to the far left wall at the back of the cave. Tura glared impatiently at the young hog.

  “Well, I don’t see him! Where is he?”

  Jiddle materialised, as if by magic, out of the solid rock and earth face. “Fast asleep behind here—come’n’see!”

  Stepping to one side, he disappeared. It was like some sort of optical illusion. They hurried forward to investigate.

  There was a slim space twixt an outcrop of rock and the wall of hard-packed earth and root formation—Jiddle’s spikes were almost flattened in the narrow aperture. He pointed down to Diggla, who was lying asleep.

  Midda humphed in exasperation. “Get him out o’ there, this instant!”

  Diggla was wakened as Jiddle tried to lift him. “Waaahaaah! Ya hurtin’ me—I stucked!”

  Tura stepped forward, calling advice to the young hedgehog. “Go easy with him, Jiddle, he’s only a babe. Here, come out, I’ll get him!”

  Jiddle lifted the complaining mousebabe with a last effort. “No, it’s alright, Tura, I’ve got him—yowch!”

  Diggla had retaliated at the rough treatment he was being dealt by biting Jiddle’s snout. The young hedgehog tripped, falling backward. He shot out a paw to save himself. It went right through the earth wall, collapsing a portion of it. All that could be seen was Diggla’s tail and Jiddle’s footpaws, kicking in the narrow space.

  Midda grabbed one of the lanterns and thrust it into the gap. “Jiddle, are you alright? Is Diggla hurt?”

  The young Witherspyk hog’s voice boomed hollowly back. “We’re both alright. There’s some sort of passage in here, but it’s terrible dark!”

  The little ones gathered round clamouring. “A passage—Jiddle found a passage!”

  Midda whirled on them fiercely. “Shut up! Not another word from you!”

  Such was the ferocity of her voice that they fell instantly silent. It took a little while, but with a deal of gentle exertion, Midda and Tura got Jiddle and Diggla out of their predicament and back into the cavern.

  Tura was having trouble keeping herself calm at the possibilities of their new find. She took the lantern from Midda, her voice low and urgent. “Act as if nothin’ happened, mate. Take these little uns an’ settle ’em down, sing to ’em, anything! Jinty, you keep an eye on the guards. Let’s hope they sleep good an’ sound. I’m goin’ back through that crack—it could be a way out o’ this place for us. Wish me luck!”

  Midda grasped her friend’s paw tight. “Luck an’ good fortune go with ye, Tura!”

  A moment later, the squirrelmaid had vanished behind the narrow rock screen and through the wall opening.

  18

  Zwilt the Shade was not having the best of luck with tracking the four vermin who had deserted from Althier. He had trailed them through the woodlands accurately. Then he came to the spot where the four had parted company, the stoat and weasel going one way, whilst the foxes went the other. Zwilt chose to keep on the trail of Thwip and Binta, wanting to catch them and teach both a long, painful and ultimately fatal lesson.

  But as Sniffy, the Guosim Tracker, had observed, foxes were tricky beasts to follow. Accordingly, it was not long before the trail went cold and the sable and his four Ravagers were lost. Zwilt had never been a great tracker—he was used to employing otherbeasts to do the job. He carried on stubbornly for a while before turning to one of his escort, a thin, one-eyed ferret.

  “You, what’s your name?”

  The ferret saluted with his spear. “Aggrim, Sire.”

  Zwilt’s cold, dead gaze assessed him. “Can ye track?”

  Aggrim nodded. “I ain’t too bad at follerin’ a trail, Sire.”

  The tall sable sat on a fallen alder. “Take one of these with ye. Cast wide until you come across any prints, foxes or not. Then stay where those tracks are and send the other guard back here to me with the information. Do ye understand that?”

  Aggrim saluted again. “Aye, Sire. Feril, you come with me.”

  Feril, a younger ferret, trotted off behind him.

  Zwilt took out his long broadsword and honed its double edges on a smooth stone. The two guards did their best not to look nervous. Nobeast could tell what was on the sable’s mind. However, he ignored them, concentrating almost lovingly on caressing his blade with the stone slowly, evenly. Listening to the soft hiss of rock upon steel, planning a suitable fate for the two foxes who had deserted their post.

  Far sooner than he expected, Feril came loping furtively back. His voice sounded low and eager. “Sire, Aggrim’s not only found tracks, but he’s spotted somebeasts, not too far from here!”

  Zwilt’s impassive face never changed expression. “Where?”

  Feril pointed. “Over that ways, Sire. There’s two little uns wot must’ve escaped from Althier, a big mole, one o’ those riverdogs, a shrew”—he halted, smiling, as he had saved the best for last—“an’ ye recall that big rabbet ye met at the Redwall place? Well, him, too!”

  The smile that dawned over the sable’s features was one of pure evil. He murmured softly to his guards, “You three, along with Aggrim, can take care of the riverdog, mole and shrew. Slay the little uns, too. They’re more trouble than they’re worth. But not a word to Quean Vilaya, or you’ll answer to me. As for the rabbet, he’s mine. Leave him to me. Understood?”

  As they nodded, Zwilt beckoned to Feril. “Lead on.”

  Buckler and his friends were taken completely by surprise. Following Sniffy, who was leading them through a thick bed of tall ferns, they did not see the enemy until the vermin were almost upon them. They were ambushed from both sides.

  Skipper heard a movement to his left. He turned, calling out, “Wot the—”

  A spearhaft th
udded into his jaw, and he fell. Then chaos broke loose. Axtel threw himself across Tassy and Borti, protecting them with his body as he lashed out with his crutch, slaying Feril with a mighty blow to the throat.

  Sniffy yelled as he saw Zwilt rise up at Buckler’s back. “Buck, behind ye!”

  A spear took the Guosim Tracker through the shoulder. He held on to it, drawing his short rapier and fending off his attacker.

  Buckler wheeled about swiftly, his own long rapier out and ready as Zwilt’s heavier broadsword crashed down against it. The young hare’s paws went numb from the shock, but he knew he was fighting for his life, so he parried the stroke.

  Zwilt turned to one side, anticipating a lunge, which did not come—Buckler knew the sable’s tactic, to slash down as he went by. Dropping back, he made his assailant come to him.

  Zwilt was forced to move forward. Caught upon the wrong footpaw, he stumbled. Buckler’s long blade came up at him in a blur of small circles. It caught the broadsword in a whirl of lightning motion, twisting it from Zwilt’s grasp.

  With his paws still stinging from Zwilt’s first blow, Buckler glimpsed Aggrim thrusting his spearpoint down at Skipper, who was still half stunned. To distract the ferret, Buckler yelled the Long Patrol war cry.

  “Eulaaaaaliiiaaa!”

  He flung himself through the air, blade outstretched. Aggrim paused long enough to seal his own fate. He fell with the blade through him and Buckler on top of it.

  Now Skipper was up. He threw his lance, which pierced another Ravager at the exact moment that Axtel’s war hammer snuffed out the foebeast’s life.

  Tassy wriggled free of the Warrior mole. Grabbing a stone, she hurled it at the fallen vermin. “Ooh, ye naughty wicked beast, take that!”

  Axtel winked at the little Redwaller. “Thankee, likkle marm, but oi a’ready fixed ’im!”

  Buckler scrambled upright. Retrieving his blade, he turned to reenter the fray, but it was all over. The four vermin guard were slain. And Zwilt the Shade had vanished—he was gone!