The Sable Quean (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Mumzy picked up a half-finished chunk of turnover. “But wot about the liddle uns, Mister Buck?”

  The young hare shook his head. “No sign of ’em yet, an’ they weren’t with the vermin, so we’ll have to call off searchin’ for ’em until after we’ve defended the Abbey. If’n either the young uns or Diggs turns up here, I’ve no doubt you’ll take ’em in an’ care for ’em, marm. We’ll be indebted if y’do. Take care of yourself, friend!”

  Buckler gave the water vole a swift salute with his blade and hurried off with Axtel and the Guosim.

  Diggs was still wandering about in the caves and tunnels beneath the great oak. The plain fact was that the tubby hare was lost. He had become separated from the group he was searching with. Unwittingly, he had ambled into Vilaya’s personal chamber, where he found some wine, a cooked trout and wheat bread, all intended for the Sable Quean’s private consumption. Not wanting to share his find with the others, he settled down to a lucky repast, munching away and chunnering as he justified his actions.

  “Bloomin’ Guosim chaps wouldn’t share it with me if they’d have found it, rotters! Well, yah boo, shrews, you can go an’ blinkin’ well whistle for your share. Mmmm, not too bad, if I say so m’self, rather tasty, in fact. Huh, this must be the officers’ mess. Treat themselves pretty well, these vermin cads, wot. Oh, bother ’n’blow, the confounded torch has gone out now!”

  After trying unsuccessfully to blow the sparks back into flame, he did what he would normally do after a meal—took a short nap.

  Subaltern Meliton Gubthorpe Digglethwaite’s idea of a short nap was rather lengthy. He woke in complete darkness and silence. Yawning and stretching, the portly young rogue felt his way out of the cave, calling to his fellow searchers for assistance.

  “I say, buckoes, fetch a light here, if y’d be so kind?”

  There was no response to his cries, which annoyed Diggs.

  “Huh, dratted spiky-headed fiends, it’s just like you t’leave a chap in the dark, an’ it’s prob’ly suppertime, too. Right, desert me. I don’t jolly well care. Hah, but wait until I catch up with you, laddie bucks. I’ll have a word or three t’say about comradeship an’ all that. By the right, left’n’centre I will, believe me!”

  How long he rambled through the darkened underworld of caves and tunnels, Diggs could not say. It was only by pure accident that he managed to find himself at the broken-down door in the big oak trunk. Diggs staggered out thankfully. “Ahah, good old fresh air again, wot!”

  He heard a rustle in a nearby bush. Drawing his sling, Diggs loaded a heavy chunk of rock into it. He advanced on the bush, twirling his weapon purposefully.

  “Front’n’centre, come on out an’ face me, you lily-livered maggot. Yowoooh!”

  A stone hit his slinging paw, causing him to drop it. A dark form thundered out of the brush, laying him flat with a mighty body charge. Diggs struggled to rise, but a footpaw, which felt like a stone shelf, held him pinned to the ground. He found himself staring up into the fierce brown eyes of a large, powerful badgermaid. She was twirling a sling twice the size of the weapon he carried. It was loaded with a boulder. She growled menacingly, “Tell me where my friend is, and I might allow you to live!”

  23

  Moonless night had settled over the watermeadow. The young beasts were huddled together sleeping soundly. Midda and the Witherspyk twins were wide awake. They lay stomach down, scanning the darkened landscape.

  Jiddle murmured, “What’s keepin’ Tura? She’s been gone for ages.”

  Jinty rubbed her eyes. “Well, she’s prob’ly searchin’ around the island, right, Midda?”

  The Guosim maid nodded. “Aye, first she’s got to find where old bees in the bonnet has his den. That’s where he’ll have taken Diggla. Mad ole beast like that, ’twouldn’t surprise me if’n he made his nest up in a tree, like a bird. Jiddle’s right, though, Tura’s been gone a long time now. Too long for my likin’.”

  “Shall we go an’ search for her?”

  Midda rejected Jiddle’s suggestion. “No. It might cause confusion, an’ if the babes wake to find us gone, they’ll bawl the place down. Hush, now, I thought I heard somethin’. . . .”

  Triggut’s wild laughter caused them to jump with surprise. “Hahaaarrhaaaarrr! Heard somethin’? So yew did, but don’t fret, ’twas only me. Here’s yer liddle bushytail friend. Yew kin have ’er back this time. . . .”

  Tura, gagged, bound and stunned, was flung into the captives’ camp. When Triggut called out of the darkness again, his temperament had changed. Now the mad hog was irate and threatening. “Next time yew try any clever tricks, I’ll send yore mouseybabe back to yew. His ears first, then his tail an’ snout. Maybe the followin’ night yew’ll get his paws an’ tongue. Do I make meself clear?”

  A groan of defeat came from Midda. “Alright, we understand—it won’t happen again!”

  With a final burst of insane merriment, Triggut skipped blithely off into the night.

  Jinty Witherspyk loosed the squirrelmaid of her gag and bonds, bathing her face with some cool water. Tura was totally miserable.

  “You wouldn’t believe it, but that crazy creature has a crew of toads guarding him. I was creepin’ up to his den, when suddenly they were all over me. Yurgh! Damp, slimy beasts, they sat on me an’ croaked until the madbeast came runnin’ an’ cracked me over the head with his staff. Then he tied me up like an ole bundle o’ washin’. I thought he was goin’ to kill me!”

  Midda inspected the bruise on Tura’s brow. “But he didn’t. You’ll live. Did you get to catch sight of little Diggla?”

  Tura shook her head. “I never even got into Triggut’s den. Well, wot’s our next move, mates?”

  Jiddle Witherspyk yawned wearily. “I dunno. Just sit an’ wait, I s’pose. Wot else can we do, eh?”

  His twin sister agreed glumly. “Not a lot. Triggut Frap might act crazy, but he’s certainly outsmarted us.”

  Midda stared at both young hogs in disgust. “Defeated already, are we? Seasons o’ slutch, you two should hear yoreselves. Ye make me feel ashamed to know ye!”

  Tura shot her friend a reproving glance. “They’re right, though. We ain’t got much to sing’n’dance about, now, have we?”

  The Guosim maid glared at all three, launching into a scathing diatribe, which brooked no argument. “Where were we a day ago, eh? Locked up in an underground cave, all dark’n’gloomy. We were eatin’ slop an’ drinkin’ dirty water. Vermin with spears were standin’ over us. One of our mates, a fine young otter, was murdered by that Sable Quean. So tell me, wot did ye have for supper tonight? Fresh fruit an’ berries, with clean water t’drink. An’ where are we now? I’ll tell ye! Out in the open air, under the stars on a summer night, without vermin watchin’ every move we make. Hah, lookit yore faces! Oh, poor ole us, ain’t we the unlucky ones, still alive an’ kickin’. It ain’t right, I tell ye. Shouldn’t we all be dead like poor Flandor? Huh, you lot make me sick!”

  Tura had taken enough. She stood snout-to-snout with Midda, giving the Guosim a piece of her mind. “An’ you make me sick, with all yore shoutin’ an’ yellin’. Who do ye think ye are, scraggymouse?”

  Midda bristled. “I know who I am—a Guosim shrew, ye jumped-up bushtailed boughbender!”

  Jiddle and Jinty rubbed their paws gleefully. They sensed an insult bout starting, so they called encouragement to the pair.

  “Don’t let her call ye that, Tura. Tell Midda wot ye think of her, go on!”

  That started the contest in earnest. They stood paw-to-paw, hurling insults at one another.

  “Ho ho, boughbender, is it? Ye wet-bottomed water wobbler!”

  “Hah, listen to ole weasel whiskers the nutnibbler!”

  “Huh, I’ll bet ye wish ye had a real tail, an’ not a damp piece o’ string, Guosimguts!”

  “If’n I had a tail like that thing o’ yores, I’d hire it out to sweep dusty caves!”

  “Aye, an’ if’n I had a face like yours, I�
�d change me job to frightenin’ frogbabes!”

  “Bottlenose! Baggypaw! Bumptious bum!”

  Tura tried hard to hold a straight face, then broke out into a fit of the giggles. “Oh, heeheeheehee! Hahahaha! Bumptious bum? Hahaha! Where’d ye get that one? Bumptious bum. Heeheehee!”

  Midda could not resist joining in her friend’s merriment. “Hahahaha! I just thought it up. Hohoho! It’s a good un, ain’t it? Bumptious bum, hoohoo!”

  Jiddle and Jinty were chuckling, both holding their ribs.

  Tura wiped tears from her eyes. “Heeheehee, oh, stop it, please. Bumptious bum, that’d be a good name for old madbrain. Bumptious bum!”

  Midda corrected the squirrelmaid. “The way all his spikes are fallin’ out, maybe we’d better call him bare bumptious bum. Heeheehee!”

  Triggut’s insane cackles halted the merriment. From somewhere nearby, he called to them, “Haharrharr, may’aps yew’d best stop all yore noise an’ get some rest. Yew start on my new house tomorrer!”

  They held their din momentarily, lying down with closed eyes until they heard the crazy hog retreating.

  Jiddle opened one eye and waved a paw in his direction. “Good night . . . bare bumptious bum!”

  The smothered giggles continued until they finally dropped off to sleep.

  Vilaya the Sable Quean awoke slowly, her left side ablaze with pain. Gliv the stoat was bending over her doing something.

  “Lie still, Vilaya. Your wound must be sealed, or you’ll bleed to death. This is goin’ to hurt.”

  Gliv drew the spearblade from the fire she had built. Vilaya screeched in agony as the red-hot spearhead pressed against the broadsword gash under her ribs. Smoke wreathed up. A stench of scorched fur and flesh permeated the air.

  Peering close, the stoat inspected her work. “That’s done the job. Now all ye’ve got t’do is live an’ get well agin. I ain’t no healer, so I’ve got no potions or lotions to give ye.”

  The Sable Quean watched as Gliv bandaged the injury with strips torn from her silken cloak. Vilaya was mystified by the stoat’s behaviour.

  “I know you. I’ve seen you whispering with Zwilt. You’re one of his spies, aren’t you?”

  Gliv nodded as she tied the dressing securely. “Aye, I was one of those who did his dirty work.”

  Vilaya posed the question. “Then why are you helping me now? You probably don’t even like me. What’s your name?”

  The stoat raised the sable’s head, bringing a beaker of water to her lips. “Drink this, but take it slowly. I’m called Gliv. I don’t like you, Vilaya, but I’ve got my reasons for helping you. Zwilt thought he’d slain ye. I stopped him choppin’ yore head off by sayin’ I’d bury ye for the worms an’ insects to eat. I will, too, if’n ye don’t get over that wound.”

  The sable pushed the beaker away. “Don’t fret—I’ll live. So, in what way did Zwilt offend you, Gliv?”

  The stoat’s eyes hardened at the memory. “He had my mate, Lugg, killed. Lugg was his loyal servant. Zwilt should never have sent him into the water to battle with the giant eel. It was Zwilt’s fault. I blame him for Lugg’s death. He was a big, trustin’ lump of a stoat, but Lugg was my mate. I loved him.”

  The sable winced as she lay back and relaxed. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

  Gliv stared into the flickering fire. “Yore goin’ to kill Zwilt soon as y’get well. I’ve seen ye use that poison blade, an’ I knows ye want him dead now. You got yore reasons—I got mine. I don’t care, as long as I can live t’hear the death rattle in Zwilt the Shade’s throat! That’ll be yore thanks t’me for savin’ yore life, Vilaya.”

  The injured beast spoke imperiously. “Vilaya is my name, but to one such as you I am the Sable Quean. You will address me as Majesty!”

  Gliv curled her lip scornfully.

  “Huh, Quean o’ nothin’ is wot ye are t’me. When ye slay Zwilt an’ command the Ravagers agin, then I’ll call ye Majesty. But right now, yore just a beast carryin’ out my orders so that ye can stay alive!”

  Gliv watched Vilaya’s paw straying toward the slender thing she kept slung about her neck. The sly stoat held up the little poisoned dagger in its crystal sheath. Dangling it from its necklet, she shook her head mockingly.

  “No ye don’t, Vilaya. I’ll take care o’ this liddle toy until the time comes.”

  A wry smile hovered about Vilaya’s lips. “My my. You are a crafty stoat!”

  Gliv nodded. “Aye, an’ yore a dangerous sable, so betwixt us we’re the right pair for the task. Now, git some sleep, ’cos as soon as ye can stand without fallin’ over agin, we’ll be on the trail of Zwilt the Shade.”

  On the streambank, the small fire burned down to grey ash in the woodland night. Two creatures went to sleep, each dreaming of deathly revenge.

  Morning broke overcast and sullen, with the rain silencing birdsong. This mattered little to Oakheart Witherspyk, who had the security of Redwall Abbey to oversee. Donning an old cloak and putting his flop-brimmed hat on over the hood, the portly hedgehog mounted the west gatehouse steps. Trudging up onto the battlemented walkway, he looked left and right, blowing rainwater from his snout tip. He snorted disapproval to the leaden skies.

  “Bah! Not a single beast on sentry. Where in the name o’ spikes’n’spillikins are they?”

  He strode the ramparts in high dudgeon, knocking down unattended cloaks, which were propped up on poles to give the appearance of a heavily guarded Abbey.

  Granvy the Recorder emerged from the gatehouse, pulling on his hooded cloak. He shouted to the Witherspyk patriarch, “What’n the name o’ seasons are you doing up there in this weather? Get down here before you get soaked!”

  Oakheart gestured theatrically about him. “There’s not a confounded guard up here. Where’ve they all gone, may I ask?”

  Granvy set off across the rainswept lawn. “Everybeast is where any creature with a grain o’ sense should be right now—taking breakfast inside. Come on!”

  Great Hall glowed warmly with myriad candle and lantern lights. The air was redolent with cheerful sounds of Redwallers breaking their fast. Friar Soogum and his helpers bustled twixt the long tables, ladling out hot oatmeal and honey. Fresh fruits, golden-crusted ovenbreads, hot mint tea—an array of delicacies to please even the most jaded palate—graced the tables. Abbess Marjoram sat with two Dibbuns perched on her lap, trying to teach them rudimentary manners.

  “No no. Put the beaker down. You can’t eat and drink at the same time—finish what you have in your mouth first.”

  She saw Oakheart stamp in and fling off his wet cloak. “You look drenched, Oakie. Come and have some hot food!”

  The hedgehog shook water from his hatbrim. “Hot food, is it, marm? How could I sully my dutiful lips with hot food when my blood runs cold at the thought of all those deserters!”

  Foremole Darbee dipped an oat farl into a bowl of melted cheese. He wrinkled his button snout at Oakheart. “Doozurrters, zurr? Whut do ee mean?”

  The portly hog shook a damp paw in a circle, denoting the outer walls. “Our sentries, m’dear sir. All those volunteers who are supposed, at this very moment, t’be protecting all we hold dear from vermin onslaught! I make it my morning chore to check the walltops, an’ d’you know, there’s not a single guard to be seen up there!”

  Sister Fumbril commented blithely, “Why, bless y’spikes, Oakie, is there a vermin onslaught goin’ on out there? Nobeast told us!”

  A ripple of laughter echoed from the diners. Oakheart stemmed it by pounding a paw upon the table. “That’s just the point, don’t ye see, marm? There could be a vermin attack, even as you’re jokin’ about it. Where would we be then, eh?”

  Abbess Marjoram nodded gravely. “Point taken, Mister Witherspyk. You are quite right! Attention, everybeast. All those supposed to be on wall duty, leave what you are doing and get back up there on guard immediately, please!”

  Baby Dubdub waved a honey-smeared paw, echoing Marjoram. “Meejittly, pleas
e, meejittly!”

  Young Rambuculus rose sulkily. “But it’s rainin’ out there. Can’t we wait’ll it stops?”

  His sister Trajidia leapt up, declaiming, “Alas, to pour shame upon the noble name of Witherspyk with churlish remarks. To your post, O errant brother!”

  She was about to sit down again when Grandmother Crumfiss prodded her. “Aye, an’ you, too, missy—off y’go!”

  Oakheart mounted the wallsteps with the guard detail behind him. On reaching the walltop, he was surprised to see Skipper leaning on a battlement.

  “Great seasons, Skip—where did you pop up from?”

  The Otter Chieftain pointed to the east wickergate. “I was down checkin’ the wallgates. Aye, an’ I took a turn round these ramparts. I would’ve raised the alarm sharpish if’n any vermin showed up.”

  Rambuculus smirked at his father. “So it was alright for us t’have breakfast, see!”

  Skipper tweaked the insolent young hog’s ear. “No, it wasn’t, young un. What if’n I’d chose to join ye, eh, what then? Yore pa’s right. Stick to yore duty, obey orders an’ ye can sleep easy at night, remember that!”

  The guards took shelter under the old long cloaks, brandishing makeshift weapons as they patrolled up and down. Bartij peered out into the rainswept woodlands. Skipper caught the big hedgehog’s sigh.

  “Wot’s the matter, mate? Ye don’t look too happy.”

  Bartij shook his head as Auroria Witherspyk stumbled on the hem of a cloak, dropping her make-believe spear with a clatter.

  “Look at ’em, Skip. They’re nought but young uns playin’ a game. Oh, I grant ye they might look like warriors from a distance. But they ain’t! So wot d’we do if a couple o’ hundred Ravagers comes marching up?”

  The otter blinked rainwater from his eyelids. “I dread t’think, matey, I dread t’think. Let’s just cross our paws an’ hope it don’t come down to that.”