The Bellmaker

by Brian Jacques

  ‘Mornin’ sirs, sorry I runned off like’n that las’ night!’

  Spurge’s jaw dropped. There was Bowly, ambling around the big shale rock that marked their camp. Quivering with rage, Agric pointed with the cane to a wooden post driven into the ground with a heavy shackling rope attached to it.

  ‘Yew liddle scum, I’m goin’ to bind you t’that post an’ lash the prickles offa yore hide. Cummere!’

  Spurge knocked the cane aside. ‘After brekkfist matey, we want ’im fit t’cook our vittles first. Get to it, yew lazy lump!’

  Obediently, Bowly stirred crushed mint leaves into the bubbling water, setting the pancakes on a thin shale slab which he balanced over the fire’s edge. As he worked, Mariel strolled into the camp, smiling foolishly. She waved a paw at the two weasels.

  ‘Morning! Lovely day, isn’t it? Any breakfast going spare for a hungry traveller?’

  Spurge and Agric could not believe their luck. Not only had the runaway surrendered, but they had suddenly got themselves a simpleton mousemaid travelling alone. It surely was turning out to be a nice day.

  ‘Wot y’got in there, mousey?’ said Spurge, eyeing the haversack their new arrival was carrying.

  Mariel winked and wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh, a bit of this’n’that, y’know.’

  The weasels went into a huddle, sniggering and whispering. Afler a while Agric turned to Mariel, saying, ‘If yew wants to eat you gotta ’elp, see. There’s fresh fruit an’ water in that holler under the rock. Yew ’elp that lazy ’edgepig to ready the vittles, then we’ll see yew gets somethin’ nice, won’t we, matey?’

  Spurge gave a malicious chuckle. ‘Ho yerss, it’ll be a real surprise!’

  The food stock was good. Mariel busied herself preparing a fruit salad of strawberries, apples, plums and pears. Pouring honey and water into a gourd, she crushed damsons in and began shaking up a cordial. The weasels sat in the shade of the rock as the morning sun got up. They nudged each other, sniggering with ill-concealed mirth.

  Mariel winked at Bowly as she called out,

  ‘Morning’s risen and breakfast’s here,

  Eat, my friends, and be of good cheer!’

  Flipping his long dagger from paw to paw, Dandin strode boldly into the camp, kicking the weasels’ footpaws out of his way, instead of stepping over them.

  ‘Well, well, Mariel the Gullwhacker, am I invited to eat?’

  Mariel gave a roar of laughter quite inappropriate for a simple travelling mousemaid. ‘Hoho! Dandin, you old Warrior, welcome!’

  Mariel and Bowly lay the food down on the floor.

  Dandin sat down between the two astonished weasels, calling out to Bowly, ‘Come on, little un, grab a plate and spoon, join us.’

  Bowly obeyed with a will, helping himself to a hot apple pancake and a cooling beaker of damson cordial. As the weasels reached out for food Dandin dealt them a couple of sharp slaps with the flat of his dagger blade, and clucked disapprovingly at them. ‘Tch, tch! Where’s your manners? Guests and young uns first. I’ll tell you when it’s your turn.’

  By this time the two weasels were looking distinctly uneasy. A lone mousemaid was one thing, but this Dandin looked like a seasoned warrior.

  Mariel, Dandin and Bowly ate heartily, letting the mint tea cool as they sipped damson cordial and treated themselves to hot apple pancakes and fruit salad.

  ‘You’d have to be a robber and travel wide to get stuff like this, eh, young un?’ Dandin said cheerfully to Bowly.

  Bowly nodded sagely. ‘Aye, that y’would, Sir Dandy.’

  ‘Robbers must have to be good cooks, what d’you say, Bowly?’ said Mariel, sipping some mint tea appreciatively.

  ‘No marm, some robbers is slavers too, they catchers a liddle slave an’ makes ’im do all the work. Robbers is awful creatures, they beats their slaves an’ ties ’em up nights to a post wi’ a big ’eavy rope, like that’n yonder.’

  The weasels were very nervous now. Dandin caught their attention as he slit a pancake neatly in half with the keen edge of his dagger. His voice was low and dangerous as he said, ‘I don’t suppose honest creatures like you would know of two such slavers, would you?’

  Agric developed a sudden stammer. ‘N . . . n . . . no S . . . sir!’ he squawked, his throat bobbing nervously.

  Bowly gurgled, spraying mint tea as he tried to suppress an attack of the giggles. The weasels were robbers and bullies, but when faced with the two warriors they were cowards.

  Dandin stared hard at the trembling slavers, and picking up the willow cane he swished it under their noses. ‘Mariel, what d’you think, are these two telling the truth?’

  The mousemaid strode across to the wooden post the weasels had driven into the ground to tether Bowly. She unfastened the short heavy rope from it. Winking at Bowly and Dandin, she began tying a solid, complicated knot in the rope’s end. ‘Oh I don’t know,’ she said. ‘They look like fairly respectable beasts to me.’

  From the weasels’ food cache she produced half-a-dozen mixed beech and hazelnuts, still in their shells. Placing them in a line on a flat rock, she turned to Spurge and Agric.

  ‘See this knotted rope, I used to own one like it – called it my Gullwhacker. I could lay a big seabird flat with one blow. Now I can’t see any gulls hereabouts, but there’d be other things to whack if I thought certain creatures were lying to us.’

  Spinning the knotted rope in a skilful blur, Mariel dealt six lightning blows to the nuts on the rock.

  Whack! Smack! Crack! Thud! Bang! Splat!

  The weasels squeaked with fright. Trembling, they stared wide-eyed at the line of kernel and shell fragments, which was all that remained of the six nuts. Mariel dangled the Gullwhacker a fraction from their noses. ‘See what I mean?’

  Bowly grinned from ear to ear as he patted the weasels none-too-gently on their heads. ‘Nay, nay, you’ve made a mistake, I c’n see these are two good vermints. Why, I wager given arf a chance they’d thank us for callin’ in to brekkist an’ give us water’n’vittles to ’elp us pore travellers on our way, wouldn’t you?’

  Spurge and Agric took the hint swiftly. Leaping up, they loaded their food and drink store into the haversack. Bowly stood by, tossing the two hard oatcakes up and down.

  ‘These be my throwin’ rocks. I been knowed to fetch foebeasts down at fair distances with ’em, cos I be a warrior too, see.’

  Dandin removed sufficient supplies for a day from the pack, and laid them in front of the weasels. ‘You haven’t had breakfast yet, here, take this with our compliments. We’re travelling south, which way are you bound?’

  Spurge shrugged unhappily. ‘North, I think, Sir.’

  Mariel swung the Gullwhacker expertly across her shoulders. ‘Well, keep an eye out for those two thieving robbers we mentioned, and be careful, it’s dangerous country out here.’

  Dandin spun his dagger in the air. Catching it by the hilt, he thrust it into his belt. ‘Aye, take care, never know who you might bump into!’

  And the three friends strode off calling cheerful goodbyes to the crestfallen weasels.

  Thoroughly refreshed, they stepped out with a will. A mere half-morning’s walk brought them in sight of green hilly scrubland and the promise of gentle, fertile countryside. Bowly trudged alongside Mariel, tossing his two oatcakes in the air.

  The mousemaid caught one, and said, ‘Now then, you young rip, what are we going to do about you?’

  The small hedgehog snatched the oatcake back indignantly. ‘I’ve told ye my name be Bowly Pintip, I ain’t no young rip. I be goin’ wi’ you an’ Dandy, I be a warrior from now on!’

  Dandin sliced an apple into three with his dagger and gave them each a piece, winking at Mariel over the small hedgehog’s head. ‘What d’you think, has he got the makings of a warrior?’

  Bowly scrunched his face into a ferocious scowl to show that he had. Mariel returned Dandin’s wink. ‘Being a warrior doesn’t always mean a fierce face, warriors are also renowned for their ge
ntleness.’

  Bowly immediately changed his expression until he thought he looked gentle enough to charm baby birds from their nests. Stifling their smiles, Mariel and Dandin carried on extolling warrior virtues, while Bowly took note of all they said.

  ‘Oh yes, warriors are handsome beasts.’ Bowly wobbled his head, fluttered his eyes and tried hard to look handsome.

  ‘You’re right, Dandin, but I’ve known warriors who can look very stem too.’ The handsome Bowly suddenly transformed into one with a grim jaw jutting and what he imagined were cold, gimlet eyes. Mariel spluttered and coughed on a bite of apple, while Dandin held his ribs tight to stop the laughter bubbling out.

  ‘Aye, but give me the warrior with that devil-may-care look, one who can slay ruthlessly but still manage to laugh merrily, now that’s the fellow for me!’ Bowly’s small face contorted as he tried to glare out of one eye whilst twinkling merrily with the other, and he brandished his two oatcakes as if ready to slay with them at a moment’s notice, at the same time emitting a savage growl which he tried to couple with a merry laugh. Turning to his two companions, who were shaking with unexploded laugher, he sighed wearily.

  ‘Phwaaw! It do take much ’ard work to look like a warrior!’

  The two teasers laughed heartily, patting Bowly’s tender young prickled head. ‘We think you’ll make a splendid warrior, don’t we Dandin?’

  ‘Right! We’ll be three warbeasts travelling south through thick and thin to wherever our adventures take us!’

  Bowly’s face lit up in a happy grin, and he clasped the paws of his two comrades firmly. ‘Aye, an’ never fear, I’ll take care of ee both!’

  3

  QUEEN SERENA WATCHED her little son Truffen sadly as he sat alone in the centre of Castle Floret’s banqueting chamber. Poor squirrelmite, forced to spend his days and nights in captivity, often separated from both parents, with only his old badger nurse Muta to protect him. Serena and her husband, Gael Squirrelking, sat together at one side of the chamber, with Truffen at his bench in the centre, whilst on the opposite side Nagru and Silvamord occupied the positions of honour at high table, surrounded by rodent Captains. Serena clutched Gael’s paw tightly, and they fixed their eyes on the tiny hostage.

  Serena let her mind wander over past events. Was it only a season ago that Nagru and Silvamord had arrived at their gates? It seemed as though they had been in Castle Floret for an eternity. She recalled the night they had allowed Nagru and his mate into their home. It was a windy, drizzling evening in early spring, and the two foxes had looked half-dead, starved and bedraggled. Her husband Gael ordered that they be admitted, fed and clothed warmly. Serena regretted that Gael had not heeded the urgent warnings of their friend Rab Streambattle. But the Squirrelking could be stubborn, and he would not hear of Castle Floret’s hospitality being denied to any needy creature. Rab continued to oppose him and the argument escalated until the angry otter stormed out of the castle, taking his otter guard with him.

  Within the space of two sunsets the foxes had taken over everything. It was done with fiendish simplicity. Silver-tongued Silvamord had lured Muta to a side chamber and locked her in. Nagru snatched little Truffen and held him breathless with fright, the fearsome hooked wolfclaws a hairsbreadth from the babe’s throat. Gael was forced to lower the drawbridge, and in a trice the castle was teeming with rats, savage, dirty grey rodents, eager to maim, destroy or kill at a nod from their leaders, Nagru and Silvamord.

  From that moment their lives had hung by a thread. All loyal friends and courtiers who resisted were slain or imprisoned in Floret’s dungeons, while those who were not considered dangerous were forced to wait on the foxes and their officers. The far southern sun no longer shone over a peaceful and happy land. A new king and queen held sway, backed by a horde of murderers.

  Nagru was big for a fox. Lean and powerful, he was mottled bluish grey from tip to tail, and his cruel eyes resembled chips of granite flake floating in a sea of carmine bloodflecks. His only clothing was the full pelt of a wolf, its head resting on top of his own like a cowl with eyeless sockets. The hide trailed down over his back with the front limbs covering his own. The wolfclaws had been replaced with sharp iron hooks, and when Nagru slid his own paws inside them they became awesome weapons.

  His mate Silvamord was smaller in stature, but no less savage. Her fur was whitish grey with a silver-striped muzzle and back markings, and her eyes were dark obsidian green. Her regalia was a thick skirt of animal tails with glittering chips of crystal cunningly sewn into them. She moved sinuously to its strange tinkle, the equal of her mate in cunning and evil.

  Now the barbaric pair sat side by side, sipping elderberry wine from Floret’s cellars and sharing the gamey meat of a long-dead plover. Nagru spiked a damson with his claw and shot it viciously at a fat old rat who stood nearby holding a stringed lutelike instrument.

  ‘Yoghul, play my song!’

  The rat began playing, singing the dirge in an eerie, high-pitched voice.

  ‘Where do you come from, where do you go to,

  From tundras of white and bright sunrises few,

  ‘Cross mountains and forests, o’er seas wide and blue,

  The one they call Foxwolf, the Urgan Nagru.’

  Yoghul was playing the verse over again when Nagru called across to Gael, ‘Hey Squirrelking, d’you know why they call me Foxwolf?’

  Gael sat silent, and Nagru answered his own question. ‘Because I am the only fox that ever slew a wolf. This is his hide I am wearing. I’ll wager you’ve never even seen a wolf, much less had to fight one. Well I did, and I won. Nobeast alive can stand against me!’

  The Squirrelking ignored his captor, who continued boasting. ‘I’ll tell you something else, that wolf’s name was Urgan. So I took it and turned it backward and made a name for myself, Urgan Nagru! Try saying it both ways, it comes out the same. That’s to let my enemies know that I can come at them backward or forward, both ways. But I have no enemies, they’re all dead. Only fools and dreamers are left, like you and your Queen. It’s your own fault, squirrel, you let me in here. Aha! I see you are glaring at me. Good! You are wishing that the Foxwolf were dead, eh? The wishes of the weak are like raindrops on the face of the sea, they count for nothing. Play on, Yoghul!’

  Whilst Nagru drank wine and tore at his meat, Silvamord had been staring fixedly at Muta the old badger nurse. Muta could not speak. Sometimes in peaks of joy or distress she would make hoarse barking noises, but it was unusual for her to make any sound at all. She crouched at little Truffen’s side, always faithful to him. It irritated Silvamord to see the dumb badger’s devotion to her small charge, and the vixen never missed an opportunity to humiliate or torment Muta. Calling Yoghul across to her, Silvamord divested him of his cloak, a small red thing trimmed with yellow. Then she snatched the cap from his head. It was floppy and conical with two tiny bells hanging from it. Flinging both hat and cloak at Muta, Silvamord called out derisively, ‘Come on, up on your paws, stripedog. Put those on and do a dance for me. I command it, dance!’

  The big badger did not move. She stood glaring at the vixen. Silvamord beckoned Riveneye, one of the Captains seated nearby. ‘If that stupid beast doesn’t start dancing right now,’ she barked, ‘I want you to take your sword to the squirrelbrat and tickle a dance out of him!’

  Riveneye stood and drew his sword.

  Muta had no choice. Rather than see Truffen hurt, she donned the small cloak and tied the ribbons of the ridiculous little hat beneath her chin. Slowly she commenced a shuffling dance.

  Silvamord aimed a kick at the minstrel rat. ‘Play, Yoghul – play faster. I want to see the big fool dance!’

  Round and round Muta shambled, trying to keep up with the speed of the music, the bells tinkling wildly on her silly hat. Silvamord and the rats jeered cruelly at the badger’s stumbling efforts. A single teardrop spilled down Muta’s face.

  Queen Serena turned away, unable to watch the cruel exhibition. Gael leaned in close as
if sharing her sympathy, and began whispering so only she could hear. ‘It’s all right Serena, don’t worry. Listen to me and try not to show any surprise. Remember our singing blackbird Relph? Rab has sent me a message through him. There will be otters waiting in the castle moat today. We will accompany Muta when she takes Truffen for his afternoon nap. Relph will hang a red cloth on the window nearest the drawbridge to tell Rab we are coming. When we leave here, watch for the window with the red cloth on the sill, that’s the one we jump from. When we land in the moat the otters will take us to safety. Don’t look around, just nod if you understand . . .’ Muta’s hoarse bark caused the Queen to turn.

  Truffen could not understand that Muta was being made fun of – they had often played at dancing together. Seeing her dance now made the little fellow chuckle happily. It was a game! He began hopskipping alongside her, giggling as he clapped his paws together in time to the music.

  Muta threw back her head and made happy barking sounds, and the two danced wildly, leaping and jigging back and forth. Truffen pulled the cap from Muta’s head as she bowed to him and waved it about, jigging the bells and shouting uproariously, ‘Fasta! Fasta! More!’

  Nagru flicked a damson contemptuously at Silvamord. ‘Well, I see you’ve managed to make them both happy, a prancing whelp and a jigging badger, good work! Tell me, who looks the bigger fool now, you or the badger?’

  Silvamord flung a wooden bowl at Yoghul. ‘Stop playing, you oaf!’ she shrieked.

  The music ground to a halt. Truffen jangled the cap bells. ‘More dances ’Uta, want more dances!’

  Taking advantage of the moment, Serena hurried over. Sweeping her little son up, she took Muta by the paw and began leaving the room. Gael joined them. ‘Time for Muta to take you for your nap, Truffen. Come on, Mummy and Daddy will go with you.’