Rakkety Tam

by Brian Jacques

  Humble’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “What a splendid Recorder we have. Once Screeve makes another copy, Brother Gordale and I will get down to studying it. Mayhaps you and Walt would like to help us?”

  Jem agreed instantly. “Aye, we’d love to ’elp out. Me’n Walt dearly likes a good riddle to solve, though we ain’t learned as you Abbeybeasts. Shall we be startin’ today?”

  The Abbot shook his head. “Oh, good gracious no! We’ve got to attend the mole festivities tonight. All our Redwallers will be rehearsing their party pieces. I hope we shall see you and Walt doing something—a song, a dance, a poem. Even a trick would be acceptable.”

  Jem scratched his spikes thoughtfully. “Well, it’s been awhile since we was called upon t’do such things, but I’m sure we can oblige. I’ll go an’ speak to Walt if’n you’ll excuse me, Cousin.”

  Wandering Walt was down in the cellars with Foremole Bruffy and his crew. They were drinking daisybud and dockleaf tonic whilst tracing back through their ancestry. This was a pursuit beloved of moles. Though they were never quite truthful and were given to inventing tales, it was all in good fun.

  Ole Jarge, an ancient, grey-backed mole armed with an ear trumpet, pulled a series of bark sketches from his belt wallet. He pointed to each in turn. “Naow, this ’un wurry Burby Longseason, ee’m wurr moi gurt-gurt-granfer’s gurt-granfer. They’m sayed Burby cudd fall in ee barrel of ’tober ale at brekkist an’ drink ee’m way owt afore supper, hurr aye!”

  Laughing uproariously, the molecrew stamped the floor with their hefty footpaws, evidently vastly amused at anybeast who could perform this feat. They refilled their tankards and drank deep, waiting for a mole to cap Ole Jarge’s tale.

  Jem felt he was intruding on the all-mole gathering. He backed out, politely tugging his headspikes. “Er, you’ll excuse me, friends. Beg pardon. . . .”

  A fat, homely molemum bustled him to a seat. “Nay nay, zurr Jem. You’m welcum as ee bumbly bee in ee rose garding. Set ee daown, ee’m ’edgehog bee’s only ee mole with a spoiky ’ead!”

  Some of the molecrew fell over backward with laughter at this remark. Jem found himself seated next to Walt, a large tankard of the fizzy tonic thrust into his paw. It tasted odd but rather pleasant, and it made Jem become quite giggly.

  The moles continued with their stories. One jolly-looking fellow took the floor. “Hurr, moi ole granmum, she’m lived close by ee gurt mountain. So oi sez to ’er, ‘Granmum, ’ow long’ve ee lived yurr?’ An’ she’m sayed, ‘Since this yurr mountain bee’d only a likkle hill. Oi jus’ woked upp one mornin’ an’ et’d growed thurr in ee noight!’ ”

  The moles were now in paroxyms of laughter, rolling about on the floor and gripping their sides. Jem giggled helplessly, even though most of what was being said went right over his head. Clearly, the jolly atmosphere was having a marked effect upon him.

  Walt tapped his friend’s shoulder. “Bee’s you’m wanten to see oi, Jem?”

  Wiping away mirthful tears, the hedgehog managed to control himself. “Aye, Walt. My cousin the Abbot wants to know if you’n I would like to ’elp him an’ Gordale to solve that puzzle Askor gave us. But not tonight, we’ll do it tomorrow.”

  Walt nodded vigourously. “Boi ’okey us’n’s will, Jem. We’m allus been fond o’ rigglers an puzzlers!”

  Satisfied that his friend was willing to lend assistance, Jem withdrew from the cellars, leaving the molecrew to their yarn telling. As he went out the door, he heard Walt setting up more gales of merriment with his contribution.

  “Yurr, you’m knows moi mate, Ole Jem. Well, ee’m got a cuzzen who’m bee’s his Father, hurr hurr hurr!”

  Giggling and chuckling, Jem made his way to the room that he and Walt had been allotted for their stay at the Abbey. The travelling hedgehog, fond of any sort of party, was eagerly looking forward to the evening’s event. Jem sorted through his belongings to choose something appropriate for the festivities. After the long time he’d spent wandering with only Walt for company, this celebration with so many of his Redwaller friends was very welcome.

  That evening, Burlop Cellarhog and Sister Armel stood guarding the door to Cavern Hole. It was to remain closed until Foremole Bruffy gave the word. A line formed along the corridor and down the stairs. Redwallers accompanying Dibbuns, all dressed in their festive best, waited, though not too patiently. There were cheers as Abbot Humble came down the stairs with his cousin Jem. Humble was garbed in a pale-green habit girdled with a thick, cream-hued cord. Jem had on a red tunic and a short cape of blue, silky fabric. Everybeast shuffled sideways to make way for them. Humble solemnly tapped three times upon the door.

  Foremole’s voice sounded from within. “Who’m bee’s a-knocken’ on this yurr door—be ee a moler?”

  The Abbot answered as custom required. “No mole am I, but a Redwaller true, Father of this Abbey. I am come here with my friends, good creatures all. We are here to honour our trusty moles!”

  Opening the door wide, Foremole Bruffy stood on the threshold. He had on a flowing cloak of rich brown velvet and a crown fashioned from buttercups, daisies and pale blue milkwort. In his right paw he bore a wand of willow branch with fuzzy catkins growing from it. Smiling from ear to ear, the mole chieftain intoned a traditional poem.

  “Yurr bee’s moi ’eart, an’ yurr bee’s moi paw.

  Wellcum, an’ henter ee thru this door.

  Friends of’n ee bee’s friends o’ moine,

  us’ll all ’ave ee gurt ole toime!”

  The Redwallers flooded into Cavern Hole, which was lit by coloured lanterns and decorated with spring flowers and streamers of coloured ferns. Moss-padded wall ledges provided seating all around. Three long tables were placed in an open square to leave room for the performers.

  A barrel of last summer’s strawberry fizz was on tap, along with October Ale, pale cider and rosehip cordial. The food was mainly good solid mole fare—deeper’n’ever turnip’n’tater’n’beetroot pie, leek and celery soup, spring salads and several enormous cheese-crusted loaves stuffed with chopped hazelnuts and mushrooms. For dessert there were inevitable mounds of hunnymoles, bowls of candied chestnuts and a huge, dark fruitcake decorated with preserved plums and damsons.

  No sooner was the supper served than the entertainment commenced. To the music of flutes, tiny drums and a peculiar instrument called a molecordion, the small band struck up a paw-tapping family quadrille. Two rings were formed—the outer one by molemums and grandmums, the inner one by Dibbuns holding sticks. The elders began sticking out first their right, then their left footpaws, whooping and whirling around in a clockwise circle. The Dibbuns circled in the opposite direction, their little faces concentrating seriously as they tapped the floor skilfully between the elders’ footpaws.

  The sound of tap tap tap, rap rap rap resounded as the pace sped up. Gruff whoops and infant giggles rang out, the sticks missing footpaws by a hairsbreadth. Clapping in time to the dance, a group of fine bass and baritone moles began singing.

  “Oi pray ee zurr doant ’it moi paw,

  furr if’n ee do, et will be sore.

  Thump ee stick down on ee floor,

  an’ us’n’s will be ’arpy.

  Rumpitty tum ho rumpitty tum,

  moles bee’s ’aven so much fun.

  No likkle ’un will strike ’is mum,

  ’cos they’m luvs ’em so gurtly!”

  Twice more they danced, each time tapping and rapping more rapidly until the sticks and paws moved in a blur. The entire ensemble took a bow to hearty applause. Then there were calls for a time-honoured request. “Foremole, do the poem with Abbot Humble. Do the poem!”

  Humble and Bruffy, both modest creatures, were coaxed out onto the floor, shaking their heads and protesting.

  “Oh no, please, surely you don’t want to hear that old thing, do you?”

  “Burr, oi doant thinks as ’ow oi can amember ee wurds!”

  In the end, however, they had to concede to the roars of encoura
gement. Foremole stood up on a stool, striking a noble pose. Humble circled him slowly and began reciting.

  “Here am I, the Abbot of all Redwall,

  I rule my Abbey with voice and paw.

  And who are you, sir, standing there?

  Pray tell me now, for I’m not sure!”

  Foremole spread his paws wide and shouted, “Oi’m a mole!”

  Everybeast chorused, “He’s a mole!”

  The Abbot looked surprised, then continued.

  “I have a Friar who’s an excellent cook,

  ’tis said he wrote a recipe book,

  and two stout mice, our bells to toll,

  and you, forsooth, what is your role?”

  Foremole looked at the audience as he repeated, “Oi’m a mole!”

  The onlookers shouted even louder, “He’s a mole!”

  Humble shook his head, as if he had not heard.

  “I have a Keeper who guards our gate,

  and another who tends our bees,

  and a healer to care for any who ail,

  but you’re not one of these!”

  Foremole merely pointed to himself as the crowd howled, “He’s a mole!”

  The Abbot scratched his headspikes and looked bemused.

  “We’ve a Cellarhog who brews our drink,

  and a Recorder with both quill and ink,

  and guards who pace our Abbey wall,

  so what do you do, tell me all?”

  Foremole smiled at his audience, who rose to their paws with a deafening roar. “He’s a mole!”

  Before the Abbot could reply, Foremole Bruffy held up his paw commandingly. Silence, apart from stifled giggles, fell. He came down off the stool and faced Humble boldly.

  “You’m got summ faithful creatures, zurr,

  but none as true h’as oi.

  ’Twas moles built cellars under yurr,

  an’ if’n ee arsks these uthers whoi,

  they’m’ll tell ee gurtly wot’s moi role. . . .”

  The Redwallers, who had been waiting for this final line with unconcealed glee, stood and bellowed en masse, “ ’Cos there’s nobeast can dig a hole like a mole!”

  Humble and Foremole bowed and sat down to wild applause. Smiling and shaking paws, they refused pleas for an encore.

  Outside, the spring night was tranquil, with scarcely a breeze to ruffle the leaves. Twinkling pinpoints of stars dusted dark velvet skies. In solitary splendour, an apricot-hued crescent moon hung over Redwall Abbey, casting gentle shadows on the ancient stone. From the woven tapestry, the figure of Martin the Warrior stood gazing out between flickering sconces, watching over his citadel of safety and friendship. Whilst far off to the southwest, murder and evil were being committed by a band of vermin, led by a strange beast that had come from the lands of ice beyond the great sea.

  8

  Two ermine who had been left behind to repair the big ship upon the rocks watched Rakkety Tam and Doogy Plumm advancing through the dusk. In the ship’s bow, the vermin hid, peering through the hole which had been smashed through the hull on its waterline. It was not difficult to see the two squirrels, since they were both carrying lighted torches. Neither of the ermine knew anything about ship repairing, but they were forced to comply, knowing that disobedience to their savage leader meant instant death. From the gloom of their hiding place, they watched the squirrels move closer.

  Drawing his sickle-curved sword, the more hefty of the two ermine licked the blade, grinning wickedly. His companion, a tall, thin beast, whispered a warning. “Don’t slay ’em straight off. They lives on the coast ’ere prob’ly. Two like those’d be bound t’know about pluggin’ the ’ole in this craft an’ makin”er seaworthy.”

  The hefty one sniggered. “Aye, mate, good idea. Why should we do all the toil? Let these oafs fix the ship first, then we’ll skin ’em, nice’n’slow. I claim the liddle fat ’un. ’Tis long seasons since I tasted a fine plump squirrel.”

  His companion nodded his head. “Right, I’ll take the other. Huh, wonder wot those two idiots are doin’, wanderin’ round the shore at this hour?”

  Eyes shining with anticipation, the hefty ermine murmured, “Who cares? Nice of ’em t’bring fire along. We won’t need t’put flint to steel’n’tinder to make a roastin’ fire.”

  Moving closer to the edge of the hole in the ship’s hull, he whispered to his partner, “Let’s go an’ welcome ’em!”

  As Tam and Doogy reached the ship, the two ermine sidled out onto the rocks with drawn swords. Doogy’s paw dropped to the basket hilt of his claymore. “Weel now, will ye lookit, we’ve got company!”

  Tam slid the dirk behind his shield, hiding it from view. He raised his voice, addressing the vermin cheerily. “A good evenin’ to ye, sirs. Is this your vessel? Dearie me, in a bit of a mess, ain’t it?”

  The hefty ermine swaggered forward. Tossing his sword in the air, he caught it skilfully. “Aye, she’s got a hole in the bows, as ye can see. But it ain’t nothin’ that you two bumpkins can’t fix up fer us, is it?”

  Doogy smiled disarmingly. Ignoring the ermine, he addressed Tam. “Will ye no’ listen tae that saucy auld windbag! He thinks we’re ship repairers!”

  Tam wedged his torch between two rocks. “He’s certainly a hardfaced rogue, Doogy. He called us bumpkins. I think we’ll have to repair his manners.”

  The thin ermine brandished his sword, snarling, “Shut yore mouths an’ surrender those weapons. D’ye know who yore talkin’ to? We’re two warriors who serve Gulo the Savage. Do as yore told an’ we might let ye live!”

  Doogy stuck his torch alongside Tam’s. “Och, ye great string o’ seaweed, ah dinna care who yore Chieftain is. Nobeast talks tae Wild Doogy Plumm like that!”

  Without further ado, a fight to the death commenced. The thin one swung his blade at Doogy’s head, but the little Highlander moved with a speed which belied his girth. Leaping forward, he swung his claymore in a single, mighty arc. It smashed the blade from the vermin’s paw, following through across his throat and despatching him with a single blow. The hefty one closed with Tam, trying to spike him from overhead with a downward sweep of the curved blade. Tam whipped his shield up over his head, deflecting the blow. In the same instant, Tam’s dirk took the shocked vermin through the heart in an upward thrust.

  Showing no great concern, Doogy enquired as he cleaned his blade, “Did he do any damage tae yore buckler, Tam?”

  After inspecting the shield’s centre boss, Tam shrugged. “Only a wee dent. This old shield’s taken enough of them in its time. Let’s search the ship in case there’s any more foebeasts lurkin’ about.”

  Climbing through the rift in the hull, they held up their torches and gazed around. Doogy pulled a face, covering his nose with his tail. “Land’s sakes, Tam, the smell in here’s enough tae knock a body flat! Ah wonder who Gulo the Savage is—yon vermin spoke his name as though we ought tae know him.”

  Tam bent to examine a locker, which proved to be empty. “That’s the one Driltig mentioned. He’ll be their leader, the beast who goes around eatin’ other creatures. He’s the lad we’ll have to meet up with if we’re to get Araltum’s banner back.”

  Grimacing with distaste, Doogy turned over some mouldy seabird feathers and fishbones with his bladepoint. “Aye, well mind ye speak tae him politely. Ach, there’s nae much of any use here, Tam. Let’s be rid o’ this stinkin’ hulk!”

  Exiting the ship, they heaved the slain ermine carcases through the holed bow, tossing the lighted torches in after them. Night was fully fallen as Tam and Doogy watched flames and smoke rising. Fire shot up the rigging and through the sails like a hungry beast, sending sparks crackling into the dark sky. Using the light, Tam cast about until he found pawprints.

  “They must’ve doubled back this way after raiding the groves. There’s a whole army here, headin’ off north along the shore. Well, Doogy, do we follow ’em now or leave it until dawn?”

  Sitting down on some dry sand, Doogy held up h
is paws to the blaze. “ ’Tis a shame tae be wastin’ sich a braw fire, Tam. Let’s take a wee bite o’ supper an’ sleep here, where ’tis warm an’ upwind o’ the sparks, eh?”

  Supper was merely a few apples and some cheese, which they stuck on the points of their swords, toasting them in the glowing prow timbers.

  Having eaten, Doogy wrapped his cloak about him, grunting contentedly. “Mercy me, aren’t we livin’ the life o’ kings, Tam. A braw fire in the hearth, a floor o’ sand, a roof o’ sky an’ toasted apples’n’cheese—what more could ye ask for, eh?”

  Tam wiped melted cheese from his swordtip, imitating his friend’s thick Highland brogue. “Och, yer easy pleased, mah wee Doogy. We’ve no’ got a pretty maid tae sing us tae sleep!”

  Doogy gathered a swathe of his cloak about his face like a headscarf. He began twittering in what he fondly imagined was a maidenly voice. “Och, ye saucy great beastie! Dinna fret, ah’ll sing ye a wee lullaby!”

  Tam groaned in mock despair. “Spare me that, Doogy. Ye look like a boiled pudden, an’ ye sound like a toad trapped under a rock!”

  He lay back and tried to sleep whilst his friend serenaded him in a gruff bass voice which bore no resemblance to any young maid’s.

  “Oh a beetle maid sat in a glade,

  an’ she lamented sadly,

  ‘Mah love’s gone off tae fight the bees,

  ah’m feared that he’ll fare badly.

  Those bumbly bees are fierce wee things,

  wi’ stripey shirts an’ wee small wings.

  Their bottoms carry nasty stings,

  they’re feisty aye an’ buzzy!’

  Och, mah Berty Beetle looked so stern,

  he didnae think ’twas funny,