Loamhedge

13

The Searat Blowfly sat on a rotten log, cooling his footpaws by rubbing them in the rich, damp loam. Gazing up at the trunks of mighty woodland trees, with their canopy of sun-pierced green, he murmured to the Searat sitting alongside him.

“I likes this ’ere Mossflower place, better weather ’ere than on that nor’east coast. Plenny o’ shelter an’ prime vittles, too!”

His companion, a sad-faced Searat called Rojin, rubbed his blistered footpaws tenderly as he complained. “Huh, if only we wasn’t marchin’ so much. I ain’ cut out fer all this trekkin’. I’m a Searat, norra landlubber!”

Hangclaw, another rat, limped over to join them. Rooting with his daggerpoint at a splinter in his footpaw, he spat in disgust.

“Right y’are, shipmate, just look at me pore trampers. Why are we walkin’ all the time. Where’s ole Bol got us bound to? We’re traipsin’ around all day an’ ’arf the night!”

Glimbo, the one-eyed rat who had been first mate aboard ship, had been loitering nearby, eavesdropping on the three crewrats. Sneaking up behind them, he gave the rotten log a hard shove with his spearpoint, sending the trio sprawling into the loam.

“Gerrup on yer paws an’ quit whinin’, ye slab-sided sons o’ worms. If the cap’n catches ye, he’ll leave youse here to rest as food fer the ants. Now march!”

Raga Bol had been marching up in front of the others but had looked back over his shoulder so often that the crew could not fail to notice. The Searat captain dropped back until he was level with Glimbo. Catching his mate’s sleeve with the deadly silver hook, Bol swiftly dragged him behind a broad sycamore trunk.

Glimbo’s sightless eye rolled in its socket as he saluted. “They’re all on the march, Cap’n!”

Raga Bol poked his head out from behind the tree and snarled at the backstragglers. “Keep movin’, I’m watchin’ ye!” Then he turned his attention to the trembling Glimbo. “They’re talkin’ about me, wot’re they sayin’? The truth!”

The mate was trembling so hard that the back of his head made a noise on the tree trunk like a woodpecker. “N . . . nothin’, Cap’n, they ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

He heard the slither of cold steel as Bol drew his scimitar. As Raga Bol pulled him close, Glimbo could see the glint of his captain’s gold teeth. He knew how dangerous the captain’s moods were becoming.

With his scimitar upraised, Bol hissed, “They must be sayin’ somethin’, ye mud-brained idiot!”

Words poured out of Glimbo at breakneck pace. “On me oath, Cap’n, the whole crew’s sayin’ ’ow thankful they are to ye for bringin’ ’em ’ere, where ’tis sunny an’ there’s easy pickins. It’s just that they ain’t used to all this marchin’ . . . some of ’em gotten sore paws.”

Thunk! The scimitar blade cut deep into the sycamore, taking off a tuft of Glimbo’s whiskers. “Sore paws, is it? You tell any beast moanin’ about sore paws that I’ll chop ’em off an’ make ’em march on the stumps! Aye, an’ ye can tell all the crew to quit starin’ at me all the time. An’ ye can tell ’em another thing, too. Any rat I ’ears mentionin’ that giant stripedog, I’ll make ’im eat his own tongue. There ain’t no big stripedog follerin’ me, d’ye hear?”

Glimbo gulped hard, knowing how close to death he had come. Raga Bol wandered off without warning, leaving him to pull the scimitar loose and return it. The mate was surprised to see his captain sit down in the loam and speak in a voice that almost had a sob in it. “I ain’t been sleepin’ at nights. Post extra guards around me when it gets dark.”

Glimbo dislodged the blade and returned it to his captain. Raga Bol grabbed the scimitar, staring suspiciously at him.

“Stop starin’ at me like that, thick’ead. Gerrabout yer business an’ make ’em march faster!”

Glimbo saluted and walked off bemused. This was not the Raga Bol he knew from the seafaring days. The captain was definitely acting strange. He glanced back at Bol, but the captain did not notice him looking, because he, too, was peering back over his shoulder.

Badredd felt the early sun on his muzzle as he lay on a soft patch of moss, with both eyes closed, feigning sleep. He listened to the voices of the gang, identifying each one as they spoke.

“Sure ’tis a luvly morn, an’ a grand ould spot t’be enjoyin’ it in!” Flinky had an unmistakable accent.

His mate, Crinktail, was next to speak. “Which way d’ye want these woodpigeon eggs boilin’?”

Flinky replied, “Keep ’em nice’n’soft, me ould darlin’. I’ve never been fussy on hardboiled eggs.”

Crinktail sounded cheerful. “I’ll cook night an’ day for ye, if’n yew can fool that little fox into lettin’ us stay by this water for a few more days.”

Badredd heard Juppa’s voice chime in. “Aye, this is a prime spot. See if’n ye can fool the liddle idjit to stop ’ere fer a score o’ days!”

Flinky oozed confidence. “Leave it t’me, mates. I’m a silver-tongued ould charmer when I wants t’be!”

Badredd yawned convincingly, then, opening his eyes, sat up lazily and stretched. “Boiled woodpigeon eggs, eh? Bring ’em over here, Flinky, I ’ope they’re done nice’n’soft.”

The stoat gritted his teeth but obeyed the new chief’s orders. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, sir, an’ another grand day ’tis, t’be sure. Now ye enjoy those eggs, there’s plenny more around. We was just sayin’ wot a fine spot ye chose fer us. Yore a wise leader, so y’are!”

Badredd put the eggs to one side and stood up, sword in paw. Scowling darkly, he asserted his authority. “Don’t get to like it too much, you lot, ’cos we’re movin’ on as soon as we’ve eaten. So pack up yore gear an’ stand by, ready t’march as soon as Plumnose gets back!”

Halfchop’s face was the picture of dismay. “But didn’t ye say we wuz stayin’ ’ere for a coupla days?”

The little fox gripped his cutlass tighter. “Well, I just changed me mind. A chief can do that!”

Slipback stood paws on hips, facing up to Badredd. “Changed yore mind, eh, jus’ like that! An’ where d’ye think yore takin’ us, eh?”

Raising the cutlass, Badredd took a pace forward and snarled nastily at the weasel. “We’re goin’ to this Abbey place, if ’tis any business of yores. So git yore tackle t’gether!”

Slipback turned to the others, scoffing insolently, “Hah, looks t’me like the liddle fox needs a magic sword t’make ’im look bigger!”

Badredd’s temper snapped. He swung at the weasel’s unprotected back, chopping off his tail with a single blow.

Slipback screeched in pain. “Yeeeaaaargh, me tail!”

His mate, Juppa, hastily slapped a pawful of bank mud on the severed stump. Slipback lay moaning, half fainting with the agony.

Juppa glared accusingly at Badredd. “Ye had no call t’do that to ’im!”

As the fox once again flourished his cutlass, the gang fell back. He saw the fear in their eyes and exulted in it. “Next time anybeast talks t’me like that, I’ll slay ’im! Oh, I know wot ye’ve been sayin’ be’ind me back. Think ye can fool me, do ye? Well, dig the dirt out yore lugs an’ lissen. I’m rulin’ this roost, an’ wot I say goes! I’m goin’ to own that magic sword, aye, an’ take the Abbey, too. Anybeast who sez diff’rent, let ’em speak now!”

Flinky raised his paws placatingly. “Ah, sure now, who’d be wantin’ t’get themselves slayed by battlin’ wid a fine great warrior like yoreself? ’Tis just that we thought ye was goin’ to stop ’ere a few days.”

It was then that Badredd knew he was really the leader of the gang. A feeling of power surged through him. Now he could be as cruel and commanding as Burrad or Skrodd. Had he not just drawn blood? Curling his lip contemptuously, he growled, “I do the thinkin’ from now on. We’re goin’ to the Abbey. Come on, Slipback, up on yer hunkers, ye ain’t dead yet.”

With a poultice of mud and dockleaf tied to his severed tail, the weasel rose slowly, fixing Badredd with a stare of hatred. “There’s eight of us an’ only one of you, fox. Don’t get too big’n’fancy wid yore ideas, ’cos ye’ve still got to sleep at nights. I wouldn’t turn me back on us too often if’n I was you—ye can’t kill us all!”

Badredd realised the truth in Slipback’s statement, but now that he had all this newfound power he was not backing down. With his cutlass blade, Badredd upset the small cauldron of water over the campfire. It went out with a hiss and a cloud of steam.

At that moment, Plumnose came lumbering back through the woodlands. The ferret’s oversized nose wobbled from side to side as he took in the scene. “Huh, wod’s bin goin’ on, mates?”

Flinky began explaining. “Ah well, Plum, me ould messmate, wait’ll I tell ye wot . . .”

Badredd shoved the stoat roughly aside. “I’m the chief now—make yore report t’me. Well, wot did ye find?”

Plumnose pointed in the direction he had been scouting. “Er, over der, I’b found a path dat runs south’t’north. I t’ink dat’s der way to the h’abbey. Id’s aboud h’a day’s march, Chief, to d’path I mean.”

Badredd pointed with his blade. “Get movin’, you lot. Plumnose, you go up front an’ show ’em the way. Slipback, Juppa, Crinktail, Flinky an’ Halfchop, up front wid ’im. I ain’t walkin’ wid youse behind me. Rogg an’ Floggo, you bring up the rear wid me.”

He shook the cutlass at Flinky. “An’ remember this, old silver tongue, no gossipin’ an’ plottin’, ’cos I’ll be watchin’ ye. There’ll be no more coaxin’ me inter things wot I don’t wanna do. Now move yoreselves!”

It was pleasant walking through the woodlands. Patches of light and shade mottled the grass, and many forest blossoms were coming into bloom. The weasel brothers, Rogg and Floggo, were a taciturn pair. Since both of them carried bows and arrows, Badredd had kept them back with him. He explained their duties as he watched the backs of the gang, marching ahead. Badredd confided to the weasel brothers as though they were lifelong friends.

“Stay by my side, mates, I’ll make ye both my seconds in command. Keep yore eyes on the rest of that gang an’ watch me back. Aye, ye two look true’n’blue t’me. When we conquer that Abbey place, I’ll reward ye well. Mark my words, ye’ll live the lives o’ kings!”

Rogg and Floggo were not at all impressed by the little fox’s brags and promises. They had seen gang leaders come and go, each one as ruthlessly cruel as the next. Keeping a stolid silence, the brothers marched dutifully on. Badredd kept a half pace behind them, carrying the cutlass over one shoulder like a spear. He had tried wearing it thrust into his belt, but the blade was too long. It dragged along the ground and got caught twixt his footpaws, causing undignified stumbles. Leaders could not afford to look foolish to those serving them.

Morning wore on to midday. The gang’s initial feelings of a brisk march through pleasant country began to pall as the going got more difficult. Those who were marching in front began complaining when they had to pass through a wide area of stinging nettles. Badredd roared at them to carry on in silence, which they did but only briefly. They had come upon marshy ground—not too deep but very uncomfortable—and soon were grumbling loudly. Swarms of midges attacked as the vermin struggled through the smelly, oozing mud. This time they ignored Badredd’s shouts and threats, even hurling insults back at him. After what seemed like hours, the front marchers emerged onto firm ground. Badredd and his bodyguards Rogg and Floggo hurried to catch up with them.

The gang had found a dry, sunny clearing where they lay, looking sullen and rebellious. One glance at their mud-splashed, insect-bitten faces warned their leader of trouble to come should he start roaring out orders to continue marching. Badredd forestalled this by sitting down wearily and commenting, “Ye did well there, mates, let’s rest ’ere awhile. Ahoy, Plum, are ye sure this is the right way? Are ye sure that hooter o’ yores didn’t wobble in the wrong direction, eh?”

Not even a snigger greeted his little joke. Picking dried mud from his nosetip, the ferret replied dully, “Dis is duh way h’I went awright.”

The vermin gang had no supplies with them and were too tired to forage. Crinktail and Halfchop stretched out and began taking a nap in the warm sunlight. Plumnose, Juppa, Slipback and Flinky sat in a group, conversing in muted tones. Rogg and Floggo slouched nearby, their eyes half closed.

Badredd began feeling dozy in the midday heat, but he forced himself to sit up and look alert. He saw Slipback glance his way, then whisper something to Juppa. The little fox pointed the cutlass at them.

“Cut out the whisperin’, I’m warnin’ ye!”

Flinky grinned impudently and threw a lazy salute. “Ah sure, they wasn’t sayin’ ought bad about ye, sir. Wid yore permission, would it be alright if we was to sing?”

Badredd relaxed, shrugging indifferently. “Sing ’til yore tongues drop off, if’n ye’ve a mind to. But none o’ that gossipin’ an’ whisperin’ to each other!”

The four exchanged sly winks. Flinky began singing a lullaby in a soft soothing voice.

“All the walkin’ today that I’ve done, done, done,

trampin’ through mud in the sun, sun, sun,

it reminds me of the days when me dear ould mother said,

come on now liddle feller, time for bed . . . bed . . . bed.

So hush a-bye, looh ah-lie, baby close yore eyes,

an’ dream about the moon up in the starry skies.”

He repeated the verse again, even softer, with the other three vermin humming gently in the background.

Badredd’s head drooped forward slightly, the cutlass lying limp in his open paw. His thoughts drifted back to his own young seasons. Through a golden haze of memory, he was barely aware of Flinky’s singing. It was the same tune but with different words.

“It looks like the fox has gone to sleep, sleep, sleep,

Slippy now be quiet as ye creep, creep, creep,

an’ stick a good sharp spear straight through his head,

then the moment that he wakes up he’ll be dead, dead, dead!

So hush a-bye, don’t ye cry, foxy close yore eyes,

an’ ye’ll soon make lovely vittles for the ants an’ flies!”

The murderous scheme might have worked out successfully had it not been for Plumnose. He thought that the altered words were so funny that he clapped his paws and broke out into hearty guffaws.

“Duh, haw haw haaaw! Dat’s a gudd ’un, I like dat, Flink! Haw haw haw, wake up dead, berry gudd!”

Badredd snapped immediately back to reality. He caught Slipback, brandishing a spear not three paces from him. Grabbing up his cutlass, the fox raised it threateningly.

“Wot are yew up to, weasel?”

Slipback veered and went past him. He started jabbing at the shrubbery at the edge of the glade.

“Thought I saw those bushes movin’, Chief. It might’ve been that otter an’ the squirrel, er, Sagroon an’ Bando!”

Flinky interposed. “I know who ye mean, Bragoon an’ Saro. I saw the bushes move, too, Chief. Slipback could be right!”

Thinking swiftly, Badredd turned the situation to his advantage. “No sense in takin’ chances then. We’d best git movin’ fast. Come on, up on yore paws!”

Badredd drove them hard for the remainder of the day by adopting a simple but effective scheme. He ordered Rogg and Floggo to fire off arrows from time to time. The deadly shafts fell just short of the marchers’ rear, causing them to hasten forward. Oaths and curses accompanied the arrival of each arrow, but they kept going, knowing they were only getting tit for tat. The plot to rid themselves of the little fox had failed, but they realised that, had it been Burrad or Skrodd in Badredd’s place, Flinky and Slipback would have been slain as retribution. They were getting off lightly.

Progress was good. By evening, Badredd was heartened to hear Plumnose calling out, “Dere’s duh path at de end ob the trees!”

Sure enough, they had reached the border of the woodlands. In front of them lay the path, which ran down from the north to the south.

Flinky leaned on an elm trunk, smiling cheerfully as the fox came up to see. “Ah well, there ye are now, Chief. All we gotta do is follow that road t’the left an’ keep goin’ ’til we hit Redwall Abbey!”