The Rogue Crew

17

It had turned midnight when Sircolo led them out of the marsh. A short stretch of heathland stood between the Fortunate Freepaws and the woodland fringe. The marsh harrier seemed anxious to be off.

“Yonder’s the trees, that way is south, t’other way north. So then, old silvertail, have ye got yore bearin’s now? I don’t want to eat any of ye, but I’ve got a hunger, so I must hunt for meat.”

Rekaby pointed back to the marsh. “Then don’t let me stop ye, y’ole savage. There’s vermin aplenty back there. I bid ye good night an’ good huntin’!”

As Sircolo swooped off, he called to Rekaby, “Find the stream. There’s Guosim camped there.”

Uggo watched the big bird vanish into the night. “Wot a good friend—an’ helpful, too, eh!”

Swiffo chuckled. “Aye, an’ ’twas a good thing we were with ye when he appeared. If’n he’d caught ye both alone . . .”

Posy shuddered. “Don’t even mention it. Sircolo looks capable of anything. Let’s find the stream and those shrews. I’ve heard them called Guosim before. Funny name, ain’t it?”

Swiffo replied, “Nothin’ funny about it. Guosim—the Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower. First letter of each word. They live in logboats on streams an’ rivers.”

Uggo aired his knowledge proudly. “Oh, I knew that. They visit Redwall Abbey sometimes. Their leader’s called Log a Log.”

The shrews were not difficult to find. After a short walk amidst the trees, they saw the glow of fires and heard a deep, gruff voice singing to the beat of two drums, a flute and a fiddle.

“Ho, rum-tum-toodle-oh, pardon me sayin’ so, but I’ll dance anywhere.

Round a boat from fore to aft, even all around a raft, well, I can cause a stir.

I could dance on floatin’ logs, in my good ole dandy clogs, they’re the best uns ever made.

Call me an’ I’ll answer, I’m a champion ole dancer, bright’n’sharp as any blade.

I always gets top marks, when I kick up lots of sparks I’m the Log a Log whose name is Dandy Clogs, the Guosim Chieftain that good ole Log a Log called Dandy Clogs!”

The source of the sound was a dancing, singing shrew. In the light of the campfires on a streambank where six logboats were moored, a quartet of musicians was playing, whilst an entire tribe of Guosim shrews were clapping and paw tapping. A handsome, athletic shrew was singing and dancing with breathtaking skill.

This was Dandy Clogs, the tribe leader; he was a sight to behold. From beneath a blue cap, decked with green lapwing feathers, he beamed a constantly twinkling smile through neatly waxed and curled moustachios. He wore a scarlet tunic and kilt belted with a broad brass buckle, which glinted in the firelight. However, it was his clogs which really caught the eye. Fashioned from highly polished golden bark, they were set with patterns of shiny steel sprig nails.

On spotting the visitors to his camp, he executed a dizzying whirl, ending in a display of sparks as he ground to a halt on a rocky slab. Seizing Rekaby’s paw, he pumped it vigorously.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome, on a fine spring night! Are ye friend or foe or just plain slow? Don’t answer that question. Ye ain’t too slow, an’ ye must be friend, ’cos if ye were foe, we’d have slain ye long ago!”

The old squirrel managed to free his paw, interrupting. “I beg yore pardon, but could I get a word in here edgeways?”

The garrulous shrew waved them to seats by one of the fires. “Of course you can, O weary but wise one. Here, bring vittles an’ drink for our guests. And now, good sir, kindly put in yore word—edgeways, I think you said!”

Rekaby was looking tired after the trek through the marshes, so Posy replied for him. “Sir . . .”

The shrew pointed at himself. “I’m not sir, O maiden fair. I’m Log a Log Dandy Clogs. Pray speak on, pretty one!”

Posy could not help but smile at his courtly poetic manner. She matched him with a pretty curtsy before continuing. “My friend Uggo and I escaped from a vermin ship. These good creatures helped us to escape; Sircolo guided us through the marsh and directed us to you.”

Rekaby added, “We are of the Fortunate Freepaws tribe.”

The Log a Log laughed. “Oh, that lot. We’ve seen you from time to time. Aren’t you the bunch who don’t believe in fightin’ an’ don’t bear arms?”

Swiffo defended his tribe stoutly. “Aye, that’s us, an’ how we choose t’live is our own business. Besides, I don’t see you carryin’ any weapons.”

A nearby shrew murmured in the young otter’s ear, “Our Log a Log don’t need swords or such. He could slay ye with a single kick o’ those Dandy Clogs, believe me.”

The shrew Chieftain clicked his deadly clogs together sharply. “Enough talk o’ slayin’. Try some of our shrewbeer an’ fried fruit flapjacks. Yore safe here with us. Oh, by the way, I don’t go in for longfalutin’ titles, so just call me Dandy, an’ that’ll be fine an’ handy!”

The fried fruit flapjacks were delicious, though the shrewbeer tasted rather strong. As they ate, Dandy discussed his plans for them. “Tomorrow we’ll get you back to yore Freepaw tribe. I’m sure they’re not far south of here.”

He looked pointedly at Uggo.

“As for you, young un, yore a long way from Redwall, ain’t ye?”

Uggo was surprised. “How’d you know I’m from Redwall?”

Dandy shrugged. “There was just somethin’ about ye, I suppose—a good guess, eh?”

The young hog nodded. “It certainly was. I came from the Abbey with an otter called Jum Gurdy, but we got separated. I don’t know whether old Jum’s alive or dead.”

Dandy winked at a tough-faced shrew. “Tell him, Dobble.”

Dobble was a typical Guosim warrior, spiky furred, with a coloured headband, kilt and broad-buckled belt with a short rapier thrust into it. He drew the rapier and began sketching in the bank sand.

“This is where we are—there’s the marsh, the dunes, shore an’ sea. I spotted yore mate Jum two days back, in company with a score of fightin’ hares an’ six Rogue Crew sea otters. They’re headin’ up to the High North Coast. Ole Skor Axehound rules the roost up there. So Jum’s alive an’ safe, though I don’t know when ye’ll meet agin.”

Uggo felt immensely relieved to hear the news of Jum Gurdy, though he could feel himself blinking back tears as he stared into the fire. “Without Mister Gurdy to guide me back to Redwall, I’m lost good’n’proper. I might never see my home, ever!”

Posy patted her friend’s back gently. “Don’t fret, Uggo, I’ll help you. We’ll find it together, you’ll see.”

Dandy stretched and yawned. “Oh, well, not tonight ye won’t. You two get a good night’s sleep an’ stop worryin’. I suppose I’ll have to take you back to Redwall Abbey meself.”

Uggo wiped a paw across his eyes. “You will, Mister Dandy, are ye sure? Do ye know the way?”

The Log a Log scoffed. “Do ye think I’d be chieftain o’ Guosim if’n I couldn’t find me tail with both paws? O’ course I knows the way to Redwall. Went there when I was nought but a liddle shaver. My pa was Log a Log then. I remember the vittles was prime, best I ever tasted. Now, you lot get some sleep. Dandy’ll take care o’ ye!”

The entire party settled down on the mossy streambank. After the heady shrewbeer, it did not take them long to drift off. Uggo lay watching the reflected campfires in the broad stream, listening to mothers lullabying baby shrews and warriors readying their weapons for the journey. He fell asleep, feeling safer than he had in a long while.

Midafternoon on a still, sunny day saw a small gathering of Dibbuns at the Abbey pond. Fottlink, the mouse Recorder of Redwall, was giving them the benefit of some seasonal advice. He peered over the top of his rock crystal glasses at them.

“Now, who can tell me what day it is today, eh?”

The shrewbabe Alfio held up a chubby paw. “It a nice sunny day, I fink.”

Fottlink ruffled Alfio’s ears. “Right, it is a nice sunny day, but it’s a very special time. Who knows?”

Brinky, the tiny volemaid, smiled shyly. “A speshilly noice, sunny day, sir!”

Fottlink returned her smile, murmuring to himself, “Aye, well, we’re getting nowhere fast.” He moved to the placid water’s edge. “See, if I’d stood here a few days back, I’d have got my paws wet. What do you make of that?”

Brinky’s friend, Murty, scratched his velvety head. “Ee pond is gone likkler!”

The Recorder encouraged him. “Very good. Now, feel this stone. Move over, Guggle, and let Murty feel the stone you’re sitting on. Go on, move, shoo!”

The Dibbun squirrelmaid moved, protesting, “But it’s nice’n’warm ta sit on!”

Fottlink’s paw shot up. “Exactly! The pond has shrunk, and the stones are warm—it’s a sign, you see? The first day of summer!”

A tiny dot of a mousebabe looked at Fottlink blankly. “Summa, wot’s dat?”

It suddenly dawned on the Recorder that this was probably the first summer most of them had seen, or could recall.

He sighed wistfully and was about to launch into an explanation about changing seasons when a charming young volemaid came from the direction of the Abbey.

“Brother Fottlink, Abbot says to tell you the meeting’s about to start in Cavern Hole, an’ you should attend.”

The Recorder took her paw gratefully. “I’ll go right away, thank you, Milda. Er, would you mind looking after the little uns? Take them to the orchard, away from this water, please.”

Milda curtsied. “Yes, Brother. Come on, mates, who wants to learn how to make daisy chains?”

They dashed off with her, shrilling, “Us goin’ ta make daisies chains wiv Mildee!”

Most of the senior Redwallers were gathered in Cavern Hole, with Abbot Thibb presiding. “Help yourselves to the lunch table and take a seat, friends.”

Fottlink piled a platter with salad, cheese and a thick slice of nut and honey roly-poly pudding. Taking a beaker of cool mint tea, he seated himself next to Sister Fisk.

When everybeast was settled, Thibb addressed them. “There’s three things we have to discuss. Uggo Wiltud’s dream, Twoggs Wiltud’s final words and the fact that they came in some way from Martin the Warrior. Any thoughts?”

Roogo Foremole raised a digging claw. “Aye, zurr, we’m bounded to ’eed ee warnens.”

Friar Wopple was in agreement. “My feelin’s exactly, Father, but you never told us fully about what young Uggo’s dream was. Can you explain?”

Thibb deferred to his Gatekeeper. “Dorka Gurdy was the one who recognised Uggo’s dream for what it was. Dorka?”

The otter Gatekeeper explained simply. “Uggo dreamed a ship was comin’ to attack our Abbey—he saw it in his dream. I would’ve said ’twas only the ravin’s of a liddle’og who’d eaten enough cake t’give ’im nightmares. But then he described the ship, a green-sailed craft with the Wearat sign on its mainsail. Said he saw a beast aboard it, so ugly it could’ve been the Wearat hisself. I think ’twas a true vision.”

Abbot Thibb nodded. “Aye, so did your brother Jum. That’s why he went off with Uggo, to find your old uncle Wullow. Jum said Wullow had told him the Wearat was slain by sea otters, and his ship sank after being fired. He went to find if Wullow was telling the truth.”

Sister Fisk stood up to be heard. “Added to that, there’s the message we received from that old Wiltud hog Twoggs. What was it she said?”

Here Fottlink took out a piece of bark parchment. “I recorded our Father Abbot’s exact words—listen.”

“Redwall has once been cautioned,

heed now what I must say,

that sail bearing eyes and a trident,

will surely come your way.

Then if ye will not trust the word,

of a Wiltud and her kin,

believe the mouse with the shining sword,

for I was warned by him!”

Fottlink held up the parchment for all to see. “So said Twoggs Wiltud, a wretched old hogwife who had neither skill to read nor write. Those words could only have been put in her mind by our Abbey’s guiding spirit, Martin the Warrior. To me, this can mean only one thing—we are in danger of being attacked by a Wearat. I know it sounds unlikely, but this beast is coming to Redwall in a green-sailed ship! Who amongst us would doubt the word of Martin?”

An uneasy silence fell over the assembly. It was soon broken by Foremole Roogo with practical mole sense. “Hurr, nobeast be doubten et, zurr. Point bee’s, wot’n be us’ns a-goen to do abowt et?”

Abbot Thibb shook the Foremole’s paw. “Thank you, Roogo. There’s nought to beat mole logic. So, what are we going to do, friends?”

Ding Toller, the Abbey’s squirrel Bellringer, spoke. “Say nought to the young uns. No point in scarin’ ’em. I say let’s not go jumpin’ to rash decisions. We need to go away an’ think deeply about this problem. Abbot?”

Thibb settled both paws in his wide habit sleeves. “What Ding says is right. Hard, sensible thinking may well provide a solution. However, I have an immediate proposal. We need to have lookouts on all four walltops, night and day. Foremole, will you see to it? Two guards to each wall, with volunteers to relieve them four times a day. Bring any news of sightings straight to me. In the meantime, friends, let’s go about our duties calmly.”

The meeting broke up then as Redwallers set about their everyday chores. The remainder of the day passed without incident. Things grew quiet, even at supper that night, when conversation usually flowed back and forth, spiced with banter and good humour.

Abbot Thibb noticed this. Sitting next to Fottlink at the head of the main table, he mentioned it. “Our friends seem taken up with their thoughts tonight.”

The Recorder nibbled at a mushroom and carrot pasty. “Hmm, but they’re only doing what Ding Toller suggested. What about you, Thibb, have you had any thoughts?”

The Abbot sipped at his blackberry cordial. “Yes, I have. What about if you and I go to Martin’s tapestry? After they’ve all gone to their dormitories, of course. In the silence of the small hours, maybe our Warrior’s spirit will send us a message, some words of wisdom perhaps.”

Fottlink brushed pasty crumbs from his habit front. “A splendid idea. I’ll bring charcoal sticks and parchment, to record anything which may occur.”

Thibb dropped his voice to a secretive whisper. “Give it a while after they’ve all gone up, then knock on my chamber door.”

It was sometime after midnight. Thibb had not gone to bed; he stood at his small window. From there, he could see the west walltop. Two moles were patrolling up and down, alert but unhurried. The Father Abbot of Redwall felt a surge of pride in his faithful friends. Redwallers could always be relied upon for whatever he wished. He was distracted by a faint tap on the door. It was Fottlink, carrying a satchel containing his recording materials. He grinned furtively.

“Are you ready, Thibb?”

Silently the pair tippawed downstairs and started to cross Great Hall, in which areas of dark shadow alternated with soft golden lantern light. A cold draught of air caused them to halt—they heard the creak of the main door opening.

Thibb pulled Fottlink behind one of the huge sandstone columns, whispering, “I thought there’d be nobeast about at this hour, but someone’s just come in the Abbey. Hush, now, let’s find out who could be wandering about.”

A moment later, Dorka Gurdy drifted past them. Looking neither left nor right, the otter Gatekeeper moved slowly and smoothly through the hall.

Fottlink watched her intently. “Hmm, sleepwalking, would you say, Thibb?”

The Abbot noted her trancelike stare as she passed them. “Sleepwalking definitely, I’d say. Best not wake her, though. Come on, let’s follow her quietly.”

Dorka went to the alcove by the hall’s west wall. She halted in front of the legendary tapestry depicting the Redwall hero. Soft candlelight and ruby-tinted lanterns illuminated the noble figure of Martin the Warrior. Fully armoured and leaning on his great sword, he stood at the centre of the depiction as embroidered vermin foebeasts fled from all about him. In the lantern light, his eyes seemed to twinkle as he faced out into the Abbey. To one side, held by two iron brackets, the sword itself hung beside the tapestry. Thibb and Fottlink stood back in the shadows, curious to see what would happen next.

Dorka reached up, taking the sword from its mounts. She laid the weapon flat on the worn stone floor and spun it. Fottlink already had his writing equipment out, recording her every move. The mighty blade was still spinning as Dorka spoke in a clear, unhurried tone.

“Look to the blade, my point ye must take,

to whence winds will bring evil in their wake,

for goodbeasts arriving, I bid ye wait,

they bring aid on the day thy need is great.

Two warriors that day will answer the call.

The most unlikely creatures of all!”

When the sword ceased spinning, Dorka curled calmly up at the base of the tapestry, sound asleep.

Abbot Thibb shook his head in amazement. “Well, my friend, what did you make of that?”

Scribbling away earnestly, Fottlink replied, “Hush . . . wait. The most unlikely creatures of all. Good, I got it all, every word!” The scribe pointed dramatically with his charcoal stick. “See, the sword lies still now. Which way is the tip pointing finally?”

Thibb answered quietly. “North. No doubt that’s the direction the Wearat’s ship will come from.”

Gently they both helped Dorka Gurdy upright. She blinked owlishly at them.

“I came from the Gatehouse to ask Martin to bring Jum and Uggo safe back to Redwall.”

The Father Abbot patted her reassuringly. “Of course you did, marm. Now you must go back to your Gatehouse. I wager your bed’s more comfortable than a stone floor. Come on, friend, you need a proper rest.”

Dorka reached down, taking the sword and replacing it on the iron mounts, remarking, “Martin’s sword belongs up there. I wonder who took it down and put it on the floor. That wasn’t very nice, now, was it?”

Fottlink the Recorder and Abbot Thibb escorted Dorka Gurdy back through the first summer night to her Gatehouse. As they made their way back to the Abbey, a mole called from the west walltop to them.

“Hurr, all peaceable oop yurr, zurrs. Goo’ noight to ee!”