Loamhedge

5

North of Redwall, spring eventide filtered soft light through the leafy canopy of Mossflower Wood. Amid aisles of oak, beech, elm, sycamore and other forest giants, slender rowan, birch and willow stood like young attendants, waiting on their stately lords. Blue smoke drifted lazily upward through the foliage which fringed a shallow stream. Somewhere nearby, a pair of nightingales warbled harmoniously.

The tremulous beauty was lost upon a small vermin band who had trekked down from the far Northlands. They had camped on the bank to fish. A fat, brutish weasel called Burrad was their leader. Beneath his ragged cloak he carried a cutlass, its bone handle notched with the lives he had taken. Burrad’s sly eyes watched his band closely. They were spitting four shiny scaled roach on green willow withes to grill over the fire.

Drawing the cutlass, Burrad pointed it at the biggest fish. “Dat’n der is mine, yew cook it good fer me, Flinky!”

The stoat called Flinky let out a pitifully indignant whine. “Arr ’ey, Chief, I caught dis wun meself, ’tis me own fish!”

Despite his bulk, Burrad was quick. Bulling the stoat over, he whipped Flinky mercilessly with the flat of his blade.

Covering his head, the victim screeched for mercy. “Yaaaaaargh, stop ’im mates, afore he kills me pore ould body! Yeeegh, spare me, yer mightiness, spare me. Aaaaagh!”

Cruel by nature, Burrad thrashed Flinky even harder. Throwing himself upon the hapless stoat, he pressed the blade against Flinky’s scrawny neck, snarling viciously.

“Wot d’yer want, the fist or yore ’ead? ’Urry up an’ speak.”

The cutlass blade pressed savagely down. Flinky wailed. “Yeeeeh, take de fish, I’ve only got one ’ead. Take de fish!”

Burrad rose, grinning wolfishly as he kicked Flinky’s bottom. “Cook dat fish good, or yore a dead ’un!”

He turned on the other eleven vermin gang members. “Wot are youse lot gawpin’ at, eh? Gimme some grog!”

A female stoat called Crinktail, whose tail was shaped almost like a letter Z, passed Burrad the jug of nettle grog. Snatching it roughly, the bully sat down, taking long gulps of the fiery liquid.

He watched Flinky like a hawk. “Crispy outside an’ soft inside, dat’s de way I likes fish.”

The others averted their eyes; there was no doubt about who the leader of their gang was.

Crouched low in the reeds on the far bank, two creatures viewed the scene. One was an otter, the other a squirrel, both in their late middle seasons.

The otter squinched his eyes, letting them rove over the gang. “Hmm, about twelve o’ them over there, I’d say.”

The squirrel nibbled on a young reed. “There’s thirteen.”

Her companion shrugged. “I won’t argue with ye, ’cos my eyes ain’t as good as they used t’be. I tell ye though, mate, that’s one sorry gang o’ vermin. Looks as if they got rocks in their skulls instead o’ brains.”

The squirrel chuckled. “Aye, campin’ there without a single sentry posted, an’ a fire smokin’ away like a beacon. ’Tis a wonder their mothers let ’em out alone.”

The otter nodded. “See ole lardbelly yonder, the big weasel? Leave him t’me, I enjoy takin’ bullies down a peg.”

The squirrel commented drily, “Watch he don’t fall on ye, he’d flatten ye like a pancake. Are those fish ready yet?”

Her companion sniffed the air. “I’d say so. Right then, are we ready t’go an’ pay ’em a visit?”

The squirrel sighed. “Aye, layin’ here won’t get us any supper. You go in the front, an’ I’ll make me way around back.”

The lean, aging otter grumbled. “It’s always me wot has t’go in the front. Why can’t I go in the back?”

The squirrel cut left along the streambank, replying, “ ’Cos I’m the best tree climber. Give me time t’get ready, mate, don’t walk in too early. Good luck!”

Tucking his rudder into the back of his belt, the otter draped his ragged cloak to conceal it. He bound a faded red bandanna low on his brow, disguising both ears and scrunching down over his eyes to make them look shortsighted.

Picking up a polished hardwood staff, he splashed into the stream shallows, muttering to himself. “Huh, I’m gettin’ too old for this game!”

Little Redd was the youngest of the vermin gang. Small and runty, he was often the butt of their coarse jokes.

Seeking about for firewood, Redd glanced sideways. He saw the bedraggled creature wading across the stream, and called to Burrad. “Aye aye, Chief, looks like we got company!”

Burrad took his mouth from the grog jug. He cast a contemptuous glance at the hunched figure struggling toward the bankside. “Wot’n de name o’bludd is dat?”

The otter sloshed ashore, calling in a quavery voice. “A good evenin’ to one an’ all. Seems I’m just in time for supper. Mmm . . . roasted roach, me favourite vittles!”

Burrad’s cutlass was drawn and wavering a whisker’s breadth from the unwanted visitor’s nose. “Who are ye? Huhuhuh, or should I say, wot are ye?”

The stranger avoided the blade neatly. Ducking under it, he stood at the vermin leader’s side, wrinkling his nose comically. “Wot am I, young feller? I’m a ferroat, o’ course!”

Flinky looked up from the cooking fire. “A ferroat? Ah’ shure, an’ wot sort o’ beast is dat now?”

The intruder replied airily. “Oh, just a cross twixt a ferret an’ a stoat. I was a small sickly babe, or so me ole mum’n’dad told me. That’s why I look like this.”

Ignoring his fish-cooking task, Flinky continued. “An’ who, pray, was yore muther an’ father?”

The stranger replied, straight-faced. “A rat an’ a fox, I s’pose, but they was terrible liars.”

Flinky scratched his head. “Liars? Huh, I’ll say they was!”

Burrad interrupted by thwacking Flinky between both ears with the flat of his blade. “Who asked yew, puddle’ead? Ger-ron wid cookin’ dose fishes!”

He turned to the odd-looking creature. “Wot’s yore name, ferroat, an’ wot d’ye want ’ere?”

The newcomer pointed to himself. “Just told ye, haven’t I? Me name’s Ferroat, an’ I’ll sing an’ dance fer me supper. That’s if ye’ll allow me, kind sir.”

The vermin gang winked and sniggered among themselves. Burrad, a kind sir? This old fool was begging to die.

Testing his cutlass blade by licking the edge, Burrad leaned close to his intended victim and grinned. “Allow ye, eh? If’n yore dancin’ an’ singin’ ain’t to me likin’, I’ll allow this blade to chop ye into ten pieces. Then I’ll allow me gang to roast ye over that fire. If ye don’t taste nice, we kin always use ye fer fishbait!”

Smiling affably, the odd beast bowed creakily. “ ’Tis a fair offer, sir, I thankee kindly.”

Shuffling about in a curious jig, the creature twirled his staff and began singing.

“I’ll always recall wot Ma said to me,

ere I went a rovin’ a minstrel to be,

beware of the vermin, they ain’t got no class,

an’ they ain’t got the brains Mother Nature gave grass!

Rowledy dowlety toodle um day.

I soon found out me dear mother was right,

I met up with some vermin the followin’ night,

they were strangers to bathin’, an’ that made me think,

why didn’t Ma tell me that all vermin stink?

Rowledy pong and a toodledy pooh!”

The comic-looking old ragbag of a beast jigged and shuffled around. Raucous laughter greeted his performance followed by tears of merriment that coursed down the vermin’s cheeks. It was only at the start of the third verse, when vermin’s faces were compared to toads’ bottoms, that Burrad realised the singer was insulting him and his gang.

Roaring with rage, the fat weasel rushed the disguised otter. Whirling his cutlass, Burrad aimed a mighty swipe that should have left the singer headless. However, far from being slain, the odd creature ducked under the blow, came up under Burrad and tweaked his snout.

Purple with spleen, the gang leader grappled with his opponent, yelling to his second in command. “Skrodd, gut this old fleabag wid yer spear, I’ve got ’im!”

The tall, evil-looking fox dashed forward, plunging with his spear. But the otter was fast and more clever than both vermin. He butted Burrad under the chin, wriggled from his grasp and scuttled to one side in the blink of an eye.

Burrad stood gaping at the spear protruding from his stomach. He raised his clouding eyes to the open-mouthed fox, faltering. “Ye’ve killed me, yer blather-brained foo . . . !”

Burrad crashed over backward, slain by his own gang member. Amid the drama, nobeast noticed the four fish vanish up into the willow foliage, hauled on a thin twine by the green withes they were spitted upon.

Skrodd’s surprise was only momentary. His brain was already reacting to the fact that he was now the vermin gang’s new leader. Leaving the spear stuck in his former chief, the tall fox grabbed the cutlass from Burrad’s limp grasp. He came at the otter with a blurring barrage of swift slashes.

Whizzzzzthonk! A slingstone from the trees suddenly rendered him senseless. Skrodd’s fellow vermin looked on in horror as his body collapsed in a heap. Before the gang could move, the squirrel dropped from her perch. Danger glinted in her eyes as she twirled a loaded sling expertly.

“There’s twoscore more of us layin’ in the bushes, just waitin’ on the word!”

Shedding his disguise, the otter knocked daggers and other weapons from the vermin’s paws, with sharp raps of his polished staff. He looked nothing like the ragged, dancing fool he had been a moment ago. His voice was stern and commanding.

“Everybeast stand still, right where ye are! Believe Saro, we’ve got a full crew ready to pounce on ye!”

Halfchop, a rat who was minus a paw, gulped. “If’n that un’s called Saro, yew must be Bragoon?”

Flinky look at the pair in astonishment. “I’ve heard of ye, Bragoon an’ Saro. Two mighty warriors!”

Bragoon leaned on his staff and nodded. “That’s us, an’ there’s forty more trained fighters like us, just waitin’ to get a crack at you lot. So have the brains to stay alive an’ listen to wot we say.”

Flinky bowed politely. “Anythin’, yer honour, sure we’re in no position to be arguin’ wid ye.”

Saro pointed at a wobbly-nosed ferret called Plumnose. “You, where have ye come from? Speak!”

Gesturing back over his shoulder, Plumnose replied, “Durr, we cummed from der Nort’lands.”

Saro nodded. “The Northlands, eh? Then listen carefully to my friend Bragoon.”

The otter let his fierce eyes wander round the hapless vermin as he ground out an ultimatum. “Get yoreselves back to the Northlands, ’cos if yore anywhere south of here by nightfall, yore all deadbeasts! We’re goin’ now, but our mates’ll stay hidden, watchin’ ye. Sit still here until ’tis properly dark, then break camp an’ get back to where ye came from—sharpish! We’ll be passin’ this way again tomorrow. Make sure yore not still here. Is that clear?”

Flinky’s head bobbed up and down like a yo-yo. “Ah, sure, ’tis certain clear, yer mightiness. We’ve all got the message, an’ a fine important one it is, sir!”

Bragoon and Saro backed out of the camp. A moment later they were lost in the surrounding trees. The vermin sat wordlessly staring at one another until Plumnose broke the silence.

“Wodd duh we do now?”

Flinky’s mate, Crinktail, was in no doubt. “Like they said, we wait ’til it’s dark, then we gets out of here. I don’t know about youse, but I’m goin’.”

Flinky agreed. “Aye, ye don’t disobey two like Bragoon an’ Saro. Best do the sensible thing, mates.”

Recovering from the slingstone blow, Skrodd sat up groaning. “Unnnh, wot hit me?”

Slipback, a weasel with most of his back fur missing, toyed with the cutlass that had belonged to Burrad.

“Ye were knocked cold by a slingstone, mate.”

Skrodd felt the lump on his skull and winced. “Who did it?”

Flinky chuckled. “ ’Twas none other than a famous squirrel called Saro. Yore lucky she did, ’cos the one you was goin’ after wid yore blade was ’er partner, Bragoon.”

Skrodd stood slowly and walked across to Slipback. Suddenly he dealt the weasel a swift kick to the chin. As Slipback fell, the tall fox grabbed Burrad’s cutlass.

“Keep yer paws off dat blade, ’tis mine now. I slew Burrad, an’ I’m the new chief round ’ere!”

Slipback avoided a second kick. “Only by accident—dat don’t make yew chief!”

Skrodd turned to face the rest of the gang, wielding his new weapon. “Accident or not, Burrad’s dead. Does anybeast want to challenge me? Come on!”

None came forward. They knew the tall fox’s reputation as a fighter; even Burrad had never kicked him about.

Skrodd smiled grimly. “Right, up on yore hunkers, we’re goin’ to track those two down!”

Little Redd exclaimed, “Didn’t ye hear Flinky? Those two are dangerous warriors, Bragoon an’ Saro.”

Skrodd turned on the little fox. “Ye mean that ole ragbag who was jiggin’ about an’ tryin’ to sing for his supper? Wot did the other one look like, Flinky?”

The stoat shrugged. “Small an’ oldish, why d’ye ask?”

Skrodd curled his lip scornfully. “A pair o’ little ole tattered ragamuffins, an’ ye lot believed they was Bragoon an’ Saro. Real famous warriors are big an’ tough. Any two beasts could say they was Bragoon an’ Saro. Those two were nothin’ but a pair of ole impostors. Now come on, let’s get after ’em. Nobeast knocks me down wid a slingstone an’ lives t’brag about it. I’ll gut the two of ’em!”

A hefty-looking rat called Dargle remained seated. “They said we was to sit ’ere ’til it was dark, then head back t’the Northlands. The otter said there was twoscore fighters layin’ nearby, an’ that we’d be dead meat if’n we didn’t do like we was told.”

Skrodd shook his head in disbelief. “An’ ye believed ’im? That’s the oldest trick in the book. Watch, I’ll show ye twoscore o’ fighters!”

Furiously grabbing anything that came to paw—firewood, pebbles and soil—the tall fox flung them at the surrounding trees, yelling out defiantly. “Now then, ye mighty fighters, come out an’ show yerselves. I’ll fight ye all at once, or one by one if’n ye ain’t frightened o’ me! Get out ’ere, ye mangy frogbait!”

Silence greeted the challenge. Skrodd spat contemptuously into the fire, glaring at the vermin gang. “Wot a bunch of addlebrains! Up on yore paws an’ get movin’ ye bunch o’ ditherin’ oafs. After I’ve slain those two ole relics, we’ll get the rest o’ this job done. Move!”

As they moved southward into the woodlands, Little Redd discussed the situation with Flinky. “Skrodd ain’t takin’ us to that Abbey place that Burrad was always goin’ on about, is he?”

Flinky nodded. “Ah sure, it looks like he wants t’be the big bold beast who gets the magic sword. Huh, magic sword! I wonder where ould Burrad heard that tale?”

Juppa, the weasel who was Slipback’s mate, joined the conversation. “Burrad said his father told ’im about it, just afore he died. Said there was an Abbey, a big place called Redwall. Accordin’ to ’im, there’s only a few peaceful woodlanders lives there. They keep a magic sword at Redwall. ’Tis said that the warrior who holds that sword is the greatest in the land!”

Slipback confirmed his mate’s story. “Aye, none can stand against the sword owner, I’ve heard the tale meself.”

Skrodd, who was leading the gang through the darkened woodlands, overheard Slipback’s remark. He stopped and questioned the weasel. “Wot have ye heard? Tell me.”

The garrulous Flinky spoke up. “Ah sure, ’twas me that told him. I sat wid Burrad’s ole dad many a night, yarnin’ away. He was a fine ould feller, not like his son. Anyhow, he told me all about the magic sword, so he did.”

Skrodd was fired with the idea of possessing such an enchanted blade. He stared hard at the gabby stoat. “Right, then, you tell me everythin’ the ole beast said.”

Flinky liked to talk, but he was also aware that the tall fox was not one to be taken lightly. “Ah, well let me see now. There’s this place, see, a grand ould Abbey called Redwall that stands on a path somewhere in the centre of the land. Sure, an’ a fine buildin’ it is!”

Little Redd interrupted. “I’ve ’eard o’ Redwall.”

Skrodd froze him with a glare, gesturing Flinky to continue.

“Aye, Redwall was built by a mighty warrior long ago. He carried a great sword made from bits o’ the moon ’n stars. A marvellous blade, magic enough t’make a champion fighter out o’ anybeast. That warrior’s long dead now, but the sword still hangs in the Abbey.”

This time it was Skrodd’s turn to interrupt. “Then why doesn’t one of the creatures at Redwall Abbey wear it?”

Flinky shook his head. “Ah no, they’re all only simple woodland beasts. They’re farmers an’ such, not fighters. Hah, what need d’they have o’ swords, ’tis said that Redwall is a place of peace an’ plenty.”

Little Redd’s eyes shone with longing. “I wish I had a magic sword!”

Skrodd shoved him roughly. “A runt like yew, huh, you’ll have to fight me fer it. That sword is goin’ t’be mine!”

The hefty rat Dargle muttered under his breath. “If ye think ye can take it, fox!”

Skrodd looked around at the vermin behind him. “Did somebeast say somethin’?”

Flinky rubbed his stomach. “Ah no, Chief, ’twas just me ould guts rumblin’ away. I knew that fish wasn’t fer me somehow.”

Bragoon and Saro had made camp in a grove of conifers, some miles south of where they had encountered the vermin.

Burying the fishbones beneath the deep layer of pine needles, the otter wiped his mouth. “Bit o’ fish like that makes a nice change, eh mate? Did ye manage to lay paws on any o’ that stuff they was drinkin’?”

The aging squirrel wrinkled her nose disgustedly. “That poison? Vermin-brewed nettle grog. Small wonder they’re stupid—it must’ve rotted what little brains they had. Best stick with clean streamwater until we get back to Redwall an’ get some decent drink.”

She lay back, viewing the star-dusted skies through the treetops. “Aah, t’be back home in the good ole Abbey. D’ye think they’ve forgiven us for the old Dibbun days?”

Her companion chuckled. “I certainly hope they have, we were a fearsome pair, mate. Hmmm, wonder if ole Granmum Gurvel’s still the Abbeycook. Hoho, the pies’n’scones we swiped off’n her kitchen windowsill. No wonder she turned grey!”

Saro shrugged. “There’s a lot o’ seasons run under the bridge since we were Abbeybabes. I don’t suppose pore old Gurvel will still be livin’. She was a great cook though.”

Bragoon nodded. “Aye, she was that. I’ll bet that little brother o’ mine Toran is Abbeycook now. Gurvel taught him a lot, y’know. He was always a goodbeast around kitchens an’ ovens.”

Saro hopped up and spread herself along a bough, directly above Bragoon’s resting spot. She reminisced hungrily.

“Scones, or fresh bread, with meadowcream an’ damson preserve. That’s what I could eat right now!”

Stretched on the ground, Bragoon yawned and sighed. “Don’t even mention it, mate. Let’s get a good night’s shuteye. We could make Redwall by afternoon tea tomorrow. You can fill yore face then. G’night, Saro.”

The squirrel ignored her friend and continued yearning. “October Ale! What could be nicer than a foamin’ beaker of good October Ale. Mmmm, with some brown farlbread an’ some yellow cheese with roasted hazelnuts in it. Simple but satisfyin’, eh Brag?”

The otter opened one eye. “Very acceptable. Now go t’sleep!”

Saro carried on as if she had not heard. “What would y’say to an apple’n’blackberry crumble, spread thick with meadowcream?”

Bragoon growled. “I’d say button yore lip an’ sleep. So goodnight!”

But Saro could not forget the subject of food. “Howsabout ice cold mint tea an’ a thick slice of heavy fruitcake with honey crystals in it. Ooooh!”

Bragoon sat up slowly. “I’d say ye was makin’ my pore stomach gurgle with all this vittle talk. Good . . . night!”

Saro licked her lips. “Or some of yore favourite, a big carrot’n’mushroom pasty, with onion gravy drippin’ an’ oozin’ out the sides, an’ . . . Yaahoooow!”

She was catapulted into the air as Bragoon hauled down hard on the bough, letting it go suddenly. Rising from the ground, Saro dusted herself off indignantly.

“Gettin’ touchy in yore old age, aren’t ye? Goodnight to ye, ole grumpy rudder!”

Bragoon snorted. “I swear ye were born chatterin’. Now goodnight, old gabby whiskers!”

Silence fell over the glade. Both lifelong friends drifted into the realm of slumber. They dreamt golden-tinged memories of their Dibbun seasons at the place they called home—Redwall Abbey.