Loamhedge

31

Saro put some distance between herself and the skirmish. Ahead lay a sweeping bend in the river. Making her way down to the bank, she skirted the bend and began jogging steadily along the shore. It was peaceful and quiet, with only the crunch of pebbles beneath her footpaws mingling with the murmur of riverwater, echoing off the high, wooded slopes on either side. As she got round the bend, Saro caught the sound of deep, gruff voices singing a river shanty. She pressed on toward the singing. It was a song she knew, and she was fairly certain who the singers would be. The aging squirrel joined in with the melodious music.

“Wally wally dampum dearie,

I’ll sail back home next spring.

Kiss all the babies for me,

an’ teach the lot to sing.

Toodle aye toodle oo, me daddy’s a shrew,

whose face I can’t recall,

but I’ll stay home all season long,

until I hears him call.

Logalog Logalog Logalog Oooohhhh!

Ringa linga ling me darlin’,

there’s ribbons for yore hair,

I’ll bring to ye a bonnet,

an’ a fine red rockin’ chair.

Toodle oo toodle ay, just wait’ll the day,

Daddy comes paddlin’ in.

I’ll grow up big’n’strong then,

an’ sail away with him.

Logalog Logalog Logalog Ooooooooohhhhhh!”

Cupping both paws to her mouth, Saro bellowed for all she was worth. “Logalogalogaloga looooooog!”

Six shrew logboats hove into view, sailing upriver. The lead craft was by far the largest, carved from a mighty oak trunk and fitted with a single square sail of scarlet with an ornate letter B emblazoned on it. All the logboats were packed with shrews, about a hundred of the small, fierce beasts. Each spiky-furred shrew wore a multicoloured headband and a kilt held up by a broad, copper-buckled belt into which was thrust a short rapier. Their leader, a solid old patriarch, with a thick, silver beard, stood in the prow of the front craft. He signalled for the rowers to pull into the shore.

No sooner had the vessel nosed in to land than the shrew chieftain leaped ashore and seized Saro in a viselike bear hug. He roared cheerily, “Sarobando, me ole squirrelcake, where’ve ye been a-hidin’ yoreself? Oh, it does me eyes a power o’ good to see ye agin! Belay, where’s that rip-ruddered rascal Bragoon? Is the ole villain still alive? Haharrharrr!”

Saro tugged the shrew’s big beard and kissed both of his cheeks. “Log a Log Briggy, ye barrel-bellied ole riverroarer, I knew ’twas you as soon as I ’eard yore song. Let go o’ me, mate, while me ribs are still in one piece. Lissen careful to wot I got to tell ye!”

After loosening Saro, Log a Log Briggy listened as she told him the facts. “There’s trouble upriver. Bragoon an’ some young mates of ours are pinned down on the ’illside by reptiles. There’s about thirty o’ the scum on this side o’ the water, an’ more on the other side. We need yore ’elp, Briggy!”

The shrew chieftain’s brows lowered menacingly as he gritted out the words. “Reptiles, eh? I can’t abide the creepy, cold-eyed scum. They think they rule the roost up that end o’ the river. Don’t fret, matey, I’ll put my oar in an’ show ’em who the real bigbeast is in these waters. No reptile’s goin’ to mess wid good mates o’ mine!”

He began issuing orders to the captains of the other five logboats. “Moor those vessels on the other bank, we’ll come back for ’em later. Jigger, take twenty goodbeasts an’ go wid Saro. Bring extra clubs along wid ye. Raffu, Fregg, Scordo, Fludge, you an’ the rest foller me along the far bank. Keep ’idden among the trees, an’ don’t make no noise. Bring me Aggie Frogslapper, look lively now!”

One of the shrews passed Log a Log Briggy a hefty carved sycamore war club, which he wielded lovingly. “Ole Aggie’s slapped a few frogs in ’er day. Hah, there’ll be a lot o’ reptiles won’t be comin’ back for a second kiss from ye, Aggie me old gel!”

Briggy introduced Saro to a young shrew who was the model of himself in bygone seasons. “This is me eldest, Jigger. ’Tis only his sixth season out as a Guoraf warrior, but he’s shapin’ up well. Jigg, me darlin’ son, go wid Saro. When ye get yore fighters set up, wait for yore dear ole dad’s call afore ye charge the scurvy foe.”

Jigger shook Saro’s paw. “Let’s make tracks. I hate bein’ late fer a fight, marm!”

Armed with clubs, rapiers and slings, the shrews set off with Saro and Jigger at a swift trot around the riverbend. Log a Log Briggy took his logboat with the other five craft across the river to the opposite bank. He was first ashore, stroking his club, Aggie Frogslapper, and murmuring fondly, “Aharr, ’tis a long time since ye had a good outin’, me dearie!”

Night had descended over Redwall Abbey. Brother Gelf and Brother Weld sat by the dormitory window with Toran and Martha. The vermin had extinguished the fire on the Abbey lawn. Only the glow from a fire by the gatehouse could be seen. Abbot Carrul came up from the kitchens, threading his way through the Redwallers, who were resting on the dormitory floor. He pushed a trolley along to Martha and the watchers.

“I thought you might like some leek and chestnut soup. There’s freshly baked cheesebread here, too.”

Toran nodded admiringly. “Ole Granmum Gurvel’s a treasure. All the strife we’re goin’ through, but she still finds time to cook good vittles for us. Thankee, Father!”

Abbot Carrul stared out the window. “Pretty calm out there. I imagine the vermin are taking their supper by that fire near the gatehouse. You can hear their voices when the wind drifts this way. Do you think they’ll bother us tonight?”

Brother Weld exchanged glances with his friend Brother Gelf. “Well, you heard them say they’d attack us when it got dark. Don’t let that little decoy by the gatehouse fool you, Abbot, they’ll be coming shortly.”

Carrul poised his ladle over the soup cauldron. “You’ll excuse me saying, but we don’t look exactly ready to stand off an attack, with everybeast sitting about on the beds and the floor. How will you know if the Searats are stealing up on us under cover of darkness?”

Brother Gelf chuckled. “Oh, we’ll know sure enough, Father.”

From out on the lawn, shrieks and curses rent the air, together with the clatter of falling wood. Martha said calmly, “That’ll be them now. Right, friends, all to the windows and take up your positions.”

The Abbot ducked to avoid a hooked window pole that Foremole Dwurl was carrying. “Will somebeast pray tell me what is going on out there?”

Martha patted the paws of the two brothers beside her. “It was their idea. We knew Raga Bol and his Searats would come once night fell. So Brother Weld and Brother Gelf had the bright idea of throwing broken glass, from the windows of Great Hall, out onto the lawn. Then, if the Searats tried to sneak up in the dark, they’d naturally let us know. It worked rather well, Father. Just listen to them!”

Raga Bol lurched about on the darkened lawn. He grabbed one of his crewrats, cuffing him about his ears. “Silence, ye fool, wot’s all the yowlin’ about?”

The Searat limped this way and that, trying to dodge the blows. “Somethin’ sharp is stickin’ right into me footpaw. I couldn’t ’elp it, Cap’n, I swear!”

Bol shoved him away scornfully. “Somethin’ sharp, eh? I’ll give ye somethin’ sharp if’n ye don’t shuttup. Any chance we ’ad of a surprise ambush is long gone now. Never mind yore footpaws, get some fire in yore bellies an’ try t’be like real Searats. Avast there crew . . . Charge!”

Keeping his voice low as he heard the captain bellowing, Toran the ottercook gave his own orders. “Up t’the winders, mates, let go the water!”

Sturdy moles trundled forward to the windows. They hurled out the contents of bowls, pails, pots, pans, cauldrons and buckets. Water cascaded over the rubble heap, which piled outward, protecting the Abbey door.

The first ranks of Searats flung tree limbs, planks and long branches against the heap. Raga Bol dashed about, shouting encouragement. “The fools won’t stop us wid a drop o’ water! Up ye go, buckoes. Board the place like it was a ship an’ slay ’em all!”

Crewrats began scaling up the timbers. Unfortunately for them, the wood started sinking into the rubble, which had turned into a big mudheap, owing to the water drenching it. However, three of the longest planks spanned the mess, their ends resting on the sandstone lintel above the door.

When Raga Bol saw this, he waved his scimitar about wildly. “Ferron, Hangclaw, Rinj, gerrup those long bits. Come on, all paws t’the planks. Get through those winders, look sharp!”

Clenching blades in their fangs, the Searats clambered skilfully up the wooden lengths. The planks bellied under their combined weight but held.

Raga Bol laughed like a madbeast. “Haharr, keep goin’. We’ll make it, mates!”

But they never quite made it. Hotroot pepper bombs burst on the heads of the lead climbers. Vermin wobbled on the planktops, trying to hold on whilst fending off the searing packages that pelted them.

Toran and the Redwall defenders appeared at the window spaces bringing their long, hooked window poles into play. The ottercook and four others latched on to a centre plank and heaved it out from the wall.

“Push, friends! Put yore backs into it an’ shove!”

Under the concerted effort of the Abbeybeasts, the plank was forced outward. Searats clung shrieking to it, as the pole moved it away. With nothing to support it, the plank teetered for a moment, then toppled over backwards with vermin clinging to its underside.

Willing paws plied more window poles. Sister Setiva, Sister Portula and a crowd of elders pushed the left plank. Brothers Weld and Gelf, assisted by Gurvel, Foremole and three of his crew, pushed the one to the right. They strained and grunted, leaning their weight against the bending window poles.

Martha gripped the arms of her chair, lifting her body forward. She could hear herself roaring. “Push hard as you can. Push!”

The planks fell, one to either side of the windows. Wood scraped against stone as they plunged sideways. Wailing Searats threw themselves clear—some going headlong into the mudheap, others thudding on the paving stones below.

The defenders fell in a heap on the dormitory floor, yelling out a great victorious cry. “Redwaaaaalllllll!”

Martha was about to drop back into her chair when an awful sight froze the breath in her throat. The Searat Ferron was crouching before her, framed in the window. He had leaped from the first plank before it had begun its backward journey. Latching on to the sill, Ferron had hauled himself up onto the windowledge. Now he perched there, snarling, a long dagger in one paw, ready to kill. In front of him, the Abbot had risen from the jumble on the floor and was standing with both paws raised wide, joining in the joyous shout of Redwall, with his back to the window.

Time stood still, Martha’s voice had deserted her. She was holding herself up, with her paws still gripping the chair arms. In front of her, Abbot Carrul stood, smiling at the haremaid and cheering lustily. Behind him, the Searat raised his dagger, preparing to stab at the Abbot’s unprotected back. Alarm bells were clanging furiously in Martha’s brain, coupled with the voice of Martin the Warrior, thundering at her, “Save your Abbot!”

It was over in a flash! Martha stood upright. Charging past Carrul and pushing him to one side, she hit the Searat, knocking him right out of the dormitory window.

Toran came bulling forward. He grasped the haremaid’s waist, pulling her back into the room. “You walked, Martha! You walked! You walked! You walked!”