Rakkety Tam

23

Tergen did not like wearing a splint upon his wing; it irked him and hampered his movement. The goshawk was highly disappointed that Sister Armel had not cured him instantly, giving him back the power of flight. He trundled about the Abbey grounds, brooding and grumbling to himself as he shrugged his good wing.

“Kruuuurrrrk! This bird never fly. Tergen no use to anybeast now. Huh, vermin be glad of that!”

Armel sat on the gatehouse steps with Abbot Humble and the brigadier, watching the hawk. Humble felt a certain sympathy with the wounded bird. “Poor Tergen. It must be very hard for him, being grounded like that. I wish I could help him in some way.”

Sister Armel, however, did not share Humble’s view. “I’ll tell you, that bird’s trouble, Father. He’s got no patience at all. Oh, he’ll fly again, I’m sure. The wing just needs lots of rest, then plenty of exercise.”

The brigadier polished his monocle. “I’ve seen some of my hares actin’ like that after they’ve been injured. That chap needs something to occupy his mind an’ make him feel jolly well useful again, wot!”

Armel sighed wearily. “I’ve tried everything I could think of. I made Tergen a sickbay assistant, but all he did was eat the rest of my candied chestnuts and lay on the beds. Then I introduced him to Friar Glisum as a kitchen helper. He said the kitchens were too hot and he couldn’t breathe. Next came a spell with Ulba molewife, minding Dibbuns, but he was short-tempered and frightened the little ones. So, Brigadier, what would you do with that goshawk?”

Crumshaw toyed with his moustache. “I see what y’mean, Sister. Hmm, what t’do with the chap. Hah, I’ve just thought o’ the very thing—discipline!”

He rose smartly and paced off wagging his swagger stick. “I say, you there, Turfill, or whatever y’flippin’ name is. Come with me! Liven y’self up now, laddie bird, I’ve got a job for you, wot!”

The hawk’s gold-rimmed eye glared icily at the brigadier. “Karrraaa! This bird be named Tergen. What job you have, eh?”

Crumshaw marched up the west wallsteps, explaining as he went. “Rampart sentry, ideal for a bird like y’self, wot! Nobeast has an eye as jolly well sharp as a hawk. Eyes like a hawk—you’ve heard the expression, wot? Need somebeast I can rely on to patrol these walltops regular. Keep an eye out for those confounded vermin, should they come skulkin’ about. Well, are you up to the task, wot wot?”

Crumshaw was forced to back off a pace as the goshawk advanced. For a moment the hare thought Tergen was about to attack him. Then the wonder occurred: Tergen raised his good wing and saluted, his chest swelling proudly. “Greekah! Brigadier Wotwot is right. This bird have good eyes, see all. Tergen will do job for Brigadier Wotwot!”

The hawk ambled along the walltop to the south, stopping at each space between battlements and peering down avidly. The other hares on walltop guard kept well out of the fierce-looking goshawk’s way.

Crumshaw stumped down the gatehouse steps and resumed his seat with Humble and Armel. “Well, he seems to be fairly happy up there. Peculiar blighter, though. Seems t’think my name’s Brigadier Wotwot. Can’t think how that notion got into his head. Can you, Father?”

Humble was hard put not to burst out laughing. “What, er, I’ve no idea at all, Brigadier!”

Three of the hare wallguards excused themselves as they came hurrying down the steps. The brigadier rose indignantly. “Just a tick! Where the dickens d’ye think yore off to, wot?”

Young Flummerty threw him a hasty salute. “Beggin’ y’pardon, sah, but that bird chased us from our posts. Said he didn’t need us ’cos he could see everything!”

The monocled eye halted the trio where they stood. “Oh did he, indeed? An’ you three shrinkin’ violets take that as an excuse to disobey orders, wot? Now get back up there t’your posts at the double, an’ if ye get any blinkin’ arguments from that bird, tell him it’s me, Brigadier Wotwot, who’s givin’ the orders round here!”

A moment later, the hawk was leaning over the parapet, calling down to Crumshaw, “Yikhaah! They stay up here with this bird, I teach ’em to stand watch proper. You right, Brigadier Wotwot!”

Giggles of uncontrolled glee greeted this announcement.

Crumshaw rose huffily and marched off muttering, “Must see what the grubslingers have cooked up for afternoon tea. Brigadier Wotwot, indeed! Who ever heard of such foolishness, wot wot!”

Captain Zerig and his vermin watched the Abbey walls from the tree fringe beyond the sward which fronted the south wall. Freeta, the mate of slain Captain Shard, crouched alongside Zerig. She viewed the high red sandstone construction doubtfully.

“If we were birds, ’twould be easy to fly over those walls.”

Zerig replied as he studied the situation. “Aye, ’twill be a hard task, but we must do it, or face Gulo. He will not want to hear excuses.”

The vixen spat viciously. “Speak not to me of that savage! Shard might yet have been alive were it not for Gulo. But I will have my revenge someday, I swear it!”

Zerig chewed on a milky stem of grass. “Brave words, Freeta, but ’tis not likely that Gulo will ever be defeated by anybeast, or even tenbeasts. Forget him for now, our problem lies before us. What would thy mate Shard have done if he were here? I recall he was ever a crafty and wise captain.”

Freeta dropped her voice so the rest of the vermin could not hear. “I am as sly as Shard. He often came to me for counsel. I think we should wait until dark, then send two reliable beasts to scout the place for openings.”

Zerig looked at Freeta with a newfound respect. “A sensible plan, but which ones would ye send?”

After casting an eye over the vermin warriors, she beckoned forth two. “Fargil, Graddu, attend Captain Zerig. He would speak with ye.”

Two big, white, well-armed foxes crept forward. Zerig eyed them approvingly. “When darkness falls, I want ye to scout around the outside of this place. See if ye can find any weakness, a spot where we might enter in secret.”

Both foxes merely nodded, then went back to rest among the trees.

Freeta whispered to Zerig, “They are a silent pair, but good. More reliable than ermine.”

Zerig lay back, closing his eyes and enjoying the sun. “We will see.”

The two hares, Cartwill and Folderon, were pacing the north wall together, as far away from the goshawk as they could get. Cartwill’s stomach made an ominous rumble. He held a paw to his mouth politely.

“Pardon me! Time for afternoon tea, ain’t it? I’m famished!”

Folderon peered expectantly at the Abbey door. “Chin up, we should be gettin’ relieved soon. Oh corks, what does that flippin’ hawk want now, eh?”

Tergen was signalling them from the south wall, waving his good wing to attract their attention.

Cartwill groaned. “Another one of his confounded lectures about havin’ eyes as sharp as a hawk, prob’ly. Come on, we’d best stroll over there or the nuisance won’t give us a moment’s peace.”

They marched along the west wall, calling to the goshawk.

“Not to fret, old lad, we’re keeping the old peepers peeled.”

“Rather, not missing a bally thing!”

Tergen glared at them. “Kuuuurk, shushushh, you be hushed!”

Folderon dropped her voice. “Why, what’s up?”

Tapping his talons on the south parapet, the goshawk whispered, “Ssssshuuuuk! You stan’ here, don’t move. This bird must go to speak with Wotwot.”

He stumped off down the steps, leaving both young hares bewildered and rather indignant.

Cartwill’s ears stood rigid. “Well, of all the bloomin’ cheek, where does he think he’s off to? Leavin’ us here like two frogs in a flippin’ bucket!”

Folderon watched the hawk hopskipping off over the lawns. “Stole a march on us there, crafty old featherbag. I’ll bet he’s gone for afternoon tea!”

Brigadier Crumshaw and Sergeant Wonwill were taking tea in Great Hall with Burlop and Abbot Humble when Tergen came hurrying in.

Wonwill looked up from spreading a scone with greengage preserve. “Looks like the ’awk ’as somethin’ to report, sah!”

Crumshaw put aside his beaker of mint and rosehip tea. “Ah, our hawkeyed sentry, wot. Everything hunky-dory on the ramparts, old chap, wot wot?”

Tergen helped himself to an almond slice. “Karrak! Everythin’ not hory-dunky, Wotwot. Vermin are outside, good job you got eyes of hawk to see ’em!”

Crumshaw came promptly upright, moustache bristling. “Vermin, y’say? How many, where, when did ye spot ’em, wot?”

Tergen preened his feathers calmly. “Wotwot, not get ears in flap! Listen to this bird. In trees by south wall I see vermin hidin’. Yaaaark! They think nobeast know they there—huh, I spot white fur easy. No hurry, vermin just hidin’, restin’. Not attack, not do anythin’ yet. I think maybe twoscore, maybe fifty.”

Humble stared anxiously at the brigadier. “What do you suggest we do, friend?”

The old campaigner regained his composure. “Hmm, nothin’ for the moment, Father. The bird’s right, they won’t attack right off in broad daylight. Eh, Sergeant?”

Wonwill put aside his scone. “Aye, sah, they’ll wait h’until nighttime. I’d better git our lot on the h’alert.”

Crumshaw cautioned Humble and Burlop, “Not a peep to your Redwallers, mum’s the word. Don’t want a few-score rascals upsettin’ peaceful creatures. We can deal with the blighters, believe me!”

Tergen grabbed some scones and another almond slice. “Yeehaaak! This bird go back on walltop. I watch vermin close, but they not know I spy on ’em!”

Crumshaw picked up his swagger stick. “Very good! Sergeant, turn the troops out, slings an’ bows’n’arrows. Tell ’em to keep their ears down below the battlements. Don’t want the enemy t’know we’re aware of their presence yet. We’ll be ready when they make a move. Father, I suggest you keep all Redwallers indoors for the rest of the day, an’ more especially the night, wot wot!”

Humble nodded to his young Cellarhog. “Come on, Burlop, let’s find Brother Demple. He’ll help us to get everybeast inside—though they’ll think it strange, being called in on such a fine afternoon.”

Burlop lent the Abbot his paw for support. “Then we’ll have to think of an idea, Father, something to make them want to be indoors. What about some sort of contest, with prizes for the winners?”

The Abbot brightened up. “An excellent scheme, Burlop. Do you know, it’s been a while since we had a riddle competition. That’s always good fun!”

The young Cellarhog guided his Abbot outdoors. “I’ve got a keg of strawberry fizz we can use, and I’ll ask Friar Glisum to bake up some goodies. We’ll hold the contest down in Cavern Hole.”

Wonwill watched them trundling paw in paw across the lawn outside. “A riddle competition, eh? I’d like to ’ave a go at that, sah.”

Crumshaw breathed on his monocle and polished it. “Oh, for the carefree life, Sergeant. But duty calls, eh?”

The craggy-faced Wonwill saluted. “H’indeed it does, sah!”

Westering sunrays painted the walls of the Abbey like a deep blushing rose in the lengthening shadows; larks trilled their evening song as they descended to the flatlands beyond the ditch. All around the ramparts, hares crouched below the battlements, bows and slings close to paw.

Young Folderon sniffed and wiped a paw across her eyes. The sergeant nudged her lightly. “Nah then, missy, wot’s all this?”

She blinked furiously. “Beg pardon, Sarge, but I was just thinkin’, what a glorious sundown! Day endin’ an’ all that. A pack of vermin villains waitin’ in hidin’. Makes you wonder how many of us’ll live to see the dawn, if the worst comes to the worst, if y’know what I mean?”

The kindly Wonwill passed her his kerchief. “Oh, I don’t think much’ll ’appen tonight, young ’un. Ye’ll still be ’ere to stuff yore face at brekkist tomorrer. Now dry up an’ stop reddenin’ those pretty eyes.”

Down in Cavern Hole, the Redwallers were eagerly watching Sister Screeve, who had devised most of the riddles, questioning Hitheryon Jem. “Now, I want you to tell me, who would be saying this? ‘Why Myrtle, me dear, ouch ouch! How nice to see you, ouch!’ ‘Likewise, dearie, ouch! And how’s your family? Ouch ouch!’ ”

Jem answered without hesitation. “Marm, that’s two ole hedgehog wives huggin’ each other.”

Screeve ticked her parchment. “Correct! Now stand over there, Jem. Next please!”

Mudge the molebabe strode boldly up. “Yurr naow, marm, you’m doan’t arsk oi any ’ard riggles. Oi’m only ee h’infant!”

Screeve gave the molebabe a pretend scowl. “I don’t have any favourites, my questions are all hard. Right, answer this. You are a mole, and he isn’t a mole—he’s not your father, yet you call him Father. Who is he?”

Mudge stood gnawing his digging claw. “Urm, urm . . .”

Sister Armel whispered in the molebabe’s ear. He grinned, replying, “Hurr hurr, that bee’s ee h’Abbot, marm!”

The Recorder ticked her scroll. “Very good! We all call the Abbot by the title Father. Correct, stand over there!”

Mudge waved at Humble. “Oi daon’t call ee Farther, zurr. Oi allus calls ee h’Abbot, duzzent oi!”

Humble smiled absentmindedly as he murmured to Burlop, “It should be almost dark outside now.”

The young Cellarhog patted his elder’s paw. “Don’t worry yore ’ead, Father. The Long Patrol will take care of everythin’. Come on, up ye go, ’tis yore turn.”

“Here’s your riddle, Father.” Sister Screeve chuckled, then continued. “Oh, I’ve got this name all mixed up! It says ‘Read well baby’ on my parchment. What should it say?”

Humble looked distracted. His mind was on the vermin and the hares outside. “I’m sorry, Sister, I’ve no idea.”

Armel encouraged him. “Oh, come on, Father, it’s easy. What do we call this lovely place where we live?”

Humble answered without thinking. “Redwall Abbey. Why?”

Wandering Walt applauded loudly. “Well done, zurr, that bee’s ee h’answer. Redwall Abbey!”

Screeve pointed her quill at Armel. “Any more helping with answers, Sister, and it’s straight up to bed with you!”

The Dibbuns roared with laughter at the idea of an Infirmary Sister being sent off to bed like a naughty babe.

Darkness had descended outside. Captain Zerig signalled the two scouts from the shelter of the trees. “Go now, an’ take care ye are not discovered.”

Checking their weapons, the big, hard-eyed foxes made for the south wall in utter silence. Skilled at the art of concealment, they both moved like drifting cloud shadows over the grassy sward, using every hump and hollow as they crept toward the outer ramparts.

Tergen murmured to the brigadier as he observed their every move, “Kyuuurh, they come now. Two foxes—one will go to the left, the other right. Other vermin stay hidden.”

Crumshaw kept his head low. “Scoutin’ the Abbey out, eh? Sergeant, take Folderon with ye, go t’the left. Cap’n Fortindom, you take Cartwill an’ take the fox on the right. I want at least one of the scum alive. I intend sendin’ their leader a stern warnin’. Off y’go!”

Both Graddu and Fargil stopped at the south wallgate. They tested it and found the small wicker door locked tight. Then they parted company, searching the high walls for possible pawholds to climb and checking the earth at the wall base for soft soil or possible tunnels.

Captain Derron Fortindom was renowned in the Long Patrol for his skill with the sabre. He had fought honourably in many campaigns. Removing his cloak, he watched Cartwill easing open the locks on the small east wallgate. Fortindom slid out into the surrounding woodland, murmuring to Cartwill, “Lock this door an’ stay inside, young ’un. Open it only when y’hear my voice again.”

Cartwill gripped his javelin eagerly. “But Captain . . .”

Derron Fortindom shook his head. “Those are my orders, obey ’em!”

Cartwill barred the gate, then hurried up the east steps to join some others who were spread out along the walltop.

Kersey, the runner who had lost her twin, gritted her teeth. “I’d give that scum what for if I was down there now!”

Another hare reassured her, “Don’t fret, mate. The vermin ain’t been born who could cross blades with Cap’n Fortindom an’ live t’tell the blinkin’ tale!”

Fortindom still had the sabre belted to his side. He leaned casually against a sycamore trunk, almost invisible in the darkness, watching as Graddu, inspecting the walls, drew closer. He allowed the fox to pass him by a few paces before stepping out into the open to address him.

“Tut tut, all alone, wot. You must be a bold ’un! Where’s your gang, scumface?”

Graddu whirled around to face him, curved sword in one paw and a short axe in the other. He began circling Fortindom, bared fangs showing in an evil grin. “A big rabbit, all to myself? Such luck! I had to share the last one I ate, down upon the beach!”

Fortindom drew his sabre and moved, countering his circle. “Aye, it took enough of ye—a hundred to eight, wasn’t it? Ssssssdeath!”

The hare captain moved like chain lightning, his sabre flashing up and across. The severed axe handle fell to the ground, almost in unison with the stricken fox. Fortindom wiped his blade upon Graddu and stepped over his carcase. Cartwill came dashing down the steps with Kersey close behind. They wrestled the doorlocks open and stood staring at the captain in dumb admiration.

He pulled Cartwill out into the woodlands, rapping an order at Kersey. “You, miss, bar the door. Come with me, Cartwill. We’ll go around the outside in case the other one’s runnin’ away from Sergeant Wonwill. We may be able to cut the vermin off. Step lively now!”

The hares on the west wall stood with Folderon and Wonwill, peeping over the battlements as they monitored the progress of the remaining white fox along the outer walls.

When the sergeant heard the main gates rattle slightly, he whispered to the hares around him, “Quick’n’quiet’s the drill now, mates. We got to take this vermin alive. Stick to my h’orders now, young ’uns.”

Fargil the fox had his curved sword through a gap in the centre of both gates, using it as a lever to release the long wooden bar. Then, without warning, the gates opened, swinging inward. Fargil found himself facing a lean, grizzled Wonwill and ten young hares. Instinctively he turned to run, but Captain Derron Fortindom already had a sabre point to his throat. “One move, sirrah, an’ ye’ll be crowmeat!”

Sergeant Wonwill knocked Fortindom’s blade aside. “Brigadier’s orders, Mister Derron. Put up yore sabre, sah. This ’un’s mine. Sentries, form a ring!”

Swiftly, the hares made a circle around Wonwill and the big fox. Holding up his paws to show he was unarmed, the sergeant addressed the hulking Fargil. “Yore a big, tough-lookin’ murderer. Come on, let’s see wot ye can do! An unarmed beast should be about the right mark for the likes of a bully like you!”

Fargil had his curved sword ready, but he pulled a long dagger from his belt, charging at Wonwill double-bladed. The sergeant skipped to one side, his clenched paw punching the fox’s shoulder twice.

Rap! Rap! The dagger clattered upon the path. With his numbed paw held limply by his side, Fargil let out a bellow of pain, swinging his sword back in an effort to cleave his opponent’s skull.

Whoooofff! The wind was driven from him by a hard right to his stomach. The fox was bent almost double. Crouching, Wonwill delivered two hard uppercuts to the vermin’s face. Stepping on the swordblade, the sergeant trapped it against the ground. He grabbed Fargil, hauling him upright by the ears. “H’up ye come, me bold buckoe. Let’s see wot sort of a shape ye can make!”

Fargil’s fangs almost bit the tip of Wonwill’s nose, but the hare’s forehead shot forward like a battering ram. Crack! Minus a few teeth, the big fox lay stretched unconscious in the centre of the circle.

Wonwill kicked aside his enemy’s blade, staring woefully at Fargil. “Huh, I was just gettin’ into me stride when he goes an’ lays down on me. Vermin—no backbone, no grit, eh!”

The young hares applauded him lustily.

“Oh, well-hit, Sarge. That taught the blighter a lesson, wot!”

“Rather! Big clod didn’t know his bottom from breakfast when ye decked him. Y’must have a head like a bloomin’ boulder, Sarge!”

Fortindom stirred the prone fox with his sabre. “Nice job, Sergeant, but personally I wouldn’t soil me paws on scum like that. A blade’s the only cure for vermin, wot? Righto, chaps, drag him inside an’ close the gates. I suspect old Crumshaw will want a word with him when he wakes up.”

Down in Cavern Hole, Burlop had tapped his keg of strawberry fizz. He poured out beakers for one and all, whilst Sister Screeve and Jem distributed Friar Glisum’s fresh-baked pies and tarts. The riddle contest had ended with a unanimous decision that everybeast should share in the prize. Abbot Humble was still looking worried and preoccupied when Sergeant Wonwill entered, accompanied by several young hares.

Humble immediately accosted him. “Any news of the vermin attack, Sergeant?”

The veteran saluted smilingly. “Bless yore ’eart, Father, there ain’t no need t’worry. Brigadier says for you to rest easy. The h’emergency is h’over!”

The home-loving Abbot heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Seasons be praised! Would you and your hares like to share supper with us? There’s plenty for all, Sergeant.”

Wonwill accepted the invitation gratefully. He enjoyed the unexpected treat as Dibbuns gathered around him, exclaiming, “Sarjin’, we haved a riggle concert!”

The sergeant took Mimsie the mousebabe on his knee. “Ye don’t say, missie, a riggle concert! Wot’s that?”

Sister Armel refilled his beaker with fizz. “She means a riddle contest, Sergeant. It was good fun.”

Perkle the hogbabe climbed up with Mimsie, who gazed up at Wonwill’s leathery features. “Joonow h’any puggles or rizzles, Sarjin?”

Sister Screeve interpreted. “Perkle is asking if you know any puzzles or riddles, Sergeant. Well, do you, sir?”

Wonwill was captivated by the Abbeybabes. With no family, outside of the regiment, he found the little ones an endless source of wonder and delight. “Oh I knows ’undreds of ’em, beauty. Shall I sing one for ye? I h’aint no great singer, but I’ll ’ave a try.”

Humble intervened. “Don’t bother the Sergeant, Perkle. He’s had a hard evening. I expect he’s tired.”

But Wonwill reassured the Abbot, “No, no, Father. Singin’ for the little ’un’s no bother. I’d sooner be ’ere singin’ for the babbies than out there knocking the stuffin’ out o’ vermin. Right, ’ere goes!”

The sergeant sang an old tongue twister, which was new to the Dibbuns, but all the older Redwallers joined in each chorus heartily.

“There once was a frog an’ his name was ole Glogg,

He lived in a log on top of a bog.

He loved plum pudden an’ gooseberry pie,

but if anybeast dared to come near him he’d cry.

Frog bog log Glogg! Pudden an’ pie he’d loudly cry!

Wot a hard terrible life!

To his abode down the road came a toad,

bearin’ a load as she puffed an’ blowed,

‘I’m tired of this bundle atop of my head,

I’m almost half dead but I’m fit to be wed.’

Frog bog log Glogg! Pudden an’ pie he’d loudly cry!

Abode road toad load! Head dead fit t’be wed!

Wot a hard terrible life!

He took both her paws an’ pulled her indoors.

She swept the floors an’ did all his chores.

Her bundle came open, ten tadpoles jumped out,

‘Oh good day to ye, dad.’ They all gave a great shout.

Frog bog log Glogg! Pudden an’ pie he’d loudly cry!

Abode road toad load! Head dead fit t’be wed!

Dad! Dad! The frog’s gone mad!

Wot a hard terrible wife!”

Abbot Humble patted the sergeant’s back. Amid the cheers and whoops, he called to Wonwill, “Thank you, friend, and all your gallant hares, thank you for everything—from everybeast in this Abbey!”