With an angry swish of its tail, the fish ripped off into the depths, its voracious appetite unsated.
Dropping her paddle for a moment, Dotti rummaged through one of the packs until she found a piece of material which she used as a towel. She handed it to the hogbabe and he draped it round his tiny body, muttering mutinously to himself.
‘Gone an’ gorall wet now. Kinfounded sh’oo, pushen me inna water. Skikkles didden wanna baff!’
Gurth nudged Dotti as they watched the infant hedgehog. ‘Yurr, miz, be ee likkle bloke awroight?’
The haremaid could not resist smiling at the disgruntled babe. ‘Yurr. Ee’m furr rowdled, but ee’ll live, oi ’spect, Gurth!’
No sooner did they touch the shore than Ruff was surrounded by shrews clapping him on the back.
‘Yore a rough ole beast, matey!’
‘You beat the Riverwolf! You showed ’im!’
‘Aye, ’e was champion o’ these waters till you came along!’
‘Lemme shake yore paw, warrior. I’m Log a Log Grenn!’
Ruff shook heartily with the shrew Chieftain. ‘Pleased t’meet ye, Grenn. Couldn’t let the liddle ’un get ate, so I had to tailwhop ole Riverwolf.’
‘Hoho, an’ a fine job ye did of it, mate. Come an’ take lunch with us. Beach that log an’ bring yore friends.’
The shrew camp was little more than blankets stretched over branches to form makeshift tents. Introductions were made all round and Grenn called for food. Brocktree watched in amusement as the shrews argued and fought over who was going to serve Ruff. They squared off at one another, scruffy fur standing up aggressively, pawing their small rapiers and adjusting their multicoloured headbands to jaunty angles.
‘Oi, back off there, fiddlepaws, I’m servin’ mister Ruff!’
‘Talk t’me like that, twinjynose, an’ I’ll serve ye yore teeth on a plate. I’m waitin’ on mister Ruff!’
Dotti helped herself to hot shrewbread and a bowl of steaming vegetable stew.
‘Touchy lot you’ve got here, Grenn marm. Are they always like this?’
Log a Log Grenn calmly shrugged off an arguing shrew who had stumbled against her. ‘Always, long as anybeast can remember. We shrews can’t ’elp bein’ wot we are, born to argue. I want to thank you an’ yore pals for rescuin’ Skikkles. We found the liddle tyke wanderin’ round a while back. Wot a pawful that babe is. I never knew anybeast with such a mind of’n his own, ain’t that right, Skikkles?’
The babe in question waved a severe paw under Grenn’s nose. ‘Me name’s Skikkles, not Skikkles!’
Dotti attempted to help out by translating, using her talent for accents and dialects. ‘Oh, I see. Your name’s Skiddles!’
The hogbabe scowled darkly, huddling deeper into the towel. ‘Tchah! Shoopid rabbik. Me name not Skivvles, it Skikkles!’
Dotti tried another alternative. ‘You say your name’s Skittles?’
He smiled patronisingly at her, as if the message had finally got over. ‘Tha’s right. Skikkles!’
‘His name’s Skittles,’ Dotti explained to Grenn, ‘but he’s a bit young to pronounce it properly, so he calls himself Skikkles.’
Grenn placed a bowl of stew in front of Skittles, who promptly buried his snout in it. ‘There’s one or two things I could call ’im, an’ they wouldn’t be Skittles. That’n’s a right liddle terror!’
Skittles poked his stew-covered nose over the bowl at her. ‘Me name not jus’ Skikkles, y’know. I called Skikkle Bee Spikediggle, tha’s me real long name.’
Dotti broke shrewbread and dipped it in her stew. ‘What does the Bee stand for?’
Skittles eyed her ferociously. ‘The Bee’s for Burrtrump, but I pull you ears very ’ard if you tells anybeast!’
Dotti narrowed her eyes and gave Skittles a savage grimace. ‘If you ever call me rabbit again, or even rabbik, I’ll tan your tail bright red, then I’ll announce to everybeast that your middle name’s Burrtrump. So how d’you feel about that, master Skittles, wot?’
Skittles decided that the haremaid had him over a barrel, and stumped off without another word.
Ruff was the centre of attention. The shrew females wiggled their snouts at him in a very flattering manner, while the males served him the best of their food, which together with the shrewbeer they brewed was voted totally delicious by the friendly otter. Young shrews began showing off their prowess to impress him. They fenced and performed tricks with their rapiers, and wrestled, a favourite sport among Log a Log Grenn’s tribe.
Dotti and Gurth sat watching them. The haremaid was quite impressed. ‘I say, well done, chaps. By the left, Gurth, these shrews are jolly good wrestlers, wot?’
The strong mole nodded politely. ‘They’m furr t’middlin’, miz, but moi dad’s moles be knowen more about wrasslin’ than they ’uns, gurtly more, ho arr!’
Dotti was intrigued. ‘I don’t suppose you wrestle, do you?’
Gurth twiddled his claws, smiling modestly. ‘Burr aye, miz Dotti, oi be champyun wrassler of ee moles. Oi winned ee gurt sil’er bucklebelt at et, lukk!’
He opened his tunic and showed her the belt he wore beneath. The buckle was of wrought silver, depicting two moles tussling. Gurth’s name was etched on it in molescript: Gwrt.
‘Course, oi doan’t loik a-showen et off’n to everybeast.’
Dotti nudged her molefriend. ‘You sly old tunneldog. How about givin’ me a small demonstration? Go on, please – test your skill on those shrews.’
Fastening up his tunic, Gurth shrugged and flexed his muscles. ‘Oi vows oi woan’t ’urt ’em, miz.’
Standing in the midst of the wrestling shrews, Gurth called out his challenge in a deep bass voice. ‘Oi be ee choild o’ Longladle, bomed daown ee darkest deep tunnel! Oi’m farster’n loightnen, ’arder’n ee rocks an’ stronger’n moi mum’s ale!’
Here he bent and scarred a furrow in the ground with his claw. ‘Who be’s bolden enuff to step o’er ee loine an’ wrassle oi?’
Several of the shrews lined up, rubbing their paws in anticipation. Gurth signalled the first one. ‘You’m lukk a moighty beast, zurr. Step ee oop!’
The shrew charged recklessly. Gurth sidestepped neatly, cuffing him as he hurtled by. The shrew somersaulted once and landed flat on his back, completely winded.
‘Hurr, gudd h’effort, zurr. Oi’ll take two of ee next.’
Two more impetuous shrews flung themselves at him. Gurth did no more than grab their tails, twist and send them crashing, head on into one another. He bowed. ‘Thankee, gennelbeasts. Ennywunn else troi they’m luck?’
A much bigger, older shrew crossed the line and went into an expert wrestler’s crouch, holding his paws ready to grip. Smiling broadly at him, Gurth accepted the grip.
‘Yeeowowow! Leggo! Yer breakin’ me paws!’
Gurth turned to Dotti, still holding his opponent. ‘Oi tole ee, miz Dott, they’m gudd, but not gudder’n oi!’
He released the shrew and ambled back to his seat. However, another shrew, bolder than his compatriots, leapt on Gurth’s back and locked all four paws round the mole’s neck in a submission stranglehold. Gurth reached behind, tweaked the shrew’s tail experimentally, then gave it a sharp tug to the right. His opponent fell to the floor, frozen in the same position as when he landed on Gurth’s back. Smiling and shaking his head, the champion wrestling mole sat down beside Dotti.
‘Hurr hurr hurr. Ee’m wurr a cunnen h’aminal, miz, but goin’ agin ee rools. Oi’ll let ’im lay thurr awhoile. May’ap ’twill teach ’im ee manner or two.’
Dotti gazed adoringly at her molefriend. ‘I say, you were magnificent! Would you teach me to wrestle like that, Gurth? Please!’
‘Burr aye, ’ow cudd oi afuse such an’ ’andsome creetur as ee, marm? Us’ll start a-trainin’ this vurry h’evenin’.’
Dotti winked at Lord Brocktree. ‘See, the old fatal beauty always does the trick, sah.’
They lingered at the shrew camp until late evening, and finally accep
ted Grenn’s invitation to stay overnight. Even then, Ruff and Gurth had become such firm favourites that the shrews pleaded with them to extend their visit. Dotti liked being with the shrews. She enjoyed their company, and being garrulous and talkative herself she joined in all the arguments with gusto. Lord Brocktree took quite a bit of convincing that he should take a few days off from his quest, but under the combined persuasive powers of his three friends he yielded gruffly. The Badger Lord would not admit it, but he had become very fond of the hogbabe Skittles and was loath to part from the little fellow. He hid his feelings by pretending that Skittles was an unwanted pest. They wandered the camp together, the tiny hedgehog seated astride the badger’s sword hilt, up on his friend’s huge shoulders, carrying on lively conversations.
‘Get down from there, you wretch. It’s like having a big boulder perched on my back, you great lump!’
‘You make Skikkles geddown, I choppa your ’ead off wiv dis sword, B’ock!’
‘Oh, well, I suppose you’d better stay up there. Keep to the hilt, though – don’t go near that blade, you nuisance!’
‘C’mon, B’ock, gee up, we go lookin’ for berries!’
‘Great seasons o’ famine, will somebeast rid me of this pestilence? What sort of berries d’you want, eh?’
‘Nice sweety ones, dat’s wot Skikkles like.’
Ruff sat with Log a Log Grenn, sampling shrewbeer and chuckling at the antics of Skittles and Brocktree. ‘Will ye lookit him, marm. Big softie. That liddle ’og has Brock twirled about his paw! Ahoy there, Dotti, have ye wrestled that mole to a standstill yet?’
The haremaid neatly tripped her instructor, so that he fell sitting next to Ruff. Gurth smiled approvingly. ‘No, zurr, miz Dott bain’t winned oi yet, but ’er soon will. She’m a gurt clever wrassler – lurns quicker’n anybeast oi ever h’instructered, burr aye!’
Dotti sat with them, accepting a beaker of dandelion and burdock cordial from Grenn. ‘Huh, don’t listen t’that fat fibber. I’m sore as a peeled onion all over from bein’ blinkin’ well thrown by him. Still, I am learnin’ one or two jolly good wrestlin’ wheezes – breakfalls, holds, locks an’ whatnot, wot.’
Grenn poured cordial for Gurth. ‘Mayhap you’ll need ’em if yore bound t’follow Lord Brock to the mountain by the seas. From what he tells me his dreams are worried. He sees visions of great trouble there.’
Dotti sipped her delicious drink, which had been cooling in the stream for a night and a day. ‘Well, he could be right, marm. Badger Lords ain’t like the rest of us, they’re fated beasts who see strange things.’
The shrew Chieftain was gnawing her lip, staring off into space, when Ruff nudged her. ‘Go on, Grenn, say it. You wants t’come with us, don’t ye?’
She stood up and stretched before answering. ‘Guosim shrews need somethin’ t’do. Look at ’em, cookin’, wrestlin’, arguin’. Huh, we’ve been too long in one place now. Nothin’ better for shrews than havin’ somethin’ t’do – keeps them up t’the line. Aye, Ruff, if’n ye’ll have us, the Guosim are with you all the way!’
All four clasped paws. Grenn was highly pleased, now that she had made her decision. Gurth twiddled his digging claws politely, asking a question which was puzzling him. ‘Whoi do ee be called Guosims, marm, furrgive moi h’iggerance?’
Grenn explained proudly about the shrew tradition. ‘Guosim. Guerrilla Union Of Shrews In Mossflower, that’s what the letters of our name stand for. I’m called Log a Log because all shrew Chieftains are. We’re rovers, bold waterbeasts and fierce warriors, sworn to uphold good an’ defeat evil. All Guosim shrews are bound under oath to help one another in battle.’
Gurth winked. ‘Purty yoosful to ’ave along, oi’d say, marm!’
Lord Brocktree returned, both paws full of small hard pears which he spread on the ground before lifting Skittles down to earth. The badger sighed. ‘Couldn’t find any berries, but the pestilence here came across these wild pears, sweet, but hard as stones. He wouldn’t rest until we’d picked some, dreadful rogue!’
Skittles seated himself on the badger’s footpaw. ‘Well, sh’oos be good cookers, they do sumfin wiv ’em.’
Grenn picked up a pear and tasted it. ‘He’s right. We’ve got lots of sweet chestnuts from last autumn. Once these ’ere pears are stewed down the cooks can make some lovely pear’n’chestnut flans.’
The hogbabe looked up and winked with both eyes. ‘See, B’ock, I tol’ you. Make nice flangs, Glenn, Skikkle be’s ’ungry. I never ’ave a flang, mus’ be nice!’
Dotti took the hogbabe’s paw.
‘Come on then, famine face, gather ’em up an’ we’ll go ar.’ lend a paw with the shrewcooks.’
When Brocktree heard the news that the Guosim were joining them, he was overjoyed, though he changed his plans on the spot. ‘Right, no more lying around here. I vote that we break camp in the morning and get under way!’
Ruff objected. ‘Ahoy there, Brock, hold yer paddles, matey. There’s me, Gurth, Dotti, Grenn an’ about a hunnerd shrews. If’n we wants to lie round for a day or two then you’ll find yore prob’ly outvoted!’
Lord Brocktree’s eyes told the otter that he was not about to have his decision overruled. Swinging forth his battle blade, he stuck it quivering into the ground. ‘Let’s be reasonable about this, friend. Let me explain the rules. One Badger Lord carries two hundred votes and his sword carries another hundred. Agreed?’
Ruff looked from the sword to the badger. Sunlight gleamed from the blade, lighting Brocktree’s eyes with a formidable gleam. He smiled nervously at his huge friend. ‘Reason, that’s wot I likes, mate. Vote carried. We go after brekkist tomorrer!’
BOOK TWO
At the Court of King Bucko
also entitled
The Tribulations of a Haremaid
15
FLEETSCUT’S WILD YELLS wakened the squirrels. Jukka rubbed irately at her eyes as she approached the dancing hare, Ruro hurrying to join her. Jukka loaded a stone into her sling.
‘Methinks the time has come to silence that longeared windbag!’
Ruro placed a restraining paw on her leader’s shoulder. ‘Mayhap he is more to be pitied than punished, Jukka. I think his mind has snapped, crazed from the hunger. Fleetscut, wouldst thou not like to lie down an’ rest, old friend? I’ll pick some roots for thee to nibble upon, eh?’
But the old hare continued to prance about and shout. ‘Nibble roots? D’you think I’ve gone off me bally rocker? Look, there ’tis! Plain as the washin’ on me granny’s line!’
Ruro stared out into the dawn light. Ahead, to the northeast, lay forestlands. ‘Oh, I see, ’tis the trees. Well, that be a welcome sight.’
Fleetscut bounced up and down with impatience. ‘Not the trees, you benighted bushtailed buffoon, the sign, as it says in the confounded poem. “March on through two moons and suns, my sign you’ll see, I think!” Well there ’tis, the sign. Your young eyes are better’n mine – you should be able to distinguish it. Huh, I’m nearly blind from the starvation, blinkin’ Unvittled Eyeshrink I think they call it. But I can see the sign!’
Jukka interrupted Fleetscut’s wild tirade. ‘Then cease actin’ like a drunken toad and point it out!’
The old hare calmed somewhat at the sight of the loaded sling. ‘Right, pay ’tention there, follow the line of me paw, wot. Now, d’ye see those two tall silver firs yonder, eh? Notice anythin’ about ’em, wot? They’ve had most of the lower boughs chopped away and a thin dead trunk placed high on two notches atween ’em!’
Jukka nodded. ‘Aye, ’tis true, I see them.’
Fleetscut smote his forehead with a paw. ‘Thank me grandpa’s whiskers for that! So, marm, does that crosspiece not look t’ye as if it’s been purposely placed there? Use your noggin, squirrel – that’s a letter H. It stands for Hare. H is for blinkinflippinbloomin’ Hare. D’ye catch my drift at last, wot?’
Jukka commented drily, ‘Well done, hare, thou canst spell the name of thine own species. Ruro,
break camp. We’ll make for yonder sign straight away.’
Fleetscut followed them, muttering, ‘Good job the chap wasn’t a squirrel. How in the name o’ fur would he bend trees into an S shape, eh? Stiffen me, but I think the old turn’s finally glued itself t’me backbone. Hope I make it there before I perish an’ shrivel up, wot!’
Fortunately the old hare did not perish, nor shrivel up, and they marched into the tree shade by mid-morn. Grood stared up at the giant H sign. ‘Gorrokah! How did anybeast get that splitten flitten gurgletwip up so high?’
Jukka cuffed his ears soundly. ‘Language, Grood!’
Fleetscut found some young dandelions and devoured them. He came across some wild ramsons, tasting strongly of garlic. He devoured them too and continued his foraging, stumbling over the footpaws of squirrels resting in the treeshade.
‘I say, you chaps, move your carcasses. Stoppin’ a poor beast gettin’ at nature’s bounty. Bounders!’
They averted their faces from his breath, disgusted.
‘Whooh! Get thee gone, longears. Thou smellest like a midsummer midden at high noon. Ugh!’
Fleetscut discovered some basil thyme and stuffed it down. ‘Confounded cissies. Try sniffin’ yourselves after a couple o’ days’ marchin’ without a wash betwixt ye. What a pong! Hello, here’s luck, a couple of lamb’s lettuce, yummy!’
He ate them, flowers and all. Plus some harebells, sweet violets, chicory and butterwort. The greedy old hare then went on to strip a small apple tree. He returned to Jukka’s tribe about early noon, and found them recuperating their strength by dozing in the pleasant green shade. Fleetscut stuffed down apples as if it were his last day on earth, sour juice foaming out over his whiskers.
‘Grmmff, shlick, shloop! Caught you nappin’, eh? Well, no hard feelin’s, you miserable bunch o’ cads, I could do with a spot of the old shuteye meself, wot wot!’
Spitting pips and stalks he lay down and instantly fell into a deep slumber.