Gulo called his band to a halt. One look from him warned them to be silent. He strode several paces ahead of where the rest stood, bringing Eissaye along with him. “Singing . . . where? I hear no singing.”
Eissaye could hear it, but he knew better than to contradict the wolverine. Cupping a paw around one ear, Gulo continued his interrogation. “No, I cannot hear it! What was the singing about?”
All the ermine could do was to explain and suffer the consequences. “Mighty One, I could not hear the words, but my ears are keen. I heard the sound of singing.”
His answer did little to improve Gulo’s mood. The wolverine’s paws shot out, buffeting Eissaye so heavily about both his ears that the force knocked him down.
Gulo stood over him, snarling, “Now I’ll wager thy ears are singing aloud. Idiot, we are wasting time here. Get up and fetch the others!”
Moving the willow trunk by fulcrum and lever was not as easy as the shrews had figured. The mere size of the huge, ancient tree was a daunting sight. Long, thick limbs, branches, boughs, twigs and foliage covered the fallen giant’s crown. A mass of twisted and tangled roots, some half as thick as the actual trunk, formed the base, protruding in all directions above and below the waters of the broadstream. The Guosim laid one of their logboats sideways at the top of the trunk; the second, lifted clear of the water, was placed across the middle of the first craft amidships, forming a type of seesaw. At the rooted end of the willow, shrews crowded the shallows—some ready to push, whilst others attached ropes at the other side, ready to pull. The principle of the scheme was to move the tree until it floated in the water, parallel to both banks, enabling the entire thing to drift off downstream, clearing the navigable waterway.
But theory and practice were strange bedfellows to the argumentative Guosim. Log a Log Togey stood on the centre of the mighty trunk, roaring orders, whilst his shrews squabbled and disputed furiously.
“Take the strain on those ropes, Guosim! Right, now dip the for’ard bow of the top boat down, underneath the tree. Puddenhead! I said the for’ard end, not the stern!”
“Ahoy, Chief! When we pull on these ropes, we might drag the tree over on top of us!”
“No ye won’t, dulltail. You just pull an’ we’ll push!”
“Huh, that’s easy fer yew t’say, rumblegut. Yore over on the safe side!”
Togey did a dance of rage. “Shuddup, all of ye! Ready, now all at once. Puuuuush! . . . Shoooove!”
Within moments, the crossfire of shrew comments began anew.
“Waaaah! The bottom boat’s sinkin’!”
“Well, geroutofit mothbrain! Yore not s’posed t’be in it!”
“Whoa . . . ’elp! I’m swingin’ in the air, hangin’ on to the stern of this boat ’ere!”
Togey ran up and down the trunk like a madbeast. “Ye bottle-nosed beetlebrains! Lend ’im a paw on the stern there! Take the strain on those ropes! Gerroff yore bottoms an’ push that root end. Move! Push! Pull! More of ye down t’the stern, get yore weight onto it! Heeeeeaaaaave!”
Gulo and Eissaye crept forward with the rest of the vermin behind them. The distant squabbling and roaring of orders reached Gulo’s ears.
Just as he halted, preparing to speak, one of the white foxes whispered to him, “Lord, there are the foebeast, yonder! See?”
Gulo drew back behind an elm as he glimpsed the lanky figure of a hare dead ahead, no more than half a stone’s throw. He spotted more hares, a squirrel and an otter, coming slowly along the streambank.
Gesturing in a semi-circular movement towards the woodlands, the wolverine gave murmured orders. “Scouts, eh? We will get around the back of them and cut them off from the watermice and their boats. Follow me quietly if ye want fresh meat!”
Drawing their weapons, the ermine and foxes stole off to the left, following Gulo in a long arc.
Skipper shouldered his lance. Turning away from the upstream bank, he addressed Tam. “No sign o’ the vermin, mate. They must be limpin’ along after their scrap wid those black birds.”
Tam put up his sword. “Aye, let’s get back to the Guosim. Mayhaps we can lend ’em a paw to shift that tree.”
As the company turned, an arrow whipped out, catching Skipper through the side.
Corporal Wopscutt, who had been bringing up the rear, yelled, “Ambush! It’s the vermin!”
Two hares went down, felled by arrows and a spear. Then Gulo dashed out at the head of his vermin, roaring, “Gulo! Gulo! Killkillkill!”
Completely taken by surprise, Tam called to the Patrol hares, “Into the water! Get downstream!”
Arrows, axes and spears pelted at them. Tam grabbed Skipper, hauling him into the water and thrusting him out into the current. “Get back to the Guosim, quick!”
Rushing back ashore, he drew the sword of Martin. After striking down a fox that was about to spear Lancejack Wilderry, Tam hurled himself at the advancing vermin, still yelling for the hares to get in the stream, where they would stand a chance of being saved by the swift current. Five hares were down, but the rest broke free, retreating into the broadstream.
Corporal Butty Wopscutt was harassed to the front and left by vermin. Tam had run no more than a few paces in the direction of his beleaguered comrade before he was stopped in his tracks by Gulo the Savage, who suddenly bounded out at him. The border warrior slashed out blindly with his sword. Gulo screeched as the blade lopped off his right ear. Blood was flowing freely from the wound as the wolverine clapped a paw to it. Tam ran by him, finally reaching the besieged Butty, who was gallantly holding off the main charge with his long rapier.
Together the two warriors fought, side by side, their backs to the stream, stifling the advancment of the vermin. Though vastly outnumbered, Tam and Butty, each with his blade slashing like a windmill in a gale, fought so furiously that their foe could not overcome them.
Gulo was screaming in the background, urging his vermin on. “Kill! Kill! Charge and bring them down!”
Ashen-faced and tight-jawed, Butty muttered to Tam as they battled on, “Into the water, friend. Save yourself.”
Tam’s blade thrust at a leering face. “Not while you’re by my side, mate. We go in together!”
The hare caught Tam’s eye as he repelled an axe swing. “We’d be slain in the shallows! There’s too many of the scum. I order you, go now, sirrah!”
Tam feinted a spearthrust. “Not without you, Corporal!”
Butty almost doubled up but recovered himself. “Gulo got me in the back with his fangs an’ claws. You must go before he gets you. Go, Tam, I’m already a deadbeast!”
The border warrior chanced a quick glimpse over his friend’s shoulder. He gasped in horror at the long, ripping wounds, Butty’s blood now mingling with the water in the shallows. “Matey, come with me. We’ll make it together!”
Butty shook his head resolutely. “No, sah, my string’s run out. I’ve only got moments. Go while I still have strength to cover your back, friend. If y’get a chance another day, then slay Gulo for me, wot!”
Without waiting for an answer, the hare charged straight at the press of vermin, roaring out his last war cry, “Eulaliiiiiaaaaaaa!”
Tam turned and dived into the current. He was caught in the downstream swirl and whipped away. Water filled his mouth and nostrils as he vowed silently to fulfill the task the hare had put on him.
Fortunately, Rakkety Tam was out of sight before his friend was slain. He had not died easily. Pierced by a forest of weaponry, the gallant hare broke his rapier blade in two and flung it at the enemy. He had no time for another war cry, because his teeth were set in the throat of a screaming ermine. Thus died Corporal Butty Wopscutt of the Long Patrol, a fighter to the bitter end.
Log a Log Togey and his shrews finally moved the fallen tree, but not as planned. Several Guosim were lost, crushed beneath the heavy, rooted base as it shifted back on them. The tree did not move free in one go: first the top half budged under the pressure of fulcrum and leverage, but the ba
se end remained put. Then, aided by the current, the willow swept side on over the water in a single mighty rush. Instead of landing midstream, the tree had positioned against the far bank, rolling backward through the shallows and killing the shrews who had been pushing at the rooted end. The haulers had been forced to wade for their lives without benefit of the ropes, which had been swept underwater but now lay tangled beneath the trunk. The waterway, however, had been cleared. Under Togey’s frantic orders, the crew righted the longboats and brought them into the bank.
Before they even had time to recover the bodies of their dead comrades, Skipper came wallowing downstream, gasping, “Lend us a paw, mates, an’ make ready t’sail!”
Once the otter had been pulled out of the water by the long Guosim rowing poles, it was clear that, somehow, he had been injured. Log a Log Togey enquired, as he slapped bankmud on the wound to the otter chieftain’s side, “Wot ’appened, Skip?”
The otter spat out a jet of water. “Ambushed by the vermin. No time fer chitchat, mate, ’ere come the others. Pull ’er out an’ git under way. Y’best put a move on, Togey. Gulo an’ the vermin are on our tails!”
Groups of Long Patrol hares were hauled from the racing current onto the logboats. The bloodcurdling yells of Gulo’s band could be heard drawing closer as the hares were pulled aboard and the small flotilla of logboats shot out into midstream.
Skipper grabbed a shrew. “It’s Tam! See, there he is. Pass ’im an oar, quick!”
Exhausted, the warrior squirrel was trying to keep his head above the surface as he was rushed downstream. Behind him, vermin were running along the bank, shooting arrows at him. Tam had never let go of Martin’s sword since the start of the ambush. He saw the thick ash paddle splash into the stream ahead of him. With his last ounce of strength, he swung the blade, bedding it in the paddle and hanging on tight to the sword with both paws. The Guosim crew heaved him aboard just in time.
The banks had become rocky, rising higher, funnelling the already fast water into a roaring, boiling tunnel. Gulo’s archers vanished from view as the boats swept away on the wild torrent. Everybeast threw themselves flat to the decks of the logboats, which were well out of control as they hurtled through a chain of rapids. High, white-crested masses of water shot by madly as the logboats bumped against one another and scraped over protruding rocks.
The returning archers found Gulo the Savage sitting on the fallen willow at the bankside, slapping pawfuls of bankmud on his severed earstump to stem the bleeding.
Eissaye pointed with his bow. “Mighty One, they escaped downstream. The flow was too fast, and the banks high with rock. We could not keep up with the speed of their craft, Lord.”
Gulo was off the trunk with a bound and onto the bank. “My brother Askor, and the Walking Stone—did ye sight them?”
Eissaye wisely backed out of range. “Nay, sire. . . .”
Gulo, his eyes gleaming madly, seemed to ignore the scout. “Hah, hiding in the boats, that’s where they’ll be! But never fear, I’ll get them. You there, and you . . . all of ye! We have our own craft, use your spears. Roll this tree into the water! We will travel as fast as they do. I will have them before they reach the Redwall place. Cut those ropes ’an make haste!”
Eissaye wanted to tell Gulo about the rapids, but he held his silence. There was no talking to the wolverine in his present mood.
Within moments, the huge willow trunk was crashing downstream with the vermin clinging to it for their lives. Oblivious to the blood that streamed from his wounded ear, Gulo stood upright, filled with exhilaration at his first taste of riding rough waters. An insane light shone in Gulo the Savage’s glittering eyes. He kicked at the nearest vermin, shouting at them above the thundering current, “Paddle! Use thy spears an’ paddle! Fast! Fast!”
32
Yoofus the volethief had made a lead of woven linen strapping for his wife’s pet, Rockbottom. Neatly plaited in red, green and white, with a loop that fitted securely round the little reptile’s shell, the leash came in handy when Didjety took Rockbottom for walks around the deck of the raft.
Doogy sat at the tiller, remarking to Yoofus as he watched Rockbottom’s slow progress about the craft, “Och, ah wonder if’n yon beast ever breaks intae a gallop. He’s certainly in no hurry tae go anywhere.”
Yoofus patted Rockbottom’s head as he slowly ambled by. “Ah sure, he’s the slow’n’steady one alright. Look there . . . further up the bank on the left. That’s the cutoff leadin’ to the stream where I hid yer friend Tam’s sword an’ flag. Here, give me the tiller, I’ll take her round.”
Doogy allowed the water vole to manoeuvre the tiller, leaving the small Highlander free to perch upon the drum. Watching the sidewater loom up, he expressed his doubts. “Are ye sure this is the right stream? Ye’ve already took us up two dead ends!”
Yoofus winked confidently at him. “Sure I’m sure! Don’t I know these woodlands like me own darlin’ wife’s dear face?”
Doogy stood in front of him, blocking Yoofus’s view of Didjety. “Oh ye do, do ye? Well, what colour are yore wife’s eyes?”
The cocky thief made several guesses. “Er, blue . . . no, green . . . er, grey. A sort of a bluey greenish grey, I’m sure of it!”
Didjety wagged an indignant paw at her husband. “Aren’t you the great ould fibber, Yoofus Lightpaw! Me eyes are dark brown wid hazel flecks, so there!”
Yoofus rounded the bend into the slipstream, chuckling. “So they are, me liddle sugarplum, but they enchant me so much that I ferget when I’m gazin’ into ’em!”
Didjety stood glaring at him, paws akimbo. “Get away, ye fat, silver-tongued rogue! I’m thinkin’ I might just make dinner for me’n Mister Plumm, an’ ferget about you!”
The slipstream was narrower than the broadstream they had come down. Trees hung thick over it, and the water was sluggish, with a coating of green algae when they got further along.
Doogy watched Rockbottom whilst the shrew wife prepared dinner. The Highlander kept shaking his head doubtfully. “Ach, ah dinna think this is the right way. What have ye tae say about all this, mah friend?”
Rockbottom closed his eyes and withdrew his head into his shell.
Doogy sighed. “Ah get the message, mate!” He tied Rockbottom’s lead to the drum and went beneath the raft’s awning to join Yoofus and Didjety for dinner.
As Doogy had hoped, the volewife had brought along some of her sausages. These she had encased in pastry. Doogy watched as she heated them up on a small fire which Yoofus had kindled atop of some flat stones.
The volethief winked at him. “These are called sausage rolls. Me darlin’ Didjety makes the best sausage rolls anywhere. D’ya know how to make a sausage roll, Doogy?”
The Highlander bit into one, finding the sausages delicious indeed. “No, ah’m afraid ah don’t know how tae make a sausage roll.”
Yoofus answered, “Ye just push it down a hill, that’s how ye make a sausage roll!”
Doogy did not find it funny, but both voles hooted and giggled. “Push it down a hill! Hahaha heeheeheehee!”
Doogy took another sausage roll. Then, glaring at Yoofus, he spoke firmly. “If you’ve got us lost, mah friend, ah won’t push ye down a hill, ah’ll fling ye over a cliff!”
Didjety pressed more sausage rolls upon Doogy. “Ah sure, don’t be frettin’ yerself, Mister Plumm. My Yoofus will get us there. Here now, I’ll sing ye a song t’cheer ye up!”
The volewife, with her sweet little voice, launched straight into song.
“Ould Roderick vole had a grand appetite,
sure he’d lived with it all of his life,
an’ when he got home to his cottage one night,
he called out to his own darlin’ wife,
‘O bring me some stew, a big bucket or two,
an’ ten of yore ould apple pies,
a cheese from the shelf as big as yoreself,
an’ a trifle just as a surprise!
Now me stummick is slac
k, for me health to come back,
then ye must keep me nourished an’ fed,
I’ll be happy alright an’ well rested tonight,
when I toddle off to me ould bed.
So bring out the cake for a dear husband’s sake,
an’ a bathtub o’ soup nice an’ warm,
six loaves for to dunk, sure an’ when ’tis all drunk,
then I’ll sleep like a babe ’til the morn.
Providin”tis clear there’s a barrel o’ beer,
for to save me ould teeth from the drought,
some cordial an’ tea sure I’ll sup happily,
get a move on before I pass out!’
Well his wife did no more than fling him out the door,
hit him squarely wid all the ten pies.
She poured all the stew o’er his head, an’ it’s true,
that the trifle came as a surprise!
She loosened his teeth with the cheese if y’please,
stuffed the loaves down his ears gleefully.
Then both him an’ the cake she slung into the lake,
Shoutin’, ‘Come back tomorrow for tea!’ ”
Doogy smiled and applauded the song, but he was still far from being cheered up. “Very entertainin’, marm, but jokes an’ comic ditties won’t find the banner an’ the claymore yore husband thieved. Aye, an’ ah’m thinkin’ they won’t get us any closer tae Redwall Abbey.”
Yoofus began poling the raft up the narrow stream as if he had not a care in the world. “Ah, sure yore a proper ould worry wart, Mister Plumm. Do ye not think I know me own way around Mossflower? Don’t get yore tail in an uproar now. I’ll wager we find yore gear soon enough. I recognise this stream.”
But the day wore on without success; in fact, their position worsened. By early evening the stream had narrowed. Trees and bank foliage pressed in on them, and the water became murky and stagnant. Doogy’s mood darkened as he assisted the water vole to pole the craft along, constantly having to slash at the encroaching vegetation with his claymore blade.