Lonna looked around, but not a squirrel could be seen anywhere. He called out into the densely leafed treetops. “Figalok, where are you, what’s going on?”
The elderly squirrel popped her head out from behind a branch, her eyes wide with fright as she chattered. “Bad, bad! Rakkaw Ravin badbird! Look ya uppina sky!”
Glancing upward, Lonna beheld a raven of startling wingspread, circling high in the bright afternoon sky. Reaching for his bow, he picked an arrow from the quiver and laid it on the string, keeping his eyes on the raven.
“Don’t worry, marm, that bird won’t harm you while I’m here.”
Figalok stayed under cover, shaking her head sadly. “Rakkaw Ravin after babes, ya watch ’im, he soon be down. Steal likkle ’un, take what he want. Badbird, bigga strong an’ fast. Nobeast stoppa Ravin!”
As Figalok spoke, a tiny squirrel panicked. Squealing shrilly, she hopped out on a long branch. There she stood, covering her face, rigid with terror, and in clear sight of the foe. Sensing a quick kill, the raven folded its wings and dropped down like a thunderbolt.
Instinctively, Lonna stretched the bowstring tight against his clenched jaw. Closing one eye, he aimed at the bird and loosed his shaft. With a sound like an angry wasp, the arrow zipped upward, taking the raven through its glossy, plumed body. Instantly slain, its huge wings spread wide open, the raven cartwheeled through the air like a dark, tattered cloak, landing with a thud on the woodland floor beneath the oak, transfixed by the badger’s well-aimed arrow.
Chattering madly, the squirrels started pounding the body. The older ones used small slings, from which they hurled small pebbles. Emerging from cover, the babes tossed down pawfuls of leaves and pieces of twig, all the while screeching insults at their slain enemy.
“Yaa yaa, not eat us no more, Rakkaw!”
“Yeeheeee, eata dis twig if ya be hungry, bigbird!”
“Hahaaay, Rakkaw, we burn ya, burn ya, burn ya!”
Some of the older squirrels threw down glowing charcoal from their oven. The smell of charring feathers reached Lonna’s nostrils. Shocked by the frenzy of hatred the squirrels were working themselves into, he called out in a stern voice.
“Here now, stop that, you’ll cause a woodland fire!”
Sensing the danger, Figalok joined Lonna. “Chahah, ye heara bigbeast, stoppa throwin’ fires!”
They obeyed reluctantly. Figalok sent some older squirrels down to fetch water and quench the smoking embers. She touched the big badger’s taut bowstring.
“Dat a good bigbow, me thank ya, Lonna. Rakkaw Ravin gone’d forever now, thank ya!”
Hanging up his bow and quiver on a nearby branch, Lonna sighed. “I wish that had been a Searat!”
Figalok pointed west and slightly south. “Searatters over data way.”
The badger became immediately alert. “Where, over that way, have you seen them?”
Smiling slyly, the elderly squirrel nodded. “Ho, me see ’em, awright! Lotsa Searatters marchin’ through. Chahah, they no see us, though. Squirrel know how ta hide.” She tapped her paw four times against the oak tree. “Me see dat many Searatters a-comin’ back thisaway though.”
Lonna grabbed up his bow and quiver. “Where, when?”
Figalok explained. “Yistaday. Me was far from this place, lookin’ for a h’almind nuts. See dem, one bigbeast.”
She tapped her paw on the oak three times. “Dis a many smalla Searatters comin’ disaway. No worry, Lonna, dey not see ya, we hide up here plenny good, eh? Asides, dey still more’n a day ’way, not travel fast like squirrel.”
Lonna seized the thick, knotted rope and began clambering down to the woodland floor. “Searats at last! I’ve got a score to settle with those murdering scum. Figalok, will you show me where they are?”
The squirrel made it down to the ground before him. “A course me will—least I can do for ya, bigbeast. We go now, catch ’em around at dawn, travel alla night, eh?”
Lonna shook her small paw gratefully. “Thank you, my friend!”
The squirrels appeared much upset at Lonna leaving, particularly the little ones. “Don’t go bigbeast, ya stay here wid us for longa time!”
One bold little maid thought she knew the reason for the badger’s departure. She shook her head at the others. “Gorra let Lonna go, he gotta find ’is mamma.”
Lonna ruffled her downy little brush. “That’s right, miss. Now take care of your mammas, and watch out for ravens.”
Figalok kicked the dead bird’s carcass scornfully. “No more Rakkaw Ravin come here. We hangin’ dis one up inna tree, dat scare ’em off. Chahaah, you betcha!”
Following the agile Figalok, Lonna trotted off south and west into the thickness of Mossflower. As they went, he envisioned the evil face of Raga Bol—concentrating hard on it, as only a creature of fate and destiny like a badger can.
“I’m coming, Raga Bol! I am Lonna Bowstripe, and I’m coming!”
18
After marching all night on what he had fondly imagined was a southeast course, Horty was totally fatigued. In dawn’s pale light, he slumped down in a fern grove, grumbling.
“It’s no blinkin’ use, you chaps, I’ve got to take a jolly old snooze. Ahah! But first we must deal with the inner hare. Brekkers beckons the poor lad’s slim stomach, wot?”
Furious, Springald grabbed the provision sack from his paw, ranting on at him. “Food, food, food, don’t you ever think of anything else? Here we are, in the middle of nowhere, and you’re yowling about brekkers after eating all night as we marched! We’re lost, you lop-eared oaf, lost!”
Horty tried unsuccessfully to tug the sack back from her. “Lost? Don’t talk piffle’n’woffle, m’dear gel, we’re merely restin’. Now don’t be so flippin’ moody, an’ pass the scoff!”
Springald dealt him a wallop with the soggy ration sack. “You’ve no idea where we’re going. You’ve completely lost Bragoon’s and Saro’s tracks, and we could have been walking in circles for all you know! You’re an idiot, d’you hear me?”
Horty twiddled his ears and smiled at Fenna. “Rather pretty when she’s angry, ain’t she? Spring, me old beauty, why don’t y’give your face a rest. We’ll find the right track sooner or later. Or would you prefer to toodle back to the Abbey an’ face the blinkin’ music, wot wot?”
Fenna sat down wearily beside Horty, then closed her eyes. “Good grief, I’m bone worn-out. He’s right y’know, Spring, arguing isn’t going to get us anywhere. Let’s have a bite to eat and a rest. Give him the bag.”
Springald threw herself moodily down amid the ferns. “Here, take your confounded food. I wish I’d never left Redwall in the first place.”
The gluttonous young hare seized the sack eagerly. “I wish you hadn’t, either—there’d be more scoff for me an’ Fenn, wot. Hawhawhaw!”
Fenna looked into the sack to select her breakfast. She drew back with a look of disgust. “Yukk, I’m not eating any of that mess. Look at it, pie and trifle squashed up with onion gravy pastie. Just the sight of it makes me sick. Nobeast could stomach that!”
Horty dipped his paw in and came up with an unappetising lump of sludge. “Well tut tut, little miss fussy apron. What’s wrong with the flippin’ scoff, it’s good food ain’t it? Please yourself, marm, but I’m jolly well starved.”
He began eating with evident relish. “Mmmmm, you bods don’t know what you’re missin’. Nothin’ like a spot o’ tucker to settle the old tum for a good sound snooze, wot!”
This time it was Fenna who lost her temper. She tugged Horty’s ears sharply. “Listen to me, you great ten-bellied buffoon, you were supposed to be supplies officer, remember? You appointed yourself in charge of provisions. There’ll be no naps or snoozes for you while us two are still hungry, so shift yourself and get us some breakfast, right away!”
Horty made a languid gesture. “There’s two other sacks there, or ain’t you blinkin’ well noticed? You can open ’em yourself!”
Where Fenna upended one of
the sacks, a great splodge of squashed pastie and meadowcream trifle splattered among the ferns.
Springald inspected the contents of the other sack. “Ahah, scones and cheesebread. But guess what, pals? Our genius packed ’em along with a flask of mint tea and one of strawberry cordial. Of course he never made sure the stoppers of the flasks were on tight, so we’ve got another sackful of sludge. Oh, Horty, how could you?”
The gluttonous hare was munching pawfuls of the mixture from the second sack. He smacked his lips loudly. “Sorry about the blinkin’ flask stoppers, chaps, but I didn’t want to make too much noise, y’see. Mmmm, rather good this stuff. Hawhaw, I’ve just invented apple’n’rhubarb’n’gooseberry surprise. Hmm, there’s some soft white celery cheese in here, too . . . excellent mixture. I must give old Gurvel the recipe when we return t’the jolly old Abbey, wot!”
Springald peered into the third sack, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “How could anybeast even think about eating that?”
Horty took the sack and sampled a pawful. “An’ what, pray, is the matter with it? ’Tis perfectly top-hole scoff! Trouble with you two is y’don’t know how to blinkin’ rough it. You’ve become spoiled by Abbey life, too picky by far!”
Springald took hold of a sack. “Go and get a bath, Horty.”
The young hare grinned at her. “Not right now, thanks, I don’t need a bath.”
She upended the sack over his head. “You do now!”
Horty rose slowly, making two eyeholes in the mess of flan and pudding, then sucked his paws. “Gettin’ a bit touchy, aren’t we?” He saw Fenna take hold of another sack and fled. “Hello out there, any frogs or tadpoles know a good stream where a chap can get a wash an’ brush up, wot?”
Fenna sat down and rested her head between both paws. “We should’ve known better than letting him go for supplies. ’Tis our own fault, I suppose. The fool never even thought of bringing a flint along to make fire.”
Springald produced a chunk of crystal from her belt pouch. “That’s no trouble. I got this off Old Phredd. He told me how to use it . . . watch this.”
She held the crystal close to some unlit twigs and moss, focussing until it caught the sunrays and concentrated them in a small bright point. Instantly, the moss began smouldering. After a short while, a single puff of the mousemaid’s breath caused a slim column of flame to rise.
Fenna was both delighted and astonished. “That’s marvellous! At least we can boil some water and pick mint leaves to make tea. There’s plenty of wild mint growing round here. What’s the matter, Springald?”
The mousemaid kicked the sack she had upended. “Guess what? Horty forgot to bring anything along to boil it in.”
Fenna sat down beside her friend. “Right, that’s the last time I listen to the mad plans and stupid ideas of a hare. We’d best go back to Redwall!”
Springald did not relish the suggestion. “Redwall? Imagine having to face the Father Abbot, and Sister Setiva, and Granmum Gurvel and all the rest! I’d sooner sit out here for a season or two and starve, until they’ve forgotten about us drowning those Dibbuns, plundering the kitchens and disobeying the Abbot. Lack a day, we’d be scrubbing floors and washing pots until we were old and grey!”
Springald’s despairing thoughts were interrupted by Horty’s voice. “Yowch ouch, I say, leggo me blinkin’ ears, you bounders!”
Horty appeared, dripping wet, with six big, mottled rats dragging him along. Their garb was a curious mixture of leaves, shrubbery and purple tattoos. All of them were armed with cudgels and long knives.
Springald let out a cry of alarm, Fenna seized an old kitchen knife and leapt up. Soon they were surrounded, as more rats stepped out from the trees.
Their leader—a tall, brownish-white mottled vermin carrying a long spear—growled warningly. “T’row down der knife, or you’re deadbeasts!”
Something about his bleak stare told Fenna it would be wise to obey the order. She let the knife fall.
Horty indignantly took up his case with the tall rat. “I say, d’you mind tellin’ these chaps to stop swingin’ on me blinkin’ ears? They’ll pull ’em out by the flippin’ roots, tuggin’ at ’em like that, wot!”
A sudden jab of the tall rat’s spearbutt jolted into the young hare’s stomach, leaving him doubled up and gasping for breath. The rat turned the point swiftly, covering Fenna and Springald as they leapt forward to intervene.
“Be still or die! I am Birug, High Kappin of de Darrat. You be prisoners for invadin’ our lands!”
Springald protested. “We’re not invading anybeasts’ land, only passing through. We are innocent travellers!”
Birug sneered. “Shut you mouth, shemouse, you not talk to High Kappin like dat. Bring dem along!”
Fenna was shocked to see that they were surrounded by at least a hundred rats. Horty regained his breath, but before he could speak he and his two friends were gagged with thick pieces of rope. Darrat rats swarmed over the trio, binding their forepaws tightly and linking their footpaws together on a long rope. They were helpless. The squirrelmaid barely had time to cast a frightened glance at her companions before sacks were pulled roughly over their heads. Cudgels prodded them, none too gently.
Birug’s voice rang out. “March now!”
Stumbling and bumping into one another, they were hauled swiftly along, dragged upright and cuffed soundly whenever they fell by the wayside. The unhappy trio bumbled along in the midst of their captors, terrified witless and ruing the day they had set paw outside of Redwall Abbey.
Sarabando and Bragoon lay in the treeshade, out of the shimmering midday heat. They sipped dandelion and burdock cordial and nibbled at oatcakes, supplemented by some watercress they had found near a stream. Saro tootled a small reed flute and played a melody. Bragoon sang the tune quietly.
“I know not young ’uns or a wife,
no scolding tongue I fear,
I live a carefree traveller’s life,
from yon to hither and here.
O’er mountain hill and lea,
I’m bound to wend my way,
cross river lake or sea,
with never a beast to say,
Sit down! Stand up! Stay here!
O ring a lairy lay.
Stand back! Be still! Just wait!
Farewell my dear, good day!”
Saro began piping the tune to a second verse, when Bragoon ceased singing and held up a paw. “Ssshhh! Did ye hear somethin’, mate?”
Ears cocked, the squirrel looked around. Silently she nodded, pointing over to the dense growth of trees on her left. Putting aside the flute, Saro pointed to her friend, indicating that he should stay put. In a flash she was gone, nimbly scaling a beech trunk and vaulting away through the foliaged upper terraces of Mossflower.
Bragoon sat perfectly still, his eyes roving from side to side as he searched the woodlands. Several minutes elapsed before Saro somersaulted back to earth from the high treetops. She picked up a twig, then snapped it and flung it away, muttering darkly to herself.
Bragoon raised his eyebrows. “Wot’s upset ye, matey?”
The squirrel began gathering up her possessions. “Upset? I ain’t upset, buckoe, I’m steamin’ fit t’burst! Those three young fools from Redwall, Horty an’ the two maids—they’ve got themselves captured by a hundred or so big spotty rats!”
Bragoon sighed heavily. Buckling the sword across his back, he dusted himself off and made ready. “You shore ’twas them?”
Saro checked her sling and pouch of stones. “Aye, I’m sure enough. They was bound t’gether an’ had sacks over their heads, but it’s got t’be them. Wot other young hare, squirrel’n’mouse would be wanderin’ willy-nilly through these woodlands, eh? They’ve sneaked out o’ Redwall an’ come searchin’ for us, to share the adventure. Huh!”
Bragoon shook his rudder in disapproval. “Fivescore o’ big spotty rats, ye say? Well, they’ll get their share of the fun—that’s if’n the three idiots live long enough. Ye reca
ll those spotty rats we battled with last time we was up this way?”
The squirrel nodded grimly. “Aye, they were flesh eaters!”
19
Evening was crimsoning the sky over the western reaches as Birug led his Darrat vermin into camp. The Darrat tribe gathered around to see what he had captured. A huge old rat—almost white, with a few brown flecks—pulled himself out of a hammock which was slung under a rocky ledge. Bulling his way through the crowd, he indiscriminately kicked babes, young ones, females and males out of his way. Studying the bound and hooded creatures lying exhausted on the ground, he addressed Birug in a shrill voice totally unsuited to his bulk.
“Lemme see dem!”
Horty felt the sack being pulled from his head and a knife slitting the rope gag in his mouth. He spat out the gag and found himself looking at the huge, fat one. Immediately the young hare began complaining.
“Y’don’t mind me sayin’, sah, but this is all a bit bally much! Is this the way y’treat jolly peaceable wayfarers, wot?”
A slap from the huge rat silenced him. “Shutcha face, rabbert, d’great Hemper Figlugg don’ like talky rabberts!”
He glared at Springald and Fenna, who had been unhooded and had their gags removed. “Don’ like talky mouses or squirrels either!”
A shrunken and incredibly ugly female pushed her way through to Hemper Figlugg’s side. Ignoring him, she began pinching the three captives, nodding approvingly as she did so. Hemper Figlugg whispered something in her ear.
She nodded, replying aloud. “Burcha Glugg!” The Darrat tribe nodded in agreement and laughed.
Always ready to take advantage of a situation, Horty winked at his two companions. “At least they seem happy, must be a good joke, wot! Burcha Glugg, wasn’t it? Watch this.”
He grinned at the assembly and repeated the words, “Burcha Glugg!”
The Darrat tribe howled with laughter at Horty’s remark. A tiny ratbabe wrinkled his nose at the young hare and squeaked, “Burcha Glugg!”