There was no need for a fire. The night was still and warm, with heat waves drifting in from the plain. Knowing he could pick up the Searat’s tracks at dawn, Lonna sat in the cave entrance, eating an apple and some dried fruit. He gazed up at the night sky, where a sliver of moon, resembling a slice of russet apple, was surrounded by myriads of stars twinkling in the firmament. The words of an old song rose unbidden to his mind.
“When weary day does shed its light,
I rest my head and dream,
I ride the great dark bird of night,
so tranquil and serene.
Then I can touch the moon afar,
which smiles up in the sky,
and steal a twinkle from each star,
as we go winging by.
We’ll fly the night to dawning light,
and wait ’til dark has ceased,
to marvel at the wondrous sight,
of sunrise in the east.
So slumber on, my little one,
float soft as thistledown,
and wake to see when night is done,
fair morning’s golden gown.”
Since Lonna had no recollection of his parents, he surmised that the lullaby had been taught to him by Grawn, the old badger who had reared him.
Lonna stayed that night in the cave on the cliffside. As day dawned he spotted a tiny puff of dust, on a hilltop off to his right. The big badger knew instantly that it was his quarry. The Searat must have spent the night amid the hills, not far from the cave. Pausing only to grab his bow and quiver, Lonna set off in pursuit.
He had travelled no further than the base of the first foothill when he was faced by a small patrol of ten Darrat rats. Their leader eyed him insolently up and down.
“Dis be Darrat land. You give me bow’n’arrers, stripedog. We take ye to Hemper Figlugg!” He grinned at the other rats, murmuring to them, “Much Burcha Glugg, eh?”
Had it been ten rats or twenty, Lonna did not like either their manner or their disposition, so he charged them without warning. They went down like ninepins under the giant badger’s onslaught. Seizing the leader of the patrol, Lonna hurled him bodily into the other rats. Then the big badger was among them like a whirlwind—punching, kicking, butting, thrashing them with their own spears. So surprised were the Darrat that they fled in panic, kicking up sand widespread as they scuttled off amid the hills.
Lonna picked up his bow and quiver. Then, throwing back his great striped head, he gave vent to the fearsome warcry of hares and badgers. “Eulaliiiiiaaaaaa!”
However, with much more urgent business to attend to, he let the Darrat be, and didn’t give chase. Instead, Lonna set off swiftly on the trail of the Searat.
When the Darrat saw they were not being pursued, they halted on the plain beside the foothills. The patrol leader limped up, carrying half a broken spear. He watched the big badger crossing a hilltop, some distance off.
Turning to his subordinates, who were sitting licking their wounds, he snarled, “We was sent to catcher rabbert, mouse an’ squirri’, not stripedog! Huh, let High Kappin catcher that ’un—’e be over dat way wid many Darrat!”
The Searat saw Lonna coming after him. Deserting the hills, he dashed out onto the dusty plain. It was a mistake, the last mistake he was ever to make. The badger’s arrow found him. Once Lonna had the range, nobeast could outrun a shaft from his big bow. Though Wirga did not know, she had lost all three of her sons.
Lonna sat down in a hollow amid the hills and made breakfast from the food in his pack.
Out on the flatlands the five travellers pushed forward, keeping the distant cliffs in view. They marched shoulder to shoulder because, as Saro had pointed out, that way they would not be eating one another’s dust. Since their rescue, Springald and Fenna were paying more attention to Bragoon and Saro. Seasoned campaigners both, the squirrel and the otter were ever ready to share their knowledge with the younger, less experienced trio.
Horty was feeling rather chipper now that any immediate danger was past. He struck up a jolly marching song, to which he himself had written the lyrics. As was usual with hare songs, it dealt mainly with food.
“Oh wallop me left an’ stagger me right,
an’ buffet me north an’ south,
if I could teach a stew to walk,
it’d march right into me mouth!
To pasties an’ pies of convenient size,
I’d beat a tattoo on me drum,
so jolly forceful, each tasty morsel,
tramp over me gums to me tum!
As each of ’em trips in through me lips,
all skippin’ along to the beat,
why all of a sudden I’d grab a fat pudden,
an’ leave it no way to retreat!
Form up in line, you vittles so fine,
watch y’dressin’ that salad back there,
a quick salute to trifle’n’fruit,
then charge down the throat of the hare!
Quick march! One two! Scoff ’em all! You an’ you!
Left right! Left right! Here comes supper for tonight!”
A grey, black-flecked Darrat scout came loping into the camp in the foothills of the high cliffs. He threw himself flat in front of High Kappin Birug, the Darrat leader. Pointing back to the scrubland, the rat scout shouted, “Burcha Glugg!”
Birug dashed past him to the top of a hill. He crouched, peering at the small dust cloud with the travellers marching in front of it, not half a mile away. Smirking with satisfaction, Birug turned to the others who had followed him.
“Hemper Figlugg, trus’ me, ho yar, I know dey only go one way. Run for bigrocks. We wait, they be come to us. Burcha Glugg!”
Darrat vermin shook their heads in admiration of Kappin Birug’s cunning. One of them piped up. “Hemper be ’appy to see Burcha Glugg come back.” The more excited of the Darrat leaped up and down, waving spears.
Birug growled a warning at them. “Keepa ’eads down, idjits!”
Horty glanced up at the sky. “Cloudin’ over up there, chaps. We might have a spot of jolly old rain before nightfall, wot?”
Bragoon sniffed the light breeze. “Bit more’n a spot, matey. Looks like we’re in for a downpour afore dark. Keep movin’, step the pace up. Mebbe we’ll find shelter in the lee of those big cliffs.”
Fenna let out a gasp and sat down. “Ouch, my footpaw!”
They gathered around her, crouching down to take a look. The squirrelmaid spoke through lips that hardly moved. “Stay down, all of you, don’t look toward those foothills!”
Bragoon kept his eyes on Fenna. “Why, what’s goin’ on?”
She quickly responded. “Rats ahead, they look like those flesh-eating ones!”
Springald automatically began to look up, but Sarobando pressed her head back down. “Listen to Fenna an’ keep yore eyes down, miss. How many d’ye reckon there are?”
Bragoon interrupted. “Plenty, I’ll wager. Too many for us to fight off. I told ye, those vermin don’t give up easily. They’ve been waitin’ in the foothills for us to show up. Well, mates, wot’s t’be done, eh?”
Fenna shrugged. “I suppose we’ll have to run for it.”
Bragoon shook his head. “Bad idea! They’d outcircle us.”
Horty began shrugging off his backpack. “Does any chap mind me makin’ a suggestion, wot?”
Saro saw that the young hare looked serious. “As long as ’tis sensible. Go on then, wot’s yore idea?”
Horty shed his backpack. “Give me some old, dead brush, an’ I’ll decoy the rotters. A hare can jolly well outrun ’em if anybeast can. I’ll take the villains off one way, while you lot go runnin’ off the bally opposite way. See that black hole up there, about halfway along the cliffs? I’ll meet y’back there after dark. Well, what d’you think?”
Springald objected. “It’s far too dangerous. You’ll be caught.”
Saro stared at Horty. “I say give it a try, it might work. Otherwise, we’ll just stick together and get na
bbed.”
Bragoon winked at the hare. “Right, go to it, young ’un. Good luck!”
Two Darrat spies peeped over the hilltop, to where the dust cloud had stopped. One whispered. “Warra dey do now, jus’ lay dere?”
The other one leaped up as the dust plume started again, moving swiftly north. “Musta see’d us, dey runnin’ now, fast!”
He waved his spear, calling to Birug, who had the rats standing ready, “Kappin, dey go lef’ plenty fasta!”
Horty pelted along with a bunch of dead bracken tied to his tail, raising a dust cloud that stood out light brown against the lowering clouds. Glancing sideways, he saw the Darrat rats pouring over the hill, veering in his direction. He muttered between clenched teeth.
“Ahah! That’s the way, you vile vermin. Come on, you shower, follow Hortwill Braebuck, skimmer of the scrublands!”
Fenna raised her head. In the distance she could see the dust cloud off to her left. “Good old Horty, he’s whipping along like a whirlwind!”
Still crouching low, they watched their friend’s progress, comparing it to the crowd of Darrat vermin chasing him. Horty was indeed a Redwaller, brave and courageous. Springald felt elation and pride surging through her. She clenched her paws.
“Go on, mate, there’s none faster than you! Flesh eaters, hah! All those scum will eat is the dust in his wake! Run them, Horty, show those rats what a hare from our Abbey can do!”
As soon as Bragoon saw the two dust plumes, he realised that the Darrat had come out of the hills and hit the scrubland. Their intended quarry was far and away out in front. The otter’s eyes shone with admiration.
“I said that young ’un has the makins of a real warrior. He’ll lead ’em a merry dance alright. Oh, drat, here comes the rain!”
24
Large drops began falling, slow at first, sending up small puffs of dust as they struck the dry plain. A distant thunder rumble echoed from the high cliffs, followed by a faroff flash of lightning that illuminated the southeast horizon. Then the deluge fell in earnest. Saro stood upright, blowing water from her nosetip as she blinked at the sheeting curtains of heavy rain.
“Nobeast can see us now. Let’s head straight for the cliffs!”
Joining paws, they jogtrotted toward the foothills, battered by the relentless downpour. Lightning ripped over the dark skies in blinding sheets, while thunder boomed and banged overhead. Dust turned quickly to mud, their paws squelched into it. Springald tightly gripped the paws of Fenna and Saro. The intensity of the storm was frightening, she had never been out in open country at such a time before. At Redwall, it had been relatively easy to run inside and shelter from the elements, but out here it was different.
They gained the foothills, slipping and sliding up the wet grass. Bragoon shielded his eyes as he glanced upward.
“Keep goin’, it ain’t too far now. Yonder black hole that Horty spotted looks like it could be a cave of some sort. Let’s make it up that far an’ shelter.”
Horty’s wet paws slapped down in the sludge and mud. Wiping water from his eyes, he chanced a backward glimpse at his pursuers. Although the main body were still a respectable distance off, three fast runners had broken away and were coming doggedly onward, closing the distance considerably. The young hare bit his lip. The trio were armed with spears; if they got within throwing range, he would be finished. It was time for a change of plan. Still with stamina in reserve, Horty shot off to the right, back among the foothills, where he stood a chance of losing the Darrat mob.
Birug panted, squinching his eyes against the rain as he saw the hare change course and dart into the dunes. The High Kappin urged his rats on. “Catchim, or Hemper Figlugg make Burcha Glugg outta you!”
Topping a rise, Horty spotted the barely discernible hole in the cliffside, far along to his right. He tripped and went rolling downhill. Spitting grit and coated with sand, he swiftly picked himself up and pounded on to the next dune, muttering to himself, “Ears up, old lad, keep pickin’ ’em up an’ puttin’ ’em down, wot. Huh, if only the young skin’n’blister could see her handsome brother now—a blinkin’, gallopin’ sandbeast!”
A spear buried itself in the sand, not far behind him.
Birug appeared at the top of the hill that Horty had just come over. Two others trailed behind him. He seized the spear from one of them and flung it. The Darrat leader’s aim was bad—he watched the spear strike the hillside flat and slide back down. Birug rested a moment on all fours, fatigued.
Horty gained the next hilltop and turned. Holding a paw to his nose, he wiggled it and called out cheekily, “Bloomin’ old flesh scoffer, go an’ boil your own head an’ eat it, wot wot!”
Stung by the hare’s jibe, Birug hauled himself upright and came after the hare with renewed energy. Horty scuttled off, chiding himself for his momentary foolishness.
“Have to keep the old lip buttoned, wot! Seems a jolly determined type o’ cove for a rat, full of the old vermin vinegar. Curse his caddish hide!”
Afternoon passed, without the rain slackening its intensity. It was humid, without a trace of breeze. Rivulets gathered into swollen streams, racing down the cliffside in floods of umber-hued water.
Bragoon was first to reach the black hole. His prediction had been correct: it was a cave—large, dark and deep. He helped Springald and Fenna enter first, while Sarobando brought up the rear. Once inside, all four flopped down, exhausted. The otter shook himself like a dog and shrugged off the packs he had been burdened with.
“Whoo! Wretched weather, wonder when this rain’s due to stop?” He sat up against the right wall, peering out. “Come on Horty, mate, where’ve ye got to?”
Fenna joined him. “I hope he’s alright!”
Springald rose and began to wander off to explore the big cave, but Bragoon pulled her back.
“You stay close up here, miz. We don’t know wot might be back there. Can’t risk a fire, either—too dangerous. Break out some vittles, if’n they’re still dry enough, and a drink, too. Funny how ye can be out in the rain all day an’ still be thirsty.”
The mousemaid found dry oatcakes and some crystallised fruit, which they washed down with some home-brewed cider. Fenna stared out into the persistent downpour, then jumped slightly as thunder boomed out overhead.
Saro patted her shoulder. “Nought t’do but sit an’ wait, matey. Don’t fret now, that young rogue’ll make it.”
The squirrelmaid forced a smile. “If he’s not here soon, I’ll light a fire and make a pot of soup. Horty can smell vittles a league away. He’ll show up then, I wager.”
She sat miserably, pondering the foolishness of her statement. Horty could be lying slain out there in the rain.
Horty staggered gamely on, the three rats not more than six paces behind him. They had picked up their spears again and thrown them at him several times. With the courage of desperation, the young hare, having managed to avoid the throws, remained unscathed. Birug and his two rats had left the spears where they fell, and carried on, stubbornly pursuing the fugitive. It was only a matter of time now, and they would have him. As the High Kappin blundered forward, Horty moved out of his reach.
With his tongue lolling, the rat gasped out, “We . . . catcha!”
Horty stumbled, tripped and wriggled out of his reach. Gaining his footpaws, he stood panting. “Couldn’t . . . catch your old . . . grannie . . . Slobberchops!” He blundered on another pace or two, then collapsed.
Birug nodded to the other two rats. “Gerrim . . . now!”
All three crawled forward on their bellies, reaching out to lay paws on the fallen hare when, without warning, the hillside gave way, sliding down a tremendous avalanche of wet sand. It enveloped the three rats completely, burying them under a huge mound.
Horty lay at the edge of the mass, covered right up to his neck. He was trapped fast. A paw, almost the size of his own head, seized both of the hare’s long ears and yanked him out with one mighty pull. Horty revived with the pain, his eyes
flickering open. He stayed conscious just long enough to see a lightning flash illuminate the head of a giant badger with a scar running lengthwise down its striped muzzle.
The young hare blinked. “Nice weather, wot . . . Oh, corks!” Then he passed out.
Only the Dibbuns slept upstairs in their dormitories that night, while every other Redwaller guarded the barricades. It was the longest, saddest night Martha had ever witnessed. The still form of Junty had been wrapped tenderly in blankets and borne down to the place he loved best, his cellars. Clearing the barrels and lifting some floorstones, Foremole Dwurl and his crew dug a grave for the good Cellarhog. Junty was laid to rest. Once the grave was filled in and the flooring stones replaced, Abbot Carrul took a charcoal and wrote words upon it. At some later day the moles would chisel the words into the stones as a permanent epitaph for a beast whom all Redwallers loved dearly. Tears often smudged the charcoal letters as Carrul wrote:
“Here lies a fallen warrior, slain by vermin whilst helping his fellow creatures. Hard working, good and faithful. A credit to his kind. Always a kind word or smile to all. Junty Cellarhog, Keeper of Redwall Abbey cellars. His October Ale was the best. Rest peacefully, old friend.”
Above stairs, Martha rolled her cart around Great Hall, relieving those who were wearied. When she was not doing that, the tireless haremaid helped Granmum Gurvel to ferry food from the kitchens.
Toran watched Martha—she was never still, always finding something to do for the common good. He halted the little cart with his rudder. “Come on, beauty, time ye took a nap or ye’ll be worn out.”
Martha protested. “I’m fine, honestly I am!”