Daucus smiled approvingly at his companions. “Good. Shall we go in now?”
Orkwil Prink’s usually sunny disposition had deserted him. He sat on the floor of the gatehouse with Rorc, Skipper of Otters, and Benjo Tipps, the big hedgehog who was Redwall’s Cellar Keeper, standing either side of him. There was a rope tied about Orkwil’s waist, each of his custodians held an end. Also in attendance were Fenn Bluepaw, the Abbey’s squirrel Recorder, and an old watervole lady, Marja Dubbidge, Redwall’s official Bellringer. The hubbub from outside had ceased, creating a silence inside the little gatehouse, which was heavy with foreboding. The young hedgehog’s head drooped miserably, he stared at the floor, not daring to raise his eyes as the new arrivals entered.
Abbot Daucus pulled up a stool, and sat facing the miscreant, studying his demeanour, before turning to Benjo Tipps. “I understand from Granspike that he was discovered hiding in your cellars, is that correct?”
The stout Benjo tugged his headspikes respectfully. “Aye, Father Abbot, ’tis where he was. Though I don’t know why I never knew it afore today. My ole eyes ain’t all they was, an’ my hearin’ could be a lot better. Young rip! Must’ve been comin’ an’ goin’ as he pleased, an’ all without my knowin’.”
Daucus consulted Foremole Burff and Skipper Rorc. “So, Granspike says you found him hiding inside an old barrel, was any of his hoard there?”
Orkwil raised his eyes and spoke for the first time. “I never kept any of it in the barrel, sir, all’s I had there was a few vittles, a lantern an’ my notebook.”
Daucus made a gesture at the rope around Orkwil’s waist. “Remove that thing, Skipper, I don’t like it. He isn’t going to run anywhere now. What’s all this about a notebook, Orkwil, why did you need to keep a notebook?”
Fenn Bluepaw glared over her small spectacles at the young hedgehog. “So that’s where my season songbook disappeared to! I bound it myself, specially, and I hadn’t written a single song in it yet. You rogue, I wager you helped yourself to my best charcoal writing sticks, too. Rest assured I’ll count them, when I get back to my study. I know exactly how many I had!”
The Abbot interrupted his Recorder. “Miz Bluepaw, this isn’t getting us anywhere, kindly hold your peace. What was the notebook for, Orkwil?”
Freed of the rope halter, Orkwil felt better, some of his former easy manner returned. “Oh, the notebook, Father, that was to keep track of everything I borrowed….”
“Huh, borrowed?” Marja Dubbidge snorted. She was immediately silenced by a glare from the Abbot, who beckoned Orkwil to continue. The young hedgehog warmed to his subject.
“Aye, borrowed. I never meant to keep anything for good, after awhile I’d return it. Like your silver belt buckle, Foremole, sir.”
Foremole Burff wrinkled his velvety snout. “Boi okey, oi never h’even knowed et wurr stole’d, oi found it t’uther day, unner moi pillow!”
Orkwil spread his paws magnanimously. “You see, I give it all back, sooner or later. What I do is, when I borrow something I list it in my notebook. Then when I return it, I cross it off the list. Though one or two things I hold on to for a long time, because I like them so much. Sorry, Father.”
Daucus continued his interrogation. “And where, may I ask, are all these missing items, if they’re not in your barrel?”
The young hedgehog twiddled his paws, grinning mischievously.
“Riddle me ree don’t read my mind,
inside my book your goods you’ll find!”
Skipper’s rudderlike tail clipped Orkwil’s ear. The big otter warned him with a growl, “Mind yore manners, Master Prink. Speak proper to the Abbot, an less o’ yore gobbledygook!”
Granspike still had a soft spot for Orkwil. She tut-tutted at Skipper, and placed a paw about the young one’s shoulders. “I think wot he means, Father Abbot, is that there’s writin’ in his book, tellin’ us where t’find all the goods he took. Ain’t that right, Orkwil?”
The grin reappeared on Orkwil’s face, he nodded. “That’s right, clever old Gran!”
The old hogwife suddenly snapped. She smacked him hard on the cheek, shouting, “Don’t ye start gettin’ smart with me, young hog! Clever ole Gran, indeed. Who was it found ye half-starved an’ weepin’ out in the woodlands, after yore no good ma’n’pa had run off on ye, eh? Who was it brought ye to Redwall an’ begged to get ye taken in? An’ this is all the thanks I gets for it!”
Orkwil broke down then, he sobbed and hugged Granspike. “Oh Gran, Gran, I’m sorry!”
She took his tearstained face in both paws. “Why, Orkwil, why? Wot made ye do it?”
Abbot Daucus passed him a kerchief. “Come on, young ’un, blubbering doesn’t solve things. This isn’t the first time you’ve been caught thieving. Now don’t give me that injured look, you know as well as anybeast here, thieving is the only name for it. Sneaking away the property of good, honest Redwallers, and holding on to it for as long as you please. What other name is there for it? Why do you do it?”
Orkwil Prink shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t know, Father, whenever I see anything I like, well…well…I just have to have it, so I take it!”
Fenn Bluepaw was heard to mutter, “It’s in his blood. From what I’ve heard his parents were both the same, shifty, feckless robbers!”
Skipper interrupted her. “Yore wrong, marm. Robbers are those who hurts others to take wot they wants. Orkwil never hurt nobeast.”
Marja Dubbidge was on Fenn’s side, she argued back, “Mebbe he didn’t beat us up t’get our goods, but he still hurted us. I was very hurted when he took my best knitted mittens. You did, didn’t you?”
Orkwil nodded. “But I was going to give ’em back.”
The watervole pointed an accusing paw at him. “Then where are they, eh? Yore a nasty, young sneak thief!”
At this point, Abbot Daucus felt things had gone far enough. He stood up, kicking the stool aside and raising his voice. “Silence! This is not the way Redwallers are supposed to behave, stop all this bickering right now!” There were shamefaced murmurs of apology from some, then the peace was restored. Daucus waited until he had calmed down sufficiently to continue. “You will all receive your possessions again in good time. Orkwil, speak truly now. Is there anything you took which cannot be returned? Tell me.”
The young hedgehog shook his head slowly. “Not that I can think of, Father, only food from the kitchens, and some cider from Mister Benjo’s cellar.”
Benjo Tipps recalled the two flagons of Special Pale Cider, which he had been storing for the Midsummer Feast. He bit his lip, and held the silence. Then Daucus put the question to them all.
“Orkwil Prink has admitted what he has done, it isn’t the first time he’s been caught stealing. We’ve never had any Redwaller thieving from his friends before. Now, what do you say we do about it? Other times I’ve put him to scouring pots in the kitchens, or confined him to the dormitory, but it seemed to have no effect on him. So I ask you, what is his punishment to be?”
There was a momentary pause, then Marja Dubbidge was heard to whisper to Fenn Bluepaw, “I’d send that young villain packin’, away from our Abbey, ’tis all he deserves!”
Granspike Niblo uttered a strangled sob. “Oh no, don’t say that, give ’im a chance!”
Foremole Burff spoke, contributing his sensible mole logic. “Oi’d send ’im aways from ee h’Abbey, but only furr wun season. May’aps ’twill teach ee young ’un a lessing.”
Abbot Daucus shook his mole friend’s paw heartily. “Thank you, Burff, that’s the ideal solution. Are we all agreed on that?”
Everybeast held up their paws, with the exception of two, Fenn and Marja. The Abbot stared levelly at them, Skipper and Benjo glared at the pair, Granspike gazed pleadingly at them. For a moment, nothing happened. Then bit by bit, the Recorder and the Bellringer raised their paws. The Abbot gave a beaming smile.
“Good, then that’s a full show of paws, thank you!” His face turned stern as he addre
ssed the parolee. “Orkwil Prink, you are not permitted to enter Redwall Abbey for the space of one season, until the first autumn leaves appear. We hope that on your return to us, you will appreciate this place, and become a useful and honest creature among your friends. The life you must lead outside these walls will perhaps teach you a lesson. You must fend for yourself, find your own food and shelter, and avoid harm. Granspike Niblo will give you some stout clothing, and Friar Chondrus will provide you with sufficient plain food to last three days. Make good use of your time out there, think of us, as we will be thinking of you. Above all, do not steal anything which does not belong to you. I hope you return to us as an honest and more resolute young creature. You may go, and may good fortune be with you, Orkwil!”
Evening sunlight shaded the western flatlands, turning the outer walls to a dusty, warm rose. Descending larks sang their Evensong as Orkwil rambled away north, up the dusty path outside Redwall Abbey. He heaved a gusty sigh, wiping the last of Granspike’s tears from his brow. Turning, he took a backward glance at the Abbey. The huge sandstone edifice stood serene and unchanging, from belltower to arched windows, with stained glass reflecting the sinking sun in rainbow hues. Shouldering the staff which carried a food pack tied to one end, he turned away, sniffed and wiped his eyes.
Ah well, he’d gotten off fairly lightly, considering the offenses he’d perpetrated. The good old Abbey would still be there on his return at autumn. He’d be a reformed character by then. But meanwhile…
He wasn’t being hunted, lectured at, tied up in the gatehouse, interrogated or told off. Here was the open road before him, the woodlands, plains, hills and streams to roam unhindered. Free as the breeze, and with nobeast to tell him how he should behave. Orkwil Prink leapt in the air and shouted aloud. “Yeeehaaaahoooooh!”
5
The ship Bludgullet nosed its course through heavy seas, heaving up and down with a constant seesawing motion. A squall had hit during the night, sweeping out of the north, bringing with it gusting winds and pelting rain. For the young badger chained to the mast, there was no shelter, he was out there alone on the heaving deck. However, the wild weather did bring one blessing with it, fresh rainwater. Gorath lay flat out, beneath the centre of the huge, square sail, with his mouth wide open. Raindrops, puddling in a crease of the canvas, came trickling down, providing him with a much-needed drink of clear, cold water. When he had taken his fill, Gorath crawled back to the mast. He sat with his back against it, awaiting the passing of the storm, and the dawn of a new day.
Gradually the rain ceased, though the seas still ran high, with the ship dipping up and down as it ploughed southward. Daybreak revealed a dark, sullen sky, with ponderous cloudbanks in the wake of the vessel. Rising, falling, with the horizon glimpsed between foam-crested greeny-blue waves of mountainous proportions, up and down, up and down.
That was when Gorath got his first taste of seasickness. The wound he had received on his forehead, formed into a thick scab of dried blood, still throbbed painfully. This, with the bucking of the ship, brought on a spasm of retching. The young badger slumped over, wishing that death would release him from his cruel predicament.
From the cabin doorway, Vizka Longtooth and his first mate, Codj, watched Gorath. Vizka passed Codj a length of tarred and knotted rope. The golden fox’s long fangs showed as he whispered instructions.
The other, smaller fox nodded, then enquired, “Yarr, Cap’n, but why do ya want t’stop me?”
Vizka shoved him toward the badger. “’Coz dat’s my orders, t’ickead, jus’ do like I says!”
Codj shrugged, and swaggered off swinging the rope. “I do like ya say, yore da cap’n.”
Gorath had closed his eyes, trying to gain respite from his suffering in sleep, when the knotted rope struck his back. He wheeled about to see his enemy swinging the rope. This time it struck him on the side of his jaw. Codj snarled at him; standing out of range of Gorath, he continued wielding the rope.
“Up on yore paws, Rock’ead, who sez ya could sleep, eh?”
Gorath was too sick to do anything about it, he crouched by the mast, covering his head with both paws.
His tormentor continued to flog at him with the knotted rope. “Gerrup, lazybeast, stan’ up straight when I speaks to ya!”
Vizka came hurrying up and snatched the rope from Codj. “Leave dat pore beast alone, go ’way!”
The mate did as he was bidden, leaving them alone. Vizka crouched a safe distance from his captive, and began to speak in a wheedling tone. “Pore Rock’ead, wot ails ya, are y’tired?” Gorath stayed as he was, making no answer. Vizka cocked his head, trying to see the badger’s face. “Are ya sick, is dat it? I gotta good cabin an’ a bunk, all nice’n cosy, ’ow would ya like t’sleep der, eh?” There was still no reaction, though Vizka could see that his prisoner was saturated and shivering. “D’ya wants vittles, we got good food, plenny t’drink, too.” He watched the young badger keenly, for any response. Still getting no answer, the golden fox stood up. “I’m der cap’n ’ere, jus’ tell me wot ya wants an’ I’ll give it to ya. Dat’s a fair offer, eh?”
Gorath did not even open his eyes to look at the fox.
Vizka pulled his thick cloak tight about himself. “Cold out ’ere, I’m goin’ to me cabin. But yew ain’t goin’ nowhere, Rock’ead. Sooner or later y’ll speak ter me. Or y’ll die, chained ter dat mast!”
Vizka did not go to his cabin; instead, he went to the main cabin, on the deck below. Codj was there with some of the vermin crew. He caught the knotted rope that Vizka tossed to him.
“Ya wants me ter go an’ flog ’im agin, Cap’n?”
The crewbeasts made room as their captain sat down at the mess table. “Nah, dat’n’s ’ad enough fer now, leave ’im ’til later.”
One of the crew, a hulking ferret called Grivel, commented, “Dat stripe’ound’ll die iffen ya flogs ’im too much. Cap’n near killed ’im wid ’is ball’n’chain. Can’t be too far off dead now, if’n ya asks me.”
Vizka smiled at Grivel. “But I didn’t ask ya, did I?”
Vizka Longtooth was always at his most dangerous when smiling. Grivel did not fancy a confrontation with his captain, so he fell silent.
The golden fox rose, staring at him pointedly, almost challenging him to speak. “I’ll decide wot ’appens t’the stripe’ound. Rock’ead’s a young beast, an’ a strong ’un. A bit o’ starvin’ an’ beatin’ won’t do ’im no ’arm. You jus’ watch, I’ll bring ’im round ter my way o’ thinkin’. Same as I’d do wid anybeast, eh, Grivel?”
The hefty ferret stared down at the tabletop, avoiding his captain’s smiling eyes. “Aye, Cap’n, wotever ya say.”
Without warning, Vizka dealt Grivel a swinging backpawed blow, which knocked him out of his seat, flat on his face. Vizka laughed, looking around at the other vermin in the cabin. “Pore Grivel, can’t ’old ’is grog, if’n y’ask me!”
The crew knew what to do, they laughed aloud with their unpredictable captain, every one of them. Vizka issued orders. “When vittles is ready they’ll be served up on deck. I want y’all to sit where dat stripe’ound can see ya. Watchin’ yew lot eatin’ might stir up ’is appetite. Look as if yore enjoyin’ dinner, make Rock’ead feel ’ungry. Codj, you keep an eye peeled on ’im, I’ll be in me cabin if’n ya wants me.”
Grivel waited until Vizka had gone from the cabin before he picked himself up, wiping a smear of blood from his lip. A large, fat, one-eared rat named Feerog, who was Grivel’s messmate, shot him a warning glance.
Codj headed for the door, calling over his shoulder, “I’m gonna keep watch on der stripe’ound.” Vizka and Codj were very close, so the crew did not say anything until he had gone out on deck. Once the captain and first mate were not present, Grivel spat blood upon the floor.
“Did ya see dat, why’d ’e pick on me, wot did I say?”
Feerog supported his friend. “Yarr, sometimes der cap’n will belt ya jus’ fer lookin’ at ’im d’wrong way. It ain’
t right, mates!”
Grivel poured forth his grievances against the captain of the Bludgullet. “Aye, an’ why’d we waste a whole season sailin’ round der Northland coasts, wot’s ter be gained there, eh?”
There were nods, and mutters of agreement as Feerog took up the cause. “Couple o’ sacks o’ veggibles an’ some grain. Huh, an’ a crazy stripe’ound. We coulda been in the southern isles, at least ’tis allus warm there.”
A runty old weasel, Snikey, spoke his piece. “Cap’n must ’ave ’ad ’is reasons, any’ow we’re sailin’ clear o’ the Northlands now, ain’t we?”
Grivel’s voice was thick with bitterness. “But we ain’t bound fer no southern isles, are we? I’ll wager der cap’n’s got dis ship ’eaded for the Western shores, an’ ye know wot dat means, don’t ya?”
Feerog slammed his knifepoint into the mess table. “Aye, Vizka Longtooth wants ter do wot Windflin Wildbrush couldn’t. Kill dat ole stripe’ound an’ ’is rabbets, an’ make ’imself king o’ der mountain!”
Snikey shrugged. “I’d sooner live on a mountain than be stuck aboard dis tub all me life.”
This was the chance Grivel had been waiting for. Grabbing Snikey, he head-butted the runty old weasel hard. Still holding Snikey, he kicked open the cabin door, and flung him, half-stunned, out onto the deck, growling at him. “We ain’t gittin’ slayed in battle, jus’ ter make Longtooth famous. An’ remember this, ya liddle sneak, one werd to Vizka or Codj, an’ yore a deadbeast!” Slamming the door, Grivel winked at the others. “I caught ’im a good ’un, split ’is nose, stinkin’ tale-carrier. I’ve never trusted dat weasel!”
A black rat, called Durgy, shook his head. “Ya did der wrong thing there, mate, everybeast knows Snikey’s the cap’n’s spy, ’is mouth’ll ’ave t’be shut fer good, or ’e’ll go blabbin’ ter Longtooth.”
Feerog pulled his knife from the tabletop. “Yore right, I’ll see to it dat Snikey slips off nice’n’quiet-like.”