Late afternoon found the weather still overcast, but calm. Gorath stayed huddled against the mast, where he had been since early morning. The pangs of seasickness had left him, and the pain in his wounded forehead had calmed somewhat. Nobeast had bothered him all day, though he was aware of Codj watching him from a distance.
Then the cook, a greasy, bloated ratwife, dragged a cauldron along the deck, halting where she knew the chained prisoner could not reach. Taking the lid from the cauldron, she began stirring it, yelling in a shrill voice, “Come an’ get yore vittles, afore I tosses ’em overboard!”
The aroma of cooked food assailed Gorath’s nostrils, and he realised how desperately hungry he was. The crew lined up with their bowls and dishes as she began slopping out steaming ladles of the mixture. Even Vizka attended, holding out a basin, and questioning the cook as she filled it to the brim with the mixture.
“Mmmm, this smells good, wot is it, Glurma?”
She gave Vizka a snaggletoothed grin. “Me own special skilley, Cap’n, carrots’n’turnips, oats an’ herbs, wid lots o’ shrimp an’ mackerel in it!”
Vizka winked broadly at the vermin crew, who were sitting out of Gorath’s reach, eating their meal. “Yarr, dat’ll put der twinkle back in yore eyes, buckoes!” They made a great show of blowing on the hot skilley and scooping it up, some with their grimy bare paws.
Vizka knew just how far the chain would allow his captive to roam. Carefully, he placed the filled bowl out of the young badger’s reach, and began coaxing him. “Come an’ taste it, friend, ya must be starvin’, eh?” Gorath uncovered his head and stared at the bowl, but he made no move for it. Vizka continued taunting. “Good vittles, shrimp an’ fishes from der Northland coast, an’ veggibles from yore farm, try some.”
Gorath rose; he staggered forward to the end of the chain, reaching out. The crew laughed uproariously at his vain attempts to reach the bowl. The badger gave up, and went to sit with his back to the mast.
The golden fox dipped a paw in the bowl and sucked it. “Real good dis is, Rock’ead. Tell ya wot, I’ll move it closer if’n ya speak ter me.”
Gorath locked eyes with the smiling fox, but kept silent. Something in those eyes made Vizka feel nervous, the smile fell from his face and he snarled.
“Widout food yore a deadbeast. Speak!”
Then the badger spoke. “You will die before I do. You, and that other one.” Here he nodded toward Codj. “And as many of these scum as I can take with me. So don’t waste your time talking, I don’t speak with beasts who are already dead to me.”
Vizka leapt up, quivering. “You’ll beg me ta die afore I’m done wid ya!” He kicked the bowl, sending it into the sea. The golden fox strode back to his cabin, with Codj trotting in his wake.
“I told ya we shoulda killed ’im, Cap’n!”
Vizka shoved Codj into the cabin ahead of him. “Shut yore mouth, idjit, der crew can ’ear ya!”
Nobeast noticed Durgy sidle up to the rail and sit beside Snikey. The runty weasel was licking inside his empty bowl, when the black rat murmured into his ear softly.
“Did ya see dat? Waste o’ good vittles, der way our cap’n kicked dat bowl o’ skilley overboard. I coulda ate dat extra bowl, couldn’t you, mate?”
Snikey stared into his empty bowl. “Aye.”
“Den why doncha go an’ gerrit, spy!”
Snikey fell backward into the sea from the rail, a look of shock on his face, and Durgy’s blade between his ribs. Grivel and Feerog quickly filled the vacant space at the rail. Durgy nodded at the sea.
“Snikey’s just gone ter get more skilley.”
6
There was not a single cloud on Maudie (the Hon.) Mugsberry Thropple’s horizon. The young haremaid did not even feel the weight of the haversack on her back as she skipped blithely along the dunetops. She, among all other hares at Salamandastron, had been chosen to go on this most important quest. Once more, she went over the instructions, which had been drummed into her by Lord Asheye and Major Mullein.
“Find a bloomin’ badger. One who knows not his own strength. A beast from the simple life, who shuns armour, an’ knows not the sword. Er, what else? Oh yes, he’s got destiny marked on his blinkin’ brow, an’ er, what next?”
She paused on one paw, wrinkling her nose. “Er…er…gottit! He walks with a banished one, an’ a flame, that’s it. Find him an’ haul the blighter back to the jolly old mountain. Oh, well remembered, that, maid!” Still balancing on one paw, she took stock of her position.
To the west, the great sea was an expanse of turquoise and blue, twinkling under a clear summer sky. Below her was the coastline shore, sweeping up into the dunes. Ahead, and off to the right, lay heath, low hills and scrubland, with a fringe of treeline in the distance. Not having the faintest idea where she was going, Maudie picked up a pawful of sand. She tossed it into the air, calling aloud, “I say, Mother Nature old thing, which way do I go now?” Incoming sea breezes blew the sand grains off toward the distant trees. Maudie threw a casual salute to the sky. “Thankee, marm, the woodlands it is!”
Setting herself a brisk pace, she marched off, still trying to repeat the instructions. “Find a blinkin’ badger with destiny marked on his armour, or somethin’ like that. Er, one who shuns the simple sword for life, an’ walks with a confounded fear of a flamin’ banished one. Oh, my giddy aunt! Not to worry, Maudie old gel, you’ll know the blighter when you trip over him, wot!”
Having spent her first night out camped in the dunes, Maudie had broken her fast in the early morn, with a dried crust of oatbread and a swig of water. She complained to herself as she marched through the scrubland.
“Huh, a skinny old crust an’ a single gobful of water. What sort of food’s that to give an expert cook? I’ll bet the chaps back at the mess are crammin’ their fat faces with all kinds of fascinatin’ fodder. Right, that’s it! As soon as I get the chance I’m goin’ to whip up a good cooked lunch for m’self!” The thought of hot food cheered Maudie up no end. Never downhearted for long, the incorrigible haremaid broke out into song, making up the words as she went along.
“Oh, I love nothin’ better than a meal that’s served up hot,
so stir your stumps there, Cooky,
an’ let’s see what you’ve got.
A pie, a pastie or pudden, a flan,
a stew or cake, to save a poor maid starvin’,
let’s see what ye can make.
Me tummy’s a-rumble, apple crumble
just might halt its din;
a fair old scoop of mushroom soup,
would stop me growin’ thin.
You’d win my heart with a damson tart,
I’d wolf it at one bite,
an’ follow it up with a fruitcake
at dinnertime tonight!
Oh, serve more salad, I fear my ballad
is coming to an end,
take pity on me with a fresh pot o’ tea,
’cos I’m fading fast, dear friend.
Pretty soon, I fear, you well may hear
this maiden’s final moans,
tell Mama not to weep, or to lose any sleep,
when they find her daughter’s bones!”
As she trilled the last notes of her song, Maudie became aware of a mole. He was trundling along a few paces behind her, pulling a small wheelbarrow. He was an old creature, dusty and ragged. Moreover, he was weeping copiously. The haremaid halted, and the mole bumped into her, probably because he could not see through his tears. Maudie gave him her kerchief, enquiring gently, “I say, old lad, are you alright?”
The mole blew his snout resoundingly, then snuffled. “Hurr, missy, that’n bee’s the saddest likkle song oi ever hurrd en all moi loife.”
Maudie felt quite upset, so she started comforting him. “It’s not true, y’know, just something I made up. There now, dry your eyes an’ stop cryin’.”
The mole did as he was bid, though he looked rather rueful. “But oi do luvs a gudd, sad song, ma
rm, thurr b’ain’t nuthin’ loike a gurt ole weep, makes a body feel better roight h’away.”
Maudie gave him a small curtsy. “Oh well, I’m sorry I stopped you bawlin’, if y’like that sort o’ thing. You just jolly well carry on if you like weepin’, wot!”
The mole tugged his snout politely (as good-mannered moles do) and extended his paw. “No, no, oi’m over et naow, miz, oi bee’s called Bungwen ee Hurmit. You’m must’ve bee’d gurtly ’ungered to be singen’ ee song loike that ’un.”
The haremaid shook Bungwen’s paw. “Actually I am a mite peckish for some hot vittles. My name’s Maudie, pleased t’meet you, Bungwen.”
The mole sat on his barrow, which was loaded with roots, tubers and berries. He smiled affably. “Mouldy, that bee’s a noice name. Oi tell ee wot, Miz Mouldy, iffen you’d push me’n ee barrer to moi dwellin’, oi’ll treat ee to an ’ot lunch, wudd that suit ee?”
At the mention of a hot lunch, Maudie seized the barrow shafts. “I say, splendid! You just roar out the directions, old fellow, an’ you’ve got a lunch guest!”
Bungwen’s dwelling was a cave dug into the side of a hill. Heaving himself from the barrow, he beckoned Maudie inside. “Cumm ee in, Miz Mouldy, this yurr’s moi ’umble ’ome!”
It was indeed humble, but comfortable, a small cave, with ledge seats padded thick with dried grasses. It contained a stove, built from rock slabs and chinked with solidified mud.
The hermit mole poured Maudie a beaker of dark liquid from a jug. “Naow, you’m set thurr an’ sup that, miz, ’tis moi own tansy’n’coltsfoot corjul. Oi’ll make moiself bizzy with ee stew, t’woant be long en cummen!”
It was rather dark inside the cave, but there was enough light coming in from the entrance to distinguish things. The cordial was chilled, and tasted delicious. Maudie sipped it as she watched Bungwen tending to the cauldron on the stove. Some of the herbs he was adding to his stew were very aromatic.
“Hurr, wot brings ee owt yurr, miz, bee’s you’m losted?”
The haremaid shook her head. “I’m not lost, I’m on an important mission. By the way, have you seen a large badger type roaming your neighbourhood—huge, hefty, fearless-lookin’ type? I think he carries a flame, an’ has a banished one with him. Don’t suppose you’ve spotted the chap, wot?”
Bungwen stirred the cauldron, tasting a small drop. “Only ones oi sees round yurr bee’s they rarscally sandy blizzards, miz, they’m woan’t leave oi alone.” As he spoke they heard the wheelbarrow being upturned outside. Bungwen put the lid on his cauldron, and brandished the ladle. “They’m smelled moi cooken an’ cummed to steal et!”
Mocking, hissing voices came from outside.
“Gizzzzzz vittlessssss, ssssoilmoussssse!”
“Give vittlessss to ussss, or elsssse!”
Maudie restrained her friend from dashing outside. “I say, steady on, old lad, who are those blighters?”
Bungwen growled. “Oi tole ee, miz, they’m blizzards, narsty bunch o’ villyuns!”
The haremaid flexed her limbs in a businesslike manner. “Right ho, ’nuff said, matey. Now you stay out o’ this, an’ I’ll toddle out an’ educate those bullies!”
She strode resolutely out of the cave, assessing the situation at a glance.
About a dozen male sand lizards were scattering the contents of Bungwen’s barrow about. Their emerald green flanks glistened in the sun, dark, reptilian eyes flickering hither and thither, seeking more mischief. When they saw Maudie, the group froze, staring balefully at her.
She glanced coolly back at them, issuing orders like a nursemaid dealing with unruly youngsters. “Clean the sand out your ears an’ listen to me, you blitherin’ bunch. Kindly put that barrow back the way you found it, an’ clear off, smartish, wot!”
One, bigger than the rest, reared up on his tail. “Ssstay out of our biznesssss, longearsssss!”
Maudie began bouncing on her footpaws, milling her forepaws in small, tight circles. “No point talkin’ t’you foul felons, wot! You need two swift lessons, one in manners, the other in the noble art of hare boxin’. Right, defend y’self, sir!” She shot out a quick, thudding hook to the lizard’s jaw, sending him flat on his back. Not for nothing was Maudie (the Hon.) Mugberry Thropple, Regimental Boxing Champion of the Long Patrol. She threw herself upon the startled bullies, yelling the war cry of perilous hares. “Eulaliiiaaaa!”
With all four paws going like pistons, the haremaid sent her foes scattering. Thunderous punches, and punishing kicks, rained savagely on the reptiles. She was everywhere at once, jabbing, swinging, feinting, uppercutting and lashing out fiercely with her footpaws. “Blood’n’vinegar! Forward the buffs! Eulaliiiaaa!”
With lightning precision, Maudie managed to overcome the lizards, even stopping the few who tried to sneak off. The beaten reptiles cowered on the ground, squeaking and whimpering abjectly. The avenging haremaid stood over them, scowling sternly.
“Up on y’paws now, you slimy crew. Set that barrow upright an’ place everythin’ back in it neatly. Stir y’stumps!”
The sand lizards tottered about, nursing bruised heads and fractured tails as they did Maudie’s bidding.
Bungwen the Hermit was awestruck. “Boi okey, Miz Mouldy, oi never see’d ought loike that afore. You’m surrpintly a gurt, moighty wurrier, burr aye!”
Maudie winked broadly at the old mole. “Think nothin’ of it, old top, glad to be of service, wot! Here, you lizard types, form up in a line now. Quick’s the word an’ sharp’s the action, jump to it, laddies! Now, let’s hear you apologisin’ to Mister Bungwen.”
The reptiles were forced to bow politely as they hissed, “Ssssorry, sssssir!”
Bungwen nodded, grinning from ear to ear, as Maudie stamped up and down behind her vanquished foes, treading heavily on their tails as she cautioned them.
“Sorry? I should jolly well think so, you pan-faced, twiddle-pawed, string-tailed, misbegotten lot! Now begone from here this instant, and just let either of us catch you in these parts again. By the left, we’ll make you weep for a full season. Now get out of our sight!”
Bungwen thoroughly enjoyed sending the bullies on their way with good solid kicks to their nether parts. Paw in paw, the mole and the haremaid swaggered back into the cave, with Maudie chuckling, “Well, that certainly worked up my appetite, wot!”
Bungwen watched in amazement as Maudie downed several bowls of the hot stew. “Beggen’ you’m pardun, miz, but oi’d be afeared to meet ee if’n you’m bee’d proper ’ungry!”
The haremaid nodded, holding forth her beaker for more cordial. Eating was a serious business with Mad Maudie, leaving her no time for idle chitchat. After taking a brief nap, she gave her host some rudimentary boxing tips, and made him a gift of her sling and pouch of slingstones, which she seldom found use for.
“Well, time for me t’be movin’ on, old thing, I should make the woodlands by early evenin’. Goodbye, an’ remember, don’t take any old lip from those bullies, give ’em the old one-two if they ever show their warty snouts around here again, wot!”
Bungwen Hermit shook Maudie’s paw warmly. “Oi’ll do jus’ that, miz, an’ thankee furr yore cump’ny. You’m take gudd care of eeself naow. Hurr, oi’d watch owt furr surrpints on ee scrublands, thurr bee’s one or two slitherin’ abowt this season. If’n ee sees a gurt owlyburd, doan’t be afeared of ’im, ee’s a gudd friend o’ moine, name o’ Asio Bardwing. May’aps ee’s see’d this badgerer you’m lukkin’ furr. Goo’bye Miz Mouldy, gudd fortune go with ee!”
Bungwen stood atop his hill, waving and weeping, as the haremaid set off in the late noon sunshine. He blew his snout loudly, and called out to her, “Pay ee no ’eed to moi tears, miz, oi dearly do luvs a gudd ole blubber!”
Maudie felt sad to leave him, but she straightened her shoulders and strode out resolutely for the woodlands. The countryside was quiet, save for the usual heathland noises, droning bees, the chirruping of grasshoppers and the high trill of descending skylarks. Kee
ping a wary eye out for snakes, she sang an old barrack room ballad to herself.
“O Corporal I’m weary, can’t ye hear me,
when do we stop for tea,
I feel I’m goin’ out o’ my mind,
would you like to come with me!
“Right, left, left, you clod,
here comes the awkward squad!
“Pass me a flagon from out o’ the wagon,
the fat old Sergeant said.
the cook says he can’t read the cookery book,
so he’s makin’ a broth of his head!
“Right, left, left, you clod,
here comes the awkward squad!
“The Quartermaster’s goin’ faster,
he ain’t goin’ to halt,
the Colonel’s a nut as we all know,
an’ I think it’s a Major fault!
“Right, left, left, you clod,
here comes the awkward squad!”
Maudie chuckled to herself, recalling the season she was put in training. All the recruits were so dim and clumsy that they were named the awkward squad. The treeline was in plain view now, stately beeches, spreading oaks, and shrubby elders were easily discernible. Maybe that was where Bungwen’s friend, the owl Asio Bardwing, lived.
There was no discernible sound from behind her, but a sudden instinct caused the haremaid to turn around. She thought she caught a swift flash of shiny green flanks topping a mound, but then they vanished from sight. She thought that it could be the sand lizards following her, bent on some sort of revenge for the beating she had meted out to them, but she could not be sure. Maudie reasoned that it would not do any harm to let them know she was ready and able for them. Unshouldering her knapsack, she made an elaborate show of rolling up her tunic sleeves, and spitting on her paws, in a truculent manner. Then she yelled out a challenge.
“Come for another dose, wot? You snotty-snouted sneakers! Well, here’s the gel who’s jolly well ready for ye, show yourselves if ye bloomin’ well dare! You blighters are dealin’ with a Long Patrol Boxin’ Champion. Did ye know Big Stinky Wothers, eh? Well, he didn’t last one round with me. Aye, an’ Nutpaw Jarkins, Sideswiper Smythe, an’ Fearless Frink Maclurch. I laid them all out, despite the fact that they were proper pugilists! Hah, I could whip the flippin’ lot of ye, with one paw tied behind m’back. So come on, who’ll be first for a good helpin’ o’ paw pudden, ye lily-livered layabouts?”