There was no reply from the scrublands.
Maudie shouldered her pack and pressed on, muttering to herself darkly. “Just let ’em try, they don’t call me Mad Maudie for nothin, wot! Sand lizards, hah, they’ll be slit gizzards by the time I’m finished with ’em!”
She reached the trees whilst it was still daylight. Gathering some firewood, the young haremaid set about lighting a small fire, in the shade of an oak. Rummaging through her pack, she came up with some chestnut flour, dried berries and hazelnuts. Adding water to the flour she kneaded it into a firm, stiff dough. Sprinkling it liberally with nuts and berries, Maudie rolled it out into a long sausage shape. After coiling it around a green stick, she proceeded to cook it over the flames. The result was an appetising, if somewhat curiously shaped, cake which she called a Throppletwist, in honour of her family name. Bungwen had tucked a flask of his cordial into her knapsack; it complemented her supper quite nicely.
The haremaid sat with her back against the oak, eating her Throppletwist, which was cooked to the greenstick, and sipping cordial. Maudie was a garrulous creature, and often held conversations with herself.
“Wonder if Corporal Thwurl’s nose is still swollen? Big, droopy-faced rule stickler, I should’ve jolly well given him a cauliflower ear, wot! I’ll bet some of the chaps back at barracks would go green if they could see me now. Assistant Cook, sent out on a blinkin’ secret important mission, eh. ’Strewth, if I make a bloomin’ good go at this, Lord Asheye’ll prob’ly promote me to Colonel Cook in Charge. Hoho, C.C.I.C. I’d liven ’em up a bit, wot?”
Maudie put on what she imagined was a doddery commanding voice, issuing orders to all and sundry. “Hawhawhaw, you there, young feller me laddo, fetch me a bumpkin o’ Fine Fettle Olde Cider, there’s a good chap. I say, Corporal, wot’syourface, Thwurl, yes, you sah. Kindly slice me a scone, an’ bung some raspb’rry jam on it. Don’t stand there catchin’ flies with y’mouth, jump to it, laddy buck. Ah, this is the jolly old life, wot wot!”
She chuntered on to herself as the evening sun dipped into the western horizon. It was comfortable, sitting by the little fire, taking supper in the warm afterglow. Maudie had been walking all day, apart from the few hours she had spent with Bungwen Hermit. The young haremaid let her eyes slowly droop shut. She was hardly aware of the two sand lizards, each holding the end of a rope. They scampered on either side of her, racing around the oak trunk, which Maudie had her back to. She blinked and sat up straight. “What the bloom…”
The reptiles raced by her again, meeting up at the rear of the tree, where they swiftly knotted the rope. Maudie strained at her bonds, but her body and forepaws were bound tight to the oak. She was trapped. The haremaid’s first reaction tumbled forth indignantly. “I say, let me loose, you sneaky rotters, or it’ll be the worse for you. Flippin’ cads!”
The rest of the lizards slithered out of cover to confront her. The largest of the bunch, the first one she had attacked earlier, came right up to Maudie. There was a blotchy swelling on the side of his jaw. He hissed viciously at her, pointing to the injury. “Sssee thissss? Now you will sssssuffer for it!”
7
Orkwil Prink spent his first night away from Redwall beneath an overhang of bushes on a ditchside. It was the first time since his infancy that he had not slept in the Abbey. The young hedgehog’s former joyous mood deserted him as soon as night descended.
He found himself flinching whenever anything moved in the breeze; imaginary shapes in the darkness frightened him. Even the nocturnal woodland sounds sent a shudder through Orkwil. Miserably, he crept along the northern path. Then he tripped and fell into the ditch.
Luckily, there was very little water in it, but there was quite a bit of mud. Panicked, he floundered about, sloshing through the malodorous mire. Bush fronds, dangling down, tangled into his headspikes. Orkwil gurgled in terror. Had some hideous beast of prey caught him? He struggled to free himself, and then realised it was merely an overhanging bush.
Sobbing with relief, Orkwil hauled himself up the ditchside and found shelter amid the dense vegetation. Perching between two thick branches, and plastered with smelly mud, he wished fervently to be back safe inside Redwall. But alas, that would not be possible for a full season. He wiped away a muddy tear, thinking, That’s if I live that long!
Oh, for the dear old Abbey. Laughing and joking with friends, by the fireside in Cavern Hole, a delicious supper, maybe hot soup and toasted muffins. Then up to the dormitory, and his little truckle bed, for a peaceful night’s sleep, between lavender-scented quilts, with a soft pillow for his head.
Orkwil licked at his salt tears, then spat away the mud. Here he was, through no fault of his own, none of that lot back there understood him. Mouldy old Elders! Trouble with them was that none of them could take a little joke. Huh, they all got their stuff back, didn’t they? Well, nearly all. Still, that was no reason to turn a harmless little hog out into the wilds. It was their fault he was stuck in a ditch, covered with slutch. Orkwil managed to extract a plain oat scone from his bundle. He gnawed at it, thinking up recriminations to heap upon his tormentors’ heads.
Suppose he got trapped here and couldn’t get out, what then, eh? A huge storm might come, with torrents of rain, and the ditch would fill up, into a raging river, to wash him away and drown him in the process. Probably Granspike Niblo would find his young battered body, when she was out gathering watercress. Orkwil pictured the scene. His limp carcass being carried back to Redwall, on a stretcher strewn with woodland blossoms. The Dibbuns howling with grief, and the Elders having to accept the blame for their harsh sentence. Hah, they’d be sorry then, especially that Marja Dubbidge, and Fenn Bluepaw, seeing as it was they who started all his misfortunes. Father Abbot Daucus would shake his head sadly and say that no youngbeast would ever be banished for a full season again. Redwallers had learned a stark lesson from young Orkwil Prink, a good little creature, cut off in his tender seasons.
Orkwil finished his plain oat scone, feeling very self-righteous. At least he had done something good for all the other young Redwallers. Saved them from such harsh punishments in the seasons to come. Well, of course he had. He wagered they would probably raise a memorial over his grave in the Abbey grounds. Aye, and hold an Orkwil Prink rememberance day, once every summer. At this point, Orkwil could not hold himself back from shouting aloud.
“And that’ll teach you all a lesson, won’t it?” His cry disturbed two blackbirds that were nesting in the bush, which shook as they fluttered off. What was that? Orkwil wondered. He crouched there, shivering, until he fell into weary sleep, clinging to the branches.
Is not the light of day a wondrous thing? It banishes all fears and worries of the previous night. Warm sunlight shafting into the leafy bush canopy wakened Orkwil. He stretched his paws, yawned and promptly fell from the shelter of the bush, down into the ditchbed ooze. Uttering some very fruity oaths, which would have earned him a good dressing-down at the Abbey, he scrambled back up onto the pathside.
Wolfing down another plain oat scone and an apple, Orkwil breakfasted as he resumed his journey, regardless of the foul-smelling mud, which was caked thick on his spikes. As he trudged along, an idea began forming in the young hedgehog’s mind. Maybe he could find a friendly little family of woodlanders, dormice or bankvoles. They would probably live in a snug little cottage, somewhere along a riverbank. He could become useful to them, helping with the everyday chores. Then he could pass away a pleasant season, with a roof over his head, and vittles aplenty. Maybe he would stay with his new friends for more than a season, perhaps two.
Orkwil giggled aloud. They’d start getting worried at Redwall, when he didn’t turn up at autumn. Probably wear their paws out, sending search parties to look for him. Now, where was the nearest river on the northern path? It had to be the River Moss. He’d heard Skipper Rorc talking about it. There was a ford that crossed the path, someplace further up, Skipper had said so.
With a lighter heart, and a rene
wed spring to his paws, Orkwil forged onward. He halted at noon, peering up the path, not sure whether the shimmer in the distance was from the heat haze, or the ford waters. Plumping himself down on the mossy bankside, he undid his bundle. There were only more plain scones and a flask of pennycloud cordial. The young hedgehog pulled a face. “Measly little rations, they’re prob’ly having a great lunch back at the Abbey, out in the orchard, like they always do in summer. All kinds of trifle, an’ pudden, strawberry fizz, an’ all that. Hmm, what’s this?”
Opening a small package, which he had not noticed before, Orkwil was delighted to find about a dozen candied chestnuts. He chuckled happily. “Good ole Granspike, bet she slipped them in for me!” He was stuffing them down when he felt a sharp pain in his back. “Yowch!” Orkwil turned and saw a magpie, about to peck him again. Angrily, he lashed out at it, shouting, “What d’ye think yore doin’, be off with ye, bird!”
The magpie, a handsome black and white fellow, merely hopped back a pace, and stood with its head on one side, staring impudently at the young hedgehog.
Orkwil raised a clenched paw threateningly. “Ye cheeky wretch, I said be off!”
The magpie leapt forward, pecked at Orkwil’s paw, and skipped nimbly backward. The young hedgehog was furious.
“I’ll give ye such a clout…I’ll…”
The bird gave a mocking cackle. “Raaaahakarr!”
Orkwil retaliated then. He grabbed the staff, which his bundle had been tied to, and swiped at the magpie. It hopped out of range, and Orkwil ran at it, swinging the staff. “Ye hard-faced featherbag!”
The magpie flew up, then hovered, cackling raucously, but staying just out of the staff’s reach. Orkwil sought about and found a pebble, which he flung at the bird. This time it dodged to one side, then flew across the path, into one of the trees bordering Mossflower Wood. Orkwil brandished the staff at it.
“You start pesterin’ me again an’ I’ll break yore beak!” He turned back to his lunch, only to find it all gone. The plain oat scones, and the remains of his candied chestnuts, were missing. Only the kerchief his bundle had been wrapped in lay on the ground. The uncorked flask had been tipped over, and all the pennycloud liquid had spilled into the ground.
Orkwil was furious, more so when he was greeted by a chorus of harsh cackles from the nearby trees. A group of about nine magpies was perched in the branches, gobbling down his supplies. He waved his staff and ran at them, thwacking away lustily. The scavengers merely flew up to higher branches, where they continued eating their plunder and mocking him. Chattering with rage, the young hedgehog hopped and leapt, trying to reach them with his staff.
“Ye scum-beaked thieves, ye patch-faced robbers, just let me get my paws on ye!”
Safe in their high position, the magpies performed little strutting dances, adding to Orkwil’s anger. This did not improve matters. He redoubled his efforts, hurtling himself at the tree trunks, throwing pawfuls of earth, and any stones he could find.
It was a futile exercise, though it took Orkwil some time to realise this. He ended up flat out on the path, huffing and blowing for breath, completely worn out. The magpies continued their derision, even dropping leaves and pieces of twig down on him.
After awhile, Orkwil wearily stood up and walked away from the scene, with the birds’ scornful cackles echoing in his ears. The ditchmud had set hard between his spikes, it was heavy, uncomfortable, and itched him unmercifully. He became sullen and morose again. How far was it to this river ford, he needed a long soak, and a good bath. The nerve of those birds, too, stealing all his supplies like that. Thieves and robbers, that’s all they were! Then he recalled that the same thing had been said of himself, only a day ago at the Abbey.
Noontide shadows were lengthening when Orkwil saw the ford, running across the path up ahead. Stumbling and staggering with exhaustion, he tottered forward, grunting with the effort of placing one footpaw in front of the other. On reaching the ford, he lay on his stomach in the shallow edge, letting forth a sigh, which sounded like a deflating balloon. Water, fresh running water! Orkwil sucked up huge draughts of the clean, cold liquid. Then he rolled into the ford and went deeper, allowing the current to carry him downriver for a distance. Grabbing the hanging branches of a willow tree, he halted his progress. His footpaws just barely touched bottom, the river came up to his chin. After ducking his head several times, Orkwil clung there, feeling the soothing current washing him clean and refreshing his body. What a wonderful thing riverwater is, he thought. Then he noticed the watervole watching him from the far bank. Redwall Abbey had taught Orkwil manners, he nodded amiably to the creature. “Good day to ye, sir.”
The watervole was a big, bushy old beast, his dark brown fur heavily streaked with grey. He squinted at the young hedgehog, snapping out a reply. “Never mind what sort o’ day ’tis, what’re ye trespassin’ round here for, eh?”
Orkwil put on a friendly smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was trespassin’, I was only taking a bath.”
The watervole nodded, first up-, then downriver.
“Plenty o’ river both sides, without dirtyin’ up my stretch. Are ye stealin’ my watercress, is that it, eh?”
Orkwil shook his head, still acting friendly. “No, sir, honestly. Matter o’ fact, I’ve had all my supplies stolen from me. Back there, down the path. It was a bunch o’ magpies that did it.”
The watervole smiled maliciously. “Serves ye right then, don’t it. No thievin’ magpie’d get near my watercress. Not my fault yore vittles got pinched, ’tis yore own! Nobeast takes a bath round here ’cept me, so get movin’, ’edgepig!”
Orkwil had been building up a dislike for the watervole. He was about to deliver a few cutting insults, when the watervole suddenly spoke cordially to him.
“Do y’see these big clumps o’ watercress growin’ by the bank, matey? Would ye pick some of ’em for me?”
Orkwil saw his opportunity to do what he had been planning. Help somebeast out, who lived by the river. Maybe this watervole wasn’t such a bad old codger. There might be a chance that he could live with him for the season, helping out. Holding his chin high, he waded across, to where the watercress grew in profusion. “Certainly, sir. My name’s Orkwil Prink, now you just let me know when I’ve thrown enough watercress over. Here comes the first lot!”
He began heaving bunches of the plant to the watervole, who caught them eagerly, stacking them high. The young hedgehog went to his task with a right good will, conversing as he did. “This looks like good, fresh cress, sir, what’ll ye be makin’ with it, a salad?”
The watervole nodded. “Aye, salad, though that’ll do for lunch tomorrow. I’m goin’ to make a big pot o’ my favourite, watercress, mushroom an’ watershrimp soup.”
The young hedgehog chuckled. “Sounds wonderful, I’ve never tasted a soup like that before, sir.”
The watervole clambered out onto the bank. He picked up a bow and arrows. Notching a shaft to his bowstring, he sneered, in a cold, hard voice, “An’ yore not likely to taste it, Orful Stink, or wotever yore name is. Now leave that watercress alone, an’ get out o’ here, afore I puts an arrow in yer. Go an’ find yore own food someplace else, you ain’t gittin’ none o’ mine. Move!”
Orkwil was shocked by the watervole’s meanness, and told him so in no uncertain terms. “Why, ye nasty old skinflint, y’selfish, crafty, graspin’, cressgrabber! If I’d have known…”
The watervole aimed the arrow, drawing back his bowstring threateningly. “Shut yore mouth, ’edgepig, an’ make yoreself scarce. I’ll give ye a count o’ three, then I shoot!”
By the look in his mean little eyes, Orkwil knew that he was not joking. He immediately began swimming back to the ford.
Evening was setting in as Orkwil waded from the water. He sat dejectedly on the ford bank, smarting with indignity from his treatment by the watervole, and listening to the rumbling growls from his stomach. He was hungry. Orkwil cast about, in an effort to find some food, bu
t he was pretty useless at foraging for himself.
That was the trouble with being brought up in an Abbey, he reasoned bitterly. If you wanted food, you went to the kitchens, and they fed you. Aye, and it was all deliciously cooked, too. There was no grubbing around in the soil, or searching the wilderness. Orkwil knew that young ones learned about such things as self-survival at Abbey school. But he was always missing, hiding away somewhere in a barrel, the result being, he never attended. Life wasn’t fair, he concluded. But he picked himself up and began foraging about for vittles.
It was dark by the time he returned to the ford. All he had managed to gather was some dandelion roots, a few berries that the birds had missed, an apple that was hard and green and a plant that he surmised was edible, but he was unsure whether to eat the top or the bottom of it. He drank a bit more water, and sat down to think hard about a solution to his predicament.
It came to him suddenly. He had been branded a thief, so why not be one, properly, at least it was one thing he was good at. He flung the bits he had gathered away, waded to the other side of the ford, then set off downriver along the bank. Orkwil knew when he was in the area of the watervole’s home, he could smell the soup on the fire.
Now, how to separate one miserable, fat beast from one steaming pot of soup? That was the problem. It was solved for him when a rustling in the underbrush caused Orkwil to dodge behind a sycamore. It was a pair of vermin, a big, brutish river rat, and his equally sly-looking mate. They, too, had smelled the soup, and were figuring out how to lay paws on it. The vermins’ solution was simple. The big male rat produced a hardwood club.