Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

Dorka Gurdy wagged a paw at Drogbuk. “I thought I recognised ye, old un. Well, ye can stay, but keep yore rovin’ paws off vittles that ain’t yores an’ no ale or strong wine, either. I’ll be watchin’ ye!” Dorka turned her wagging paw upon Pinny. “An’ you too, marm. Yore a Wiltud. One false move whilst yore at our Abbey an’ out ye’ll go!”

Posy smiled winningly at the big ottermum. “Oh, Dorka, don’t shout at Miz Pinny, please. She’s a nice, kind Wiltud.”

Dorka sniffed. “Aye, missy. Well, she’s yore responsibility from hereon. Keep ’er out of trouble, y’hear!”

Friar Wopple was called from the kitchens, shuffling her footpaws. She took a bow amidst the rapturous applause afforded her by the new supper guests.

“I say, marm, well done. Top-hole vittles, wot!”

“Aye, we ain’t got scoff anythin’ like this up on the coast!”

“Indeed, marm, any chance o’ givvin’ us some of your recipes, ’specially the one for that jolly nice pasty with the gravy? That’d perk up some o’ the lads back at the mess in Salamandastron, eh, wot!”

Wopple smiled shyly. “Wait’ll ye taste my breakfast tomorrow.’Twill be a treat for hearty eaters like yoreselves.”

This prompted further cheers from the trencherbeasts.

Later that night, when the guests had been shown to Cavern Hole, which was to be their sleeping quarters, a conference was held by those still at table.

Lieutenant Scutram allowed the Abbot to replenish his tankard. “So, what d’ye make of all this kerfuffle with the Wearat an’ his vermin, eh, Father?”

Thibb pondered the question before answering, “Well, as I’ve already told you, I think my disguise as Martin the Warrior, plus the bonfire we built on the walltops, was enough to put the vermin off attacking us. Now, earlier tonight, they went away, out across the flatlands. We’re rather hoping they’ve left for good. But I’m sure you know more about the ways of vermin, so I’d value your opinion, friends.”

Skor Axehound growled flatly. “They’ll be back!”

Captain Rake nodded his agreement. “Aye, Ah doubt ye’ve seen the last of them, Father. Razzid Wearat didnae come all this way tae turn tail an’ run awa’. Skor’s right, he’ll be back!”

Fottlink licked his lips nervously. “But when?”

Sergeant Miggory replied, “When yore least h’expectin’ it, sah—that’s the way with vermin murderers. We’ve h’already seen ’is work at Salamandastron.”

Rake gripped his beaker so tightly that the earthenware cracked. “Aye, an’ we’re lookin’ forward tae the return engagement, Father, so Ah’d be grateful if ye’d leave the business of bloodshed tae me an’ Skor!” He said it with such a coldness in his voice that the Abbot felt his fur tingle.

Thibb nodded. “Just as you say, Captain, but my Redwallers will be here to offer you any help you require.”

Skor patted his back fondly, knocking the wind from Thibb. “Thankee, Father, but you look after yore liddle uns an’ keep our beasts in drink’n’vittles—that’s all we ask of ye!”

Dawn broke calmly, with ascending larks trilling beneath a sky awash with pale pastel hues. Out on the flatlands, grasshoppers set up their rusty chirruping as varicoloured butterflies flitted silently around the soft blue forget-menot, bright gold tormentil and pinky cranberry blossoms skirting the ditchside.

Lancejack Sage viewed it all from the threshold battlements, commenting dreamily, “Jolly pretty, ain’t it, wot!”

A stern voice in her ear startled her to attention. “You h’aint up ’ere to sniff the flowers, missy. Yore supposed t’be on watch for vermin. Now git those lovely eyes workin’. Do yore duty an’ don’t let me catch ye nappin’ agin, or yore on a fizzer!”

Not daring to turn and look at Sergeant Miggory, Sage sprang to attention, saluted with her javelin and set her gaze on the horizon. “Indeed, Sergeant, ’twon’t happen again, I jolly well promise ye, sah!”

Miggory nodded to four kitchen helpers, who carried a trolley up the wallstairs to the top. He beckoned the guard with a wave of his ears.

“Wilbee, Drander, Bawdsley an’ you, Lancejack, come an’ take a bite o’ brekkist, compliments o’ Friar Wopple. But eyes front whilst yore h’eatin’, d’ye hear?” He stalked off along the ramparts, still issuing orders. “When ye’ve h’eaten, these goodbeasts will take yore place for h’a while. Go straight back to the billet h’an spruce h’up. We’ll all be on parade shortly, to bury Lord Axe’ound’s young un. So look smart, best be’aviour, h’an’ the time’ll be slow march, with bowed ’eads. H’unnerstood?”

After breakfast, the sea otters and Long Patrol hares formed up in ranks of four. At their centre, Skor, Ruggan, Rake and Scutram bore the body, still bound in his father’s cloak, to the burying spot. Ding Toller rang both Matthias and Methusaleh, the two Abbey bells, to keep pace with the solemn, slow march.

At the graveside, Skor watched the bundle being lowered. Wiping a paw across both his eyes, he enquired gruffly, “I’m not good with words at a time like this. Anybeast got a song to sing or a line to say?”

Kite Slayer was weeping openly. She shook her head. “Only songs or lines I know are all about blood’n’war. Swiffo was a gentle creature. ’Twouldn’t suit him.”

Buff Redspore made a suggestion. “Beg pardon, sah, I’m a pretty hopeless singer m’self, but I’ve heard Lancejack Sage singin’ a jolly nice song. I say, Lance, you know the one—somethin’ about a dove’s wing. D’ye recall the ditty, wot?”

Lancejack Sage pondered briefly. “Hmm, a dove’s wing . . . Oh, yes, it’s a lovely song. I say, Lord Axehound, would you like me to sing it for Swiffo?”

Skor nodded his huge bearded head. “Aye, miss, I’d be beholden if’n ye did, please.”

Everybeast was moved to tears by the beauty of Sage’s voice and the heartfelt way in which she sang.

“When sunlight wanes and evening shadows fall,

old weary earth in dusky silence lies,

a small lost dove doth mournful call,

its lone lament to darkling skies.

“Hark to its cry, poor little thing,

it rests with head beneath one wing, and breeze that wends through woodland fair,

passes it by with ne’er a care.

“Throughout the night in trembling fear and dread,

until the welcome light of gentle morn,

the little dove lifts up its downy head,

and soars into the heav’nly dawn.”

The sea otters and Long Patrol hares walked away then, leaving Skor and Ruggan alone to complete the burial.

Roogo Foremole broke the oppressive silence by calling from the walltop, “Yurr, zurrs, Oi bee’s a-seein’ summat yonder!”

Relieved to be doing something, Captain Rake sprinted up the wallstairs with a crowd of warriors at his heels.

Roogo was standing on the western threshold, with both paws shading his eyes, peering off to the horizon. “Moi ole eyes b’aint vurry gudd these days, zurr, but see far yonder? Wot do ee think that’n is?”

Rake’s keen gaze found the object. “’Tis the vermin ship, mah friend, nae doubt o’ that. Corporal Dabbs, can ye no’ see what they’re aboot?”

Welkin Dabbs, who was noted for exceptional clarity of vision, watched the distant vessel intently. “Some kind o’ maneuver, I’d say, Cap’n. She’s piled on all sail. Comin’ this way, if’n I ain’t mistaken. No, wait . . . now they’re tackin’ south an’ west. Can’t see much else, I’m afraid. She’s vanished o’er the horizon.”

“Testin’ the wind, that’s wot the vermin are up to!” It was the sea ottermaid Kite Slayer who had spoken. Rake continued staring at the horizon.