Brian Jacques - Redwall #20 - Eulalia!

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.

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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

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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..."

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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, but 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 water-vole's home, he could smell the soup on the fire.

Now, how to separate one miserable, fat beast from one

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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.

"It'll be that ole watervole, I've spotted 'im round 'ere afore. We'll just charge in, knock the livin' daylights outta the ole fool, an' rob 'is vittles!"