Brian Jacques - Redwall #20 - Eulalia!

A small group of young moles were providing the bass line, swaying back and forth as they kept up a constant chant.

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"Rubbledy dum be dum be dum, rubbledy dum be dum be dum."

The main contingent, who were all young Redwallers, marched in a circle, singing the verses aloud.

"I'll sit me down in my bestest gown, an' joyfully I'll sing, when a happy beast attends a feast, he'll eat most anything!

"I think I'll start with a mushroom tart, and some good Friar's cheese, a pastie or two, or maybe a few, and a salad if you please!

"O rumble tumble, fetch me a crumble, that's what I'm yearnin' for, if they're servin' second helpings,

I'll try to manage some more!

"Now bring me a pudd'n an' make it a good 'un

well-drenched with honey sauce, an' a flagon o' rasp'berry cordial, to swig whenever I pause!

"A trifle for me, a flan for you, let's raise our tankards all, what a happy day for a feast we say, at the Abbey of Redwall!"

Before Noggo could return to make his report, Laggle gazed wistfully in the direction of the Abbey. "Sounds like they're 'avin' a feast in there, Boss."

Gruntan, who had been trying to ignore the song, found his interest aroused at the mention of a feast. "Huh, I wonder wot they're 'avin' to eat. Did yew 'ear wot they wuz say in', Noggo?"

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The scout, who was returning, began recounting various dishes. "Er, lessee, there wuz mushroom tart, cheese, pasties, salad, crumble, pudden with 'oney sauce ... ny-eeeerk!"

Gruntan had Noggo by the nose, twisting it viciously "Yew rotten liddle fibber, nobeast has vittles as good as that!"

Laggle confirmed what Noggo had reported. "Noggo wasn't fibbin', I 'eard it meself, an' they was drinkin' raspberry cordial, an' scoff in' flans an' trifles. Me gob was wa-terin' jus' lissenin' to 'em!"

Gruntan released the scout's nose, turning on the old healer. "Then ye must be goin' soft in the 'ead, if'n yew believes all that. Huh, all sorts o' fancy rubbish like crumbles an' trifles. Did they say they was 'avin' 'ard-boiled eggs, betcha they never?"

Noggo kept out of Gruntan's reach. "No, Boss, they never said nothin' about 'ard-boiled eggs."

Gruntan Kurdly spat out an eggshell fragment contemptuously. "Hah, see, I told ye. A feast ain't no good widout 'ard-boiled eggs. Fetch me some nice, soft moss to plug me lugs with, I needs me nap!"

Vizka Longtooth's second in command, the weasel Magger, and the rest of Bludgullet's crew were enjoying the good life in North Mossflower woodlands. They had brought grog from the ship, and gathered eggs, fish, birds, fruit and berries locally. Magger had become quite popular with the vermin crew, he was easygoing, and not given to making the others fear him, like Vizka did.

An air of enjoyment and relaxation pervaded the woodland camp. After grubbing about the cold seas for seasons, suffering hard chores and short rations, the warm climate and sheltered surroundings suited the vermin fine. Nobeast was overeager for the return of their captain, that would only mean more discipline, marching, orders and fighting, to fulfill the golden fox's ambitions. Accordingly

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they lay about, taking their ease, and enjoying the welcome respite whilst they were able.

Two shipmates, a stoat called Saltear and a ferret named Ragchin, were wandering along the ditchbed, picking blackberries. They had almost filled Ragchin's floppy old hat with the fruit, and were sitting on the side of the path, debating what use the berries might be put to.

Saltear sorted out a large juicy one, musing, "Wodja t'ink, Rag, we could make grog outta dese."

Ragchin shook his head. "Nah, takes too long, an' de uthers would only drink it on us. Worrabout cookin' 'em up in a skilly'n'duff?"

Saltear spat into the ditch, not relishing the idea. "Dat Magger'd soon yaffle it down, 'ave ya seen 'im eatin' skilly'n'duff, 'e's like a wildbeast!" He popped the berry he had been holding into his mouth, grinning. "Why don't we jus' eat 'em ourselves?"

Ragchin immediately grabbed a pawful, stuffing them into his mouth, and wolfing them down. "Yore right, Salt, it wuz us wot picked 'em, eh!"

Purple juice was running down both their chins as they devoured the blackberries. Saltear suddenly paused, a berry halfway to his lips, he held up a paw. "Ahoy, kin yew 'ear sumthin', thunder, I think?"

Ragchin stood up, gazing at the sky. "Thunder, on a day like dis, nah, give over, mate...." Then he saw the dust-cloud rising in the south, it was coming from the ditchbed. He pointed. "Dat's wot's makin' der noise, lookit."

Saltear joined him, they stood watching the rising dust-cloud awhile, until a figure at the head of it came into view.

Ragchin could hardly believe his eyes, as more shapes became visible. Grabbing his shipmate's tattered jerkin, he fled, pulling him along. "It's der cap'n, bein' chased by an army o' durty, big Brownrats, mus' be a t'ousand of 'em. Come on!"

The two vermin came hurtling into camp. Magger and some other crew vermin had heard the rumbling, they

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were looking uneasy. Saltear and Ragchin shot past Magger, calling as they hurried to hide in the woodland depths, "Cap'n Vizka's bein' chased by t'ousands o' big rats, real big 'uns, dey're 'eaded dis way!"

Vizka Longtooth and the remains of his tunnelling party were running for their lives. Over a dozen of the Bludgullet's crew were lying behind them, slain and trampled by Kurdly's horde. Though his breath was coming in ragged bursts, the golden fox drove himself on relentlessly, propelled by naked terror. The Brownrats pounded along in his wake, their weird, paint-striped bodies strung with necklets and bracelets made from the bones of past victims, waving clubs and spears.

Vizka plunged onward, out of the ditchbed, and into the woodlands. Magger and the rest of Bludgullet's crew were to be his hope of salvation from the foebeasts. If he could make it to the camp, he would repel the Brownrat horde with the aid of his own considerable numbers. The Brownrats would be hit by a sudden retaliation from the vermin Sea Raiders. Behind him he heard one of his crew give an agonised screech as he fell victim to a stoneheaded axe. The golden fox leapt into the camp, his paws kicking up ashes from campfire embers as he shouted, "Magger, rally der crew! Magger ... Magger?"

The realisation that he had arrived at an empty camp hit Vizka Longtooth like a thunderbolt. There was nothing for it but to keep running. Deserted by his own crew, traitors and cowards who had fled their captain! The golden fox sucked in air, running even faster, this time spurred on by rage. He was a fool to have left Magger in charge back at camp. Ducking and weaving around the trunks of mighty oaks, elms, conifers and other woodland giants, Vizka began outpacing his pursuers, their sounds grew faint in his wake.

He was in the heart of ancient Mossflower now. Sunlight rarely penetrated the overgrown tree canopy, it was a world of misty green gloom. The golden fox's eyes

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searched the area, he knew it was not possible to run ceaselessly. There had to be a refuge, someplace to hide....

There it was! A massive, old beech tree, its huge, knotted trunk supporting widespread boughs, branches and foliage. Resting against it was a small spurge laurel, which had perished from lack of sunlight. Vizka Longtooth went up the laurel, into the lower forks of the beech, with all the agility of a cat. A lifetime spent on shipboard left him no stranger to scaling, after all the masts and rigging he had encountered.

Leaning down, he shoved at the slender, dead laurel, watching as it fell flat on the leafy, woodland floor. He went nimbly upward into the high reaches of the beech, choosing a wide, well-foliaged limb. Vizka settled himself there, knowing he was completely invisible from below. He lay there, tongue lolling, as he panted and gasped, relaxing his body, whilst his mind worked frantically, planning and scheming.