Brian Jacques - Rakkety Tam

Log a Log Togey and his shrews finally moved the fallen tree, but not as planned. Several Guosim were lost, crushed beneath the heavy, rooted base as it shifted back on them. The tree did not move free in one go: first the top half budged under the pressure of fulcrum and leverage, but the base end remained put. Then, aided by the current, the willow swept side on over the water in a single mighty rush. Instead of landing midstream, the tree had positioned against the far bank, rolling backward through the shallows and killing the shrews who had been pushing at the rooted end. The haulers had been forced to wade for their lives without benefit of the ropes, which had been swept underwater but now lay tangled beneath the trunk. The waterway, however, had been cleared. Under Togey’s frantic orders, the crew righted the longboats and brought them into the bank.

Before they even had time to recover the bodies of their dead comrades, Skipper came wallowing downstream, gasping, “Lend us a paw, mates, an’ make ready t’sail!”

Once the otter had been pulled out of the water by the long Guosim rowing poles, it was clear that, somehow, he had been injured. Log a Log Togey enquired, as he slapped bankmud on the wound to the otter chieftain’s side, “Wot ’appened, Skip?”

The otter spat out a jet of water. “Ambushed by the vermin. No time fer chitchat, mate, ’ere come the others. Pull ’er out an’ git under way. Y’best put a move on, Togey. Gulo an’ the vermin are on our tails!”

Groups of Long Patrol hares were hauled from the racing current onto the logboats. The bloodcurdling yells of Gulo’s band could be heard drawing closer as the hares were pulled aboard and the small flotilla of logboats shot out into midstream.

Skipper grabbed a shrew. “It’s Tam! See, there he is. Pass ’im an oar, quick!”

Exhausted, the warrior squirrel was trying to keep his head above the surface as he was rushed downstream. Behind him, vermin were running along the bank, shooting arrows at him. Tam had never let go of Martin’s sword since the start of the ambush. He saw the thick ash paddle splash into the stream ahead of him. With his last ounce of strength, he swung the blade, bedding it in the paddle and hanging on tight to the sword with both paws. The Guosim crew heaved him aboard just in time.

The banks had become rocky, rising higher, funnelling the already fast water into a roaring, boiling tunnel. Gulo’s archers vanished from view as the boats swept away on the wild torrent. Everybeast threw themselves flat to the decks of the logboats, which were well out of control as they hurtled through a chain of rapids. High, white-crested masses of water shot by madly as the logboats bumped against one another and scraped over protruding rocks.

The returning archers found Gulo the Savage sitting on the fallen willow at the bankside, slapping pawfuls of bankmud on his severed earstump to stem the bleeding.

Eissaye pointed with his bow. “Mighty One, they escaped downstream. The flow was too fast, and the banks high with rock. We could not keep up with the speed of their craft, Lord.”

Gulo was off the trunk with a bound and onto the bank. “My brother Askor, and the Walking Stone—did ye sight them?”

Eissaye wisely backed out of range. “Nay, sire. . . .”

Gulo, his eyes gleaming madly, seemed to ignore the scout. “Hah, hiding in the boats, that’s where they’ll be! But never fear, I’ll get them. You there, and you . . . all of ye! We have our own craft, use your spears. Roll this tree into the water! We will travel as fast as they do. I will have them before they reach the Redwall place. Cut those ropes ’an make haste!”

Eissaye wanted to tell Gulo about the rapids, but he held his silence. There was no talking to the wolverine in his present mood.

Within moments, the huge willow trunk was crashing downstream with the vermin clinging to it for their lives. Oblivious to the blood that streamed from his wounded ear, Gulo stood upright, filled with exhilaration at his first taste of riding rough waters. An insane light shone in Gulo the Savage’s glittering eyes. He kicked at the nearest vermin, shouting at them above the thundering current, “Paddle! Use thy spears an’ paddle! Fast! Fast!”

32

Yoofus the volethief had made a lead of woven linen strapping for his wife’s pet, Rockbottom. Neatly plaited in red, green and white, with a loop that fitted securely round the little reptile’s shell, the leash came in handy when Didjety took Rockbottom for walks around the deck of the raft.

Doogy sat at the tiller, remarking to Yoofus as he watched Rockbottom’s slow progress about the craft, “Och, ah wonder if’n yon beast ever breaks intae a gallop. He’s certainly in no hurry tae go anywhere.”

Yoofus patted Rockbottom’s head as he slowly ambled by. “Ah sure, he’s the slow’n’steady one alright. Look there . . . further up the bank on the left. That’s the cutoff leadin’ to the stream where I hid yer friend Tam’s sword an’ flag. Here, give me the tiller, I’ll take her round.”

Doogy allowed the water vole to manoeuvre the tiller, leaving the small Highlander free to perch upon the drum. Watching the sidewater loom up, he expressed his doubts. “Are ye sure this is the right stream? Ye’ve already took us up two dead ends!”

Yoofus winked confidently at him. “Sure I’m sure! Don’t I know these woodlands like me own darlin’ wife’s dear face?”

Doogy stood in front of him, blocking Yoofus’s view of Didjety. “Oh ye do, do ye? Well, what colour are yore wife’s eyes?”

The cocky thief made several guesses. “Er, blue . . . no, green . . . er, grey. A sort of a bluey greenish grey, I’m sure of it!”

Didjety wagged an indignant paw at her husband. “Aren’t you the great ould fibber, Yoofus Lightpaw! Me eyes are dark brown wid hazel flecks, so there!”

Yoofus rounded the bend into the slipstream, chuckling. “So they are, me liddle sugarplum, but they enchant me so much that I ferget when I’m gazin’ into ’em!”

Didjety stood glaring at him, paws akimbo. “Get away, ye fat, silver-tongued rogue! I’m thinkin’ I might just make dinner for me’n Mister Plumm, an’ ferget about you!”

The slipstream was narrower than the broadstream they had come down. Trees hung thick over it, and the water was sluggish, with a coating of green algae when they got further along.

Doogy watched Rockbottom whilst the shrew wife prepared dinner. The Highlander kept shaking his head doubtfully. “Ach, ah dinna think this is the right way. What have ye tae say about all this, mah friend?”

Rockbottom closed his eyes and withdrew his head into his shell.

Doogy sighed. “Ah get the message, mate!” He tied Rockbottom’s lead to the drum and went beneath the raft’s awning to join Yoofus and Didjety for dinner.

As Doogy had hoped, the volewife had brought along some of her sausages. These she had encased in pastry. Doogy watched as she heated them up on a small fire which Yoofus had kindled atop of some flat stones.

The volethief winked at him. “These are called sausage rolls. Me darlin’ Didjety makes the best sausage rolls anywhere. D’ya know how to make a sausage roll, Doogy?”

The Highlander bit into one, finding the sausages delicious indeed. “No, ah’m afraid ah don’t know how tae make a sausage roll.”

Yoofus answered, “Ye just push it down a hill, that’s how ye make a sausage roll!”

Doogy did not find it funny, but both voles hooted and giggled. “Push it down a hill! Hahaha heeheeheehee!”

Doogy took another sausage roll. Then, glaring at Yoofus, he spoke firmly. “If you’ve got us lost, mah friend, ah won’t push ye down a hill, ah’ll fling ye over a cliff!”