Brian Jacques - Rakkety Tam

Both hares tucked their chins in and bawled simultaneously, “Yes, sah! No gossipin’ in the ranks, sah!”

Tam fell back a pace or two, smiling to himself. Skipper caught up with him, nodding his admiration. “That sounded good, mate! Where’d ye learn to give orders like that? ’Twas just like a proper roughneck officer.”

Tam shrugged. “Oh, here’n there . . . y’know, Skip. For the past few seasons, I’ve been in the service of a fool Squirrelking. You sort of pick it up as y’go along.”

Midafternoon, the shrewscouts reported back. Oneshrew and her sister had nothing urgent to convey—the route was clear, and they had picked out a spot for an early evening stopover.

Tam dismissed them, then called out to his hares, “Listen up now, you bedraggled, bewildered beauties! Our scouts have found an early evenin’ layover spot. D’ye want to stop there, or march on until dark an’ see if we can make Redwall Abbey in record time?”

A roar of well-drilled voices came back at him. “March on, sah, march on!”

Skipper surprised Tam by bellowing out, “March on it is, ye lollopin’ lilies! Keep up the pace there! I want to get to Redwall afore I grow old an’ need a stick. Step lively there!”

The otter chieftain winked at Tam. “How d’ye think I did?”

Tam saluted his friend. “Well done, Skip. Yore a born Sergeant Major! We’ll share the commands from here to Redwall.”

Skipper beamed like a morning sunrise. “Righto, Sergeant!” They camped that night at another spot the shrewscouts had chosen further on. It was dark, and the marchers were weary. Tam and his company bathed their paws in a small brook. After a short snack of haversack rations, they curled up in a shaded glade and fell asleep immediately.

Skipper was awake shortly after daybreak. He roused the hares like a true regimental sergeant. “Come on, my liddle beauties, up on yore dainty paws now! Right, who’d like a luvverly brekkist o’ fresh salad, ’ot scones an’ some blackberry tarts?”

A gullible young hare stretched and yawned. “Oh, I say, sah, that’d just fit the bill nicely!”

The otter chieftain gave him a jaundiced eye, roaring at the unfortunate in a voice like thunder, “Well, you ain’t goin’ t’get nothin’ like that ’ere, laddie buck! Grab an apple an’ some water, then up on yore hunkers an’ get fell in for marchin’! Yew lollop-eared, bottle-nosed, misbegotten muddlers! Move, or I’ll ’ave yore guts for garters an’ yore tails for tea!”

Tam winked at the otter’s verbosity. “I like that one, Skip! Misbegotten muddlers . . . I must remember that. How far to the Abbey now, I wonder?”

Skipper studied the woodlands ahead. “Not too far now, mate. I’m startin’ to recognise a few landmarks. Oneshrew an’ Twoshrew are good liddle maids, they’re trackin’ well. If’n we make fast time, I reckon we’ll reach the Abbey early tomorrow morn.”

They marched on through the day, making only one brief halt in the early noontide. Just before dusk they stopped at a place the two Guosim sisters had chosen for the night’s rest. It was situated on a streambank.

Skipper nodded with satisfaction. “Well, root me rudder, mate! D’ye reckernise this place?”

Tam dabbled his paws in the cooling waters. “Everywhere’s beginnin’ to look the same t’me, Skip. I’m a Borderer, not a Woodlander. Where are we?”

The otter pointed slightly downstream. “Round about there, that’s where wotsisname, the pesky liddle vole robber, hid yore sword an’ the flag. Let’s see!” He dived like an arrow into the water and streaked away beneath the surface.

Not having heard Skipper’s conversation with Tam, the hares watched him in awe. Two of the most opinionated in the group exchanged comments.

“Strewth! Must have some blinkin’ energy, wot? Marchin’ since dawn, then goin’ off for a jolly old swim like that!”

“Indeed, you wouldn’t catch me doin’ that, old lad. Dabble the paws a bit, that’s my style. Where’s the Skipper gone, sah?”

Tam lay back on the bank, closing his eyes. “Wait an’ see.”

They had not long to wait. Shortly thereafter, Skipper bounded up onto the bank and tossed a long, wrapped bundle to Tam. “Found these in a hole on the other bank, right where that rascal stowed ’em awhile back!”

Tam unwrapped the wet banner of Squirrelking Araltum from about his claymore. He wielded the blade fondly. “My thanks to ye, Skip. You’ve done me a great favour!”

Skipper shook himself like a dog, spraying some young hares with water. “My pleasure, Tam. The sun’ll dry yore flag out tomorrow. Ye can polish yore sword up, an’ the followin morn y’can march into the Abbey—double-bladed, wavin’ the flag an’ singin’ yore ’ead off!”

Tam looked thoughtful. “Maybe, Skip. That’s if Redwall hasn’t been taken by the vermin!”

34

Abbot Humble was halfway between sleep and wakefulness in the grey dawn when he realised that somebeast was pounding on the wine cellar door. Rising in his bed slowly, the old hedgehog called out hoarsely, “Who in the name of seasons is banging like that?”

The sounds had roused young Burlop. He hastened to the door, assuring the Abbot, “I’ll see who it is, Father. Don’t disturb yourself!”

Humble sat up in his little truckle bed, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He looked up and found himself confronted by Sister Armel. “What is it, Sister? Has somebeast been taken ill? Do you need my help at the Infirmary?”

Armel sat down on the side of the bed. “Nothing like that, Father, but I must speak with you.”

Blinking dozily, Humble held up a paw to silence her. “Wait, don’t tell me! You’ve had a dream . . . Martin the Warrior spoke to you. Am I right?”

Astonishment was evident on the Sister’s pretty face. “But . . . But . . . How did you know?”

The old hedgehog smiled indulgently at his young friend. “Because I’ve had one, too. It all came back to me the moment I looked up and saw you standing here.”

Armel’s big brown eyes went wide. “Martin sent me a message in verse. Listen to this. . . .”

Before she could speak further, Humble was repeating the words, line by line.

“Behold two swords and a banner,

watch out for the Walking Stone.

The brother is gone, ’tis the warrior

who must face the Savage alone.”

Sister Armel grasped the Abbot’s paw. “Those were Martin’s very words, Father. What does he mean?”

Humble shook his head. “If I knew that, Armel, I would be wiser than any beast who ever ruled Redwall as Abbot.”

Brother Burlop arrived with two pottery beakers of freshly brewed mint and comfrey tea. “Just a liddle somethin’ I made on the forge fire for ye. Be careful, Sister, it’s hot. You’n the Father sip that. ’Twill wake ye up while you talk. Don’t mind me, I’ll just go about my chores.”

They thanked Burlop. Armel watched him strapping on his heavy coopering apron and trundling off with an empty cask. “He’s such a kind and caring creature! Isn’t he, Father?”

Humble blew steam from his beaker and sipped gratefully. “The best! Young Burlop’s the son I never had. Now, what about our dream, Sister?”

They were interrupted by a thump against the door and muffled squeaks from the stairs outside. After another thump, the frowzy little head of Mimsie the mousebabe appeared around the door.

“Sitter H’Armil, that naughty Mudge bee’s pullin’ me tail!”

Mudge the molebabe could be heard behind her. “Ho no oi b’ain’t! You’m a-tellin’ tales abowt yurr tail, jus’ to get oi in trubble!”