Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Burrad rose, grinning wolfishly as he kicked Flinky’s bottom. “Cook dat fish good, or yore a dead ’un!”

He turned on the other eleven vermin gang members. “Wot are youse lot gawpin’ at, eh? Gimme some grog!”

A female stoat called Crinktail, whose tail was shaped almost like a letter Z, passed Burrad the jug of nettle grog. Snatching it roughly, the bully sat down, taking long gulps of the fiery liquid.

He watched Flinky like a hawk. “Crispy outside an’ soft inside, dat’s de way I likes fish.”

The others averted their eyes; there was no doubt about who the leader of their gang was.

Crouched low in the reeds on the far bank, two creatures viewed the scene. One was an otter, the other a squirrel, both in their late middle seasons.

The otter squinched his eyes, letting them rove over the gang. “Hmm, about twelve o’ them over there, I’d say.”

The squirrel nibbled on a young reed. “There’s thirteen.”

Her companion shrugged. “I won’t argue with ye, ’cos my eyes ain’t as good as they used t’be. I tell ye though, mate, that’s one sorry gang o’ vermin. Looks as if they got rocks in their skulls instead o’ brains.”

The squirrel chuckled. “Aye, campin’ there without a single sentry posted, an’ a fire smokin’ away like a beacon. ’Tis a wonder their mothers let ’em out alone.”

The otter nodded. “See ole lardbelly yonder, the big weasel? Leave him t’me, I enjoy takin’ bullies down a peg.”

The squirrel commented drily, “Watch he don’t fall on ye, he’d flatten ye like a pancake. Are those fish ready yet?”

Her companion sniffed the air. “I’d say so. Right then, are we ready t’go an’ pay ’em a visit?”

The squirrel sighed. “Aye, layin’ here won’t get us any supper. You go in the front, an’ I’ll make me way around back.”

The lean, aging otter grumbled. “It’s always me wot has t’go in the front. Why can’t I go in the back?”

The squirrel cut left along the streambank, replying, “ ’Cos I’m the best tree climber. Give me time t’get ready, mate, don’t walk in too early. Good luck!”

Tucking his rudder into the back of his belt, the otter draped his ragged cloak to conceal it. He bound a faded red bandanna low on his brow, disguising both ears and scrunching down over his eyes to make them look shortsighted.

Picking up a polished hardwood staff, he splashed into the stream shallows, muttering to himself. “Huh, I’m gettin’ too old for this game!”

Little Redd was the youngest of the vermin gang. Small and runty, he was often the butt of their coarse jokes.

Seeking about for firewood, Redd glanced sideways. He saw the bedraggled creature wading across the stream, and called to Burrad. “Aye aye, Chief, looks like we got company!”

Burrad took his mouth from the grog jug. He cast a contemptuous glance at the hunched figure struggling toward the bankside. “Wot’n de name o’bludd is dat?”

The otter sloshed ashore, calling in a quavery voice. “A good evenin’ to one an’ all. Seems I’m just in time for supper. Mmm . . . roasted roach, me favourite vittles!”

Burrad’s cutlass was drawn and wavering a whisker’s breadth from the unwanted visitor’s nose. “Who are ye? Huhuhuh, or should I say, wot are ye?”

The stranger avoided the blade neatly. Ducking under it, he stood at the vermin leader’s side, wrinkling his nose comically. “Wot am I, young feller? I’m a ferroat, o’ course!”

Flinky looked up from the cooking fire. “A ferroat? Ah’ shure, an’ wot sort o’ beast is dat now?”

The intruder replied airily. “Oh, just a cross twixt a ferret an’ a stoat. I was a small sickly babe, or so me ole mum’n’dad told me. That’s why I look like this.”

Ignoring his fish-cooking task, Flinky continued. “An’ who, pray, was yore muther an’ father?”

The stranger replied, straight-faced. “A rat an’ a fox, I s’pose, but they was terrible liars.”

Flinky scratched his head. “Liars? Huh, I’ll say they was!”

Burrad interrupted by thwacking Flinky between both ears with the flat of his blade. “Who asked yew, puddle’ead? Ger-ron wid cookin’ dose fishes!”

He turned to the odd-looking creature. “Wot’s yore name, ferroat, an’ wot d’ye want ’ere?”

The newcomer pointed to himself. “Just told ye, haven’t I? Me name’s Ferroat, an’ I’ll sing an’ dance fer me supper. That’s if ye’ll allow me, kind sir.”

The vermin gang winked and sniggered among themselves. Burrad, a kind sir? This old fool was begging to die.

Testing his cutlass blade by licking the edge, Burrad leaned close to his intended victim and grinned. “Allow ye, eh? If’n yore dancin’ an’ singin’ ain’t to me likin’, I’ll allow this blade to chop ye into ten pieces. Then I’ll allow me gang to roast ye over that fire. If ye don’t taste nice, we kin always use ye fer fishbait!”

Smiling affably, the odd beast bowed creakily. “ ’Tis a fair offer, sir, I thankee kindly.”

Shuffling about in a curious jig, the creature twirled his staff and began singing.

“I’ll always recall wot Ma said to me,

ere I went a rovin’ a minstrel to be,

beware of the vermin, they ain’t got no class,

an’ they ain’t got the brains Mother Nature gave grass!

Rowledy dowlety toodle um day.

I soon found out me dear mother was right,

I met up with some vermin the followin’ night,

they were strangers to bathin’, an’ that made me think,

why didn’t Ma tell me that all vermin stink?

Rowledy pong and a toodledy pooh!”

The comic-looking old ragbag of a beast jigged and shuffled around. Raucous laughter greeted his performance followed by tears of merriment that coursed down the vermin’s cheeks. It was only at the start of the third verse, when vermin’s faces were compared to toads’ bottoms, that Burrad realised the singer was insulting him and his gang.

Roaring with rage, the fat weasel rushed the disguised otter. Whirling his cutlass, Burrad aimed a mighty swipe that should have left the singer headless. However, far from being slain, the odd creature ducked under the blow, came up under Burrad and tweaked his snout.

Purple with spleen, the gang leader grappled with his opponent, yelling to his second in command. “Skrodd, gut this old fleabag wid yer spear, I’ve got ’im!”

The tall, evil-looking fox dashed forward, plunging with his spear. But the otter was fast and more clever than both vermin. He butted Burrad under the chin, wriggled from his grasp and scuttled to one side in the blink of an eye.

Burrad stood gaping at the spear protruding from his stomach. He raised his clouding eyes to the open-mouthed fox, faltering. “Ye’ve killed me, yer blather-brained foo . . . !”

Burrad crashed over backward, slain by his own gang member. Amid the drama, nobeast noticed the four fish vanish up into the willow foliage, hauled on a thin twine by the green withes they were spitted upon.

Skrodd’s surprise was only momentary. His brain was already reacting to the fact that he was now the vermin gang’s new leader. Leaving the spear stuck in his former chief, the tall fox grabbed the cutlass from Burrad’s limp grasp. He came at the otter with a blurring barrage of swift slashes.

Whizzzzzthonk! A slingstone from the trees suddenly rendered him senseless. Skrodd’s fellow vermin looked on in horror as his body collapsed in a heap. Before the gang could move, the squirrel dropped from her perch. Danger glinted in her eyes as she twirled a loaded sling expertly.

“There’s twoscore more of us layin’ in the bushes, just waitin’ on the word!”

Shedding his disguise, the otter knocked daggers and other weapons from the vermin’s paws, with sharp raps of his polished staff. He looked nothing like the ragged, dancing fool he had been a moment ago. His voice was stern and commanding.