Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

“Ye sing dat again, an’ I’ll wallop ye alright!”

Skrodd’s bad-tempered shout quickly silenced them. “Shut yore faces back there, or I’ll show ye ’ow ferocious foxes can be. Sing somethin’ else, Flinky, an’ don’t insult nobeast!”

Dargle called out, “Aye, an’ be nice to foxes, they’re easy hurt!”

Skrodd fixed the big rat with an icy glare. “Aye, an’ they can hurt rats easily, too!”

Dargle stared fearlessly back at him. “Ye don’t scare me, fox. Burrad was slayed by mistake. Us rats don’t make mistakes when we fight!”

Skrodd never answered. Turning away, he continued to march, but the challenge was out in the open now. The rest of the gang exchanged nods and winks—a fight to the death was not far off. Skrodd pulled Little Redd up to the front with him and allowed him to walk by his side. The small fox felt honoured; normally he would be left trailing at the back of the gang.

Keeping his voice low, the bigger fox took on a friendly tone with the young one. “You stay by me, mate. Us foxes’ve got to stick together.”

Little Redd had to glance around to make sure Skrodd was not talking to some other beast. He was more used to kicks and insults than to kind words.

The big fox winked at him. “I been keepin’ an eye on ye, mate. Yore a smart little feller, not like this other lot!”

Redd hated being called “little,” but he was quite pleased to know that Skrodd thought of him as smart. He returned the wink, speaking out of the side of his mouth.

“I ain’t no fool, an’ I ain’t so little, either. I’m growin’ fast. One day they’ll call me Big Redd.”

Skrodd got to the point. “Lissen, mate, I want ye t’do me a favour. Do ye think yore smart enough t’be useful to me?”

Little Redd walked on tippaw, swelling his chest out. “Just tell me wot ye want doin’, mate!”

Skrodd leaned close. “Keep an eye on the gang, especially Dargle. That rat’s gettin’ too big fer his boots. I want ye to watch my back, sort o’ be my second in command.”

Redd hid his delight, replying gruffly, “I’ll do that, just watch me. Soon they’ll be callin’ me Big Redd. I won’t let ye down, mate!”

Skrodd patted the small fox’s back. “Good! When I gets this gang sorted out, we’ll give ye a proper vermin name. Big Redd don’t mean nothin’. How does Badredd sound to ye, eh?”

The young fox was squirming inside with joy. However, he kept his voice tough, in keeping with his new position. “Sounds great t’me, mate. Badredd—I like that! ’Tis a real killer’s name. Badredd!”

After a fruitless night rambling through woodland thickets, the gang watched a rose-tinged dawn break over the treetops. They were soaked through by heavy dew, which was dripping everywhere from boughs and leaves.

Dargle’s temper was on a short fuse. Emerging into a clearing on the bank of a stream, he struck out at Little Redd with his spear haft.

“Keep outta my way, runt! Every time ye come near me, I get soaked wid the water ye knock off the bushes.”

Redd looked appealingly at Skrodd. The big fox cast a glance of mock pity at Dargle and snarled scornfully. “Scared of a few drips o’ dew, are ye? Look at us, we’re all wet through, an’ we ain’t moanin’.”

Dargle faced up to Skrodd right away. “Hah! Wet through an’ weary, an’ wot for, eh? We never found the otter an’ the squirrel. No, we just tramped around all night followin’ you, an’ now we’re good an’ lost. Some leader you are, Skrodd!”

The big fox bristled. “Don’t talk silly, we ain’t lost!”

It was Dargle’s turn to sound scornful. “Oh, ain’t we now? See that rowan tree, I marked it wid me spearblade not long after we started marchin’. Look!”

Flinky inspected the fresh scar on the rowan bark. “Aye, ’tis a new spearmark sure enuff. Dargle’s right!”

Leaning on his spearbutt, the hefty rat grinned teasingly. “We’ve been goin’ round in circles, mates, an’ now our great leader’s got us lost. Well, Skrodd?”

The fox held his blade at the ready and challenged Dargle. “If’n yore so clever, then you find the way. ’Tis easy to stand there talkin’ smart all day, Dargle. Go on, show us how ye are, an’ find the right way!”

The rat squatted down on his haunches, chuckling. “Sort out yore own mess, I’m stoppin’ here an’ restin’.”

Halfchop ventured a suggestion. “Burrad would’ve sent Plumnose to find the way, ’cos he’s a good tracker.”

Relief flooded through Skrodd as he realised that Halfchop had provided the solution to a sticky problem. Taking advantage, he quickly re-established his position as leader of the gang.

“Right, Plumnose, get on yore way! Ferget the two beasts we were trackin’, they’ll keep for another day. Find us the way to this Redwall Abbey place an’ report back here.”

Always one to seize an opportunity, Flinky nodded his head admiringly. “Ah, that’s a grand ould move, Chief. I see ye noticed the fine campsite we’re at. We can lay up here fer a day or two an’ rest, once we’re sure of the way. Lookit, we got a stream wid fish an’ freshwater an’ lots o’ trees full of fat birds sittin’ on nests packed wid eggs. The place is filled wid roots an’ fruit an’ firewood!”

Skrodd looked sage. “That’s wot I was thinkin’, a day or two here’ll freshen us up for the rest o’ the journey. We’ll make camp an’ rest awhile, mates.”

Only Plumnose was not happy with the new plans. His huge nose wobbled from side to side as he complained. “Duh, id’s nod right. I’b tired, too, j’know!”

Rogg and Floggo, the weasel brothers, notched arrows to their bows and fired a pair of shafts near Plumnose’s paws.

“Yore the tracker, Plum, now git goin’!”

“Aye, ye could track a butterfly underwater wid a hooter like that. Hohoho!”

Throwing twigs and grass clumps at the unfortunate creature, the gang drove Plumnose from the camp. Glad they had not been selected to go tracking, they shouted after him.

“Don’t trip over yer nose, Plum!”

“Aye, an’ don’t sniff any big boulders up. Heeheehee!”

The tension was broken for the moment. Gathering wood and foraging for victuals, the gang busied themselves.

Flinky dug a firepit on the streambank, singing a cheery ditty.

“Ah ’tis luvverly bein’ a vermin,

’cos ye lead a simple life,

leave the snufflin’ babes behind,

run off from the naggin’ wife.

There’s nought to do but ramble,

an’ plunder on the way,

just look bold, rob all ye can hold,

an’ bid ’em all good day.

A vermin, a vermin, that’s wot I’ll always be,

I’m base an’ vile, ’cos that’s me style,

an’ I’ll bet ye envy me!”

By late morn they had a good fire burning. Flinky and his mate, Crinktail, were in their element. They boiled woodpigeon eggs, grilled fish, and made a passable vegetable stew from various roots and wild produce which grew plentifully roundabout. Neither Dargle nor Skrodd made any move to help. Sitting close to the fire, they helped themselves, glaring at each other across the flames.

Skrodd collared Little Redd and gave him whispered orders. “Scout round an’ find me somewheres safe to rest. Make sure ’tis soft an’ comfortable. Pick a place far away from that rat, an’ someplace close for yourself, so ye can guard me. Go on!”

Puffed up with his own importance, Redd went to seek a suitable resting spot. He chose the base of a spreading oak, not too close to the stream. It was a basin-shaped depression between two thick roots.

When the gang finished eating, they settled down for a much-needed sleep. Most of them stayed by the fire, but Dargle chose a fernbed on the opposite side of the camp from Skrodd. From there the rat could see his enemy and lay plans.