Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Little Redd proudly showed Skrodd the spot at the base of the oak trunk. “That’s it, mate, nice an’ snug, see!”

The small fox lay down, gesturing. “There’s plenty o’ room for both of us. I can guard ye good from here, mate.”

Skrodd shook his head disapprovingly. “Nah, ye go an’ lay by the fire with the others. That’ll put ye halfway twixt me’n Dargle. But don’t go sleepin’, keep yore eyes peeled on those ferns where he’s layin’ low. Soon as Dargle makes a move, come runnin’ an’ let me know.”

Little Redd rose reluctantly. “I kin watch him just as well if’n I stop ’ere with you, mate.”

Skrodd hauled him roughly upward, thrusting him toward the fire. “Ye’d do better to heed my orders. Now get goin’. I’m chief round ’ere, see!”

Stinging from the rebuke, Redd slouched over to the fire. Sullenly, he slunk down amid the snoring vermin.

With not a breeze to rustle the trees, warm noon sunlight shone down on the camp. Bees hummed gently, and butterflies fluttered silently around blossoming bushes. Near the ashy embers of the cooking fire, Little Redd drifted into a slumber. Only one of the gang was still awake—Dargle. Now was the time to put his plan into action. Draping his cloak over the ferns so it would look like he was still there, the rat inched his way backward out of the foliage. Flat on his stomach, he took a careful route, circling the campsite. When the rear of the spreading oak came in sight, Dargle rose into a half crouch. Gripping his spear firmly, he crept up on his sleeping enemy.

Skrodd woke momentarily, but only to die. A muffled grunt of agony escaped him as Dargle’s spear thrust into his body.

Dargle leaned down on the spearhilt, grinning triumphantly. “ Now who’s the chief, eh?”

It was the rat’s only mistake—it turned out to be his last. Skrodd had lain down to sleep with the cutlass held tight in his paw. Now, with one spasmodic jerk, he whipped the broad blade across his assassin’s neck, almost severing Dargle’s head. The ambitious rat fell slain on top of his victim’s dead body.

Little Redd was wakened by Flinky kicking him in the back. The small fox sat up rubbing his eyes and muttering at the still-sleeping stoat. “Keep yore paws to yoreself, ye great lump!”

Flinky rolled over and emitted a huge snore. To avoid a second kick, Redd rose stiffly and looked around. Dargle’s cloak was still draped over the ferns. He let out a sigh of relief and wandered over to check on Skrodd. Redd was dumbfounded by the sight that greeted him—Skrodd and Dargle, both dead!

Little Redd circled them slowly, poking both beasts with a stick and uttering their names softly. There was no doubt about it, they were still as stones. His first thought was to run and tell the others. He had already opened his mouth to shout when a thought struck him. Who would be the next to claim leadership of the gang? Little Redd sat down and did some serious thinking. It did not take him long to reach a decision. He would be the new chief. Getting the cutlass loose from Skrodd’s paw was a difficult task, but he managed it somehow. Dargle was almost decapitated by Skrodd’s death blow. Two good chops of the hefty blade finished the job.

Flinky was roused by a painful feeling he knew well, the slap of a flat cutlass blade. He sprang upright, rubbing his rump, expecting to see Skrodd standing over him. Instead, there stood the small fox, whacking away at the other gang vermin and yelling aloud.

“Up on yore hunkers, all of ye!”

The weasel Juppa grabbed a chunk of firewood and advanced on the small fox, snarling. “Ye snotty liddle runt, who do ye think y’are, smackin’ me wid the chief’s blade?”

Redd jarred the wood from Juppa’s paws with a blow from the cutlass. His voice was shrill but commanding. “I’m the new chief round here, that’s who I am. Come an’ see this, all of ye!”

The gang stood around the two carcasses in awed silence as the small fox explained. “I saw Dargle run Skrodd through with his spear. So I rushed in, grabbed the cutlass an’ slew the dirty murderin’ sneak with one swipe!”

Crinktail looked at him disbelievingly. “You, Little Redd, took off Dargle’s block in one go?”

Redd was getting the feel of the heavy sword now. He took a pace back, then leaped forward, swinging the cutlass in both paws, shouting fiercely. “Aye, one swipe! D’ye want me to show ye how? I’m the chief now, this sword’s mine, I killed to get it!”

He was gratified to see fear shining from Crinktail’s eyes as she backed away from him swiftly. “No, no,” she pleaded, “if you say ye did it, I’m not one to argue with ye!”

Ever the one to seize an opportunity, however, Flinky confronted Redd and held out his paws placatingly. “Ah now, don’t go upsettin’ yoreself, Little Redd. We all think ye’ll make a grand chief. Anyway, better’n the last two. Isn’t that right, mates?”

He turned to the gang, winking broadly at them but making sure the small fox could not see his gesture.

“C’mon now, raise yer paws an’ salute the great new chief!”

A newfound confidence flooded through Redd as he watched the remaining nine vermin acknowledging his leadership with raised paws. He suppressed a shudder of joy. For as long as he could recall he had been ignored, bullied or pushed about. Now, in the course of one day, he was in command of the gang.

Deciding to assert his authority, Little Redd glared haughtily at the ratbag vermin. “My name ain’t Little Redd no more. From now on ye’ll all call me Badredd. Is that clear?”

Flinky threw him an elaborate salute. “Badredd it is, yer honour, sure an’ a fine ould name it is! Well now, Badredd sir, wot’s yore pleasure—do we stop ’ere awhile in this grand camp? There’s water an’ vittles aplenty roundabout, an’ ’tis a pleasant spot.”

Badredd nodded imperiously. “Aye, we’ll stop ’ere awhile!”

As they prepared the evening meal, Flinky’s mate, Crinktail, whispered to him. “Badredd, huh! Wot’n the name o’ blood made ye support that liddle fool?”

Flinky winked at her as he turned a roasting woodpigeon on a willow spit over the fire. “Trust me, mate, better a liddle fool than a big bully. I can ’andle this ’un. Badredd’ll do like I suggest, ye’ll see. We’ve ’ad enough o’ weasels, big foxes an’ bullyrats in this gang. This Mossflower territory’s a good soft place to stay, plenty of everythin’. Better’n those ould Northlands. Leave the thinkin’ t’me, we’ll live the good life from now on. Badredd’ll do like I tell ’im.”

The newly elected Badredd sat on the streambank, picking a roasted woodpigeon leg and watching the westering sun die in a crimson haze. He listened to Flinky singing as he dished out supper to the gang, who lay about looking contented enough.

“Oh this is the place to be,

where the fruit falls from the tree,

where eggs an’ birds jump out of the nest,

right in me pan they come to rest.

Oh this is the place for me,

far from that Northland sea.

Here the good ould fish leap out of the stream,

an shout, ‘Please, sir, cook me,’

where the sun shines all the day,

an’ the cold wind stops away,

an’ the water’s clean ’n’ fresh ’n’ clear,

I’ll make ye a promise now, me dear,

I’ll take a bath so don’t ye fear,

in ten summers’ time if I’m still here,

’cos this is the place for me!”

Badredd, however, had totally different plans. Not for him all this lying about on sunny streambanks. Ambition had entered his being. To be the owner of the magic sword and ruler of that place Skrodd had spoken of—Redwall Abbey.

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