Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Garfo cautioned Lonna to silence with a warning glance. The badger watched as the otter appeared to consider this proposition.

“Good it is, Buteo. You go first.”

The honey buzzard stared up at the sky, a thing that honey buzzards do when trying to appear mysterious. “Heeeeekoh! What be brown’n’yellow, fat’n’mad, an’ if you slow, sting you bad?”

Garfo scratched his rudder, shaking his head, as if really perplexed. “Frazzle me whiskers, Buteo, that’s a real poser!”

Buteo pecked up the crumbled nutbread, sniggering. “Keeheeheehee! Stupid riverdog not crossing through my country. Buteo much clever. Keehar!”

Garfo tipped a sly wink to Lonna, then jumped up shouting. “I got it, ’tis a bumbly bee!”

Both Garfo and Lonna had to avoid the buzzard’s wings as he beat the air in frustration. “Yeekeeha! How you know?”

The otter twitched his nose modestly. “Oh, I just took a guess. But it was a great an’ clever riddle.”

Buteo stalked up and down, digging his talons angrily into the cabin roof. Then he turned and wheeled on Garfo. “Yeeee! You still not go ’til you spin me. This time I win!”

The crafty otter produced a flat pebble from his helmet, spat on one side of it and held it up for the bird to see. “Right, I’ll spin ye—dry side I win, wet side you lose. Good?”

The honey buzzard nodded eagerly. “Keehee! I take wet!”

Garfo spun the pebble into the air, chanting, “Up she comes, down she goes, how she lands, nobeast knows!”

Buteo’s keen eyes watched every spin of the stone until it clacked down flat on the deck.

Garfo grinned from ear to ear. “Wet side, you lose!”

The buzzard hovered over the otter, glaring murderously at him. Garfo sat munching a chuck of nutbread, looking the fierce bird straight in the eye. “Ye’ve got to let us pass now, mate, or you ain’t a bird whose word can be trusted.”

Fearing that the buzzard was going to attack Garfo, Lonna braced himself to spring upon it.

The bird’s black and gold eyes dilated wildly as it screeched. “Allbeast know Buteo be a bird of honour, my word always good. I slay anybeast who say different. Yeeeeeekaaaah!”

Snatching the nutbread from the otter’s paw, he soared off into the air—up and up, until he was a mere dot in the sky.

Lonna relaxed gratefully. “That was a close call, my friend. Buteo looked like a bird who would fight to the death. How did you manage to hoodwink him like that?”

Garfo Trok winked knowingly. “I been doin’ it a long time, mate, whenever my journeys take me by this way. Pore ole Buteo’s memory’s scrambled from too many battles. Besides, he ain’t the brightest o’ birds. Funny how he loses every time. I’ll let him win on the return trip, ’cos I’ll be bound back nor’east anyway. That’s fair enough.”

Lonna could not help laughing at the sly otter. “You great fat fraud! Shame on you, Garfo Trok!”

Nibbling on a piece of cheese he had found, Garfo waved his rudder nonchalantly. “Better’n havin’ to fight t’the death wid a mad buzzard. You said so yoreself, mate. Anythin’ for an easy life, that’s my motto.”

13

The Searat Blowfly sat on a rotten log, cooling his footpaws by rubbing them in the rich, damp loam. Gazing up at the trunks of mighty woodland trees, with their canopy of sun-pierced green, he murmured to the Searat sitting alongside him.

“I likes this ’ere Mossflower place, better weather ’ere than on that nor’east coast. Plenny o’ shelter an’ prime vittles, too!”

His companion, a sad-faced Searat called Rojin, rubbed his blistered footpaws tenderly as he complained. “Huh, if only we wasn’t marchin’ so much. I ain’ cut out fer all this trekkin’. I’m a Searat, norra landlubber!”

Hangclaw, another rat, limped over to join them. Rooting with his daggerpoint at a splinter in his footpaw, he spat in disgust.

“Right y’are, shipmate, just look at me pore trampers. Why are we walkin’ all the time. Where’s ole Bol got us bound to? We’re traipsin’ around all day an’ ’arf the night!”

Glimbo, the one-eyed rat who had been first mate aboard ship, had been loitering nearby, eavesdropping on the three crewrats. Sneaking up behind them, he gave the rotten log a hard shove with his spearpoint, sending the trio sprawling into the loam.

“Gerrup on yer paws an’ quit whinin’, ye slab-sided sons o’ worms. If the cap’n catches ye, he’ll leave youse here to rest as food fer the ants. Now march!”

Raga Bol had been marching up in front of the others but had looked back over his shoulder so often that the crew could not fail to notice. The Searat captain dropped back until he was level with Glimbo. Catching his mate’s sleeve with the deadly silver hook, Bol swiftly dragged him behind a broad sycamore trunk.

Glimbo’s sightless eye rolled in its socket as he saluted. “They’re all on the march, Cap’n!”

Raga Bol poked his head out from behind the tree and snarled at the backstragglers. “Keep movin’, I’m watchin’ ye!” Then he turned his attention to the trembling Glimbo. “They’re talkin’ about me, wot’re they sayin’? The truth!”

The mate was trembling so hard that the back of his head made a noise on the tree trunk like a woodpecker. “N . . . nothin’, Cap’n, they ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

He heard the slither of cold steel as Bol drew his scimitar. As Raga Bol pulled him close, Glimbo could see the glint of his captain’s gold teeth. He knew how dangerous the captain’s moods were becoming.

With his scimitar upraised, Bol hissed, “They must be sayin’ somethin’, ye mud-brained idiot!”

Words poured out of Glimbo at breakneck pace. “On me oath, Cap’n, the whole crew’s sayin’ ’ow thankful they are to ye for bringin’ ’em ’ere, where ’tis sunny an’ there’s easy pickins. It’s just that they ain’t used to all this marchin’ . . . some of ’em gotten sore paws.”

Thunk! The scimitar blade cut deep into the sycamore, taking off a tuft of Glimbo’s whiskers. “Sore paws, is it? You tell any beast moanin’ about sore paws that I’ll chop ’em off an’ make ’em march on the stumps! Aye, an’ ye can tell all the crew to quit starin’ at me all the time. An’ ye can tell ’em another thing, too. Any rat I ’ears mentionin’ that giant stripedog, I’ll make ’im eat his own tongue. There ain’t no big stripedog follerin’ me, d’ye hear?”

Glimbo gulped hard, knowing how close to death he had come. Raga Bol wandered off without warning, leaving him to pull the scimitar loose and return it. The mate was surprised to see his captain sit down in the loam and speak in a voice that almost had a sob in it. “I ain’t been sleepin’ at nights. Post extra guards around me when it gets dark.”

Glimbo dislodged the blade and returned it to his captain. Raga Bol grabbed the scimitar, staring suspiciously at him.

“Stop starin’ at me like that, thick’ead. Gerrabout yer business an’ make ’em march faster!”

Glimbo saluted and walked off bemused. This was not the Raga Bol he knew from the seafaring days. The captain was definitely acting strange. He glanced back at Bol, but the captain did not notice him looking, because he, too, was peering back over his shoulder.

Badredd felt the early sun on his muzzle as he lay on a soft patch of moss, with both eyes closed, feigning sleep. He listened to the voices of the gang, identifying each one as they spoke.

“Sure ’tis a luvly morn, an’ a grand ould spot t’be enjoyin’ it in!” Flinky had an unmistakable accent.