Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Ears cocked, the squirrel looked around. Silently she nodded, pointing over to the dense growth of trees on her left. Putting aside the flute, Saro pointed to her friend, indicating that he should stay put. In a flash she was gone, nimbly scaling a beech trunk and vaulting away through the foliaged upper terraces of Mossflower.

Bragoon sat perfectly still, his eyes roving from side to side as he searched the woodlands. Several minutes elapsed before Saro somersaulted back to earth from the high treetops. She picked up a twig, then snapped it and flung it away, muttering darkly to herself.

Bragoon raised his eyebrows. “Wot’s upset ye, matey?”

The squirrel began gathering up her possessions. “Upset? I ain’t upset, buckoe, I’m steamin’ fit t’burst! Those three young fools from Redwall, Horty an’ the two maids—they’ve got themselves captured by a hundred or so big spotty rats!”

Bragoon sighed heavily. Buckling the sword across his back, he dusted himself off and made ready. “You shore ’twas them?”

Saro checked her sling and pouch of stones. “Aye, I’m sure enough. They was bound t’gether an’ had sacks over their heads, but it’s got t’be them. Wot other young hare, squirrel’n’mouse would be wanderin’ willy-nilly through these woodlands, eh? They’ve sneaked out o’ Redwall an’ come searchin’ for us, to share the adventure. Huh!”

Bragoon shook his rudder in disapproval. “Fivescore o’ big spotty rats, ye say? Well, they’ll get their share of the fun—that’s if’n the three idiots live long enough. Ye recall those spotty rats we battled with last time we was up this way?”

The squirrel nodded grimly. “Aye, they were flesh eaters!”

19

Evening was crimsoning the sky over the western reaches as Birug led his Darrat vermin into camp. The Darrat tribe gathered around to see what he had captured. A huge old rat—almost white, with a few brown flecks—pulled himself out of a hammock which was slung under a rocky ledge. Bulling his way through the crowd, he indiscriminately kicked babes, young ones, females and males out of his way. Studying the bound and hooded creatures lying exhausted on the ground, he addressed Birug in a shrill voice totally unsuited to his bulk.

“Lemme see dem!”

Horty felt the sack being pulled from his head and a knife slitting the rope gag in his mouth. He spat out the gag and found himself looking at the huge, fat one. Immediately the young hare began complaining.

“Y’don’t mind me sayin’, sah, but this is all a bit bally much! Is this the way y’treat jolly peaceable wayfarers, wot?”

A slap from the huge rat silenced him. “Shutcha face, rabbert, d’great Hemper Figlugg don’ like talky rabberts!”

He glared at Springald and Fenna, who had been unhooded and had their gags removed. “Don’ like talky mouses or squirrels either!”

A shrunken and incredibly ugly female pushed her way through to Hemper Figlugg’s side. Ignoring him, she began pinching the three captives, nodding approvingly as she did so. Hemper Figlugg whispered something in her ear.

She nodded, replying aloud. “Burcha Glugg!” The Darrat tribe nodded in agreement and laughed.

Always ready to take advantage of a situation, Horty winked at his two companions. “At least they seem happy, must be a good joke, wot! Burcha Glugg, wasn’t it? Watch this.”

He grinned at the assembly and repeated the words, “Burcha Glugg!”

The Darrat tribe howled with laughter at Horty’s remark. A tiny ratbabe wrinkled his nose at the young hare and squeaked, “Burcha Glugg!”

Horty favoured him with a kindly smile. “Aye old lad, Burcha Glugg, indeed, wot! Yowhoooo, y’little savage. Gerroff!” The ratbabe, who had bitten Horty’s footpaw, clung on grimly. High Kappin Birug pulled the ratbabe off and cuffed it.

Hemper Figlugg nodded at his prisoners. “Glugg cayjizz!”

They were picked up bodily and borne to two large cages, formed of thick branches lashed together, one of which was open. Into this the three companions were thrown. The Darrat tribe dispersed and went about their business. Seeing they were being ignored, Springald began loosing herself from the ropes binding her forepaws and the running rope about her right footpaw. The other two did likewise.

Fenna watched the fat Hemper Figlugg settling himself back into the hammock. “What now, I wonder?”

Springald answered hopefully. “Well, we’re still alive, aren’t we? Where there’s life there’s hope, they say.”

Horty rubbed his stomach—as usual, his mind was on food. “I won’t be alive much longer if somebody doesn’t feed us. Chap gets hungry, bein’ captured an’ all that, wot?” He called out to a passing rat. “Hi there, I say, me old vermin, how about somethin’ to jolly well eat?”

He pantomimed eating and pointed inside his mouth. “Eat! Y’know, just like starvin’ chaps do. Grub, food or whatever you savages call it.”

The rat grinned and pointed to his own mouth. “Glugg!”

Horty clapped his paws together. “Hoho, that’s the stuff. Glugg!”

Something suddenly dawned on Fenna. “Glugg, that must be their word for food. Oh, great seasons!”

Horty winked. “Leave it to me eh, wot! I can translate any bally thing when it comes to food!”

Springald understood all too well. She clapped a paw to her brow. “Glugg, that’s what we are. Food!”

Horty patted her reassuringly. “No no, old gel, you’ve got it all wrong. They said Burcha Glugg—that prob’ly means feed them, or give these bally prisoners some food, they look hungry.”

Just then, four Darrat males bore a big cauldron to the cage. They placed it outside the bars, within the captives’ reach. It was filled with a form of porridge, full of berries and sliced fruit.

One of the rats indicated they should eat. “Burcha Glugg, you eat all up.”

Horty smiled. “Told you so!”

Fenna asked the rat, “What does Burcha Glugg mean?”

The rat shrugged. “Old Darrat way of saying good food.”

Springald’s worst fears were confirmed. She whispered in a shaky voice. “They’re fattening us up before they eat us!”

Horty dipped a paw into the cauldron and scooped some up. “Oh, don’t be silly! Nobeast’d dare to eat us, shockin’ idea. I say, this tastes rather good, wot. Come on, you two!”

They shrank to the back of the cage, shaking their heads. “I couldn’t bear to touch it!”

“Oh Horty, how could you eat at a time like this?”

One of the rats unwound a whip from about his waist, gave it a sharp crack and shouted at the pair. “Eat or whip!” They were forced to dip their paws in and eat. However, with the prospect of what they were being fed for, the food, as good as Horty said it was, turned to ashes in their mouths.

Fenna and Springald could only manage a small mouthful apiece, but Horty bolted the porridge down until his snout and whiskers were crusted with it.

“Mmmch, no sense in a chap bein’ eaten, grmmfff munch, on an empty stomach. Capital stuff, wot!”

Night fell, bringing a cloudless vault of carnelian blue, dusted with stars. Bragoon lay alongside Sarobando, among some rocky hillocks that skirted the Darrat camp. The otter watched as campfires glimmered low.

“Let the vermin settle down, they prob’ly outnumber us by a couple o’ hundred to two.”

Saro chewed on a dandelion stalk. “What then?”

Bragoon raised his head, risking a glimpse of the camp area. “They’re in a cage, over by that long rocky ledge. We’ll have to work out a plan to break ’em out an’ escape without bein’ seen.”