Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Saro drew a small blade. “Haharr, got ye, thief, be still or I’ll slay ye!”

Bragoon crouched with his sword poised, defending his friend’s back against attack. Saro dragged the bundle inside the lean-to, rapping out orders to the trio, who were now awake.

“Grab ahold o’ that. Jump on it if it tries to escape!”

Springald and Fenna held the thing tight. Horty pulled off the covering. It was a small, goldish-brown mouselike beast with a long tail and a white-furred stomach. Temporarily stunned, it lay gazing up at them through huge, dark eyes.

The otter came bounding in; sword upraised he menaced it. “Our food’n’water, where is it? Speak or die, robber!”

The creature gave vent to a piercing cry. “Feeeeeeeeeeee!”

This was followed by a sound from outside, like hundreds of tiny drums.

Saro stepped out of the shelter. “Curl me bush, come an’ take a look o’ this, mates!”

A billowing dust cloud was rising from footpaws drumming the earth. When it settled, a hundred or more of the mouselike beasts stood facing them. They all wore grass cloaks about their shoulders.

Fenna whispered to Saro. “Good grief, what do we do now?”

The older squirrel answered quietly out of the side of her mouth. “Say nothin’. Leave this to me, mate.”

Bragoon emerged from the shelter, dragging his prisoner by the tail. Hoisting the creature up, he swung the sword of Martin. The otter’s voice roared out. “Give us back our food’n’water, or this ’un’s a deadbeast! D’ye understand me? I’ll slay ’im if’n ye don’t obey!”

For an answer, they once again set up a loud drumming with their footpaws: Brrrrrrrrrrr! Then they stood silent, watching Bragoon as the dust settled.

The captive one glared fearlessly up at the otter. “Chiiiiiiirk—kill me! We of the Jerbilrats give nobeast water. Chiiik, sooner give our blood than water!”

Springald was surprised. “Rats? They’re handsome little things. They’ve got beautiful, big dark eyes. They look far too nice to be rats!”

Saro turned fiercely on the mousemaid. “Just shut yore mouth, miss, I don’t care ’ow nice they look. They’ve told ye wot they are—a rat’s a rat, an’ that’s that. Hold yore tongue, an’ leave the talkin’ to Brag!”

The otter yelled back at the massed Jerbilrats. “Hah, so ye can unnerstand me. D’ye think I’m foolin’?”

He struck with the sword, snipping a whisker from the Jerbilrat. As the drumming resumed, Bragoon raised his sword. “Next one takes this robber’s head off. Give us our supplies!”

Fenna whispered urgently to Horty. “He’s not really going to chop off a defenceless creature’s head, is he?”

Horty shrugged. “Simple case o’ survival out here. Either we get the rations back or we peg out an’ perish, wot!”

The Jerbilrat actually smiled at Bragoon. “I die, one less mouth to feed—that saves water. Kill me, riverdog.”

Saro sighed. “Don’t give us much choice, does ’e?”

The otter let his sword drop. “I never slew a helpless beast.”

Saro winked. “I know, mate, we ain’t murderers. Let me try.”

Hauling the Jerbilrat up by its ears, she dealt it a slap. “I know ye ain’t givin’ us our supplies back, but I’ll slap ye round ’til sunset if’n y’don’t tell me where water is.”

Saro made a wavy motion, describing a stream or river. “Water, like this.” She gave the beast a heavier slap. “Talk!”

The Jerbilrat shrugged. “Two days southeast maybe, don’t know.”

Saro struck again. “Then find out, ’cos yore comin’ with us!”

The creature snarled. “I’m Jiboa the Jerchief. I’ll kill you—I’m not afraid to kill, like that riverdog is!”

Saro took a length of rope, knotting it firmly around Jiboa’s neck. She smiled grimly. “Ole Bragoon’s the merciful one, I ain’t so soft ’earted. I don’t take no lip from cheeky-faced rats. Now take us to the water, or I’ll make ye wish my mate had killed ye!”

A swift kick to the rear set Jiboa moving. “Your water might be gone now. Dancing earth can shift streams down great cracks in the ground.”

Saro flicked the rope against the back of his neck. “Ah, go an’ tell that t’the frogs. Ye just get us there.”

Cancelling all plans to sleep by day, the travellers broke camp and set off into the dry, hot morn. They kept glancing back as the entire Jerbilrat pack continued to follow them. When Jiboa thrummed his footpaws, the rats drummed back in answer. He smirked at Saro.

“Feeeeeee! Old toughbeast, eh? Jerbilrats can go without water longer than you and the others. You’ll weaken sooner or later. Then my rats will slay you all, you’ll see.”

Saro jerked the rope sharply, causing Jiboa to fall on his own tail. She winked craftily at him. “Funny ’ow ye can’t do two things at once. Seems every time ye try, then ye fall over.”

Jiboa scrambled upright. “Stupid treejumper, I can walk’n’talk!”

Saro tugged the rope and pulled him over again. “Wrong! Every time you say somethin’ nasty, bump, down ye go. But if’n ye was to shout out that y’can see water, ye’d regain yore sense o’ balance right away. Unnerstand?”

There was neither shade nor shadow when the sun was directly overhead. Horty began complaining once more. “Oh shed a tear for a thirsty young hare, an’ if it’s wet I’ll drink it, wot. I say, you chaps, wouldn’t you just love to wet the old whistle at a cool runnin’ stream? If the odd fish swam by, then one could eat an’ drink at the same jolly old time, wot. Phew, I’m so hot’n’dry that you could make a blanket of my tongue!”

Fenna gave him a sharp nudge. “You’re showing us up in front of those Jerbilrats, moaning and whining like that. They’ll think we’re soft and weak. Now try to behave like a Redwaller, and stop all that nonsense!”

Horty stiffened his ears, saluted and stepped out smartly. “Right, old gel, leave it to Hortwill Braebuck, Esquire. I’ll sing t’the clod-faced old savages, wot, here goes!”

Horty, with his talent for making up songs as he went, launched into an insulting ditty about Jerbilrats. Fenna and Springald giggled as they joined in the refrain at the end of each verse.

“Oh a Jerbilrat’s a creature,

without one redeemin’ feature,

beware of him, pay heed to what I say.

He’ll sneak up on one quite sudden,

and devour one’s pie or pudden,

an’ he’ll rob your bloomin’ water anyday . . . Anyday!

If one ever meets a jerbil,

one must be extremely careful,

an’ keep one’s drinks tight under lock and key,

for ’tis a widely held belief,

that the scruffy little thief,

will sup every single drop quite happily . . . Happily!

For a jerbil’s just a rat,

who has never had a bath,

so be careful that you stay upwind of him.

’Cos the smell would blow one’s hat off,

or put any decent rat off,

an’ kill all the flies around a rubbish bin . . . Rubbish bin!

Jerbil manners are disgraceful,

they’re so spiteful an’ ungrateful,

so arrogant an’ sly an’ so unjust.

Every ugly son an’ daughter,

is a stranger to bathwater,

jerbils wallow round all day beneath the dust . . .

’Neath the dust!”

Horty waved to the Jerbilrats, who were squealing and drumming their footpaws angrily. “What ho, chaps, sorry I can’t warble anymore for you. The old tongue’s all swollen.”

Saro halted Jiboa until the others caught up with her. “This sun is gettin’ too much, let’s take a rest, mates.”

Shading their heads beneath the cloaks, they squatted on the hot earth. Dozing off was unavoidable in the intense heat. Late afternoon shadows were lengthening as Saro was jerked awake. Jiboa had gnawed through the rope. He sped off in a wide arc, trying to get back to the other Jerbilrats.