Brian Jacques - Redwall #16 - Triss

Come t’the bars, Welfo. You too, Shogg. I’ll hold this while ye sup it. lis some ‘ot veggible soup we made out o’ bits of this’n’that. ‘Tain’t much, but it’ll keep the life in ye.

Heads up, mouths open, they stood side by side whilst Drufo shared the soup out, pouring it, still hot, straight into their mouths. It was meagre stuff, cobbled together with a few pawfuls of grain, turnip, carrot and some wild onion.

Triss had never tasted anything so delicious. They held their mouths open like young fledglings being fed by a mother bird, until the last precious drop had gone.

Sorry that’s all I could manage for ye, Drufo apologised.

Triss felt new life coursing through her. What’s happening inside Riftgard? What’ve you heard, Drufo?

The old squirrel pulled himself to the river side of the cage, so that he could not be seen from the bank. I follered Cap’n Riftun up t’the throne room an’ got me ear close to the door. Good’n’close, Triss. Agarnu was talkin’ to Kurda an’ Bladd, an’ Riftun, too. So, ‘ere’s the gist of it. We’ve got t’get you out o’ this cage, one way or another, quick!

‘Cos instead o’ turnips, Kurda plans on usin’ you three for ‘er sword practice. I don’t like t’bring bad news, but that’s ‘ow ‘tis goin’t’be!

Shogg began shaking the cage bars. Then wot’re ye waitin’ for, Drufo?

Get us out of ‘ere, now!

Welfo clasped Triss’s paw anxiously. But what’ll we do then? They’ve prob’ly smashed our escape boat up. We’ve got no food, no weapons, an’

no place to hide. Riggan the slavecatcher will hunt us down. We’ll be dragged back here for Kurda to slice up with her swords!

Triss had to stifle her friend’s mouth with a paw before she started to get hysterical. Hush now, I’m sure Drufo has a plan. Panicking will get us nowhere. Er, you have got a plan, haven’t you, Drufo?

The old squirrel bit his Up and shrugged. It ain’t much of an idea, but ‘tis yore only ‘ope.

He fumbled an object through the bars to Triss. It was a file, rusted, broken and old, with a piece of rag where the handle once was.

I risked me life getrin’ that. My old bones won’t take this icy water much longer, but ‘ere’s wot you must do. Once you’ve filed through the bars, yore only ‘ope is to steal the King’s new boat an’ sail away to someplace they’ll never find ye. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for ye, Trissy, but that’s it.

You did all you could, old friend. We’ll manage. Now get yourself out of this fjord and back inside before you freeze to death.

Drufo took her paw and clasped it fervently. Yore the model of yore dad, missy. Good luck an’ fortune be with ye!

5

Far from the Northlands and Riftgard, beyond the great seas, dew glinted off the leaves as a warm spring day dawned over Mossflower Wood. Bikkle was still asleep, curled up beneath the beech trunk, covered by last autumn’s dead leaves. Ruggum, however, was up and about, as the molebabe’s confidence had returned with the advent of daylight and sunshine. He dug up coltsfoot roots and found more whortleberries and young dandelion buds. Trundling back to the fallen tree trunk, he wakened his little squirrel friend by tickling her nose with a stem of hedge mustard plant.

Yurr, waken ee oop, gurt dozeychops, oi finded brekkist!

Bikkle rubbed her eyes with grubby paws, sat up and scratched her bushy tail. Hl’m firsty!

Ruggum reached up and grabbed a low-hanging wych hazel branch. Shaking it, he drenched Bikkle’s head with dew, chortling, Hurr hurr, you’m

‘ave a gudd drink, moi dearie!

Bikkle seized another branch and sprinkled him back. They giggled and chuckled, splashing one another with dew and rolling in the dead leaves.

The breakfast was not a roaring success. Bikkle lost notime in telling her friend, I still hung’y, that not nice brekkist, me like warm pasties an’ strawbee juice. When are us goin’ back to the H’Abbey?

Ruggum lay on his back, gently kicking the wych hazel twigs and catching the water in his open mouth. We’m losted. Dunno ee way back to H’Abbey.

Oi ‘speck they’m come a looken furr us’n’s afore long. Whichaways de ee thinken Red’all bee’s, Bikk?

The Dibbun squirrel pointed with her tail. West norf h’east, dat way ...

me fink.

They set off in the direction she had indicated, neither of the two babes feeling very confident.

But it was a warm bright day, almost summerlike, and the anxiety they were causing did not occur to their infant minds. Along the way they found other things to eat and a small stream, where they drank their fill and had a good old paddle.

Gurdle Sprink had discarded his heavy apron and climbed the cellar stairs for the third time that morning. Puffing and panting, the Cellarhog made his way out into the orchard, where he sat down on an upturned wheelbarrow, next to Malbun.

That’s the fourth time I’ve searched those cellars o’ mine. Still not a whisker of those two rogues t’be seen.

The Healer Recorder beat dust from her faded green habit. I’ve been scouring the gatehouse since the crack o’ dawn without any luck whatsoever. Where can they be?

Crikulus, the ancient shrew Gatekeeper, approached. Move up there, Gurdle, my old paws are weary from rootin’ round the dormitories, an’

me back is broken in ten places from crawlin’ round under beds. What a pair o’ pickles those Dibbuns are. Ho there, Memm Flackery, any-thin’

new? The fat Harenurse dug a few warm almond scones from her apron pocket and munched on them worriedly.

Nope, ‘fraid not, old lad. That rotten Gooch won’t jolly well let me search his kitchens anymore! Huh, cooks are like that, ain’t they? Heard the Abbot tellin’ Skipper to round up his otters for a woodland search, though I can’t think for the bally life o’me how the little scoundrels slipped out, wot?

Abbot Apodemus stood at the gate, calling advice to Skipper and two stalwart young otters as they set off north up the path. Find a stream if you can. See if there are any Guosim shrews about, they may have seen our Dibbuns.

Skipper waved his javelin in the air, acknowledging Apodemus. Right y’are, Father Abbot, though if’n shrews ‘ad found ‘em, they’d prob’ly brought ‘em back ‘ere long since. Tis worth a try, though. Don’t fret yoreself, mate. We’ll find Ruggum’n’Bikkle if’n they’re out there. Go in, an’ keep those gates closed now.

The sunny day clouded slowly. It was late afternoon when the two little runaways decided they were even more lost than they had been. All around them the silent vastness of Mossflower seemed to be closing in. Ruggum was making plans for the oncoming darkness.

Hurr, Bikk, us’ns b’aint a-getten caught out in ee open when it bee’s dark, burr, nay marm. We’m lukk abowt furr ee cumfy likkle den an’ camp in thurr, all safe an’ cozy loike.

Bikkle was forced to agree. She pointed off to the sky eastward. Lookit dem clouds, might rain by dark.

Even though they were only Dibbuns, the tiny creatures had instinctive feelings about weather conditions. Wandering farther into the woodland, Ruggum held up a pudgy digging claw.

Oi’m thinken ee bee’s roight, Bikk, breezes starten to move ee treetops.

Us’n’s best foind ee gudd cover, hurr, by ‘okey aye!

As often happens with springtide weather, the change was sudden. Low breezes gathered force, scurrying through the random ranked trunks of oak, beech, alder,sycamore, elm and other forest giants. The tree canopy began swaying, creating a forceful rustling of twig, branch and leaf.

Paw in paw, the two little ones ran through the gusting woods, afraid of being outside the Abbey walls, which represented safety, peace and home. Late noontide darkened as lowering clouds raced to cloak the previously bright day. After an all-too-brief spit-spot of damp, the rains came sweeping in, thick and heavy, driven by the gale, slanting through the leafy canopy and drenching the loamy ground.