Brian Jacques - Redwall #05 - The Legend of Luke

The bone-handled scimitar flashed skillfully, grazing Luke's ear. There was no mistaking the menace in Vilu's voice. "Sure enough, you will steer the Goreleech,chained to the wheel, with this blade at your throat!"

Luke's smile was wintry as the weather outside. "I'll look forward to it, but don't make it too easy for me, will you?"

Vilu's teeth ground audibly as he snarled to the guards, "Get this defiant fool out of my sight!"

As he was hustled from the cabin, Luke managed to put a chuckle in his voice. "Defiant yes, but a fool . . . never!"

When they had chained Luke back to his oar, Ranguvar murmured out of the side of her mouth, "When do we make our move? Everything's ready. I got word that the top deck cut their last chain while you were gone."

Luke pondered the question before replying. "Sometime tomorrow, maybe evenin', I've a feeling we may sight the headland by my old home. I'll be up on deck with Daskar probably. If my tribe see the red ship, they'll be ready for trouble, so we can count on help from them."

Ranguvar had to wait while Bullflay walked past down the aisle, toward the oarslaves at the stern end.

"So, if yore on deck, how will we know, Luke?"

"Hmm, good question, mate. I know, we'll have Beau or Vurg make their way up near the prow. If they hear me shout 'Dead ahead,' that'll be the signal to take over the ship. But if I shout 'Veer north,' you must do nothing. I'll be chained to the ship's wheel by then. Sit tight an' wait until I get word to you."

Ranguvar paused as Fleabitt strode sternward.

"Got it. If Vurg or Beau tells us 'Dead ahead,' the attack is on, but if the message is 'Veer north,' we wait!"

The two messengers in question were undergoing severe hardships. Beau and Vurg were freezing and soaking from the cold weather and pounding seas. Huddled together beneath layers of stolen blanket and sail canvas, they clung grimly to the raft, which was lashed to the Goreleech'slower stern. The hare poked his head out of the wet jumble, catching the backlash of a big wave. He retreated back down, wiping his face on the damp blankets.

"By the bally cringe, old lad, can't last much longer in these inclement latitudes, wot?"

Vurg closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but Beau persisted.

"My jolly old auntie'd say it's cold enough to whip the whiskers off a mole an' wet enough t'drown a lobster. Cold'n'wet wouldn't be so blinkin' bad if I wasn't flippin' well starvin' t'death. What would you sooner do, Vurg, freeze t'death, drown t'death, or starve t'death?"

The mouse opened one eye and murmured, "You didn't say wot wot."

"Wot wot? Why the deuce should I say wot wot?"

Vurg smiled sleepily. " 'Cos you always say wot wot!"

Beau's ears stood rigid with indignation. "I beg your very pardon, sir, I do not. Wot wot? I was merely speculatin' on our demise. I said, would you rather freeze t'death, or drown t'd"

Vurg interrupted him rudely. "I heard what you said first time. Hmph! Freezin' drownin' or starvin' wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't already bein' nattered t'death. Don't you ever stop natterin', mate?"

Beau's indignation switched to injured innocence. "Well, chop off m'tongue, pull out m'teeth an' sew up m'lips. I'll put a cork right in it an' quit assaultin' your dainty shell-like lugholes, old bean. Far be it from me to try an' make companionly conversation with a friend facin' adversity. Not another word, m'lips are sealed!"

Vurg immediately felt sorry for his garrulous companion. "Take no notice of me, Beau, I'm just feelin' sorry for myself. You carry on, wot wot!"

The hare chuckled and ruffled his friend's ears. "Well of course you are, old mouseymate, that's why fate threw us t'gether like this, so I could jolly you up whenever y'feel down in the dumps. My dear old auntie taught me a song about such situations. I say, shall I sing it for you? Cheer you up no end, wot?"

Vurg turned his head aside and pulled a wry face. "Oh well, seein' as I can't escape the sound of yore voice, I s'pose I'll have to listen. At least it'll scare any sharks away if they're hangin' about. Sing on, Beau."

Needing no second bidding, Beau launched into his auntie's song, ears clasped in traditional hare manner.

"When you're feelin' down an' glum,

Don't just sit round lookin' dumb,

Sing tickety boo a fig for you, wot ho fol lah!

'Cos there's time for all that gloom,

When you're dead an' in the tomb,

Sing tickety boo a fig for you, wot ho fol lah!

When 'tis rainin' all the day,

An' the skies are dirty gray,

An' you've ate the last plum pudden off the shelf,

Jig an' caper in the wet,

You'll be better off I bet,

Than pullin' faces, feelin' sorry for yourself.

Oh tickety boo a fig for you, wot ho fol lah!

These few words will cheer you up an' take you far,

Not like that old frumpy duck,

Or a frog who's out of luck,

Or the little maggot who has lost his ma, ah ah ah ah aaaah!

If you laugh there'll be no rain, An' the sun'll shine again,

Then your dear old aunt will bake you apple pie,

So when hedgehogs learn to fly,

Fish will quack an' wonder why?

Tickety boo a fig for you, never say die aye aye,

Aye aye, aye aye, aye aaaaaaaaaaaaaye!"

Vurg threw himself on Beau, stifling his efforts. "What are you tryin' to do, attract the attention of the entire ship's crew?"

That put Beau into a sulk. He wrenched himself away from Vurg, working himself into a huff and muttering, "Huh, bouncin' on a chap just as he's reachin' top note, jolly dangerous thing t'do, wot? An unexploded phrase might've backfired down m'neck an' fractured me warbler. Little you'd care, though. An' I still had another three verses t'sing. There was the line in the second verse about a toad losin' his trousers up a tree, very movin' an' profound part o' the ditty. But I ain't goin' to sing it now. What's the use of one chap singin' to cheer another chap up, if the other chap keeps jumpin' on the first chap's head? Bad form I'd say, ungrateful wretch!"

All that evening and throughout the night, the slaves were forced to row, though only at quarter speed in the wild northern seas, whose tides, rocks and currents had sent many a vessel to its doom. Fleabitt pounded his drum slowly, with a monotonous regular cadence, and Bullflay dozed fitfully, only striding the aisle when he felt the need to stretch his paws. Luke pulled the heavy oar alone, spray whipping through the oarport at odd intervals to wet his face. Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind, now that he was near to his old home.

Thoughts of his son Martin raced through the Warrior's imagination. He would be tall now, quick and strong, with the blood of a leader and a fighter flowing in his veins. Martin would know what to do, the moment the Goreleechwas sighted. He would get the old and feeble, along with those too young to do battle, together. Having hidden them safely, Luke's son would do as he had been taught by his father: gather together the strong ones, arm them and come to his father's aid, wielding the very sword Luke had passed on to him. As the slaves broke loose and fought to gain control of the red ship, Luke would run her into the coastal shallows, causing the vessel to heel over. He would hail his son from the ship's wheel. Once Martin heard the voice of his father, he would come hurtling through the shallows at the head of his fighters to board the Goreleech.Then Vilu Daskar and his murderers would pay dearly for their monstrous crimes.

Ranguvar Foeseeker's whisper reached Luke, and he looked across at the fierce creature.

"Are we close to the place where you left your son?"

"Not too far now I ' Luke murmured as he pulled at the oar. "I feel it in my bones, friend."