Rakkety Tam (6 page)

 

“Here am I, the Abbot of all Redwall,

I rule my Abbey with voice and paw.

And who are you, sir, standing there?

Pray tell me now, for I'm not sure!”

 

Foremole spread his paws wide and shouted, “Oi'm a mole!”

Everybeast chorused, “He's a mole!”

The Abbot looked surprised, then continued.

 

“I have a Friar who's an excellent cook,

'tis said he wrote a recipe book,

and two stout mice, our bells to toll,

and you, forsooth, what is your role?”

 

Foremole looked at the audience as he repeated, “Oi'm a mole!”

The onlookers shouted even louder, “He's a mole!”

Humble shook his head, as if he had not heard.

 

“I have a Keeper who guards our gate,

and another who tends our bees,

and a healer to care for any who ail,

but you're not one of these!”

 

Foremole merely pointed to himself as the crowd howled, “He's a mole!”

The Abbot scratched his headspikes and looked bemused.

 

“We've a Cellarhog who brews our drink,

and a Recorder with both quill and ink,

and guards who pace our Abbey wall,

so what do you do, tell me all?”

 

Foremole smiled at his audience, who rose to their paws with a deafening roar. “He's a mole!”

Before the Abbot could reply, Foremole Bruffy held up his paw commandingly. Silence, apart from stifled giggles, fell. He came down off the stool and faced Humble boldly.

 

“You'm got summ faithful creatures, zurr,

but none as true h'as oi.

'Twas moles built cellars under yurr,

an' if'n ee arsks these uthers whoi,

they'm'll tell ee gurtly wot's moi role. . . .”

 

The Redwallers, who had been waiting for this final line with unconcealed glee, stood and bellowed en masse, “ 'Cos there's nobeast can dig a hole like a mole!”

Humble and Foremole bowed and sat down to wild applause. Smiling and shaking paws, they refused pleas for an encore.

 

Outside, the spring night was tranquil, with scarcely a breeze to ruffle the leaves. Twinkling pinpoints of stars dusted dark velvet skies. In solitary splendour, an apricot-hued crescent moon hung over Redwall Abbey, casting
gentle shadows on the ancient stone. From the woven tapestry, the figure of Martin the Warrior stood gazing out between flickering sconces, watching over his citadel of safety and friendship. Whilst far off to the southwest, murder and evil were being committed by a band of vermin, led by a strange beast that had come from the lands of ice beyond the great sea.

Two ermine who had been left behind to repair the big ship upon the rocks watched Rakkety Tam and Doogy Plumm advancing through the dusk. In the ship's bow, the vermin hid, peering through the hole which had been smashed through the hull on its waterline. It was not difficult to see the two squirrels, since they were both carrying lighted torches. Neither of the ermine knew anything about ship repairing, but they were forced to comply, knowing that disobedience to their savage leader meant instant death. From the gloom of their hiding place, they watched the squirrels move closer.

Drawing his sickle-curved sword, the more hefty of the two ermine licked the blade, grinning wickedly. His companion, a tall, thin beast, whispered a warning. “Don't slay 'em straight off. They lives on the coast 'ere prob'ly. Two like those'd be bound t'know about pluggin' the 'ole in this craft an' makin”er seaworthy.”

The hefty one sniggered. “Aye, mate, good idea. Why should we do all the toil? Let these oafs fix the ship first,
then we'll skin 'em, nice'n'slow. I claim the liddle fat 'un. 'Tis long seasons since I tasted a fine plump squirrel.”

His companion nodded his head. “Right, I'll take the other. Huh, wonder wot those two idiots are doin', wanderin' round the shore at this hour?”

Eyes shining with anticipation, the hefty ermine murmured, “Who cares? Nice of 'em t'bring fire along. We won't need t'put flint to steel'n'tinder to make a roastin' fire.”

Moving closer to the edge of the hole in the ship's hull, he whispered to his partner, “Let's go an' welcome 'em!”

As Tam and Doogy reached the ship, the two ermine sidled out onto the rocks with drawn swords. Doogy's paw dropped to the basket hilt of his claymore. “Weel now, will ye lookit, we've got company!”

Tam slid the dirk behind his shield, hiding it from view. He raised his voice, addressing the vermin cheerily. “A good evenin' to ye, sirs. Is this your vessel? Dearie me, in a bit of a mess, ain't it?”

The hefty ermine swaggered forward. Tossing his sword in the air, he caught it skilfully. “Aye, she's got a hole in the bows, as ye can see. But it ain't nothin' that you two bumpkins can't fix up fer us, is it?”

Doogy smiled disarmingly. Ignoring the ermine, he addressed Tam. “Will ye no' listen tae that saucy auld windbag! He thinks we're ship repairers!”

Tam wedged his torch between two rocks. “He's certainly a hardfaced rogue, Doogy. He called us bumpkins. I think we'll have to repair his manners.”

The thin ermine brandished his sword, snarling, “Shut yore mouths an' surrender those weapons. D'ye know who yore talkin' to? We're two warriors who serve Gulo the Savage. Do as yore told an' we might let ye live!”

Doogy stuck his torch alongside Tam's. “Och, ye great string o' seaweed, ah dinna care who yore Chieftain is. Nobeast talks tae Wild Doogy Plumm like that!”

Without further ado, a fight to the death commenced. The thin one swung his blade at Doogy's head, but the
little Highlander moved with a speed which belied his girth. Leaping forward, he swung his claymore in a single, mighty arc. It smashed the blade from the vermin's paw, following through across his throat and despatching him with a single blow. The hefty one closed with Tam, trying to spike him from overhead with a downward sweep of the curved blade. Tam whipped his shield up over his head, deflecting the blow. In the same instant, Tam's dirk took the shocked vermin through the heart in an upward thrust.

Showing no great concern, Doogy enquired as he cleaned his blade, “Did he do any damage tae yore buckler, Tam?”

After inspecting the shield's centre boss, Tam shrugged. “Only a wee dent. This old shield's taken enough of them in its time. Let's search the ship in case there's any more foebeasts lurkin' about.”

Climbing through the rift in the hull, they held up their torches and gazed around. Doogy pulled a face, covering his nose with his tail. “Land's sakes, Tam, the smell in here's enough tae knock a body flat! Ah wonder who Gulo the Savage is—yon vermin spoke his name as though we ought tae know him.”

Tam bent to examine a locker, which proved to be empty. “That's the one Driltig mentioned. He'll be their leader, the beast who goes around eatin' other creatures. He's the lad we'll have to meet up with if we're to get Araltum's banner back.”

Grimacing with distaste, Doogy turned over some mouldy seabird feathers and fishbones with his bladepoint. “Aye, well mind ye speak tae him politely. Ach, there's nae much of any use here, Tam. Let's be rid o' this stinkin' hulk!”

Exiting the ship, they heaved the slain ermine carcases through the holed bow, tossing the lighted torches in after them. Night was fully fallen as Tam and Doogy watched flames and smoke rising. Fire shot up the rigging and through the sails like a hungry beast, sending sparks
crackling into the dark sky. Using the light, Tam cast about until he found pawprints.

“They must've doubled back this way after raiding the groves. There's a whole army here, headin' off north along the shore. Well, Doogy, do we follow 'em now or leave it until dawn?”

Sitting down on some dry sand, Doogy held up his paws to the blaze. “ 'Tis a shame tae be wastin' sich a braw fire, Tam. Let's take a wee bite o' supper an' sleep here, where 'tis warm an' upwind o' the sparks, eh?”

Supper was merely a few apples and some cheese, which they stuck on the points of their swords, toasting them in the glowing prow timbers.

Having eaten, Doogy wrapped his cloak about him, grunting contentedly. “Mercy me, aren't we livin' the life o' kings, Tam. A braw fire in the hearth, a floor o' sand, a roof o' sky an' toasted apples'n'cheese—what more could ye ask for, eh?”

Tam wiped melted cheese from his swordtip, imitating his friend's thick Highland brogue. “Och, yer easy pleased, mah wee Doogy. We've no' got a pretty maid tae sing us tae sleep!”

Doogy gathered a swathe of his cloak about his face like a headscarf. He began twittering in what he fondly imagined was a maidenly voice. “Och, ye saucy great beastie! Dinna fret, ah'll sing ye a wee lullaby!”

Tam groaned in mock despair. “Spare me that, Doogy. Ye look like a boiled pudden, an' ye sound like a toad trapped under a rock!”

He lay back and tried to sleep whilst his friend serenaded him in a gruff bass voice which bore no resemblance to any young maid's.

 

“Oh a beetle maid sat in a glade,

an' she lamented sadly,

‘Mah love's gone off tae fight the bees,

ah'm feared that he'll fare badly.

 

Those bumbly bees are fierce wee things,

wi' stripey shirts an' wee small wings.

Their bottoms carry nasty stings,

they're feisty aye an' buzzy!'

 

Och, mah Berty Beetle looked so stern,

he didnae think 'twas funny,

when ah said that ah'd no' kiss him,

'til he brought me some honey.

He took his club from off the shelf,

an' said tae me so gravely,

‘Ah'll fetch ye honey back the noo,'

an' he marched off right bravely.

 

'Twas some lang time 'ere he returned,

mah poor love injured sorely.

Ah spread him wi' some liniment,

an' listened tae his story.

 

Alas, poor me tae love a fool.

Did naebeast tell this fellow,

those bees that don't wear fuzzy shirts,

are wasps striped black an' yellow?

 

Wi' a hey an' a hoe an' a lacky doodle don,

midst all this shameful fuss.

'Tis not just birds who live in trees,

an' not just bees that buzz!”

 

Tam was snoring before Doogy finished his ballad. The sturdy Highland squirrel glanced huffily at his companion. “Well, thank ye for those sounds of appreciation. Ah'll bid ye a guid night, an' hope that some sparks get blown onto yore unfeelin' tail!”

Scraping sand together into a pillow shape, Doogy laid down his head, allowing slumber to soothe his injured dignity.

Two hours before dawn, both the friends were sound asleep, wrapped in their cloaks and warmed by the glowing
embers not far away. Neither had time to wake, or even stir, when dark shapes pounced on them, swiftly cudgelling them senseless. Tam and Doogy were bundled up in their cloaks and lashed onto long spearpoles, then hurried off north along the beach.

Driftail and his gang of eight were all River Rats, robbers and bullies, no strangers to violence, assassins all. They scoured the rivers and streams far and wide, stopping wherever the pickings looked good. Their strategy was simple—they hid among the waterways, ambushing defenceless travellers, lone wanderers and small families. Any creature who could be easily intimidated became their victim. Of late, life had not been very lucky to the River Rats; prey was seemingly thin on the ground. They were forced to work for a living, fishing the waters and grubbing along the banks for berries, fruit and any edible vegetation. At the moment, they had camped on the inlet of a high-banked broadstream, which wended its way over the heath and flatlands, southwest of Mossflower's vast woodlands.

Dawn was rising as Driftail climbed the sloping bankside to watch for movement amid the scrub and gorse. Behind him, the others were lighting a fire and scratching about to put together some kind of breakfast. Four were trawling the waters for stray fish whilst the others gathered wood and dug for roots. Driftail's stomach gurgled sourly;
he had not eaten for a day and a night. Rising spring dawn in all its beauty was lost on the rat leader. He had seen sunrises come and go, most of them hungry ones of late. Suddenly, his keen eye caught a stirring. Wandering about a flat rocky patch, a stone curlew strode warily in pursuit of insects. The bird pecked at something, lost it and called its soft plaintive cry.
Coooooeeeee!

Driftail could not believe his good fortune. Unwinding the sling from about his lean waist, he selected a few pebbles from his pouch. Crawling stealthily along on his stomach, he tried getting closer to the curlew for an easy shot. The bird froze momentarily, then began walking again, as though it sensed it was being hunted. It paced off in the opposite direction from Driftail, not yet frightened enough to leave the flat rocks where the insects lived. Driftail moved forward a little more, loading a pebble into his sling. Then he crouched and began whirling it. The curlew, immediately hearing the disturbance, did a short hop-skip and winged off into the air. The River Rat leader let the sling wrap around his paw, mentally cursing the lost breakfast. Just then, spying a white fox, he fell flat amid the scrub and watched it approach from the west, oblivious to his presence.

Driftail swiftly backshuffled to the streambank. Sliding down the side, he hissed urgently to his gang, “T'row sand onna fire quick! Arm you'selfs, a lonebeast comes diss way!”

A moment later, all mundane activities had ceased. The rat gang—armed with a motley assortment of weaponry: broken knives, sharpened sticks and stone-topped clubs—crouched below the banktop behind their leader.

Runneye, a rat with a leaking squint, peered over the rim at their intended prey. “Worra sorta beast be that 'un, Drift?”

Driftail grabbed Runneye's tail and pulled him down. “Dat's a foxer, funny white 'un. Gorra curvity sword anna likkle bag o' vikkles, too!”

One of the gang ventured a peek over the banktop. “Mebbe dat foxer be good wirra sword, an' not frykind?”

Driftail hauled the speaker down and cuffed him scornfully. “Gerraravit! On'y one foxer, they's lots of us, we'll lay 'im flat! Dat curvity sword an' de nice belt wot foxer's wearin', dey mine, y'hear?”

He slitted his eyes, glaring fiercely at the gang until they lowered their gaze. Knowing the prizes were his without question, he loaded his sling with a rock the size of his paw. “We all shares de vikkles out.”

The white fox was close to the bankside when Driftail popped up and launched his stone, striking the fox on the side of his jaw. He did not fall but clapped a paw to his face, staggering about half stunned.

Driftail howled triumphantly, “Quicknow, gerrim!”

The gang charged out and mobbed the white fox, dragging him down. A blow from Runneye's club finished the job, knocking the fox unconscious. They bundled him down the bank to the stream's edge.

Driftail dashed down the slope in time to kick one of the gang who was wielding a rusty knife. “Mud'ead, not killim yet, I want words wid diss one!”

Whilst the rats fought over the fox's small ration bag, Driftail relieved his captive of the belt and sickle sword. Grabbing some tough vines, he bound the prisoner's paws together and slung water over the fox's head to revive him.

It took awhile for the strange creature to come around. He struggled briefly with his bonds, then looked up at the ugly, grinning faces surrounding him.

Runneye sniggered nastily. “Heeheehee, gotcha self inna big troubles now, pretty white foxer!”

Elbowing Runneye out of the way, Driftail leaned down and drew the sickle-shaped sword. “Wot name be yer called, foxer?”

The captive glared at Driftail but maintained his silence.

The River Rat tapped the point of the blade on the fox's chest. “Ya be dumb, or jus' shoopid, eh? I be Chief round
'ere! When I axe question, yew answer quick, or I skin yer slow. Wherra ye commed from, foxer? Speak!”

The prisoner stared levelly, unafraid of the rat. “From the land of ice, across the great sea.”

Driftail had never heard of or seen a great sea. He kicked the fox savagely. “Ha, fibba lie! How yew comed, who yew comed wid—eh, eh?”

The white fox replied flatly, “We came in a great ship, a band of us one hundred strong, led by Gulo the Savage.”

Driftail sensed a note of contempt in his captive's voice. He kicked the bound fox several times more. Then he strutted around the streambank, doing a bad imitation of the fox's voice for the benefit of his gang. “Ho yes, I come onna big shippen, wid a strong band of hunnerd, an' Glugo der Sanvage. Hah, we be scared, eh?”

Hoots of derision came from the River Rat gang, taking a cue from their chief's disbelief of the fox's explanation.

One of the rats began pretending that he was all of a tremble. He knelt down by the bound fox, wailing piteously, “Waaaaah, I be reel frykenned. Save me, save me!”

The fox waited for the jeering to die down before he replied, “So ye should be feared, stupid fool!”

Driftail struck him across the face with the flat of his sword. “Yew gorra smart tongue, foxer. Afore I chop it off, tell me, where be all dese hunnerd beast an' yore big Glugo now, eh?”

For the first time since his capture, the white fox smiled. He stared over Driftail's shoulder at the top of the bank. “Right behind you, rat!”

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
Driftail and his gang whirled around at the sound. White foxes and ermine, all armed to the fangs, lined the banktop. Two of them bore a large elaborate banner between them; another two were positioned on each side of an ornate drum. Standing between them, beating the drum, stood a beast straight out of nightmare—Gulo the Savage. He exuded power and ferocity. With eyes glittering insanely and saliva dripping from his bared fangs, he struck the drum one more time.
Boom!
As
he pointed the drumstick at the rats, his army swept down on them, chanting, “Gulo! Gulo! Gulo! Gulo!”

Petrified with fright, the small River Rat gang was swiftly surrounded. This army looked more vicious and numerous than they could imagine. Gulo stalked past them disdainfully, followed by two of his captains—a white fox, Shard, and an ermine, Dirig—and four guards. Further up the bank, they set the stolen standard up and laid the drum flat, where Gulo could sit on it.

Closely guarded, the River Rats were forced to sit on the stream edge, well away from Gulo. They were left to ponder their fate in silence. Anybeast who tried to look up, or whisper, was soundly beaten with spearbutts. After a while, Zerig, the white fox whom they had held captive, came among them.

He seized Driftail by the ears, dragging him free of the rest. Yanking the belt from the rat leader and retrieving his sword, he gestured upstream. “Lord Gulo will see thee now!”

Now that a fire had been lit for him, Gulo perched on the rim of the drum, holding a bulrush stalk over the flames. Spitted on it was the very curlew which had eluded Driftail but had not been so lucky when one of Gulo's ermine had brought it down with a well-aimed arrow. Not bothering to have the bird plucked, Gulo was roasting it. A rank stench of burning feathers hung on the air. The wolverine savage glanced up as Zerig thrust Driftail into his presence. The four guards shoved the rat into a kneeling position within reach of Gulo, who continued his cooking as he eyed the trembling River Rat. Gulo the Savage was well aware that he created this effect in lesser beasts.

Driftail's eyes began flicking back and forth. Betraying his fear, he almost leaped up at the sound of Gulo's harsh, grating tones. “What are ye doing around here, rat? What name do ye go by?”

Driftail strove to keep the shrillness of panic out of his voice. “We lives onna water, fish an' get roots to eat. I be called Driftail . . . Lord.”

The rat's voice faltered as Gulo stared at him. Taking the curlew from the fire, Gulo tested it with a long, sharp claw. “Driftail, eh? Ye ever see one like me passing hereabouts?”

The rat shook his head vigourously. “No, no, never see'd one like you afore round 'ere—on me life, no!”

After pulling the bird off its spit, Gulo took a bite, his wicked fangs ripping through burning feathers and bone into the still raw meat. Without warning, he lashed out with the thick bulrush spit, whipping it into Driftail's face as he roared, “You lie, rat! Where is the Walking Stone? Speak!”

Tears spilled from Driftail's eyes as he nursed his stinging face. “Lord, I not lie. Wot be Walkin' Stone?”

The bulrush whistled through the air, again and again, each time followed by Driftail's pitiful screeching. Gulo the Savage threw aside the broken rush stalk. Digging his claws into the rat's narrow chest, he dragged him forward. Bringing his face close to Driftail's ear, Gulo rasped, “I'll ask ye again, rat, an' this time ye'd best tell me what I want to hear!”

Driftail's face was a mask of frozen agony as his interrogator's claws pierced his hide. Gulo hissed, “The beast who was like me—when did he pass by here?”

Driftail was not stupid; he knew he had to say something to keep himself alive, so he resorted to a lie. “Aaaaargh! T'ree, no, four night ago, diss beast pass 'ere, goin' to d'east!”

Gulo tightened his cruel grip. “The stone he carried with him . . . of what size was it?”

Driftail quickly reckoned to himself that, if anybeast were to carry a stone on a long journey, it could not be too huge. He babbled on, hoping to buy himself some time. “Not bigga stone, only der size of, er, er, apple!”

Gulo's voice dropped to a whisper. It sounded like a blade scraping across glass. “Those who lie are bound to die!”

Runneye and the other rats, having heard the screams, huddled together in alarm. The same white fox, Zerig,
came with the four guards. He pointed to Runneye. “Bring this one next!”

Lifted clear off the ground, Runneye was borne away, whimpering, “I never did no'tink! Driftail be's Chief!”

The River Rat was flung roughly to the ground, landing facedown, not daring to look up. However, he was compelled to obey the voice of his captor.

“Look at me, rat, I am Gulo the Savage!”

One terrified glance from Runneye told him all. The rat was staring into the face of a living nightmare. An image flashed through Runneye's mind of an unfledged sparrow facing a serpent. Gulo's sadistic nature revelled in tormenting those he held helpless. “What name be ye called, rat?”

Gulo watched, amused by his victim's stammering. “R . . . R . . . Runneye.”

The wolverine spat out fragments of scorched feather. “Tell me, what do ye eat?”

It was a strange question. Runneye tried to compose himself and answer as best he could. “Fishes, bird egg, mebbe bird if'n we catch 'im. Most time jus' der roots'n'berries.”

Gulo leaned forward. The smile that crept over his evil face was not a pleasant sight. Runneye caught a whiff of his fetid breath as the savage whispered, “Do ye know what is the best of food? Can ye tell me what Gulo and his warriors like to eat, can ye guess?”

Puzzled, the River Rat shook his head. “No.”

The wolverine bared his awesome fangs. “We eat anybeast that moves. Birds, fish, snakes . . . rats.”

Runneye's good eye widened as he mouthed the word “R . . . rats!”

Gulo nodded, his savage eyes glittering insanely. Runneye gave a strangled moan and fainted with fright.

The wolverine kicked the senseless rat. “Take this weak fool and feed him to my warriors. Bring the next one here!”

The handsome white fox, Shard, who was Gulo's leading captain, was standing behind the drum. He leaned over
and spoke respectfully into his master's ear. “Methinks we will learn nought from these creatures, Lord. Thy power over them is so terrible that they cannot talk. Soon ye will have slain them all.”

Gulo growled impatiently, but he heeded Shard's counsel. “So, what would thy method be, Shard?”