“How can you think of sitting there stuffing down food, when our dear little twins are lost? Shame on you, Oakie!”
“Shame a you Oakie!” Dudbdub echoed.
Buckler interrupted. “No, marm, the shame is on us, Diggs an’ I. We should never have allowed a young shrew like Flib to guard your young uns. Leave it to us, eh, mate?”
Diggs declared stoutly, “Indeed, we’re the very chaps for the blinkin’ job, m’dear. We’ll find your infants without delay. Aye, an’ that Flib, too, wot, wot! There’s a young madam that’s in for a severe tail kickin’ when we jolly well catch up with her!”
A gruff cry rang out from the stream. “Ahoy the raft, mateys. Guosim comin’ aboard!”
They poured out of the blockhouse to see a half-dozen shrew logboats heaving to the rail. Each was crewed by ten Guosim, small spiky-furred shrews wearing kilts, broad-buckled belts, short rapiers and multicoloured headbands. From the largest of the vessels, a grey-whiskered but fit-looking shrew hopped aboard the raft.
Making his boat fast with a headrope, he thrust his paw at the troupe leader. “Well, burst me britches if’n it ain’t ole Witherspyk. How are ye, Oakie? Fat an’ well, I ’ope?”
Oakheart shook the proffered paw. “Log a Log Jango Bigboat, as I live’n’breathe. What are you doing in these waters, sirrah?”
Jango got right to the point. “Searchin’ for three lost young uns. Ye haven’t come across any lost Guosim, have ye?”
Dymphnia interrupted, “Indeed we haven’t—we’re looking for three of our own!”
Diggs corrected her. “Two actually, marm. Young Flib was with Buck an’ I, wot?”
Jango set his jaw grimly. “Flib, is she a shrewmaid?”
Buckler answered, “Aye, sir, that she is.”
The Shrew Chieftain nodded. “Well, let me tell ye, ’er name ain’t Flib—she made that up. She was named Petunia Rosebud by me’n’ her ma.”
Diggs stifled a snigger. “Petunia Rosebud? No wonder she bally well changed it, wot.”
Jango shot him an icy stare. “Been nothin’ but trouble since the day she was born, that un. Well, now she’s gone missin’. Aye, an’ so has her younger sister Midda an’ the babe, Borti. He’s only a liddle mite, ain’t ’e, Furm?”
Jango’s wife, Furm, wiped an eye on the back of her paw. “Ain’t seen two seasons o’ daylight yet, pore tiny sprig! But at least Borti’s with Midda—she’s got a grain o’ sense about ’er. Not like that other rascal wot calls ’erself Flib. Huh, Flibberty Jibbet’s wot I’d call ’er!”
Dymphnia Oakheart passed Furm a handkerchief from her sleeve. “Dry those eyes now, dearie. That won’t get our young uns found. You come inside with me an’ we’ll share a pot o’ hot mint tea. As for searchin’ after the missin’ ones, wot d’ye suggest, Mister Buckler?”
The young hare bowed gallantly. “I think we’d be best joinin’ forces, marm. That way we can cover more ground. That’s if Log a Log Jango is agreeable to the idea.”
The Shrew Chieftain hitched up his wide belt. “Aye, ’tis a good plan. We’ll scour the banks from offshore—you concentrate on the last place the young hogs were seen. We’ll meet up back ’ere at midday. Be sure to sound an alarm if’n ye find anythin’.”
Rambuculus shot into the blockhouse, then reappeared brandishing a battered old bugle. “Right y’are, Loggo. Would ye like me to give ye a blast now, just t’see how it sounds?”
Oakheart seized his son firmly by the ear. “I’ll give you a blast ye won’t soon forget, if you start blowin’ on that confounded instrument. Right, form up, troupe, and let’s get to work. Buckler, would you and Diggs take the lead?”
It was midmorning when Buckler led the Witherspyk group out of the trees onto the streambank some fair distance down from the stranded raft. Diggs checked upstream.
“I say, Buck, here comes the jolly old shrew fleet, wot.” Jango and his logboats came drifting slowly down on the unhurried current. He halted his craft by holding on to the branch of an overhanging willow.
“We’ve had no luck up that ways, have ye found anythin’ yet—a sign of either shrews or hogs?”
Buckler explained, “We found tracks leading away from where they slept. Couldn’t be sure, though, might’ve been rats an’ other vermin. Pawprints o’ the little uns had been trampled over, an’ no sign of Flib. We trailed ’em to here, but they fade out on the bankside.”
One of Jango’s scouts examined the faint prints. The Shrew Chieftain watched him closely. “Wot d’ye think, Sniffy?”
Sniffy the Tracker made his report. “Buckler’s right, Chief. Somebeast’s been here. Hard to tell, though—they’ve covered their trail well. They’ve gone into the water, stickin’ close t’the shallows, as far as I kin see.”
Diggs tossed a pebble into the stream. “Point is, which flippin’ way have the blighters gone? Prob’ly downstream, but they might’ve gone upstream just to fool any pursuers, wot!”
Jango scratched his grey whiskers. “Couldn’t have gone upstream or we’d have spotted ’em before we got to the raft. I think downstream’s the best bet. Wot’s yore verdic’, Oakie?”
Oakheart stared downstream to where the water ran out into open country before it looped back into woodland. “A plausible thought, sirrah. Actually, that’s the route we were planning on taking today. Bound for Redwall, y’see. Er, that’s before we had a turn of ill fortune and went aground. Purely through no fault of my own, I assure you,
Streamlass
is jammed tight on the rocks.”
Jango signalled his logboats to dock on the bank. “Hmm, I’m havin’ a few thoughts on this situation. Tell ye wot. Jump aboard an’ let’s git back to yore raft, Oakie. I’ll have a word with the wives. But lissen, all of ye—don’t make any mention of vermin tracks in front of the ladies. Y’know ’ow that sort o’ thing upsets ’em. Leave the rest t’me.”
Furm and Dymphnia were questioning them even before they had boarded the raft.
“Was there any sign o’ my liddle twins—did ye see them?”
“Did ye pick up Midda an’ Borti’s trail? Wot about Flib?”
Diggs was at his courteous best. “Patience, ladies. There was no sign of any young uns, but that’s all t’the bloomin’ good, really. Now, Log a Log Jango has a proposition to discuss with you. By the way, marms, is there any chance of a jolly old bite or two? We’ll eat on the bank while the Guosim crew refloat your craft, wot, wot?”
Whilst the shrews made the raft streamworthy again, the rest sat on the bank lunching on mushroom pasties and celery soup.
Jango explained his scheme. “Now, we don’t know if the little uns are lost or just roamed off someplace, like young uns do now’n’then. Any lost creatures in this neighbourhood always ends up at the same place, Redwall Abbey, right?”
Furm agreed. “Aye, that’s right enough. The Abbey always welcomes lostbeasts, especially young uns. But suppose they’re not there, wot then?”
Oakheart spoke encouragingly. “Then what better place to enquire than Redwall? Have they not got more knowledge of this area than anybeast? Why, ’pon me spikes, I’ll wager Abbess Marjoram will be ready and more than willing to assist us!”
Buckler took the initiative, silencing any doubts by declaring stoutly, “Then there’s no more t’be said, friends. Next stop Redwall, I say. Agreed?”
Everybeast raised a shout of assent, except Diggs, who had a mouthful of pasty—he nodded furiously.
The Guosim lashed their logboats to the sides of the raft. With their combined paddling and a light breeze to swell the sail,
Streamlass
got underway in brisk style. To assure himself that there were no long faces and to avoid speculation about the young uns’ fate, Jango gave the order for his Guosim to give a shanty. This had the added virtue of keeping the paddle strokes in unison. To the tapping of small drums and some fancy headspike work on Oakheart’s Hogalino, the shrews sang out lustily.
“A rum tum tum, a rum tum tum
Oh, pass me a paddle, matey!
“I’ll be sailin’ all me days,
along these good ole waterways,
there’s nothin’ like a gentle breeze,
an’ bein’ alive on days like these.
“A rum tum tum, a rum tum tum,
Oh, pass me a paddle, matey!
“Through woodland thick our logboats ply,
that’s how I loves to see the sky,
a-driftin’ by in sun an’ shade,
round willowy bank an’ leafy glade.
“A rum tum tum, a rum tum tum,
Oh, pass me a paddle, matey!
“Now, I could never understand,
why somebeasts spend a life on land,
an’ never hearken to the call,
of rapids wild or waterfall.
“A rum tum tum, a rum tum tum,
Oh, pass me a paddle, matey!
“An’ when my stream of life runs out,
don’t weep for me or mope about,
just lay me in some ole logboat,
an’ to the sea of dreams I’ll float.
“A rum tum tum, a rum tum tum,
Oh, pass me a paddle, matey!”
The logboats emerged from the woodland fringe onto the heathlands. Buckler and Diggs leaned on the rail of the raft. Several times they had volunteered to wield paddles alongside the shrews. Their attempts elicited some fruity rebuffs from the Guosim, who were convinced nobeast was their equal at paddling.
One wag called out, “Ye wouldn’t need paddles—you two could do the job wid those long ears o’ yores!”
Log a Log Jango rebuked the caller sternly. “Mind yore manners, Fligl, or I’ll take that paddle to yore tail!”
Diggs munched on a pasty he had rescued at lunch. “This is the life, old scout. Hah, I’ll wager General Flackbuth’d go spare if he could see us now, wot!”
Buckler sighed. It was indeed a pleasant interlude, just leaning on the rail taking in the scenery. Bees buzzed around the red clover growing in clumps on the heath. Clouded yellow butterflies winged gaily in and out of the harebells and scarlet poppies. Dragonflies patrolled the stream edges on iridescent wings, guarding their territory from caddis fly and alderfly.
Young Rambuculus joined the hares, pointing to the distant tree fringe off to their left. “We’ll be there by eventide. See the way this stream takes a broad curve? Prob’ly arrive at Redwall some time afore tomorrow evenin’.”
Buckler nodded. “Does this stream flow right to the Abbey?”
Rainbow, the Witherspyks’ resident mole, joined them. “Nay, zurr, she’m stream bee’s a-runnen some ways off. Us’ll ’ave to walk to ee h’Abbey frum thurr.”
Rambuculus explained further, “There’s a liddle dead-end cut-off backstream. That’ll be the closest to Redwall we can get. It’s a good place to stow the raft an’ the shrew-boats, too. Not too far a walk from there, mates.”
Diggs brushed pasty crumbs from his tunic. “By the left an’ the centre, Buck. These chaps have certainly got it worked out, wot! Paddle an’ sail wherever you jolly well can, an’ march as little as bloomin’ possible. Y’know, I think Salamandastron could do with some sailin’ craft, have a sort of navy of its own, wot! That’d be just the flippin’ ticket for me. Think I’ll suggest it to Lord Brang. Admiral Diggs, that could be me!”
Buckler chuckled. “What do you know about sailin’, you great fat fraud?”
Diggs replied indignantly, “Huh, as much as you or any other beast knows. I’ve been lissenin’, y’know. Aye, an’ I’ve learnt a blinkin’ thing or three—I know all the sayin’s an’ commands!”
A shrew who had been eavesdropping from the logboat closest to them called out, “Go on then, rabbet—show us wot ye know!”
Diggs waggled his ears scornfully at the Guosim. “Rabbet, y’self, spikebonce. Right—listen t’this.”
Cupping both paws around his mouth, Diggs called out in what he imagined was true nautical style, “Lower yore tillers, me hearties. Take ’er about an’ swell me scuppers, make fast yore rowlocks an’ forard yore stern, then unfurl yore mastheads—ahoy, mateys, an’ so on. Well, how was that for an old riverdog, eh?”
Log a Log Jango gave him a scornful wink. “That’s enough t’sink any vessel an’ drive the crew mad.”
As predicted, they made the woodlands by midevening, sailing on in search of a likely place to spend the night. The trees were tall, ancient and sombre, blocking out daylight completely—a far different atmosphere from the sunny, open expanse of heathland. Silence shrouded everything, making the surroundings rather eerie. The Guosim lit lanterns, which reflected the gloomy green light of the overhead leaf canopy. Oakheart drove a spiked timber into the shallows, mooring
Streamlass
so she would not run foul of underwater obstacles and get stuck again.
Once everybeast was ashore, things began to jolly up a bit. A long-dead fallen pine upon the bank soon provided a big, cheerful fire. Guosim cooks took over, and from the pooled provisions of themselves, the two hares and the Witherspyk troupe, they provided the travellers with a supper which would have passed muster in most places.
Buckler was concerned about the size of the fire. “Jango, d’you think this blaze could spread?”
The Guosim Log a Log waved a paw at the massive trees surrounding them. Some of their trunks were of great girth and coated in moss.
“These things are so big’n’old an’ damp that ye could light a fire at their bases, an’ it wouldn’t harm ’em. C’mon, sit ye down, Buck. No need to worry over things like that. The beer ’s brewed an’ the bread’s baked.”
Guosim vittles were good; shrewbread had various fillings baked into it, some sweet, others savoury. The nettle beer had been towed along behind the logboats all day. It was cold and bitter, but very refreshing.
Everybeast was enjoying supper when Sniffy, the Guosim scout, began twitching his snout. He sidled over to sit beside Jango and Buckler.
The young hare watched as the scout whispered something to his Log a Log. They held a brief conversation together, then Sniffy beckoned some other shrews. Slowly, casually, they retreated from the camp, vanishing into the surrounding woodland.
Realising something of importance had taken place, Buckler kept his voice low. “Jango, what’s going on? Anything wrong?”
The Shrew Chieftain’s lips barely moved as he murmured, “Keep yore wits about ye, mate. We might ’ave a chance t’see how good ye are wid that long blade o’ yores. Now, don’t make any sudden moves, Buck, but sniff the air—not too deep, though.”