The smoothsnake positioned herself in front of the larger crow. “Look into my eyesssss…look deeeeeeep!” The bird was compelled to obey. He stared in fascination at the two gold-rimmed, black-beaded reptilian eyes. The snake’s head moved back and forth as it intoned, “Deeeeeep…look deeeeeeep! All you have to fear isssss death itsssself…. Sssspeak to Sicarissssss!”
The carrion crow fell immediately under the snake’s spell. He spoke slowly in a dreamlike voice. “We were afraid for our lives…hid in the ditch. Those were the words I heard. I wanted to return…wanted to report words to Leader Veeku.”
The snake’s tongue flickered toward the other crow. “And thissss one, what did he want? Ssssspeak!”
The larger crow replied automatically, “He did not want to come back, but I said we must.”
With eye-blurring speed, Sicariss whipped her coils about the smaller crow’s neck and began bunching her muscles, constricting in a death grip. Korvus turned to look at Veeku. The crow leader clacked his beak.
“Kayaah, there is only one reward for disobedience!”
The smaller crow flapped and rent the air with his claws, gurgling. Then he went limp. Sicariss swiftly loosed her victim, sliding slowly up the big raven’s outspread wing until she regained her former position on the tyrant’s head. Korvus went back to his perch on the rock, nodding to Veeku.
“Welzz awaits him.”
The carrion crow leader thrust the dead one into the pool’s icy waters, leaping back as the monster fish struck.
Veeku waited until Korvus was finished watching the revolting spectacle, then spread his wings in salute. “Yarrra, Great One, this lowly bird awaits your orders.”
The raven and his snake seemed to hold a whispered conversation. Then Korvus turned to Veeku. “This time I will send my Wytes to the Redstone house, they will bring me what I want. You will go with them, but stay outside the place. This is what I want you to do, listen carefully.”
Outside it was still raining, with no sign of a break in the dull, brooding clouds. The dark beast lurking on the hill outside the caverns had watched all the comings and goings, of both birds and reptiles. No movement from below escaped its fierce, vigilant eyes. Whenever there was no activity from below, the mysterious creature would continue its demolition of the heavily forested slope, using tools it had fashioned roughly, digging and gouging implements. Beneath its jet-black coat, the beast’s sinews and muscles flexed and strained as it attacked the rain-soaked earth, levering loose rocks and boulders, and severing tree roots. It was a formidable task for one creature alone, but the worker toiled on doggedly. It might take seasons of labour, but the dark beast would accomplish the task, because it was driven, regardless of its own life, by the quest for vengeance!
6
That strange mountain hare, the Laird Bosie McScutta of Bowlaynee, was highly impressed at the magnificent spread of afternoon tea laid out in Great Hall. Having been introduced to all and sundry, he shook Friar Skurpul’s paw soundly. “Och, ye had nae need tae put on a special spread for me, mah guid fellow.”
The Friar grinned cheerily. “Nay, zurr, Oi b’aint dun nawthin’ speshul furr ee. This’n yurr bees moi yooshul arternoon Abbey tea.”
Abbot Glisam patted the seat on his right side. “Please sit down and help yourself, Bosie.”
Everybeast present stared in amazement as the warrior bard applied himself unsparingly to the food, commenting between mouthfuls. “Is that nutbread ye have there, aye, an’ celery cheese, too? Jings, there’s nought like it, wi’ a dab o’ honey, some slices of apple an’ a leaf or two o’ lettuce. Ah’m verra partial tae it, ye ken.”
Using the nutbread as a base, Bosie built himself a sandwich of epic proportions. “Mmmff gruch grrulp! Would ye like tae pour me a beaker o’ yon mint tea, mah wee lassie?”
The squirrelmaid Perrit obliged willingly. “Careful, sir, it’s hot. There’s October Ale or Pale Summer Cider, if you’d like something cooler.”
Hot mint tea did not seem to bother Bosie, he swigged off the beaker at a single gulp. “Weel, that hit the spot nicely. Ah’ll take a tankard o’ yore ale, an’ mebbe one o’ yon cider. Och, Ah’m thinkin’ ’twould be a sensible scheme, if’n ye were tae hire me as wee bairn rescuer tae your Abbey. Would ye no consider it, Father?”
Glisam sliced into a warm scone. “I’d not deny you the position, if you so wish it, friend. Though it isn’t every day you’d be called on to rescue Dibbuns from carrion birds.”
Bosie ploughed through a plum pie reflectively. “True, true, but if’n yer foes knew that Laird McScutta o’ Bowlaynee was guardin’ the entire Abbey, och, the rascals would be afeared tae come near. Anybeast knows Ah’m a braw, bonny warrior o’ wide repute. As for mah needs, Ah’d bother ye little, Father. A place tae rest mah heid, an’ six square meals a day—not countin’ snacks an’ supper ye ken, we McScuttas are noted as frugal creatures. So what d’ye say?”
Abbot Glisam buried his nose in a beaker of pennycloud cordial, trying hard not to burst out laughing. Calming himself, he turned to Sister Violet, seated nearby. “Hmm, that sounds fair enough, what’s your opinion, Sister?”
The jolly hedgehog Sister replied promptly, “Oh no, don’t drag me into it, Father, go and ask Friar Skurpul, vittles are his responsibility. Er, excuse me, Laird Bosie, I see you own a musical instrument. Perhaps you’d like to play or sing for us.”
The hare left off licking an empty meadowcream bowl. “Aye, ’twould be mah pleasure, marm. Clear the floor!” With a bound he was up, tuning his fiddle-like instrument. Holding it at waist height, he drew the short bow across its strings. Bosie launched into a pleasant, lively air. The lyrics were hard to understand, being in the Highland dialect. As he sang, Bosie danced a jig, his huge footpaws and flailing legs whirling at odd angles. The music was so lively that many Redwall paws began tapping, particularly the Dibbuns, who considered themselves the very cream of dancing beasts.
“A braw wee beastie tramped o’er the hill,
Red Jemmie was his name sir,
tae pay some court tae a bonny young maid,
who dwelt hard by the burn there.
Sae skirl the pipes an’ rosin mah bow,
an’ Ah’ll sing all the day,
is the wit, the heart or the belly tae rule?
Ah canna truly say.
Bold Jem he came tae the wee lassie’s door.
‘Are ye within, mah darlin’?’
She yelled, ‘Awa’ ye roguey scamp,
how dare ye come a callin’.’
Well skirl mah pipes an’ rosin mah bow,
och, are ye afear’t tae play?
Does a girlie’s nay mean yea mayhap,
or does her yae mean nae?
She’s barred the door on puir young Jem,
she’s spinnin’ by the fire,
an’ left him langin’ in the cauld,
far frae his heart’s desire.
So skirl mah pipes an’ rosin mah bow,
’tis aye mah golden rule
that Ah will sing an’ dance an’ woo,
but Ah’ll be naebeast’s fool!
Now Ah’m awa’ tae mah wee bit hame,
havin’ suffered enough ill will,
an’ Ah’ve commandeered yore mammy’s pie,
frae off yon windowsill.
Aye, skirl mah pipes an’ rosin mah bow,
Ah’ll relish every bit,
for ’tis many the maid may rule mah heart,
but mah belly commands mah wit!”
Brother Torilis picked up two Dibbuns, who had been cutting a fancy jig upon the tabletop. Stern-faced, he wiped honey from the little ones’ footpaws before placing them down on the floor. “Really, Father Abbot, do we have to put up with this sort of rowdiness at mealtimes? All this shouting, singing and dancing, it isn’t very dignified. I think it sets a bad example!”