The Gonfelin Pikehead scowled. “Of course I’m sure, I knows this neck o’ the woods like the back o’ me own paw. D’yer think I’m goin’ the wrong way ’cos me best young daughter’s in trouble, ye daft ould bat!” The logboat scudded over a gravel rift, causing Nokko to sit back hard. Samolus helped him upright.
“Forgive my stupid remark, sir, I’m certain we’re on the right course.”
Nokko shrugged. “Ah, don’t take any notice o’ me, mate, I shouldn’t ’ave spoke to yer that way.”
Gobbo interrupted, “Aye, me da’s just worried about Spingo, so don’t take no notice of ’im.”
Nokko latched onto his talkative son’s snout, twisting it sharply. “Who asked yew t’put yore paddle in, gabbygob? One more word outta yew an’ I’ll stuff yer tail down that mouth an’ pull it out yer ear, me son. So purra nail in it, right?”
Gobbo rubbed his snout ruefully. He was about to have the last word with his da by muttering a smart reply, when Bosie called out from the prow, “Ah think yon’s the hill we’ve been seekin’!”
Sure enough, as the rapids subsided into smoother waters, the broad, tree-covered hump could be seen. It rose up ahead on the port side of the logboats. Dubble squinted hard at it. “Doesn’t look familiar t’me.”
Nokko explained, “That’s ’cos this is the back part. I figgered it’d be safer landin’ on this side. Those carrion birds guard the other side. I’ve seen ’em meself, perched in the trees. Huh, feathery scumwytes, that’s wot I call ’em!”
No sooner did the logboats nose in to moor at a small inlet, than Bisky leapt onto the shore. He raced off uphill as the rest gathered on the bank. Friar Skurpul stamped his footpaws, grateful to be on solid ground once more. “Burr, ee young Bisky bees in a gurt ’urry.”
Drawing his blade, Bosie pointed uphill. “Aye, he’s hurrying tae save the wee lassie, just as we should be doin’, ye ken. Garul, you an’ yore Guosim help yon molebeasts tae transport their tackle. Come as fast as ye can. Hearken, the rest o’ ye, follow me, up an’ o’er the hilltop after Bisky. Stay silent, for we dinnae know what awaits us. Come on, mah braw buckoes. Charge!”
Nokko and Dubble kept pace with Bosie, they thundered uphill. Lances, bows and slings at the ready, Gonfelin warriors, silent and grim-faced, followed them in a life-and-death race to save their Chieftain’s daughter.
34
It was noontide in east Mossflower, with scarce a vagrant breeze to stir the thick, green foliage. Skipper Rorgus called a halt beneath a massive old beech. Dwink, thinking it was for his benefit, protested. “I don’t need to rest my footpaw, I can travel on quite a bit yet, Skip.”
Unshouldering the big provision haversack, the Otter Chieftain sat with his back against the trunk. “Can ye now, Master Dwink, well, I’m pleased to hear it, ’cos I can’t. Foremole an’ me ain’t young uns no more. We likes to rest when we can.”
Foremole nodded agreement. “Boi ’okey we do, zurr. If’n you’m young uns bees so fulled of h’energy, may’aps ee’d loike to surve us’ns sum vittles.”
Perrit placed a paw beneath her chin, and gave a charming little curtsy. “As you wish, O ancient and weary ones.”
Foremole’s face creased in a friendly smile. “You’m a h’imperdent likkle villyun, miz!”
They dined on soft, white cheese, preserved hazelnuts and beechnuts and a flask of coltsfoot and pennycloud cordial.
Dwink ruminated as he sat, watching a bee exploring his footpaw dressing. “Well, there’s over half a day gone since we left the Abbey, with nothin’ to show for it.”
Skipper reassured him. “But we’ve stuck faithful to the clues, aye, an’ searched high’n’low.”
Dwink swiped idly at the bee, as it tried to burrow under his paw dressing. “So we have, Skip. Once we’ve eaten an’ rested, we’ll carry on an’ search some more. I suppose that’s wot a quest is all about, eh? Yeeek!”
Foremole blinked. “Wot’s um matter, maister?”
Dwink was sucking furiously at his paw. “That bee, he stung me!”
Skipper corrected the young squirrel. “‘Twasn’t a he, that were a she. Only female bees carry a sting. Here, mate, let me look at it.” Working on Dwink’s paw with a wooden splinter, the otter shook his head. “You shouldn’t have hit it, the bee didn’t mean ye no harm, she was prob’ly just attracted by the smell of Brother Torilis’s herbal salve. There, that’s got it! Rub a dockleaf on yore paw an’ it I’ll be good as new agin.”
Dwinked complained indignantly, “But I never hit the bee, I just swiped at it, you know, to shoo it off.”
Foremole chuckled. “You’m never can tell with ee bumblybees. Hurr hurr…. Yoooch! Naow Oi been stunged!”
Perrit clapped a paw to the side of her neck. “Eeeeh! Me, too, we must be sitting on top of a nest or something!”
Skipper never shouted out, but he jumped as he was struck on the rudder. He nipped the object out with the splinter he had used on Dwink. Inspecting it, he gathered up the haversack. “Let’s hoist anchor out of ’ere, mates, afore those bees sting us t’death. Come on!”
They followed Skipper, who cut off at an angle into the trees. He ran for awhile, then halted in a willow grove on a streambank. Throwing aside the haversack, he beckoned the others to him, then spoke in a whisper. “Dwink, that was a real bee wot stung ye, but it wasn’t a bee that got me!”
Foremole, who had extracted an object from his stomach where he had been hit, held it out to them. “No, nor Oi, Skip, lookit yurr.”
“Hold still, missy!” Skipper swiftly removed something from the side of Perrit’s neck. He compared all three before giving a verdict. “These are thorns from a gorse bush. If’n I ain’t mistaken, they’re tipped with some sort o’ juice. No bee could’ve done that, we was shot at!”
Dwink whispered back, “Shot at! By who?”
The Otter Chieftain unwound the sling from about his lithe waist. “I don’t know, mates, but I aims t’find the rascal. Stop ’ere, an’ don’t stir ’til I gets back. Oh, an’ miz Perrit, bees live in hives, they don’t make nests.”
Skipper vanished into the trees, like a wraith of smoke on the breeze. Sometimes crouching, crawling on his stomach, alternately hiding behind tree trunks or any available shelter, the otter hunted their foe. He was close to the spot where they had previously stopped, when he heard the voice, low and grumbly. Immobile, Skipper watched from the shelter of a sycamore.
There the creature was, holding a conversation with herself, wagging a blowpipe at her surroundings. A small, scraggly, thin hedgehog, with prickles greyed by age. She was adorned with stems of sphagnum moss, and garlanded by belts, necklaces and bracelets of dead bee husks, all strung together. From his vantage point, the otter listened to her tirade.
“Yeeheehee! Learn they must, you see, a painful lesson. Nobeast trespasses on Blodd Apis’s land, you see. They scream with pain, they run away, that’s how it should be, you see!” She danced off, laughing to herself. However, her joy was short-lived.
As the skinny hog jigged her way past the sycamore, she was caught by Skipper Rorgus. A looped sling landed neatly about her neck, and a javelin prodded her in the back. The otter bellowed at his prisoner, “Move a single spike an’ it won’t be no gorse thorn that’ll strike ye, it’ll be my javelin!”
Perrit had climbed up into a willow to spy the land. She called down to Dwink and Foremole, “Oh, corks and caterpillars, just wait until you see what Skipper’s bringing to tea. Hah, you’ll never believe this!”
The Otter Chieftain had his captive on a tight lead, urging her along with his javelin tip. Skipper tied the sling end to a branch, tethering the hedgehog. He showed Dwink the blowpipe, and a small pouch of darts, which he had taken from her. “This is our stingin’ bee, a right nasty liddle piece o’ work if’n ye ask me!”