“Any of you be High Kappins, eh?” They stared owlishly at one another, then shook their heads. Birug jumped up, performing a dance of rage upon the log. Pointing his spear at them, he screeched.
“Den why you not searchin’, mudbrains? Search! Search! Find dem, y’want me to do everythink, eh? Search!”
They dispersed hastily, trying to look busy and diligent as they probed amid the woodland trees. Birug laid about with his spear shaft, spittle going everywhere as he took out his bad temper on anybeast standing close.
“Hemper Figlugg got bad sore skull, big lump onna ’ead! Dose beasts die slow when I catch ’em. Only make Burcha Glugg out of wot be left of dem!”
Birug hurried over to a rat who had returned to investigate the fallen log. Dealing the unfortunate several hard kicks to the rump, the Kappin screeched hoarsely at him. “Wotcha be doin’, dumbum—y’think they be beetles, hidin’ inna falled treelog? You never be High Kappin, that be sure!”
As Birug chased the rat back to search with the others, Cosbro crept to the log opening and called out in excellent imitation of the gruff Darrat dialect. “Der dey goes! Ober dat way, quick!”
There followed a stampede of pounding Darrat paws, with Birug bellowing as he hastened in pursuit. “Not kill ’em, catch ’em priz’ner, that a h’order!”
As the sounds retreated, the fugitives breathed easier. Springald was visibly shaken. “Good grief, that was a bit close for comfort!”
Saro removed herself from Horty’s face. He was the picture of sputtering indignity.
“Pshaw, phoo! I’ll be spittin’ wodges of your bally tailfur for days t’come, marm. No blinkin’ thanks to you, I was near smothercated, wot! But who am I to complain, chaps? Me flippin’ head’s poundin’, achin’ to blue blazes. There’s a lump like a duck egg on me young skull. The poor old stomach is painin’ an’ swollen from savin’ the ungrateful comrades. An’ to top it all jolly well off, a great lump of a squirrel has been layin’ on my tender young mouth for absolute ages. Phwaaaw, phutt! Never feed your young on squirrelhair, tastes vile!”
Bragoon’s paw shot out, pinching Horty’s nose in a viselike grip. “Are ye finished moanin’, after ye nearly got us all captured, young sir?”
Horty tried to nod. “Yith, juth leggo ob be dose pleathe!”
The otter released his grip, growling threateningly. “One more whimper an’ I’ll pull it right off, so keep quiet!” He turned to question Cosbro. “Ye mentioned Loamhedge in yore poem, mate, an’ Abbess Germaine, too. She ruled there, from wot I’ve ’eard. Loamhedge is where we’re bound for. Any idea which way it lies?”
The ancient rabbit pointed in a general southeast direction. “I can’t be sure, but I’ve always imagined it being somewhere over that way. I’ve heard ’tis savage country—deserts, chasms, wide rivers, and numerous foebeasts.”
Saro nodded. “Aye, me’n Bragoon have seen a bit of it, though that was quite a few seasons back. Over that way, eh?”
Cosbro began moving the vegetation from his log entrance. “When you see a great line of very high cliffs, you’ll know you’re on the right track. Er, by the way, have you any of that excellent cordial to spare? I’m too old to travel now.”
Bragoon passed him a fresh flask. “Take this, friend, an’ thankee kindly for yore help!”
They emerged into calm morning sunlight and fresh, green woodlands.
Saro waved to Cosbro. “Good fortune be with ye, matey. We’ll travel now, while the coast’s clear. You take it easy!”
Cosbro brought something out of his dwelling and gave it to Bragoon. It was a large coil of rope—thin but incredibly strong, with big knots every three pawlengths.
The otter inspected it closely. “Haharr, ’tis a climbin’ rope, an’ a fine one, too. If’n I ain’t mistaken, this’ll come in useful at the high cliffs. Where’d ye get it?”
Cosbro explained. “I made it myself, when I was a lot younger. Never got round to using it, though. I’ve forgotten my dreams of high cliffs long since. You take it.”
Bragoon drew Martin’s sword and held it up in a warrior’s salute. “A gift from a friend is somethin’ to be valued. Thankee, sir, an’ may the seasons be kind to ye!”
To avoid bumping into the Darrat, they set off at a southerly tangent through the woodlands. Cosbro stood watching until they were out of sight. Wiping a paw across his rheumy eyes, the ancient rabbit murmured wistfully to himself, “And may the seasons be kind to you, friends. May the breeze be at your backs, and the sun never in your eyes. Ah me, I wish that I were young enough to go with you.”
The lonely rabbit shuffled back to his home, thinking of the high mysterious cliffs and the lost opportunities of his earlier seasons, now that old age leaned heavily upon him. Cosbro took one last look at the far horizon as he bent to enter the log dwelling.
“Ah well, at least my rope won’t be wasted—if they live long enough to use it.”
21
Martha did not sleep a wink on the night that the vermin were sighted. It was as if some unreasoning panic was welling up in her. Vermin, at the very gates of her beloved Abbey! Restlessly she roamed Great Hall, propelling the little cart which held her chair, by pulling it along with the crutch that Toran had made for her.
Moonlight sent pale shafts of light in varied hues as it shone through the stained-glass windows onto the worn stone floor. Travelling through the patches of dark and light, the young haremaid arrived at the tapestry of Martin the Warrior. She gazed up at the figure of the heroic mouse. It was illuminated by a small lantern on either side.
Martha voiced her fears and worries to her friend. “Oh Martin, what shall we do? Sarobando and Bragoon have left the Abbey, and all on my silly little behalf. Abbot Carrul gave Bragoon your great sword to take with him. I’d stay in my chair forever, if only they were back here at Redwall. The safety of this Abbey and all my friends here is far more important than foolish dreams of being able to walk. With my brother and the other young ones gone, who will help us against the vermin? The very thought of those cruel, murderous vermin getting inside our gates is horrible!”
“Here now, young Martha, what’s all this?”
She gave a start as the Abbot loomed up out of the shadows. “Father Abbot, I thought you’d gone to your bed.”
Carrul sat down on the edge of the cart and looked over the top of his glasses at her. “And I thought you had, too, miss.”
The sound of the main abbey door opening caused them both to pause. The Abbot’s loud whisper echoed around the hall columns.
“Who’s there?”
Toran’s voice replied. “ ’Tis only me an’ Foremole Dwurl, Father. We just been relieved o’ wallguard by Junty Cellarhog an’ Weld.” The pair joined Martha and Abbot Carrul.
Dwurl tugged his snout politely. “Wot bee’s you’m a-doin’ settin’ daown yurr? Shudd be snorin’ abed, ’tis orful late.”
The Abbot put on his wise face. “Oh, we were just discussing a few things, weren’t we, Martha?”
The haremaid managed an important little cough. “Ahem, yes, just small bits of business. What’s it like out there, Toran? Any more news of the, er, vermin?”
The ottercook sat back on his rudder. “No, miss, they ain’t up to much. Their fires are burnt low, I think they’re sleepin’. We’ve been watchin’ the ditch outside the front gate, t’other side o’ the path, makin’ sure they don’t try t’sneak along it.”
Martha asked the question she had been anxious to have answered. “Aren’t you afraid?”
Toran rubbed his wide midriff thoughtfully. “Bless yore ’eart, pretty one, o’ course we are. Only a fool’d say he wasn’t. We’re afraid as any sensible beast should be, but we ain’t scared. Wot I mean is, we’re only afraid for the safety of others—Dibbuns, an’ young ’uns like yoreself. But if’n we got to do somethin’ about it, we ain’t scared o’ vermin.”