It was a cruel and forbidding outlook, the wasteland stretching all around, flat, silent and gloomy in the nighttime darkness. After what seemed like an eternity, daylight showed on the eastern horizon, a pale, misty mixture of dove-grey and orange.
Bragoon watched the faint apricot edge of morning sun slowly rising. He spoke softly. “That’s a pretty sight, ain’t it, mates?”
Horty hardly gave it a second glance. “Pretty, y’say? Pretty bloomin’ awful if y’ask me, wot. I’d swap the blinkin’ lot for a drop of water! Can’t we stop now? You said march by night an’ sleep durin’ the day. Well, there’s the jolly old day, an’ I’m pawsore an’ weary. So let’s lay the old heads down, eh chaps?”
Saro pushed him onward. “Not just yet, we’ve got to keep goin’ while ’tis cool. When the day gets hot, that’s the time for sleep. The more ground we cover, the sooner we’ll be out o’ this wasteland. Keep marchin’, don’t stop now.”
None of the travellers wanted to, but they carried on, knowing that it was the only sensible thing to do.
By midmorning, the sun was beating down remorselessly as small dust spirals danced on the hot breeze. There was still no sight of trees or streams amid the dun-hued wastes.
Bragoon finally halted. “We’ll rest here until late afternoon!”
Saro began setting up a lean-to with cloaks and staves, weighting the cloak edges down with pieces of rock.
Horty raised a dust cloud as he slumped down. “If I could only lay paws on the rotters who swiped our grub’n’water. By the left! I’d kick their confounded tails into the middle o’ next season, wot!”
Bragoon rested on his stomach in the small patch of shade. “Don’t think about it, mate, yore only makin’ things worse.”
Springald looked back at the ground they had covered. “Funny how the land seems to wobble and shimmer out there.”
Fenna curled up and closed her eyes. “That’s just the heat on the horizon. It’s a mirage, really.”
Saro shielded her eyes, peering keenly at the spectacle. She nudged the otter, directing his attention to it. “Don’t look like no mirage to me, wot d’ye think, Brag?”
Bragoon squinted his eyes and watched intently. His paw strayed to the sword which lay by his side. “It might be just the heat waves, but it seems t’be movin’ closer toward us. Then again, it could be the earth dancin’. Remember the ground shakin’ like that the last time we was in this territory, Saro?”
The squirrel never let her gaze waver from the shimmering. “Aye, it made a rumblin’ sound, too.”
Horty laughed wildly. “Hawhawhaw! Just listen to ’em, chaps. We’re in the middle of bally nowhere, bein’ baked alive, not a flamin’ drop t’drink or eat. Now what, the ground has to start bloomin’ well dancin’! Am I goin’ off me flippin’ rocker, or is it those two ramblin’ duffers, wot?”
Bragoon and Saro exchanged glances, then went back to their watching.
Horty, however, would not be ignored. Gesturing with his paws, he flopped his ears dramatically.
“They’re tellin’ me the ground’s doin’ a jig. An’ here am I, without a pastie to shovel down me face or a bucket o’ cordial to wet me parched lips! Ah, lackaday an’ woe is the handsome young hare, languishin’ out here an’ losin’ me mind! I’m goin’ mad, mad I tell ye! Stark bonkers an’ ravin’ nuts! ’Tis the dreaded thirstation!”
Springald shook her head. “Thirstation? Shouldn’t that be thirstiness, or just thirst?”
Bragoon whispered to Saro. “That couldn’t be the earth dancin’, or we’d have felt the rumbles.”
Horty continued with his tirade. “Rumbles, rumbles? How could benighted buffoons such as you know about the rumblings of a sad tragic hare, whose life is bein’ cut short by the contagious thirstation an’ tummyrumbles?”
The otter’s tail caught him a firm thwack across the rear. “Shuttup, young ’un, get to sleep an’ quit yore shoutin’!”
Horty subsided meekly, but still muttered to have the last word. “Beaten by the bullyin’ Bragoon into shallow slumber. Goodnight, fair comrades, or is it good day, wot?”
Within a short time, the three young ones were asleep. Sarobando was dozing, too, but Bragoon lay on his stomach, chin resting on both paws. Through slitted eyelids he scanned the wastelands to the rear of the lean-to. They drew closer. Now he could distinguish them, not as heat shimmers but as small, patchy bumps. Moving silently, betrayed only by odd puffs of dust, they edged nearer. Then they halted. One bump detached itself from the pack and advanced.
Saro came awake as Bragoon touched her ear. He nodded toward the moving object, twitching his tail against the squirrel’s footpaw. Saro prepared herself, knowing the signal well. One . . . Two . . . On the third twitch they both attacked. Springing in the air and leaping forward, both beasts threw themselves bodily on the thing. It squeaked aloud. Immediately the ground came alive. Squeaking and whistling, hundreds of small shapes raised an enormous dust cloud as they fled. The captured one wriggled and bit madly, but it could not escape its captors. It was disguised by a cloak woven from tough, coarse grass. Bragoon and Saro swiftly wrapped it into a bundle, trapping the beast within.
Saro drew a small blade. “Haharr, got ye, thief, be still or I’ll slay ye!”
Bragoon crouched with his sword poised, defending his friend’s back against attack. Saro dragged the bundle inside the lean-to, rapping out orders to the trio, who were now awake.
“Grab ahold o’ that. Jump on it if it tries to escape!”
Springald and Fenna held the thing tight. Horty pulled off the covering. It was a small, goldish-brown mouselike beast with a long tail and a white-furred stomach. Temporarily stunned, it lay gazing up at them through huge, dark eyes.
The otter came bounding in; sword upraised he menaced it. “Our food’n’water, where is it? Speak or die, robber!”
The creature gave vent to a piercing cry. “Feeeeeeeeeeee!”
This was followed by a sound from outside, like hundreds of tiny drums.
Saro stepped out of the shelter. “Curl me bush, come an’ take a look o’ this, mates!”
A billowing dust cloud was rising from footpaws drumming the earth. When it settled, a hundred or more of the mouselike beasts stood facing them. They all wore grass cloaks about their shoulders.
Fenna whispered to Saro. “Good grief, what do we do now?”
The older squirrel answered quietly out of the side of her mouth. “Say nothin’. Leave this to me, mate.”
Bragoon emerged from the shelter, dragging his prisoner by the tail. Hoisting the creature up, he swung the sword of Martin. The otter’s voice roared out. “Give us back our food’n’water, or this ’un’s a deadbeast! D’ye understand me? I’ll slay ’im if’n ye don’t obey!”
For an answer, they once again set up a loud drumming with their footpaws: Brrrrrrrrrrr! Then they stood silent, watching Bragoon as the dust settled.
The captive one glared fearlessly up at the otter. “Chiiiiiiirk—kill me! We of the Jerbilrats give nobeast water. Chiiik, sooner give our blood than water!”
Springald was surprised. “Rats? They’re handsome little things. They’ve got beautiful, big dark eyes. They look far too nice to be rats!”
Saro turned fiercely on the mousemaid. “Just shut yore mouth, miss, I don’t care ’ow nice they look. They’ve told ye wot they are—a rat’s a rat, an’ that’s that. Hold yore tongue, an’ leave the talkin’ to Brag!”
The otter yelled back at the massed Jerbilrats. “Hah, so ye can unnerstand me. D’ye think I’m foolin’?”
He struck with the sword, snipping a whisker from the Jerbilrat. As the drumming resumed, Bragoon raised his sword. “Next one takes this robber’s head off. Give us our supplies!”