In a state of despair, she turned to Martha. “Oh dear, I do wish the Searats weren’t here and we were back to normal. Just look at those little ones, they’re getting very wild. But with no Abbeyschool, and having to spend all day indoors, who can blame them?” Portula looked to Martha for comment, but the haremaid was not listening. Her joyous mood dispersed, she stood gazing forlornly out the window.
The kindly Sister showed concern. “Martha, dear, is something the matter, what’s wrong?”
Toran was close enough to hear his young friend’s reply. “I’m sorry, Sister, but I can’t help feeling sad, I’ve just realised something. What a waste of time it all is. Bragoon and Saro, together with Horty, Springald and Fenna, have gone off questing for Loamhedge. Little do they know that I need no cure or remedy. Suddenly I can walk! My brother and good friends are far away from Redwall—who knows what deadly danger or injury may befall them? There was no real need for them to go. Oh, fate can be so cruel at times. I feel responsible and guilty about the whole thing!”
Sister Portula comforted her. “You must not blame yourself, Martha. None of this was your doing, was it, Toran?”
The ottercook had strong feelings about Martha’s supposed dilemma, and he minced no words in telling her so. “Wot’s all this nonsense, don’t ye be talkin’ that way, Martha! Huh, ye could go on all day, worryin’ about this an’ that, an’ supposin’. Lissen, I’ll give ye a suppose. Supposin’ yore friends an’ my brother an’ Saro hadn’t gone, eh? Things would’ve turned out totally diff’rent, fate would’ve cast other lots for everybeast. You mightn’t ’ave been at that window in yore chair last night, but those Searats may’ve changed their plans. Then where’d ye be now, Martha? I’ll tell ye, still sittin’ stuck in a chair!
“So don’t ye dare say that there was no point in our good friends undertakin’ a mission to find a cure for ye, Martha Braebuck! An’ don’t talk t’me of danger or injury. If’n Brag an’ Saro ’ave anythin’ t’do with it, the only ones sufferin’ perils an’ wounds will be anybeasts who tries to stop ’em! So quit complainin’ an’ supposin’, miss. Be grateful that ye can go runnin’, on yore own footpaws, to greet the travellers when they return to our Abbey!”
Martha had never heard Toran speak so forcefully, or truly. Wiping her eyes, the haremaid clasped her friend’s paw fervently. “Thank you, Toran, you’re right. What a silly creature I am!”
The ottercook turned away, brushing a paw across his own eyes. “No you ain’t, yore our Martha. Now put a smile on that face, an’ get those liddle villains down of’n that shelf afore they fall an’ ’urt themselves!”
Sharpening his silver hooktip on the wall, Raga Bol lounged in the gatehouse doorway. Bright summer morn had done nothing to ease his foul mood. Dreams of the big stripedog had begun haunting him afresh, plus he was still smarting from the previous night’s shameful defeat. Striving to put thoughts of the badger from his mind, he took out his mean temper on every crewrat in sight, snarling menacingly at them.
“Belay there, Wirga, ain’t there any vittles left, where’s me brekkist? Ahoy, you there, stop scrapin’ mud off’n yoreself, an’ grubbin’ at yer eyes like some snotty liddle whelp. Go an’ get some vittles for yore cap’n, sharpish!”
All four of the Searats, not knowing exactly whom the glaring captain was addressing, ran off to do his bidding. “Aye aye, Cap’n! Right away, Cap’n!” they chorused as they tugged their ears in salute.
Raga Bol turned his spleen upon the one called Rojin, who was sitting on the gatehouse wallsteps, poulticing a swollen eye. “Quit dabbin’ at yore lamp, ye’ve still got a good ’un left. I never got no brekkist, ’cos Blowfly let me servants escape. They’re the beasts who should be doin’ the cookin’. Git yoreself after Blowfly an’ Glimbo. I want t’see ye all back ’ere by noon wid the runaways in tow. ’Cos if’n ye ain’t, I’ll let the livin’ daylights into the lotta youse wid this ’ook. Go on, gerrout o’ me sight, ye laggard!”
The next to come in for a tongue lashing was the one called Rinj, who happened to stray within earshot. “Stan’ by the big gate there, Rinj, ye useless mess of offal. Keep a weather eye out for Rojin an’ the others comin’ back. Report ter me the moment ye spot ’em!”
The Searat captain stalked back into the gatehouse, slamming the door so hard that its hinges rattled. He slumped into Old Phredd’s armchair, trying to banish thoughts of the badger and concentrate instead on his plans to conquer the Abbey.
Morning rolled on into the summer noon. The crew danced attention upon their captain, but he barely glanced at the food they brought. Instead, he ordered them to bring him volumes and scrolls from the shelves. Bol rifled through them, searching vainly for some clues—a reference or a sketch, perhaps. Anything that would help him gain access to the Abbey building. After awhile he tired of this pursuit and banished the crewrats from the gatehouse. Scattering volumes and parchments over the floor, the Searat captain flung himself upon the bed and fell into a fitful slumber, the coverlet draped over his face.
On waking, Raga Bol saw that the sunlight shafts had shifted across the window. It was late afternoon, merging toward eventide. Rising, he took a mouthful of his favourite grog, swilling it around his mouth, then spat it out sourly. It was silent outside, with no sounds of activity. The Searat captain went swiftly outside.
Rinj was standing upright, propped against the gatepost, obviously sleeping. Raga Bol dealt him a savage kick, knocking Rinj flat. He continued to kick the hapless Searat, accentuating his words.
“Ye scabby-eyed, useless bilge swab! Did I tell ye to go snoozin’ on duty? Wot’s this door barred for, eh? Yore supposed t’be outside, watchin’ for the others t’come back. If’n we was at sea now, I’d tie ye t’the anchor an’ sling yore lazy carcass o’er the side!”
Dragging Rinj upright by his ears, Bol knocked the gate bars up with his hook. He hauled the gates open, still shouting. “I’ll learn ye to disobey yore cap’n’s orders, I’ll . . . Yaaaagh!”
The gates swung inward, revealing Rojin, pinned to the timbers by a huge single arrow, head slumped and footpaws dragging in the dust. Dead as the proverbial doornail!
Beyond the outside path and ditch, out on the flatlands, Lonna Bowstripe roared as he fitted a shaft to his bowstring. “Raga Bol! Death is here! Hellgates await you, Searat! Eulaliiiiaaaaaaa!”
Bol took one glance at the avenging giant and hurled himself at the Abbey gates, slamming them and dropping the heavy baulks that served as locks. The wood shivered under the thud of the badger’s massive arrow. Raga Bol leaped back from the gates, as if expecting the shaft to come right through.
Sister Setiva was prying the paws of little Yooch from the dormitory windowsill. “Och, come away from there, ye wee pestilence!” Attracted by the shouting from the gatehouse area, she peered over to see what was amiss there. Raga Bol’s hoarse yells left her in no doubt.
“All paws to the walltops! Bring spears, slings an’ bows. Jump to it, the stripedog’s ’ere!”
Setiva caught Abbot Carrul’s sleeve. “There somebeast oot there, yon Searat’s howlin’ like a madbeast!”
Toran was out the dormitory door, with Martha close on his heels. Carrul and Setiva followed as Toran called to them. “Up t’the floor above, mates, ye can see better from there!”
Redwallers crowded to the second-story windows, which gave them a clear view of all that was taking place. Out on the flatlands, Lonna was raising his bow again. Brother Weld transmitted an excited commentary of what was taking place, for the benefit of those few who could not see. “Great seasons of slaughter, it’s a giant Badger Lord! The Searats are throwing spears, firing slingstones and arrows at him. Haha, their range is too short, their weapons can’t touch him. Oh my, oh golly! Did you see that?”