but there ain’t no nicer nest than me ol’ ’ome,
’tis so comfy an’ we loves it, oh so dear.
The moment that we gets ’ere, me an’ me likkle mate,
we lights a fire an’ puts the kettle on,
though we ain’t got much to eat, we gets along just great,
’cos two kin live ’ere just as well as one.”
Bragoon had a quiet word with Horty. “Give ’em all we can spare from the rations. Make it a lunch to remember for the ole beast an’ Bubbub.”
The young hare saluted smartly. “To hear is to obey, O Wise Otter, sah. I’ll make it a spread that none of us’ll forget!”
Fenna blew a sigh. “As long as you don’t serve us fried fruit salad again!”
Horty began rummaging through their meagre supplies. “Pish tush, miss! I shall treat that remark with the blinkin’ contempt it bally well deserves, wot!”
He did, however, cook a very passable meal. Drawing water from the dormouse’s well, Horty produced a tasty vegetable soup and some scones and honey, with penny- cress and comfrey cordial to wash it down.
Saro ate it with relish but could not resist a wry remark. “Mmm, tastes good, but I ain’t even goin’ to ask wot’s in it.”
Horty licked honey from his paws and reached for another scone. “Just as well really, marm. Wild frogs wouldn’t drag the recipe from me. We cooks have our secrets, y’know!”
Toobledum and Bubbub did the lunch full justice. Springald was astounded at the amount the little lizard ate.
The dormouse just laughed at Bubbub’s appetite. “Proper likkle famine face, ain’t he?”
Bragoon began questioning Toobledum, warming to the aim of their quest. “This spot we’re searchin’ for, it’s a grave I think. Lissen to these few lines, mate, an’ see if’n ye can throw any light on ’em.
“Beneath the flower that never grows,
Sylvaticus lies in repose.
My secret is entombed with her,
look and think what you see there.”
“I want ye to pay attention, Toobledum. Do ye know anyplace ’ereabouts that sounds like wot I’ve just said?”
The dormouse pulled down his hat brim, muttering darkly, “That’ll be the dead place. We never goes over there, do we, mate?”
Bubbub snuggled tight against the dormouse and shook his head.
Springald pursued the enquiry. “Whyever not? The dead never hurt anybeast, and I wager those buried there have been dead long before you were born.”
Toobledum shook his head. “Say wot ye likes, miss, but there’s nights when the wind blows an’ I’ve ’eard ’em moanin’.”
Horty took a light view of this sinister statement. “Maybe they get jolly hungry down there. Come on, old scout, up on your hunkers an’ show us where the old graveyard is, wot!”
The dormouse refused flatly. “I ain’t goin’ nowheres near that place, ye can go an’ see it for yoreselves. Walk south across the valley until ye see flat stones. They’re all laid this way an’ that, ye can’t miss ’em. That’s the buryin’ garden. I think it was once inside the ole Abbey. I’ve only been there once, an’ I ain’t goin’ there agin, nohow!”
Leaving the dormouse and his lizard, the five travellers set out, following his directions.
The ancient burying place was quiet and peaceful in the noontide sun. A few bees hummed, and grasshoppers chirruped on the still, warm air.
Saro sat down on one of the flat stones and looked about. “Nice ole spot, ain’t it. Sort of a garden o’ memories.”
Fenna brushed the dust from a lopsided oblong of limestone. “See what this says: Sister Ethnilla, victim of the great sickness, gone to the sunny slopes and silent streams.”
Bragoon traced a paw across the graven words. “Pore creature, there must be a lot of her kind buried ’ere. Sunny slopes an’ quiet streams, eh? I like that.”
Springald and Horty were inspecting the stones further afield.
The young hare’s voice interrupted the otter’s reverie. “I say, you chaps, what was the name we were lookin’ for, Sivvylaticus or somesuch? I think I’ve found it. Yoooohaaaw!”
Bragoon sprang upright as Horty’s yell disturbed the peace. “Wot’s that lop-eared noisebag up to now?”
Springald was shouting. “Over here, quick, Horty’s fallen down a grave!”
They dashed over to where the mousemaid was hopping about agitatedly as she pointed to a yawning dark hole. “Down there, he’s fallen right through. One moment he was standing, pointing to this big stone, then something broke and he vanished!”
The otter pulled her aside. “Stand clear, miss, or ye might be the next one to disappear.” He called down into the pitch-black space. “Horty, are ye alright, mate?”
There was no reply, just a faint echo of his own voice.
40
Raga Bol was at his wit’s end; the Searat crew had begun to desert. He kicked out at Firzin, a rat he had posted on the main gate, screaming, “Wot’n the name o’ thunder d’ye mean, nobeast has got by ye all day? Did ye unlock this gate fer anythin’?”
Firzin cringed against the gate, which he had guarded faithfully on his captain’s orders. “On me oath, Cap’n, I’ve kept the gate tight locked!”
Bol glared this way and that, slashing at the air with his scimitar. “The walltops are too high for ’em to jump, so how’ve they got out? Rinj, wot d’you think?”
Rinj, who had been close to Bol all day, shrugged. “Wot about those liddle gates, Cap’n? There’s one in the middle of each of the three outer walls. Bet they went through them, eh?” The Searat captain’s gold fangs flashed as he snarled. “I told Argubb to post guards on those wallgates this mornin’. Go an’ see if’n they’re still there!”
Rinj sidled out of the scimitar’s range. “They ’ad to stand in plain sight o’ the winders, Cap’n. That big stripedog took the three of ’em out wid his arrers.”
Raga Bol peered around the wall buttress, which was sheltering him and his two crewrats from the Abbey windows. “Get in the gate’ouse, both of ye, quick!”
The three rats crouched, swerving in a dead run around the buttress. They made it into the gatehouse and slammed the door. The timbers shook as an arrow hit the door, its barbed point showing through the wood.
Firzin wailed, “We’re all deadbeasts if’n we stay in this place. There ain’t nowhere to ’ide from the stripedog!”
One icy glare from his captain was sufficient to frighten the Searat into silence. Bol looked from one to the other, his face deadly calm, his voice low. “Wot’s the number o’ crew left d’ye reckon, Rinj?”
The rat thought for a moment. “Just over a score, Cap’n. That’s countin’ us three.”
Since early that day, Raga Bol had been scheming furiously. His back was against the wall, but he was determined that eventually he would triumph. Then it came to his mind in a flash—he knew that he had the answer. All he had to do was convince his crew.
Slumping down in an armchair, he shook his head sadly, acting more like one of the Searat messmates than their captain. “No more’n a score left out o’ fifty, eh? I tell ye, mates, ’tis a sorry day. I suppose every one of ye wants t’see the back o’ this place now. Speak up, I won’t harm ye.”
Firzin summoned up his courage. “Aye, Cap’n, they’re all sayin’ we’re deadbeasts if’n we stays at this Abbey. Ain’t that right, Rinj?”
The other rat nodded. “Aye, mate, gettin’ away from ’ere’s the sensible thing to do, shore enough.”
Raga Bol gave a rueful little smile, as if in agreement. “Mebbe yore right. But just think, mates, if we’d ’ave killed the stripedog an’ won, eh? Redwall woulda been ours! The good life, me buckoes! Everybeast of us’d be livin’ like kings now, wid slaves, loot, vittles an’ a place t’call ’ome fer the winter. Strange ’ow things turn out, ain’t it? Now we got to cut’n’run, all because o’ one stripedog who should’ve been dead now by rights.