"Well, pickle me ears, sah, y'look pleased enough with that!"
The badger grinned wolfishly over another ladleful. "Scrumptious, miss. The moles call it deeper'n ever turnip'n'tater'n'beetroot pie. I could eat it all night!"
Ruff took his nose out of a foaming tankard still half filled with chestnut and buttercup beer, and chortled as he blew froth from his upper lip. "Haharr, ain't it true, though? I'd 'ave never left 'ome if'n I'd got vittles o' this quality. Rogg, ye ole ovendog, give us another o' yore kitchen ditties!"
Brandishing his oversized ladle and smiling from ear to ear, the good mole beckoned the little Dibbuns to take their dancing places. Brisk as bumblebees and plump as robins, the tiny molebabes formed two facing lines. Dotti marveled at the fact that they could eat so much and still be eager to dance. The infant molemaids grabbed their pinafores and curtsied comically as their partners licked paws and dabbed them on their snouts in reply. Rogg's wife scraped out the opening bars on an old fiddle and all the watchers started tapping their paws in time. Rogg's rotund body bobbed up and down with the rhythm until he found the appropriate moment to join in with his tuneful bass voice.
"Ho berries'n'pickles an' corjul wot tickles,
Gudd apples'n'pears from ee h'orchard do cumm,
Gurt taters'n'beets an' ee redcurrinks sweet,
Get ee owt o' thy tunnel an' go fetch oi summ!
Urr rowtle dee tootle dee, spring be a-born,
Ee fields be all full o' roip barley'n'corn!
Ho turnips'n'dannyloin, damsing an' plumm,
Yon loaf's in ee uvven an'
Crispin' oop noice, Carrots'n'onions an' chesknutters cumm,
Get owt'n ee tunnel, oi woan't tell ee twoice!
Urr gollybee gullybee wudd for ee foire,
Oi luvvs ee moi dearie, moi ole 'eart's desoire!
Ho radish'n'celery, custidd'n'cake,
An' ee sweetest of hunny from bumbledy bee,
Thurr's beer in ee cellar, cumm naow moi owd feller,
You'm fill up'n thoi tummy wi' wot pleasures ee!
Urr trucklebee rucklebee larks oop abuvv,
Cumm darnce ee moi petal an' 'old moi paw luvv!"
Amid the applause Rogg skipped swiftly to one side, giving way to the little ones, who danced furiously, twirling and whirling, smocks, tunics and aprons billowing. It was the funniest sightall those tiny Dibbuns, bowing, leaping, touching noses, kicking up their paws, whooping in their gruff, small voices.
Rogg sat down next to Dotti, rattling his digging claws on the tabletop as he watched the antics of the molebabes. "They'm loively likkle darncers sure 'nuff, miz!"
"Ho aye, zurr Rogg, them'll sleep loik 'ogs in ee beds arter all ee whurlygiggin'."
The mole clasped Dotti's paw, immensely pleased that she spoke his own odd dialect. "You'm a gudd hurrbeast, miz Dott!"
In truth the Dibbins did sleep well, though they snored uproariously, which moles consider a virtue among their babes, reckoning that snoring improves the gruffness and depth of voice. Dotti found herself a nice moss-strewn arbor close to the ledge where Ruff and Brocktree chose to lay their heads for the night. It must have been sometime before the dawn hours when the entire mole household was roused by Brocktree.
It was a nightmare, but clear as day: a swaying room, decked with cobwebs and spiders, and flies buzzing everywhere. Tossing and turning in his sleep, the Badger Lord tried to rid his mind of the unbidden vision. Then suddenly a great evil-looking wildcat appeared, its voice grating through him like a rusty blade.
"Come, show your face to me, come to my mountain and meet with your fate. I am Ungatt Trunn the Fearsome Beast; you will die by my paw the day you look upon my face!"
Still in the grip of nightmare, the Badger Lord sprang up. Seizing his battle blade, he roared out in a thunderous voice, "It is my mountain! I am the Lord Brocktree of Brockhall! My sword will look into your mind and touch your heart on the day we meet, Ungatt Trunn! Eulaliiiiaaaaa!"
Dotti and Ruff leapt up in shock. The haremaid was knocked to one side as her otter friend hurled himself at her, shoving her out of danger in the nick of time. Brocktree's great battle blade whooshed past them a hair's breadth away, cleaving a rock ledge in two and plowing a furrow in the floor like a small trench.
"Back, mates! Get back, all of ye!" The otter was up and waving paws and rudder at moles scurrying about in their nightshirts, wanting to see what all the disturbance was about. Rogg Longladle acted swiftly. Taking a jug of cold mint tea from the banqueting table nearby, he sloshed it accurately in Brocktree's face. The Badger Lord staggered back and slumped on the ledge. Freeing a paw from his sword handle, he wiped the liquid from his eyes. Then he looked at the creatures all about him in bewilderment.
"The room, it was moving from side to side, spiders, webs, flies, everywhere ... every"
Without warning the double-hilted sword was in his paws again. He swung it up in a fighting stance, glaring at everybeast with dangerous eyes. "Where's the wildcat? Did any of you see him? Tell me!"
With great courage, Ruff stepped forward, placing himself in the path of the monstrous blade. "Put up yore weapon, mate. 'Twas only a dream."
With a dazed look Brocktree lowered the sword and sat down. "I don't understand it, Ruff. He was here, his name is Ungatt Trunn, and he wanted to do battle with me."
Rogg dispersed the moles with a wave of his long ladle. "Goo on naow, back abed, all of ee. Leave us'n's be!"
Rogg listened as Dotti told him of their quest for Salamandastron and Brocktree's reasons for needing to be there. When the Badger Lord recounted the scenes of his nightmare, Rogg had something to say.
"Wait ee, zurr. Bide yurr ee h'instant!"
He trundled off, returning shortly with another mole, a full-grown male, very sturdy, with a look of Rogg about him. "This'n yurr be moi sunn Gurth. Ee'm a foine big 'un, bain't ee? Uz calls 'im Gurt Gurth. Ee'm a born wunderer an' fond o' travelern. Tell um wot ee see'd, Gurth!"
Rogg's son touched his snout politely to the guests. "Pleasured t'meet ee, zurrs, miz. Hurr naow, 'bowt three moons back oi wurr roamin', south an' west o' yurr. Oi waked wun morn an' see'd ee gurt h'army o' vurmints, all a-painted blue, trampin' west'ard to ee sandshores. Them wuz a-chantin', loik this. Ee chief vurmint, ee showts ... Ungatt! An' t'others showt back three toims ... Trunn! Trunn! Trunn! Oi watched 'til 'em varnished in ee distance, trampin' an' a-shouten all ee way. Ungatt! . . . Trunn! Trunn! Trunn! Jus' loik that, zurr! Bo urr, sez oi to moiself, thurr be a thing to tell ee molefolkback 'ome. But moi ole dad, ee sez t'keep soilent abowt et. So oi did 'til naow."
In the light of Gurth's tale, it took a lot of persuading to stop Brocktree following the vermin instantly. In the end, he agreed to wait until dawn. They would set off immediately after breakfast.
Daylight had barely cracked when Lord Brocktree levered himself away from one of Rogg's epic spreads and shouldered his sword.
"Come on, you two, or are you going to sit there feeding your famine-stricken faces all day?"
Dotti wiped her lips ruefully on an embroidered napkin. "I bally well wish we could, I've never tasted honeyed oatmeal like that in m'life. I say, Rogg, how the dickens d'you make it taste so jolly good, wot?"
Rogg chuckled at Dotti's momentary lapse from mole-speech. "Hurr hurr, young miz, oi chops in lots o' chesknutters an' hazelnutters, too, cover ee lot wi' sprinkles o' candied h'apple'n'pear flakers an' bakes et slow in ee uvven."
Ruff twitched his rudder in admiration of Rogg's skill. "Haharr. I can't tell one nutter from another, but ole Rogg there makes it sound wunnerful!"
The friendly mole dumped four packs on the table. "Thurr be vittles for ee journey, guddbeasts."
Brocktree had noted the number of packs. "There's four lots here and we're only three."
Rogg twiddled his digging claws, as moles do when they are confronted with a tricky situation. "Urr urr, wudd ee grant oi a boon, zurr?"