Signed, Daphne Duckfontein Dillworthy.
Brocktree had to turn his head aside and wipe his eyes on a spotted kerchief, to keep from laughing. Dotti, surmising that he was wiping away tears, nodded sympathetically.
"Sad, ain't it, sah, the woeful tale of a fatal beauty. I say, did you get chucked out by your parents, too? You'll forgive me sayin', but a chap of your size must've taken some bally chuckin', wot wot?"
The Badger Lord patted his young friend's paw. "No no, 'twas nothing like that, Dotti. I was restless, just like all Badger Lords before me. It grieved me to leave behind my young son. Boar the Fighter I named him. A badger's son is his pride and joy, when he is a babe. But he must grow up, and it is a fact that two male badgers cannot live together in peace, especially Badger Lords, for that is what Boar will grow to be one day. So I had to observe the unwritten law. I left Brockhall and began roaming, to follow my dream."
Dotti carefully stowed the letter back in her bag. "Beg pardon, sah, but what dream is that?"
Brocktree unshouldered his battle blade and began whetting its edge on a smooth rock, even though it looked as keen as a razor. "A vision I see in my mind's eye, sometimes when I'm awake, or other times when I sleep. It must have been the same picture that other badgers have dreamed. A mountain that once shot forth flames and molten rock, older than time itself, its fires now gone. Waiting, always waiting for me on the shores of a great ocean. I could not describe the way to Salamandastron, for that is what I know the mountain is called, nor could I draw a map of the route. But something in my brain, my very heart, is guiding me there."
Dotti interrupted perkily. "Oh, sooper dooper, sah! I'm glad you know the flippin' way. I haven't got a confounded clue, only that it's someplace down on the western shores. Oh, beg pardon, sah. Didn't mean to butt in on you. Bad form, wot?"
Brocktree smiled at his young companion and ruffled her ears indulgently. "We'll find it together, young 'un. You're right, 'tis on the western shores. In my dreams I've seen the sun setting in the seas beyond the mountain. But my feelings tell me that the place for which we are bound will have great need of a Badger Lord. One who will not shrink from evil and cruelty, a warrior ready to stand and fight!"
Dotti chuckled, cutting once more into Brocktree's speech. "Well, your jolly old feelin's have no further to look than yourself, sah. You look like the very badger t'do the job, an' y'come ready equipped with that bloomin' great monstrosity y'call a sword!"
Squinting one eye, Brocktree peered down the mighty blade, its deadly double edge keener than midwinter. "Aye, methinks it will have its work well cut out when the time comes. That face, the one which visits and disturbs my slumbers ... I have seen nothing like it, the face that turns dreams to haunting nightmares!"
The tone of Brocktree's voice caused Dotti to shudder. "Great seasons, what face is that, sah?"
"Nothing I want to talk more about, young 'un. Now, no more questions, please. We'll make camp here. There's a brook beyond that tall elm yonderyou go and fill this bowl with water while I get a small fire going. Come on now, Dotti, stir your stumps. You'll have to shape up if you want to travel with me!"
The haremaid sprang up, grabbing the bowl from Brocktree's big paws and saluting smartly in a comical manner. "Brook beyond tall elm! Fill bowl with water! Yes sah! Three bags full sah! Goin' right away sah! About turn, quick march! One two hup!"
Brocktree grinned as he watched her strut off, trip, send the bowl flying, and catch it clumsily. She grinned back at him sheepishly.
"Good wheeze, sendin' me for water, wot? If you'd told me to light a fire I'd have prob'ly sent the whole forest up in flames. Not too clever at fires, doncha know!"
Brocktree took out his tinderbox, murmuring to himself, "At least she can't flood the forest with a single bowlful o' water, but who knows? Ah well, at least she's company for a lone traveler."
Flickering shadows from the fire hovered about the woodland glade; somewhere close by a nightjar warbled in the branches of a sycamore. Dotti scraped a wooden ladle around the empty bowl and licked it. "Confounded good soup that was, sah. Can all Badger Lords cook as well as you do? Mebbe you'd best fire my aunt Blench an' promote y'self to head cook when we get to Salamathingee, wot?"
Brocktree hooded his eyes in mock ferocity. "If I do become head cook I'll make sure that you get lots of sticky, greasy pots to wash, young miss!"
Dotti began rummaging in her bag. "If the scoff tastes as good as that I'll lick 'em all shinin' clean. Least I can do is to render you a little ditty to aid your digestion, sah."
The badger folded his paws across his stomach. "Aye, that'd be nice. Carry on."
Dotti peered into the bag as she rooted around in its interior. "Oh corks, half the beads have fallen off this blinkin' shawl the mater gave me for Aunt Blench. It's absolutely soaked with cider, too. Aha! Here's me faithful old harecordion. A few of the keys'n'reeds are stickin', but that cider may have loosened 'em up a touch. Right, here goes, pin y'ears back and get ready for a treat. Wot?"
To describe the haremaid's voice as being akin to a frog trapped beneath a hot stone would have been a great injustice, to both frog and stone. Moreover, the instrument she was playing on sounded like ten chattering squirrels swinging on a rusty gate. However, Dotti played and sang on blithely.
Brocktree squinched both eyes shut, fervently hoping that the song did not contain too many verses.
"I am but a broken-hearted maid,
My tale I'll tell to you,
As I sit alone in this woodland glade,
Yearnin' for a pudden or two.
I hi hi hi, si hi hi hi hi hiiiiiing!
Whack folly doodle ho, whoops cum whang,
The greatest song my grandma sang,
Was to her fam'ly of twenty-three,
Ho dish up the pudden, save some for me!
'Twas made from fruit an' arrowroot,
Hard pears an' apples, too,
Some honey that the bees chucked out,
That set as hard as glue,
Some comfrey leaf an' bulrush sheaf,
An' damsons sour as ever,
She stirred the lot in a big old pot
While we sang 'Fail me never.'
When all of a sudden Grandma's pudden,
Burst right out the pot,
Round as a boulder, not much older,
Fifty times as hot!
It shot down the road, laid out a toad,
An' knocked two hedgehogs flat,
Splashed in the lake an' slew a snake,
An' the frogs cried 'Wot was that?'
Oh deary me calamity, oh woe an' lack a day,
Without a pudden to my name
I'll sit an' pine away ... awaaaaaay
Whack foholly doohoohoodelll daaaayeeeeeee!"
Dotti made her ears stand rigid on the last note to add effect. Fluttering her eyelids dramatically, she was squeezing the harecordion finally shut when its bellows shot forth a stream of old pale cider, right up her nose. She sneezed and curtsied awkwardly.
"Whoo! That cleared my head. Shall I sing you another of my ditties, sah?"