“Get that big scoundrel, Shad—that ’un there!”
“Watch out for that fat ’un, he’s tryin’ to slip past you!”
“Burr, you’m give ’em billy oh, zurr, ’ard’n’eavy!”
The hole was not too high up. Shad could see into it by pulling himself up tip-pawed, but it was dark inside.
Foremole Diggum produced one of the torches from the cellar. “Oi brung this’n o’er with me. Can ee set flame to
et?”
With a few threads of Tansy’s habit, a piece of flint which Friar Butty always carried, and the steel blade of
Craklyn’s quill knife, they improvised spark and tinder. Tansy set the smouldering threads on the resin head of the
torch, and blew gently until it ignited.
Shad boosted them all into the mole tunnel, where they sat and took a breather. They all were tired, thirsty, and
with grumbling, rumbling stomachs.
Friar Butty picked drying mud from his paws and spat out grit from between his teeth. “Ah well, we might yet see
daylight if this tunnel goes anywhere.”
Foremole wrinkled his nose and sat back confidently. “Lissen yurr, Butty, if’n summ mole digged this tunnel, then
you’m can lay to et thurr be a way out. Ho aye!”
It was a steep uphill climb, slippery at first, but growing easier once they encountered deep-sunk tree roots, which
they could hold on to.
Craklyn explained the tunnel’s origin to Tansy as they went. “From the journals of Abbess Germaine, I gather that
this is one of the original passages that the moles dug to flood Castle Kotir. They diverted a river down several tunnels
and flooded the place out.”
The Abbess, who was traveling behind Craklyn, smiled wryly. “Very interesting, I’m sure, marm, but will you try
to stop kicking soil down the back of my neck!”
Friar Butty, who was traveling up front with Foremole, shouted, “Fresh air! I can taste the breeze!”
Foremole, who was carrying the torch, suddenly backed up on to Craklyn’s head, pulling Butty with him. “Coom
quick, zurr Shad, thurr be a surrpint up yurr!”
Scrabbling soil and bumping past the others, Shad, who had been bringing up the rear, fought his way to the front.
“A snake, ye say, matey? Where?”
The torchlight showed a sizeable reptile, coiled around a mass of roots, hissing dangerously. Butty was petrified by
it. “Sh ... Sh ... Shad, look, ’tis an adder!”
The otter seized the torch and thrust it at the bared fangs and beaded eyes. The snake’s coils bunched as it backed
off.
“‘Taint no adder, that’s a smooth snake. It don’t carry poison in its fangs, but it can bite an’ crush ye!”
“Hurr, you’m roight, zurr. Oi see’d ee smoothysnake once. Moi ole granma, she’m tole oi wot et wurr. Gurr,
boitysnake!”
The fearless Shad stripped off his tunic. “A bitin’ snake, eh? Then we’ll just ’ave to give it sum mat to bite on,
mates. There y’go. ’Ow’s that, me ole scaley foebeast!”
He hung the tunic on his spear and jabbed it in the snake’s face. Instinctively the smooth snake struck, biting deep
into the homespun material. Shad was on it like lightning. He bundled the snake’s head in the tunic, wrapped the
garment tightly, and thrust it forcibly into the crossed forks of some thick-twisted roots. The snake thrashed about
madly, but only for a brief time. It settled down into a steady twitch as it tried to pull itself free of the encumbering
tunic.
Shad pointed upward. “Come on—I can see a twinkle o’ starlight up ahead there!”
They followed him, hugging the far side of the tunnel cautiously as they passed the slow-writhing reptile. Even
though they were sore and weary, the five companions leapt about gladly once they were aboveground in the moonlit
woodlands.
Friar Butty was ecstatic. “O sweet life! O fresh fresh air! O green pretty grass!”
Foremole was used to being underground. He sat back and grinned at the young squirrel’s antics. “Hurr hurr hurr!
Wot price ee treasure naow, young zurr? Oi’lf wager ee wuddent I loik t’go back an lukk fer it.”
Butty shook his voluminous Friar’s habit and the cloakful of treasure fell out upon the grass. “I wasn’t leavin’ that
behind! Why’d you think I slipped down the chain—it was the weight of this liddle lot!”
Shad tweaked the young squirrel’s nose. “Yer cheeky liddle twister, we shoulda left you fer the toads an’
mudfishes!”
Butty pulled loose and jumped out of the patch of moonlight they were standing in. His four companions looked
shocked for a moment, then they started laughing uproariously.
He pouted at them indignantly. “What’re you all laughin’ at? I don’t see anythin’ funny.”
Craklyn wiped tears of merriment from her eyes. “Oh, don’t you? Well, take a look at yourself, you magic green
frog!” Swamp mud, dried and crusted, and the dust on Butty’s paws, was shining bright green in the darkness. He
gazed at his small fat stomach in anguish. “I’m green, shinin’ bright green!”
Craklyn patted his back sympathetically, and a cloud of green dust arose. “It must be some mineral in the mud that
does it, phosphorus or sulphur, I suppose. Heeheehee! Lead on, Butty, we won’t need a torch to show us the way, my
small green-glowing friend!”
Butty waved a bright green paw at the Recorder. “One more word outer you, miz Craklyn, an’ I’ll give yore share
o’ the treasure to Sister Viola, so there!”
48?
Two old moles, Bunto and Drubb, were sleeping in the gatehouse at Redwall Abbey when they were wakened by
banging on the main gate. Bunto blinked from the deep armchair he was settled in. “Oo c’n that be a bangin’ on ee
gate inna noight?”
Drubb rose stiffly from the smaller of the two armchairs by the fire. He yawned, stretched, and said, “Us’ll never
know ’til us’n’s open ee gate. Cummon, Bunto.”
Stumbling out into the darkness, they unbarred the big gate and opened it a crack to see who required entrance to
the Abbey, The other four had hidden themselves; Butty stood there alone. The two moles took one look and scooted
off toward the Abbey building, roaring in their deep bass voices, “Whuuuooooh! Thurr be ee likkle green ghost at ee
gate, an’ ee’m lookin’ loik pore young Butty. Murrsy on us’n’s!”
A half of a dandelion wine barrel cut lengthways formed the badgerbabe Russano’s cradle. Mother Buscol rocked
it gently with a footpaw as she dozed on a pile of sacks in the dark, warm kitchens of Redwall. Only a faint, reddish
glow showed from the oven fires, where the scones were slowly baking for next morning’s breakfast. From his cradle,
the little Russano sat up and pointed at the strange apparition that had appeared. He smiled at it and uttered the only
word he knew.
“Nut!”
Mother Buscol half opened her eyes, inquiring sleepily, “Nut? What nut, m’dear?”
Then her eyes came fully open and she saw Butty standing there. “Waaaoooow! ’Tis young Butty, come back to
’aunt me! Ho, spare me, green spirit, don’t ’arm me or the liddle one!”
The glowing phantom answered in a hollow, moaning voice, “Bring scones from the ovens, enough for five, honey
too, an’ woodland trifle if’n there be any about. Some strawberry fizz an’ October Ale. I’ll be outside. Remember
now, enough for five!”
The specter faded slowly away to the small canteen outside the kitchens. Mother Buscol busied herself,
complaining to a cockleshell charm she always wore around her neck, “Indeed to goodness, fat lot o’ good you were.
Lucky charm, indeed. I was nearly eaten alive in me bed by an ’ungry ghost. Fifteen scones, that’ll be three apiece,