Every pawstep of the way!
The Colonel looked slightly deflated. He began blustering, I say, steady on there, old gel. Me, followin’ those two rips for a couple o’ seasons?
What d’you think I am, a bloomin’ stalkin’ duck? H’rumph! Out o’ the question, I’m afraid. I’ve got my command to attend to here, wot wot?
That did it. Dunfreda whipped out a small kerchief and commenced weeping inconsolably. Whoohoohoo, you heartless hare, waaaaah, my poor little Bescarum an’ Merola’s only son, wanderin’ round the world willy-nilly like two homeless waifs. Whoohoowahaaah!
Whippscut raised his eyes in despair, apologising to Lord Hightor, as Lady Merola comforted Dunfreda. Beg pardon, sah, the good lady wife can’t resist a jolly good blubber now’n’again, wot. Here y’are, old gel, take my kerchief. That’n won’t be enough t’stop the tide comin’
in, wot!
Lord Hightor placed a paw about his friend’s shoulders. Dunfreda’s right, you’d best follow them. Keep an eye on that pair. It’ll only be for a season or two, but it will put all our minds at rest. I’ll look after the mountain.
Colonel Whippscut was flabbergasted. Wot, wot, wot? Harrrumph! Y-y-you don’t really mean that.
O’ course he means it, you waxy whiskered clot. Go on, follow the two poor dears, right now, this very instant. Go!
Hightor peered out of the window at Sagaxus and Bescarum on the beach far below. Both were starting to head north, carrying massive backpacks of food, purloined from Salamandastron’s kitchens. The Badger Lord could not resist a chuckle.
Look at that lot they’re carrying,’tis enough to keep a regiment going for a full season. No need to hurry, Whipp-scut. At the rate they’re travelling, you’ll pick up their trail quite easily after breakfast tomorrow morning. Huh, that’s if they’ve left enough vittles in the kitchens for the cooks to make a meal.
Bescarum tried to set the pack more evenly between his shoulderblades, grunting with exertion. Wait f’me, Sagax old lad. Me blinkin’ paws are sinkin’ in the sand with this confounded heavy pack!
Sagaxus, who liked to be called Sagax, was by far the stronger of the pair, though even he was staggering a little as he called back over his shoulder to Bescarum, who preferred the name Scarum.
Good job we don’t have to walk far, then, Scarum. Just round the cove to the rocks at the north spur. Wait’ll Kroova sees all the grub we’ve brought along, eh?
Scarum caught up with his badger pal. Indeed. If we’re runnin’ off t’sea then we need the proper scoff, wot? Yukko! I don’t mind livin’ off the land, but that idea of Kroova’s of livin’ off the sea: raw fish’n’sea weed! Huh, I should jolly well say not!
They edged down below the tideline to where the sand was firmer underpaw.
It made the going easier.
Sagax was smiling happily. No more being sentenced to washing the pots!
Scarum grinned like a demented rabbit. Or scrubbin’ the bloomin’ Mess Hall out!
Or weeding the rock gardens all day!
Or polishing spears’n’shields in the dratted armoury!
Sagax did a fair imitation of his father: I can understand Bescarum, he’s a hare. But you, Sagaxus, you’re supposed to be the son of a Badger Lord! Why your mother even named you Sagaxus I’ll never know. She said you were supposed to be like that old Badger Lord she’d read of, Russano the Wise, her fifth great-grandsire. So she called you Sagaxus, that’s supposed to mean wise also. Huh, now this is your last chance, d’you hear me?
Scarum did an even better impersonation of his father: H’rumph! You’re a rip, sah, an utter flippin’ rip, wot! Y’see these grey hairs ruinin’
me best moustache, eh? Well, you put’em there. H’rumph, if y’were one o’ my patrol I’d clap you in the bally dungeons, wot wot?
Kroova heard them coming. Making the bowline fast to a nubby rock, he leaped down onto the sand. C’mon, mateys, stir yore stumps or we’ll miss the tide!
His boat was a double-sailed ketch, which he had stolen from three searats a season ago. It was a trim-lined little vessel, with fore and aft sails, the latter being set slightly in front of the rudder. Kroova gasped as he helped them heave their packs on board. He loosed the bowline as they skipped aboard.
Stamp me rudder, are y’tryin’ to sink us wid vittles?
Scarum wrinkled his nose at the sea otter. You carry on scoffin’
seaweed’n’sprats. Leave this to us, pal.
Kroova caught the breeze just right and sent the ketch skimming on a northwesterly tack, his hearty laugh ringing out. Haharr, me old mateys, welcome aboard the Stopdogl
Sagax looked at him questioningly. The Stopdog?
Kroova winked and gave him a roguish grin. Aye, that’s the last thing I’eard those three searats hollerin’ after me. ÔStop, dog!’ So that’s wot I called’er, the Stopdogl
Scarum tried to rise gingerly from a sitting position.
Shouldn’t we be doin’ something, paddling or tugging on ropes to make this boat go?
Kroova had the foresail fixed and the sternsail controlled in one paw as he held the tiller with the other. Bless yer’eart, no, mate. This’un goes by’erself, though it needs a h’expert’s paw like mine t’keep’er on course.
Sagax watched the skilful otter intently How did you learn to sail like that? Did your parents teach you?
Kroova shrugged. I never’ad no parents, mate, leastways none that I knows about. Out’ere on the briny, it’s learn fast or perish, an’ I wasn’t about ready to perish!
Scarum began opening one of the backpacks. Talkin’ about parents, I’ll bet my old pa’s whiskers will really curl when he finds I’ve hopped it. As for Mum, she’ll probably blubber till there ain’t a dry kerchief on the flippin’ mountain. Loves a good blubber, though it drives Pa scatty, wot.
Sagax felt his conscience twinging guiltily. Let’s stop talking about parents. Tisn’t as though we’ll never see’em again. We’ll prob’ly drift back to the mountain in a season or two, when we’re too grown up for them to push and shove us around. Huh, bet they’ll be glad to see us then. Come on, Kroova, you old seadog, give us one of your ditties.
Immediately the cheerful sea otter obliged. He had a good voice.
Ho I was born in a storm one winter’s morn, When I was fat an’ tiny,
With the wind for me pa, an’ the sea for a ma, Way out upon the briny.
Let the codfish sing with a dingaling,
An’ the crabs dance wid the shark,
Hey ho again for the rollin’ main,
I’m’appy as a lark!
Ho my first ship was a cockleshell,
I painted it bright red,
Away I’d judder, wid me tail as a rudder, Far o’er the waves I sped,
Then a nice ole whale made me a sail
That helped me to go faster,
So I voyaged free on the deep blue sea,
Wid nobeast for a master!
The little ketch was soon lost in a world of silver-flecked water, scudding out north northwest over moonlit realms, like a willow leaf on a huge immeasurable pond.
By midnoon of the following day, Colonel Whippscut was back at Salamandastron, making his report to Lord High-tor after a fruitless search of the shoreline.
H’rumph, I, er, lost’em, sah!
Hightor’s brows beetled low over his fierce dark eyes. Lost them, Colonel!
How in the name of scut and stripes could you lose two younguns carrying great heavy backpacks? Surely their trail must have been clear enough!