Marlfox (Redwall) Read online

  ‘Over there, Chief!’

  Log a Log’s eyes narrowed as he turned and stared searchingly out over the sunstill reaches of the watermeadow. Over at the eastern edge, by a stand of weeping willows, an oar poked itself in the air, waving back and forth thrice. He cupped both paws around his mouth and let forth a long ululating call.

  ‘Logalogalogalogaaaaaa!’

  Immediately the shrews behind him relaxed and began chattering.

  ‘That’ll be Bargle an’ the others!’

  ‘Then the coast mebbe clear, eh?’

  ‘Well, the Chief wouldn’t have called if ’twasn’t, stump’ead!’

  Log a Log followed as they waded back on to dry ground, still disputing and debating.

  ‘Stump’ead yerself, wobblesnout. ‘Ow d’you know they ain’t still around?’

  ‘Wobblesnout? Lissen, matey, if I ’ad a snout like yores I’d keep me gob shut about others’.’

  ‘Mebbe Bargle was alone. The others might’ve been ambushed.’

  ‘Nah, Splikker was with ’em. He wouldn’t let hisself get ambushed.’

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t ’e, then? Remember that time by the south rapids . . .’

  ‘Stow the gab an’ latch yore lips, mates. Mayon, see to the vittles!’

  Log a Log stamped up on to the bank, shaking water from himself. The shrews were seated in a circle three deep when Bargle and his scouts came in. Log a Log motioned them to sit and help themselves to a beaker of rough cider each and some wedges of white celery cheese with shrewbread. When they were comfortably settled and eating, Bargle made his report.

  ‘We saw the two Marlfoxes just afore noon, Chief, west of ’ere, over by widestream. Then they vanished, right in front of our eyes!’

  Log a Log undid his shoulder belt and let his rapier fall to the ground, rubbing the back of a paw wearily across his eyes. ‘No sign o’ those rats or our logboats, I suppose?’

  The shrew named Splikker shrugged. ‘Never saw ’em, but we tracked their sign, an’ they’re bound west an’ a point south, Chief. By the seasons, they can paddle boats as well as any shrew can, believe me.’

  Log a Log shook his head despairingly. ‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it? They’re water rats. West an’ a point south, y’say?’

  ‘Aye, Chief, but there’s a lot of ’em, so the logboats’ll be overloaded. I saw keel scrapin’s in the shallows. They can’t be travellin’ very fast, weighted down as they are.’

  Log a Log drained his beaker and sat awhile, gnawing worriedly at his lip. The Guosim watched him in silence, until a scuffle broke out behind his back. Log a Log whirled round in time to see a hulking shrew deal the young one who had been eating the watercress a hefty blow. As the young shrew fell back holding his face, the hefty one began to kick him, rumbling bad-temperedly, ‘It was you, Dippler, sleepin’ on guard while those foxes’n’rats stole the boats from under yer nose, yer worthless, tail-draggin’ . . .’

  Log a Log was up in a flash. Launching himself sideways, he caught the hefty one a flying double kick to the stomach, sending him sprawling. The Chieftain stood over him, quivering with anger. ‘Lay a paw near Dippler again an’ I’ll boot yore guts through yer backbone, that’s if you’ve got any!’

  The hefty shrew, who was called Fenno, glared up at his chief, his eyes filled with unspoken rage. Log a Log was older, smaller and lighter than him, but he was not Chieftain for nothing. Log a Log smiled, nodding back to his rapier on the ground. ‘C’mon, Fenno, yer a fine big beast. Carryin’ a blade, too. I’m not armed, but if y’figger yore brave enough t’carry out the beatin’s in this tribe, then why not try me? Come on, mate, let’s see what yore made of, eh?’

  There was tension in the air as the Guosim watched both shrews. Then Fenno, still lying flat, placed a paw across his eyes, a sign of submission. A few chuckles broke out from the Guosim.

  ‘Ole Fenno did the sensible thing there, mate!’

  ‘Aye, so he did. Nobeast messes with Log a Log!’

  ‘Leastways, nobeast that wants ter grow old in one piece!’

  Log a Log helped Dippler up. Throwing a paw round the youngster’s shoulders, he gestured for silence. ‘Hearken now, I don’t want any shrew complainin’ about young Dippler, or tryin’ to rough him up. We was all young once an’ we all made mistakes, some of ’em worse’n others. Dippler slept on guard an’ lost our logboats, all six of ’em – good craft too, they were. So the young ’un’ll learn better, he’ll try harder. You will, won’t yer, matey?’

  Dippler wiped mud from his bruised face, smiling through his tears. ‘I won’t let the Guosim down ever again, Chief. That’s a promise!’

  Log a Log patted Dippler’s back heartily. ‘Good feller! Now, Guosim, ’ere’s the bad news. Those boats of ours can only go one way on widestream an’ that way takes ’em too close to Redwall Abbey fer my likin’. I know we ain’t used to walkin’, but we’ve got to get to the Abbey an’ warn ’em. I never saw water rats in Mossflower afore, but I know that their leaders, those Marlfoxes, are evil beasts. Magic, too. They’ve got tools, wood an’ carpenters at the Abbey, so the sooner we’re there the quicker we’ll get new boats built. Right?’

  The bass-voiced shrews roared back agreement gruffly. ‘Right!’

  Log a Log smiled as he buckled his rapier back on. ‘So wot are you sittin’ round like a crowd o’ butterflies with wet wings for? Let’s get trampin’!’

  They formed up into six lines, one for the crew of each boat. As they marched away, Bargle called out to Log a Log. ‘I know we ain’t sailin’, Chief, but could we sing a paddle song to ’elp us keep pawstep on the way?’

  Log a Log nodded and roared out a fast paddle song with the rest as they stamped away through the dim tree aisles of Mossflower.

  ‘Whum chakka um chakka chumchakka whum!

  Guosim dig yore paddle deep,

  Hurly-burly river wide’n’curly,

  There’s no time to sleep.

  Whum chakka um chakka chumchakka whum!

  Rapid wild and fast do go,

  Hurly-burly river wide’n’curly,

  Bend yore backs an’ row.

  Whum chakka um chakka chumchakka whum!

  Keep her bows up in the foam,

  Hurly-burly river wide’n’curly,

  Logboat take us home.

  Whum chakka um chakka chumchakka . . .’

  The rousing boatsong echoed through wooded glades and grassy clearings as Log a Log and his Guosim shrews marched to Redwall.

  * * *

  3

  Extract from the writings of Old Friar Butty, Squirrel Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower country.

  I had a twinge in my left footpaw a moment back – I hope that’s a sign of rain. We could certainly do with a good shower. Everything seems to be drooping or wilting. Badgermum Cregga says ’tis the dryest summer she’s ever known, and she’s seen more summers than the rest of us put together! Redwallers have had to form a chain from the Abbey pond to the orchard, bringing pails of water for the thirsty trees and vines that produce our fruits and berries. A pity we haven’t more able-bodied creatures – Redwall Abbey seems to be populated by the elders or the very young these last few seasons. I can remember in the times when Abbess Tansy ruled, there seemed to be no end of willing otters, moles, mice, squirrels and hedgehogs to perform the daily chores of Redwall. But that was a long time back, when I served as an assistant cook in the kitchens under Old Mother Buscol. Who would have thought the days would arrive when I would be called old? Yes, Old Friar Butty, that’s me, too old to cook and far too rheumaticky to serve as Abbot, even though there was a time when everybeast seemed to keep asking me to take up the position. ’Tis a sad reflection, Redwall Abbey without Abbot or Abbess, but that’s the way things are this season. Poor old Arven, who was once Abbey Warrior, served as Abbot for three seasons, after Abbess Tansy had gone to her rest. Unfortunately he passed on to the sunlit pastures during the spring, having survived a rough winter. So now there is only myse
lf and Badgermum Cregga, with the good mouse Sister Sloey running the Infirmary, Tragglo Spearback our hedgehog Cellarkeeper, Diggum and Gurrbowl, his mole helpers, and Gubbio, who is now Foremole. All that is left of our old friends. The sword of Martin, our Founder and first Abbey Warrior, hangs on the wall in Cregga’s room. His brave guiding spirit is blended into the ancient red sandstone of our beautiful Abbey. Seasons have been kind and peace has reigned here many, many summers. I think it is thanks to the spirit of Martin. Oh, I forgot one other still here from the old days. In fact I can see him now, from the gatehouse window where I am sitting, Nutwing the owl. He was one of three born here at Redwall. His brother and sister have long flown off, but Nutwing has stayed and remained faithful to the Abbey. He is, how shall I put it, an unwise old owl, having great lapses of memory in his latter seasons. You will pardon me, I’m sure, but I feel I’m about to be lured away from my recording duties. I just hope ’tis nothing too strenuous.

  The owl waddled right up to the gatehouse window and peered in through tiny thick crystal-lensed spectacles, perched on his beak curve. ‘Hmm, mm. Is that you, Butty?’

  The old squirrel poked his head out of the open window, facing Nutwing nose to beak. ‘Who else would it be, pushing a quill pen, inkstained paws, buried among scrolls on a beautiful summer morn like this? Certainly not yourself, you feathered old fraud.’

  Nutwing shook his head absently. ‘Hmm, mm. No, it wouldn’t be me. Don’t like writing one little bit. D’you think it’s likely to rain soon?’

  Butty nodded towards the hot blue cloudless sky. ‘I’ve had one paw twinge today, but that could mean nothing. Look up and tell me what you think.’

  Nutwing flapped his wings resignedly. ‘Hmm. Sky’s too far up for me to see. I don’t bother with it.’

  Friar Butty came around outside the gatehouse to where the owl stood. ‘Well, friend, I’m sure you didn’t come this far just to chat about the weather. What d’you want?’

  Nutwing thought long and hard, blinking and moving his head from side to side. ‘Hmm, mm, er, let me see, was it something t’do with . . . No, that wasn’t it . . . Perhaps it was . . . Hmm, no, I’d forgotten about that . . .’

  Butty smiled indulgently. ‘Was it anything to do with strawberries, perhaps?’

  Nutwing looked astonished. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because when you flapped your wings a strawberry fell out on the grass. There it is.’

  It was a giant of a fruit, shiny red, plump and speckled with seeds. Nutwing grinned happily. Retrieving the strawberry, he gave it to the squirrel. ‘I brought this beauty over for you, friend. They’re taking the berries to the kitchen, and your advice is needed.’

  Friar Butty bit into the fruit, wiping juice from his whiskers as he chewed. ‘Oh, delicious. I hope they’re all the same quality as this’n. What a wonderful thing a strawberry is. It has a flavour and fragrance all of its own – the taste of a good summer. Right, let’s go to the kitchens and see how I can be of help.’

  Badgermum Cregga was totally blind, though it did not seem to hamper her greatly. She waited at the Abbey’s main door to greet the pair. ‘Ah, well done, Nutwing, you remembered your errand. Come on, Butty, finish eating that strawberry and get along to the kitchens.’

  The old Friar was amazed. ‘But how did you . . .’

  Redwall’s blind Badgermum forestalled the question. ‘I know ’tis you because you limp a bit on that rheumatic paw and any creature with half a nose and one ear can tell by the aroma and the sound of chomping when somebeast is enjoying a big strawberry. Now hurry along before the Dibbuns decide what to do with the entire crop.’

  Gubbio Foremole and Sister Sloey had their paws full, trying to control the greedy Abbeybabes, the Dibbuns, from ravaging the baskets of fruit which were piled up everywhere around the kitchens.

  ‘Yurr, you’m rarscal, git’n ee paws outen yon barsket!’

  Foremole lifted a tiny mouse down from the shelftop, where she was rummaging in a basket to find the biggest berries. Sister Sloey menaced two small moles who were stained from ear to smock with crimson juice, shaking a wooden spoon at them as they stuffed strawberries into their mouths with both paws.

  ‘Not another one, d’you hear me? Stop immediately!’

  Through a mouthful of the fruit one of the molebabes explained patiently to the Infirmary Sister why they had to complete their self-appointed task. ‘Nay, marm, us’n’s be on’y h’eatin’ ee ones that’ll go bad soon. Hurr, it’n ’ard job furr ee loikes of uz h’infants!’

  The Sister did not share their viewpoint. ‘The only things that’ll go bad are your tummies. You’ll be sick as stuffed frogs the pair of you. Now stop it this instant!’

  All the Dibbuns froze as Cregga’s voice boomed severely through the kitchens. ‘Just point out any Dibbuns who’ve been pinching strawberries an’ I’ll deal with them, by the thundering seasons of strife I will!’

  The molebabe, Wugger, tugged Friar Butty’s habit cord and whispered, ‘Yurr, zurr Butty, doan’t ee tell Badgermum oi bin pinchin’ st’awbees an’ oi woan’t tell on ee!’

  The old Friar winked secretly at Wugger and spoke out loud. ‘Cregga, marm, how could you say such things? I’m sure none of the Dibbuns would be so villainous as to pinch strawberries. They’re merely helpin’ to carry them in and stack the baskets.’

  A chorus of agreement burst from the Dibbuns.

  ‘Yuss, Friar be right, marm!’

  ‘Us’n’s be gudd an’ ’onest beasts!’

  ‘Nono pincha st’awbees, not never!’

  Cregga nodded solemnly. ‘Well, I’m very glad to hear it, because once, many seasons before any of you were born, we had a Dibbun at Redwall who . . . D’you remember what happened to him, Sister Sloey?’

  Sloey pursed her lips forbiddingly as she continued the tale. ‘Oh, I recall that one right enough. He ate strawberries from dawn to dusk on the day of the harvest, never listened to a word when he was told to stop, kept on pinchin’ and scoffin’ all the biggest and juiciest ones. Guess what happened to him as he was on the stairs to the dormitory?’ Sloey gazed around at the wide-eyed Dibbuns hanging on her every word. Suddenly she clapped her paws sharply and shouted out, ‘He went . . . Bang! Just like that! Exploded! Was never seen again! Isn’t that right, Friar Butty?’

  The old squirrel nodded sadly. ‘Aye, that’s what happened, Sister. You can still see the red mark he left halfway up the stairs, poor greedy little mite!’

  Shocked and horrified Dibbuns unloaded strawberries from their smock pockets back into the baskets, stunned by the fate of the gluttonous Dibbun in that far gone season. Then they rushed from the kitchens, squeaking and shouting as they headed for the dormitory stairs where the incident was reputed to have taken place.

  When they had gone, Cregga popped a strawberry into her mouth, chuckling. ‘Haha! That story works every summer. I wonder what that bright red mark on the stairs is, though? It feels quite smooth. Probably a lump of quartz in the stone.’

  Nutwing watched Cregga feel around in the basket beside her for another large strawberry. ‘Hmm, mm. I’ve seen it. A bit too big for a Dibbun. Must’ve been a greedy badger who wouldn’t stop pinchin’ strawberries, eh?’

  Tragglo Spearback the Cellarkeeper, an immense hedgehog, lumbered in. Stuffing both paws in his wide canvas apron pocket, he grinned and winked at Nutwing. ‘Aye, may’aps ’twere a badger. Now then, ole Butty, which ones are mine? Make sure they’re good’n’juicy enough to brew into a barrel o’ strawberry fizz.’

  Friar Butty did his rounds of the baskets, sniffing and prodding gently at the fruit they contained, and marking certain ones with a charcoal stick.

  ‘Those should be enough for you, Tragglo, a dozen good baskets. Sister Sloey, you take this one, to sweeten up those herb potions you give to sick Dibbuns. Brother Melilot?’

  A fat dormouse emerged from an unlit oven with scrubbing brush and pail in his paws.

  ‘Last time I let moles make damson
jam in my oven. Sticks like glue when it bubbles over. Did y’want me, Friar?’

  Butty indicated the unmarked baskets. ‘These are all yours. What d’you plan on making? Strawberry tarts, obviously. I noticed a pot of redcurrant jelly cooling on the windowsill as I came in.’

  Melilot took off his greasy apron and began tying on a freshly laundered one. ‘Strawberry tarts for sure, with good shortcrust pastry and lots of whipped meadowcream on top. I’ll probably do some strawberry and pear flans too, and a big strawberry trifle if you’ll be good enough to help me, Friar.’

  Butty agreed willingly. ‘Oh, yes, an extra big trifle, with plums and raspberries in it too.’

  Everybeast began contributing their ideas of what made the perfect trifle.

  ‘An’ lots o’ flaked almonds an’ hazelnuts sprinkled on top!’

  ‘Aye, with a good beaker of elderberry wine poured in.’

  ‘Be sure to set it in blackberry jelly.’

  ‘With lots of honeysponge slices t’make it nice an’ soggy!’

  ‘Sweet arrowroot custard too, good’n’deep!’

  ‘Burr hurr, an’ gurt globbets o’ clotted meadowcream atop o’ that!’

  The discussion was interrupted when a stocky older squirrel strode in, a younger one in his wake, both carrying pails in either paw. The older squirrel, Rusvul, was obviously hot and rather irritated.