Lord Brocktree Read online

  8

  AT THE INLET camp, dawn was already well advanced, and dewdrops glistened on the blossoms of hemlock, marshwort and angelica. From upstream the constant call of a cuckoo roused Dotti from sleep. She lay there for a moment, expecting her nostrils to be assailed by the odours of woodsmoke and cooking. However, the haremaid was disappointed. Apart from the monotonous cuckoo noise, the little camp was quiet and ominously still. Rising cautiously, she checked around. The elm tree trunk lay moored in the shallows, but of her two friends there was no sign. Taking care not to raise her voice too much, Dotti hailed her companions.

  ‘I say, Brocktree sah, Ruff, are you there?’

  A rustle from some bushes caused her to turn, smiling. ‘Come on out, you chaps. I know you — Yeek!’

  As she leaned into the shrubbery, a big blackbird burst from it, the bird’s wing striking her face as it flew off. Dotti decided then to be stem with her fellow travellers.

  ‘Now see here, you two, a joke’s a joke an’ all that, but I’ve had about enough. Show yourselves front’n’centre please, right now!’

  But the only answer she received was the cuckoo calling, ‘Cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo!’

  Dotti flung a twig irately in its direction. ‘Oh, shut your blisterin’ beak, y’bally nuisance!’

  She decided that Brocktree and Ruff had gone out foraging for breakfast. Muttering darkly to herself, the haremaid sat on the bank, munching a stale barleyscone and an apple she had dug from her bag. The warming sunlight did nothing to raise her spirits. She felt deserted and alone.

  ‘Huh, rotten ole Brocko an’ slyboots Ruff, sneakin’ off just ’cos a gel’s got to have her beauty sleep, wot! Bet they’ve found a patch of juicy berries or somethin’, prob’ly sittin’ there stuffin’ their great fat faces!’

  She pictured the otter and the badger doing just that and began imitating their voices in conversation. ‘Haharr, stap me rudder an’ swoggle me barnacles, matey, these berries is prime vittles. Shall we save some an’ take ’em back t’camp for the young ’un?

  ‘Hah, don’t talk silly, Ruff. Let the lazy whipper-snapper find her own berries. That’s the trouble with young ’uns these days, want everything doing for ’em!’ She was working herself up into a fine old temper, when she noticed something on the flat top of the elm boat.

  It was a crude sketch, done with a piece of burnt wood from last night’s fire. There was an arrow pointing downstream and a depiction of herself sitting on the boat. By a sharp bend in the stream, Ruff and Brocktree were drawn, apparently waiting for her. Also there was some sketchy writing, obviously Ruff’s: ‘See U att noone.’

  The haremaid studied it, still chunnering to herself. ‘See me at noon where the stream bends, eh? Well how flippin’ nice to let a body know, blinkin’ deserters! Tchah! Is that supposed t’be a picture of me? Just look at those miserable ears. Mine are a jolly sight prettier than that, wot! Hmph! No wonder that otter’s folks chucked him out – his spellin’s dreadful!’

  She found the burnt stick and corrected it all to her satisfaction, drawing a huge stomach on Ruff and an ugly drooping snout on the Badger Lord. Finally, after adding many touches to make the likeness of herself more beautiful, Dotti gave Ruff a black mark for his spelling. Feeling much better, she tossed the charcoal away.

  ‘Righto, young hare m’gel, time you commanded your own vessel, wot wot!’

  After one or two minor setbacks Dotti found the going fairly simple. The stream was straight and smooth enough, and she soon got the knack of keeping the log in midstream and sailing on course. The haremaid never tired of holding conversations with herself, for who better was there to talk with, she reasoned.

  ‘I say, I’ve just thought of a wheeze. I’ll paddle right past those two, leave ’em on the blinkin’ bank. Wot ho! I’ll shout to them, keep the jolly old paws poundin’, the exercise’ll do you the world o’ good, chaps. Put yourselves about a bit, that’s the ticket, find lots of super grub an’ I may consider lettin’ you back aboard. Bye bye now!’

  She giggled aloud at the picture she conjured up and continued her conversation. ‘Yes, I think I’d make a good captain, or a captainess mebbe. Wish I could play my harecordion awhile – pity I’ve got to keep hold o’ this confounded paddle. Never mind, I’ll just have to sing unaccompanied. Think I’ll compose one of those shanty type things, like these watery types are always caterwaulin’ as they sail along. Here goes!’

  She broke out into a ditty which caused nearby birds to abandon their nests, chicks and all.

  ‘Whompin’ along with a woffle de ho,

  As down the stream I jolly well go,

  Shoutin’ “Lower yore rudder an’ furl that log”,

  There’s nothin’ on land like a seagoin’ frog.

  So oar that paddle an’ paddle that oar,

  Listen, me hearties, I’ll sing ye some more!

  I’m a beautiful hare wot lives on the river,

  In winter I sweat an’ in summer I shiver,

  I don’t need no badger or otter for crew,

  I’m cook an’ I’m paddler an’ captainess too!

  So mainsail me gizzards until we reach shore,

  Listen, me hearties, I’ll sing ye some more!

  Ye don’t mess with Dotti that ole riverbeast,

  I’m grizzled an’ fearsome an’ that ain’t the least,

  So swoggle me scuppers ten dozen I’ve slew,

  I’m a jolly young creature an’ quite pretty too!

  So mizzen me muzzle an’ mop the boat’s floor,

  I’m sorry, me hearties, I don’t know no more!

  ‘Beg pardon about the grammar, of course,’ she commented to a waterbeetle swimming alongside. ‘Dreadful terms us nautical types use, y’know. I’ll work on it, I promise, wot! Er, let’s see, strangle me binnacle? No, that doesn’t sound right. How about boggle me bowsprit? Rather! That sounds much better!’

  Away down the stream Dotti paddled, composing more horrible lyrics from her store of seagoing knowledge.

  ‘So boggle me bowsprit, mate, just one word more,

  An’ I’ll give ye a whack with the back o’ me paw!’

  She backed water with her paddle to slow the log down, for a creature had appeared on the bank. He was an enormously fat, scruffy weasel with a runny snout and the better part of that morning’s breakfast evident on the filthy tunic he wore. He was hanging on to a thick vine rope which trailed upwards and was lost among the trees above. Spitting into the stream, he eyed Dotti nastily and uttered one word. ‘More!’

  The haremaid smiled politely at him. ‘Beg pardon, what was that you said, old chap?’

  He thrust his chin out belligerently at her. ‘More. I said more! So then, are yew gonna give me a whack wid the back o’ yer paw? Jus’ you try it, rabbit!’

  The haremaid sighed, rolling her eyes upward as if for help. ‘If you washed your face this morning then you missed out cleaning your eyes, sah. I am not a rabbit, I’m a hare, y’know. As for swiping chaps with paws, it didn’t apply to you, it was merely a ditty I was singing.’

  The weasel spat into the stream again. ‘You said that if’n I said one word more you’d gimme a whack wid the back o’ yer paw. So I said one word more. More!’

  Dotti eyed him disdainfully. Her mother had warned her about creatures who used aggressive language and spat a lot. There was only one way to treat such beasts: with disdain. Accordingly, she stared regally down her nose at him.

  ‘Disgusting habit, spitting. And let me tell you, my good vermin, this stream level won’t rise a fraction, no matter how much you continue to spit in it. Good day!’

  As she sailed by him, the weasel roared out, ‘Boat ahoy!’

  She waggled her ears at him, a sign of contempt often used by well-bred haremaids. ‘Of course it’s a boat, you benighted buffoon. What did you suppose it was, a tea trolley?’

  The weasel signalled to the opposite bank, where another similarly fat and untidy weasel appeared. He too was hanging on to
a vine rope and was in the habit of spitting into the stream. He leered at Dotti as she sailed by. ‘Fink yer tough, don’tcher? We’ll see!’

  Both weasels let go their ropes and a log came crashing out of the trees above. It splashed sideways into the water, blocking off the stream behind Dotti’s boat.

  The haremaid knew she was in trouble, and paddled furiously to get away from the revolting pair. Unfortunately she had not gone more than a dozen boatlengths when another log came hurtling downward into the stream. Now she was blocked in fore and aft. Dotti controlled her craft as the prow bucked slightly on the bow wave set up by the falling trunk. She watched in apprehension while two more weasels emerged from the bushes. These were females, even bigger, fatter and more repulsive than the two males who came shambling up to join them. Dotti sat primly on her vessel. She knew that reasoning with such blaggards was likely to be useless, but she decided to give it a try.

  ‘Good morning to you, ladies. I trust I find you well, wot?’

  One of the females spat in the stream. ‘Oo, lissen to ’er, willyer? She called us ladies, la di dah!’

  Her male companion scratched his head with a grimy claw. ‘I ain’t no lady – she wuz gonna whack me wid the back of ’er paw!’

  Immediately things got nasty. The other female produced a rusty woodsaw and began wading out towards Dotti. ‘Ho, did she now? Well I’ll leave me mark on ’er fer that!’

  Dotti stood up, wielding her paddle warningly. ‘Stay away from me, marm, I’m beautiful but I’m dangerous!’

  Lunging forward, the weasel grabbed her victim’s footpaw. ‘Hah, yer won’t be pretty no more when I’m done wid yer!’

  Whock!

  The haremaid brought the paddle down hard between her opponent’s ears. Making a horrendous din, the weasel flopped back to the bank.

  ‘Owowowow! Murder! I’m killed, me pore skull’s splitted in twenny places! Yaaaaargh! There’s blood everywhere, I’m killed, murdered, slayed I tell yer! Yeeeegh!’

  Dotti could see she had raised a bump on the weasel’s head, but there was no sign of blood. ‘Oh, stop moanin’, you great fat fraud, there’s nothing wrong with you apart from a bump on the noggin. I wasn’t about to let you come at me with that big rusty woodsaw!’

  The other weasel, who was hauling his injured comrade out of the water, let her fall back in with a splash. He clapped both paws over his mouth. ‘Oh! Oh! Did yew ’ear that? She called Ermy fat! She’s an insulter as well as a murderer!’

  The other male sniffed and wiped a paw across his eyes, looking ready to burst into tears. ‘Yew ’ad no need to ’it Ermy like that, an’ you got no right to call ’er fat. We’ll punish yer when y’come ashore.’

  Dotti brandished her weapon. ‘Not while I’ve got this paddle you won’t. Now pull that log out the way and let me by!’

  The weasel stuck out his bottom lip and scuffed the soil with a footpaw. ‘Won’t!’

  Dotti splashed the water with her paddle and glared fiercely. ‘Oh yes you will!’

  ‘Won’t!’

  The female Ermy set up a fresh wail. ‘Yaaaahahagh! I tole youse we shoulda sneaked up jus’ after dawn an’ killed ’er after the badger’n’otter runned away. Now lookit me. Dyin’ away. Waaahaaahaaagh!’

  Brocktree and Ruff stepped out of the woodlands, both trying hard not to smile. The badger pointed a warning paw across at Ermy. ‘Stop that blubbering before I give you something to cry for!’

  She lapsed into instant silence. Ruff shook his head at her. ‘Good job you never tried to ambush Dotti after dawn – we were watchin’ ye from the trees.’

  Brocktree pointed to the log barrier blocking the way downstream. ‘Haul on your ropes and raise that thing’ – he unsheathed his battle blade – ‘now!’

  Dotti had never seen four overweight weasels move so fast. Puffing and blowing in between sobs of distress they hauled the log back up, whining continuously.

  ‘Oh, spare us, sire, we never meant ’er no ’arm!’

  ‘No, you never mean harm to any creature brave enough to stand up to you. I never liked bullies. Now, hang on tight to those ropes and hold out your left footpaws. Be quick about it!’

  ‘Waaahagh, you ain’t gonna chop ’em off, are yer, sire? We won’t never bully no more travellers. Don’t ’urt us!’

  Ruff knotted the free end of their rope tight around the footpaws of the nearest pair, then swam across to perform the same office for Ermy and her companion. ‘Bless yore filthy ’earts, course we won’t hurt ye . . . left, left the beast said, that’s yore right!’

  When they were securely tied Brocktree barked out an order. ‘Let go of those ropes now!’

  As the four weasels released their hold, the log started to fall back towards the stream, jerking the vermin off their footpaws and slowing suddenly as it was counterbalanced by their weight. With yelps of alarm they were raised upside down with their left footpaws bound securely to the ropes. Equilibrium found all four dangling alongside the log, in midstream, just above Dotti’s head. The haremaid winced as Ermy’s wailing rang out close to her ear.

  ‘Yaaaahahahaaagh! Don’t leave me ’ere ’anging upside down with a big lump on me ’ead, I beg yer. Waaahaaagh!’

  Placing her wet paddle blade over the lump, Dotti soothed the unhappy vermin. ‘Hush now, m’dear, cryin’ won’t make it better. Here, I’ll flatten it for you. Hold still, please.’

  Dotti whacked the paddle forcefully with her paw and flattened the bump completely. She also stunned Ermy, much to everybeast’s relief.

  Brocktree and Ruff had climbed aboard, and now they sailed on downstream, with Dotti admonishing them. ‘I’m surprised at you, Ruff, deserting me like that, wot. But as for you, sah, it comes as no surprise, let me tell you. I was beset by villains once before, as I recall, while you hid behind a tree until I was overcome. This is the second time you’ve left me to it now. Bad form, sah, bad form! I thought you Brocktree types were made of sterner stuff. Seems I was wrong though, wot, wot?’

  Brocktree dangled his footpaws in the streamflow, nodding. ‘I can understand how you feel, miss, but we had our reasons. We didn’t want to confront them until you learned a little object lesson, which you did wonderfully, what d’you think, Ruff?’

  The big otter saluted Dotti with a swirl of his tail. ‘I was proud o’ ye, missymate, y’never showed any fear, you stood up to ’em. That’s the only way t’deal with bullies!’

  Inwardly Dotti glowed happily at her friends’ remarks, but she was still a bit peeved, and she let them know.

  ‘Yes, all very nice thank you, but that’s not the point. What if those weasels had rushed me? I wouldn’t have stood much blinkin’ chance against four of ’em, not t’mention that awful rusty saw. I shudder t’think what they might’ve done to me if anything had gone wrong with your timing!’

  Ruff winked roguishly at his indignant young companion. ‘Haharr, you ’ad no cause to worry. We were watchin’ you every bit o’ the way; there was never any real danger. Y’see I knows this stream, an’ those vermin too. They’re nought but fat ole blusterers – I’ve seen ’em back off from a bad-tempered frog. But if’n you didn’t know that an’ you were a bit faint-’earted, the looks an’ the size o’ those four nasty lumps might’ve scared you into surrenderin’ to ’em. But you taught those baddies a lesson, Dotti.’

  Brocktree chuckled drily. ‘I’ll say you did, young ’un, a born perilous hare you are!’

  Dotti was about to make some frosty rebuke when Ruff caught sight of the sketch and message he had so painstakingly written out on the log.

  ‘Oi, that ain’t the way I drew it.’

  Dotti fluttered her sweetest smile at him. ‘It was far too crude. I altered it a teensy bit.’

  Suddenly it was the otter’s turn for indignation. ‘You cheeky liddle tailwag! Lookit the great fat belly you’ve drawn on me! I look like a stuffed stoat!’

  Brocktree’s booming laughter echoed off the banks. ‘Hohohoho! Well done, miss, haha
ha, a stuffed stoat, eh? Oh, come on, Ruff, where’s your sense of humour?’

  The otter looked him straight in the eye. ‘Same place as yores’ll be when y’see wot she’s done to yore picture, milord!’

  The badger put aside his paddle and leaned across to view Dotti’s artwork. She covered both ears as he exploded.

  ‘You foul little fur-covered grubscoffer! I haven’t got a wobbly fat drooping nose like that! How dare you, miss!’

  For answer Dotti leapt to her paws, waving her paddle about. ‘Back I say, back, droopynose and fattygut! You know that I’m a blisterin’ perilous beast an’ know no fear!’

  Ruff went into a pretty fair imitation of the weasel Ermy. ‘Owowow, I beg yer, don’t ’arm us, miss floppyears!’

  The situation was so funny that the three friends fell about laughing until tears streamed from their eyes.

  A deep gruff voice hailed them from the south bank. ‘Yurr, oi do loiks to ’ear ’arpy creeturs, pertickly in ee springtoim. Wot be you’m larfin’ abowt, zurr Ruffo?’

  Wiping moisture from her eyes, Dotti saw the mole more clearly. He was a stout, dapper-looking creature, wearing a green smock embroidered with daisies and buttercups, and sporting a bright orange kingfisher feather in his tall mushroom-shaped cap. Clutched in his paw was a ladle, almost as long as a travelling staff. He had the friendliest of smiles, exposing lots of milky white teeth.

  Ruff evidently knew the mole. He waved his tail at him as he steered the log to shore. ‘Sink me rudder, ’tis Rogg Longladle. How’s yore snout twitchin’, mate? It must be four seasons since I clapped eyes on ye. Well, this is an ’appy day!’ Bounding ashore, Ruff embraced Rogg’s stout form heartily.

  Still smiling, the mole protested. ‘Hurr, let oi go, ee gurt lump, you’m creasin’ moi smock!’

  The otter called his friends on to the bank. ‘Brock, Dotti, come ’ere, mates. I want ye t’meet my pal Rogg, the best cook on this or any other stream an’ the smartest turned out mole on or under the earth!’

  Rogg doffed his hat gallantly, bowing his velvety head. ‘Gudd day to ee, zurr an’ miz, noice t’meet ee oi’m sure!’