The Legend of Luke Read online

  Log a Log Furmo wandered up and down the bank, peering into the crystal-clear water. He scratched his chin, as if undecided, then wagged a cautionary paw at his crew. ‘No further’n the end o’ that raft, now. Stay out o’ the current an’ deep parts, an’ keep close to the bank. I don’t want to carry back news of any drowned Guosim to yore kin.’ Before he had finished speaking, several of the younger shrews hurled themselves yelling into the stream.

  ‘Yahahoooooo!’

  Jumping ashore to avoid the splashes of the bathing party, Log a Log shook his head at Martin. ‘Look at ’em, like a flippin’ shower o’ Dibbuns!’

  A secret wink passed between Gonff and Martin as the Warrior shrugged free of his sword and belt. Grabbing Log a Log between them they leaped into the water. The shrew Chieftain surfaced breathless, blowing spray from both nostrils.

  ‘Yah, y’rotten ’orrible creatures, what’d ye do that for?’

  Gonff flung himself on Log a Log and ducked him. ‘Gerrout, ye ole fogey, you were dyin’ for a play in the water, weren’t you?’

  Log a Log swam deftly out of the Mousethief’s reach. ‘Of course I was, mate, but don’t tell my shrews that. I’m supposed to be a serious leader who acts responsibly!’ He sank beneath the surface again as Chugger landed on him.

  ‘You norra leader, you a big fish, Chugger wanna ride on you back. C’mon, fishy, hup hup, gerra move on!’

  Everybeast had tremendous fun in the stream, laughing and splashing, ducking and diving and behaving exactly as Log a Log had said, like a shower of Dibbuns. However, they deserted the water en masse when the foraging party returned, hailing them from the banktop: ‘Lookit, mates, we found strawberries!’

  Two haversacks filled with wild strawberries, small, sweet and juicy, were carried into camp. Refreshed after her swim, Trimp sat with Chugger and Dinny on the sunwarmed rocks, sharing a heap of the delicious fruit.

  One of the foraging party reported to Log a Log. ‘Saw a pile of otter tracks on the heathland back there, mebbe fifteen or more, all big ’uns!’

  The shrew Chieftain shrugged, selecting a big strawberry. ‘Otters are goodbeasts, we’ve no reason to fear ’em. They’re welcome to a pawful o’ vittles if’n they visit us.’

  As evening shades tinged the skies the otters came upriver and emerged dripping from the stream. A big wiry fellow, obviously their Skipper, held forth his paws in greeting.

  ‘Peaceful evenin’ to ye, friends. Is that a fruit salad with strawberries in it I see? Looks ’andsome, don’t it?’

  Log a Log smiled at the hungry otters, indicating that they were free to help themselves. ‘Sit down an’ welcome, friend. Haven’t I seen you afore?’

  Balancing back on his rudderlike tail, the otter answered, ‘Prob’ly crossed paths once or twice, matey. I’m Tungro – my tribe have a holt on the river north o’ here.’

  The shrew nodded. ‘Ah, Tungro. Heard yore name someplace. What are you’n’yore crew doin’ hereabouts, mate?’

  Tungro accepted food from Trimp and thanked her. He acted rather nonchalant, but Log a Log suspected he was either hiding something or not telling the full story when he replied airily, ‘Oh, not much, y’know, jus’ takin’ a look t’see wot’s on the other side o’ the hill, so t’speak. Ain’t you or none o’ yore crew caught sight of an old-lookin’ raggedy otter round here today, have ye?’

  Log a Log threw a pebble into the stream, watching it sink. ‘No, mate. Why d’you ask?’

  Tungro did not reply. He nodded to his crew, finished eating and bobbed his head courteously. ‘Obliged to ye for the vittles, friends. Go in peace an’ good fortune travel with ye. Oh, if’n you should bump into the ole otter I mentioned, tell ’im that he can come back to the hold if’n he’s mended his ways.’ Tungro handed Furmo an otter tailring. ‘Give ’im this an’ say that yore all mates o’ mine. Fare ye well, now!’

  Without creating a single splash the otters slipped into the water and were gone. Martin and Gonff came to sit alongside Log a Log, and the Mousethief expressed his bewilderment.

  ‘Phew, that was a speedy visit. What d’you suppose ’twas all about, Furmo?’

  The shrew’s answer was guarded. ‘Ye’ll forgive me if’n I don’t tell all the story, ’cos I ain’t certain of the full facts meself, but here’s as much as I’m willin’ to say, mates. I’ve heard of Tungro, aye, an’ his brother Folgrim. Both great warriors, ’tis said, but Folgrim was knowed t’be fiercer, even though he was smaller than Tungro. Well, when their ole father died, they was joint Skippers of their holt. One winter they were attacked by a mixed band o’ vermin, but otters ain’t beasts to mess with. They gave those vermin scum a real good drubbin’ an’ drove ’em off. Now Tungro reckoned that was enough, but not Folgrim. Off he went alone in pursuit o’ the vermin. Wasn’t ’til two seasons later Folgrim returned ’ome. They say the vermin laid a trap an’ captured ’im. Starved, beat an’ tortured somethin’ ’orrible he was, wounded, crippled an’ with only one good eye. Sick in the brain too, ’cos Folgrim was never the same after wot those vermin did to ’im. I know from lissenin’ to travellers, Folgrim be’aved so bad an’ strange that Tungro’s banished ’im more’n once from the holt, but Folgrim always returns, an’ Tungro forgives his ways an’ takes ’im back. Well, you couldn’t banish yore own brother for ever, just ’cos he ain’t right in the head, now could ye?’

  Martin had to agree with the shrew. ‘No, you’re right, blood’s thicker than water. What was that he gave you to give to his brother?’

  Log a Log held up the beautiful otter tailring, carved from the backbone of some great fish. ‘Nice, ain’t it? Though I hope we don’t meet Folgrim an’ have t’give ’im it.’

  Gonff took the tailring and inspected it. ‘Why not, Furmo? He’s not as bad as all that, is he?’

  The shrew took the tailring back and stowed it in his pouch. ‘I can’t say, Gonff. I won’t tell ye all I’ve heard ’cos I’m not sure I believe it, an’ I can’t tell ye what I haven’t seen. I’m for a spot o’ shuteye now. You two can sit up an’ natter all night.’

  Nothing further was mentioned of Tungro’s brother Folgrim. The friends lay down to rest that night with their own thoughts about the story they had heard. Purely out of insatiable curiosity, Gonff wished that he could meet the strange otter. Finally the Mousethief slept, not knowing that he was to get his wish on the following day.

  Next morning was damp and humid, with the sky clouded over a dirty grey and drizzle falling continuously. Pushing on downstream the craft sailed slowly along on the rain-flecked waters. Trimp and Chugger sat beneath the awning the shrews had set up from the single sail. The hogmaid watched the others, droplets spilling from their whiskers, soaked through, paws slipping on paddles, as they pushed doggedly on. As noon approached there was no change, and the drizzle persisted. Guosim paddlers looked pleadingly to their leader. Log a Log wiped moisture from his eyes, seeking a suitable spot along the same bank they had camped on the previous day. Eventually he called, ‘Head ’er in, mates. Looks like an ole cave yonder!’

  A tent was rigged over the cavefront, and the provisions were stacked under it to keep them dry. Everybeast crowded under the canvas and in the small cave. Chugger was wearing a rough hooded cloak which Trimp had fashioned from an empty apple sack. Evading the hedgehog maid, who looked after him like a mother duck, the little squirrel toddled off to explore the country. Trimp looked right and left. Where had the little imp gone? Poking her head from under the shelter she spotted him. Chugger had climbed the rock ledges and was up on top of the bank. He wrinkled his nose and waved at Trimp. ‘No worry ’bout Chugg, jus’ goin’ to fight swans!’ Waving his ash twig he vanished from sight. Trimp took off in pursuit, scrambling up the wet stones.

  Martin had just lit a small fire when he heard Trimp calling urgently from above, ‘Help! Come quick, mates!’

  Grabbing his sword, Martin dashed out ahead of the shrews. Together he, Gonff and Furmo took the ledges in a series of bounds,
with Dinny and the Guosim following swiftly behind. Trimp was crouched down, protecting Chugger. She pointed. ‘There, Martin! Oh, help him, please!’

  Two water rats were tormenting another creature. Martin peered through the curtain of misty drizzle. It was an otter, limping along, clad in a ragged cloak and bent almost double. Kicking him and striking him with whippy willow withes, the vermin spat at him, taunting, ‘Move yerself, yew dodderin’ ole ragbag, we’re goin’ to tie rocks to yer paws an’ sink yer in the stream, nice’n’slow. Come on, yer hobblin’ addlebrained idiot!’

  Martin lifted his sword and took a pace forward. Log a Log placed a paw on his shoulder. ‘Stop there, Warrior, don’t interfere. That’s Folgrim you see, fightin’ the enemy!’

  Gonff nodded towards the two rats, who were still unaware of their presence. ‘He’s fightin’ them, d’ye say? Huh, it looks the other way round t’me, mate!’

  Log a Log shook his head grimly, murmuring to his shrews, ‘Get Trimp an’ the liddle ’un back down t’the cave – this ain’t fit fer ’em t’see. Keep silent, Martin, crouch down by me an’ watch. You too, Gonff.’

  One rat stuck out his footpaw and tripped the lame otter, who fell heavily. Both rats laid on savagely with their switches as he pleaded, ‘Please, sirs, don’t drown me, I’m nought but a pore wayfarin’ beast who’s lost his way, don’t beat me. Owow!’

  This continued for a moment. Until one of the rats got too close to the victim. Like a wolf, Folgrim was upon him with lightning speed. He seized the rat in a death hug, sinking his teeth deep into the vermin’s throat. Shocked beyond belief, the other rat stood trembling a moment, then he dashed off wailing in terror. Folgrim lifted a bloodstained mouth from his prey’s neck, calling, ‘Run run run, ratty, I’ll track ye down, Folgrim’ll get yer.’

  At a signal from Log a Log the travellers backed off unobserved and clambered down to their camp. Gonff sat by the fire, sipping a beaker of hot mushroom soup. He stared into the flames and shuddered. ‘Ugh! I never seen a creature killed like that afore!’

  Martin passed a beaker of soup to Log a Log. ‘So that’s Folgrim, brother of Tungro. Well, Furmo, d’you believe what they say now?’

  Log a Log nodded. ‘Every word, mate, every awful word!’

  A sound of somebeast scrambling down the ledges alerted them. Next moment Folgrim limped in, still with a bloodsmeared mouth. Chugger’s eyes grew big and round at the sight of the fearsome beast. The otter winked his single eye at them and sat by the fire. ‘Ah, nice fire. Chills a beast t’the bone, drizzle does!’

  Swiftly, Dinny filled a beaker from the soup pot. ‘Yurr, zurr h’otter, drinkee summ noice ’ot zoop up!’

  Smiling, Folgrim shook his head. Martin saw that his teeth were filed, or broken into jagged points. ‘Not fer me, mole. I got food back up there.’

  Trimp approached bearing a loaf and a hunk of cheese. ‘Then take these with you for tomorrow, sir.’ She took a step backward at the sight of the otter’s face. It was painted thickly with plant dyes and mud, to cover the horrible wounds and scars etched into it. The single red-rimmed eye stared crazily at her.

  ‘No thankee, missie, I’ll ’ave more food by tomorrow when I track that other ’un down. You, shrew, can you let me ’ave tinder an’ flint? Beast needs a good cookin’ fire in this country an’ I ain’t got the makin’s.’

  Log a Log gave Folgrim a bag of soft dried moss and two chunks of flintstone to make fire with. ‘Take ’em an’ welcome, friend. Yore brother Tungro said that I should give you this tailring too. He says yore welcome back at the holt if’n you’ve mended yore ways. We’re friends of your brother’s.’

  Folgrim reached out and grabbed Trimp’s paw, pushed the tailring over it with a swift movement and released her. ‘Pretty bracelet for a pretty maid, eh! If’n you see my brother, tell ’im that I said ’e’s a good beast. The holt’s better off widout me – it’s far too late fer me t’mend my ways. Got t’go now, light a fire, do a spot o’ cookin’. Travel on, catch the other rat, light another fire, do more cookin’!’ Baring his pointed teeth at the horrified friends, Folgrim stood up and stumped out into the rain.

  Trimp covered her mouth with both paws, her normal good pallor taking on a greenish tinge. Log a Log sat her down by the fire, placing a dry sack round her shoulders.

  ‘D’you feel sick, missie? Y’don’t look none too chirpy.’

  Trimp took a deep breath before replying. ‘Didn’t you hear? That otter is going to cook a rat and eat it. Oh, I can’t believe it!’

  Gonff winked at the others as he patted Trimp’s paw. ‘You didn’t believe him, did ye, Trimp? Haha, that’s a good ’un, ain’t it, Martin, ain’t it, Furmo? An otter eatin’ a water rat!’

  They both laughed hollowly.

  ‘Er, haha, shouldn’t believe all y’hear, Trimp.’

  ‘Aye, he was only joking, miss, haha . . .’ Martin’s half-hearted laugh trailed off miserably.

  Further along the bank, in the shelter of another rock ledge, Folgrim was kindling a fire and holding a one-sided conversation with the slain water rat.

  ‘Pity I never got yore mate, he was fatter’n you are. Still, don’t fuss, I’ll lay ’im by the paws afore sunset tomorrow night. Fire’s nice, ain’t it? Chills a beast to the bone, this drizzle does. Nice fire, I likes a good fire!’

  * * *

  10

  THEY SLEPT LATE next morning. The rain had ceased and sunlight was beaming from clear summer skies when Chugger roused himself and trundled out on to the bank. Steamy mist, from the rain, hung over the whole bank-shore in a thick low layer, waiting for the sun to evaporate it. The tiny squirrel raced through it, giggling as he tried to catch the elusive tendrils in his paws. ‘Yeeheehee! All be’s covered in frog, lotsa frogs. Heehee!’

  Gonff and Trimp emerged from the cave yawning. Upon hearing Chugger’s cries, Gonff became alert. ‘What frogs? Who’s covered in frogs?’

  Trimp shoved the Mousethief playfully. ‘He means fog. Look out!’

  The mist parted and Chugger bowled head over brush into them. Gonff swept him up, tickling the little fellow and swinging him about. ‘I’ll give ye frogs, y’villain!’

  Soon the whole party was up and about. Furmo and his shrews lit a fire and began cooking breakfast. Dinny appeared out of the mist, toting a pail of water.

  ‘Hurr, doan’t be furr frum ee seashores naow. Lookit all ee frog yurrabouts, Marthen.’

  Martin climbed halfway up one of the ledges and peered over the mist curtain. ‘Right, Din. We don’t normally get heavy bankmist like this inland. Sea can’t be too far off now. Hush! Everybeast be still. I can hear someone coming this way!’

  It was the otters, Tungro and his crew. As soon as Martin recognised their voices he hailed them from the bank. ‘Morning, friends. Breakfast’s almost ready, y’welcome to share it with us!’

  Tungro waded ashore, dripping from the stream. ‘Thankee kindly, goodbeasts, we wouldn’t say no to a bite o’ brekkist. The crew ain’t eaten yet t’day.’

  Nudging Log a Log Furmo, Gonff raised his eyebrows. ‘Better git more shrewbread on the hot stones. Here was I, thinkin’ I was goin’ t’get a nice big peaceful breakfast – now it’ll be a small noisy one with this lot as guests!’

  The rest of Tungro’s crew came ashore in a huddle. They had Folgrim with them, a rope lead round his middle and both paws bound by a long hobble, which had allowed him to swim. He winked his one good eye at Trimp. ‘Good day to ye, missie. ‘Ope I finds yer well?’

  The hedgehog maid shuddered, though she bobbed him a curtsy and managed a quick smile. ‘I’m well, thankee, sir.’

  Tungro drew Martin and Furmo to one side. He seemed slightly embarrassed and hesitant. ‘Er, I ’opes you’ll fergive me, er, bringin’ my brother Folgrim to yore camp fer brekkist like this. He ain’t a bad beast really, ’tis just that ’is mind’s troubled.’

  Martin nodded understandingly and patted Tungro’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, friend, we know a bit ab
out Folgrim and the bad times he’s had. He dropped by here yesterday afternoon. There was no trouble, he behaved himself quite well.’

  Tungro looked relieved. ‘We caught up with Folgrim just after he’d tracked an’ slain a rat. He’d lit a fire, that was ’ow we spotted ’im. Me’n’the crew had t’jump on pore Folgrim a bit, but we managed, tied ’im up an’ buried the rat carcass afore he, er, well . . .’

  Furmo poured a beaker of pennycloud cordial for the otter. ‘’Tis all right, y’don’t have to explain, we know from the other rat Folgrim managed t’get his paws on, just over the banktop there. Come on now, get somethin’ to eat.’

  Furmo and his shrews had made a delicious breakfast. There was hot shrewbread, strawberries and a batch of vegetable pasties, with a choice of cordial or hot mint tea to drink. Tungro sat slightly apart with his brother, trying to make him eat a little, but Folgrim kept his mouth firmly shut, refusing the food in silence. Everybeast tried to get on with their meal, but they kept taking secretive glances as Tungro encouraged his brother. ‘Come on now, Fol, these’re prime vittles, made by the best o’ Guosim cooks. Try some o’ this pasty, me ole mate!’ Folgrim merely shook his head stubbornly. Tungro noticed the watchers and shrugged with embarrassment. ‘Sorry, he won’t eat nothin’, though there ain’t a thing wrong wid yore food, friends, ’tis the best I ever tasted.’

  Trimp was trying to hold on to Chugger, but he wriggled out of her grasp and went swiftly on all fours to Folgrim. Smiling up into the otter’s scarred face, Chugger grabbed a pasty and lectured him like a mother squirrel. ‘Eaty all up now, or y’don’t grow bigga strong like me. H’i eatim up if’n you don’t, silly ole riverdog!’

  Suddenly Folgrim burst out laughing at the little squirrel’s antics, and took a big bite out of the proffered pasty. ‘You ain’t eatin’ all my brekkist up, liddle sir, ho no!’