7
Young Uggo Wiltud soon found that Jum Gurdy’s bark
was not serious, and his supposed bite was nonexistent. The young
hedgehog knew that the otter, despite his forbidding size and
appearance, was quite easygoing. Together they trudged off along
the path, cutting across the ditch and travelling west through the
area of Mossflower woodlands which skirted the vast flatlands.
Midmorning saw warm sun seeping through the leafy canopy of oak,
beech, elm, sycamore and other big trees. Soft, loamy earth was
sprouting with grass, young fern, cowslip, primrose, silverweed,
milkwort and alkanet. Birdsong was everywhere, echoing through
patches of sunlight and shade.
None of this was of any great interest to Uggo,
whose stomach had been telling him of his need for food all
morning. Jum, who had been forging doggedly ahead, turned to the
young laggard in his wake. “Are ye weary already, Master
Wiltud?”
The reply was loud and swift. “No, I’m ’ungry,
Mister Gurdy!”
Jum nodded at the sky. “Sun ain’t reached midday
yet. That’s when we stops for lunch. Keep goin’ awhile yet.” He
carried on.
Uggo followed, but not without complaint. “Huh,
’tis alright for you, Mister Gurdy. You ’ad brekkist back at the
Abbey, but I never, an’ I’m starvin’!”
The otter leaned on the lance he used as a
travelling stave. “Ho, dearie me, pore liddle ’og. Wot a pity ye
can’t go sneakin’ off down t’the kitchens a-stealin’
vittles.”
Uggo stuck out his lower lip surlily. “Wouldn’t
’ave to. There’s always summat t’be ’ad round Redwall. You only’ave
to ask nicely.”
Jum made a sweeping gesture with his stave. “An’
wot about ole Mossflower, eh? There’s plenty t’be ’ad around here
without even the askin’!”
Uggo chanced a scornful snort. “Hah! Like
wot?”
The big otter cast swiftly about, then pulled a
stem with yellow buds adorning it. “Like this. Try it.”
The young hedgehog took the stem, sniffed it, then
took a tentative nibble. “Tastes funny—wot is it?”
Jum shook his head pityingly. “You young uns are
too used t’bein’ carried round an’ gettin’ vittles served up on a
platter. That’s young dannelion, matey. I ate many a stem o’ that
when I was yore age. Now, try some o’ these.”
He gathered various pieces of early vegetation,
feeding them one by one to Uggo and explaining.
“This is alkanet—taste like cucumber, don’t it? Try
some coltsfoot. Nice, ain’t it? This one’s tutsan, good for ye.
Charlock, sweet Cicely. There’s all manner o’ vittles growin’ wild
in the woodlands. No need t’go ’ungry.”
Uggo chewed gingerly, pulling a wry face at the
bitter flavour of one particular plant.
“T’aint the same as proper food, though, is it,
Mister Gurdy?”
Jum snorted at the lack of gratitude. “Maybe not to
yore way o’ thinkin’, but ’twill keep ye goin’ until lunchtime. Now
stop moanin’ an’ git walkin’!”
When midday eventually came, Jum was secretly glad
of the rest. He had aged, and he had put on weight being in charge
of Redwall’s Cellars. It was some while since he had undertaken a
journey to the coast. Careful not to let his young companion see
that he was tired, the big otter put on a springy step.
“Keep up now, Master Wiltud. Yore fallin’ behind
agin!”
Uggo was not in a good mood. He pointed angrily
upward. “You said we was goin’ t’stop for lunch when the sun
reached midday. It did that some time ago, an’ you ain’t stopped.
Wot are we waitin’ for, Mister Gurdy, nighttime?”
It was the sight of a stream ahead which prompted
the otter to say, “On the bank o’ yon water ’neath that willow.
That’s the spot I was aimin’ for. Would’ve been there afore, except
for yore laggin’ behind.”
It was indeed a pleasant location. They soon had a
small fire going and mint tea on the boil. From the haversack, Jum
sorted out some cheese, scones and honey. Cooling his footpaws in
the shallows, he oversaw Uggo toasting two scones with cheese on
them. “That’s the way, matey. Nice’n’brown underneath with bubbly
cheese atop. Perfect!”
The young hog did not mind preparing lunch. “I’ll
need two more scones, to spread honey on for afters.”
Uggo was surprised at how good food tasted
outdoors.
After they had eaten, Jum spread a large dockleaf
over his eyes. Lying back against the willow trunk, he settled
down.
“Let’s take a liddle nap. Ain’t nothin’ like the
sound of a gentle runnin’ stream at early noon.”
Uggo skimmed pebbles awhile, then felt bored. “I
ain’t sleepy, Mister Gurdy.”
The otter opened one eye. “Go ’way an’ don’t bother
me fer a while. Do a spot o’ fishin’ or somethin’.”
Uggo stared into the clear running stream. “But
there ain’t no fish t’be seen round here.”
The otter gave a long sigh. “Well, go downstream.
There’s a small cove where the water’s still. May’aps ye’ll find
some freshwater shrimp there, an’ we’ll make soup fer supper
t’night.”
Uggo persisted. “I’ll need a rod an’ line.”
Jum took on a threatening tone. “Ye don’t catch
watershrimp with a rod’n’line. Take one o’ them scone sacks an’
make a net. I trust yore not so dim that ye can’t make a simple
fishnet, are ye?”
Uggo stumped off, muttering, “O’ course I can make
a net. I ain’t dim, Mister Gurdy. You take yore nap. Huh, oldbeasts
need naps!”
It was lucky for him that Jum did not hear most of
what he said. Closing his eyes, he settled down with a yawn.
Finding a long twig with a forked end, the would-be
shrimpcatcher attached the ends to either side of the little cloth
sack. Making his way downstream, he watched the water intently,
feeling happy about his new purpose, still murmuring to himself.
“Just wait, Jum Gurdy. I’ll catch a whole netful o’ watershrimps.
Then I’ll creep back an’ flop them in yore lap—that’ll waken
ye!”
The cove was further than he had expected, but Uggo
finally came across it—a small inlet, patrolled by dragonflies
skimming the still, dark water. There were no shrimp to be seen,
but Uggo gave his net a speedy pull beneath the murky surface.
Pulling it out, he turned the net inside out and was rewarded by
the sight of two tiny, transparent-grey, wriggling things.
“Ahaah! There ye are, me liddle watershrimps! Any
others swimmin’ about down there? Let’s see, shall we?”
A curious wasp, investigating one of Jum Gurdy’s
eyelids, woke him. He brushed it off dozily and was about to
continue his nap when he noticed the position of the sun through
the hanging willow branches. It was past midnoon! The big otter
heaved himself upright. Had he really been asleep all that time?
Taking the pan of lukewarm mint tea from the ashes of the dead
fire, he drank it in one draught. A quick dash of streamwater
across his face brought Jum fully awake and alert.
“Where’s that liddle rascal got to? He should’ve
been back an’ waked me long since!”
Wading into the shallows, the otter cupped both
paws around his mouth, shouting aloud. “Uggo! Git back ’ere right
now! Uggo! Uggooooo!”
Raising a spray of water with his rudderlike tail,
Jum splashed back onto the bank. He stood, looking this way and
that before bellowing again.
“Uggo Wiltud, where are ye? If’n ye ain’t back by
the time I’ve counted to ten, then I’m leavin’ without ye! One . .
. two. . . . Can ye hear me, ye liddle rascal?”
He counted to ten, then repeated the performance,
with more dire threats. All to no avail. Packing everything back
into his haversack, he tried to recall his words before
napping.
“The cove downstream . . . freshwater shrimp . . .
that’s it!”
Without further ado, he scooped water over the fire
ashes and stumped off along the bank, downstream.
Every now and then, Jum paused, calling into the
surrounding woodlands. He tried to be less bad tempered, not
wanting to scare the young hedgehog away. “Uggo, come on, liddle
mate, I ain’t mad at ye. ’Twas my fault for goin’ off t’sleep like
that. Come on, show yoreself, there’s no real’arm done!”
Still travelling on and calling out, Jum came upon
the cove. There was the improvised shrimping net, floating in the
water. He pulled it out with a cold fear creeping through his
stomach. Had Uggo fallen in? Could young hedgehogs swim? Swimming
was no problem to otters, but what about hedgehogs—were they like
moles or squirrels? He had never seen any of them showing a
fondness for water. That did it. Jum Gurdy dived into the
cove.
Through his frantic underwater efforts, he stirred
the cove into a muddy area. Four times he dived, each time scouring
the cove from end to end, side to side, with no success. Regaining
his breath, the big otter swam out of the cove. He searched the
stream for a great length in either direction.
The sun was setting in crimson splendour when
Redwall’s Cellardog sat upon the streambank, weeping. Why had he
slept so long at midday? Why had he been so irate with his young
friend? He would regret it for the rest of his life. Uggo Wiltud
was gone, drowned and carried off downstream to the sea.
Shouldering his pack, Jum plodded wearily off, following the stream
out over the flatlands toward the dunes, the shore and the
sea.
It was a warm, still afternoon at the Abbey as
Friar Wopple settled herself down on the southeast corner of the
rampart walkway. She relished a quiet afternoon tea with Sister
Fisk after all the bustle and heat of the kitchens. Spreading a
cloth on the worn stones, the plump watervole laid out the contents
of her hamper. Two oatfarls filled with chopped hazelnut salad, a
latticed apple and blackberry tart, napkins and crockery.
Seeing Sister Fisk coming up the south wallsteps,
Wopple waved, hailing her friend. “Cooee, Sister!”
Redwall’s Infirmary mouse came bearing a steaming
kettle. The Friar rubbed her paws in anticipation as Fisk sat down
beside her. “I’ve set all our food out. What sort of tea are we
drinking today?”
Fisk poured out two dainty beakers of the hot amber
liquid, passing one to her companion. “Taste and guess, then tell
me if you like it.”
Blowing fragrant steam from the drink, Wopple
sipped. “Ooh, it’s absolutely delicious, Sister. I’d never guess,
so you’d best tell me.”
Fisk looked both ways, as if guarding a secret,
before whispering, “Rosehip and dandelion bud, with just a squeeze
of crushed almond blossom!”
The female Friar sipped further, closing her eyes
with ecstasy. “It’s the best you’ve ever invented, my
friend!”
Fisk took a hearty bite from her salad farl. “Not
half as good as your cooking, though. I had a bit of a rush getting
up here this noon. Had to put some salve on a bruised footpaw.
Little Alfio again!”
The Friar chuckled. “Dearie me. Sometimes I think
that poor Dibbun was born with four left paws. How many times is it
that he’s fallen and hurt himself, clumsy little shrew!”
The Sister shook her head in mock despair. “I’ve
lost count of Alfio’s tumbles.”
She settled her back up against the sun-warmed
battlements. “Ahhh, this is the life. A quiet moment of
tranquillity on a peaceful noontide, away from it all!”
Wopple set a slice of tart in front of her. “Aye,
until somebeast injures themselves again, or a whole Abbeyful of
Redwallers wants feeding!”
A thin, reedy quaver interrupted them.
“Could you feed me, please? I don’t eat
much!”
Fisk turned to Wopple. “Did you say
something?”
The Friar was already pulling herself upright.
“’Twasn’t me—sounds like somebeast outside.”
Fisk joined her as they peered over the
walltop.
Below, amidst the trees, was an old hedgehog. She
looked very thin and tottery. Leaning against an elm, she waved.
“Didn’t mean t’spoil yore tea, marms. I was just wonderin’’ow ye
gets into this fine place.”
Friar Wopple answered promptly. “Stay right there,
marm. We’ll come down and get ye!”
Opening the small east wall wickergate, they
hurried to the gable where the old hogwife had seated herself. She
began thanking them as they assisted her inside the grounds.
“May fortune smile on ye goodbeasts, an’ may yore
bowls never be empty for yore kindness t’me!”
Helping her up to the walltop, they sat her down,
placing their afternoon tea before her. She immediately fell upon
the food with gusto. Whilst she fed herself unstintingly, Friar
Wopple studied the newcomer’s face, murmuring, “Sister Fisk, who
does she put you in mind of?”
Instead of answering, Fisk turned to the old
hedgehog. “Do you have a name, marm?”
Their guest looked up from a slice of tart, smiling
to reveal only a few snaggled teeth. “Twoggs, me name’s
Twoggs.”
The Friar nodded knowingly. “And is your second
name Wiltud?”
The old hogwife finished off a beaker of tea at a
swig. “Wiltud, that’s right. . . . But ’ow did ye know?”
Friar Wopple shrugged. “Oh, I just guessed.”
Twoggs Wiltud turned her attention to Fisk’s
partially eaten salad farl. “Good guess, eh, marm? Any more o’
these nice vikkles lyin’ about?”
Wopple moved to help her upright. “Come along to my
kitchen, and I’ll see what I can find!”
Abbot Thibb joined Dorka Gurdy in the kitchens.
Both were intent on viewing the new arrival. The scrawny old
hogwife had seated herself on a heap of sacks in one corner, paying
attention only to the food she had been given.
Friar Wopple indicated her guest to Thibb and
Dorka, remarking, “Sister Fisk and I are both agreed as to who she
is.”
The Abbot needed only a brief inspection of the
snaggletoothed ancient, who was slopping down honeyed oatmeal as if
faced with a ten-season famine. He nodded decisively. “That’s a
Wiltud, without a doubt, eh, Dorka?”
The otter Gatekeeper agreed readily. “Split me
rudder, she couldn’t be ought else but a Wiltud. Ain’t shy about
table manners, is she? Lookit the way she’s wolfin’ those
vittles!”
Friar Wopple refilled the guest’s bowl with
oatmeal. Twoggs Wiltud gulped down a beaker of October Ale, nodding
to the Friar as she turned her attention back to the oatmeal.
“Thankee, marm. I likes a drop o’ ’oneyed oatmeal.
Don’t’ave enough teeth left t’deal wid more solid vikkles. I tries
me best, though.”
Sister Fisk stifled a chuckle. “I’m sure you do,
good lady. We have another member of your clan at Redwall—young
Uggo Wiltud. Though he’s off travelling at the moment.”
Twoggs licked the sides of her empty bowl, holding
it toward the Friar for another helping. “Huggo, ye say? Hmmm,
don’t know no Huggo Wiltud, but that ain’t no surprise.
Mossflower’s teemin’ wid Wiltuds. We’re wanderers an’ foragers,
y’see. Don’t suppose ye’ve got a drop o’ soup t’spare. I likes
soup, y’know.”
Friar Wopple commented, “Is there any food you
don’t like?”
Twoggs sucked at her virtually toothless gums a
moment. “Er, lemme see. May’aps oysters. I’ve ’eard tell of’em,
though I ain’t never tasted one. So I can’t tell if’n I’d like ’em
or not. Yew ever tasted an oyster, marm?”
The Abbot interrupted this somewhat pointless
chatter. “Forget oysters—but tell me, do you have a purpose in
visiting our Abbey? You’re welcome, I’m sure. However, a creature
of your long seasons, you must have passed our gates many times if
you live in Mossflower Country. So why do you suddenly turn up here
today?”
Twoggs took a sip from the bowl which the Friar had
just passed to her. She wrinkled her withered snout with delight.
“Oh, ’appy day—spring veggible soup, my fav’rite bestest thing inna
world. Fortune smile on ye, Cook marm, an’ may ye allus ’ave
someplace soft to lay yore ’ead at night!”
Taking a crust of bread, she began dipping it in
the soup and sucking noisily. Dorka smiled at the Abbot. “Don’t
look like she’s up to answerin’ any more questions as long as the
vittles keeps comin’.”
Thibb shrugged. “I think you’re right, friend.
Friar, I’ll leave her in your care. See she gets what she wants,
then let her nap in the storeroom. Mayhaps she’ll talk to me when
she feels like it. Oldbeasts like her aren’t usually in the habit
of visiting new places without a reason. Though maybe she was just
hungry.”
Sister Fisk watched as another bowl of soup
disappeared. “Aye, that’s probably it, Father. Let’s hope she soon
gets enough, before she eats us out of house and home.
Incidentally, how’s that torn pawnail of yours?”
The Abbot held it up for Fisk’s inspection. “Oh,
it’s not too bad. I’ll take more care next time I’m trying to shut
the main gates on my own.”
Dorka shook her head. “Aye, wait for me. I know
them gates—they can be tricky if ye don’t handle ’em right.”
Fisk examined the pawnail, noting that the Abbot
flinched when she touched it. “Hmm, you’d best come with me to the
Infirmary, Father. I think a little of my special salve and a
herbal binding is what’s needed to solve your problem.”
The Abbot made to walk away, excusing himself. “Oh,
it’ll be quite alright as it is. Pray don’t trouble yourself,
Sister.”
Fisk caught him firmly by his habit girdle. “It’s
no trouble at all. I won’t hurt you—now, don’t be such a Dibbun and
come with me.”
She marched him off briskly. Friar Wopple passed
Twoggs Wiltud a slice of mushroom pasty, remarking to Dorka, “I
think there’s a bit of the Dibbun in all of us when it comes to
visiting the Infirmary. One time I got a rose thorn in my footpaw
when I was a Dibbun. Old Brother Mandicus had to dig it out with a
needle. I’ve had a fear of healers ever since.”
Twoggs interrupted through a mouthful of pasty.
“Ain’t ye got nothin’ decent t’drink round ’ere?”
Friar Wopple looked slightly offended. “What d’ye
mean, somethin’ decent to drink? All the drinks are decent at
Redwall, I’ll have you know!”
The ancient hedgehog cackled. “I means summat sweet
tastin’. Alls I’ve ’ad since I came ’ere is tea an’ ale. I’m
partial t’sweet drinks, cordials’n’fizzes.”
Dorka Gurdy put on an expression of mock pity. “Oh,
ye pore ole thing, we shall have t’get ye some strawberry fizz or
dandelion an’ burdock cordial.”
Twoggs sensed that she was being mocked and replied
sharply, “Less o’ yore cheek, waterdog, or I won’t say a word about
wot I was sent ’ere t’say!”
The big otter wagged a paw at the old hedgehog.
“Who are you callin’ waterdog, pricklepig?”
Friar Wopple got between them. “Now, now—no need
for insults an’ name-calling. I’ll go and ask Foremole Roogo to
fetch a jug o’ damson an’ pear cordial from the cellars.”
Twoggs pulled herself upright, the picture of
injured dignity. “Aye, an’ I’ll come with ye. I ain’t stayin’ ’ere
t’be h’insulted by that imperdent creature!” She stalked off behind
the Friar.
Dorka humphed. “We takes ’er in, an’ that’s how we
gets treated for bein’ ’ospitable to ’er. Scrawny ole beggar. If’n
my brother Jum were ’ere, he wouldn’t let ’er near his cellars.
Huh, that ole ’og needs a good bath, if’n ye ask me!”
“Hurr, if’n Oi arsks ee wot, marm?” Foremole Roogo
entered the kitchen from the serving hatch door. Dorka explained
about Twoggs.
“One o’ that Wiltud tribe turned up at our Abbey.
She’s eaten ’er fill an’ gone down to the cellars with Friar for a
jug o’ cordial.”
Foremole jangled the ring of keys at his side.
“She’m b’aint a-gettin’ nuthen. Oi locked ee door.”
Dorka was about to reply when from the cellar
stairs there came a hubbub of crashing, shouting, squealing and
bumping. The big otter hurried off with Roogo trundling in her
wake. “Good grief, what’s all the commotion?”
They found Twoggs at the bottom of the spiral
sandstone stairs. Friar Wopple was leaning over her, trying to sit
her up against the locked door. “She pushed past me at the top of
the stairs. Tripped on those old rags she was wearin’, an’ tumbled
from top to bottom. I couldn’t stop her!”
“You’m ’old on to hurr, marms, an’ stan ee asoide!”
Foremole produced the key, opening the door. They bore Twoggs
Wiltud in between them, laying her down on a sack of straw.
Friar Wopple passed a paw in front of the old hog’s
nostrils. “Dorka, run and get Sister Fisk. I don’t know how bad she
is, but she’s still breathing. Foremole, can you find a beaker of
sweet cordial, please?”
Dorka arrived back with Sister Fisk and the Abbot
as Friar Wopple was attempting to get some of the cordial between
the patient’s closed lips. The Sister immediately took
charge.
“Give me that beaker, please. Hold her head up
gently—it looks like she’s been knocked out cold. I don’t know what
injuries she may have taken. Dorka says she tumbled the length of
the stairs, right into the locked door.”
The Friar watched anxiously as cordial dribbled
over the old hedgehog’s chin. “She just pushed past me—there wasn’t
anything I could do!”
Foremole patted the watervole’s paw. “Thurr naow,
marm. Et wurr no fault o’ your’n!”
To everybeast’s amazement, Twoggs’s eyelids
flickered open. She licked her lips feebly, croaking, “Hmm, that
tastes nice’n’sweet. Wot is it?”
Foremole wrinkled his velvety snout secretively.
“It bee’s dannelion’n’burdocky corjul, marm. Thurr’s ee gurt
barrelful of et jus’ for ee, when you’m feels betterer.”
Twoggs gave a great rasping cough. She winced and
groaned. “I ’opes I didn’t break none o’ yore fine stairs. . .
.”
Abbot Thibb knelt beside her, wiping her chin with
his kerchief. “Don’t try to speak, marm. Just lie still now.” He
cast a sideways glance at Sister Fisk, who merely shook her head
sadly, meaning there was nothing to be done for the old one.
Twoggs clutched the Abbot’s sleeve, drawing him
close. The onlookers watched as she whispered haltingly into
Thibb’s ear, pausing and nodding slightly. Then Twoggs Wiltud
extended one scrawny paw as if pointing outside the Abbey. Abbot
Thibb still had his ear to her lips when she emitted one last sigh,
the final breath leaving her wounded body.
Friar Wopple laid her head down slowly. “She’s
gone, poor thing!”
Thibb spread his kerchief over Twoggs Wiltud’s
face. “I wish she’d lived to tell me more.”
Sister Fisk looked mystified. “Why? What did she
say?”
The Father Abbot of Redwall closed his eyes,
remembering the message which had brought the old hedgehog to his
Abbey. “This is it, word for word, it’s something we can’t
ignore.
“Redwall has once been cautioned,
heed now what I must say,
that sail bearing eyes and a trident,
Will surely come your way.
Then if ye will not trust the word,
of a Wiltud and her kin,
believe the mouse with the shining sword,
for I was warned by him!”
heed now what I must say,
that sail bearing eyes and a trident,
Will surely come your way.
Then if ye will not trust the word,
of a Wiltud and her kin,
believe the mouse with the shining sword,
for I was warned by him!”
In the uneasy silence which followed the
pronouncement, Dorka Gurdy murmured, “That was Uggo Wiltud’s dream,
the sail with the eyes and the trident, the sign of the Wearat. But
my brother Jum said that he’d been defeated and slain by the sea
otters.”
Abbot Thibb folded both paws into his wide habit
sleeves. “I know, but we’re waiting on Jum to return and confirm
what he was told. I think it will be bad news, because I believe
what old Twoggs Wiltud said. The mouse with the shining sword sent
her to Redwall, and who would doubt the spirit of Martin the
Warrior?”