20

Somewhere on the clifftops a small bird raised its beak to herald the dawn, as day’s first pale streaks washed the sky outward from the east. The crew of the Greenhawk sweated and cursed as they pushed their craft onshore with makeshift paddles. She rose on a swell and forged forward, scraping her hull into the sand and listing to port, keeling slightly as the ebbing water dropped her on the beach. Roaring and shouting, Chopsnout urged his vermin over the side. “Grab ’em, mates, I want those two alive!”

Luke shrugged off his cloak. Raising his sword, he watched the savage-looking Sea Rogues pounding up the beach. Vurg took up his position, spear at the ready, steeling himself against the wild war cries of the charging foe.

“Haharr, let’s see the color o’ yer innards, mice!”

“Lop off’n their footpaws so they can’t run away!”

“Gimme a cloak made out o’ mouse’s skin!”

“Eeeeeyaaaaargh!”

Chopsnout could scarce believe his eyes. Leaping down from the prow to bring up the rear, he saw the first wave of ten or so crewbeasts vanish into the ground.

*

Halfway up the beach, Luke’s fighters had dug a trench, lining it with sharpened stakes and covering it with rush mats strewn thinly over with sand. Vermin screamed in shocked agony as they plunged into it. Luke gave the signal, letting his swordpoint dip as he bellowed aloud to his companions, “Now! Strike now!”

Both Luke and Vurg dropped into a crouch. Arrows hissed angrily overhead, thudding into the vermin who were hovering on the edge of the spiked trench. Two more flights of shafts followed speedily, then Luke leaped upright, wielding his sword as the archers dropped their bows and seized fire-hardened lances.

“Chaaaaarge!”

They dashed forward, with Luke and Vurg out in front, leaping the trench and hurling themselves upon the enemy.

*

Chopsnout had lost his pitchblob nose as soon as he hit the sand. He stood yelling hoarsely at his vermin crew. “Retreat, back to the ship, retreat!”

However, they were suddenly outflanked. The rest of Luke’s small force thundered out from a cave situated on the far edge of the point, armed with long cudgels and slings. Rocks whistled through the morning air, cutting down several of the routed vermin, then they were hit from both sides by Luke’s lances and the swinging clubs of grim-faced, ruthless mice. Reynard Chopsnout leaped ineffectively at the high beached bulwarks of the Greenhawk. He slid awkwardly back to the moist sand, half raising his scimitar as Luke’s battlesword found him. It was over in less time than it had taken for the vermin to beach their boat.

*

Luke was now every inch the Warrior Chieftain of his tribe. Sheathing his blade, he nodded curtly at the stunned faces of the fighters surrounding him. “Well done, we’ve gained ourselves a ship!”

Cardo let his lance drop, obviously shocked. “Luke, they’re dead. We’ve slain them all.”

Luke picked up the lance, pressing it into his friend’s paw. “Aye, that was the idea, mate. Or would you sooner that we were caught nappin’ an’ murdered like our families were?”

There were loud cries of agreement with Luke. Friends crowded around to shake his paw or pat his back.

Luke glanced up at the clifftops. “Steady, mates, plenty o’ time for that later. Some of you fill in that trench. Dulam, you an’ the others roll those vermin carcasses into the sea, the ebbin’ tide’ll carry ’em out. I don’t want the young ’uns to see any of this. Vurg, come with me. We’ll have to rig up some means o’ haulin’ the ship above the tideline, so she don’t get carried back out on the floodtide.”

Luke and Vurg hurried to the cliffs, intercepting Drunn, who was climbing down to see the result of the battle.

“Burr, you’m winned, zurr Luke. Oi allus knowed ee wurr a gurt Wurrier, ho urr!”

Luke took the friendly mole’s outstretched paw and shook it heartily. “Drunn my old mate, how are ye at movin’ ships up beaches?”

The mole sized up the situation immediately. “Et be the least oi c’n do furr ee, zurr!”

Before the incoming tide had arrived Drunn, with the aid of his moles, some mice and the hedgehogs, had dug a shallow channel from the Greenhawk’s prow to a spot above the tideline. This he lined with slabs of cliff shale, well wetted down with seawater. On the vessel’s forepeak was a windlass, a simple mechanism for hauling up the ship’s anchor, with a horizontally revolving barrel. Welff Tiptip and her hogs helped to carry the anchor up onshore, where they wedged it firmly between two big rocks jutting up out of the sand. Now the ship was attached to the land by its anchor rope. Drunn chose the stoutest creatures to turn the windlass, which they did by ramming home stout poles into the housing. Once the slack of the rope was taken up, they began turning the windlass in earnest.

The young ones and oldsters had come down from the clifftops. Extra paws were needed, so they all joined in. Windred and old Twoola ran back and forth, splashing more water on the shale slabs as the ship slid forward, up onto shore, creaking and groaning. Martin and young Timballisto pushed with all their might against the windlass spokes, along with the rest.

It was a happy day. A sprightly breeze moved the clouds away, sunlight beat down on the workers. Joyfully they toiled, turning the windlass bit by bit, moving their ship up the shore on its own anchor rope. Some even improvised a shanty to keep up the rhythm of the task, and soon everybeast was singing it.

Gradually the ship slid over its runway of wetted shale slabs, finally coming to rest above the tideline, with the bow end firmly wedged between the two standing rocks that had secured the anchor. Luke was smiling broadly, as he patted the barnacle-encrusted hull. “Well, there she is, a right old slop bucket if ever I saw one, mates, but by winter I guarantee she’ll be good’n’ready.” He called to Martin, who was down by the tideline with Timballisto, stowing things behind a rock. “Ho there, son, what are you doing?”

Martin beckoned his father to join them and explained, “We collected all the weapons for you, see.”

He unrolled an old length of sail canvas, revealing a jumbled assortment of swords, daggers and various blades that had been once owned by the crew of the Greenhawk.

Luke ruffled his young son’s ears approvingly. “Well done, Martin. You, too, Timbal. These are far better than our makeshift weapons!”

Timballisto selected a short sword for himself. Martin picked up a longish curved blade and began thrusting it into his belt. But Luke took the sword from his son and tossed it back with the other weapons.

“No, you’re far too young to carry a blade yet, son. Timbal, you may keep your blade. ’Tis about time you had one—you’ll be fully grown in another couple o’ seasons.” Seeing the disappointment on Martin’s face, Luke threw a kindly paw about his son’s shoulders. “Martin, you don’t need the blade of any seascum. My sword is yours by right. It was passed on to me by my father and one day I will give it to you.”

The young mouse’s piercing gray eyes searched his father’s face. “When?”

In his mind Luke saw himself asking the same question of his own father. He gave Martin the same answer he had received long ago.

“When I think you are ready.”

*

Throughout the remainder of summer and all of autumn, the tribe of Luke worked long evenings, after their day’s chores of farming food and foraging the shores was done. Gradually the once rickety Sea Rogue ship took shape. The hull was careened, ridding it of weed, barnacles and other saltwater debris. Unsound and rotten planking was torn out and replaced with good stout oak, which they traveled far to find and haul back. Cauldrons of pitch and pine resin bubbled continuously. Lengths of rope were woven and hammered in between the ship’s timbers. Then the pitch and resin were poured into the joints, sealing them and making the vessel watertight. Any spare food was cooked and preserved in casks for ship’s stores, along with new barrels for fresh water to be carried in. Luke oversaw everything, paying careful attention to the slightest detail.

“Do it proper and ’twill serve you well!” Everybeast in the tribe became familiar with their Chieftain’s constant motto.

Winter’s first icy breath was coating the northern coast with rimefrost when the new mainmast was raised. Vurg and Drunn had chosen a good tall white willow, which would bend with the wind where other wood might crack and break. Newly patched and hemmed, the wide single mainsail was hoisted, fluttered a moment, then bellied proudly out in the cold north breeze. A cheer went up from the creatures who had worked so hard to repair the vessel. Luke stood back upon the shore with Martin and Windred, surveying the new craft. It had three curving sails from the bowsprit to the mainmast, with the big triangular sail and a tall oblong one either side of the new willow. At the stern was a smaller mast with one other triangular sail. It obviously met all Luke’s requirements. He smiled at Martin. “She’ll have to have a new name, son.”

Martin, like all youngsters, always had a question. “Why do they always call ships ‘she’?”

Luke had to think about that one for a moment. “Truth t’tell, son, I’m not sure, but I think they call ships she because, well, she’s like a mother to her crew.”

Another inquiry followed immediately from the serious-faced young mouse. “I haven’t got a mother. Will she be my mother?”

Luke’s eyes were sad as he replied, “No, son, I’m afraid not.”

Windred stared reprovingly at Luke. “D’you mean you’re not taking Martin along with you? He’s your son, Luke!”

The Chieftain nodded. “Aye, he is, and that’s why I’m not goin’ to risk his young life out there on the seas. Beside that, Windred, you’re his grandmother, so he’ll have to look after you—the only family I have left in this world is you two. Now let’s hear no more of it. Would you like to name the ship, son?”

Martin would not let anybeast see tears in his eyes, so he rushed off along the shore, calling back to Luke, “Call her Sayna after my mother!”

Windred watched her grandson dash down to the sea, where he stood throwing pebbles into the waves. “I’m sorry, Luke, I should have kept my silly mouth shut.”

Luke rested a paw gently on her shoulder. “Don’t be sorry, Windred, I’d have had to tell him sooner or later. Martin’s made of tough stuff. He’ll grow to be a fine warrior, though the only way he’ll learn is to be told the plain truth. ’Twould be no good telling him lies.”

*

That night, a feast to mark the completion of the vessel Sayna was held in Luke’s cave. Autumn’s harvest had been good and the cooks had excelled themselves. Martin cheered up as he and Timballisto joined a young hogmaid called Twindle and Drunn’s nephew Burdle. The four sat together, giggling and joking beneath a lantern at the rear of the cave, ruddy firelight twinkling in their eyes. They had never seen such a sumptuous spread. “Yurr, lookit ee gurt plum pudden!”

“Oh, an’ see those likkle tarts, they’ve got cream on top that looks like a twirl. Bet my mum Welff made those!”

“Mmm! Have you tasted the soup yet? ’Tis full o’ rockshrimps an’ veggibles!”

“I want a slice o’ that big cake, the one with honey an’ redcurrants all over the top!”

They sipped Drunn’s fizzy apple cider and munched hot wheat scones that contained chunks of candied pear. The elders drank special barley beer and cut off slices of celery and onion cheese to go with it. Old Twoola raised his beaker and broke out into song.

Amid the laughter and applause that followed, old Twoola poured himself another beaker, crying out, “That’s the stuff. ’Tis a feast an’ we be here to enjoy ourselves. Who’s got a song?”

Drunn began using a gourd as a drum, beating out a rhythm on it with two wooden spoons. “Goo urr, missus Welff, show ’urn ’ow ee can sing!”

Goodwife Welff was immediately up, apron swirling as she danced a jig, clapping her paws and singing.

The mice had never heard this quaint ditty before, and they chuckled at the logic of the little hedgehog.

Dulam poured Welff a beaker of cider, offering her his seat, so that she could catch her breath. “Good song, marm, that was very clever.”

The hogwife winked at him. “If’n you think that’s clever, then ponder on this. How many pears in a dozen pair, six or twelve?” She watched the bemused mouse trying to work it out.

“Er, six, I think, aye ’tis six.”

Goody Welff chuckled. “Then I wouldn’t send you to the orchard for my pears.”

Dulam scratched his head and did some more figuring. “No, twelve, the answer’s twelve!”

“Twelve pair o’ pears, are you sure?”

“Er, er, aye! I’m sure, marm!”

Goody Welff drained her beaker, eyes twinkling. “But that’s twenty-four, twelve pairs o’ pears.”

Dulam scratched his head furiously. “You’ve got me all mixed up, marm!”

Drunn patted the puzzled mouse’s back heartily. “Ee try wurkin’ et out in apples, zurr!”

*

Late into the night they carried on feasting, singing and setting riddles. The fire was burning low when Windred moved the cave barricade a little and peered outside. She shuddered and hurried back to the fire. “Brr, snow’s beginnin’ to fall out there!”

Luke took his cloak and spread it over Martin and Burdle, who had drowsed off together in the corner. Windred waited until Luke returned to the fire, then asked, “Couldn’t it bide until the spring?”

Luke stared into the red embers. “No. I have stayed too long already. Snow or not, I’m bound to sail in the morning.”

Windred sat silent awhile, listening to the snow-laden winds sweeping the shore outside. Suddenly she leaned forward and gripped Luke’s paw fiercely. “Go then, and seek out Vilu Daskar. Slay him and destroy his blood-colored ship. Steal the life from him who robbed us of our Sayna. I’ll take care of Martin and when he’s grown enough, he’ll care for me. But swear to me that one day you’ll return here to the creatures who love you, Luke the Warrior!”

Holding his swordblade over the fire, Luke watched the embers reflecting red against it. “I swear that when I’m done the seascum will murder no more innocent creatures. On my oath I will return here when my work is done!”