2
Brisk breezes caused the window shutters to rattle
and clatter round old Redwall Abbey. It was a boisterous late
spring. With no prior warning, the rain arrived. Workers left their
outdoor chores, hurrying to seek warmth and comfort inside the
ancient building. Leaning on the sill of his study window, Abbot
Thibb watched Sister Fisk hurrying over the rainswept lawns toward
the gatehouse. Fisk was the Infirmary Sister, a youngish mouse the
same age as Thibb. Her habit flopped wetly about her as she held on
to the hood with one paw whilst clutching her satchel in the other.
Thibb was popular with the Redwallers, though some thought that the
squirrel’s lack of seasons was not quite appropriate in an Abbot.
This did not bother him. He was normally cheerful and fair in his
dealings with everybeast. However, Abbot Thibb was not a squirrel
to gladly suffer fools and wrongdoers. He saw Sister Fisk stumble
and fall ungracefully.
Thibb struck the sill with a clenched paw,
muttering angrily, “Right, Uggo Wiltud. Let’s find out what you’ve
got to say for yourself, shall we?”
He ran from the chamber, slamming the door behind
him. Taking the stairs two at a time, he descended rapidly to Great
Hall, still muttering under his breath. “A full-sized hefty
fruitcake, with marchpane topping as thick as an otter’s rudder,
and the greedy hog ate all of it!”
A burly otter stepped aside as Thibb hurried by.
“Arternoon, Father Abbot, where be ye off to in such ’aste?”
Thibb nodded to old Jum Gurdy, Redwall’s Cellardog.
“Oh, hello, Jum. Thought I’d take a look in at the
gatehouse.”
A Dibbun volemaid (Dibbun is the affectionate name
for all Abbeybabes) tugged at Thibb’s cloak. Little Brinky chuckled
with unconcealed glee at the thought of what the Abbot was about.
“You goin’ ta tell Uggo off? Can I come wiv ya, Farver?”
He patted the Dibbun’s head. “No, no. Stop here,
Brinky.”
The volemaid asked that question which all little
ones ask. “Why?”
Thibb’s eyes twinkled momentarily, but he kept his
voice stern.
“I don’t think some of the things I have to say to
Master Wiltud would be fitting for a little maid’s ears!”
Thibb had to push hard on the door to open it
against the blustering wind. The big oaken door closed with a boom
which echoed round the vaulted hall.
Wide-eyed, Brinky turned to a molebabe called
Murty. “Ho, my jingles, I wouldn’t like t’be Uggo when Farver T’ibb
has a word wiv him!”
Murty shook his small velvety head, replying in the
quaint mole accent. “Boo urr, nor wudd oi, Brinky. They’m sayen
Uggo stoled a gurt fruitycake, burr aye, an’ ’ee etted it all
boi’isself. ’Ee never give’d uz none, so ’ee’m dissurves a gudd
tellen off, so ’ee doo!”At the main gates of Redwall’s high outer
walls, Thibb wiped rainwater from his eyes, gave a brief knock on
the small gatehouse door and entered. Sweeping off his wet cloak,
he allowed Dorka Gurdy, the Cellardog’s sister, to hang it on a
peg.
“Well, how is the young glutton, Dorka?”
The female otter Gatekeeper nodded at the large,
overstuffed bed, which occupied almost a third of the little
room.
“Ye’d best ask Fisk that, Father Abbot.”
Sister Fisk was sitting by the bed, her head
enveloped in a towel, scrubbing herself dry. She peeked from
beneath its folds. “Oh, ’tis you, Father. Young Wiltud’s still
sleeping. I thought it best not to wake him just yet.” Thibb looked
over to the figure. Uggo Wiltud was huddled in the shadows at the
far side of the bed.
“I don’t know why you’re mollycoddling him, Sister.
He’s brought all of this on his own head, the rascal!”
Dorka Gurdy explained. “Young Uggo’s in some kind
o’ funny dream, Father. Wrigglin’ an’ jabberin’ away, like as if
he’s afeared of summat. See, there he goes agin.”
The young hedgehog began throwing up his paws to
protect his face or to blot out some fearsome sight. He started to
wail aloud, pleading shrilly, “Oooow.w.w.w! No, no, go’way! Don’t
take me, please. Yaaaaah!” Uggo pulled the pillows over his face,
holding them tight.
Sister Fisk tut-tutted. “Young fool, he’ll smother
himself.”
Reaching over, she snatched the pillows from her
patient. Uggo Wiltud sat up with a jerk, his eyes popping open. He
was trembling all over, staring straight ahead. Abbot Thibb’s stern
tone caught his attention.
“So, Master Wiltud, what was all that caterwauling
about, eh? Were you being chased by a monster hefty
fruitcake?”
Uggo stared at Thibb, as if seeing him for the
first time. “It was the ship, a big one, with a green sail!”
Dorka chuckled. “Yore stomach must still be queasy
after all that cake you scoffed. Dreamin’ ye were at sea, I
s’pose.”
Uggo’s voice trembled as he fought back tears. “I
wasn’t at sea, marm. I were stannin’ on the path outside the Abbey.
. . .”
There was a touch of irony in Sister Fisk’s tone.
“And you saw a ship, a real sailing ship. Coming over the west
flatlands, was it?”
The young hog shook his head. “No, Sister. ’Twas
comin’ along the path, straight at me!”
Abbot Thibb sat down on the edge of the bed. “Was
it a real sailing ship chasing you? What did you do?”
Uggo waved his paws in anguish. “I ran, Father, ran
for me life, but the ship came after me. I looked back an’ I saw
the ’orrible beastie leanin’ over the side o’ the ship, gnashin’’is
teeth at me.” Uggo yanked the bedsheet up over his face, howling.
“O w w w owo w w w ! It was dreadful, I was so scared, I
was—”
The Abbot interrupted him sternly. “You were having
a nightmare after gorging on enough hefty fruitcake to feed ten
creatures, and this was your reward for the deed, you stupid young
rip!”
Uggo took to snuffling and weeping piteously.
“Waaahahaaah! I’m sorry, Father Abbot, I’ll never do it agin, I
promises ye, never agin, waaahaaahaaaah!”
Sister Fisk took over then. “Stop this silly
blubbering right away, d’you hear me? Now, drink this!”
She held Uggo’s snout, forcing him to open his
mouth whilst she poured medicine from a beaker into him. “Come on,
now, drink it all down. ’Twill ease any tummy aching and help you
to get some rest!”
The Abbot took a thick old blanket from the chest
at the bottom of the bed. He passed one end to the Infirmary
Keeper. “Come on, Sister. I’m sure Dorka can look after him now.
I’ll have a proper talk with Uggo when he’s recovered. Let’s go to
lunch. We can use this blanket as shelter—sounds like ’tis still
raining out there.”
After the pair had departed, Dorka sat by the bed
watching Uggo. His eyelids were starting to droop as the Sister’s
potion took effect. The big old otter Gatekeeper spoke softly to
him.
“There now, young un. I ’opes ye keep that promise
ye made to Father Abbot. You go asleep now like a good liddle’og
an’ don’t dream about monsters an’ ships no more. Hush now an’
sleep.”
It was warm and snug in the little gatehouse.
Glowing embers from the log fire in the grate cast gentle rays of
red light into the shadows. Dorka sat back in the old armchair,
listening to the rain pattering on the window and Uggo’s drowsy
mutterings as he dropped into a slumber.
“Ship . . . big ship . . . green one . . . green
sail, too. . . . Aye, green sail, wid a black fork top, an’ two
eyes marked on it. Won’t rob no more cakes. Be a good ’og now. . .
.”
Dorka Gurdy stood up, alarm bells going off in her
head at the symbol Uggo had described on that green sail. A black
fork head with two eyes.
A moment later she dashed out into the rain,
running for the Abbey building. Her brother Jum Gurdy, the
Cellardog, knew what the sign meant. She fervently hoped it was not
what she thought.
Razzid Wearat had endured the pain of his
injuries, hidden away in his fortress; he suffered for several
seasons. The burns to his body would have killed a lesser creature,
but not a Wearat. Eventually he regained his old strength and
vigour, convalescing whilst he laid cunning plans. Now up and
about, he went to an upper loft in his stronghold. Through a hole
in the timbered wall, he viewed the refurbishment of his ship.
Initially he had looked upon the scheme with scorn, but as time
went by, Razzid’s opinion changed radically. He came to realise
that Braggio Ironhook was not just a loudmouthed bully. The big
ferret was a clever and resourceful beast, highly inventive when it
came to shipwork. Braggio had nearly all the corsairs behind him.
Everybeast believed that the Wearat had died of his injuries some
seasons back. That was the way Razzid wanted things—he had his
spies to keep him informed.
The Wearat observed with growing wonder as Braggio
supervised his slave labourers. Things he had never imagined were
happening to his once-battered vessel. This irked Razzid. He began
questioning himself. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Why had he
never envisaged a ship armed in such manner? How had Braggio
thought up all these great modifications?
Razzid knew the answer. Because Braggio was more
intelligent than he! The Wearat could not tolerate such a notion,
yet he knew it to be true. However, Razzid also knew that the most
dangerous creature was a brainy one, a thinker, and one whom others
would follow. Hence, the simplest way he could rid himself of the
danger was to kill Braggio.
But not right away. When Greenshroud was
fixed up and seaworthy, that would be the time he would make his
move. Meanwhile, it suited his purpose that all the vermin of
Irgash Isle believed their Wearat ruler was dead. So Razzid
continued to watch and wait and let his spies report back to
him.
It was toward the end of winter when the vessel was
shipshape and ready for sea. Braggio had selected his crew,
promising everybeast a share in the plunder and loot they would be
bringing back. Down on the shore that night, festivities were in
full swing. Bonfires blazed on the beach, coloured lanterns had
been strung amidst the ship’s rigging, and there was a general air
of celebration about. Slaves rolled casks of grog bearing names
which denoted their ferocity. Shark’s Tooth, Scorpion Sting and Old
Turtlebeak were but a few of the potent brews. Laid out upon the
flat rocks was a spread to delight any corsair’s heart: lobster,
crab, mussels, cockles, clams and a wide variety of fish which
inhabited the warm southern seas. Searats and other corsair vermin
reeled about in drunken hobjigs to the accompaniment of flutes,
drums, fiddles and accordions played by a band of slaves, whom they
had “volunteered” for the job.
Braggio Ironhook sat on the long, flat prow,
beaming with pleasure as he raised his tankard and bellowed, “Drink
’earty, buckoes! Hahaarr, ’ere’s to the good ship Ironhook!
Aye, an’ all ’er crew o’ rakin’s an’ scrapin’s o’ land an’ water.
Hahaharrr! Beasts after me own ’eart, killers all!”
Crumdun dipped a large clamshell into a cask of
Shark’s Tooth, his speech slurred with grog. “An’ I’ll shecond
tha’, Catping. ’Appy shailin’ to ye!”
Drunken vermin raised their drinking vessels,
roaring, “Iron’ook! Iron’ook! Waves o’ blood an’ plenny o’
plunder!”
It happened without warning. A heaving line with a
sling rigged at its end swished down from the top of the foremast.
The figure sitting in the sling swung out with a broad ship’s
carpenter’s hatchet as it sped by, and Braggio Ironhook lost his
head. It splashed down into an open grog cask on the shore. The
slayer waited as the heaving line swung back, then neatly stepped
onto the prow end, kicking the headless ferret aside. Musicians
ground to a halt; the drunken revellers froze, still holding up
their drinks. Suddenly all that could be heard was the waves
washing the sand and the fires crackling.
Mowlag’s command cut the silence. “I give ye a
toast. To the mighty Razzid Wearat an’ his ship
Greenshroud!”
Vermin corsairs gaped in disbelief. It was Razzid,
and he was alive. He had lost both ears, and his head was a mass of
shining scar tissue, minus its fur. One of his eyes was slitted,
half shut and leaking. But there was no mistaking the brutal face
and the barbarous stance. It really was Razzid Wearat. Shekra
attended him, passing her master a tankard of grog and his trident.
He raised the tankard, his voice hoarse and rasping from a scarred
throat. “Well, cullies, aren’t ye goin’ to take a drink with yore
ole cap’n?”
Mowlag and his comrade, a weasel named Jiboree, who
was one of Razzid’s secret spies, shouted lustily, “Three cheers
fer Razzid Wearat, the cap’n wot can’t die!”
There was a moment’s pause, then the cheering and
shouting broke out. More so when Razzid bellowed,
“Greenshroud sails with the mornin’ tide. Who’s with
me?”
As dawn broke over the southern wavecrests,
Greenshroud took the breeze, sailing out in fine style with
a new crew, a Wearat as captain and the head of Braggio Ironhook
impaled on the foremast top. Razzid Wearat was well and truly back
in command.