16

Morning sunlight filtered through Redwall’s orchard trees, adding warmth and brightness to the merry chaos of breakfast. Foremole Urrm was ladling out a porridge of oats, chestnut and honey, a special favourite with Dibbuns. He was having difficulty keeping up with the demand. Noisy Abbeybabes banged wooden spoons on the tabletops, roaring for second helpings.

“I wanna more porringe, I finish mine all up!”

“Me on’y gorra likkle bowl, gimme more, more!”

“H’over yurr, zurr, quick, afore oi starven away!”

Foremole glared at Ruggum with mock fierceness. “You’m already ’aved three porshings, villyun!”

Memm Flackery grabbed the bowl that Turfee mousebabe had decided to use as a helmet. “Don’t do that, you infant cad. Just look at y’self, you’ve got more porridge on your face than you’ve put in y’mouth, wot! Sit still while I wipe it off. Sister Vernal, grab that blinkin’ miscreant, will you? Quick, before he escapes under the table, catch him!”

Abbot Apodemus covered both ears, shouting over the din to Gurdle Sprink, who was sitting alongside him. “I know they’re excited about taking summer meals outdoors, but this is too much, old friend. Let’s go and find a bit of peace with Malbun and Crikulus in the gatehouse, eh!”

Gurdle was about to help the Abbot up when suddenly he halted. “Father, ’ere come our Skipper, an’ Ovus, too. Wonder wot that ole owl wants? He ain’t visited us in seasons.”

They hurried to meet Skipper and the big tawny owl waddling at his side. Apodemus beckoned them away from the orchard. The four creatures walked back slowly towards the gatehouse, with Skipper explaining the reason for the owl’s visit.

“I noticed the gates weren’t locked early this mornin’, so I took a peek. They was jammed t’gether with that bonnet old Crikulus was wearin’ at the feast last night—the lockin’ bar wasn’t in place. So I goes t’the gate’ouse an’ it was empty. Crikulus was gone, Malbun too!”

The Abbot halted. “Malbun and Crikulus gone! Where?”

Ovus the tawny owl blinked his huge jet-black eyes. “Can’t say where they were going, but I can show you exactly where your friends are now. Er, breakfast looked quite nice, a tad rowdy, but quite nice. Don’t suppose there’s any left—haven’t had much since yesterday.”

Curbing his impatience, Apodemus nodded graciously. “I’m sure we can find you breakfast, friend, but will you please tell me immediately where Crikulus and Malbun are?”

Ovus nestled his chin into his puffy breast feathers. “Thank you, Father Abbot. Now, your two Redwallers, let me tell you their location. I’d left my home south of here and gone to visit some family, in the north, you know. Can’t say why they chose there to settle—cold, hostile country, I’ve always thought. Never really liked the north, y’know.”

Gurdle whispered to the Abbot, “Beats round the bush a bit, don’t he? You think he’d get on with it!”

Ovus swivelled his head in the Cellarhog’s direction. “I heard that, y’know. I didn’t come here to be insulted. Huh, I think I’d be better off keeping myself to myself!”

Apodemus nudged Gurdle sharply, warning him to be silent with a severe glance. “I must apologise for my friend. His back is playing him up a bit, touch of rheumatism. He didn’t mean to be rude.”

The tawny owl gazed down at his own enormous talons. “Hmm, the rheumatiz gets us all once the young seasons are gone. Take me, now, my talons give me dreadful twinges, especially in the winter. You wouldn’t think owls would have that complaint, would you? Well, we do, let me tell you!”

Apodemus gave a polite cough. Ovus blinked several times, then got on with his account.

“Hmm, let me see now, ah yes. I was on my way back south from visiting family in the north, night flying, of course. It must’ve been three, no, I tell a lie, two hours before dawn. I heard weeping and sobbing, southeast of here, just beyond a patch of bogland in Mossflower Woods. Recognised the pair right away, your old Gatekeeper shrew and that woodmouse who does a bit of healing. Malbun, is it?”

Gurdle was about to speak when Ovus held up a wing. “I know what you’re going to ask. Let me continue. I saw it was the old shrew who was crying. The woodmouse was unconscious, not badly injured, merely knocked out by something or other. So I had a brief chat—I can be brief, y’know—with the shrew. Told him to stay put and not to move. Said I’d fly to Redwall and get help. Well, here I am!”

Apodemus heaved a sigh of relief. “Many, many thanks, Ovus, many thanks! I take it you will be so kind as to lead us to them?”

The owl spread his wings as if to take off, then thought better of it and folded them again. “Of course I’ll lead you to them. I can put my talon on the exact spot where they are right now. Straight after I’ve had breakfast. Oh, one other thing—don’t expect me to gobble my food down. I suffer from indigestion, too, y’know!”

Skipper looked at the Abbot resignedly. “We’d best git our mate Ovus some brekkist, Father.”

Crikulus tapped his paw upon a treetrunk impatiently and judged the sun’s traverse. “Where in the name o’ seasons are they? It’ll soon be midmorn. D’you think the owl has really gone back to Redwall?”

Malbun sat with her back against the tree, holding a compress of herbs against her injured cheek. “No reason why he shouldn’t. Ovus knows he’s sure of a meal there. I never knew the owl who could resist a bite or two at our Abbey. Relax, they’ll come for us, I’m sure.”

Neither of the pair had discussed the fear and horror that had caused them to flee on the previous night. Nor did they feel that they wanted even to mention it—the dreadful odour, the rippling grass, the horrific feeling. It seemed like a bad dream in the broad, sunny light of day, so they avoided speaking of such things.

Crikulus rubbed his lean stomach. “Breakfast at the Abbey, I could use that right now!”

Malbun pressed her paw gently to the bump that had developed on the side of her head, smiling ruefully. “I’m absolutely useless without my first beaker of hot mint and comfrey tea in the mornings. I’d love to have one right now, with a drop of feverfew to reduce this headache.”

The ancient shrew paced up and down, guessing who would come searching for them. “It’ll be Skipper for sure, with them two big young otters. I’ll wager Log a Log an’ his Guosim shrews come, too. Malbun, d’you think I’d best take a walk and see if I can spot them coming? I won’t be long.”

Malbun held up a paw for silence and craned forward, listening intently to a distant sound. “No need for you to go anywhere, Crikulus, I think I hear them coming. Listen, can you hear it, too?”

The old shrew could not, even though he waggled a paw in his ears to clear them. “No, I can’t hear a thing yet.”

Malbun relaxed and leaned back against the tree. “Let’s hope they’ve brought some food with ’em, eh.”

Crikulus rubbed his paws in anticipation. “I’ll give them a shout, that’ll jolly ’em along a bit. Let them know our position, too.”

Cupping both paws around his mouth, he yelled aloud, “We’re over here, over heeeere! Come on, you lazy lot, over heeeeeere! Bring us some foooooooooood!”

He sat down next to Malbun. As they waited, Crikulus would give out with the odd shout, “Over heeeeeere!” He persisted in doing this until Malbun stopped him.

“Great fur’n’feathers, d’you have to bawl your face off like that? My head is really beginning to bang!”

Crikulus stopped then, but he became a bit sulky. “Only trying to help. Letting them know where we are.”

“Aye, so ye were. Thank ye fer the ’elp, old feller!”

Three rough-looking stoats strolled out of the trees. Malbun eyed them suspiciously. “Who are you?”

Their leader, a lanky specimen with yellowed broken stumps of teeth, drew a curved sword from his tattered robe. Grinning nastily, he pointed the blade at them.

“Never mind who we are, mousey. Who are you, an’ who’s yer noisy liddle pal? Wot are ye doin’ in our woods, eh?”

Swallowing hastily, Crikulus tried not to look scared. “You’ll pardon me saying so, but Mossflower Woods do not belong to anybeast. They are free to all creatures.”

One of the stoats, a fatbellied beast with a marked stoop, leaned on his spear, cackling. “Heeheehee, ye’ll pardon me sayin’, ain’t that nice. Heehee, ’ow about that, Wicky. Are yer gonna pardon ’im, or slit ’is throat? I’ll do the job if ye like. Heeheehee!” He advanced on Crikulus with his spear held ready.

Malbun stood up and called out indignantly, “Don’t you dare! We are creatures of Redwall Abbey!”

The third stoat, an undersized vermin with a big single brass earring, whipped out a hatchet, leering nastily. “So wot’s that to us, eh? Yew shut yer mouth, or I’ll part yore ears. Where’s yore vittles an’ valuables, quick!”

Crikulus bravely placed himself in front of his friend. “We don’t carry valuables an’ we haven’t any food. Now leave us alone, I warn you. Some other Redwallers will be here any moment, three big otters an’ a band of Guosim shrews.”

The one called Wicky shaded a paw across his eyes and leapt about, waving his sword. “Otters, shrews, I don’t see any otters or shrews, d’you, mates? May’aps they’re ’idin’ close by.”

The spear carrier thought it was all very funny. “Heeheehee, Redwallers comin’, otters’n’shrews. Who d’ye think yer foolin’, granpa? That’s the oldest trick in the book. Tell us where yore vittles’n’vallibles are an’ we’ll let ye go. But no fibbin’—fibs make us angry.”

Wicky unwound a long, thin line of greased cord from under his cloak. He made a running noose and lassoed both Crikulus and Malbun with an expert cast. In a trice they were both bound to the tree that they had their backs to.

Crikulus whispered urgently to Malbun, “Where in the name of seasons have Skipper an’ Log a Log got to? What’s keeping them?”

Wicky cuffed the old shrew’s ear. “Shut yer gob, I’ll tell ye when to talk! Now, I’m goin’ to ask ye once more. Where’s the valuables an’ vittles?”

The wound in Malbun’s cheek and the ache in her head was doing little to improve her temper. She snapped sharply, “And I’m telling you once more, vermin, so dig the mud out your ears. There aren’t any. Is that plain enough?”

The stoat swung his sword, chipping a chunk of bark from the tree a fraction above Malbun’s head. He snarled, “Me next strike’ll be lower, about where yer ears are!”

His companion with the hatchet waved him out of the way. “Yore not ’avin all the fun, Wicky, gimme a go. Right, old shrew, you tell us. Cummon, where’s the stuff ’idden?”

Crikulus kept his voice reasonable, eyeing the hatchet. “We have nothing but the robes we are wearing, nothing.”

“Well, let’s see ’ow yer ’op round with only one footpaw!”

The stoat flung his hatchet. Crikulus pulled his footpaw aside just in time. The hatchet buried itself in the ground, a hair’s breadth from the old shrew’s paw.

A rough growl came from the spear carrier as he hefted his weapon. “Aarrh, I’m sick o’ playin’ around. I’ll slay one of ’em, the other’ll talk soon enough then!”

Looking directly at Malbun, he leaned back for a throw.

Skipper came hurtling out of the bushes and grabbed the spearbutt, pulling the stoat flat on his back as Log a Log and the others dashed in, surrounding the three vermin. Log a Log snatched the sword from Wicky and cut the captives loose. Skipper snapped the spear as though it were a twig. Roughly he hauled the floored stoat upright and shoved him toward the other two. Huddling miserably together, the three vermin stood dull-eyed, expecting no mercy.

Log a Log turned to Malbun and Crikulus, inspecting them. “Are you all right, friends? Did these three harm you?”

Malbun held the herbal compress close against her cheek. “We’re all right, thank you. They were just about to start on us when you arrived. Please don’t slay them, they’re only three thickheaded, ignorant vermin!”

Log a Log looked enquiringly to Skipper, who shrugged. “Mossflower’d be better off without such evil scum. But if’n that’s yore wish, marm, then so be it. Ahoy there, vermin, ye’ve got this good mouse t’thank for sparin’ yore worthless lives. Speak up now, thank ’er!”

Hope gleamed in the stoats’ eyes as they cried out together, “Thank ye, marm, thank ye kindly!”

Skipper picked up the stoat’s hatchet and hefted it. “Tie their footpaws t’gether, Churk.”

The burly young ottermaid took the severed rope and lashed the stoats’ footpaws together, as though they were competing in a three-legged race, the middle one’s footpaws bound to the left and right of his companions.

Skipper spoke. “I’m goin’ to count to ten. I wouldn’t be ’ere after the count if I was you. Take warnin’, vermin, next time you’re seen in Mossflower country yore deadbeasts, all of ye! One, two . . .”

Hobbling and stumbling, they fled off into the woodlands. There was no need for Skipper to count further.

Log a Log gave a snort of derision, shaking his head at Malbun. “Yore too soft-’earted, marm. They’ll live to slay other pore honest beasts. Oh well, come on, you two, let’s get ye back to the Abbey. I suppose yore hungry, eh?”

Crikulus rubbed his stomach. “Hungry’s not the word, friend—try famished. What happened to the owl? I didn’t see him arrive with you.”

“That’s because you didn’t take the trouble to look up here!”

Ovus was perched in a tree directly opposite. He swooped down to the ground and clacked his awesome beak at them. “I’m not exactly famished, but I could manage lunch. Or if we’re too late, a spot of afternoon tea would be nice.”

The party moved off, with Crikulus striking up a friendship with the talkative tawny owl. “Toasted teacakes with a smear of honey on ’em, now that’s my choice, with a good beaker of dandelion burdock cordial. Be my guest, sir, we’ll take it in my gatehouse. Would you like to join us, Malbun? Maybe we’ll have some of that soft white cheese with the celery bits in and a mushroom pasty or two, with lots of onion gravy, of course.”

Squinching her eyes, the Healer Recorder shook her head gingerly. “No, thanks. A bit of quiet and a lie down’ll do me.”