The haremaid’s face was a picture of joy to behold. “I will dance someday just for you, my good friends. Tomorrow I’ll make a copy of Sister Amyl’s poem so you can take it with you in case you forget the words.”
Horty did a small hopskip of eagerness. “Splendid idea, my wise an’ pretty sis. I’ll take charge of it, like a sort of jolly old mapfinder. Wot!”
Bragoon and Saro exchanged glances, and the otter murmured, “We’ll have to see about that.”
Further discussion was cut short. Sister Setiva met them at the Abbey doorway. She stood in a pool of golden light, holding up a lantern. The stern old Infirmary Keeper cast a jaundiced eye over the new arrivals.
“Ah’m tae shew ye to yore beds. There’s two spare ones in the room next tae mine.”
Bragoon bowed appreciatively to her. “It’ll be a treat to sleep in a real bed again, Sister.”
Saro agreed. “Aye, after some o’ the places we’ve laid our heads down. But we’ll be up at the crack o’ dawn, ready to lend a paw with yore problem, Martha.”
Bragoon thumped his rudder down firmly. “Ye can bet yore brekkist on that, missy. We won’t let ye down!”
Martha clasped their paws fondly. “Pleasant dreams to both of you.”
The pair found themselves being prodded, none too gently, with Setiva’s blackthorn stick.
She commanded them in a no-nonsense voice. “Follow me tae mah sickbay, an’ ’twill be woe betide either of ye if ah hear just one wee snore disturbin’ mah rest, d’ye ken?”
Bragoon saluted her smartly. “Oh, we’re kennin’ away like a pair o’ good ’uns, Sister. Lead on!” They grinned at each other, listening to the shrewnurse while she chunnered away to herself as she shuffled upstairs.
“Ach, I’ll have tae dig oot fresh sheets an’ coverlets! Ah’m thinkin’ they’re big enough tae make their ain beds, great roarin’ villains! Ah’ll nae sleep a whit taenight, knowin’ they two are in the next room tae mine!”
Opening the infirmary door, she glared at her guests. “Wipe the mud off ye’re paws an’ the silly grins offn’n ye’re faces. Ah’ll be inspectin’ yon sickbay on the morrow, an’ ah’ll skelpit the pair o’ ye if’n there’s one wee thing oot o’ place, d’ye ken? Ah bid ye a silent guidnight!” She slammed the door and retreated into her own chamber.
Bragoon burst out sniggering as Saro called out in imitation of Setiva’s far northern accent.
“Aye, we ken, Sister, an’ a guidnight to ye, too, the noo!”
The Sister’s strict tone rang out from the adjoining room. “Ah’ll be in there wi’ mah stick if there’s anither sound, so get tae sleep an’ no talkin’!”
Saro whispered in Bragoon’s ear. “Goodnight, mate.”
12
Early morn found the northeast skies showing more promise of decent weather. Outside the holt of Shoredog, pleasant sunlight was turning the mist into a warm yellow haze over the stream.
Lonna Bowstripe limped out with the rest of the sea otters to witness the arrival of the otter known as Garfo Trok. He had come in a peculiar-looking craft, a long, battered old boat with rounded stern and for’ard ends. It had a rickety cabin erected amidships and sported a square, heavily-patched sail, which was furled around a much repaired crosspiece.
Garfo was a stream otter, a jovial, fat beast. He wore an old iron helmet that resembled a cooking pot, and a permanent smile on his broad, friendly face. Shipping his paddling pole, Garfo waddled ashore and began singing in a dreadfully toneless voice.
“ ’Tis a long ways down the stream, me lads,
when a beast ain’t got no grub oh,
wid a belly like a wind-blowed sail,
aboard this leaky tub oh.
If I fell overboard like this,
all thin’n’pale’n’slack oh,
a pike’d take one look at me,
an’ quickly chuck me back oh!
Me ribs are showin’ through me fur,
I’m frightened o’ the weather,
in case a sudden gust o’ wind,
whips me off like a feather.
Me cheeks are sunken hollow,
an’ me nose is wintry blue, lads,
me rudder’s covered in green mold,
I’m sufferin’ from the Doodads!
Take pity on this riverdog,
an’ feed me good ole vittles,
some skilly’n’duff to stop me bones,
a-clackin’ round like skittles.
A pot or two o’ barley stew,
an’ nutbread by the plateful,
an’ a bathtub full o’ custard, lads,
would find me ever grateful!”
The sea otters laughed and applauded Garfo heartily, then gathered round as he shook paws, patted backs and kissed babes, all the while hooting in booming tones, “Whoohoohoo, slap me rudder an’ curl me whiskers! Lookit ye lot. Wot ’ave youse been feedin’ yoreselves on? Y’all look so chub’n’sparky! Ma Sork, me ole tatercake, are ye still bakin’ the primest nutbread in the northeast?”
Old Sork whacked him playfully with her ladle as he picked her up and hugged her. “Put me down, ye great fatbarrel. I’ve been up all night bakin’ nutloaves to feed yore hungry gob!”
Garfo put her down and cast a jolly eye over Lonna. “Whoohoo, shrivel me snout an’ gravel me guts! So this is the giant stripedog I’m carryin’ as cargo. Hah, I thought I was a big ’un, but ye could eat dinner of’n me head, mate!”
Lonna shook Garfo Trok’s paw. “Pleased to meet you, mate, but I’m not just cargo. My name is Lonna Bowstripe, and I can wield a paddle as good as most.”
Garfo was big and well built for an otter, but Lonna’s giant frame towered over him. He released the badger’s huge paw.
“Wield a paddle, big feller? Whoohoo, ye look strong enough t’carry me an’ my old boat Beetlebutt up a waterfall on yore back! Belay, Lonna, let’s get some brekkist afore we sail.”
Lonna had already eaten, so he sat nibbling a crust of rye bread and sipping some plum cordial whilst Garfo dealt with breakfast. The otter was a mighty eater and extremely odd in his choice of food. He spread nutbread with honey and dunked it into hotroot soup. Breaking up an apple pie, he crumbled it into a bowl of mushroom stew, daubing plum preserve on an onion-and-leek pastie.
Clearing the lot in a remarkably short time, Garfo stood up, patting his big stomach. “Ahoy, Lonna, pack that bow’n’ arrers an’ let’s go sailin’. Can’t waste a fine mornin’ sittin’ here vittlin’, like some I’ve seen. Never could abide greediness in a beast!”
The otters had packed Beetlebutt with an amazing array of provisions. Lonna looked around at the faces of all these otters that he had come to like so much. It was going to be a sad experience saying good-bye to them. Garfo stood, waiting to push off, as the badger went in turn to each of his otter friends—Shoredog, Sork, Marinu and many others, saving his last farewell for Abruc and young Stugg. Lonna embraced Abruc warmly and clasped his paw. A tear coursed down the big badger’s scarred face.
“Farewell to you and your family, my good friend. I will never forget you and your son. You saved my life, cared for me, fed and nursed me. All I can give you in return are my thanks and undying friendship!”
Abruc scuffed the ground with his rudder, then looked up at the big badger. “Friendship is the greatest gift one can give to another. You are a goodbeast, Lonna. I know ye would’ve done the same for me an’ mine if’n ye found us lyin’ hurt. Go on, mate, you go now, an’ know our thoughts are always with ye!”
Stugg tugged at Lonna’s paw until the badger lifted the young otter and held him level with his eyes. His face solemn, Stugg wiped a tear from Lonna’s striped muzzle.
“Lonn’, der is somet’ink you can do for me an’ my farder. Get Rag’ Bol an’ dose Searats, so they don’t hurt no more pore beasts!”
The badger put Stugg back down and stepped aboard the boat. Raising his bow, he called out as Garfo pushed off into the midstream.