“Stugg, my little mate. I swear by the fine string your father made for this bow. I will wipe Raga Bol and his Searats from the land forever. This is my oath, and my promise to you. Good-bye!”
Putting aside the bow, he joined Garfo Trok at the paddling poles.
Fighting away the tears, Lonna did not look back as they sped downstream. Behind him the tribe of Shoredog stood on the banks, singing an old sea otter song of farewell.
“When the sun sets like fire,
I will think of you,
when the moon casts its light,
I’ll remember, too,
if a soft rain falls gently,
I’ll stand in this place,
recalling the last time,
I saw your kind face.
Good fortune go with you,
to your journey’s end,
let the waters run calmly,
for you, my dear friend.”
Garfo Trok had spent his life amid the northeast streams and rivers. There was no waterway for leagues that the burly otter was not familiar with. Lonna obeyed his every order, backing and tacking down the broad stream. They made good progress. Midday found the Beetlebutt running smoothly with a fair breeze running astern.
Garfo shipped his long paddle, gazing up at the blue, cloud-flecked sky. “Let the ole lady drift for awhile, mate. Belay that paddle an’ we’ll haul sail an’ take a bite o’ lunch.”
They released the sail and made its ends fast to the cleats. Lonna had been wondering when the otter’s appetite was going to reappear. Together they sat on the roof of the little midships cabin, drinking cider and eating nutbread.
Garfo chuckled as he watched the big badger consume his lunch. “Whoohoo, ain’t nothin’ wrong with a beast who kin eat hearty, mate! That limp o’ yourn will soon clear up with a good cruise. Ye won’t be walkin’ so much.” Lonna liked the feel of a boat beneath his paws; he felt rested and well.
Gesturing ahead, he enquired, “How long can we go by water, Garfo?”
The otter refilled his beaker. “Almost into Mossflower. This ole stream takes a turn there an’ runs back east. I kin see yore wonderin’ ’ow far ahead those vermin are.”
Lonna eyed him keenly. “Aye, can ye tell me, mate?”
Garfo scratched his rudder thoughtfully. “Raga Bol has t’go by land since they ain’t got no boat an’ there’s too many of ’em for small rivercraft. Those Searats should be well into Mossflower Wood by now. I’d say ye was about ten days behind ’em, Lonna. But I kin cut that down to eight, wid some canny sailin’. Don’t fret, mate.”
The badger’s eyes narrowed, the look on his ruined face caused the otter to shudder. Lonna laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, I’m not fretting at all. I’ll catch up to them for sure!”
The country they were sailing through was open, with no tree cover. Gradually it ran into hills and gorges, the streambanks growing higher on either side.
Garfo pointed to a steep bend up ahead. “When we round the point of yon bend, we’ll be meetin’ up with Buteo. Now I know yore not a-feared of anybeast, but don’t start anythin’ wid him. I’ve knowed Buteo a long time.”
Lonna was intrigued. “Just as you say, mate, but who is Buteo?”
Garfo crumbled some nutbread on the cabin roof. “Oh, ye’ll find out soon enuff, matey, soon enuff!”
Beetlebutt took the bend smoothly, keeping to midstream. Halfway around it, Lonna was startled to feel a slight cuff on the back of his head. Buteo landed like a bolt of lightning, silent and menacing. He was a honey buzzard—a large, savage-looking bird of prey. From fawn-barred tail to mottled chest, and huge wingspan to lethal-hooked beak and a fierce eye, Buteo looked every inch a killer. Folding his wings, the buzzard stared disdainfully at the crumbled nutbread that Garfo had put out for him, then pointed a lethally sharp talon at them.
“Heek! This be Buteo territory, I rule here. Heeeeeekah!”
Garfo replied cheerily. “So ye do, me ole burdy, but we ain’t trespassin’, just passin’ through.”
Buteo cocked his head to one side, glaring at them. “Yaheeek! I riddle you riddle, you spin me a spin. Only pass here if you win. Good?”
Garfo cautioned Lonna to silence with a warning glance. The badger watched as the otter appeared to consider this proposition.
“Good it is, Buteo. You go first.”
The honey buzzard stared up at the sky, a thing that honey buzzards do when trying to appear mysterious. “Heeeeekoh! What be brown’n’yellow, fat’n’mad, an’ if you slow, sting you bad?”
Garfo scratched his rudder, shaking his head, as if really perplexed. “Frazzle me whiskers, Buteo, that’s a real poser!”
Buteo pecked up the crumbled nutbread, sniggering. “Keeheeheehee! Stupid riverdog not crossing through my country. Buteo much clever. Keehar!”
Garfo tipped a sly wink to Lonna, then jumped up shouting. “I got it, ’tis a bumbly bee!”
Both Garfo and Lonna had to avoid the buzzard’s wings as he beat the air in frustration. “Yeekeeha! How you know?”
The otter twitched his nose modestly. “Oh, I just took a guess. But it was a great an’ clever riddle.”
Buteo stalked up and down, digging his talons angrily into the cabin roof. Then he turned and wheeled on Garfo. “Yeeee! You still not go ’til you spin me. This time I win!”
The crafty otter produced a flat pebble from his helmet, spat on one side of it and held it up for the bird to see. “Right, I’ll spin ye—dry side I win, wet side you lose. Good?”
The honey buzzard nodded eagerly. “Keehee! I take wet!”
Garfo spun the pebble into the air, chanting, “Up she comes, down she goes, how she lands, nobeast knows!”
Buteo’s keen eyes watched every spin of the stone until it clacked down flat on the deck.
Garfo grinned from ear to ear. “Wet side, you lose!”
The buzzard hovered over the otter, glaring murderously at him. Garfo sat munching a chuck of nutbread, looking the fierce bird straight in the eye. “Ye’ve got to let us pass now, mate, or you ain’t a bird whose word can be trusted.”
Fearing that the buzzard was going to attack Garfo, Lonna braced himself to spring upon it.
The bird’s black and gold eyes dilated wildly as it screeched. “Allbeast know Buteo be a bird of honour, my word always good. I slay anybeast who say different. Yeeeeeekaaaah!”
Snatching the nutbread from the otter’s paw, he soared off into the air—up and up, until he was a mere dot in the sky.
Lonna relaxed gratefully. “That was a close call, my friend. Buteo looked like a bird who would fight to the death. How did you manage to hoodwink him like that?”
Garfo Trok winked knowingly. “I been doin’ it a long time, mate, whenever my journeys take me by this way. Pore ole Buteo’s memory’s scrambled from too many battles. Besides, he ain’t the brightest o’ birds. Funny how he loses every time. I’ll let him win on the return trip, ’cos I’ll be bound back nor’east anyway. That’s fair enough.”
Lonna could not help laughing at the sly otter. “You great fat fraud! Shame on you, Garfo Trok!”
Nibbling on a piece of cheese he had found, Garfo waved his rudder nonchalantly. “Better’n havin’ to fight t’the death wid a mad buzzard. You said so yoreself, mate. Anythin’ for an easy life, that’s my motto.”
13
The Searat Blowfly sat on a rotten log, cooling his footpaws by rubbing them in the rich, damp loam. Gazing up at the trunks of mighty woodland trees, with their canopy of sun-pierced green, he murmured to the Searat sitting alongside him.
“I likes this ’ere Mossflower place, better weather ’ere than on that nor’east coast. Plenny o’ shelter an’ prime vittles, too!”
His companion, a sad-faced Searat called Rojin, rubbed his blistered footpaws tenderly as he complained. “Huh, if only we wasn’t marchin’ so much. I ain’ cut out fer all this trekkin’. I’m a Searat, norra landlubber!”