“Aye, Cap’n, right on the spot where ye slew the big ’un.”
“He’s right, Cap’n, the very spot. All the tracks were wiped out, too. Wasn’t nothin’ we could do but come back ’ere, fast as we could, to tell ye!”
Raga Bol dropped his gaze to the steaming ground at the fire’s edge. “Speak to none about this, or yore both deadrats. Now get out o’ my sight!”
Glimbo and Blowfly scuttled off, relieved to be still among the living, after having brought their murderous captain such bad news. Hunching against the bleak cold at his back, Raga Bol sat silent. His eyes roved between the silver hook and the roaring, wind-driven fire.
Blowfly whispered to Glimbo, “I reckon dat giant stripedog must still be alive, mate!”
The fat Searat’s hushed whisper was barely audible, but Raga Bol heard it. He stood slowly and faced them both. With lightning swiftness his hook shot out, latching on to Blowfly’s broad belt. The Searat was dragged forward to find himself facing Bol’s upraised blade and threatening snarl.
“Did ye ever see a beast alive after I’d struck ’im wid me blade? Well, did ye?”
Blowfly watched the heavy scimitar poised, one stroke away from his quivering double chins. The rat’s voice went squeaky with panic. “N . . . no, Cap’n!”
Raga Bol bared his gold-plated teeth in a wolfish grin. “Shall I prove it to ye, Blowfly?”
The rat sobbed brokenly. “Aw, don’t do it, Cap’n Bol, please. Nobeast ever lived after yew ’it ’em wid yore sword!”
The captain’s pale eyes lighted on Glimbo. “You should know, mate, tell ’im!”
Glimbo loved life too much to remain silent. Words poured from his mouth like running water. “Dat stripedog’s kinbeasts must’ve carried ’im off, fer a fancy buryin’. I bet they buried the old ’un where he fell, ’cos they couldn’t haul two carcasses. Mark me words, Blowfly, it don’t matter ’ow big the stripedog was, he’s deader’n any doornail now. Once Cap’n Bol’s sword swipes ’em, they’re well slayed. I’d take me affydavy on it!”
Blowfly fell to the ground as the hook pulled loose from his belt. Bol ground the scimitar and leaned on it.
“There’s yore answer, mate, the stripedog’s dead. I don’t want to ’ear no more talk of such beasts from my crew. Now set four guards around me, so I can sleep.”
The sentries crouched miserably in the darkness, waiting for the dawn. Wrapped in his cloak, Raga Bol lay alongside a roaring fire. But sleep did not come easily, and, when it did, his dreams were troubled by visions of the giant stripedog coming slowly but surely after him with the light of vengeance burning in his eyes.
Abruc the sea otter, his wife Marinu and their son Stugg sat on the streamside, beneath an overhanging bank canopy. They enjoyed their evening meal outside, away from the bustling noise of the holt. Stugg sucked noisily at the contents of his bowl.
Abruc patted his stomach and winked at the young creature. “Now that’s wot I calls a sea otter chowder. Nobeast can make it like yore mamma does, ain’t that right, me ’eart?”
Marinu refilled her husband’s bowl. “I wager you used to say that about yore own mamma’s chowder. All it takes is clams, mussels an’ shrimps, with some beans, chestnut flour, seaweed, carrots an’ a few pawfuls of sea salt an’ hotroot pepper. ’Tis simple to cook up.”
Young Stugg held out his bowl for a refill. “But you make it da best, ’cos yore our mamma!”
Marinu dipped her ladle into the pot they had brought out. “You’ll soon be as big a flatterer as yore dad! Wipe that chin, you’ve got chowder all over it.”
Abruc looked over the rim of his bowl at Marinu. “So, how are you an’ old Sork gettin’ along with our big badger? D’ye reckon he’ll live?”
Marinu wiped Stugg’s chin with her apron hem as she spoke. “It looks like he will, though whether or not he’ll waken fully we don’t know. He might just fade away, after one of those death sleeps that last a few seasons. I never thought anybeast could be so deeply wounded an’ live. Sork used fish glue to mend his skull bone. When that was all clean and set, I used long hairs from his own back as thread to stitch the skin back over. We set lots of spider web over it all. Give it a few days, then we’ll wash it gently with valerian and sanicle to deaden any pain. Shoredog says he’ll have to be moved to the old cave where it’ll be quieter. We’ll make him a big bed of silver sand and moss.”
Abruc nodded. “That should help. I’ll keep a warm fire of pine an’ sweet herbs burnin’ there, night an’ day.”
Marinu rose. “I’m going back inside. Sork wants to borrow some of the broth off’n my chowder to feed him. A hard task with such a big beast who’s still senseless.”
When she had gone inside, Abruc and Stugg finished off the remaining food. The young otter sat watching his father attach a slim line, from the end of his rudder, to a thick root growing from the bankside. Abruc took a chunk of beeswax and began rubbing it into several more loose lines of tough flaxen fibre.
The sea otter eyed his young son. “Shouldn’t you be off to yore bed, ’tis getting’ late.”
Stugg rubbed some of the beeswax on his paw curiously. “Wot are you doin’ wiv dat stuff, farder?”
Abruc explained as he worked. “I’m makin’ a bowstring, a good stout one that won’t rot or break under strain.”
Young Stugg pursued his enquiries. “Wotta you be wantin’ a bowstring for, farder?”
Abruc answered patiently. “T’aint for me, it’s for our big badger. I’ve got a feelin’ he’ll be well again some day. When the time comes, he’ll be leavin’ us to go westward.”
Stugg persisted. “Is a bowstring good to go westward wiv?”
His father began deftly plying the waxed fibres together. “Aye, son, that big feller’s an archer. He’ll have t’find ’imself the right wood t’make a new bow, but the least I can do is to plait him a proper bowstring. Then he’ll be well armed to settle up with the vermin who tried to slay him an’ murdered his ole friend.”
Stugg nodded. “I bet they be sorry then!”
Abruc stopped working momentarily. “Sorry ain’t the word, young ’un. When a badger goes after his enemies, there ain’t noplace they can run or hide from him. I’ll wager our big beast will come down on ’em with the Bloodwrath!”
Unfamiliar with this strange word, Stugg posed a new question. “Wot’s a Bloodraff, farder?”
Abruc shook his head decisively. “Bloodwrath is terrible, somethin’ you don’t ever want t’see or know about. Go on now, off to bed with ye, me son!”
4
Old Father Phredd was the Redwall Abbey Gatekeeper. He had once been Abbot, but his seasons caught up with him. Passing the position over to Carrul, he retired to the gatehouse. Phredd was ancient, probably the oldest hedgehog in all Mossflower, and enjoyed being very old, and rather eccentric as well. Although the Old Gatekeeper sought the privacy of his beloved gatehouse and slept a lot, when he was up and about, he could be rather sprightly. His skinny form, with drooping silver spikes, often caused a smile around the Abbey and its grounds. Phredd spoke to stones, trees, plants and flowers, carrying on long conversations and debating with the most everyday objects.
He had arrived late for lunch, shunning the main crowd that was now gathered in the orchard. Preparing his own plate in the deserted kitchens, Phredd first chose a scone. He prattled on to it as he made his way around the tables.
“Hee hee, you’re a fine fresh fellow. Now what’ll I have to go with you, eh, eh? Speak up!”
Placing an ear close to the scone, he cackled. “Teeheehee! Of course, some honey, a piece o’ cheese and a beaker of soup—not too hot, just right for swigging, eh?”
Granmum Gurvel, the old molecook, came in from the orchard to draw off more cordial. She spied Phredd and watched him chatting away to the food until he caught sight of her.