"Oi'm no good at markin' an' maken wroiten, mizzy. Yurr, take this an' mark as oi say whoile oi make up thoi supplies."
Rose took the proffered barkcloth and charcoal stick. With great care the mousemaid wrote everything down, sometimes making Polleekin repeat things two or three times until she was satisfied. The old mole wife gave out her instructions almost grudgingly as she went about the business of making up four packs of provisions.
Pallum watched her, shaking his head and smiling fondly. "What a wunnerful ole molewife. I bet even Squidjees would be nice to her. My
'eart and stummick is longin' to stay longer in this place with Polleekin, but we've got to go. Still, I'll make myself a promise by my spikes that I'll return 'ere someday an' taste her cookin' again."
Midmorning sunlight lanced through the gently swaying foliage as Polleekin wandered silently off to replenish her larders. The four friends sat studying the message she had dictated to Rose. Grumm smiled sheepishly. "Hurr, oi'm drefful iggerant at wurdin', Miz Roser.
Kin you'm read it to oi?"
Rose read the message slowly.
"Follow your frontshadow, do not stop
Till you reach the one with dead three top.
See the twin paths, beware of one
Sweet as the spreading atop of a scone.
Camp close by night, watch out by day
For the three eyed one who bars the way.
More you will not learn until
Meeting the warden of Marshwood Hill."
Martin scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I wish Polleekin would have explained it a little clearer."
Rose shrugged. "She doesn't want us to go. The poor old creature loves to have company. However, knowing that we must carry on and find Noonvale, she did the best she could with her rhyme. Let's take it a bit at a time as we go. Follow your frontshadow, do not stop. What in the name of seasons is a frontshadow?"
Pallum shouldered his pack. "I think it's when the sun is at our back, and the shadow we throw is in front of us. Come on, let's make a start. Now let me see." He looked up at the sun, calculating which way it would travel. "This way, straight into the woodland. In two hours the sun will be at our backs."
Grumm picked up his pack reluctantly. "But whurr's Miz Polleekin?
"
Rose pointed into the scrubby thickness surrounding them.
"Somewhere in there, having a quiet sulk, I shouldn't wonder. Ah well, I don't blame her. I feel pretty bad about leaving here myself, but we must go. I'll sing her a farewell. She'll hear it, I'm sure."
The friends set off into the warm midday. Martin kept his eyes on the country ahead, listening admiringly to Rose's beautiful singing voice.
"Goodbye, my friend, and thank you, thank you, thank you,
It makes me sad to leave you upon this summer day.
Don't shed a tear or cry now. Goodbye now, goodbye now.
I'm sure I'll see you somehow, if I pass by this way, For the seasons don't foretell
Who must stay or say farewell,
And I must find out what lies beyond this place.
But I know deep in my heart
We are never far apart
While I have a mem'ry of your smiling face.
Goodbye, my friend, and thank you, thank you, thank you, Your kindness guides me ever as I go on my way."
Grumm sniffed, wiping away huge rolling tears as they pressed into the leafy fastness. "Hurr, fair breaks moi 'eart, you'm reckern she 'card
'ee song, Pallum?"
Martin pointed swiftly to a patch of rustling ferns. They caught a glimpse of flowered apron disappearing. "Don't fret, Grumm. She heard Rose's song. Look!"
Four slices of plum and damson cake spread thick with meadowcream, affixed to the drooping branch of a hawthorn, hung bobbing in their path like strange fruit.
Grumm picked one. Sitting down on the ground, he began eating, smiling through the tears that coursed openly down his homely face.
"Moi 'eart but she'm a wunnerful creetur. Oi'd be fair proud t' be a choild of that thurr moler."
BOOK TWO
Actors and Searchers
16
Evening shadows lengthened as the hot day drew to a close. The shore lay warm and dusty beneath the last rays of daylight. Fortress Marshank's gates were thrown open wide. Torches and seacoal fires illuminated the courtyard as the corsair crew mingled with the Tyrant's horde. An alfresco supper had been laid for the two leaders and their aides. A temporary jollity prevailed in the light of the promised entertainment, though Badrang and Clogg still regarded each other suspiciously.
The Tyrant stoat nibbled a leg of roast gull, sipping daintily from a beaker of greengage cordial as he smiled patronizingly at the corsair Cap'n. Tramun Clogg sniffed at a pickled mackerel. With a defiant grimace he dunked it thoroughly in Badrang's cordial bowl and wolfed it down in one mouthful. Choking and coughing, he grabbed a half empty puncheon of kelp beer, tilting it to his mouth and drinking deeply as it splashed widespread down his braids on to the tabletop.
With a loud belch and a villainous grin, he slammed the puncheon back on the table.
"Harr, that's better! Ho lookit, 'ere comes me mate Tibbar an' 'is pals!"
Badrang eyed the approaching troupe scathingly "Hmm, so this is the entertainment we've been waiting for?"
Clogg half drew his cutlass, thrusting his face close to Badrang.
"Aye, so 'tis, an' they're friends of me good matey Tibbar, so don't you fergit it."
Badrang turned his head, avoiding Clogg's fish laden breath. He had dropped his corsair accent now that he held the upper paw.
"Forget it? How could I? You've done nothing but gabble on about it all day."
Clogg was offended by the Tyrant's manner. He squinted fiercely at him. "That weren't gabblin', matey, 'twere a warnin'. Don't mess with those creatures, an' get any thoughts o' slave takin' outta yer 'ead, Badrang. It's double bad luck to any who tries to 'arm me magic friends, see!"
Brome felt himself freeze beneath the huge frog mask that enveloped his head. The sight of Badrang and Mar shank caused panic in his mind.
Rowanoak pushed him gently from behind. "Hurry along now, young froggy. Hop to it!"
Remembering that he was invisible beneath his disguise gave Brome the confidence he needed. Giving a loud croak, he hopskipped into the center of the courtyard and began setting up the scenery from the cart with the other Rosehip troupers. Felldoh was concealed beneath a big comical fox outfit. The tongue wobbled and the eyes rolled every time he moved his head. Beneath the mask, Felldoh peered wildly around, seeing each familiar hated face: Badrang, Gurrad, Hisk. But no sign of his father Barkjon.
Ballaw was in his element. The show, mixed with the ever present danger of appearing before enemies, made his heart beat fast with excitement. Dressed in the flowing costume of Tibbar the magic rabbit, he cartwheeled boldly up to the leaders' table and tweaked Clogg's plaited beard.
"Cloggo, me old crab carcass, me jolly old wavedog companion, top o' the evenin' to you, wot wot?"
Tramun laughed uncontrollably, highly amused at his new friend's antics. Ballaw produced two spoons from Clogg's beard and began clacking them rhythmically together by bouncing both spoons off the corsair stoat's vast stomach.
"When's a stoat not a stoat?
When he wears clogs an' a velvet coat!
When's a stoat an old seadog?
When he's whiskery friskery attery biskery Cap'n Tramun Clogg!"
"Whoa hoho harrharrharr! Ain't 'e a caution, ha harrharr!" Clogg thumped Badrang heartily upon the back. The Tyrant managed to put his beaker down before cordial spilled on his polished breastplate. He glared at Clogg before turning to Ballaw.
"So you're the magic rabbit. Well, let's see some magic."
Ballaw took Badrang's beaker and emptied it at a single gulp.
Before the Tyrant could protest, he refilled the beaker from a nearby flagon and tossed the contents of it into Badrang's face. The Tyrant gave a gasp of surprise and threw up his paws, only to find that the beaker showered him not with drink but with dead leaves. Clogg fell off his chair laughing.