bobbing lantern. Tammo dropped lightly beside Sloey and, taking off his tunic, he wrapped her in it, talking in a soft,
friendly tone.
“There now, that nasty thing’s gone, thank goodness. I know, we’ll make you a nice seat so they can pull you up,
wot!”
Sloey turned her tearful face to her rescuer. “I falled downa hole an’ nearly got eated up!”
Tammo detached the lantern, knotted a fixed loop into the rope’s end, and sat the mousebabe in it. “Yes, I know,
but you’re safe now, Sloey. You go on up an’ have some more food at the feast, that’ll make y’feel lots better.”
He signaled and the Dibbun was lifted up in the makeshift sling, clinging tightly to the rope and calling back down,
“Tharra naughty fishysnake, me ’ope Skipper smack its bottom good’n’ard!”
Lying flat on the rocks, Tammo allowed the waters to drench him as he held up the lantern and squinted away to
where the boiling torrent raced off downhill into the darkness. Nowhere could he see sight or sound of Skipper or the
yellow eel.
A pall had been cast over the golden afternoon. The feast lay abandoned as Perigord explained what had happened.
In stunned silence the Redwallers heard the news.
Abbess Tansy stood by her chair, wide-eyed with disbelief. “Oh, poor Skipper, is there nothing we can do?”
Tammo wiped his wet paws on the grass. “I stayed down there an’ took a good look, marm. The water goes straight
down underground—’fraid Skipper’s gone. What a brave beast he was, though. Never considered his own safety at
all!”
Arven leaned against a table, his eyes downcast. “I saw his face before he jumped. I could tell that there wasn’t
anything he wouldn’t do to stop little Sloey from being hurt. Skipper of Otters was a true Redwaller!”
Major Perigord gripped his saber handle tightly.
33?
Some distance southeast of Redwall Abbey, the streams, brooks, and back channels became less rapid, flowing
placidly through Mossflower Wood. It was here that they converged on the margins of a sprawling water meadow.
Log-a-Log, the Guosim Chieftain, gave orders to ship oars and let the little fleet of logboats drift. He sat in the prow
of the lead vessel, conversing with his friend Frackle, their voices a low murmur, as if to preserve the sunlit
peacefulness that hung over the flooded meadows like an emerald cape.
A half-grown dragonfly landed on the boat, close to Log-a-Log’s paw. It rested, unconcerned by the shrews, its
iridescent wings fanning gently.
“Hmmm, nothin’ like a bit o’ peace,” the shrew leader sighed. “I never yet rowed through this place, always let the
boat drift. See, Frackle, ’tis summer, the water lilies are startin’
to open, an’ look over there ’twixt the fen sedge an’ bulrushes—yellow poppies sproutin’ with the cudweeds. I tell
you, matey, this is the place to take a picnic on a quiet noontide!”
Frackle let her paw trail in the dark water, swirling a path amid the minute green plants that carpeted the surface.
Then a white-fletched arrow hummed, almost lazily, through the still air, burying itself in the prow of the logboat,
and a gruff roar rang out from somewhere behind the banks of fern and spikerush: “Thee’d ha’ been dead now hadst
thou been a foebeast!”
Log-a-Log stood up in the bows of his logboat, reassuring the other Guosim with a quick wave of his paw. Then,
sitting back down, he pretended to stifle a yawn as he replied idly, “Yore brains are all in yore boots, Gurgan
Spearback. If I’d been a foebeast I’d have spotted the smoke up yonder creek, from the chimneys o’ those clumsy
floatin’ islands you call rafts!”
Hardly had he finished speaking, when one of the rafts came skirting the reeds and headed for the logboats.
Propelled by six hedgehogs either side with long punting poles, the craft skimmed lightly and fast, belying the
awkward nature of its construction.
There was a hut, a proper log cabin with shuttered windows and a door, built at the vessel’s center, with a
smokestack chimney sprouting from its roof. Lines of washing ran from for’ard to aft, strung between mast timbers.
Between the rails at the raft’s edges, small hedgehogs, with safety lines tied about them, could be seen playing. It was
obvious that several large families were living aboard.
The leader of the Waterhogs was a fearsome sight. Gurgan Spearback wore great floppy seaboots and an immense
brass-buckled belt, through which was thrust a hatchet and a scythe-bladed sword. He had long sea gull feathers
impaled on his headspikes, making him look a head bigger than he actually was. His face was painted white, with
scarlet polka dots daubed on.
Gurgan leaned on a long-handled oversized mallet, its head a section of rowan trunk. As the raft closed with the
leading logboat, the Guosim Chieftain sprang over the rail and hurled himself upon the Waterhog leader. They
wrestled around the raft’s deck, pummeling each other playfully while they made their greetings.
“Thou’rt nowt but an ancient blood pudden, Log-a-Log Guosim!”
“Gurgan Spearback! Still lookin’ like a spiky featherbed wid boots on, you great floatin’ pincushion!”
More rafts joined them, sailing out from a creek on the far side. Soon they were joined into a square flotilla, with
the logboats tied up to their outer rails. Food was served on the open decks, hogcooks bustling in and out of their huts,
carrying pans of thick porridge flavored with cut fruit and honey, the staple diet of Waterhogs. This was accompanied
by hot cheese flans and mugs of rosehipVapple cider.
The little hogs wandered between groups, eating as if they were facing a seven-season famine. Big, wide-girthed
fathers and huge, hefty-limbed mothers encouraged them.
“Tuck in there, Tuggy, th’art nowt but a shadow, get some paddin”round thy bones, young ’og!”
Log-a-Log refused a second bowl, patting his stomach to indicate that he had eaten sufficiently. “Phew! I wouldn’t
chance a swim after that liddle lot, mate!”
Gurgan snatched the bowl and dug in with a scallop-shell spoon. “So, what brings thee’n’thy tribe around these
’ere parts?”
Log-a-Log patted a passing young one’s headspikes and winced. “I could ask you the same question, messmate,
but we’re chartin’ a course close to Redwall Abbey to warn the goodbeasts there. Did y’know there’s Rapscallions on
the move?”
Gurgan licked the empty bowl and hiccupped. “Aye, that I did. We’ve been four days ahead o’ yon vermin since
they burned their fleet on the southeast coast. Damug Warfang has o’er a thousandbeast at his back, too many for us. I
was lookin’ to avoid ’em someway.”
Log-a-Log nodded gravely. “Perhaps the answer is to join forces and go after the vermin. We’d have a chance
together.”
Gurgan began licking his spoon thoughtfully. “Aye, that we would. But hast thou seen the number o’ liddle ’uns
we’re rearin’ now? ’Twould not be right to put their lives in danger.”
The shrew sipped pensively at his beaker. “Aye, but think on this a moment, Gurgan. Warfang an’ his army are like
to sweep the whole land an’ enslave all, ’less they’re stopped. If Mossflower were conquered an’ ruled by
Rapscallions, wot kinda country would that be to bring young ’ogs up proper?”
Gurgan’s paw tested the sickle-edged blade at his belt. “Thou art right, Log-a-Log. What’s to be done?”
“We’ll take yore young ’uns up to the Abbey an’ lodge ’em there. That’ll leave you free to fight!”