“What the ... Who brought me here?”
Arven sat beside him, pointing to the figure on the tapestry.
“Martin the Warrior did, he had a message for us.”
“Oh, y’don’t say, an’ what was the message?”
“You should know, friend, ’twas you who delivered it!”
“Me? I say, that’s a bit blinkin’ much. I don’t remember a single thing. What did I, I mean he, say?”
Craklyn spread her parchment in front of the young hare. “Don’t worry, Tammo, I recorded every word. Martin the
Warrior is the guiding spirit of our Abbey. In times of trouble he will often choose somebeast to deliver his message to
us. You must be a very special creature for Martin to single you out.”
Tammo nodded absently as he scanned the parchment. “Hmm, never thought of m’self as jolly well special, maim.
Hey, Midge, it mentions you here. It says, ‘Manycoats will know the way.’”
Midge was far shorter than the other hares, but none the less brave. He laughed excitedly. “Hahaha! Wonderful!
It’s just come to me in a flash, yes, I certainly do know what t’do!”
“Well bully for you, laddie buck!” Perigord checked him hastily. “But there’s no reason t’be worryin’ our friends
with a lot o’ balderdash. C’mon, chaps, all pop along an’ get some shut-eye now, it’s rather late y’know. Leave this to
us, we’ll sort out the details, wot!”
Abbess Tansy nodded in agreement. Some of the Redwallers looked rather reluctant, but one glance from their
Abbess told them she was in no mood for argument.
Skipper, Foremole, Log-a-Log, Gurgan, and the hares followed Arven, Craklyn, and Tansy back down to Cavern
Hole. Once there they made themselves comfortable by the fire embers.
Perigord stirred the logs with his saber tip, saying, “Speak y’piece, Midge. Tell us what came t’you in a flash.”
The small hare did so readily. “Listen, Martin said that the battle mustn’t take place at Redwall, it’s got to be
fought elsewhere, see!”
Arven placed the great sword on the fireplace lintel. “That makes sense. We wouldn’t stand much chance with over
a thousand Rapscallions charging a collapsin’ south wall. What do you intend t’do about it, Midge?”
“Here’s the wheeze, old chap. Damug Warfang, like all Warlords, is prob’ly very superstitious. Well, what if an
old ragged soothsayer puts a word in the ear of somebeast close to him?”
Perigord frowned. “What sort o’ word?”
“Well, sah, the sort o’ word tellin’ where a battle might take place an’ sayin’ how unlucky ’twill be to look upon
Red-wall Abbey until the battle is won, an’ how the chosen battle place’11 be lucky for a certain Rapscallion leader
...”
The Major shook his head at Midge’s quick-wittedness. “Enough, enough, I’ve got the drift now. Well done,
Midge Manycoats! Spot of action for you, young Tammo; the rhyme says you’ve got to go with Midge. Don’t worry,
he’ll disguise you pretty well.”
Eyes shining, Tammo clasped his dirk hilt. “Y’can rely on me, sah!”
Perigord ruffled Tammo’s ears fondly. “Splendid! I knew I could. Y’know, you look the image o’ your mother
sometimes, not half as pretty, but somethin’ about the eyes. However, can’t let you two go alone. Rockjaw, you are our
best tracker. Go with ’em, find the camp, and keep y’self close. We’ll use you as a go-between. Very good! Sar’nt
Torgoch, you an’ Lieutenant Mono go right away at dawn an’ scout out a good location for the battle. We’ll get news
of the chosen spot to you, Rockjaw. Taunoc, with his sharp eyes and knowledge of the woods, will be messenger.
Meanwhile, Midge, you can be workin’ y’self into the vermin’s confidence. Shouldn’t be too hard for a hare with a
head on his shoulders like you have, wot. We’ll get word t’you as soon as a good location’s been staked out. That’s all,
chaps. Get some rest now, busy day ahead of us tomorrow. Dismissed!”
Book Three: The Ridge
36?
Two hours after dawn the next day, four logboats plied the waters of the broad stream north by west from Redwall.
Fore-mole Diggum and his team crouched uneasily in the boats, some of them with cloaks thrown over their heads.
Moles are not noted for being great sailors, preferring dry land to water.
“Boo urr, ’taint natcheral t’be afloaten abowt loik this!”
“Hurr nay, oi’m afeared us’n’s moight be a sinkin’ unner-water!”
Log-a-Log dug his paddle deep, scowling at them. “Belay that kind o’ talk, I ain’t never lost a beast off n a boat o’
mine yet. Quit the wailin’ an’ moanin’, willyer!”
Skipper stuffed bread and cheese in his mouth, winking at his otter crew as they gobbled a hasty breakfast. “Ooh,
’e’s an ’eartless shrew, that’n is! Ahoy there, moles, come an’ join us in a bite o’ brekkfist, mates.”
Gurgan Spearback, swigging from a flask of October Ale, noted the moles’ distress.
“Hearken, Skip, yon moles were a funny enough color afore ye offered ’em vittles—don’t go makin”em any
worse!”
Log-a-Log’s companion Freckle pointed with her oarblade. “There ’tis, see, two points off’n the starboard bow!”
Part of the stream forked off down a narrow tributary. Steering the logboats into it, they followed the winding
downhill course of the rivulet, wooden keels scraping on the bottom as they went. After a short distance, Log-a-Log
waved his oar overhead in a circular motion.
“Bring all crafts amidships, sharp now, bow’n’stern broadsides!”
Four logboats were soon wedged lengthways against the flow, their stems and sterns resting on opposite shores of
the narrow waterway. Gratefully, the moles scrambled ashore, kissing the ground in thanks for rneir safe landing.
Skipper and his otters went ahead to the point where the stream disappeared into a hillside.
“This is it, mates,” announced Skipper. “Spread out an’ search for a big boulder!”
By the time the rest arrived, the streamflow had dwindled a bit, owing to the course being blocked by the logboats.
Gurgan waded through it and climbed the hill to admonish Skipper. “Thou’rt still hurted, thee shouldn’t ha’ come!”
The tough otter scratched at one of his wounds, which was beginning to itch. “Coupla scratches never stopped me
doin’ what I like, mate. Ahoy mere, mates, that’s a good ole boulder ye found!”
The stone was partially sunk into the earth, but Foremole Diggum and his crew soon dug it out. Using a smaller
rock as a chock, the otters levered the roundish mass of stone uphill, using shrew oars to move it. Gurgan threw his
added weight into the task, while Foremole marked out a spot on the hilltop, calling, “Bring ee bowlder up to yurr!”
Once or twice the heavy stone rolled back on them, but they were determined creatures. Otters, shrews, moles, and
the Wa-terhog Chieftain gritted their teeth and fought the boulder, fraction by fraction, until it rested on Foremole’s
mark. Sighting with a straight twig, Foremole ordered the boulder moved a bit this way and a bit that way. Finally
satisfied, he took an oar and gave the boulder one hard shove with the paddle end. The great rock toppled down into
the stream, sending up a shower of water; then it rolled back downhill and lodged itself squarely across the spot where
the flow vanished underground. Moles and otters dashed down to pack the edges with a mixture of mud, pebbles, and
whatever bits of timber came to paw.
The flow of the stream halted and backed up on itself until it became a becalmed creek. A short celebratory meal at