a-bellowin’ orders galore,
whilst keepin’ close watch with his cold, beady eye—
Attention, left right, two three four!
We’ll sleep all the day whilst the chaps drill away.
Aye, we’ll snore just like hogs down a hole,
firm comrades let’s stay until our dyin’ day,
in the ranks of the great Long Patrol!”
Contending with the boom and hiss of breaking waves, the four young hares sang out lustily, full of the joys of life as only young ones can be. Unaware that they were being watched by evil murderous eyes.
Most creatures agree that whenever it is a cold, rainswept day, the best place to be is indoors. One of the Redwallers’ favourite retreats is the Abbey cellars, where Jum Gurdy is Head Cellardog. The big, jovial otter never fails to make everybeast welcome. His forge constantly glows, radiating warmth from a fire of old barrel staves and charcoal lumps. Jum’s two companions, Roogo Foremole and the Redwall Bellmaster, a squirrel known as Ding Toller, usually preside over the food and fun for all. An old iron battle shield is placed on the fire whilst chestnuts are piled on it to roast. Young and old are given sharpened sticks to retrieve the nuts when they are ready. Once peeled, they are dipped in a basin of cornflower honey. Jum has a fine collection of large clamshells, sent to him by his sea otter cousins. He sits by a barrel of Baggaloob, dispensing shells brimming with the delicious brew (made from a recipe known only to Jum himself).
Many a pleasant day is passed in Jum Gurdy’s cellars by the Abbey community playing instruments, singing songs, solving riddles and listening to poems and stories whilst feasting on delicacies and drinking the good Baggaloob. The Foremole plays his melodeon whilst Ding Toller sings out his challenge, to begin the proceedings, thus . . .
“’Tis cold an’ wet outdoors this day,
but we be snug an’ dry.
So now I’ll name a name to ye,
of some goodbeast who’ll try,
to entertain us with a song,
a joke, a poem or dance.
Now, pay attention, one an’ all,
an’ give our friend a chance. . . .”
There was a hushed silence (apart from a few giggles) as Ding’s paw circled the audience, suddenly stopping to point at his choice as he called out the name.
“Friar Wopple!”
The furry watervole, who was Redwall’s Chief Cook, stood up amidst resounding applause, shuffling her footpaws shyly. “Dearie me, I ain’t much of a singer at all, friends.”
Everybeast knew Wopple was a fine singer, who always had to be coaxed. The Dibbuns were the most vocal in their pleas. “Ho goo on, Friar marm, sing us da one ’bout Dibbun Pie!”
Wopple smiled furtively whilst fidgeting with her apron tassels. Then she nodded at Foremole, who played the opening bars as she started singing.
“If any babe won’t go to bed,
an’ will not take a bath,
an’ talks back to his elders,
Oh, that fills me with wrath.
Come right along with me, I say,
don’t try to run or fly,
don’t pull or tug, you’ll soon be snug,
inside a Dibbun Pie!
Dibbun Pie, my oh my,
I won’t tell you a lie.
If you ain’t good, you surely should
end up as Dibbun Pie!
I covers him with honey ’cos
some Dibbuns do taste sour,
I stuffs a chestnut in his mouth,
then rolls him round in flour,
I shoves him in the oven,
an’ sez yore time is nigh,
for with a piecrust o’er yore head,
you’ll soon be Dibbun Pie!
Dibbun Pie, my oh my,
no use to weep or cry.
If you ain’t good, you surely should
end up as Dibbun Pie!”
The Dibbuns sang the chorus lustily and cheered the Friar loudly, giggling and chortling at the idea of a Dibbun Pie.
Foremole Roogo shook his head with mock severity. “Burr, you’m likkle villyuns, Oi wuddent larf so loud if’n Oi wurr ee, or Froir Wopple’ll make ee into pies!”
Brinky the vole Dibbun scoffed at the idea. “Hah! No likkle Dibbuns never got maked into pie!”
Old Fottlink, the ancient mouse who was Recorder to Redwall, interrupted. “That’s all you know, young Brinky. I knew a very cheeky Dibbun who was once baked into a Dibbun Pie, so there!”
The little volemaid stared wide-eyed at Fottlink. “Who was it? Was ’e very naughty?”
The Recorder nodded. “Very, very naughty—it was me!”
Brinky mulled over this revelation for a moment, then said, “But if you got eated for bein’ naughty, why are you still ’ere?”
Fottlink whispered knowingly, “Because I was very young.”
Brinky went into some more deep thought before speaking. “Very, very young an’ only a tiny likkle beast?”
The Recorder nodded solemnly. “That’s right!”
Murty the molebabe enquired hopefully, “But you’m wasn’t naughty again, was you’m, zurr?”
Jum Gurdy chuckled. “Oh, no. Ole Fottlink was a goodbeast from that day on. I know, ’cos ’tis true!”
The two Dibbuns stared open-mouthed at the big otter. If Jum said it was true, then it had to be so.
Dorka Gurdy, Jum’s sister, entered the cellars. She looked cold and distracted.
“Jum, I’ve got to talk with ye!”
Jum rose, waving his sister, whom he was tremendously fond of, over to the forge fire. “Dorka, me ole tatercake, come an’ sit ’ere. Ding, fetch ’er some ’ot chestnuts an’ a drink o’ Baggaloob.” Taking off his sister’s wet cloak, Jum placed a warm blanket around her shoulders. “Now, wot is it, me ole heart, is ought troublin’ ye?”
Dorka leaned close, dropping her voice. “I don’t wants t’say it aloud. ’Twould upset these good creatures. Could I speak with ye in private, Jum?”
The big otter gestured to a stack of empty barrels. “Right ye are, sister dear. Come over ’ere.”
Once seated behind the barrels, Dorka clasped her brother’s huge paw. “D’ye recall young Uggo Wiltud? Stole a hefty fruitcake an’ ate the whole thing by hisself?”
Jum managed to hide a smile. “Aye, I think that ole cake must’ve been nearly as big as liddle Uggo. I know he’s a scamp, but I can’t ’elp likin’ ’is boldness.”
Dorka shook her head. “Well, he’s sufferin’ for it now, but that’s not wot I wanted t’talk to ye about. It was Uggo’s dream. He told Abbot Thibb that he saw a ship comin’ to attack Redwall, a big green craft. Later I ’eard ’im say somethin’ about a design on the ship’s sail.”
Jum chuckled. “A ship attackin’ our Abbey? I think it was really a big cake attackin’ Uggo. But why all the fuss, me ole darlin’? ’Twas only a greedy liddle ’og’s dream.”
Dorka gripped her brother’s paw tighter. “Well may ye say, Jum Gurdy, but let me tell ye the design Uggo saw on the ship’s sail. ’Twas the prongs of a trident with a pair of evil eyes starin’ from the spaces atwixt ’em. You know wot that means. ’Tis the sign o’ the Wearat!”
Without either of them knowing, little Brinky had been eavesdropping on the conversation. She skipped to the forge, calling out in a singsong baby chant, “A Wearat, a Wearat, Uggo see’d a Wearat!”
Every Redwaller knew what a Wearat was, though none had ever seen one. Wearat was a forbidden word in the Abbey. It was an unmentionable horror, a thing of nightmare. There was a moment’s silence, then frightened shouts rang out from everybeast.
“A Wearat? Uggo Wiltud saw a Wearat?”
“Where did he see it—is it in our Abbey?”