“Oh, no, we’ll all be murdered in our beds!”
“Lock the gates, bar the doors, it’s a Wearat!”
Abbot Thibb came hurrying in to see what the alarm was about. “What Wearat? Where?”
Little Brinky was sobbing with fright. Jum came from behind the barrels and swept her up in his paws. “There now, liddle un. There’s nought to fret about.” Raising his voice, he silenced the panicked cries. “Calm ye down now, goodbeasts. There ain’t no Wearat at all, so stop all this noise or ye’ll disturb my barrels of October Ale. Nothin’ worse than unseemly shoutin’ for October Ale!”
Abbot Thibb confronted the Cellardog. “Then perhaps you’d best keep your voice down, sir. Mayhaps you might explain this upset to me.”
Dorka curtsied respectfully to Thibb. “’Twas my fault, Father Abbot, but I didn’t know the Dibbun maid was lissenin’. I was tellin’ Jum that after you left my gate’ouse, Uggo was talkin’ in his sleep again, describin’ the marks on the sail of the green ship ’e saw in ’is dreams. ’Twas the sign o’ the Wearat, weren’t it, Jum?”
The big Cellardog caught the warning look in Thibb’s eye, so he chose his words carefully.
“Well, that’s wot Uggo said it was, but who can tell wot an overstuffed liddle ’og sees in a bad dream, eh?”
Dorka’s observation slipped out before she could think. “But ’e did describe the sign right, I’m sure of it!”
Jum saw the look of dismay on his sister’s face. Making light of the situation, he smiled, patting her back. “Now you lissen t’me, ole gel—an’ you Redwallers, too. There ain’t no Wearat within twenny sea leagues of ’ere, nor is there likely t’be. There was only one such beast I ever ’eard of. Razzid Wearat, the corsair cap’n. I know wot ’appened to that un, ’cos when I went t’the coast I saw my ole uncle Wullow, the sea otter. ’Twas Wullow that gave me a gift o’ those fine clamshells wot yore usin’ t’drink from. Any’ow, some seasons ago, Wullow got news from ’is kinbeast, Skor Axehound, chieftain o’ the High North Coast. It seems that Razzid Wearat an’ ’is corsair crew came a-raidin’.” Jum paused to give a wry chuckle.
“Sorriest day o’ that Wearat’s life, ’twas. Skor an’ them wild sea otters loves battle more’n Uggo loves stolen cakes. They gave those vermin a mighty whackin’. Aye, slew most o’ the corsairs an’ set their cap’n back out t’sea, with decks awash in gore an’ the ship in tatters an’ flames. So ye can take my ole uncle Wullow’s word, as give to ’im by the Axehound hisself. If there ever was a Wearat, well, ’e’s lyin’ on the seabed now, burnt to a soggy crisp!”
An audible sigh of relief rang through the cellars. Abbot Thibb stowed both paws in his wide sleeves, acknowledging Jum with a slight bow.
“Thank you, Mister Gurdy. Now, who was next to sing us a song—a good jolly one I think, eh?”
Foremole tootled a lively ripple on his melodeon, nodding to a pair of little moles, who immediately began singing and dancing.
“Ho round an’ round an’ round ee floor,
shutten ee window, close ee door,
moi likkle beauty take ee charnce,
join Oi en ee molebabe darnce!
“Clappen ee paws a-wun, two, three,
twiggle ee tail roight murrily,
moi ole granma carn’t do thiz,
a-’cos she’m got ee roomatiz!
“Jump ee h’up naow gurtly ’igh,
watch thy ’ead, doan’t bump ee sky,
jumpen ’igher than ee trees,
hurr, wot ’arpy childs uz bee’s!
“Jumpen ’igh as trees you’m arsk,
Ho, by urr, a drefful tarsk,
you’m a h’orful silly lump,
doan’t you’m know ee trees carn’t jump!”
They sang it again and again. Dibbuns joined in the dance, showing off much tail wagging and jumping. Amidst the merriment, mention of Wearats was soon forgotten.
Jum Gurdy edged close to the Abbot, murmuring a message. “Father, can ye tell Foremole Roogo t’keep an eye on my cellars for a few days? I’m off t’the seacoast. That ole uncle Wullow o’ mine, he’s a rare ole tale teller. I think he makes a lot of ’is stories up, so I’m just goin’ t’see if’n wot’e said about that Wearat was for true.”
4
Dawn had scarcely shown its pale light over the western coast when pandemonium broke loose at Salamandastron. A bugle blasting out its brassy alarm set every hare on the mountain dashing to the call. Lady Violet Wildstripe hurried from her forge chamber, joining Colour Sergeant Miggory and Lieutenant Scutram as they rushed downstairs. From dormitory, mess hall, kitchens and barrack room, Long Patrol members charged to the main gate. They parted to make way for the Badger Lady and her officers.
A bewhiskered and monocled Major Felton Fforbes was waving his swagger stick, rapping out orders. “All ranks back off now, quick as y’like, wot! Come on, chaps, give ’em room t’jolly well breathe, if y’please!”
Two young hare cadets, Lancejack Sage and Trug Bawdsley, who formed half of the Seawatch dawn relief, were sitting slumped against a gatepost. Both were obviously in shock, shivering and moaning incoherently.
The colour sergeant twitched his ears enquiringly. “Nah, then, wot’s goin’ h’on ’ere, buckoes?”
Lady Violet came forward, sweeping off her warm cloak. She draped it about both the hares. Then, crouching down in front of them, she enquired in a calm low voice, “One thing at a time, young uns—easy does it now, take your time, try to speak slowly and clearly. Sage, make your report. What’s upset you so?”
Lancejack Sage, normally an ebullient haremaid, stared blankly into space. She spoke in a flat, halting, monotone. “We went straight out t’the south beach, to relieve the night Seawatch. I came back straight away with Trug. We left Ferrul an’ Wilbee with ’em. Not proper form, y’see, marm, leavin’ ’em alone like that. . . .”
Violet took the haremaid’s face in both paws, staring into her dazed eyes. “Left Ferrul and Wilbee with whom? Tell me.”
Sage’s companion, Trug Bawdsley, a hefty young buck, could no longer restrain himself. He shouted aloud, “Saw them in the mess yesterday, had tea with ’em. Now all four o’ the poorbeasts are dead! Gilbee, Dobbs, Dunwiddy an’ my sister Trey. They’re dead, I tell ye!” Here the sturdy fellow broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.
Nobeast was swifter than the Badger Lady. Seizing a lance from a wall rack, she swung into action. “Sergeant Miggory, Lieutenant Scutram, bring a score of armed warriors and follow me! Major Felton, see these two are cared for. Fortify the gate and shutter all windows!”
It was a sad and shocking scene on the sands of the south shore. Four young hare cadets, the night Seawatch, lying mangled and pierced by arrows amidst the cold ashes of their fire. Ferrul and Wilbee, whom the lancejack had ordered to stay, were staring hypnotised at the ghastly tableau. Running in Lady Violet’s wake, Scutram and Miggory halted the rest at the badger’s command.
“Hold fast there until I can see what went on. Do you have a tracker with you, Sergeant?”
Miggory waved his paw at a lean haremaid. “Buff, go with ’er Ladyship, see wot ye can find.”
Buff Redspore wore the tan-hued tunic of an expert scout and tracker. She walked with Violet to where the four slain hares lay. Beckoning Ferrul and Wilbee to remain still, Buff ran a paw through the fire ashes. “Hmmmm. Burnt out long before dawn.”
She turned her attention to the dead hares.
“Look at these young uns, marm. Three of ’em crushed by somethin’, then shot by an arrow apiece, one in the chest, two in the throat, as they lay there. Now, see this fourth cadet—he escaped bein’ crushed an’ ran. Three arrows took him in the back, first one just near the nape o’ the neck.”