The Rogue Crew by Brian Jacques
When midday eventually came, Jum was secretly glad of the rest. He had aged, and he had put on weight being in charge of Redwall’s Cellars. It was some while since he had undertaken a journey to the coast. Careful not to let his young companion see that he was tired, the big otter put on a springy step.
“Keep up now, Master Wiltud. Yore fallin’ behind agin!”
Uggo was not in a good mood. He pointed angrily upward. “You said we was goin’ t’stop for lunch when the sun reached midday. It did that some time ago, an’ you ain’t stopped. Wot are we waitin’ for, Mister Gurdy, nighttime?”
It was the sight of a stream ahead which prompted the otter to say, “On the bank o’ yon water ’neath that willow. That’s the spot I was aimin’ for. Would’ve been there afore, except for yore laggin’ behind.”
It was indeed a pleasant location. They soon had a small fire going and mint tea on the boil. From the haversack, Jum sorted out some cheese, scones and honey. Cooling his footpaws in the shallows, he oversaw Uggo toasting two scones with cheese on them. “That’s the way, matey. Nice’n’brown underneath with bubbly cheese atop. Perfect!”
The young hog did not mind preparing lunch. “I’ll need two more scones, to spread honey on for afters.”
Uggo was surprised at how good food tasted outdoors.
After they had eaten, Jum spread a large dockleaf over his eyes. Lying back against the willow trunk, he settled down.
“Let’s take a liddle nap. Ain’t nothin’ like the sound of a gentle runnin’ stream at early noon.”
Uggo skimmed pebbles awhile, then felt bored. “I ain’t sleepy, Mister Gurdy.”
The otter opened one eye. “Go ’way an’ don’t bother me fer a while. Do a spot o’ fishin’ or somethin’.”
Uggo stared into the clear running stream. “But there ain’t no fish t’be seen round here.”
The otter gave a long sigh. “Well, go downstream. There’s a small cove where the water’s still. May’aps ye’ll find some freshwater shrimp there, an’ we’ll make soup fer supper t’night.”
Uggo persisted. “I’ll need a rod an’ line.”
Jum took on a threatening tone. “Ye don’t catch watershrimp with a rod’n’line. Take one o’ them scone sacks an’ make a net. I trust yore not so dim that ye can’t make a simple fishnet, are ye?”
Uggo stumped off, muttering, “O’ course I can make a net. I ain’t dim, Mister Gurdy. You take yore nap. Huh, oldbeasts need naps!”
It was lucky for him that Jum did not hear most of what he said. Closing his eyes, he settled down with a yawn.
Finding a long twig with a forked end, the would-be shrimpcatcher attached the ends to either side of the little cloth sack. Making his way downstream, he watched the water intently, feeling happy about his new purpose, still murmuring to himself. “Just wait, Jum Gurdy. I’ll catch a whole netful o’ watershrimps. Then I’ll creep back an’ flop them in yore lap—that’ll waken ye!”
The cove was further than he had expected, but Uggo finally came across it—a small inlet, patrolled by dragonflies skimming the still, dark water. There were no shrimp to be seen, but Uggo gave his net a speedy pull beneath the murky surface. Pulling it out, he turned the net inside out and was rewarded by the sight of two tiny, transparent-grey, wriggling things.
“Ahaah! There ye are, me liddle watershrimps! Any others swimmin’ about down there? Let’s see, shall we?”
A curious wasp, investigating one of Jum Gurdy’s eyelids, woke him. He brushed it off dozily and was about to continue his nap when he noticed the position of the sun through the hanging willow branches. It was past midnoon! The big otter heaved himself upright. Had he really been asleep all that time? Taking the pan of lukewarm mint tea from the ashes of the dead fire, he drank it in one draught. A quick dash of streamwater across his face brought Jum fully awake and alert.
“Where’s that liddle rascal got to? He should’ve been back an’ waked me long since!”
Wading into the shallows, the otter cupped both paws around his mouth, shouting aloud. “Uggo! Git back ’ere right now! Uggo! Uggooooo!”
Raising a spray of water with his rudderlike tail, Jum splashed back onto the bank. He stood, looking this way and that before bellowing again.
“Uggo Wiltud, where are ye? If’n ye ain’t back by the time I’ve counted to ten, then I’m leavin’ without ye! One . . . two. . . . Can ye hear me, ye liddle rascal?”
He counted to ten, then repeated the performance, with more dire threats. All to no avail. Packing everything back into his haversack, he tried to recall his words before napping.
“The cove downstream . . . freshwater shrimp . . . that’s it!”
Without further ado, he scooped water over the fire ashes and stumped off along the bank, downstream.
Every now and then, Jum paused, calling into the surrounding woodlands. He tried to be less bad tempered, not wanting to scare the young hedgehog away. “Uggo, come on, liddle mate, I ain’t mad at ye. ’Twas my fault for goin’ off t’sleep like that. Come on, show yoreself, there’s no real’arm done!”
Still travelling on and calling out, Jum came upon the cove. There was the improvised shrimping net, floating in the water. He pulled it out with a cold fear creeping through his stomach. Had Uggo fallen in? Could young hedgehogs swim? Swimming was no problem to otters, but what about hedgehogs—were they like moles or squirrels? He had never seen any of them showing a fondness for water. That did it. Jum Gurdy dived into the cove.
Through his frantic underwater efforts, he stirred the cove into a muddy area. Four times he dived, each time scouring the cove from end to end, side to side, with no success. Regaining his breath, the big otter swam out of the cove. He searched the stream for a great length in either direction.
The sun was setting in crimson splendour when Redwall’s Cellardog sat upon the streambank, weeping. Why had he slept so long at midday? Why had he been so irate with his young friend? He would regret it for the rest of his life. Uggo Wiltud was gone, drowned and carried off downstream to the sea. Shouldering his pack, Jum plodded wearily off, following the stream out over the flatlands toward the dunes, the shore and the sea.
It was a warm, still afternoon at the Abbey as Friar Wopple settled herself down on the southeast corner of the rampart walkway. She relished a quiet afternoon tea with Sister Fisk after all the bustle and heat of the kitchens. Spreading a cloth on the worn stones, the plump watervole laid out the contents of her hamper. Two oatfarls filled with chopped hazelnut salad, a latticed apple and blackberry tart, napkins and crockery.
Seeing Sister Fisk coming up the south wallsteps, Wopple waved, hailing her friend. “Cooee, Sister!”
Redwall’s Infirmary mouse came bearing a steaming kettle. The Friar rubbed her paws in anticipation as Fisk sat down beside her. “I’ve set all our food out. What sort of tea are we drinking today?”
Fisk poured out two dainty beakers of the hot amber liquid, passing one to her companion. “Taste and guess, then tell me if you like it.”
Blowing fragrant steam from the drink, Wopple sipped. “Ooh, it’s absolutely delicious, Sister. I’d never guess, so you’d best tell me.”
Fisk looked both ways, as if guarding a secret, before whispering, “Rosehip and dandelion bud, with just a squeeze of crushed almond blossom!”
The female Friar sipped further, closing her eyes with ecstasy. “It’s the best you’ve ever invented, my friend!”
Fisk took a hearty bite from her salad farl. “Not half as good as your cooking, though. I had a bit of a rush getting up here this noon. Had to put some salve on a bruised footpaw. Little Alfio again!”
The Friar chuckled. “Dearie me. Sometimes I think that poor Dibbun was born with four left paws. How many times is it that he’s fallen and hurt himself, clumsy little shrew!”
The Sister shook her head in mock despair. “I’ve lost count of Alfio’s tumbles.”
She settled her back up against the sun-warmed battlements. ??
Wopple set a slice of tart in front of her. “Aye, until somebeast injures themselves again, or a whole Abbeyful of Redwallers wants feeding!”
A thin, reedy quaver interrupted them.
“Could you feed me, please? I don’t eat much!”
Fisk turned to Wopple. “Did you say something?”
The Friar was already pulling herself upright. “’Twasn’t me—sounds like somebeast outside.”
Fisk joined her as they peered over the walltop.
Below, amidst the trees, was an old hedgehog. She looked very thin and tottery. Leaning against an elm, she waved. “Didn’t mean t’spoil yore tea, marms. I was just wonderin’’ow ye gets into this fine place.”
Friar Wopple answered promptly. “Stay right there, marm. We’ll come down and get ye!”
Opening the small east wall wickergate, they hurried to the gable where the old hogwife had seated herself. She began thanking them as they assisted her inside the grounds.
“May fortune smile on ye goodbeasts, an’ may yore bowls never be empty for yore kindness t’me!”
Helping her up to the walltop, they sat her down, placing their afternoon tea before her. She immediately fell upon the food with gusto. Whilst she fed herself unstintingly, Friar Wopple studied the newcomer’s face, murmuring, “Sister Fisk, who does she put you in mind of?”
Instead of answering, Fisk turned to the old hedgehog. “Do you have a name, marm?”
Their guest looked up from a slice of tart, smiling to reveal only a few snaggled teeth. “Twoggs, me name’s Twoggs.”
The Friar nodded knowingly. “And is your second name Wiltud?”
The old hogwife finished off a beaker of tea at a swig. “Wiltud, that’s right. . . . But ’ow did ye know?”
Friar Wopple shrugged. “Oh, I just guessed.”
Twoggs Wiltud turned her attention to Fisk’s partially eaten salad farl. “Good guess, eh, marm? Any more o’ these nice vikkles lyin’ about?”
Wopple moved to help her upright. “Come along to my kitchen, and I’ll see what I can find!”
Abbot Thibb joined Dorka Gurdy in the kitchens. Both were intent on viewing the new arrival. The scrawny old hogwife had seated herself on a heap of sacks in one corner, paying attention only to the food she had been given.
Friar Wopple indicated her guest to Thibb and Dorka, remarking, “Sister Fisk and I are both agreed as to who she is.”
The Abbot needed only a brief inspection of the snaggletoothed ancient, who was slopping down honeyed oatmeal as if faced with a ten-season famine. He nodded decisively. “That’s a Wiltud, without a doubt, eh, Dorka?”
The otter Gatekeeper agreed readily. “Split me rudder, she couldn’t be ought else but a Wiltud. Ain’t shy about table manners, is she? Lookit the way she’s wolfin’ those vittles!”
Friar Wopple refilled the guest’s bowl with oatmeal. Twoggs Wiltud gulped down a beaker of October Ale, nodding to the Friar as she turned her attention back to the oatmeal.
“Thankee, marm. I likes a drop o’ ’oneyed oatmeal. Don’t’ave enough teeth left t’deal wid more solid vikkles. I tries me best, though.”
Sister Fisk stifled a chuckle. “I’m sure you do, good lady. We have another member of your clan at Redwall—young Uggo Wiltud. Though he’s off travelling at the moment.”
Twoggs licked the sides of her empty bowl, holding it toward the Friar for another helping. “Huggo, ye say? Hmmm, don’t know no Huggo Wiltud, but that ain’t no surprise. Mossflower’s teemin’ wid Wiltuds. We’re wanderers an’ foragers, y’see. Don’t suppose ye’ve got a drop o’ soup t’spare. I likes soup, y’know.”
Friar Wopple commented, “Is there any food you don’t like?”
Twoggs sucked at her virtually toothless gums a moment. “Er, lemme see. May’aps oysters. I’ve ’eard tell of’em, though I ain’t never tasted one. So I can’t tell if’n I’d like ’em or not. Yew ever tasted an oyster, marm?”
The Abbot interrupted this somewhat pointless chatter. “Forget oysters—but tell me, do you have a purpose in visiting our Abbey? You’re welcome, I’m sure. However, a creature of your long seasons, you must have passed our gates many times if you live in Mossflower Country. So why do you suddenly turn up here today?”
Twoggs took a sip from the bowl which the Friar had just passed to her. She wrinkled her withered snout with delight. “Oh, ’appy day—spring veggible soup, my fav’rite bestest thing inna world. Fortune smile on ye, Cook marm, an’ may ye allus ’ave someplace soft to lay yore ’ead at night!”
Taking a crust of bread, she began dipping it in the soup and sucking noisily. Dorka smiled at the Abbot. “Don’t look like she’s up to answerin’ any more questions as long as the vittles keeps comin’.”
Thibb shrugged. “I think you’re right, friend. Friar, I’ll leave her in your care. See she gets what she wants, then let her nap in the storeroom. Mayhaps she’ll talk to me when she feels like it. Oldbeasts like her aren’t usually in the habit of visiting new places without a reason. Though maybe she was just hungry.”
Sister Fisk watched as another bowl of soup disappeared. “Aye, that’s probably it, Father. Let’s hope she soon gets enough, before she eats us out of house and home. Incidentally, how’s that torn pawnail of yours?”
The Abbot held it up for Fisk’s inspection. “Oh, it’s not too bad. I’ll take more care next time I’m trying to shut the main gates on my own.”
Dorka shook her head. “Aye, wait for me. I know them gates—they can be tricky if ye don’t handle ’em right.”
Fisk examined the pawnail, noting that the Abbot flinched when she touched it. “Hmm, you’d best come with me to the Infirmary, Father. I think a little of my special salve and a herbal binding is what’s needed to solve your problem.”
The Abbot made to walk away, excusing himself. “Oh, it’ll be quite alright as it is. Pray don’t trouble yourself, Sister.”
Fisk caught him firmly by his habit girdle. “It’s no trouble at all. I won’t hurt you—now, don’t be such a Dibbun and come with me.”
She marched him off briskly. Friar Wopple passed Twoggs Wiltud a slice of mushroom pasty, remarking to Dorka, “I think there’s a bit of the Dibbun in all of us when it comes to visiting the Infirmary. One time I got a rose thorn in my footpaw when I was a Dibbun. Old Brother Mandicus had to dig it out with a needle. I’ve had a fear of healers ever since.”
Twoggs interrupted through a mouthful of pasty. “Ain’t ye got nothin’ decent t’drink round ’ere?”
Friar Wopple looked slightly offended. “What d’ye mean, somethin’ decent to drink? All the drinks are decent at Redwall, I’ll have you know!”
The ancient hedgehog cackled. “I means summat sweet tastin’. Alls I’ve ’ad since I came ’ere is tea an’ ale. I’m partial t’sweet drinks, cordials’n’fizzes.”
Dorka Gurdy put on an expression of mock pity. “Oh, ye pore ole thing, we shall have t’get ye some strawberry fizz or dandelion an’ burdock cordial.”
Twoggs sensed that she was being mocked and replied sharply, “Less o’ yore cheek, waterdog, or I won’t say a word about wot I was sent ’ere t’say!”
The big otter wagged a paw at the old hedgehog. “Who are you callin’ waterdog, pricklepig?”
Friar Wopple got between them. “Now, now—no need for insults an’ name-calling. I’ll go and ask Foremole Roogo to fetch a jug o’ damson an’ pear cordial from the cellars.”
Twoggs pulled herself upright, the picture of injured dignity. “Aye, an’ I’ll come with ye. I ain’t stayin’ ’ere t’be h’insulted by that imperdent creature!” She stalked off behind the Friar.
Dorka humphed. “We takes ’er in, an’ that’s how we gets treated for bein’ ’ospitable to ’er. Scrawny ole beggar. If’n my brother Jum were ’ere, he wouldn’t let ’er near his cellars. Huh, that ole ’og needs a good bath, if’n ye ask
“Hurr, if’n Oi arsks ee wot, marm?” Foremole Roogo entered the kitchen from the serving hatch door. Dorka explained about Twoggs.
“One o’ that Wiltud tribe turned up at our Abbey. She’s eaten ’er fill an’ gone down to the cellars with Friar for a jug o’ cordial.”
Foremole jangled the ring of keys at his side. “She’m b’aint a-gettin’ nuthen. Oi locked ee door.”
Dorka was about to reply when from the cellar stairs there came a hubbub of crashing, shouting, squealing and bumping. The big otter hurried off with Roogo trundling in her wake. “Good grief, what’s all the commotion?”
They found Twoggs at the bottom of the spiral sandstone stairs. Friar Wopple was leaning over her, trying to sit her up against the locked door. “She pushed past me at the top of the stairs. Tripped on those old rags she was wearin’, an’ tumbled from top to bottom. I couldn’t stop her!”
“You’m ’old on to hurr, marms, an’ stan ee asoide!” Foremole produced the key, opening the door. They bore Twoggs Wiltud in between them, laying her down on a sack of straw.
Friar Wopple passed a paw in front of the old hog’s nostrils. “Dorka, run and get Sister Fisk. I don’t know how bad she is, but she’s still breathing. Foremole, can you find a beaker of sweet cordial, please?”
Dorka arrived back with Sister Fisk and the Abbot as Friar Wopple was attempting to get some of the cordial between the patient’s closed lips. The Sister immediately took charge.
“Give me that beaker, please. Hold her head up gently—it looks like she’s been knocked out cold. I don’t know what injuries she may have taken. Dorka says she tumbled the length of the stairs, right into the locked door.”
The Friar watched anxiously as cordial dribbled over the old hedgehog’s chin. “She just pushed past me—there wasn’t anything I could do!”
Foremole patted the watervole’s paw. “Thurr naow, marm. Et wurr no fault o’ your’n!”
To everybeast’s amazement, Twoggs’s eyelids flickered open. She licked her lips feebly, croaking, “Hmm, that tastes nice’n’sweet. Wot is it?”