Owing to the efficiency of Redwall’s kitchens, lunch was prepared and laid out before midday. Lancejack Wilderry had brought Captain Fortindom up-to-date on the losses they had sustained, whilst the sergeant broke the news about Brigadier Crumshaw to the returning hares. But nobeast could give Tam any information about the whereabouts of his friend Doogy.
Normally Tam never worried too much about his Highland friend. He and Doogy had been separated many times in the past. However, he could not help feeling a growing anxiety about Doogy. This was confirmed as he sat down at table with Armel. She recited Martin’s words to him.
“Behold two swords and a banner,
watch out for the Walking Stone.
The brother is gone, ’tis the warrior
who must face the Savage alone.”
The Borderer looked grim. “So, is that why you told me to hold on to Martin’s sword?”
He turned to Skipper. “Do you think that Gulo is still alive, Skip? Maybe the waterfall didn’t kill him.”
The otter chieftain looked up from a bowl of shrimp’n’hotroot soup, which Friar Glisum had made specially for him. “Well, accordin’ to ole Log a Log Togey, nobeast could ride over those falls on a log an’ live. A Log a Log of the Guosim knows wot he’s talkin’ about when it comes to rivers’n’streams, mate. But who can tell? That Gulo ain’t nobeast like we’ve ever seen!”
The homecoming meal was not the jolly event Abbot Humble had hoped it would be. There was an undercurrent of sadness over lost comrades; even the Long Patrol hares seemed to lack their usual gaiety, though Hitheryon Jem noted they had lost none of their ravenous appetites.
“Hmm, they ain’t jokin’ an’ singin’ much, but those buckoes can certainly tuck the rations away. Eh, Tam?”
The warrior chuckled. “Aye, I’m a wee bit peckish myself.”
Sister Armel passed him a hot leek and mushroom pastie. “No doubt you’ve been missing our cooking.”
Tam tackled the pastie appreciatively. “I wonder some of you Redwallers aren’t as fat as barrels, eating food as delicious as this. By the way, Armel, I don’t see our goshawk Tergen around. Is he still with you?”
Armel topped up a tankard with October Ale for Tam. “Don’t mention that bird to me. He’s become very sulky and bad-tempered because his wing hasn’t healed yet. I think he also misses the Brigadier a lot, they were such close friends. I worry about Tergen, he’s taken to living in the attics above the dormitories, and he won’t talk to anybeast. We never see him at meals—I think he eats very little. He never comes to the infirmary. I think Tergen is feeling forlorn.”
Wandering Walt dug his spoon into a crumble and served himself a hefty portion. “Hurr, that ain’t apprisin’, missy. Ee burd were used to flyen’ an’ huntin’ all ’is loife, b’aint gudd t’be ee hawk wi’ a broked wing—no, marm!”
Desultory talk went back and forth over the lunch. Outside the drizzling rain continued for longer than the Redwallers had predicted. After eating, some of the hares retired to the dormitories, while others went down to Cavern Hole to nap the dull noontide away.
Whilst Sister Armel tended to the Dibbuns, Tam went outside. He roamed the walltops, peering into the misty veils of drizzle in the hope that he would spy the short, sturdy figure of Doogy Plumm returning to Redwall Abbey. But there was no sign of his Highland friend.
35
Fortune, they say, favours the valiant—though not always, for Dame Fortune is a fickle lady. Sometimes she is quite impartial to the goings-on of those in her charge and gives her favours to evil creatures.
Gulo the Savage was alive!
When the huge fallen willow tree shot off wildly down the rapids with its cargo of vermin, it was spinning about from roots to foliage, whirling uncontrollably on the racing current. On and on it careered, revolving crazily. The vermin clung on with fang, tail and claw, their screeches and screams drowned out by the ever-increasing roar of the approaching waterfall. Gulo lodged himself between the roots, enveloped in boiling white spume as he grasped the limber taproots fiercely. Just ahead of them he spied the dead end of the rapids, where the maddened waters were transformed into a cataclysmic torrent. A fearful howl ripped from his mouth as the tree went round and round like a top, headed for destruction.
Whuuuump! Suddenly he was almost dislodged from his perch. The treetrunk had temporarily stuck lengthways across the towering rocks, right on the brink of the cascading deluge! Gulo swayed perilously but held on to the roots, whilst all along the length of the trunk vermin were knocked loose by the shock of the collision.
Yeeeeeaaaaaarrrgh! Ermine and white foxes hurtled off into midair. Down, down, down they plunged into the seething curtain of waterspray. Gulo gritted his fangs, seeking a firmer pawhold. The willow creaked and groaned as it moved, the crashing torrent slowly pushing it forward. An ermine close to the wolverine stretched out his paw for help. He vanished with a wail of despair as he grasped his leader’s footpaw, only to have Gulo kick him off angrily.
Self-preservation was uppermost in Gulo’s mind—he had to act swiftly or die. With a mighty bound he flung himself from the spreading roots, landing awkwardly on a crag that protruded from the left bank. Sliding over onto a slippery ledge, the beast watched the willow being swept further ahead.
Gulo bellowed at the small group of vermin closest to the roots, “Jump, fools! Jump or be killed, now!”
In a blind panic, the vermin released their holds on the log and came leaping and stumbling along it. Only eight made the rocks. The others, who had still been nerving themselves for the leap, met their demise when the furious current pushed the willow over the brink and off into the awful void. The survivors lay on the wet, moss-covered ledge, wide-eyed with shock and speechless with terror.
Gulo broke through their fear with a harsh command. “Follow me, or I’ll see ye follow them!”
Knowing that the wolverine never made empty threats, they scrabbled along the slippery ledge in his wake.
By early evening they made the top of the rocky canyon and tumbled exhausted onto firm ground. There Gulo the Savage, and what was left of his army, fell dripping to the woodland floor amid a welter of streamwater and slathering sweat. No fires were lighted, no food searched for. Sobbing with weariness, they collapsed into deep sleep, punctuated throughout the night by whimpers and wails as they dreamt of being hurled into endless depths and smashed to pieces on the rocks below. The thunderous boom of the mighty falls echoed up through the rocky canyon to reinforce the stark terror of their nightmares.
The morning was half gone when Gulo blinked his eyes and stirred. Rising, he kicked his small band into wakefulness, ordering two to kindle fire and four others to forage for food. The two remaining—a scrawny female ermine called Duge, and a male white fox named Herag—stood frozen, awaiting Gulo’s commands.
He nodded to the ermine. “Climb yon tall fir tree and tell me what ye can see.”
The wolverine stared at the fox, who shifted uncomfortably. “Thou art my Captain now. Have ye a name?”
The fox gulped out, “Herag, Mighty One.”
Gulo spoke almost to himself as Herag stood to stiff attention. “We will go to the Redwall place when we have eaten.”
Leaving the new captain staring after him, Gulo wandered off amid the trees, talking to himself aloud. “It does not finish here. Askor, my brother, I will find thee. Mayhap my captains already have. Doubtless they have conquered the Redwall place an’ have thee bound in some cellar, awaiting my arrival. Hahaha, ’twill be so, I know!”
A white fox came into the camp carrying firewood. He began stacking it and setting steel to tinder over some dry moss.
Herag crouched down beside him, whispering, “Listen, can ye hear Gulo? Methinks his brain has snapped! He talks with himself and laughs like a madbeast!”
The other fox, far older than Herag, murmured flatly, “Have ye only just realised that? I served under both brothers, aye, and the father. They were all three crazed, though m
ethinks Gulo is the maddest of the lot, an’ the most dangerous. Keep thy mouth shut and avoid his eyes, ye might live longer that way. Now leave me to my work.”
Herag stayed crouching beside the elder. “This is a fine warm land of plenty Gulo has brought us to, though we have had nought but strife an’ hardship whilst we’ve been here. Methinks the bodies of our comrades are scattered all across these fair lands.”
The old fox could sense which way Herag’s conversation was going. He watched the spiral of blue smoke transformed into a pale tongue of flame as he breathed on it gently. He looked around, checking that Gulo was not within earshot.
“Heed me now, young ’un. What I say may save thee from an awful death. We are bound to Gulo the Savage, for better or worse. We serve him, not through love or loyalty, but through fear. Put any thoughts from thy mind about deserting. Gulo would find ye, an’ ye would scream for death ere he was done with ye. Now begone, an’ speak no more to me of foolish ideas.”
The ermine Duge climbed down from her perch in the tall fir. She approached Gulo, who appeared to be in conversation with a bed of ferns. He was smiling slyly and nodding his head.
“Go tell thy master that I, too, am a son of Dramz. But ’tis I who rules the lands of ice and snow. I, Gulo the Savage, the one who slew the Great Dramz. Say to Askor my brother that I am coming, an’ I will devour his heart!”
He whirled suddenly, glaring at Duge. “Did Askor send ye to spy on me?”
The ermine backed off, avoiding her master’s insane glare. “Mighty One, ye told me to climb a tree an’ scout the land.”
Gulo looked at her as if suddenly seeing her anew. “I told ye to do that?”
Duge nodded. “Aye, sire, I have come to report what I saw.”
Gulo placed a claw to his lips, his mad eyes darting furtively to and fro. “Ssshhh! Not here, they will hear ye. Come.”
The fire was burning well. Beside it lay a woodcock, which the foragers had slain with stones as it sat on its nest. There was a clutch of eggs from the nest, plus some edible roots, a small heap of half-ripe pears and a few berries they had gathered. Everybeast stood back as Gulo led Duge to the fire. He crouched by the flames, pulling the ermine down close to him.
Seemingly oblivious of the others, the wolverine whispered to Duge, “Now speak softly. What did ye see?”
Absentmindedly, Gulo grabbed the dead bird and began eating it raw, spitting out feathers as he placed his ear close to the ermine’s mouth. Feathers landed on Duge’s nose as Gulo’s fearsome mouth, a hairsbreadth from her own, crunched through flesh and bone.
The terrified ermine tried to control her voice. “Mighty One, over to the north I saw a broadstream. It flowed down this way to the join the waters we travelled yesterday. It flows down from the northeast through the woodlands.”
She fell silent, watching Gulo apprehensively as he dug a feather from between his fangs before responding. “Is that all there was?”
Duge nodded, her head bobbing nervously. Gulo ripped another mouthful from the bird. Ignoring the ermine, he stood up, dropping the remnants of the woodcock carelessly into the fire as he strode off, his eyes darting hither and thither at the trees in front of him.
“Tell my Captain to bring the others. We go to the Redwall place.”
Herag watched as he walked off into the woodlands. Duge looked perplexed. “Does he mean we go now?”
Herag shook his head. “But we have not yet eaten.”
The older fox pulled the remnants of the bird from the fire and extinguished the burning feathers. He grabbed a pear and set off hastily after Gulo, cautioning the others, “If Gulo says go, then we go. I’ll do my eating on the march!”
The other vermin knew it was useless to protest. Shoving against one another, they seized the remaining food and hurried after the old fox.
Morning had ended when they reached the banks of the broadstream. The pace had been furious, and the vermin were panting for breath. Sometimes they had to run to keep up with Gulo; other times they went at a swift jog as he trotted in front of them, wagging his paw at rocky outcrops and speaking to them as though they were living creatures.
“Tell him he cannot hide from me, the Walking Stone is mine by right. Thy days are numbered, brother!”
Without warning, Gulo halted on the streambank and smiled. “ ’Tis pleasant here, do ye not think?”
The old fox nodded. “Aye, pleasant, Lord.”
The wolverine lay down amid the moss on the sunny bank where he curled up and promptly went to sleep.
The others watched him in puzzlement. The old fox shrugged, his face expressively silent as he beckoned them to follow their leader’s example. With a collective sigh of relief, the weary vermin settled down to sleep.
Serene summer afternoon pervaded the area—it was, as Gulo had remarked, pleasant. Over the smooth-running broadstream, dragonflies patrolled on iridescent wings. Mayflies basked on rush stalks, whilst yellow brimstone and swallowtail moths grazed among the late-flowering hawthorns. Osiers spread their variegated shade over the bankmoss, creating dappled patterns when stirred by the warm, gentle breeze. A kingfisher swooped over the water, glinting like a bejewelled brooch. The cooing of distant woodpigeons blended with small birdsong in the background. The old fox slept on, dismissing the thought of Gulo actually having described the scene as pleasant. The wolverine had never commented on nature’s beauties, but his mind was crazed, so the old fox absolved him from this temporary lapse.
Noon shadows were lengthening when the vermin arose. Gulo was already awake and seemed in good humour. He sat watching the head of Herag drifting away on the broadstream current.
Without turning, the wolverine spoke to his remaining followers, the usual shouting and snarling absent in his tone. “I knew that one was going to run, so I stayed awake and watched him until he made one foolish move.”
He turned to Duge, explaining almost apologetically, “Gulo has to make examples for his warriors to follow, do ye not think?”
Totally robbed of words, the ermine could only nod.
As Gulo surveyed his remaining seven followers, his eyes glittered evilly. He rose and continued the march, calling to them, “Now that we are rested, we will carry on through the night until dawn. Methinks we will soon sight the Redwall place.”
Behind them the broadstream placidly flowed on into evening, the bank where they had camped restored to its former serenity, as though murder had never occurred there. A pleasant place.
The old fox tramped on through the long night hours. Like the rest, he was afraid not to keep up or to fall behind through tiredness. Truly Gulo was mad! Who in his right mind would slay a warrior from a force so severely diminished? But now nobeast would even think of deserting. The old fox bit down hard on his lip to keep himself awake as he stumbled onward, reflecting. It was a salutary lesson, enforced by a beast made cunning by madness.
36
It was late afternoon on the day following the continuous drizzle. During the night, the rain had ceased altogether. Dawn rose brilliantly over a small camp in southeast Mossflower. Doogy Plumm, Yoofus Lightpaw and his wife Didjety, together with the little tortoise Rockbottom, had spent a passably comfortable night. In a worn old sandstone formation they had come across amidst the trees, they had made a small shelter by laying boughs and ferns over an undercut ledge. Bright sunlight reflected in each dewdrop hanging from bush and bough. Somewhere nearby, two finches were cheeping, and a mistle thrush warbling. Rising sunrays shafted through the foliage.
But it was not the plop of dewdrops or the charming birdsong which wakened the sturdy Highlander—it was Yoofus. Unable to sleep, and in an effort to stir his wife into providing breakfast from the sack which now served as her pillow, the water vole began singing and tapping a footpaw against the great drum. Boom baboom babumpitty bumpetty boom!
“Sure there was an ould vole called Dumplety Tim,
now wasn’t he just the grand feller.
He wore britch
es of scarlet, a scarf snowy white,
an’ a tailcoat with buttons of yeller.
He could dance a fine jig in his high-buckled boots,
he could quaff off a flagon of scrumpy,
he wore a great feather of green in his hat,
an’ his stummick was round, fat an’ lumpy.
Ah rumplety bumplety Dumplety Tim,
he could charm all the ladies around.
He was merry’n’cheery an’ never grew weary,
the smile on his face never frowned.
Such a nice darlin’ creature in every fine feature,
you’d hear any ould biddy remark,
‘He’s oh so polite an’ from mornin”til night,
he can sing like a silver-tongued lark.’
Ah rumplety bumplety dumplety . . . Yowwwccch!”
Yoofus was knocked sideways as the loaded foodsack clouted him over the head. Didjety, who had thrown it, stood over him, paws akimbo.
“Now will ye hush that rambunctious din! Yore frightenin’ all the frogs in the neighbourhood with that racket!”
Yoofus massaged his ear ruefully. “But I thought ye were fond of me singin’!”
Doogy unwrapped the cloak from around his head. “Singin’ ye call it? Och, ’tis more like somebeast killin’ a duck with a mallet! Thief is the right title for ye. Ah’ve been robbed o’ mah sleep with all that drumbangin’ an’ caterwaulin’!”
The incorrigible Yoofus gave him a wink and a grin. He began rummaging in the foodsack. “Ah, but Mister Plumm, me ould darlin’, ye wouldn’t want to be sleepin’ such a sunny mornin’ away now, would ye? Sure a day like this gives a beastie like meself a roarin’ appetite. Let’s see wot we’ve got fer brekkist.”