Brian Jacques - Redwall 10 - The Long Patrol

BOOK ONE

The Runaway Recruit

Melting snowdrifts with grassy knolls poking through made a patchwork of the

far east lands as winter surrendered its icy grip of the earth to oncoming

spring. Snowdrop, chickweed, and shepherd's purse nodded gratefully beneath a

bright mid-morning sun, which beamed through small islands of breeze-chased

clouds. Carrying half-melted icicles along, a tinkling, chuckling stream

bounded from rocky cliff ledges, meandering around fir and pine groves toward

broad open plains. Already a few hardy wood ants and honeybees were abroad in

the copse fringes. Clamoring and gaggling, a skein of barnacle geese in

wavering formation winged their way overhead toward the coastline. All around,

the land was wakening to springtime, and it promised to be a fair season.

It is often said that a madness takes possession of certain hares in spring,

and anybeast watching the performance of one such creature would have had his

worst fears confirmed. Ta-mello De Fformelo Tussock, to give this young hare

his full title, was doing battle with imaginary enemies. Armed with stick and

slingshot, he flung himself recklessly from a rock ledge, whirling the

stone-loaded sling and thwacking left and

4Brian Jacques

right with his stick, yelling, "Eulaliaaaa! Have at you, villainous vermin,

'tis m'self, Captain Tammo of the Long Patrol! Take that, y'wicked weasel!

Hah! Thought you'd sneak up behind a chap, eh? Well, have some o' this, you

ratten rot, beg pardon, rotten rat!"

Hurling himself down in the snow, he lashed out powerfully with his long back

legs. "What ho! That'll give you a bellyache to last out the season, m'laddo.

Want some more? Hahah! Thought y'didn't, go on, run f'your lives, you cowardly

crew! It'd take more'n five hundred of you t'bring down Cap'n Tammo, by the

left it would!"

Satisfied that he had given a justly deserved thrashing to half a thousand

fictitious foebeasts, Tammo sat up in the snow, eating a few pawfuls to cool

himself down.

"Just let 'em come back, I'll show the blighters, wot! There ain't a foebeast

in the blinkin' land can defeat me ... Yaaagh, gerroff!" He felt himself

hauled roughly upright by both ears. Lynum and Saithe, Tammo's elder brother

and sister, had sneaked up and grabbed him.

"Playing soldiers again?" Lynum's firm grip indicated that there would be no

chance of escape.

Tammo's embarrassment at being caught at his game made him even more

indignant. "Unhand me at once, m'laddo, if you know what's good for you," he

said, struggling. "I can walk by myself."

Saithe gave Tammo's ear an extra tweak as she admonished him: "Colonel wants a

word with you, wretch, about his battle-ax!"

Tammo finally struggled free and reluctantly marched off between the two

hulking hares, muttering rebelliously to himself, "Huh! I can tell you what

he's goin' t'say, same thing as usual."

The young hare imitated his father perfectly, bowing his legs, sticking out

his stomach, puffing both cheeks up, and pulling his lips down at the corners

as he spoke: "Wot wot, stap me whiskers, if it ain't the bold Tammo. Now then,

laddie buck, what've y'got to say for y'self, eh? Speak up, sah!"

Lynum cuffed Tammo lightly to silence him. "Enough of that. Colonel'd have

your tail if he saw you makin' mock of him. Step lively now!"

The Long Patrol 5

Entering the largest of the conifer groves, they headed for a telltale spiral

of smoke that denoted Camp Tussock. It was a rambling stockade, the outer

walls fashioned from tree trunks with a big dwelling house built of rock,

timber, moss, and mud chinking. This was known as the Barracks. Motes,

squirrels, hedgehogs, and a few wood mice wandered in and out of the homely

place, living there by kind permission of the Colonel and his wife, Mem

Divinia. Some of them shook their heads and tuttutted at the sight of Tammo

being led in to answer for his latest escapade.

Seated close to the fire in his armchair, Colonel Cornspurrey De Fformelo

Tussock was a formidable sight. He was immaculately attired in a buff-colored

campaign jacket covered with rows of jangling medals, his heavy-jowled face

shadowed by the peak of a brown-bark forage helmet. The Colonel had one eye

permanently closed, while the other glared through a monocle of polished

crystal with a silken cord dangling from it. His wattled throat wobbled

pendulously as he jabbed his pace stick pointedly at the miscreant standing

before him.

"Wot wot, stap me whiskers, if it ain't the bold Tammo. Now then, laddie buck,

what've y'got to say for y'self, eh? Speak up, sah!"

Tammo remained silent, staring at the floor as if to find inspiration there.

Grunting laboriously, the Colonel leaned forward, lifting Tammo's chin with

the pace stick until they were eye to eye.

*' 'S matter, sah, frogs got y'tongue? C'mon now, speak y'piece, somethin'

about me battle-ax, wot wot?"

Tammo did what was expected of him and came smartly to attention. Chin up,

chest out, he gazed fixedly at a point above his father's head and barked out

in true military fashion: "Colonel, sah! 'Pologies about y'baltle-ax, only

used it to play with. Promise upon me honor, won't do it again. Sah!"

The old hare's great head quivered with furious disbelief, and the monocle

fell from his eye to dangle upon its string. He lifted the pace stick, and for

a moment it looked as though he were about to strike his son. When the colonel

could find it, his voice rose several octaves to shrill indignation.

"Playin1? You've got the brass nerve t'stand there an' tell me you've been

usin' my battle-ax as a toy\ Outrage, sir,

6Brian Jacques

outrage! Y're a pollywoggle and a ripscutt! Hah, that's it, a scruff-furred,

lollop-eared, blather-pawed, doodle-tailed, jumped-up-never-t'come-down

bogwhumper! What are yen?"

Tammo's mother, Mem Divinia, had been hovering in the background, tending a

batch of barleyscones on the griddle. Wiping floury paws upon an apron corner,

she bustled forward, placing herself firmly between husband and son.

"That's quite enough o' that, Corney Fformelo, I'll not have language like

that under my roof. Where d'you think y'are, in the middle of a battlefield? I

won't have you roaring at my Tammo in such a manner."

Instead of calming the Colonel's wrath, his wife's remarks had the opposite

effect. Suffused with blood, his ears went bright pink and stood up like

spearpoints. He flung down the pace stick and stamped so hard upon it that he

hurt his foot-paw.

"Eulalia'n'blood'n'fur'n'vinegar, marm!"

Mem countered by drawing herself up regally as she grabbed Tammo's head and

buried it in the floury folds of her apron. "Keep y'voice down, sir, no sense

in settin' a bad example to your son an' makin' yourself ill over some

battle-ax!"

The Colonel knew better than to ignore his wife. Rubbing ruefully at his

footpaw, he retrieved the pace stick. Then, fixing his monocle straight, he

sat upright, struggling to moderate his tone.

"Some battle-ax indeed, m'dear! I'm discussin' one particular weapon. My

battle-ax! This battle-ax! D'y'know, that young rip took a chip out o' the

blade, prob'ly hackin' away at some boulder. A chip off my blade, marm! The

same battle-ax that was the pride of the old Fifty-first Paw'n'fur Platoon of

the Long Patrol. 'Twas a blade that separated Searats from their gizzards'n'

garters, flayed ferrets out o' their fur, whacked weasels, an' shortened

stoats into stumps! An' who was it chipped the blade? That layabout of a

leveret, that's who. Hmph!"

Tammo struggled free of Mem's apron, his face thickened with white flour dust.

He sneezed twice before speaking. "I ain't a leveret any longer, sir. If y'let

me join the jolly oF

The Long Patrol 7

Long Patrol, then I wouldn't have t'get up to all sorts o' mischief,

'specially with your ax, sah."

The Colonel sighed and shook his head, the monocle falling to one side as he

settled back wearily into his armchair. "I've told you a hundred times,

m'laddo, you're far too young, too wild'n'wayward, not got the seasons under

y'belt yet. You speak to him, Mem, m'dear, the rogue's got me worn out. Join

the Long Patrol indeed. Hmph! No self-respectin' Badger Lord would tolerate a

green b'hind the ears little pestilence like you, laddie buck. Run along an'

play now, you've given me enough gray fur, go an' bother some otherbeast. Be

off, you're dismissed, sah. Matter closed!"

Tammo saluted smartly and hurried off, blinking back unshed tears at his

father's brusque command. Mem took the pace stick from her husband's lap and

slapped it down hard into his paw.

"Shame on you, Comspurrey," she cried, "you're nought but a heartless old

bodger. How could y'talk to your own son like that?"

The Colonel replaced his monocle and squinted challeng-ingly. "Bodger y'self,

marm! I'd give me permission for Lynum or Saithe t'join up with the Long

Patrol, they're both of a right age. Stap me, though, neither of 'em's

interested, both want t'be bally soil-pawed farmbeasts, I think." He smiled

slightly and stroked his curled mustache. "Young Tammo, now, there's a wild

'un, full of fire'n'vinegar like I was in me green seasons. Hah! He'll grow

t'be a dangerous an' perilous beast one day, mark m'words, Mem!"

Mem Divinia spoke up on Tammo's behalf: "Then why not let him join up? You

know 'tis all he's wanted since he was a babe listenin' to your tales around

the fire. Poor Tammo, he lives, eats, an' breathes Long Patrol. Let him go,

Corney, give him his chance."

But the Colonel was resolute; he never went back on a decision. "Tammo's far

too young by half. Said all I'm goin' t'say, m'dear. Matter closed!"

; Popping out his monocle with a wink, Comspurrey De Fformelo Tussock

settled back into the armchair and closed his good eye, indicating that this

was his prelunch naptime. Mem Divinia knew further talk was pointless. She

sighed wearily

8Brian Jacques

and went back to her friend Osmunda the molewife, who was assisting with the

cooking.

Osmunda shook her head knowingly, muttering away in the curious molespeech,

"Burr aye, you'm roight, Mem, ee be nought but an ole bodger. Oi wuddent be

surproised if* n mais-ter Tamm up'n runned a ways one mom. Hurr hurt, ee

faither can't stop Tamm furrever."

Mem added sprigs of young mint to the golden crust of a carrot, mushroom, and

onion hotpot she had taken from the oven. "That's true, Osmunda, Tammo will

run away, same as his father did at his age. He was a wayward one too, y'know.

His father never forgave him for running away, called him a deserter and never

spoke his name again—but I think he was secretly very proud of Comspurrey and

the reputation he gained as a fighting hare with the Long Patrol. He died long

before his son retired from service and brought me back here to Camp Tussock.

I was always very sorry that they were never reconciled. I hope the Colonel

isn't as stubborn as his father, for Tammo's sake."

Osmunda was spooning honey into the scooped-out tops of the hot barley scones.

She blinked curiously at Mem. "Whoi do ee say that?''

Mem Divinia began mixing a batter of greensap milk, ha-zelnut, and almond

flour to make pancakes. She kept her eyes on the mix as she explained:

"Because I'm going to help Tammo to run away and join the Long Patrol. If I

don't he'll only hang around here gettin' into trouble an' arguin' with his

father until they become enemies. Now don't mention what I've just said to

anybeast, Osmunda."

The faithful mole wife's friendly face crinkled into a deep grin. "Moi snout

be sealed, Mem! Ee be a doin' the roight thing, oi knows et, even tho* ee

Colonel won't 'ave 'is temper improved boi et an' you'll miss maister Tamm

gurtly."

A tear fell into the pancake mix. Tammo's mother wiped her eyes hastily on her

apron hem. "Oh, I'll miss the rascal, all right, never you fear, Osmunda. But

Tammo will do well away from here. He's got a good heart, he's not short of

courage, and, like the Colonel said, he'll grow to be a wild an' perilous

beast. What more could any creature say of a hare? One day my son will make us

proud of him!"

Several leagues away from Camp Tussock, down the far southeast coast, Damug

Warfang turned his face to the wind. Before him on the tide line of a shingled

beach lay the wave-washed and tattered remnants of a battered ship fleet.

Behind him sprawled myriad crazy hovels, built from dunnage and flotsam. Black

and gray smoke wisped off the cooking fires among them.

The drums began to beat. Gormad Tunn, Firstblade of all Rapscallions, was

dying.

The drums beat louder, making the very air thrum to their deep insistent

throbbing. Damug Warfang watched the sea, pounding, hissing among the pebbles

as it clawed its way up the shore. Soon Gormad Tunn's spirit would be at the

gates of Dark Forest.

Only a Greatrat could become Firstblade of all Rapscallions. Damug cast a

sideways glance at Byral standing farther along the beach, and smiled thinly.

Gormad would have company at Dark Forest gates before the sun set.

Gormad Tunn, Firstblade of all Rapscallions, was close to death.

IO

Brian Jacques

The Long Patrol

ii

Greatrats were a strange breed, twice the size of any normal rat. Gormad had

been the greatest. Now his sun was setting, and one of his two sons would rule

as Firstblade when he was gone. The two sons, Damug Warfang and Byral

Fleetclaw, stood with their backs to the death tent where their father lay, in

accordance with the Law of the Rapscallion vermin. Neither would rest, eat, or

drink until the great Firstblade breathed his last. Then would come the combat

between them. Only one would remain alive as Firstblade of the mighty army.

The day wore on; Gormad Tunn's flame burned lower.

A small pebble struck Damug lightly on his back. "Lug-worm, is everything

ready?' * he whispered, lips scarcely moving.

The stoat murmured low from his hiding place behind a rock, "Never readier...

O Firstblade."

Damug kept his eyes riveted on the sea as he replied, "Don't call me

Firstblade yet, 'tis bad luck!"

A confident chuckle came from the stoat. * 'Luck has nothin' to do with it.

Everythin' has been taken care of."

The drums began to pound louder, booming and banging, small drums competing

with larger ones until the entire shoreline reverberated to their beat.

Gormad Tunn's eyelids flickered once, and a harsh rattle of breath escaped

from his dry lips. The Firstblade was dead!

An old ferret who had been attending Gormad left the death tent. He threw up

his paws and howled in a high keening tone:

"Gormad has left us for Dark Forest's shade, And the wind cannot lead

Rapscallions. Let the beast stand forth who would be Firstblade, To rule alt

these wild battalions!"

The drums stopped. Silence flooded the coast like a sudden tide. Both brothers

turned to face the speaker, answering the challenge.

"I, Byral Fleetclaw, claim the right. The blood of Greatrats runs in my veins,

and I would fight to the death him who opposes me!"

"I, Damug Warfang, challenge that right. My blood is pure Greatrat, and I will

prove it over your dead carcass!"

A mighty roar arose from the Rapscallion army, then the hordes rushed forward

like autumn leaves upon the gale, surrounding the two brothers as they strode

to the place of combat.

A ring had been marked out higher up on the shore. There the contestants

stood, facing each other. Damug smiled wolf-ishly at his brother, Byral, who

smirked and spat upon the ground between them. Wagers of food and weapons,

plunder and strong drink were being yelled out between supporters of one or

the other.

Two seconds entered the circle and prepared both brothers for the strange

combat that would settle the leadership of the Rapscallion hordes. A short

length of tough vinerope was tied around both rats' left footpaws, attaching

them one to the other, so they could not run away. They were issued their

weapons: a short, stout hardwood club and a cord apiece. The cords were about

two swordblades' length, each with a boulder twice the size of a good apple

attached to its end.

Damug and Byral drew back from each other, stretching the footpaw rope tight.

Gripping their clubs firmly, they glared fiercely at each other, winding the

cords around their paws a few turns so they would not lose them.

Now all eyes were on the old ferret who had announced Gormad Tunn's death, as

he drew forth a scrap of red silk and threw it upward. Caught on the breeze

for a moment, it seemed to float in midair, then it dropped to the floor of

the ring. A wild cheer arose from a thousand throats as the fight started.

Brandishing their clubs and whirling the boulder-laden cords, the two

Greatrats circled, each seeking an opening, while the bloodthirsty onlookers

roared encouragement.

"Crack 'is skull, Byral—go on, you kin do it!"

"Go fer 'is ribs wid yer club, Damug! Belt 'im a good 'un!"

"Swing up wid yer stone, smash 'is jaw!"

"Fling the club straight betwixt 'is eyes!"

Being fairly equally matched, each gave as good as he got. Soon Byral and

Damug were both aching from hefty blows dealt by their clubs, but as yet

neither had room to bring cord

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Brian Jacques

and boulder into play. Circling, tugging, tripping, and stumbling, they

scattered sand and pebbles widespread, biting and kicking when they got the

opportunity, each knowing that only one would walk away alive from the

encounter. Then Byral saw his chance. Hopping nimbly back, he stretched the

foot-paw rope to its limits and swung at Damug's head with the boulder-loaded

cord. It was just what Damug was waiting for. Grabbing his club in both paws,

he ducked, allowing the cord to twirl itself around his club until the rock

clacked against it. Then Damug gave a sharp tug and the cord snapped off short

close to Byral's paw.

A gasp went up from the spectators. Nobeast had expected the cord to

snap—except Lugworm. Byral hesitated a fatal second, gaping at the broken

cord—and that was all Damug needed. He let go of his club, tossed a swift

pawful of sand into his opponent's face, and swung hard with his cord and

boulder. The noise was like a bar of iron smacking into a wet side of meat.

Byral looked surprised before his eyes rolled backward and he sank slowly onto

all fours. Damug swung twice more, though there was little need to; he had

slain his brother with the first blow.

A silence descended on the watchers. Damug held out his paw, and Lugworm

passed him a knife. With one quick slash he severed the rope holding his

footpaw to Byral's. Without a word he strode through the crowd, and the massed

ranks fell apart before him. Straight into his father's death tent he went,

emerging a moment later holding aloft a sword. It had a curious blade: one

edge was wavy, the other straight, representing land and sea.

The drums beat out loud and frenzied as the vast Rapscallion army roared their

tribute to a new Leader: "Damug War-fang! Firstblade! Firstblade! Firstblade!"

Some creatures said that Russa came from the deep south, others thought she

was from the west coast, but even Russa could not say with any degree of

certainty where she had come from. The red female squirrel had neither family

nor tribe, nor any place to call home: she was a wanderer who just loved to

travel. Russa Nodrey, she was often called, owing to the fact that squirrels'

homes were called dreys and she did not have one, hence, no drey.

Nobeast knew more about country ways than Russa. She could live where others

would starve, she knew the way in woods and field when many would be

hopelessly lost. Neither old- nor young-looking, quite small and lean, Russa

carried no great traveler's haversack or intricate equipment. A small pouch at

the back of the rough green tunic she always wore was sufficient for her

needs. The only other thing she possessed was a stick, which she had picked up

from the flotsam of a tide line. It was about walking-stick size and must have

come from far away, because it was hard and dark and had a luster of its

own—even seawater could not rot or warp it.

Russa liked her stick. There was no piece of wood like it

13

14 Brian Jacques

in all the land, nor any tree that produced such wood. It was also a good

weapon, because besides being a lone wanderer, Russa Nodrey was also an expert

fighter and a very dangerous warrior, in her own quiet way.

Off again on her latest odyssey, Russa stopped to rest among the cliff ledges

not far from Camp Tussock. Happy with her own company, she sat by the stream's

edge, drank her fill of the sweet cold water, and settled down to enjoy the

late-afternoon sun in a nook protected from the wind. The sound of another

creature nearby did not bother Russa unduly; she knew it was a mole and

therefore friendly. With both eyes closed, as if napping, Russa waited until

the creature was right up close, then she spoke in perfect molespeech to it.

"Hurr, gudd day to ee, zurr, wot you'm be a doin' yurra-bouts?"

Roolee, the husband of Osmunda, was taken aback, though he did not show it. He

sat down next to Russa and raised a hefty digging claw in greeting. "Gudd day

to ee, marm, noice weather us'n's be 'avin', burr aye!"

Russa answered in normal speech, "Aye, a pity that some-beasts blunder along

to disturb a body's rest when all she craves is peace an' quiet."

"Yurr, so 'tis, marm, so 'tis." Roolee nodded agreement. * 'Tho' if ee be who

oi think ee be, marm Mem at Camp Tussock will be pleased to see ee. May'ap

you'm koindly drop boi furr vittles?''

Russa was up on her paws immediately. "Why didn't you just say that instead of

yappin' about the weather? I'd travel three rough leagues 'fore breakfast if I

knew me old friend Mem Divinia was still cookin' those pancakes an' hotpots of

hers!"

Roolee led the way, his velvety head nodding. "Burr aye, marm, ee Mem still be

ee gurtest cook yurrabouts, she'm doin' pannycakes, ottenpots, an' all manner

o' gudd vittles!"

Russa ran several steps ahead of Roolee coming into Camp Tussock. Lynum was

doing sentry duty at the stockade entrance. In the fading twilight he saw the

strange squirrel approaching and decided to exercise his authority.

Barring the way with a long oak quarterstaff, he called of-

The Long Patrol 15

ficiously, "Halt an' be recognized, who goes there, stranger at the gate!"

Russa was hungry, and she had little time for such foolishness. She gave the

husky hare a smart rap across his footpaw with her stick. "Hmm, you've grown

since I last saw ye," she commented as she stepped over him. "Y'were only a

fuzzy babe then—fine big hare now though, eh? Pity your wits never grew up

like your limbs, y'were far nicer as a little 'un."

Mem Divinia wiped floury paws on her apron hem and rushed to meet the visitor,

her face alight with joy. "Well, fortunes smile on us! Russa Nodrey, you

roamin' rascal, how are you?"

. Russa avoided Mem's flour-dusted hug and made for the comer seat at the

table, as she remembered it was the most comfortable and best for access to

the food. She winked at Mem.

"Oh, I'm same as I always was, Mem. When I'm not trav-elin' up an' down the

country, I'm roamin' sideways across the land."

Mem winked back at Russa and whispered, ' 'Your visit is very timely, friend.

I have something to ask of you." Then, on seeing the Colonel approaching the

table, she quickly mouthed the word "later." Russa understood.

Colonel Cornspurrey De Fformelo Tussock viewed the guest with a jaundiced eye

and a snort. "Hmph! Respects to ye, marm, I see you've installed y'self in my

flippin' seat! Comfortable are ye, wot?"

Russa managed a rare smile. "Aye, one seat's as good as another. How are ye,

y'old fogey, still grouchin' an' throwin' orders around like they're goin' out

of style? I've seen boulders that've changed faster than you!"

The conversation was cut short by Osmunda thwacking a hollow gourd with a

ladle, summoning the inhabitants of Camp Tussock to their evening meal.

Mem Divinia and her helpers always provided the best of victuals. There was

steaming hot, early-spring vegetable soup with flat, crisp oatmeal bannocks,

followed by the famous Tussock hotpot. In a huge earthenware basin coated with

a golden piecrust was a delicious medley of corn, carrots, mushrooms, turnips,

winter cabbage, and onions, in a thick, rich gravy full

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Brian Jacques

of Mem's secret herbs. This was followed by a hefty apple, blackberry, and

plum crumble topped with Osmunda's green-sap and maple sauce. Hot mint and

comfrey tea was served, along with horse-chestnut beer and red-currant

cordial. Afterward there were honeyed barleyscones, white hazelnut cheese, and

elderflower bread, for those still wanting to nibble.

Tammo sat quietly, still out of favor with his father, the Colonel, since the

battle-ax incident. He listened as Russa related the latest news she had

gathered in her wandering.

"Last autumn a great storm in the west country sent the waves tearing up the

cliffs, and a good part of 'em collapsed into the sea."

The Colonel reached for cheese and bread with a grunt. "Hmph! Used to patrol

down that way, y'know, lots of toads, nasty slimy types, murderous blighters,

hope the cliffs fell on them, wot! Anythin' happenin' at Salamandastron of

late?"

Tammo leaned forward eagerly at the name: Salamandastron, mountain of the

Badger Lords, the mysterious place that was the headquarters of the Long

Patrol.

Unfortunately Russa dismissed the subject. "Hah, the badger mountain, haven't

been there in many a long season. Place is still standin', I suppose ..."

The Colonel's monocle dropped from his eye in righteous indignation. "You

suppose, marm? Tchah! I should jolly well hope so! Why, if Salamandastron

weren't there, the entire land would be overrun with Searats, Corsairs,

vermin, Rapscallions, an' ... an' ... whatever!"

Russa leaned forward as if remembering something. "Spoke to an owl last

winter. He said a whole fleet of Rapscallions had taken a right good thrashin'

on the shores near Salamandastron. Wotsisname, the old Warlord or Firstblade

or whatever they call him? Tunn! Gormad Tunn! He was wounded near to death.

Anyhow, seems they've vanished into thin air to lick their wounds since then.

I've seen no signs of Rapscallions, but if I were you I'd sleep with one eye

open, y'can never tell where they'll turn up next. Crudest pack o' slayers

ever to draw breath, that lot!"

"I don't think we need worry too much about Rapscallions," Mem interrupted her

friend. "They only plunder the coasts in their ships. Strange how they never

sail the open seas

The Long Patrol 17

like Searats an' Corsairs. Who's the Badger Lord at Salamandastron now, have

y'heard?"

Russa poured herself a beaker of tea. ' 'Big female, they say, madder than

midwinter, stronger than a four-topped oak, temper like lightnin', full o' the

Bloodwrath. She's called Cregga Rose Eyes, wields a pike that four otters

couldn't lift!"

Osmunda nodded in admiration. "Hurr, she'm got'n a purty name, awright."

Russa laughed mirthlessly. "There's nought pretty about it! That one's called

Rose Eyes because her eyes are blood red with battle light. I'd hate to be the

vermin that tried standin' in her path."

All eyes turned on Tammo as the question slipped from his mouth: "What's a

Rapscallion?"

The Colonel glared at his son. "Barbarian-type vermin, too idle t'work, too

stupid t'build a decent home. Like y'mother says, they only raid the

coastlines, nothin' for you t'worry your head over. Mind y'manners at table,

young 'un, speak when y'spoken to an' not before, sah!"

Russa shook her head at the Colonel's statement. "You an' Mem are both wrong.

Rapscallions are unpredictable, they can raid inland as easily as on the

coast. I saw their Chief's sword once when I was young. It's got two edges,

one all wavy for the sea, an' the other straight for the land. There's an old

Rapscallion sayin': 'Travel whither blade goes, anyside the sword shows.' "

The Colonel cut himself a wedge of cheese. "Huh! What's all that fol-de-rol

s'posed t'mean, wot?"

"Have we not had enough of this kind of talk, swords'n'vermin an' war?" cried

Mem Divinia, banging her beaker down on the table. ' 'Change the subject,

please. Roo-lee, what d'you make of this weather?"

The mole changed the conversation to suit Mem, who could see by the light in

her husband's eye that he was spoiling for an argument with Russa.

"Ho urr, ee weather, marm .. . Hurr... umm ... Well, ee burds be a tellin'

us'n's 'twill be a foine springtoid, aye. May'ap missie Whinn'll sing ee song

abowt et."

Mem coaxed a young hedgehog called Whinn to get on her

18 Brian Jacques

paws and sing. Whinn had a good voice, clear and pretty; she liked to sing and

did not need much urging.

' 'Blow cobwebs out of corners, the corners, the corners,

Throw open all your windows

To welcome in the spring.

Now icicles are shorter,

And turning fast to water,

Out yonder o'er the meadow,

I hear a skylark sing.

Brian Jacques - Redwall 10 - The Long Patrol

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