The Sable Quean (26 page)

Dropping the cane, Binta ran off into the night, wailing.

The din had wakened the two mole Dibbuns. Gurchen trundled across to Flib, exclaiming, “Boi ’okey, marm, ee surrpintly gived ee foxers ole billyoh! Yurr, bee’s you’m ’urted?”

Flib shook her head. “Not so much as ’urted—more ’urt ing than anythin’. I never used a blinkin’ whip afore. I hit meself a few times by mistake. It stings more’n that cane. No serious damage though, just welts an’ bruises.”

Guffy had found Thwip’s body. He tried unsuccessfully to pull the spear loose. The little mole shook his head admiringly. “Hurr, miz, you’m gurtly slayed this yurr vermint. Ee’m b’aint a-cummen back furr more!”

The pain from her beating, plus the realisation that she had killed another creature, sent Flib into shock. She sat down abruptly, her whole body shivering as she rocked back and forth, whimpering and moaning.

Guffy stared solemnly at her. “Burr, wot bee’s ailin’ ee, Miz F’ib?”

Gurchen went rummaging through Axtel’s pack. “Oi thinks she’m bee’d a-sickened with summat. Yurr!” Opening a small flask, the molemaid sniffed it. “Smells loike summ blacker-bee woine, gurtly strong!”

Wrapping Flib in the cloak they had used as a blanket, the sensible little molemaid forced the flask between her patient’s lips, administering the blackberry wine. “Yurr, Guff, see if’n ee can make sum foire t’keep this un warm.”

This was an absolute joy to Guffy, who as a Dibbun, had been prohibited by Redwall elders from ever playing with fire. He found flint and an old knifeblade in the pack. Chuckling to himself, he set about his task, piling up dried leaves and grass.

“Hurrhurr, oi’ll make Miz F’ib a gudd ole blaze!”

True to his word, Guffy soon had a big fire burning.

Gurchen stopped him from piling on more fuel. “Yurr, you’m rarscal. Oi never asked ee to set all ee wuddlands ablaze. Oi only wants a likkle foire, enuff to keep Flib warmed.”

When they had a respectably sized campfire, all three sat by it, the moles either side of Flib. The Guosim maid still seemed very distant, rocking slightly as she stared fixedly into the flames. Gurchen tried to elicit some response by chatting to her.

“You’m gudd’n warm noaw, marm. Hurr, oi ’spec ee gurt Wurrier mole bee’s a-comen back soonly.”

Guffy began thrusting a twig into the fire. He liked playing with the flames. Gurchen warned him, “Play with foire an’ ee’ll burn yoreself!”

Almost as she said it, the burning twig broke, dropping a glowing red fragment onto the little mole’s paw. He yelped, hopping about and beating at himself.

“Ah, sure, the young uns never listen, do they? I was the same at his age, thought I knew it all, so I did!”

None of the trio had noticed the water vole. She had appeared from nowhere and was seated by the fire, warming her paws. Grabbing Guffy, she dabbed his paw with some damp moss, nattering away conversationally. “There now, ye liddle scallywag. That’ll teach ye t’play with fire. Wot’s wrong wid yer friend the shrew, there? Is she in some kind of an ould trance?”

Gurchen answered the question by asking one of her own. “Burr, marm, who moight you’m be, an’ whurr did ee cummed frum?”

The water vole was an amiable-looking beast with thick, glossy fur, a chubby face and a blunt snout. She wore an old tattered shawl pulled about her ears like a hood. Leaning forward on a knobbly hawthorn stick, she introduced herself.

“Ah, sure, I’m nobeast of any importance at all, at all. Mumzillia O’Chubbacutch is me given title, though I wouldn’t consider meself offended if’n ye called me Mumzy. Now, me darlin’, wot do they call you?”

Gurchen rose, performing a small curtsy. “Oi bee’s Gurchen. Ee’m likkle rarscal bee’s Guffy, an’ hurr’s Flib. We’m waiten furr our gudd friend to cumm back yurr. He’m ee mole Wurrier, marm.”

Mumzy waved her stick at the carcass of Thwip. “An’ which one of you bold creatures slayed that un?”

Guffy pointed a grimy paw at Flib. “Et wurr Miz F’ib, marm. She’m vurry brave.”

Mumzy rose with a groan. “Sure, me ould back isn’t wot it used t’be. Gettin’ old is a tribulation, as me fat uncle Shaym used t’say.”

She began extinguishing the fire by kicking soil on it. “C’mon now, up off yore tails, me darlin’s—let’s go!”

Gurchen protested. “But us’ns must wait fur ee h’Axtel!”

Mumzy got Flib standing upright. The shrewmaid did not resist. The water vole beckoned Guffy. “Lend a paw here, me liddle sir. Ye can’t wait here, not with vermin roamin’ the woods. Ye’d end up as dead meat if’n they claps eyes on the likes of ye. I’d be correct in sayin’ that yore on the run from them?”

Gurchen just nodded, willing to fall in line with their new friend’s advice.

Mumzy prodded Axtel’s pack with her stick. “Right, then, bring that along with ye. Me’n’ the liddle feller’ll help Flib. ’Tis best ye stay out o’ sight at my place. ’Tisn’t far, only a hop’n’skip over yonder.”

They followed her on a zigzag route under bushes, through a fern bed and across some rocks to a streambank. There was a rocky outcrop with an entrance beneath it—this was hidden behind a curtain of knotweed, sundew and watercress. Pushing it to one side, the water vole led them in.

“This is Mumzy’s Mansions, such as it is. Nothin’ fancy, but ’tis good’n’safe, t’be sure. Sit ye down now, an’ take a beaker of me own special brew whilst I tell ye of wot I’ve seen.”

The brew was delicious, a hot cordial of coltsfoot, dandelion and pennycress. They sat in the little cave, which was lighted by a small fire. It was very cosy, with moss-and-dried-grass-padded ledges, which could serve as seats or beds.

Mumzy bustled about, tidying up as she informed them, “Those ravagin’ villains are about in Mossflower tonight. Earlier on, I spotted five o’ the dreadful scum, four weasels led by the big boyo, the one they calls Zwilt, tall sable beast, wears a long cloak and carries a big sword. As if that wasn’t enough, they’d no sooner got out o’ sight, when I see tracks, two rats an’ two foxes. The tracks split—rats went one way, foxes t’other. So I follows the foxes’ tracks. That’s when I found you three. There’s no sense in sittin’ on yore tails out in the woodlands with that lot roamin’ abroad. You bide ’ere with ould Mumzy ’til the coast clears, eh?”

Gurchen looked worried. “But wot abowt Axtel, marm?”

The water vole set about pulling hot food from a clay oven at the back of her fire. “If’n Axtel’s a warrior, as ye say he is, well, he should be well able o’ takin’ care of hisself. I’ll find him for ye when things quietens down out there. Here, now, have ye ever tasted whortleberry an’ chestnut flan? ’Tis a fine ould recipe I got from me good uncle Shaym, an’ he was after bein’ a top champeen cook, so he was!”

The flan was exceedingly tasty but rather hot.

Flib did not seem to want either food or drink.

Mumzy sat in front of her, staring into the shrewmaid’s blank gaze. “Hmm, an’ ye say she’s a shrew, one o’ those Guosim, I’ll wager. I spent a few o’ me salad seasons with ’em. Sure, they were a grand lot, those beasts. Maybe I can snap Flib out of her mood. Let’s try an ould Guosim lullaby. Reach me that there vole o’lin, young Guff.”

Guffy passed Mumzy the instrument. It was a tiny three-stringed fiddle, which she played by bowing it with a dried water-violet stalk. The water vole had such a pleasant, soothing voice that Guffy dropped off to sleep on a moss-covered ledge.

Gurchen politely stayed awake, though Flib’s eyelids began drooping as Mumzy sang the Guosim lullaby.

No sooner had the last strains of the quaint vole o’lin faded than Flib blinked, as though waking from a dream. “My ma used t’sing that un. I never bothered learnin’ it, but me sister Midda did. She sings it t’Borti—he’s our l iddle brother.”

Mumzy busied herself, chatting away to Flib with no mention of the shrewmaid’s former state. “Ah, ’tis a grand ould song, sure enough. C’mon now, darlin’. Try a drop o’ me hot cordial an’ a piece o’ me good flan.”

Flib sat up straight. “Thankee, marm, that’d be nice. By the way, my name’s Flib. Wot’s yores?”

The water vole served Flib. “Ah, sure, ye can just call me Mumzy. There now, Flib, ye’ll enjoy that!”

As Flib concentrated her attention on the food, Gurchen whispered to Mumzy, “Yurr, marm, she’m lukkin’ ee lot betterer.”

The water vole kept her voice low. “That’s ’cos she’s blanked out the slayin’ o’ that ould fox. I’ve seen such things happen afore. But ye must never mention that she killed the fox. Don’t want her t’go all funny agin, do we now?”

Mumzy paused a moment, then warned her guests, holding a paw to her mouth, “Husha now—somebeast’s outside!”

They sat with bated breath. The water vole murmured, “You stay here, now, I’ll go an’ take a peek.”

Flib was right at her side. “I’m comin’ with ye—don’t argue, it’ll do ye no good!”

 

Zwilt the Shade stood on top of the rocky streambank. He watched his four Ravager guards climb down to the water. They drank from the cold, clear-running stream, then, seeing the abundant watercress, began stuffing mouthfuls. The tall sable allowed them only a moment before he gave orders.

“Enough of that. Get back up here whilst the trail is still fresh. I intend to catch those runaway deserters today. Come on, move yourselves!” The vermin guards knew better than to disobey. They scrambled hastily up, trotting after their leader, who was already marching swiftly off into the woodlands.

Two heads popped over the banktop—Mumzy and Flib.

The water vole rubbed a paw on the grass. “Ah, sure, that was close. I don’t know fer the life o’ me how they managed not t’see us. That last eejit trod right on me paw. Are you alright, Flib darlin’?”

The shrewmaid smiled grimly. “Oh, I’m fine, but wait’ll ole Zwilt sees that fox. Hah, that’s one piece o’ scum won’t be goin’ back with him!”

Mumzy stared at her companion. “Ye remember wot happened to the fox, do ye?”

Flib narrowed her eyes fiercely. “Of course I do. It was him or us. That lousy vermin woulda murdered me an’ the two liddle moles without blinkin’ an’ eye. So I got in first an’ killed him. An’ I ain’t sorry I did, so there. I’d do it agin if’n I had to!”

Mumzy chuckled. “An’ here was meself, tryin’ to spare yore feelin’s. Sure, a real ould killer you’ve turned out t’be, Missy Flib!”

The shrewmaid stared after the retreating vermin. “That’s ’cos I’m from a line o’ Guosim warriors—nothin’ can change that!”

Dawn broke pale over the eastern treetops as Buckler and his friends made their way cautiously through the woodlands. They could not move at a fast pace, because of the Guosim Tracker, Sniffy, scouting the ground ahead of them. On fording a small streamlet, they saw him on the other side, seated on a fallen alder trunk, waiting for them.

They sat down with him—it had been a long trek through the Mossflower night, avoiding obstacles, skirting swampland and other such hazards. Sharing a flask of October Ale, they broke their fast with oat farls and cheese. As they ate, Sniffy made his report.

“I cut four sets o’ tracks up yonder—two vermin, a weasel an’ a stoat, runnin’ alongside two foxes, one of them a vixen. Then they split in different directions, vermin headin’ nor ’east, an’ the foxes travellin’ more southerly.”

Buckler questioned him further. “No sign o’ that tall sable, Zwilt?”

Sniffy took a pull from the flask. “None. Just the weasel, the stoat an’ the foxes.”

Skipper consulted the young hare. “Wot d’ye say, Buck? Shall we split up an’ follow ’em?”

Buckler took a flat piece of shale. Spitting on one side, he tossed it in the air. “Your call, Jango—wet or dry?”

The Guosim Log a Log called, “I say dry.”

Buckler looked at the fallen stone. “Dry it is, mate. What do ye want t’do?”

Jango looked at Sniffy. “Which of ’em’ll be the hardest to track?”

Sniffy replied after a moment’s hesitation. “Foxes I reckon, Chief. They seems t’know the ins an’ outs of most places—allus been slybeasts, those foxes.”

Skipper cut in. “Then me’n Buck’ll trail the foxes.”

Jango shrugged. “Suit yoreselves, but ye best take Sniffy. No fox could give him the slip. I’ll take Big Bartij. We’ll go after the other two, right?”