THE CRIMSON BADGER - Chapter Thirty-Seven

"If you're not gonna finish that, chap, I'll relieve you of it."

Smallert gazed forlornly down at his mostly-full plate, then slid it over in front of Hanchett. "Help yerself. I ain't got much of an appetite these days."

"So I noticed."

It was lunchtime at Redwall. The early promise of the morning's glory had been fulfilled, giving the Abbey folk a summer's day as beautiful as any they could have wished for. The midday meal, served out on the lawns under a sky so blue that it could make the heart ache with joy to behold it, was the first generous quantity of food most of the Redwallers had enjoyed since Cyrus had been wounded. The two days of anxious waiting were forgotten, and now everybeast gave into its appetite with complete abandon. It wasn't exactly a feast that Friar Hugh prepared in celebration - that would be when Cyrus himself was recovered enough to partake of the festivities - but it came awfully close. Now that the Friar once more had the heart to put into his cooking and baking, and knew his fellow woodlanders would have an equal enthusiasm to fully enjoy his creations, he ended up preparing the biggest meal seen at Redwall since the last Nameday.

Only one beast at the Abbey was incapable of savoring the tastes of the day. The two bound prisoners, hare and weasel, sat at a small table set apart from the rest. Two foxes, caught up on their sleep, sat with them, part of the constant guard Machus had assigned. Hanchett had been granted the freedom of the Abbey, once it became obvious that even his escape skills were no match for his double-chaining to Smallert and the ever-present escort that shadowed him and Smallert everywhere they went. The Long Patrol hare's spirits had risen considerably since being allowed out of his dank cellar room. The same could not be said for his companion, however.

"Mmm, this's mighty tasty scoff, gents," Hanchett declared to his taciturn dining partners. "If they had fare like this at Salamandastron, I never woulda left."

The two guard foxes remained silent and stone-faced, scarcely acknowledging Hanchett's existence. The hare had come to expect such from them; his attempts over the past day to draw any of the swordfoxes into conversation had met with total failure.

"Bah! You're a right buncha dour ol' sticks-in-the-mud, sure 'nuff," he said lightheartedly, turning to Smallert. "Liked it better when we had shrews guardin' us. I'll take their bally fussin' an' squabblin' over this silent treatment any day, eh, weaselbottom?"

Smallert morosely twiddled his paws on the tabletop. "Don't reckon it makes no never mind t' me, Mr. Hare, sir. I just do what they tells me."

"Well, they haven't told you to jolly well starve yourself," Hanchett told him. "You've got to eat something, chap. Otherwise, you'll waste away t' nothing."

"Wot would it matter? Only reason I'm still alive is to weigh you down. Once ye're freed, I'm a deadbeast. Any o' this fare that goes inside me now's just a waste of good food."

"Well, that's a right poor attitude! Listen, I'm a soldier, an' any day could be my last. But I won't let the idea that I might be dead tomorrow keep me from enjoyin' wot I got today. An' neither should you. So buck up, Smalley, an' taste this scoff the way it's meant to be tasted! Nothin' to do 'bout tomorrow, 'cept let it take care of itself."

Smallert made no move to follow the hare's friendly advice.

Hanchett started to grow exasperated in spite of himself. "I just don't get it. That mouse lad's awake an' gettin' better, the whole Abbey's in a state of celebration, an' their Friar's uncorked a top hole meal worthy of ten battle victories. And you just sit there feelin' sorry for yourself. Ever occur to you that maybe these folk don't like lookin' at your sour puss any more'n I do? So give a smile an' join the feast. You of all beasts should be happy that mousechild's gonna be okay."

"Oh, I am, I am," Smallert said without the trace of a smile. "But seein' as how I'm the one who caused him that hurt in th' first place, I'd say I don't deserve to be sharin' in their joy. I'm not sayin' that 'cos of wot's gonna happen to me, that's the punishment I got comin' to me fair 'n' square, fer hurtin' that lad an' slayin' one o' me own mates. But bein' happy ... after wot I done, I got no right bein' happy. That's fer good an' decent folk like these, an' I ain't neither good nor decent."

"Oh, come, come!" Hanchett protested. He'd spent enough time with the weasel during the past two days to assess the creature for himself, with the superb character judgement of a Long Patrol hare, and he'd come to the reluctant conclusion that Smallert really wasn't all that bad, at least not for a vermin. Smallert seemed genuinely remorseful over his actions, unafraid of the death that was almost surely coming to him, and not at all like the cowardly evil beasts Hanchett had expected to find in Urthblood's service. Under different circumstances, the two of them might almost have become friends, were their species not sworn enemies of one another.

"Way I heard it," Hanchett went on, "t'was a blackhearted rat who's mostly to blame for wot happened. You, you've got more bally decency in your scraggly tail than he prob'ly had in his whole mangy body. These folk can tell when a beast's got goodness in it, an so can I. And you, my weaselly ball 'n' chain, have most definitely got a good heart, much as it pains me t' say such a thing 'bout any vermin."

"Even if ye're right," Smallert said, "it don't do me much good."

"Aw, now you're just wallowin' in blinkin' self-pity!"

"Uh, well ... yeah, I guess I am. But at least that's sumpthin." A trace of a smile began to lift the corners of Smallert's mouth.

"Well, here's something else." Hanchett chose the fox guard whose plate was fuller, snatched it away and placed it before Smallert. "If you can crack a joke at yerself, then you can jolly well enjoy some scoff. So dive in, chappie, an' let that brushtail go get another plate for himself."

The fox who'd been relieved of his lunch sat impassive as Hanchett and Smallert tucked into the fine Redwall food. Casually pawing the hilt of his sword, he intoned, "There are quick deaths, and then there are slow ones. And we're the ones who'll decide which you'll get when your time comes."

Smallert paused in mid-chew, a stricken look on his face. It quickly vanished at a flop-eared nod from his hare companion.

"Yeah, well, that day's not today, mate. So stop tryin' t' spoil my meal!"

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Away on another part of the Abbey grounds, Brother Geoff sat with Aryln on some old red sandstone blocks, the discards from some Abbey project of an earlier generation. Now smoothed by seasons of wind and rain, they made perfect little benches near the east wall.

Geoff brushed his whiskers free of crumbs from the blueberry tart he was enjoying. Looking up at the sky, he sighed. "Ahh, just knowing that Cyrus is going to be fine makes the whole world seem brighter somehow. The blue sky, the green grass, the golden sunshine, the cozy red glow of our beloved Abbey ... not to mention the cool shimmer of the pond, the inviting shade of the orchard, or the delicious taste of Friar Hugh's blueberry treats." He pasued to take another bite of his pastry. "Why, I could write a poem about this day!"

Old Arlyn chuckled. "I think you just did."

"What? Oh, that?" Geoff smiled and shook his head. "That wasn't poetry. That was just me rambling on, as I tend to do sometimes."

"Don't sell yourself short, Geoffrey. Some of the best poetry comes from souls who are 'just rambling on,' speaking plainly what's in their hearts."

"Well, I'll leave it to them, then. I was never all that clever with verse or rhyme, as Brother Trevor could have told you from my school days. I just wasn't cut out to be a poet, as much as I wish I were, sometimes."

A youthful singsong chanting reached their ears. Young Droge went skipping by, ignoring the two mice as his mind was intent on play. He was singing an old bit of Redwall nonsense, a children's verse known as the Sea Song. The words drifted over to Geoff and Arlyn as Droge passed near them:

"The sea, o hi! The sea

The sea along the shore

Brother Sea, fine Brother Sea

Sail creatures from your door ... "

The hogchild started the simple verse anew as he bounded away to join some of his playmates in a merry game of tag on the now vermin-free lawns.

Arlyn laughed. "Well, there's poetry and there's poetry! I suspect even you could compose a snatch of buffoonery like that."

But Geoff had gone slack-jawed at the sound of those words, and sat staring after Droge as if in a daze. "I know that poem ... "

"As well you should," Arlyn said. "You sang it quite a lot when you were a young one. So did I, come to think of it. That silly little ditty's been around a lot longer than even I have."

"No ... no, that's not it," Geoff murmured. "It's not a song I'm thinking of, but a poem. Something I read recently, I think ... but the words were wrong."

"Well, there are several different versions," Arlyn offered helpfully. "Some of them are even sillier and more nonsensical than the one Droge was just singing."

"No, no, I'm talking about something completely different. The words sound the same, but they're ... different. Do you know what I'm trying to say?"

The old Abbot looked at the recorder mouse, at a loss. "No, I'm quite afraid I don't."

Abruptly, Geoff stood and headed for the Abbey. "It was something in the archives. I'm sure of it. And I think it may be the answer to the puzzle we've been trying to solve."

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That evening, Urthblood halted his marchers for the night at the second clearing. Halpryn the kite captain was waiting there for them, and once more she reported directly to the Badger Lord alone before flying off into the setting sun.

"Still no sign of my brother, or any other enemy," Urthblood announced to his ground captains. "The forest thins out a half-day's march ahead, and after that the going should become much easier. We will resume normal marching formation as soon as the terrain permits. As the woodlands yield to the open Plains, our path will converge with the river we crossed at Lorr's Bridge, which meanders south at that point. We can follow the stream's course to the foothills, then swing below the southern end of the range and thence on to the coastlands."

"But, won't we hafta cross that broadstream again to get to Salamandastron?" Saybrook asked. "That might be some trick, unless that Lorr beastie was nice enuff t' build another bridge fer us right where we need it, just like th' last one."

Urthblood shook his head. "That won't be necessary. The river disappears under the mountains. We will be heading south by then, to skirt the range. Where the stream emerges from its underground course by the coast, it is wide and shallow. Our shrews and moles might have to cross on the shoulders of some of the taller beasts, but the rest of us should be able to ford it without need of any boat or bridge."

"If'n that's th' case," said Bremo, captain of the shrews, "me 'n' my boys'll buddy up with Saybrook's otters. They've piggybacked us afore, with good results. Don't know what the mice 'n' moles're gonna do t' get theirselves across't."

"Don't sell us short, matey," Saybrook told Bremo. "We riverdogs got wide shoulders. No reason we can't carry a shrew on one side an' a mole on the other. We'll get both squads across in a single trip, jus' see if we don't."

"Oh, great," Abellon sighed. "Which leaves us mice with the vermin ... as usual. I hope we get a chance for another wash before then. I don't relish riding on the back of some stinky weasel." The mouse captain winked at his weasel counterpart. "No offense, Mattoon."

"None taken," Mattoon grinned backed with a fang-filled smile that wasn't entirely unfriendly, just somewhat so. "An' it's you mice whose stinky footpaws'll be dangling 'neath our pore noses, so you ain't the only beast hopin' we can bathe 'fore then."

Winokur looked to Urthblood. "Don't suppose you'll be doing any ferry duty yourself, My Lord?"

"Not very likely." The badger motioned to his commanders. "Set up camp in a ring formation around the edges of the clearing. Weasels, rats and otters on the perimeter, smaller creatures inside. Captain Halpryn says there are no enemies in sight, but I am taking no chances. The thick canopy of Mossflower could hide much that a high-flying bird would not see. Post sentries ... the usual rotation."

The captains went off to obey. The low sun still peeked through the trees in spots, but the day's progress along the forest trail had taken a lot out of the marchers, and there wasn't a soldier among them who didn't welcome the early halt. Another half-day of such perilous, step-by-step travel lay ahead, and every extra moment off their feet was a blessing to the weary creatures of Urthblood's army.

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What Urthblood's troops gained in their early retirement, they made up for the next morning when they were roused long before sunrise. The barest hint of the coming dawn was in the eastern sky when Urthblood ordered the current shift of watchbeasts to put out the wake-up call through the sleeping ranks.

The shrew and rat cooks started to clear ground for their cookfires, but Urthblood commanded that no fires be lit. They were too close to the forest edge, he explained, and the smoke from any fires might be visible from the Plains. Until he got a morning report from Halpryn or one of his other winged lookouts, he did not wish to do anything to advertise their presence. The smoke columns from so many cooking fires would not only betray their position but would also allow any astute observer to guess the size of their company.

Even among troops as disciplined as these, this order was greeted with much grumbling. Most of them were in the habit of starting off their day with hot food provided by the skilled cookbeasts of the force. Of course, there had been many mornings in the Northlands that had begun with cold hardscrabble rations, but this was Mossflower, land of plenty. Things were supposed to be different here ... as their stay at Redwall had clearly proven.

Warnokur settled down next to Saybrook, leaning against a mossy log. "Well, Cap'n, you shore was right 'bout our Abbey rations not lastin' past th' second day o' this stroll. Pity ... I shore could go fer some o' that right 'bout now."

"You ain't the only one, Warny," Saybrook grinned. "Some o' th' troops are 'bout ready to stage a revolt."

Winokur, sitting on the other side of his father, leaned forward to look at the otter captain in alarm. "No! They're not, really ... are they?"

"Easy, son!" Saybrook said. "Just joshin'. Nobeast here'd have th' bad sense t' go 'gainst Lord Urthblood. Not over a cold breakfast, or naught else. Relax ... "

Warnokur struggled valiently with a hardtack biscuit; it was a losing battle. "Aargh! These're 'nuff to break all a beast's teeth clean off! If I hadta eat like this all th' time, reckon I'd be as nasty a rudebeast as any vermin ever was!"

"Well, some relief may be on th' way, friends," Saybrook told them. "No promises, but some o' the shrews an' rats are doin' a little foraging in th' woods right around this glade. If anybeast can rustle up some decent grub, they can. If they have th' chance, that is. Lord Urthblood's pretty eager to get a move on, an' he's not one to sit around waitin' on us t' get our bellies full."

"Shame there's no lake or stream hereabouts," Warnokur lamented. "We'd be able t' rustle up some fish 'n' shrimp to make at least a halfway decent start on breakfast."

"Hafta be raw fish an' shrimp," Saybrook reminded him, "since we can't light any fires. That might be fine fer us otters, matey, but I doubt most folks would share our taste fer fish first thing in th' morn."

Warnokur gazed mournfully at his half-eaten biscuit. "Well, it shore as sawdust would beat wot we got now, paws down. Come t' think of it, sawdust prob'ly would, too."

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Meanwhile, on the southern edge of the encampment, two of the rats who'd been out foraging broke noisily through the shrubbery to rejoin their fellows. They went straightaway to their captain Cermak. After hearing their excited report for a minute, Cermak led them over to Urthblood.

"My Lord, something to bring to yer attention."

Urthblood studied his rat captain and the two foragers. "Go on."

"These two were scrounging 'bout in the woods just south o' the glade, an' they noticed they was bein' watched. Don't know what kinda beast, or how many. Stayed hid in the forest undergrowth, an' beat a hasty retreat when me rats went after 'em. Small an' quick, wotever they was."

The badger warrior mulled this over. "Probably just some local woodlander, curious to see armed rats in this part of Mossflower and eager to avoid any confrontation. I hope you didn't scare it - or them - too badly when you gave chase."

One of the rats piped in, "M'Lord, we're sure there was more'n one. An' th' way they withdrew, it were too organized t' be plain ol' folks. Almost military like."

"Could they have been hares?" Urthblood asked pointedly.

The two forager rats exchanged glances, then the speaker answered. "Don't think so, sir. Seemed like t'were too small. Can't be sure, o' course, but I'd say more like mouse-sized."

"Well, whatever they were, we will have to leave them behind," Urthblood decided. "We don't have time to track them down to explain ourselves, make them explain themselves, or correct any bad impression we may have made. That will have to wait until our paths cross again, if ever they do."