Rakkety Tam (9 page)

Doogy was trying to raise his claymore, but he was so tightly hemmed in that his nose was nearly pressing against Ferdimond's chin. “Swing yore bally blade, eh? Ah'll swing yore bally ears from mah belt as soon as ah get room tae do it!”

Tam pushed forward into the press, but he was pulled to one side by Wonwill, who had the brigadier with him.

Crumshaw winked at Tam. “Leave this to us, MacBurl. That's an order, stay out of it. There's a good chap, wot!”

Wonwill bellowed in his best parade-ground manner. “Teeeeeen . . . shun! Stand fast all ranks, offisah present!”

The hares fell back and came to attention as Tam followed Crumshaw and Wonwill through to the centre. The tough sergeant immediately pulled Doogy and Ferdimond apart. “Nah then, wot's all this 'ere, you two, eh?”

Ferdimond saluted with his long rapier. “Point of honour, Sarge, private dispute doncha know!”

Wonwill faced Doogy. “Wot've you got t'say for yoreself, Mister Plumm?”

The highland squirrel bared his teeth. “Ah've got nothin' tae say, Sarge. Mah claymore'll do the talkin' for me. But that fancy talkin' fop'll no' be round tae trip me up from behind again when ah've finished!”

The brigadier came smartly forward, his moustache bristling. “Put those blades down immediately! Rules an' regs of our regiment don't permit duels, private or public! Listen t'me, buckoes. If one of ye was to slay the other, I'd be forced to sentence the winner to death for killin' a comrade. Quince, Derron, you will disarm these hotheads!”

The two captains sprang in and confiscated the blades. Crumshaw cocked a monocled eye at Wonwill. “Well, Sergeant, 'pon me scut, these two look as if they ain't goin' to kiss an' make up, wot! Looks like they've got plenty o' vinegar still in 'em, eh? What d'you suggest?”

Wonwill elbowed the pair further away from each other. “H'it's my opinion they're bound to 'ave at each other, sah. May'aps they should settle their spat like proper gentlebeasts. Could h'I suggest the noble art, sah?”

Behind his monocle, the brigadier's eye twinkled. “Capital idea, a little exhibition, eh wot! Purely nonvindictive an' in the true spirit o' the sport. Carry on, Sergeant, read 'em the rules!”

Crumshaw drew a line in the bank sand with his swagger stick and stood back. Wonwill called Doogy and Ferdimond up to scratch. “Ready, young sirs? Place yore right footpaws on the line an' face each other. Forepaws well clenched now, that's the style! Yore goin' t'give everybeast a boxin' display. No bitin', gougin' or scratchin'. When I says fight, ye both go to it. But when I says 'alt, youse stop. H'agreed?”

Doogy and Ferdimond were eyeing each other fiercely, milling their forepaws in tight, small circles as they both snarled, “Agreed!”

Wonwill's battered features creased into a grin. “Thankee kindly, young sirs. Ready? . . . Fight!”

Doogy's paw shot out.
Thud!
He caught his opponent a punch right to the nosetip. The hare staggered slightly, then countered with a stinging blow to his adversary's right eye. Undeterred, the small Highlander brought forth an uppercut which rattled his foe's jaw. Then Ferdimond connected
with a left that made Doogy's ear ring. Both fighters continued at it, hammer and tongs. A lot of hares were shouting for Ferdimond, but just as many joined Tam in cheering Doogy on. There were cries of advice and encouragement from both sides as the combat raged back and forth.

“Tuck yore chin in, old lad, watch the blighter's left!”

“Give him the jolly old one-two, that's it!”

“Bang away at his tuck basket, that'll wind the blighter!”

“Duck an' weave, keep jabbin' away with that right, mate!”

They pounded away relentlessly, footpaws never leaving the line. Doogy's right eye was almost swollen shut, and Ferdimond's nose looked like an overripe damson plum. The hare whipped out a pile-driving left, but the squirrel ducked it, looping a superb right to his opponent's chin.

Whump!
Ferdimond was knocked off the line, flat on his scut.

Wonwill leaped in, shouting, “H'alt!”

Leaning over Ferdimond, he put the question, “Are ye finished, Mister De Mayne?”

The hare spat out a tooth, jumping upright like a coiled spring. “Finished? I've only just bloomin' started, wot!”

Wonwill watched as he came forward to paw the line again. “Righto, fight on!”

Ferdimond floored Doogy with a left cross to the head.

Another halt was called as the sergeant questioned Doogy. “Mister Plumm, 'ave ye taken h'enough, sir?”

Quick as a flash, the highland squirrel was up, grinning crookedly. “Ach, away wi' ye, Sarge. Ah've got the poor lad right where ah want him tae be. Oot o' mah way!”

They battled on, neither giving any quarter. A simultaneous barrage of punches from both sides sent the two contestants down. Staggering up and blowing for breath, they swiped out wearily at each other until they both collapsed again.

The sergeant had filled Doogy's shield with streamwater. He winked at the brigadier, who nodded knowingly.

Splash!
Wonwill drenched the pair. As the two gasping opponents sat up, the sergeant beckoned them upright to paw the line. “I 'aven't called an 'alt yet, sirs! Ye wanted to fight, so stop malingerin'. H'up off yore hunkers an' fight!”

Bone tired, they hauled themselves upright and fought on. Everybeast had fallen silent now. They looked on as the two exhausted battlers raised leaden paws and swiped away. Most of the punches were only hitting midair; twice, in fact, the weary rivals found themselves back to back, actually peering about for each other. Tottering around, they tripped over their own paws and finally collapsed in a heap.

Satisfied, Brigadier Crumshaw signalled Wonwill, who called a final halt. “Well, sirs, 'ave ye both 'ad enough now?”

Ferdimond had trouble lifting his head to reply. “I've had enough if he has.”

Doogy raised a swollen paw. “Aye, an' ah've had mah fill if'n he has.”

Crumshaw stepped in, helping the sergeant to stand them upright. Joining both their paws, he concluded, “Well fought, chaps! A good scrap, I'd say, without havin' to wipe each other out with swords, wot! Take a bow!”

Both the Long Patrol and Tam gave the fighters three rousing cheers.

The brigadier patted both their backs. “Absolutely top-hole! I hope this has solved any small differences ye may have had in the past, wot! Now, shake paws like two good eggs, then clean yoreselves up in the stream, eh?”

Doogy and Ferdimond shook paws as best they could. The young hare grinned lopsidedly. “Sorry for what I said about you, old lad. I was wrong. You, sir, are a true flippin' warrior!”

Doogy attempted a wink, but both his eyes were swollen. “Och, yer no' sae bad yoreself, matey. 'Twas all mah fault, ye'll have tae excuse me for bein' so touchy, ye ken!”

Holding each other upright, they staggered into the stream to the accompaniment of hurrahs and backslapping.

 

“What a go! Well fought, you two!”

“Here's to two perilous beasts, wot!”

“Rather, that scrap'll go down in Long Patrol annals!”

“Aye, never seen one like it in me blinkin' life!”

 

Tam squatted by the fire with Wonwill. “Haha, just look at Doogy, wipin' Ferdimond's nose. They seem happy enough now, eh Sarge?”

The old veteran smiled. “Like the Brigadier said, better'n seein”em carved to death by swords. A good 'ealthy boxin' match h'is just the ticket for clearin' the air, Tam!”

Crumshaw, who had joined them, sniffed the night air with relish. “Only one thing better'n the smell of a streambank on a springtime evenin'—skilly an' duff for supper, wot wot!”

Corporal Butty Wopscutt, assisted by the haremaids Folderon and Flummerty, were cooking away industriously. Tam took in the savoury odour from the cooking fire. “Hope it tastes as good as it smells, sah.”

Crumshaw stirred the fire with his swagger stick point. “Young Wopscutt's the finest cook we've ever had, a real treasure, that 'un. An' he ain't put off by those pretty gels! By the way, Tam, that comrade o' yours, Doogy wotsisname, quite a game feller, put up a superb fight. I've a feelin' we're goin' to need chaps like him before the season's out.”

Tam watched Doogy and Ferdimond splashing in the stream. “Aye, yore right there, sah. Goin' up against the Gulo beast an' his vermin, we'll want good warriors to conquer beasts who are so savage that they eat their enemies!”

On the morning following the moles' celebratory supper, young Burlop Cellarhog was up and about his duties before Abbot Humble awakened. Burlop busied himself in the cellars, selecting a new barrel of October Ale. Having found the one he had marked out, the young hedgehog upended it, single-pawed. He began knocking a spigot through the centre bung so the liquid could be tapped. Humble emerged from his bed in the corner, fastening the waist cord of his habit.

The stout young Cellarhog touched his headspikes apologetically. “Father Abbot! I'm sorry, did my noise wake you up?”

Humble stifled a yawn, smiling at his protégé. “Certainly not, Burlop. I merely slept a bit late after last night's mole supper. What a pleasant evening it was, eh?”

Burlop gave the spigot a final knock and set a tankard under it. “ 'Twas most enjoyable, Father, though the moles and our creatures finished off a barrel of the October Ale. I'm just replacing it. Would you care to taste a sip?”

He stood back respectfully as Humble sniffed round the
barrel staves, tapping his paw on the lid several times and then listening, as if for an answer. Burlop always deferred to his Abbot's expertise. Humble turned the spigot tap, allowing a measure of ale to gurgle forth into the tankard. He spilt a drop on his paw and held it up to a lantern, checking on its colour and clarity. Burlop looked on anxiously as the Abbot took a sample mouthful.

The old hedgehog rolled the ale round his palate, then swallowed it slowly. Beaming happily, he smacked his lips. “Excellent! Marvellous judgement, young Burlop! Of all the October barrels within our cellars, you could not have chosen a finer one!”

Burlop bowed low, allowing his spikes to stand up and then letting them fall back flat several times—the typical hedgehog way of receiving a great compliment. “Thank you, Father. I learned all I know from you, and I'm always ready to heed your wise counsel.”

Humble gazed fondly over the top of his spectacles. “I wouldn't trust my cellars to any hog but you, friend. Now, what was I about to do, eh?”

“Go up to breakfast perhaps?” Burlop suggested helpfully.

The Abbot scratched his chinspikes reflectively. “Hmm, yes, but there was some other business also. Ah, I remember now! I've got to get Brother Gordale, my cousin Jem and old Walt together. Today we begin trying to solve the rhyme puzzle. If anybeast comes looking for me, please tell them I'll either be in the kitchens or the orchard.”

Burlop helped Humble with his overcloak. “Certainly, Father.”

 

Humble stared around the kitchen passage at those being served with breakfast. None of the three he wanted was there.

Sister Armel, the pretty young Infirmary Keeper, approached him cheerfully. “Good morning, Father Abbot. Are you looking for somebeast?”

Humble accepted a plate of hazelnut and honey
turnovers from Friar Glisum absently. “Er, good morning, Sister. Have you seen Gordale or Jem or Walt about?”

Armel put aside her tray. “No, but I'll soon find them for you. There's quite a few still abed after last evening's festivities. I'll give them a call.”

Humble began loading up his tray. “Oh, thank you, that would be a help. Tell them I'll have breakfast set up in the orchard. We're supposed to be solving that rhyme puzzle today, you know.”

Sister Armel's big brown eyes lit up. “May I help you, Father? I'm very good at puzzles.”

Humble chuckled. “Of course you can, pretty one. A young head might prove a welcome addition to us elders.”

 

The orchard was carpeted with pink and white petal blossoms, shed by the many apple, pear, plum, cherry, damson and almond trees.

Brother Demple, the mouse who was Abbey Gardener, put aside his trowel as he saw Humble approaching with a heavily laden tray.

“Good morning, Abbot. Doesn't our orchard look pretty today? Here, let me help you with that tray.”

Humble willingly allowed the sturdy mouse to assist him. “Thank you, Brother Demple. My word, I didn't realise one tray could be so heavy. There's breakfast for three there.”

Demple took up the tray. “Thank goodness for that. At first I thought it was all for you, Father!”

He guided Humble to a sunny corner where he had set up a potting bench. “Friends for breakfast, eh? What's the occasion?”

Humble sat on the bench alongside the tray. “We've arranged to try and solve a puzzle.”

Demple rubbed his paws together eagerly. “I love a good puzzle. D'you need any help?”

The Abbot smiled, eager to accept such a ready offer. “By all means, be my guest—the more the merrier. Ah, here they come now.”

Gordale arrived with Walt and Jem. Slightly behind them came Armel, with Skipper's niece Brookflow. The fine, strong ottermaid had brought along an extra tray piled high with more food. Brookflow, or Brooky as she was known to all, was a jolly creature, possessed of an infectious laugh. Carrying the heavy tray on one paw, she waved with the other.

“Yoohooeeee! I heard there was a riddle t'be worked out, so I worked myself in. Is it alright if I join these other duffers, Father? Hahahaha!”

Humble raised his paws in mock despair. “Come on, you beauty, come one come all! Soon we'll have everybeast in the Abbey here!”

Breakfast was shared out, as there was plenty for everyone. In the middle of it, Humble smote his forehead and groaned. “Sister Screeve has the written copy, and I forgot to invite her along. What was I thinking of?”

Yet even as he spoke, Screeve entered the orchard waving a parchment, the one she had recorded the rhyme on. “Friar Glisum told me you'd be here, Father. Hope you've not started without me!”

Brooky giggled into a scone she was demolishing. “Teeheehee! How would we manage that? I think old Screeve's gone off her rocker. Teeheeheehee!”

Jem looked over the rim of an oatmeal bowl at Brooky. “You could do yoreself a nastiness, gigglin' an' vittlin' like that, marm!”

Breakfast was taken in leisurely fashion, chatting, laughing and gossiping. Wandering Walt tapped his digging claws on the bench impatiently. “Yurr, b'aint us'n's apposed t'be solven ee riggle t'day?”

Sister Screeve spread her parchment upon the ground. “Thank you kindly, sir. If Miss Brookflow can stop her merriment for just a moment, I'll read the rhyme. Are you finished, miss?”

The jolly ottermaid stifled her mouth with both paws. “Whoohoohoo . . . Oops! Sorry, Sister, just once more.
Whoohoohaha! There, that's better. Right, let's get on with unpuzzling the riddle, or unrizzling the puddle. Whoohaha. . . .”

Brooky looked about at the stern faces. “Sorry.”

Screeve took up where she had left off. “As I said, I'll read the poem, er rhyme. Right!

 

Where the sun falls from the sky,

and dances at a pebble's drop,

where little leaves slay big leaves,

where wood meets earth I stop.

Safe from the savage son of Dramz,

here the secret lies alone,

the symbol of all power, the mighty Walking Stone!”

 

Brother Gordale scratched behind his ear. “Well, where do we start with all that jumble?”

“At the beginning, I suppose. Hahahaha. . . .” Humble silenced Brooky with a stern glance over his glasses.

Then, suddenly, he mellowed. “An excellent idea. Very logical, too, miss. Where the sun falls from the sky. Anybeast got an idea where that may be?”

Walt answered. “Hurr that bee's in ee west, whurr ee sun be a-setten every h'evenin', zurr.”

Demple swept the horizon westward. “That's a massive area. Any way we could narrow it down?”

Whilst they sat thinking about this, Gordale quoted the second line. “And dances at a pebble's drop.”

Armel fidgeted with her apron strings. “Maybe it carries on to link up. What's the next line?”

Sister Screeve supplied it in her precise tones. “Where little leaves slay big leaves. Dearie me, I'm really puzzled now!”

Brooky interrupted her. “Well, if the entire thing is a puzzle, yore supposed to be puzzled—that's why puzzlers write 'em. Haha, we're looking for a Walking Stone, and nobeast's ever seen one. I wouldn't recognise a Walking
Stone if it fell out of a tree and hit me over the head. Oh, hahahahoohoo!”

Screeve wagged her paw severely. “Really, Brookflow, you aren't helping the situation by sitting there laughing!”

Armel, very fond of her ottermaid friend, spoke up in her defence. “Don't be too hard on Brooky, Sister. She has a point, you know.”

Gordale shrugged. “Right then, Sister Armel. Perhaps you'd like to tell us—just what
is
her point, eh?”

Armel's pretty face creased in a frown of concentration. “Er, we, hmm, er . . . Maybe if Walt and Jem described the area where they found the dying beast, we might gain a clue from it.”

Humble agreed. “Sounds reasonable to me. This Askor, the beast who died, it's likely he may have concealed the Walking Stone not far from where the tree fell on him. Jem, Walt, could you recall anything special about the place?”

Wandering Walt wrinkled his nose. “Nay, zurr, it bee'd loike many bits o' furrest we'm parssed throo t'gether. B'aint that so, Jem?”

The old hedgehog shook his grizzled spikes. “Gettin' old ain't no fun. I fergits a lot o' things now'days. It were someplace in sou'west Mossflower Woodlands, I'm sure o' that. Aye, an' there was a big ole rotten sycamore a-layin' there, that was the one wot fell on Askor. More'n that I'm a-feared I can't say, friends.”

Sister Screeve pushed the written rhyme under Jem's snout. “Mayhap this'll jog your mind. Try to recall if you noticed any of these things—a place where the sun falls from the sky, where it dances at a pebble's drop, where little leaves slay big leaves. . . .”

Brother Demple suddenly exclaimed, “That's it . . . ivy!”

Jem stared at him curiously. “What's that supposed t'mean, ivy?”

Demple's explanation shed the first tiny ray of hope on the riddle. “Plants and growing things are both my hobby
and my life as a gardener. So I ignored the rest of the puzzle and concentrated on the one line, ‘Where little leaves slay big leaves.' Father, do you remember that old willow tree, down by our Abbey pond, on the south side? The tree I had to chop down about ten seasons back? It was an ancient, weak old thing, with ivy growing all over it—right from the ground, around the trunk, through the branches, until the whole willow tree was covered thickly in ivy vines and creepers. Not a single leaf could grow there as a result of that ivy. It had been strangled.”

Humble remembered. “Ah yes, poor thing. Nobeast likes to see a tree felled, but it was becoming a danger, especially to our Dibbuns. I recall I took some of the branches to use as caulking for small casks. There was a lot of ivy, though.”

Demple smiled triumphantly. “You see, a clear case of little leaves slaying big leaves. Jem, can you or Walt recall seeing such a tree near the scene, one all choked by ivy?”

Hitheryon Jem pondered a moment, then laughed aloud. “Hohoho! The wasp, Walt, remember the wasp?”

The old mole rubbed his stubby tail ruefully. “Bo urr, oi b'aint likely to furget ee likkle villyun!”

Jem warmed to an account of the incident. “ 'Twas the day we found Askor, but earlier on. We'd just sat down to take a bite o' brekkist. I sat on the cart shaft, but ole Walt, he sat down with his back agin a tree. Aye, 'twas a big sycamore, there's quite a few in that neck o' the woods. But this'n 'ad been gripped by the ivy, just as you described, Brother Demple. From root to crown that tree was wrapped thick in the stuff. Walt should've knowed better, 'cos 'tis a common fact that wasps are very partial to ivy, somethin' in the scent of the leaves I've been told. Well, he'd no sooner sat down when out buzzes a wasp an' stings pore ole Walt right on the tail!”

Brooky could not resist breaking in. “That's a story with a sting in the tail! Oh heeheehee!”

Walt glared at the jovial ottermaid. “Et wurn't funny, marm. Waspers are vurry 'urtful beasts. Oi 'ad to bathe moi tail in ee pond an' rub et wi' dockleaves!”

Gordale spoke. “You mean there was a pond close by?”

Jem's memory began coming back. “Not a pond—it were more of a lake, bigger'n yore Abbey pond, a peaceful stretch o' water. We filled our canteens there.”

Sister Armel had enjoyed her breakfast in the orchard. She sat back in a sun-dappled corner, surrounded by friends, listening to Jem and the others discussing the problem. Though she had risen bright and alert that morning, her eyelids began to droop. A feeling of warm tranquility enveloped her, the voices receding into a soothing hum. A different voice was calling to her, echoing along the corridors of her mind, gentle but firm.

“Armel, listen to me. Do you know who I am?”