Eulalia! (5 page)

“Good, then that's a full show of paws, thank you!” His face turned stern as he addressed the parolee. “Orkwil Prink, you are not permitted to enter Redwall Abbey for the space of one season, until the first autumn leaves appear. We hope that on your return to us, you will appreciate this place, and become a useful and honest creature among your friends. The life you must lead outside these walls will perhaps teach you a lesson. You must fend for yourself, find your own food and shelter, and avoid harm. Granspike Niblo will give you some stout clothing, and Friar Chondrus will provide you with sufficient plain food to last three days. Make good use of your time out there, think of us, as we will be thinking of you. Above all, do not steal anything which does not belong to you. I hope you return to us as an honest and more resolute young creature. You may go, and may good fortune be with you, Orkwil!”

Evening sunlight shaded the western flatlands, turning the outer walls to a dusty, warm rose. Descending larks sang their Evensong as Orkwil rambled away north, up the dusty path outside Redwall Abbey. He heaved a gusty sigh, wiping the last of Granspike's tears from his brow. Turning, he took a backward glance at the Abbey. The huge sandstone edifice stood serene and unchanging, from belltower to arched windows, with stained glass reflecting the sinking sun in rainbow hues. Shouldering the staff which carried a food pack tied to one end, he turned away, sniffed and wiped his eyes.

Ah well, he'd gotten off fairly lightly, considering the offenses he'd perpetrated. The good old Abbey would still be there on his return at autumn. He'd be a reformed character by then. But meanwhile…

He wasn't being hunted, lectured at, tied up in the gatehouse, interrogated or told off. Here was the open road before him, the woodlands, plains, hills and streams to roam unhindered. Free as the breeze, and with nobeast to tell him how he should behave. Orkwil Prink leapt in the air and shouted aloud. “Yeeehaaaahoooooh!”

The ship
Bludgullet
nosed its course through heavy seas, heaving up and down with a constant seesawing motion. A squall had hit during the night, sweeping out of the north, bringing with it gusting winds and pelting rain. For the young badger chained to the mast, there was no shelter, he was out there alone on the heaving deck. However, the wild weather did bring one blessing with it, fresh rainwater. Gorath lay flat out, beneath the centre of the huge, square sail, with his mouth wide open. Raindrops, puddling in a crease of the canvas, came trickling down, providing him with a much-needed drink of clear, cold water. When he had taken his fill, Gorath crawled back to the mast. He sat with his back against it, awaiting the passing of the storm, and the dawn of a new day.

Gradually the rain ceased, though the seas still ran high, with the ship dipping up and down as it ploughed southward. Daybreak revealed a dark, sullen sky, with ponderous cloudbanks in the wake of the vessel. Rising, falling, with the horizon glimpsed between foam-crested greeny-blue waves of mountainous proportions, up and down, up and down.

That was when Gorath got his first taste of seasickness. The wound he had received on his forehead, formed into a thick scab of dried blood, still throbbed painfully. This, with the bucking of the ship, brought on a spasm of retching. The young badger slumped over, wishing that death would release him from his cruel predicament.

From the cabin doorway, Vizka Longtooth and his first mate, Codj, watched Gorath. Vizka passed Codj a length of tarred and knotted rope. The golden fox's long fangs showed as he whispered instructions.

The other, smaller fox nodded, then enquired, “Yarr, Cap'n, but why do ya want t'stop me?”

Vizka shoved him toward the badger. “'Coz dat's my orders, t'ickead, jus' do like I says!”

Codj shrugged, and swaggered off swinging the rope. “I do like ya say, yore da cap'n.”

Gorath had closed his eyes, trying to gain respite from his suffering in sleep, when the knotted rope struck his back. He wheeled about to see his enemy swinging the rope. This time it struck him on the side of his jaw. Codj snarled at him; standing out of range of Gorath, he continued wielding the rope.

“Up on yore paws, Rock'ead, who sez ya could sleep, eh?”

Gorath was too sick to do anything about it, he crouched by the mast, covering his head with both paws.

His tormentor continued to flog at him with the knotted rope. “Gerrup, lazybeast, stan' up straight when I speaks to ya!”

Vizka came hurrying up and snatched the rope from Codj. “Leave dat pore beast alone, go 'way!”

The mate did as he was bidden, leaving them alone. Vizka crouched a safe distance from his captive, and began to speak in a wheedling tone. “Pore Rock'ead, wot ails ya, are y'tired?” Gorath stayed as he was, making no answer. Vizka cocked his head, trying to see the badger's face. “Are ya sick, is dat it? I gotta good cabin an' a bunk, all nice'n cosy, 'ow would ya like t'sleep der, eh?” There was still no reaction, though Vizka could see that his prisoner was saturated and shivering. “D'ya wants vittles, we got good food, plenny t'drink, too.” He watched the young badger keenly, for any response. Still getting no answer, the golden fox stood up. “I'm der cap'n 'ere, jus' tell me wot ya wants an' I'll give it to ya. Dat's a fair offer, eh?”

Gorath did not even open his eyes to look at the fox.

Vizka pulled his thick cloak tight about himself. “Cold out 'ere, I'm goin' to me cabin. But yew ain't goin' nowhere, Rock'ead. Sooner or later y'll speak ter me. Or y'll die, chained ter dat mast!”

Vizka did not go to his cabin; instead, he went to the main cabin, on the deck below. Codj was there with some of the vermin crew. He caught the knotted rope that Vizka tossed to him.

“Ya wants me ter go an' flog 'im agin, Cap'n?”

The crewbeasts made room as their captain sat down at the mess table. “Nah, dat'n's 'ad enough fer now, leave 'im 'til later.”

One of the crew, a hulking ferret called Grivel, commented, “Dat stripe'ound'll die iffen ya flogs 'im too much. Cap'n near killed 'im wid 'is ball'n'chain. Can't be too far off dead now, if'n ya asks me.”

Vizka smiled at Grivel. “But I didn't ask ya, did I?”

Vizka Longtooth was always at his most dangerous when smiling. Grivel did not fancy a confrontation with his captain, so he fell silent.

The golden fox rose, staring at him pointedly, almost challenging him to speak. “I'll decide wot 'appens t'the stripe'ound. Rock'ead's a young beast, an' a strong 'un. A bit o' starvin' an' beatin' won't do 'im no 'arm. You jus' watch, I'll bring 'im round ter my way o' thinkin'. Same as I'd do wid anybeast, eh, Grivel?”

The hefty ferret stared down at the tabletop, avoiding his captain's smiling eyes. “Aye, Cap'n, wotever ya say.”

Without warning, Vizka dealt Grivel a swinging backpawed blow, which knocked him out of his seat, flat on his face. Vizka laughed, looking around at the other vermin in the cabin. “Pore Grivel, can't 'old 'is grog, if'n y'ask me!”

The crew knew what to do, they laughed aloud with their unpredictable captain, every one of them. Vizka issued orders. “When vittles is ready they'll be served up on deck. I want y'all to sit where dat stripe'ound can see ya. Watchin' yew lot eatin' might stir up 'is appetite. Look as if yore enjoyin' dinner, make Rock'ead feel 'ungry. Codj, you keep an eye peeled on 'im, I'll be in me cabin if'n ya wants me.”

Grivel waited until Vizka had gone from the cabin before he picked himself up, wiping a smear of blood from his lip. A large, fat, one-eared rat named Feerog, who was Grivel's messmate, shot him a warning glance.

Codj headed for the door, calling over his shoulder, “I'm gonna keep watch on der stripe'ound.” Vizka and Codj were very close, so the crew did not say anything until he had gone out on deck. Once the captain and first mate were not present, Grivel spat blood upon the floor.

“Did ya see dat, why'd 'e pick on me, wot did I say?”

Feerog supported his friend. “Yarr, sometimes der cap'n will belt ya jus' fer lookin' at 'im d'wrong way. It ain't right, mates!”

Grivel poured forth his grievances against the captain of the
Bludgullet.
“Aye, an' why'd we waste a whole season sailin' round der Northland coasts, wot's ter be gained there, eh?”

There were nods, and mutters of agreement as Feerog took up the cause. “Couple o' sacks o' veggibles an' some grain. Huh, an' a crazy stripe'ound. We coulda been in the southern isles, at least 'tis allus warm there.”

A runty old weasel, Snikey, spoke his piece. “Cap'n must 'ave 'ad 'is reasons, any'ow we're sailin' clear o' the Northlands now, ain't we?”

Grivel's voice was thick with bitterness. “But we ain't bound fer no southern isles, are we? I'll wager der cap'n's got dis ship 'eaded for the Western shores, an' ye know wot dat means, don't ya?”

Feerog slammed his knifepoint into the mess table. “Aye, Vizka Longtooth wants ter do wot Windflin Wildbrush couldn't. Kill dat ole stripe'ound an' 'is rabbets, an' make 'imself king o' der mountain!”

Snikey shrugged. “I'd sooner live on a mountain than be stuck aboard dis tub all me life.”

This was the chance Grivel had been waiting for. Grabbing Snikey, he head-butted the runty old weasel hard. Still holding Snikey, he kicked open the cabin door, and flung him, half-stunned, out onto the deck, growling at him. “We ain't gittin' slayed in battle, jus' ter make Longtooth famous. An' remember this, ya liddle sneak, one werd to Vizka or Codj, an' yore a deadbeast!” Slamming the door, Grivel winked at the others. “I caught 'im a good 'un, split 'is nose, stinkin' tale-carrier. I've never trusted dat weasel!”

A black rat, called Durgy, shook his head. “Ya did der wrong thing there, mate, everybeast knows Snikey's the cap'n's spy, 'is mouth'll 'ave t'be shut fer good, or 'e'll go blabbin' ter Longtooth.”

Feerog pulled his knife from the tabletop. “Yore right, I'll see to it dat Snikey slips off nice'n'quiet-like.”

 

Late afternoon found the weather still overcast, but calm. Gorath stayed huddled against the mast, where he had been since early morning. The pangs of seasickness had left him, and the pain in his wounded forehead had calmed somewhat. Nobeast had bothered him all day, though he was aware of Codj watching him from a distance.

Then the cook, a greasy, bloated ratwife, dragged a cauldron along the deck, halting where she knew the chained prisoner could not reach. Taking the lid from the cauldron, she began stirring it, yelling in a shrill voice, “Come an' get yore vittles, afore I tosses 'em overboard!”

The aroma of cooked food assailed Gorath's nostrils, and he realised how desperately hungry he was. The crew lined up with their bowls and dishes as she began slopping out steaming ladles of the mixture. Even Vizka attended, holding out a basin, and questioning the cook as she filled it to the brim with the mixture.

“Mmmm, this smells good, wot is it, Glurma?”

She gave Vizka a snaggletoothed grin. “Me own special skilley, Cap'n, carrots'n'turnips, oats an' herbs, wid lots o' shrimp an' mackerel in it!”

Vizka winked broadly at the vermin crew, who were sitting out of Gorath's reach, eating their meal. “Yarr, dat'll put der twinkle back in yore eyes, buckoes!” They made a great show of blowing on the hot skilley and scooping it up, some with their grimy bare paws.

Vizka knew just how far the chain would allow his captive to roam. Carefully, he placed the filled bowl out of the young badger's reach, and began coaxing him. “Come an' taste it, friend, ya must be starvin', eh?” Gorath uncovered his head and stared at the bowl, but he made no move for it. Vizka continued taunting. “Good vittles, shrimp an' fishes from der Northland coast, an' veggibles from yore farm, try some.”

Gorath rose; he staggered forward to the end of the chain, reaching out. The crew laughed uproariously at his vain attempts to reach the bowl. The badger gave up, and went to sit with his back to the mast.

The golden fox dipped a paw in the bowl and sucked it. “Real good dis is, Rock'ead. Tell ya wot, I'll move it closer if'n ya speak ter me.”

Gorath locked eyes with the smiling fox, but kept silent. Something in those eyes made Vizka feel nervous, the smile fell from his face and he snarled.

“Widout food yore a deadbeast. Speak!”

Then the badger spoke. “You will die before I do. You, and that other one.” Here he nodded toward Codj. “And as many of these scum as I can take with me. So don't waste your time talking, I don't speak with beasts who are already dead to me.”

Vizka leapt up, quivering. “You'll beg me ta die afore I'm done wid ya!” He kicked the bowl, sending it into the sea. The golden fox strode back to his cabin, with Codj trotting in his wake.

“I told ya we shoulda killed 'im, Cap'n!”

Vizka shoved Codj into the cabin ahead of him. “Shut yore mouth, idjit, der crew can 'ear ya!”

Nobeast noticed Durgy sidle up to the rail and sit beside Snikey. The runty weasel was licking inside his empty bowl, when the black rat murmured into his ear softly.

“Did ya see dat? Waste o' good vittles, der way our cap'n kicked dat bowl o' skilley overboard. I coulda ate dat extra bowl, couldn't you, mate?”

Snikey stared into his empty bowl. “Aye.”

“Den why doncha go an' gerrit, spy!”

Snikey fell backward into the sea from the rail, a look of shock on his face, and Durgy's blade between his ribs. Grivel and Feerog quickly filled the vacant space at the rail. Durgy nodded at the sea.

“Snikey's just gone ter get more skilley.”