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 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’ yurrabouts?”
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 somebeasts 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 officiously, “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 corner 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 travelin’ 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 of Mem’s secret herbs. This was followed by a hefty apple, blackberry, and plum crumble topped with Osmunda’s greensap 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. Cruelest 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 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. Roolee, 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 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.
All through the earth a showing, a showing, a showing,
The green grass is a growing,
So fresh is everything.
Around the flow’rs and heather,
Their honey will be sweeter
When ’tis made in spring.”
Tammo and the other creatures at the table joined in as Whinn sang the song once more, and there was much tapping and clapping of paws. The evening wore on, with everybeast getting up to do his bit, singing, dancing, reciting, or playing simple instruments, mainly small drums or reed flutes.
Owing to the amount of food he had eaten and the warmth of the oven fire, Colonel Cornspurrey had great difficulty keeping awake. With a deep sigh he heaved himself up and took a final draught of chestnut beer, then, swaying a little he peered sleepily at Russa Nodrey, and said, “Hmph, I take it you’ll be off travelin’ again in the mornin’, marm?”
Russa looked as fresh as a daisy as she nodded to him. “Crack o’ dawn’ll be early enough for me. Thank ye for your hospitality—Camp Tussock vittles were as good as ever.”
Shuffling off to the dormitory, Cornspurrey called back, “Indeed ’twill, keep the noise down when y’go, I’ll bid ye g’night now. An’ you others, don’t sit up too bally late, work t’be done on the morrow.”