While Cap’n Tramun Clogg took a party around the headland to see what he could salvage of his ship, Badrang attended to other matters. Druwp the bankvole stood before the Tyrant in his longhouse. Badrang had his aides, Gurrad and Hisk, bring food for the spy. Roast sea bird, baked fish, new bread and a flagon of damson wine were placed in front of Druwp, but the treacherous creature had suddenly lost his appetite. He eyed the long thin whipping rods held by Gurrad and Hisk, completely overawed in the presence of the mighty Badrang. The bankvole had told them all he knew, but Badrang was not satisfied. Danger radiated from the stoat’s eyes. He was in an unpredictable mood.
“Let me get this straight, Druwp. You knew that the prisoners were going to escape from the prison pit, but you don’t know how they did it. You know the ringleaders of the slave resistance and you know they have buried weapons, but you don’t know what their plans are. Don’t play me for a fool, bankvole. Give me some good hard information that I can act upon.”
Druwp swallowed hard, his mouth dry as a bone. “I know exactly where the weapons are buried, Sire.”
Badrang smiled at Hisk and Gurrad. Coming swiftly out of his chair, he patted Druwp’s back, feeling the spy flinch beneath his touch.
“Good, good. That’s what I want to hear. Tell me exactly where they are.”
“Lord, they are inside the slave compound, buried in the earth beneath the sleeping pallet of an otter called Tullgrew. I watched her digging the hole. She did not know I saw her.”
Badrang turned to his aides. “Come on, let’s go and take a look. You have done well, Druwp. From now on you will be my eyes and ears in the ranks of the slaves. Sit down, eat, drink and be easy.”
When Badrang and his cronies had left the longhouse Druwp felt his confidence returning, his appetite too. Seating himself at the table, he poured a large beaker of wine and tore off a leg from the roast sea bird. The bread smelled good and fresh as he stuffed it hungrily into his mouth. Quaffing damson wine and setting his teeth into the hot meat, Druwp allowed himself a rare smile. Let the others be helpful and noble to each other. He was in the business of self-preservation.
* * *
The slaves had lain idle since the hostilities with Clogg, but they knew it would not last. Badrang would soon have them toiling under the lash. The afternoon was warm and lazy with hardly a breeze. They made the most of it, lying about in the sun.
A mouse called Yarrow wandered over to the palisade and peered through a gap. “Barkjon! Badrang is comin’ this way with Gurrad an’ Hisk.”
The old squirrel was instantly at his side. “Yes, I see them. I wonder what they want?”
* * *
Badrang stood in the center of the compound, a knowing smile hovering round his lips. The slaves shuffled nervously as Hisk and Gurrad wandered amongst them, flicking the long thin rods. The Tyrant’s voice was soft, almost friendly, as he addressed his captives.
“Well, you’ve had a nice easy few days, but it’ll be back to work in the morning. Stand by your beds while we take a head count.”
They hurried to obey, giving Hisk and Gurrad’s rods a wide berth. An eerie silence settled over the whole place as the two Captains walked around the nervous creatures standing by their pitiful sacks of straw which served as beds. Gurrad took one side, Hisk the other, tapping their canes against each animal’s chest as they counted.
Hillgorse the old hedgehog stood in front of a very young mouse called Hoopoe. As Gurrad’s cane snaked out to touch the youngster, Hillgorse batted it aside with his paw. He spoke out, his voice bold and enquiring. “What’s all this about? What do you want of us?”
“Hillgorse, is that your name?” The Tyrant’s voice was still deceptively friendly.
“That’s what they call me.”
“Hmm, I thought so. Let me see now, which one of you is Barkjon?”
Felldoh’s father took a pace forward. “I am Barkjon.”
Badrang’s eyes roved this way and that. “Keyla, is there a young otter named Keyla?”
“Aye, that’s me!” Keyla held up a paw.
Badrang stared at the otter a moment. “Good, good. You can tell me which one is Tullgrew. Another otter, like yourself.”
Keyla exchanged glances with Barkjon and Hillgorse before replying. “Tullgrew? There’s no Tullgrew here.”
Badrang’s voice hardened. “Lie to me and you’ll die, all three of you. Who is Tullgrew?”
The otter could not see her friends endangered. She held up her paw. “My name is Tullgrew.”
Badrang strode across to her and kicked the sack of bedding grass. “Move that and start digging.”
Slowly Tullgrew did as she was bid. The noon sun beat down on the compound. A small cloud of dust arose where the otter toiled away, digging the sandy clayish ground with both paws. Barkjon looked across to Hillgorse. Their eyes were sad with resignation.
Tullgrew dug until she was standing in a pit half her own height. Sweat ran down into her eyes, hiding the look of puzzlement in them.
Badrang sensed something was amiss. “Gurrad, Hisk! Throw that otter out of the hole and take over!”
The two Captains scrambled to obey. Putting their rods aside, they heaved Tullgrew out of the excavation and began digging fast and hard under the Tyrant’s hot angry eyes. All their questing paws found was earth and more earth.
They were almost at head height when Badrang snapped at them, “Get out of it, fools. Can’t you see there’s nothing there?”
As they pulled themselves out, Gurrad, the shorter of the two, slipped and fell back into the hole. There was an audible snigger among the slaves. Badrang whirled round to face them. “We’ll see how long you laugh doing double workloads tomorrow!”
Hisk helped the rat out and they padded warily behind the Tyrant as he swept out of the compound, his cloak billowing darkly against the noonday brightness.
Tullgrew spread her dusty paws wide. “What happened to the weapons? They weren’t there.”
“By the seasons! I wonder where they went.” Keyla’s face was the picture of innocence.
Barkjon waggled a paw under the otter’s nose. “You know, you young rascal!”
Keyla smiled mischievously. “Aye, I know, but Druwp doesn’t. He watched Tullgrew bury them, and I watched him. When he fell asleep, I gently pulled Tullgrew and her bedding to one side. She was asleep too, weary after all that digging. So I just dug the weapons up and found a new hiding place for them.”
Tullgrew shook her head in amazement. “But where did you put them, Keyla?”
“Hah! Right in the center of the compound, there, where Badrang was standing when he first came in. Hee hee hee!”
* * *
Druwp was sitting among the remnants of his feast sipping the last of the wine when the longhouse door opened with a bang. Badrang entered, flanked by Gurrad and Hisk. Wine spilled as the flagon went flying against the wall. Druwp’s chair was pulled from under him, and in a trice he was flat on his back with the Tyrant’s footclaws against his quivering throat.
“You made a fool of me, Druwp.” The stoat’s voice grated with a rage he could hardly contain. “I don’t like being made to look a fool. I should kill you, but I won’t. You will continue spying for me. However, first you must learn a hard lesson!”
A sob rose in Druwp’s throat as Badrang called to his Captains, “Bring me those rods, then guard the door so he can’t run!”
* * *
The hot still summer evening was bringing the day to a close. Tramun Clogg’s crew sat out on the shore grouped around cooking fires. The Cap’n would not allow them to be billeted in Badrang’s “fancy fort”, where they could be surrounded by the Tyrant’s horde while sleeping—better the open shore close to the tideline.
Clogg had inspected the hulk of his ship at low water. There was a chance the hull could be towed ashore and saved to rebuild upon. The corsair’s clothing steamed as it dried on him by the fire. He gnawed on a toasted mackerel and swigged noisily at a jug of old seaweed ale.
He did not notice the strangely clad hare who was sitting beside him in the twilight until the creature spoke.
“I say, old lad, any chance of a nip at that seaweed ale? I’m very partial to a drop of the old beach water.”
The unflappable Clogg hugged his jug close as he eyed the odd beast indignantly. “Git yer own ale, rabbit. ’Ere, you ain’t one o’ my crew?”
The hare nudged him cheekily and winked. “Should bally well hope not. Flippin’ rabble, wot, wot?”
Tramun turned to the nearest searat. “Ahoy, Growch. Who is this cove? One o’ Badrang’s?”
Growch squinted at the hare. “Can’t recall seein ’im at the fortress, Cap’n. Shall I run ’im through for ye?” He drew a long rusty dagger.
Ballaw, for it was he, suddenly shot his paw out at the fire. “I say, look!”
A huge column of green flame rose wreathed with yellow smoke.
The corsairs fell back from the fire. A chunk of fish fell from Clogg’s open mouth to disappear down the front of his steaming shirt.
“Stripe me, a magic rabbit. ’Ow d’yer do that, matey?”
“Can’t tell you, old top. Me throat’s too parched for words.”
Clogg passed the jug of seaweed ale. “Then wet yer whistle wid this ’ere.”
Ballaw scrubbed the rim of the jug with his paw then emptied it with one long gulp. The searats were totally amazed.
“Waste o’ good ale, that was. Like pourin’ it down a well!”
Ballaw leapt up straight and gave a piercing howl. “Owooooo!”
He fell flat on his back and lay quite still.
“Haharr, I knowed it,” Clogg chuckled. “E’s gone an’ done hisself in from ’oggin’ all that ale too quick. That’n’s a dead rabbit, mates!”
“No he ain’t, Cap’n. Look, the rabbit’s comin’ to life!”
Ballaw’s long legs kicked out and upward, once, twice, thrice. He began moaning, holding one paw to his throat while he stuffed the other down his mouth.
Clogg squinted closely at the stricken hare. “Wot’s ’e doin’ now, Crosstooth?”
“Looks like summat is stuck in ’is gullet, Cap’n. Oh, look out!”
The corsairs gasped in amazement as Ballaw began pulling a long ribbon from his mouth. It opened out wide and frilly. Out and out it came as the hare pulled faster, paw over paw, changing colors as it issued from his mouth—red, blue, pink, brown, green, purple, culminating in a vivid yellow with large black letters written upon it.
Ballaw sat up and read it aloud. “‘Cap’n Tramun Clogg’—why that must be your goodself, sir!”
Clogg scratched his plaited beard fiercely. “Aye, that’s me name. ’Ow’d you know?”
Ballaw leaned close to Clogg’s ear. “It’d shock you what us magic rabbits know, my good fellow. Here!” He presented Clogg with a rosy apple that he appeared to pull from the pirate stoat’s ear.
Tramun clacked his clogs together with delight. He was immensely taken with his new-found friend.
“Gruzzle, Boggs, fetch wine an’ vittles fer our magic rabbit ’ere. C’mon, matey, tell us yer name.”
Ballaw bowed courteously. “Tibbar!”
“Tibbar, wot sorta name’s that?”
“Why, it’s simply rabbit spelled backwards, me old buckadoodle.”
“Haharrharrharr! Yore a good un, Tibbar. Do more magic fer us.”
Ballaw adopted a droopingly sad face. His ears flopped downwards. “Alas and alack, old mateyfriend, I must go. But would you like to see some more magic creatures? We could put on a show of legerdemain, a tale of unrequited love and skulduggery that would astound you!”
“Aye that we would, Tibbar matey.” Clogg nodded eagerly. “When’ll ye bring yer friends?”
“Tomorrow eve just after sunset, into the courtyard of yonder fortress, if I have your promise that none shall harm us.”
The Cap’n held a grubby paw to his stomach, which he valued far more than his heart. “Promise? You ’ave me oath as a corsair, matey. You an’ yer mates is to be treated like queens an’ kings made o’ butterfly wings, and I’ll slit the gizzard of anybeast that looks the wrong way at ye!”
“Until tomorrow night then, sweet Cloggo!”
Ballaw flung his paw out at the fire. There was a puff of heavy purple smoke, a blinding white flame, and he was gone.
The corsairs stood in a hushed group around the fire, rubbing their eyes after the flaring white brightness.
Gruzzle shook his head sadly. “The magic rabbit’s gone, shipped out in a flash. D’you think ’e’ll turn up again like ’e said ’e would, Cap’n?”
Clogg fished about in his shirt until he found the chunk of mackerel. He nodded as he chewed on it. “Bless yer ’eart, Gruzzle, o’ course ’e will. Tibbar’s me matey. D’you ’ear wot ’e called me? Sweet Cloggo. Ain’t that ’andsome!”
* * *
Ballaw trotted back into camp humming snatches of a tune he was composing. Rowanoak’s voice greeted him.
“Lookout, everybeast, it’s Tibbar the magic rabbit, fresh from his corsair debut.”
“Magic rabbit yourself, you old stripehound.” Ballaw helped himself to a large wild cherry flan. “Well, chaps an’ chapesses, the jolly old wheeze worked. We open tomorrow night in the main courtyard of Fortress Marshballyank. Leave it to De Quincewold, eh wot?”
“Ballaw, you deserve three hearty cheers!” Felldoh shook his head admiringly.
The theatrical hare’s ears stood up indignantly. “Stow the applause. I’d sooner have three hearty suppers and some decent cordial to wash away the taste of that corsair’s seaweed ale. Dreadful swill! That Cap’n Clogg’s chaps aren’t goin’ to last long drinkin’ that stuff. Dearie me no, they’ll end up warped or rotted. Take m’ word.” Under a quarter-moon on clifftops still warm from the day’s sun the Rambling Rosehip Players rehearsed for the following night’s performance. Felldoh and Brome learned the business quickly. They had to.