Dawn light crept over Noonvale in a golden haze. Unused to sleeping in a bed under a roof, Martin was up and about, feeling strangely light without the short sword tucked snugly at his side. He wandered about the settlement, marvelling at the beauty and proliferation of fruit and flower, a tribute to the industrious inhabitants. Sitting beside the waterfall, he enjoyed the cool atmosphere. Perch and trout could be seen gliding lazily in the crystal depths of a pool at the base of the falls. The young mouse stared at his reflection in a shadowed inlet. The marks of the deep scratches on his cheeks were still there, and his face was thinner, though the resolute jaw was firm and the eyes that stared back at him shone with the light of determination.
He was not surprised to see Aryah appear beside him. She placed her paws on his shoulders, watching his image in the water. “You are an early riser, Martin.”
“I could not sleep, but I see you are up early too.”
“Yes, I have spoken to Boldred. I have asked her to seek out Brome. What is the matter, Martin? Are you not happy here?”
“It is a beautiful spot.”
“But you must soon return to Marshank?”
The young mouse flicked a pebble into the pool and watched it sink. Aryah sat down beside him and patted his paw. “You and my husband Urran Voh are both alike in many ways, warrior and peacemaker, both walking different paths, but both stubborn and immovable. The world needs such creatures. Rose told me that the Tyrant holds your father’s sword. Is that the reason you must go, to take the sword back from him?”
Martin stood up. He helped Aryah on to her paws. “Yes, the sword belonged to my father, Luke the Warrior. I swore a warrior’s oath to him that I would never let another beast take it from me. I was little more than an infant when Badrang stole my sword, but now the seasons have given my paws the strength to take it back. You understand, I must do this, and I must free Marshank of slavery.”
Martin thought he saw the glimmer of a tear in Aryah’s eye.
“I understand, young warrior. The thing that grieves me is that Rose will go with you, no matter what I, or her father, may say.”
Martin reached out, wiping the teardew from Aryah’s cheek. “I will take far greater care protecting her life than I will my own.”
* * *
Grumm ladled creamy pale batter on to a heated stone, grunting eagerly as he watched it cook. “Gurr, pancakers. Oi dearly do luv pancakers wi brekkist.”
His tiny nephew Bungo stirred a cauldron furiously. “Hurrhurr, an’ zoop, Nuncle Grumm. Doant furget ’ee zoop!”
Grumm turned the pancake over. “Gurrout you’m darft liddle moler. ’Ow could oi furget zoop! Yurr, doant stir et too farst, you’m ull spoil et.”
Bungo’s tiny paws were a blur as he stirred faster and faster. “You’m doant tell oi ’ow to stir zoop, oi been doin’ et since oi were nought but a liddle un. Pay ’tenshun to thoi pancakers!”
* * *
Tables and forms had been set out under the trees in the sun-splashed shade, and creatures bustled to and fro with breakfast items. Rose dashed by Martin. She was carrying a tray of hot pancakes spread with honey and decorated with pear slices and raspberries. “Out of my way, sir, or you won’t get breakfast today!”
Martin sprang nimbly aside and bowed low. “My apologies, marm. Nothing should get in the way of good food!”
“Then don’t get in the way, lend a paw over here!” Pallum shouted across as he staggered under an immense beechwood bowl of fruit salad.
Mice, hedgehogs, moles and squirrels called out their morning greetings to each other as they went about their chores. Every creature helped until the tables were ready. Little ones scrubbed from tail to eartip and freshly besmocked clambered up on to familiar laps. Young ones, giggling and gossiping together, sat next to their closest friends. Old ones and parents made sure their families were comfortable before perching in their time-honoured positions at table. When every creature was settled, Urran Voh recited the grace and the meal began in earnest.
“Pass the barleybread, please!”
“Ooh, it’s hot! Mind your paws.”
“We’m bain’t ’ad a gudd pancake since Grumm been away. Parss they yurr, Gumbler!”
“Martin, would you like some fruit salad? It’s very good!”
“Thank you, Rose. Here, try some of this maple and buttercup wafer.”
“Oh yes please. Auntie Poppy baked them—they’re my favorite. Teaslepaw, can you stop baby Bungo dipping those pancakes in the soup!”
The hedgehog maid put aside her maplescone and tried to prevent the infant mole from dipping a pancake that oozed honey into the leek and mushroom soup.
Bungo eyed her indignantly. “Keep thoi spoiky paws offen oi an’ eat thoi own brekkist, mizzy.”
Grumm nudged Pallum as the hedgehog finished off a heavy slice of nutbread. “That Bungo be a liddle savage. He’m rooned a gurt pot o’ zoop sturrin’ et loik a wurlywind. Oi maked a speshul pot, jus’ fur you’n oi. Do ’ave some.”
Pallum ladled the broth into his bowl.
“Thankee, Grumm. Mmm, smells nice!”
“An’ so et should, hurr. Oi maked et wi’ roses an’ onions an’ daisies an’ carrot, an’ plums an’ turnip too, ho aye, gudd zoop! An’ oi sturred et slow, not loik some villyuns not arf a league from wurr oi sits!”
* * *
After breakfast, Rose showed Martin round the orchard. Plums, greengages and damsons, hung red, yellow and purple amid other trees bearing pears, apples and cherries. Neat rows of raspberry, blackcurrants, bilberry and redcurrants provided a border between the orchard and the vegetable garden. At the far end of the orchard a crew of moles was digging around a gaunt dead sycamore tree. Grumm was helping. He greeted them with a wave of his huge digging paw.
“Hurr, look at oi, not ’ome a twoday an’ oi’m back at work!” He explained that they were digging to bring the dead sycamore down. It would be cut up and used as stump seats around the waterfall pool. Martin immediately rolled up the sleeves of his smock and began to help. Rose watched for a while, then tossing off her headband of woven flowers, she jumped into the hole alongside Martin.
* * *
All through the day they toiled. Six holes had been bored in and around the base of the dead forest giant and still the sycamore refused to budge. A crowd of Noonvale creatures who had finished their chores gathered round to watch. Grumm and several other moles shook soil from their digging claws and wiped perspiring snouts.
“Gurr, that thurr old tree doant want to budge, Grumm!”
“Hurr no, Gumbler. Nor wudd you’m iffen thoi roots ’ad been thurr for all they long seasons.”
“Hurr, us’ns be yurr till winter shiften this’n!”
“Wot’s ’olden et up? We’m digged deep all round et?”
Grumm vanished down a hole and reappeared, spraying earth about. “Taproot, gurt fat un. Et ull ’ave to break afore she moves, hurrr!”
Martin took a small mole axe and climbed into the hole. “I’m going to have a go at that taproot. Rose, take all these spectators and find the longest, thickest piece of wood you can. Bring it over here and give me a shout when you do.”
* * *
Rose and her party scoured Noonvale. The only thing they could come up with was a long thick rowan trunk, forked at one end. Urran Voh watched them rolling it away.
“Where are you taking that? We were going to reinforce the ridgepole rafter of the Council Lodge with it.”
Rose tugged her father’s beard playfully. “Martin wants it to move the old sycamore. Don’t worry, we’ll bring it back.”
Urran Voh snorted. “I should hope you will, though how you plan to move that big sycamore with it is beyond me.”
Baby Bungo took the Patriarch’s paw. “Hurr, then coom an’ watch. You’m never too seasoned to lurn, zurr!”
* * *
Martin tossed aside the axe. He had cut as deep into the taproot as the limited space in the hole allowed. Climbing out of the hole, he directed the group rolling the rowan trunk into position.
“Push it over here. That’s it! Let the forked end down towards me. Grumm, build up some earth and stones at the edge of the main hole here. Watch out! Let the rowan slide down. Good!”
The rowan trunk stood at an angle down into the main hole, its twin forks buried in two more holes at the sycamore’s roots.
Martin climbed from the hole and inspected it.
Urran Voh nodded. “A lever. Don’t you think it’s a bit big, Martin?”
The young mouse shook his head. “The bigger the better, sir. Right, come on, everybeast climb up it and perch on the high end. You too, Bungo. Every little helps.”
Amid much merriment and whooping, the crowd climbed up the rowan trunk. They balanced precariously at its tilted top, hanging on to each other.
Urran Voh looked up at them. “There’s too few. Not enough room for all up there. Get some ropes.”
It was not long before Aryah and the otters who had sung in quartette came hurrying along, carrying coils of stout vine rope. “This is all we could find, dear. Will these do, Martin?”
The young mouse threw a rope up to the creatures balanced on the end of the rowan. “Perfect, marm! Tie those ropes fast up there, the rest of you swing on the ends for all your worth. You on top, when I give the word, jump up and down. Ready!”
Every creature waited on Martin’s word.
“Right, jump up and down, now! Swing hard on the ropes. Swing!”
The rowan dipped and bent slightly, then loud crack was heard from beneath the sycamore. Martin and Urran Voh threw themselves on the ropes, yelling aloud to the others crowding above and below.
“Jump! Swing! Jump! Swing!”
There was more rumbling and cracking from beneath the base of the sycamore. It began to tipple as the rowan bent under the strain.
Rose and her mother laughed aloud as they swung on the ropes. “It’s going, see, it’s starting to topple!”
The sycamore could take no more. With a groan of creaking and splitting wood it crashed slowly over.
Krrrraaaaakkkkk!
The end of the rowan lever had dipped so low that it almost touched the ground. Loud cheers rang through the valley, Martin and Urran Voh pounded each other’s backs. “We did it, hooray!”
The moles were quite carried away, and went into a wild stamping dance. Rose and her mother kicked up their paws happily at its center. Soon everybeast was dancing, singing and cheering. The great sycamore stood nearly as high as Council Lodge at its upturned base, a forest of roots, soil and rocks.
* * *
By evening a sprawling picnic had broken out along the fallen treetrunk, and strawberry cordial and waterfall-cooled gourds of cider flowed freely. Singing lustily in chorus, the moles brought out ten of their deeper ’n’ ever turnip ’n’ tater ’n’ beetroot pies, huge, deep, hot and satisfying, made in traditional mole manner with massive patterned shining piecrusts topping each one.
“Give ’ee, give you, give them’n give oi,
Turnip ’n’ tater ’n’ beetroot poi,
Gurt platters each morn, an’ more at ’ee noight,
Fill oi a bowlful, et tasters jus’ roight.
An’ iffen ’ee infant wakes, starten to croi,
Feed ’im turnip ’n’ tater ’n’ beetroot poi.
Et’s gudd furr ’ee stummick, et’s good furr’ ee jaws,
Makes’ em grow oop wi’ big strong diggen claws.
Nought gives us molers more pleasure ’n’ joy
Than turnip ’n’ tater ’n’ beetroot poi!”
Pallum, Rose, Martin and Grumm lay back exhausted, picking idly at half-filled bowls and sipping their drinks, contented after the long hard day’s work.
It was then that Boldred dropped out of the sky like a thunderbolt with her news.