They slept late next morning. The rain had ceased and sunlight was beaming from clear summer skies when Chugger roused himself and trundled out onto the bank. Steamy mist from the rain hung over the whole bankshore in a thick low layer, waiting for the sun to evaporate it. The tiny squirrel raced through it, giggling as he tried to catch the elusive tendrils in his paws. “Yeeheehee! All be’s covered in frog, lotsa frogs. Heehee!”
Gonff and Trimp emerged from the cave yawning. Upon hearing Chugger’s cries, Gonff became alert. “What frogs? Who’s covered in frogs?”
Trimp shoved the Mousethief playfully. “He means fog. Look out!”
The mist parted and Chugger bowled head over brush into them. Gonff swept him up, tickling the little fellow and swinging him about. “I’ll give ye frogs, y’villain!”
Soon the whole party was up and about. Furmo and his shrews lit a fire and began cooking breakfast. Dinny appeared out of the mist, toting a pail of water.
“Hurr, doan’t be furr frum ee seashores naow. Lookit all ee frog yurrabouts, Marthen.”
Martin climbed halfway up one of the ledges and peered over the mist curtain. “Right, Din. We don’t normally get heavy bankmist like this inland. Sea can’t be too far off now. Hush! Everybeast be still. I can hear someone coming this way!”
It was the otters, Tungro and his crew. As soon as Martin recognized their voices, he hailed them from the bank. “Morning, friends. Breakfast’s almost ready, y’welcome to share it with us!”
Tungro waded ashore, dripping from the stream. “Thankee kindly, goodbeasts, we wouldn’t say no to a bite o’ brekkist. The crew ain’t eaten yet t’day.”
Nudging Log a Log Furmo, Gonff raised his eyebrows. “Better git more shrewbread on the hot stones. Here was I, thinkin’ I was goin’ t’get a nice big peaceful breakfast—now it’ll be a small noisy one with this lot as guests!”
The rest of Tungro’s crew came ashore in a huddle. They had Folgrim with them, a rope lead around his middle and both paws bound by a long hobble, which had allowed him to swim. He winked his one good eye at Trimp. “Good day to ye, missie. ’Ope I finds yer well?”
The hedgehog maid shuddered, though she bobbed him a curtsy and managed a quick smile. “I’m well, thankee, sir.”
Tungro drew Martin and Furmo to one side. He seemed slightly embarrassed and hesitant. “Er, I ’opes you’ll fergive me, er, bringin’ my brother Folgrim to yore camp fer brekkist like this. He ain’t a bad beast really, ’tis just that ’is mind’s troubled.”
Martin nodded understandingly and patted Tungro’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, friend. We know a bit about Folgrim and the bad times he’s had. He dropped by here yesterday afternoon. There was no trouble, he behaved himself quite well.”
Tungro looked relieved. “We caught up with Folgrim just after he’d tracked an’ slain a rat. He’d lit a fire, that was ’ow we spotted ’im. Me’n’the crew had t’jump on pore Folgrim a bit, but we managed, tied ’im up an’ buried the rat carcass afore he, er, well . . .”
Furmo poured a beaker of pennycloud cordial for the otter. “’Tis all right, y’don’t have to explain. We know from the other rat Folgrim managed t’get his paws on, just over the banktop there. Come on now, get somethin’ to eat.”
Furmo and his shrews had made a delicious breakfast. There was hot shrewbread, strawberries and a batch of vegetable pasties, with a choice of cordial or hot mint tea to drink. Tungro sat slightly apart with his brother, trying to make him eat a little, but Folgrim kept his mouth firmly shut, refusing the food in silence. Everybeast tried to get on with their meal, but they kept taking secretive glances as Tungro encouraged his brother. “Come on now, Fol, these’re prime vittles, made by the best o’ Guosim cooks. Try some o’ this pasty, me ole mate!” Folgrim merely shook his head stubbornly. Tungro noticed the watchers and shrugged with embarrassment. “Sorry, he won’t eat nothin’, though there ain’t a thing wrong wid yore food, friends. ’Tis the best I ever tasted.”
Trimp was trying to hold onto Chugger, but he wriggled out of her grasp and went swiftly on all fours to Folgrim. Smiling up into the otter’s scarred face, Chugger grabbed a pasty and lectured him like a mother squirrel. “Eaty all up now, or y’don’t grow bigga strong like me. H’i eatim up if’n you don’t, silly ole riverdog!”
Suddenly Folgrim burst out laughing at the little squirrel’s antics, and took a big bite out of the proffered pasty. “You ain’t eatin’ all my brekkist up, liddle sir, ho no!”
Chugger nodded his head in agreement. “Good h’otter, now Chugg getcher sh’ewbread an’ minty tea!”
Folgrim gobbled another mouthful of pasty. “Why thankee, mate, though I likes cordial better’n mint tea. Mebbe you could fetch me a couple o’ them strawberries, too. They look nice!”
Tungro shook his head in amazement at the sight of Chugger feeding breakfast to his brother, both of them chatting away amiably, as if they were old friends.
“Well wallop me rudder, will y’look at that? Folgrim never was the most civil o’ beasts—back at the holt ’e spoke to nobody, much less smile an’ chat like that. I reckon my brother’s took a shine to yore liddle squirrel!”
Trimp was slightly apprehensive. She confided her fears to Dinny in a whisper that only he could hear. “I’m not so sure I like Chugger being around Folgrim. He’s an otter who’s eaten his enemies and is troubled in his mind. Who can tell what he’d do if the mood took him?”
The mole put aside his food, watching Folgrim and Chugger. “Oi doan’t think ee gotten much t’wurry o’er, missie. Hurr, jus’ you’m looka yon h’otter. Whoi, ee’m loik an ole molemum wi’ ’er h’infant molebabe. Wuddent ’arm an ’air o’ maister Chugg’s liddle ’ead, burr no!”
Trimp watched as Chugger fed Folgrim some shrewbread. The little squirrel was talking to the otter as if he were a naughty Dibbun.
“Now if’n you don’t eat alla sh’ewbread up, I won’t not let you ’ave no st’awbees, mista Fol!”
The hedgehog maid nodded in agreement with her molefriend. “I think you’re right, Din. They’re firm friends!”
When the meal was over, Martin and his group struck camp. Warm summer sun had lifted all the mist and the broad stream glistened invitingly. Tungro hailed them as they were packing supplies aboard.
“My ’earty thanks to ye, friends. We’ve got t’go now. Safe journey to you’n’yore mates, Martin, an’ fair weather attend ye to the north coast!”
However, it was not that simple. Folgrim refused to go with his brother. Digging himself into the banksand, he resisted all their attempts to move him. Tungro stroked his strange brother’s head coaxingly.
“C’mon, Fol, let’s go back ’ome together, matey. Yore ole bed’s waitin’ for ye, an’ everybeast’s wantin’ to give you a great welcome. Wot d’you say, eh?”
Chugger leaped from the raft and threw himself upon Folgrim, hugging the scarred otter and wailing piteously. “Waahaah! Don’t take mista Fol ’way. Waahaahaa!”
As if this were not sad enough, Folgrim joined in, tears streaming from his one eye. “Buhurr! Don’t take me away from me liddle pal. I wants t’go with ’im. Buhuhurr!”
Tungro was greatly moved. Dashing a paw across his eyes, he appealed to Martin. “Tell me, mate, wot do I do?”
The Warrior leaped ashore. Two swift slices of his sword set Folgrim free from the ropes at his waist and paws. “There’s only one thing to do, friend. Let your brother come with us. We’ll deliver him safe to your holt on the return journey, I promise.”
Folgrim jumped up. With Chugger perched on his shoulders, he boarded the raft, both of them grinning from ear to ear. Tungro shook Martin’s paw fervently.
“I know my brother’ll be safe with goodbeasts like you’n’yore friends, sir. Mayhap ’twill be good for ’im.”
They sailed off downstream, waving goodbyes to the otters standing on the banks.
“See you sometime about autumn!”
“Aye, we’ll be waitin’, with a potful of shrimp’n’hotroot soup to welcome ye!”
“Good, we’ll be lookin’ forward to it!”
“Watch out for Folgrim at night. He’s a terrible snorer!”
“Hurr hurr, if’n ee can outsnore this lot, zurr, ee must be a good ’un!”
“You speak for yourself, Dinny mole. I don’t snore!”
“Ho yuss ee do, miz Trimp. Don’t ’er, zurr Gonff?”
“I wouldn’t know, Din. When you’re snorin’, it drowns out every thin’, even thunderstorms!”
The curious raft, with logboats tied to both sides, sailed off downstream into the soft summer morning. Tungro and his crew gave a final wave before sliding into the water and gliding sleekly upstream, home to their holt.
*
It was midday when Log a Log Furmo steered into a curving recess. Martin looked up at the shrew as he scrambled atop the steep rocky bank.
“What’ve we stopped for, Furmo? Surely it’s not time to eat already. We’ve hardly been afloat today.”
“Come up ’ere’n’look at this, Martin.”
The Warrior joined his friend on the banktop. Far ahead he could see thick extending pine woods, flanking both sides of the stream. Martin peered hard at the dark mass. “Trouble, d’you think?”
The Guosim Chieftain voiced his thoughts. “I noticed the stream’s startin’ to run swifter, so I thought it best t’pull in an’ scout the land. No sense dashin’ into danger, that’s if there’s any there.”
Martin mused for a moment, looking from the raft to the pines and back again, before making up his mind. “Right, here’s what I suggest. You take Gonff, I’ll take Folgrim—I wager he can smell vermin a league off. We split up and go both sides of the bank to scout those pine woods out. Leave the rest with the raft. Throw a kedge anchor over the stern—that’ll slow them up so they won’t be speeding into the pine wood area.”
Furmo agreed with Martin’s strategy. An old waterlogged willow limb, forked at one end, was weighted by lashing big chunks of rock to it. When it was cast over the raft’s stern, it dragged heavily on the streambed, slowing the vessel’s progress considerably.
Furmo and Gonff took the north bank, the raft dropped Martin and Folgrim off on the south bank. Chugger shook a tiny paw at the Warrior. “You take good care of mista Fol, or I smacka you tail!”
Martin nodded seriously at the little fellow. “Aye aye, cap’n Chugg, I’ll watch out for him, never fear.”
Log a Log Furmo had been right. The broad stream was surely moving faster, running deeper, too, Martin noticed as he trotted along the bank with Folgrim at his side. Without the kedge anchor on its stern, both raft and logboats would go hurtling downstream.
At noon they reached the fringes of the pine woods. Gonff and Furmo waved across at Martin on the opposite side. He held both paws up, signaling them to wait. After a while Folgrim returned from scouting inside the fringe. He was carrying some ashes and a clump of grass, stained dark purple, along with a dab of ochre, still wet from the stream. Urgently he gestured for them to back off, away from the pines.
When he judged they were far enough from the conifers, the otter signaled them down to the shallows, where they could converse across the stream. Gonff and Furmo waded in as deep as they dared. Martin and Folgrim followed suit, the strong current pulling at them. The otter held up the stained grass and spoke. “Painted Ones, in the woods. Beware!”
Gonff and Furmo waded back to dry land. Folgrim called after them, “See you back at the raft!”
*
Trimp helped the Guosim shrews haul her friends aboard and looked questioningly at Furmo as he ordered the craft into the south bank, behind a curve. “What is it, what’s happening?”
The shrew Chieftain explained. “Painted Ones are in those pine woods ahead. Folgrim found traces o’ the blaggards.”
Trimp was plainly puzzled. “What d’you mean, Painted Ones?”
“Nobeast knows fer sure, missie, but most of us thinks they’re some kind o’ tree rats. My Guosim ain’t been down this far in seasons—weren’t any about then. I reckon they must’ve been driven out o’ their own territory an’ settled in the pines yonder. Painted Ones is vicious savages, never just a few. They always come in big gangs. Those woods’d be ideal for ’em—they paints themselves all over, like sunlight stripes an’ shadows. Painted Ones live up in the trees, an’ woe betide any pore traveler tryin’ to pass through their stampin’ grounds. Killin’s second nature to ’em! They’re very good at disguises—you could be walkin’ in the pines, thinkin’ nobeast is there, then bang! The villains ’ave got you, an’ yore a dead ’un!”
Dinny shook his head sorrowfully. “Et be a gurt pity, ’cos we’m be orfully near ee seashores. Oi cudd feel et in moi diggen claws.”
Trimp sighed sadly. “But we can’t go any farther now.”
Gonff chucked her gently under the chin. “Lackaday, lookit that long face, like a toad with toothache. Cheer up, pretty one, or you’ll have it rainin’. Leave it to me, I’ve got a plan!”
Dinny wrinkled his nose. “You’m got ee plan, zurr?”
Gonff adopted his devil-may-care expression. “Why d’ye think they call me Prince of Mousethieves? Of course I’ve got a plan, you ole tunnel-grubber!”
Martin prodded his friend’s well-fed middle. “I hope ’tis a plan that’ll work, matey?”
“Oh indeed, an’ did you ever know any o’ my plans that didn’t work, O swinger of swords?”
“Aye, lots of them, O pincher of pies!”
“Well this won’t be one of that sort, O noble whiskers!”
“It had better not be, O pot-bellied soup-swigger. Now tell on.”
“We won’t wait ’til light—we’ll set sail and shoot past them in the dark. They won’t expect that.”
*
The raft stayed tied to the bank until midnight; then they cut loose the kedge anchor and hoisted the sail. Drifting out into a moonless dark midstream, Gonff nodded to Furmo, who was seated in the logboats with his Guosim. Digging paddles deep, they shot the craft off downstream, with Martin, Dinny and Folgrim punting long poles at the stern. A light breeze caught the sail, billowing it out beautifully. Gonff and Trimp laid out slings and heaps of well-rounded stream pebbles where they could be easily reached. The Prince of Mousethieves chuckled. “The speed she’s goin’, we’ll be through an’ past ’em afore they even guess we’ve arrived, eh, missie?”
Covering Chugger’s sleeping form with foodsacks and loose canvas, Trimp snuggled down by him. “I hope you’re right, Gonff, for all our sakes, but mainly for this little mite’s. I don’t know what I’d do if any harm befell Chugger.”
Folgrim turned from his pole, file-sharpened teeth glinting in the darkness, his one good eye roving wildly. “If’n yer wants t’see deadbeasts, pretty miss, take a look at any vermin puttin’ a paw near my pal Chugg!”
Trimp shivered, certain that the scar-faced otter did not issue idle threats.
As the flotilla of raft and logboats neared the pine wood, myriad eyes, aglow with evil intent, watched it from the bankside trees on both sides. Small harsh excited whispers sounded through the conifers.
“Yikkyikkyikkyikk! Heerdee comm!”
“Many many lotsa shroobs’n’micers, too. Yikkayikka!”
“Betcher deez viddlez, too, loddza viddlez!”
“Fassta fassta inta dee trapp. Yeehikkayikka!”
“Fattee moledigga an’ ’edgepiggee, avva fun wid dose!”
Then the raft was into the wooded area. Martin congratulated Gonff quietly on his daring scheme. “Well done, mate. We’re shooting through like a shaft from a bow. Not much can stop us now!”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the raft hit a thick series of vine ropes, stretched at different heights above and below the water. Everybeast aboard was thrown flat with the impact, and both leading logboats and the front of the raft were jammed fast in the cunning trap.