Stiffener Medick was leading his friends over the dunes toward the cliffs. Dawn’s first slivers of light showed pale-washed grey behind the limestone heights. Rain teemed down unabated, squalled by the wind that flattened the dunegrass. Wet and weary they stumbled onward, assisting one another through the soft sand. Stiffener nearly jumped out of his skin when an otter popped up right in front of him.

“Aye aye, wot’s this then, the old hares’ outin’? Ain’t picked out very good weather for it, mate, ’ave ye?”

Immediately recognizing the creature as a friend, Stiffener blew a dewdrop of rain from his nose and grinned. “No we ain’t! Tell you somethin’ else, too, we’ve lost our picnic baskets—linen, cutl’ry, vittles, the lot!”

The otter threw a paw around the boxing hare’s shoulders. “Worse things ’appen at sea, eh? Not t’worry, me ole lad, we’ll find ye a dry berth an’ a mouthful ’round the fire. My name’s Brogalaw, Skipper o’ Sea Otters, but let’s get you an’ yore fogeys in out the rain, then we’ll natter.”

Brogalaw led them to the cliffs. He clapped paws to his mouth and shouted at the blank stoneface, fighting to make himself heard above the storm: “Ahoy the holt, ’tis only Brog wid some ole hares wot’ve escaped from the wildcat’s bluebottoms on the mountain!”

Trobee coughed politely to gain the otter’s attention. “Beg pardon, old boy, but how’d you know that?”

Brogalaw winked. “Tell ye later, matey.”

A sea buckthorn bush growing against the cliff face was pushed aside at one corner. The homely face of an otterwife appeared, her nose twitching disapprovingly. “Lan’ sakes, Brog, get those pore beasts in out the weather.”

They filed inside, staring about. It was a big, rough and ready cave, full of otters and a fully grown grey heron which stood immobile on one leg, watching as Brog grouped them about the fire. Bread was brought to them, with cheese baked on top of it. From a cauldron by the fire, the hares were served with steaming bowls of stew. The otterwife watched appreciatively as they ate hungrily.

“Good, ain’t it? That’s my special tater’n’whelk’n’leek chowder. I’m Brogalaw’s mum, Frutch. Ahoy, Durvy, break out some seaweed grog an’ give this crew a beaker apiece. Haharr, that’ll put the life back in ye!”

Stiffener could hear the rain outside battering the cliff face as he sat on the warm sand around the fire with his friends, listening to Brogalaw’s story.

“’Tis like this, messmates. We’re sea otters, see. Lived down the coast, south apiece. Quite ’appy we wos, ’til ole Ungatt arrived with ’is blue vermin. I tell ye, we just about got away with our lives that day. ’Ad to run fer it an’ ’ide, we did. Those vermin commandeered our best two ships, stoled ’em y’might say. So there you ’ave it. We sneaked up the coast after ’em, tried to take our ships back. No luck, o’ course—far too many of the swabs fer us. Enny’ow, ’ere we be, sittin’ in this cave, waitin’ our chances, an’ ’opin’ fer better times t’sail along!”

Old Bramwil told the hares’ tale of woe to the sea otters. The goodwife Frutch, a softhearted creature, wept silently as she listened, dabbing her apron to the tears. “Oh, woe is you, pore beasts, least they never slayed nor imprisoned none of ours. Can’t we ’elp ’em, Brog?”

The sturdy sea otter Skipper raised sand with his rudder. “There there now, me liddle mum, don’t go floodin’ us all out wid yore tears. Y’ll ’ave me blubbin’ soon. Wot sort o’ creatures’d we be if’n we didn’t give aid to others worse off’n ourselves, I ask yer? ’Course we’ll ’elp!”

Stiffener thanked him on behalf of all the hares. Bramwil moved nervously away from the great heron. “Er, don’t mind me askin’, Brog, but what’s that big bird doin’ living with you, wot?”

Brogalaw stroked the heron’s snakelike neck fondly. “Oh, this feller. Nice ole cove, ain’t he? Name’s Rulango. Been with us since he was a chick. Never speaks, fends an’ feeds for hisself an’ washes twice a day in the sea, don’t ye, mate?”

Brogalaw stopped stroking and the heron nudged his paw with its long, pointed beak, wanting him to continue. He chuckled. “I forgot to tell ye, don’t ever start strokin’ his neck feathers. You could stroke all season an’ it still wouldn’t be enough for ’im. This bird likes t’be stroked plenty! Now, let’s get ye sorted. There’s pals o’ yours, you think, still on the mountain, but y’don’t rightly know where, eh?”

Blench toyed with the chowder ladle. It was a nice one. “Aye, that’s true, sir. I can’t stand the thought that those vermin villains might be doin’ nasty things to ’em!” She began sobbing. Frutch sat down beside her and gave her a clean kerchief, and they sobbed together.

Brogalaw twiddled his ruddertip awkwardly. “Ho, I can’t be a-doin’ wid this. Lookit them, waterin’ the chowder down. Action, that’s wot we need. Durvy, me’n’you’ll take a scout ’round the mountain. Rulango, me ole fishgrubber, would you take a flight ’round the mountain an’ see wot y’can see? Sail careful, though— watch out fer those blue vermin. Still, if’n the bad weather ’olds out, most of Ungatt’s rascals should stay inside the mountain. Well, no time like the present. Let’s get under way, mates!”

Stiffener rose, dusting warm sand from himself. “I’ll come with ye, Brog.”

The sea otter would not hear of it. “Yore much too wearied. Y’need sleep, Stiff mate. Come on now, y’ole codfish, a nice nap by the fire’ll do yer a power o’ good. We’ll be back by the time you wake. If we ain’t, then tell Blench an’ me mum a few funny stories, cheer ’em up. You’ll be doin’ me a big favor. G’bye now!” Brogalaw, Durvy and Rulango were gone before anybeast could argue.

*

Ripfang and Doomeye, like most searats, were hard and cruel, and they were enjoying their new positions as horde captains. They sat by a small fire they had made from the remains of the oil barrel staves. Ripfang poked at it with a long willow cane while he watched the three creatures searching the cavern, calling out to them at frequent intervals.

“Hey there, Fraul, stay where I kin see yew. Don’t go hidin’ in dark corners where y’can catch a quick nap!”

“How are we supposed to find anythin’ if we can’t search?” the former stoat captain complained.

Ripfang strutted over to him, swishing the cane. “Git that paw out. I’ll teach yer t’cheek an officer!”

Fraul hesitated. Doomeye fitted an arrow to his bow. Aiming at the stoat, he drew string. “Do like ’e sez, stupidface. I’m warnin’ yer, I never miss.”

Completely humiliated, Fraul was forced to hold out his paw. Swish! Ripfang delivered a stinging cut of the lithe willow. Fraul’s face went tight with pain, and he dropped his paw.

Ripfang smiled at him, lifting Fraul’s paw with the cane. “Like some more, or ’ave yew learned yer lesson, winklebrain?”

Fraul kept his eyes fixed on the ground. “Captain Ripfang sir, I’ve learned my lesson, Captain Ripfang.”

The searat smirked at his brother. “See, my one’s learned now. Every time ’e speaks t’me it’s gotta be either sir, or captain, or Captain Ripfang. ’Ow’s yore one doin’?”

Doomeye kept the arrow notched as he called to Mirefleck, who was trying to appear unobtrusive behind a fat stalagmite: “Stand out where I can see yore worthless ’ide, yew scum!”

Mirefleck hastened to obey, her shouts echoing in the cavern. “Yessir, Captain Doomeye sir, right away, sir!”

Doomeye looked slightly exasperated. “This one does everythin’ y’tell ’er. She ain’t much fun. Prob’ly ’cos she knows she can’t run faster’n an arrow.”

Ripfang sat back down by the fire. “How d’ye know she can’t? Go on, try ’er!”

A wicked smile hovered on Doomeye’s face. He sighted along the arrow and shouted sharply at Mirefleck, “Run!”

Mirefleck was fast, but not as quick as an arrow.

Doomeye looked stunned, and dropped the bow. “Yew made me do that. I didn’t mean to slay ’er. Wot’ll the wildcat say? ’E might ’ave me killed with an arrer.”

Ripfang gave his brother a playful shove. “Don’t be daft. ’Ere, watch this an’ lissen. Fraul, Groddil, get yerselves over ’ere, on the double!”

The hapless pair scurried across, saluting.

“Yessir, Captain Ripfang sir!”

Ripfang adopted a serious face and a grave tone. “Did yew ’ear that Mirefleck? Shoutin’ an’ sayin’ nasty ’orrible things about ’Is Mightiness, terrible things, things yer couldn’t repeat. Did you two ’ear ’er?”

The willow cane pointed from one to the other as they answered.

“Yessir, Captain Ripfang sir!”

“We both heard her, Captain Ripfang sir!”

Ripfang shrugged and winked at his brother. “See?”

Doomeye grinned as recognition dawned upon him, then he was struck by another idea. “Aye, an’ did you both see that ’un attack me’n’this other captain an’ try to escape?”

The answers came back as expected.

“Yessir, Captain Doomeye sir!”

“We both saw it all, Captain Doomeye sir!”

The two captains tittered like naughty beastbabes who had wriggled out of being punished. Ripfang nodded toward the body of Mirefleck. “Tie that thing with rocks an’ sling it in the pool, then git on wid yore searchin’.”

Groddil bowed respectfully. “We need rope to do that, Captain Ripfang sir.”

Doomeye looked at the stunted fox as though he were stupid. “Then go an’ get some rope, lots of it. We needs to tie youse two up tight tonight. You’ll be stayin’ down ’ere. Us captains got to get some decent rest an’ ’ot vittles. Well, don’t stan’ there lookin’ gormless, move yerself!”

Groddil did get lots of rope, a great coil of line from one of the ships. That night, he and Fraul were bound together from tails to necks. Ripfang tested the knots, then pushed the two bound captives down.

“Make sure yer get a good sleep now, you’ll be busy tomorrer. Hahahaha! G’night!”

When the two captains had gone, Fraul growled at Groddil angrily. “Why did ye bring so much rope? I can ’ardly move a whisker. We’ll be no good fer anythin’ in the mornin’!”

Groddil’s reply was even angrier. “Then be still and shut your useless mouth. I didn’t bring all this rope down here just to be tied with it. Those two mudbrains don’t know it, but I’ve found where the longears made their escape from. There’s a way out of here!”

“A way out? Where?”

“I’ll tell you when you’ve chewed through this rope. Now get your teeth working, stoat. We’ll need this rope to reach the place—that’s why I brought so much!”

Groddil lay still. They were back to back, but he could hear Fraul gnawing at the rope. “And don’t be all night about it. We’ll be lucky to last another two days with no food and those cruel fools guarding us. Chew harder, Fraul. It’s either get away tonight or we’re both deadbeasts!”

Ungatt Trunn did not sleep that night either. His dreams were haunted by the shadowy form of a Badger Lord with a sword, a big double-hilted war blade, getting closer each night.

*

Early evening of that same day saw Brogalaw and Durvy returning to their cave. Stiffener and the hares were awake, eagerly awaiting any news the sea otters could disclose to them. But there was none.

Brogalaw stood before the fire, steam rising from his fur. “Rain ain’t let up by a drop. I tell ye, the wind fair chases it ’round every rock on that mountain!”

Durvy joined his Skipper, and they both sipped bowls of broth. Not wishing to appear ill-mannered or impatient, Stiffener let a short time elapse before asking the question.

“Did you catch sight of any hares, Brog?”

“Sorry, matey, but we didn’t. Searched high’n’low though, didn’t we, Durvy?”

“Aye, we did that, but all we saw was foul weather, wet rock an’ the odd glimpse of blue vermin. Nary a hare. Is Rulango returned yet?”

Frutch fed the fire with driftwood. “Oh, that ole bird’ll turn up when it suits him. I’d wager he’s out fishin’. Rulango likes to fish in the rain.”

Thoroughly dejected, the hares lounged about, constantly looking toward the entrance to see if the heron would show up. Night fell and there was still no sign of him. Two younger otters took out a whistle and a small drum and began playing a pretty tune. The one beating the drum began to sing.

“Oh I am a sea otter I lives by the sea,

I knows every tide ebb’n’flood,

An’ I’ll never break free from the sea, no not me,

’Cos the sea’s in a sea otter’s blood.

Haul yore nets in mates an’ let everybeast wish,

That tonight we’ll be dinin’ on saltwater fish!

Well I’ve seen ’er stormy, sunny an’ calm,

An’ I’ve tasted the good, briny spray,

Just show ’er respect an’ she’ll do ye no harm,

She’ll send you ’ome safe every day.

Throw those pots in mates, down deep t’the sea,

Tonight you an’ me’ll ’ave lobster for tea!

Them waves come a-crashin’ on out o’ the blue,

Aye big rollers all topped white with foam,

I sees my ole boat prow a-cut ’em clean through,

An’ I sings then a-sailin’ back ’ome.

We’re ashore now mates, let yore mains’l go limp,

I’ve brought my ole mum a great netful o’ shrimp!”

Scarce had the otters finished singing when Rulango stalked into the cave. Brogalaw stroked the great heron’s neck. “Well now, about time you showed up, mate. Did you ’ave a good feed o’ fish out there?”

Rulango nodded several times. Brogalaw tickled his crest. “Yore an’ ole scallywag, fishin’ while these goodbeasts are waitin’, gnawin’ their whiskers for news o’ their mateys. So, what’ve ye got t’say for yoreself?”

Rulango tapped the sandy floor with his widespread talons. The sea otter smoothed out an expanse of the sand, winking happily at Stiffener. “Our friend’s got news for us. Watch this. Right ho, me ole bird, tell these creatures what ye saw.”

The heron began drawing in the smooth sand with his beak. Stiffener moved close, interpreting what he saw. “There’s the coastline an’ the sea . . . now he’s sketchin’ out our mountain. Look at this, Bramwil!”

The ancient hare joined Stiffener and watched admiringly. “I say, this bird is a good artist. That’s Salamandastron sure enough, viewed from the seaward side if I’m not mistaken. What’s that? Oh, I see, it’s him, circling round the rocks, about three-quarters of the way up. Hmm, he’s drawing a circle in the mountain. Wait, ’tis a window hole, near the top level. But I don’t understand—what are all those funny leaf-shaped things he’s sketching inside the window hole?”

Stiffener stared hard at the leaf shapes. “Strange-lookin’ things. I can’t tell what they are.”

However, Brogalaw identified them without hesitation. “Why, bless yore ’eart, matey, they’re long ears, just like yours. Good bird, you’ve found where Trunn’s keepin’ the hares locked up. Is that right?”

The heron nodded his head emphatically, then retired to a corner, where he perched on one leg.

Blench viewed the sketch with dismay. “Oh lawks, we’ve no chance of climbin’ up that ’igh. Wot’s t’be done, Stiffener?”

The boxing hare bit his lip and scratched his whiskers. “Aye, what’s t’be done? A difficult question, marm!”

Trobee slumped moodily by the fire. “Of all the rotten luck, chaps. The blinkin’ bounder has locked ’em up in a place far too high for us to do anythin’. I mean, how in the name o’ sufferin’ salad are we supposed t’get up there, eh, eh, wot, wot?”

Brogalaw’s mother, Frutch, looked appealingly at him. “Oh, say you can ’elp the pore beasts, Brog!”

The Skipper of Sea Otters closed his eyes patiently. “I’ll give it a try, Mum, but don’t go gettin’ yore ’ankychief out an’ weepin’, or I won’t be able to think of anythin’. Quiet now an’ let me ponder this.”

Frutch blinked back grateful tears. She avoided reaching for her kerchief as she smiled at Blench. “Don’t ye fret, m’dear. My Brog’ll find a way to ’elp ye!”

Silence reigned in the cave. Outside the wind whipped up the rain into a fresh assault on the cliff face, and waves could be heard breaking on the shore. Brogalaw nodded to himself a few times, as if confirming his thoughts. Then he opened his eyes.

“Right, mates, ’ere’s the top’n’bottom of it all. ’Tis too ’igh for us t’climb up to ’em. But they could climb down with the right ’elp. This is my plan. We needs ropes, good long ’uns. Once we’ve got ’em, Rulango can fly the ropes up to yore mates an’ they can lower themselves down!”

It was a splendid idea, but Willip found an obstacle. “I don’t see any great long ropes hereabouts. You’ll forgive my sayin’, Brog, but the plan won’t jolly well work without ropes.”

Brogalaw was forced to agree with Willip. “Yore right, marm. Ahoy, Rulango’s drawin’ again!”

The Skipper of Sea Otters took one look at the sketch.

“Yer a crafty ole wingflapper, mate. Durvy, Kolam, Spraydog, come with me’n’Rulango. There’s work t’be done!”