Rakkety Tam Read Free

waved cheerily to Humble. “Goo’ mornin’, h’Abbit. I jus’ gonna frow dis snowball ’way.”
    Abbot Humble nodded understandingly. “There’s a good little maid, it’s not nice to take snowballs in to breakfast.”
    Mudge the molebabe called out helpfully, “Hurr, ’cos snowyballs can’t eat breffist. Can they’m, zurr?”
    A hedgehog Dibbun named Perkle piped up. “An’ hysiggles can’t not eat breffist, neither, can they?”
    Mudge shook his head solemnly. “No, they’m carn’t, you’m gurt pudden-’eaded choild!”
    Sister Screeve retrieved a long, pointed icicle from Perkle. “Give me that icicle before you put somebeast’s eye out with it.”
    Skipper laughed at the antics of the Dibbuns, who, now that they remembered they were hungry, were anxious to be fed. They squeaked and bounced up and down as the helpers tried to keep them in line. They splashed about in puddles of melted snow which dripped from them.
    The otter chieftain called to the helpers, “Sister Armel, when you get that lot brekkisted, may’aps you’n Foremole an’ Screeve might like to drop by Cavern ’ole to ’ear the latest news from Jem’n’Walt.”
    Sister Screeve chivvied three latecomers into line. “Thank you, I’ll bring quill and parchment to record any important events. We’ll see you down there shortly.”

3

    An hour later, all Redwallers interested in hearing the news were gathered in Cavern Hole. They waited respectfully until Hitheryon Jem had sipped at a tankard of mulled October Ale. He smacked his lips appreciatively, glanced at the eager faces of his audience and then commenced.
    â€œWell now, my good friends, those last two winters were so deep an’ hard that me’n ole Walt here couldn’t make it up to yore Abbey, but here we are now. Other seasons were fine—springtimes fresh, summers warm an’ autumns agreeable. There weren’t much to report on until this late autumn. Then we came across a mighty strange thing, didn’t we, Walt?”
    Putting aside his tankard, the mole blinked dozily in the warm firelight glow. “Burr aye, et wurr strange an’ h’odd, vurry h’odd!”
    Sister Screeve dipped her quill into some ink swiftly. “Strange and odd—in what way, pray tell?”
    Jem gazed into the fire, as if reliving the incident. “It were a sunny morn, but misty. We was rovin’ along the tideline, southwest, a couple o’ leagues from the mountainstrong’old of Salamandastron. There on the shore we espied a small vessel, wrecked it were, an’ washed up on the rocks. So, me’n Walt, we went to see wot we could do. Right, Walt?”
    But the old mole had slipped off into a slumber, wooed by the fire and the comfortable armchair. Jem smiled, then continued with his narrative.
    â€œLooks like I’m bound to tell this tale alone. Aye, ’twere a small craft, with a simple square-rigged sail, smashed to bits an’ stoved in by the rocks. All that was in it was a few empty food sacks, a broken water cask an’ some fish bones. But there were tracks aplenty, runnin’ up the beach an’ headed nor’east. We took a good look at them marks, made by a single beast they were. I tell ye, it made pawprints like we’d never seen, great wide blurry ones with deep curvin’ clawmarks—bigger’n those of a badger. The claws were broader, more pointed, not blunt like a badger’s but very sharp an’ long. By the blurrin’ o’ the tracks, I figgered this must be a beast with long hair comin’ from its paws. By the length o’ the pawmarks, an’ their depth, Walt reckoned that the thing’d be about the same size as a big male badger. Anyhow, we was thinkin’ of makin’ our way over to visit ye at Redwall afore winter set in. So seein’