The Rogue Crew - 22 by Brian Jacques

Author:Brian Jacques [Jacques, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PHILOMEL
Published: 2011-05-03T05:00:00+00:00

Greenshroud had rounded a hilly point. She lay at anchor in a pleasant little bay. Razzid Wearat would not abide idle paws aboard his vessel, so whilst he awaited the return of his trackers, he set the crew to work. Good silver sand showed through the clear shallow water, ideal for hull scouring. Teams of corsairs and searats waded almost chest deep, rubbing the malodorous slime from the marsh off the woodwork. Mowlag and Jiboree patrolled for’ard and aft, each swinging a knotted rope’s end to chastise any slackers. Razzid had retired to his cabin in a foul humour. The entire craft seemed to be permeated with the smell of green mud.

Staying clear of her ill-tempered captain, Shekra went ashore on the pretext of looking for medicinal herbs. The vixen enjoyed the early summer day, paddling awhile in the shallows, then wandering farther along the beach. Tiring of the walk, she eased herself down behind a small sandhill, grateful for the chance of taking a short nap. She had just closed her eyes when scuffling sounds disturbed her. The noise came from somewhere behind where she was sitting.

Easing gently to the hilltop, she spied out the land. The intruder was a ragged-spined old hedgehog foraging for food. He was using a crude spearhead to probe the rocky base of the main hill, which isolated the cove to the north. Shekra watched him; he had a woven reed sack slung over one shoulder, which contained any edible finds. As he rummaged, the old hog muttered and giggled to himself.

“Heeheehee, limpets. Drogbuk likes limpets. Ye can boil up a good soup wid limpets. Come on, ye shellbound rascal. No good ye hangin’ on. I’ll git ye off’n there!”

He pried a big limpet from the rockface, throwing it into his sack. “Aye aye, wot’s this? A good ole nipclaw. Heehee, you’ll go nice in Drogbuk’s soup, matey. Cummere!”

The crab tried to dig in twixt sand and rock, but the hedgehog’s spear stabbed it right through its shell. Still writhing and nipping, it was tossed into the sack.

Shekra stole up on the unsuspecting hunter, commenting in a honeyed tone, “By the seasons, yore good at that. ’Tis a pleasure to watch a beast who knows wot he’s doin’.”

The old hedgehog appeared startled for a moment, then snapped, “Well, yew ain’t gittin’ none o’ my vittles. Go an’ git yore own, bushtail. Go on, be off wid yer!”

The vixen continued chatting in a friendly manner. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of askin’ to share your food. It must be hard enough, trying to scrape a livin’ on this part of the coast. I admire your efforts, Drogbuk.”

The ragged oldster squinted suspiciously at the fox. “Who told ye my name, needlenose?”

Shekra shrugged. “Just guessed it, I suppose. My name’s Shekra. I’m with that big green ship over yonder.”

Drogbuk carried on prising periwinkles from the base of the moss-clad rock. He sniffed scornfully. “I seen it afore—big clumsy lump o’ wood! Makes no diff’rence t’me. I’ll be movin’ on by nightfall.

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