Loamhedge by Brian Jacques Read Free Book Online Page B

who, pray, was yore muther an’ father?”
    The stranger replied, straight-faced. “A rat an’ a fox, I s’pose, but they was terrible liars.”
    Flinky scratched his head. “Liars? Huh, I’ll say they was!”
    Burrad interrupted by thwacking Flinky between both ears with the flat of his blade. “Who asked yew, puddle’ead? Ger-ron wid cookin’ dose fishes!”
    He turned to the odd-looking creature. “Wot’s yore name, ferroat, an’ wot d’ye want ’ere?”
    The newcomer pointed to himself. “Just told ye, haven’t I? Me name’s Ferroat, an’ I’ll sing an’ dance fer me supper. That’s if ye’ll allow me, kind sir.”
    The vermin gang winked and sniggered among themselves. Burrad, a kind sir? This old fool was begging to die.
    Testing his cutlass blade by licking the edge, Burrad leaned close to his intended victim and grinned. “Allow ye, eh? If’n yore dancin’ an’ singin’ ain’t to me likin’, I’ll allow this blade to chop ye into ten pieces. Then I’ll allow me gang to roast ye over that fire. If ye don’t taste nice, we kin always use ye fer fishbait!”
    Smiling affably, the odd beast bowed creakily. “ ’Tis a fair offer, sir, I thankee kindly.”
    Shuffling about in a curious jig, the creature twirled his staff and began singing.
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    â€œI’ll always recall wot Ma said to me,
    ere I went a rovin’ a minstrel to be,
    beware of the vermin, they ain’t got no class,
    an’ they ain’t got the brains Mother Nature gave grass!
    Rowledy dowlety toodle um day.
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    I soon found out me dear mother was right,
    I met up with some vermin the followin’ night,
    they were strangers to bathin’, an’ that made me think,
    why didn’t Ma tell me that all vermin stink?
    Rowledy pong and a toodledy pooh!”
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    The comic-looking old ragbag of a beast jigged and shuffled around. Raucous laughter greeted his performance followed by tears of merriment that coursed down the vermin’s cheeks. It was only at the start of the third verse, when vermin’s faces were compared to toads’ bottoms, that Burrad realised the singer was insulting him and his gang.
    Roaring with rage, the fat weasel rushed the disguisedotter. Whirling his cutlass, Burrad aimed a mighty swipe that should have left the singer headless. However, far from being slain, the odd creature ducked under the blow, came up under Burrad and tweaked his snout.
    Purple with spleen, the gang leader grappled with his opponent, yelling to his second in command. “Skrodd, gut this old fleabag wid yer spear, I’ve got ’im!”
    The tall, evil-looking fox dashed forward, plunging with his spear. But the otter was fast and more clever than both vermin. He butted Burrad under the chin, wriggled from his grasp and scuttled to one side in the blink of an eye.
    Burrad stood gaping at the spear protruding from his stomach. He raised his clouding eyes to the open-mouthed fox, faltering. “Ye’ve killed me, yer blather-brained foo . . . !”
    Burrad crashed over backward, slain by his own gang member. Amid the drama, nobeast noticed the four fish vanish up into the willow foliage, hauled on a thin twine by the green withes they were spitted upon.
    Skrodd’s surprise was only momentary. His brain was already reacting to the fact that he was now the vermin gang’s new leader. Leaving the spear stuck in his former chief, the tall fox grabbed the cutlass from Burrad’s limp grasp. He came at the otter with a blurring barrage of swift slashes.
    Whizzzzzthonk! A slingstone from the trees suddenly rendered him senseless. Skrodd’s fellow vermin looked on in horror as his body collapsed in a heap. Before the gang could move, the squirrel dropped from her perch. Danger glinted in her eyes as she twirled a loaded sling