High Rhulain

The Guosim chieftain shook his head. “Nay, ye did just fine, gel. Wait’ll I see who he is when he comes back, an’ then take yore lead from me.”

They sat by the fire a while, picking at the wonderful food and puzzling over the strange hare. Long before they saw the hare, they could hear him. He was bawling out a sea shanty in a raucous voice.

“O shiver me timbers an’ swab me decks,

ye bullies to me hark,

Or I’ll gut yore tripes an’ dock yore necks,

an’ feed ye to the shark!

’Twas in the winter we set sail,

ye bullies to me hark,

in the eye of a storm an’ the teeth of a gale,

I fed ’em to the shark!

Their cap’n was a greasy oaf,

ye bullies to me hark,

I tied him to an ole stale loaf,

an’ fed him to the shark!

I stewed his crew in seaweed punch,

ye bullies to me hark,

an’ seein’ as ’twas time for lunch,

I fed ’em to the shark!

So if ye think yore big’n’tough,

ye bullies to me hark,

I’ll stuff ye all with skilly’n’duff,

an’ feed ye to the shark. Haharrhaaaaaarrr!”

Scowling and growling ferociously, the hare swaggered into view. This time he was wearing a tricorn hat with a big fluffy feather, which he kept blowing upward to stop it flopping into his right eye. His left eye was hidden beneath a musselshell patch. A brass ring, large as a barrel stave, dangled from his good ear. He wore a tattered pink silk frock coat, tied with a broad yellow sash, into which were thrust two cutlasses, a knife, fork and spoon. His outfit was completed by an enormous pair of folded-down seaboots, which beggared description.

The hare winked dramatically at them with his uncovered eye. “Stap me stays’ls! Vittles, an’ prime ones, too! Come an’ fill yore beak, matey!”

Pandion, who had been trundling along in his wake, settled down by the fire. The hare launched into the food as if he had not eaten in days, tossing choice morsels to the osprey. Salad and crumbs sprayed the company as he addressed them.

“Vittles, where’d we be without ’em, eh, I ask ye? So then, young Tillie, me otter, are ye the one I’ll be battlin’ alongside when we gets to this Green Isle place? Speak up, me liddle periwinkle!”

Tiria tried hard to keep a straight face as she replied, “Aye, Cap’n, providing we make it to Green Isle.”

The hare sprang up. Grabbing for but missing his cutlass, he brandished a spoon instead while roaring out, “Make it? Haharr, o’ course we’ll make it, Tillie me darlin’, or my name ain’t Cap’n Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw, Terror o’ the ’Igh Seas. We’ll set sail at first light tomorrer, ’ere’s me paw an’’ere’s me ’eart on it. A sea otter pirate can’t say fairer’n that now, can he?”

Tiria realised that Cuthbert was now in the role of a sea otter pirate captain. Life was certainly going to be complicated, sailing with a hare whom she had met as a shrew but was now transformed into an otter! How many other identities did he possess, she wondered. The one cheering fact was that she was now guaranteed a passage to her destination.

That night, Tiria went to sleep with the Rhulain’s words echoing through her mind: “Trust in the fool of the sea.”

17

Holt Summerdell was still some distance off as the otterclans and their families made it into the start of the high country. It was early evening, not quite dusk, as they skirted the rim of a vast crater. The otterbabe riding on Leatho’s shoulders gazed, sleepy-eyed, down the steep shalestrewn sides at a big lake. Flat and dark, it covered the bottom of the crater, its water dull and lustreless, its slate-hued surface without a ripple.

“H’is dat Suddermell down dere?”

The outlaw smiled up at the little one. “No, me beauty, that’s the place they call Deeplough. Summerdell’s much nicer, just the right place for otterbabes.”

Deedero looked away, shuddering. “I should hope it is. Zillo, how much farther to Summerdell?”

The bard pointed inland. “See the rim beyond this ’un? Well, there’s a valley covered in woodland with a waterfall runnin’ through it. Holt Summerdell’s right there, marm, hidden amongst the trees. A grand secret place ’tis.”

Big Kolun picked up a chunk of rock from the crater rim. “Loose stones round the edges, mates, so don’t walk too close t’the edge now. One slip an ye’d go straight down that slope into the lough, with nought to save ye. Zillo, how deep would ye reckon that water is?”

Ould Zillo stared at the still waters, far below. “Well now, they say ’tis bottomless. Nobeast has ever plumbed the depths o’ Deeplough. Sure, an’ who’d be fool enough to try such a thing? Will ye look at it, ’tis smooth as dark glass! Ah, ’tis an evil lough, the home of Slothunog the monster!”

Deedero glared at the bard. “Will ye stop that sort o’ talk in front o’ the little ’uns? ’Twill frighten the life out of ’em!”

Big Kolun hefted the rock he had picked up. “Take no notice of that ould ballad warbler, me ’eart’s delight. Nobeast I ever knowed has seen Slothunog. He’s prob’ly just a tale somebeast made up ages ago.”