The Rogue Crew

Twoggs took a sip from the bowl which the Friar had just passed to her. She wrinkled her withered snout with delight. “Oh, ’appy day—spring veggible soup, my fav’rite bestest thing inna world. Fortune smile on ye, Cook marm, an’ may ye allus ’ave someplace soft to lay yore ’ead at night!”

Taking a crust of bread, she began dipping it in the soup and sucking noisily. Dorka smiled at the Abbot. “Don’t look like she’s up to answerin’ any more questions as long as the vittles keeps comin’.”

Thibb shrugged. “I think you’re right, friend. Friar, I’ll leave her in your care. See she gets what she wants, then let her nap in the storeroom. Mayhaps she’ll talk to me when she feels like it. Oldbeasts like her aren’t usually in the habit of visiting new places without a reason. Though maybe she was just hungry.”

Sister Fisk watched as another bowl of soup disappeared. “Aye, that’s probably it, Father. Let’s hope she soon gets enough, before she eats us out of house and home. Incidentally, how’s that torn pawnail of yours?”

The Abbot held it up for Fisk’s inspection. “Oh, it’s not too bad. I’ll take more care next time I’m trying to shut the main gates on my own.”

Dorka shook her head. “Aye, wait for me. I know them gates—they can be tricky if ye don’t handle ’em right.”

Fisk examined the pawnail, noting that the Abbot flinched when she touched it. “Hmm, you’d best come with me to the Infirmary, Father. I think a little of my special salve and a herbal binding is what’s needed to solve your problem.”

The Abbot made to walk away, excusing himself. “Oh, it’ll be quite alright as it is. Pray don’t trouble yourself, Sister.”

Fisk caught him firmly by his habit girdle. “It’s no trouble at all. I won’t hurt you—now, don’t be such a Dibbun and come with me.”

She marched him off briskly. Friar Wopple passed Twoggs Wiltud a slice of mushroom pasty, remarking to Dorka, “I think there’s a bit of the Dibbun in all of us when it comes to visiting the Infirmary. One time I got a rose thorn in my footpaw when I was a Dibbun. Old Brother Mandicus had to dig it out with a needle. I’ve had a fear of healers ever since.”

Twoggs interrupted through a mouthful of pasty. “Ain’t ye got nothin’ decent t’drink round ’ere?”

Friar Wopple looked slightly offended. “What d’ye mean, somethin’ decent to drink? All the drinks are decent at Redwall, I’ll have you know!”

The ancient hedgehog cackled. “I means summat sweet tastin’. Alls I’ve ’ad since I came ’ere is tea an’ ale. I’m partial t’sweet drinks, cordials’n’fizzes.”

Dorka Gurdy put on an expression of mock pity. “Oh, ye pore ole thing, we shall have t’get ye some strawberry fizz or dandelion an’ burdock cordial.”

Twoggs sensed that she was being mocked and replied sharply, “Less o’ yore cheek, waterdog, or I won’t say a word about wot I was sent ’ere t’say!”

The big otter wagged a paw at the old hedgehog. “Who are you callin’ waterdog, pricklepig?”

Friar Wopple got between them. “Now, now—no need for insults an’ name-calling. I’ll go and ask Foremole Roogo to fetch a jug o’ damson an’ pear cordial from the cellars.”

Twoggs pulled herself upright, the picture of injured dignity. “Aye, an’ I’ll come with ye. I ain’t stayin’ ’ere t’be h’insulted by that imperdent creature!” She stalked off behind the Friar.

Dorka humphed. “We takes ’er in, an’ that’s how we gets treated for bein’ ’ospitable to ’er. Scrawny ole beggar. If’n my brother Jum were ’ere, he wouldn’t let ’er near his cellars. Huh, that ole ’og needs a good bath, if’n ye ask me!”

“Hurr, if’n Oi arsks ee wot, marm?” Foremole Roogo entered the kitchen from the serving hatch door. Dorka explained about Twoggs.

“One o’ that Wiltud tribe turned up at our Abbey. She’s eaten ’er fill an’ gone down to the cellars with Friar for a jug o’ cordial.”

Foremole jangled the ring of keys at his side. “She’m b’aint a-gettin’ nuthen. Oi locked ee door.”

Dorka was about to reply when from the cellar stairs there came a hubbub of crashing, shouting, squealing and bumping. The big otter hurried off with Roogo trundling in her wake. “Good grief, what’s all the commotion?”

They found Twoggs at the bottom of the spiral sandstone stairs. Friar Wopple was leaning over her, trying to sit her up against the locked door. “She pushed past me at the top of the stairs. Tripped on those old rags she was wearin’, an’ tumbled from top to bottom. I couldn’t stop her!”

“You’m ’old on to hurr, marms, an’ stan ee asoide!” Foremole produced the key, opening the door. They bore Twoggs Wiltud in between them, laying her down on a sack of straw.

Friar Wopple passed a paw in front of the old hog’s nostrils. “Dorka, run and get Sister Fisk. I don’t know how bad she is, but she’s still breathing. Foremole, can you find a beaker of sweet cordial, please?”

Dorka arrived back with Sister Fisk and the Abbot as Friar Wopple was attempting to get some of the cordial between the patient’s closed lips. The Sister immediately took charge.