The Rogue Crew

Everybeast knew Wopple was a fine singer, who always had to be coaxed. The Dibbuns were the most vocal in their pleas. “Ho goo on, Friar marm, sing us da one ’bout Dibbun Pie!”

Wopple smiled furtively whilst fidgeting with her apron tassels. Then she nodded at Foremole, who played the opening bars as she started singing.

“If any babe won’t go to bed,

an’ will not take a bath,

an’ talks back to his elders,

Oh, that fills me with wrath.

Come right along with me, I say,

don’t try to run or fly,

don’t pull or tug, you’ll soon be snug,

inside a Dibbun Pie!

Dibbun Pie, my oh my,

I won’t tell you a lie.

If you ain’t good, you surely should

end up as Dibbun Pie!

I covers him with honey ’cos

some Dibbuns do taste sour,

I stuffs a chestnut in his mouth,

then rolls him round in flour,

I shoves him in the oven,

an’ sez yore time is nigh,

for with a piecrust o’er yore head,

you’ll soon be Dibbun Pie!

Dibbun Pie, my oh my,

no use to weep or cry.

If you ain’t good, you surely should

end up as Dibbun Pie!”

The Dibbuns sang the chorus lustily and cheered the Friar loudly, giggling and chortling at the idea of a Dibbun Pie.

Foremole Roogo shook his head with mock severity. “Burr, you’m likkle villyuns, Oi wuddent larf so loud if’n Oi wurr ee, or Froir Wopple’ll make ee into pies!”

Brinky the vole Dibbun scoffed at the idea. “Hah! No likkle Dibbuns never got maked into pie!”

Old Fottlink, the ancient mouse who was Recorder to Redwall, interrupted. “That’s all you know, young Brinky. I knew a very cheeky Dibbun who was once baked into a Dibbun Pie, so there!”

The little volemaid stared wide-eyed at Fottlink. “Who was it? Was ’e very naughty?”

The Recorder nodded. “Very, very naughty—it was me!”

Brinky mulled over this revelation for a moment, then said, “But if you got eated for bein’ naughty, why are you still ’ere?”

Fottlink whispered knowingly, “Because I was very young.”

Brinky went into some more deep thought before speaking. “Very, very young an’ only a tiny likkle beast?”

The Recorder nodded solemnly. “That’s right!”

Murty the molebabe enquired hopefully, “But you’m wasn’t naughty again, was you’m, zurr?”

Jum Gurdy chuckled. “Oh, no. Ole Fottlink was a goodbeast from that day on. I know, ’cos ’tis true!”

The two Dibbuns stared open-mouthed at the big otter. If Jum said it was true, then it had to be so.

Dorka Gurdy, Jum’s sister, entered the cellars. She looked cold and distracted.

“Jum, I’ve got to talk with ye!”

Jum rose, waving his sister, whom he was tremendously fond of, over to the forge fire. “Dorka, me ole tatercake, come an’ sit ’ere. Ding, fetch ’er some ’ot chestnuts an’ a drink o’ Baggaloob.” Taking off his sister’s wet cloak, Jum placed a warm blanket around her shoulders. “Now, wot is it, me ole heart, is ought troublin’ ye?”

Dorka leaned close, dropping her voice. “I don’t wants t’say it aloud. ’Twould upset these good creatures. Could I speak with ye in private, Jum?”

The big otter gestured to a stack of empty barrels. “Right ye are, sister dear. Come over ’ere.”

Once seated behind the barrels, Dorka clasped her brother’s huge paw. “D’ye recall young Uggo Wiltud? Stole a hefty fruitcake an’ ate the whole thing by hisself?”

Jum managed to hide a smile. “Aye, I think that ole cake must’ve been nearly as big as liddle Uggo. I know he’s a scamp, but I can’t ’elp likin’ ’is boldness.”

Dorka shook her head. “Well, he’s sufferin’ for it now, but that’s not wot I wanted t’talk to ye about. It was Uggo’s dream. He told Abbot Thibb that he saw a ship comin’ to attack Redwall, a big green craft. Later I ’eard ’im say somethin’ about a design on the ship’s sail.”

Jum chuckled. “A ship attackin’ our Abbey? I think it was really a big cake attackin’ Uggo. But why all the fuss, me ole darlin’? ’Twas only a greedy liddle ’og’s dream.”

Dorka gripped her brother’s paw tighter. “Well may ye say, Jum Gurdy, but let me tell ye the design Uggo saw on the ship’s sail. ’Twas the prongs of a trident with a pair of evil eyes starin’ from the spaces atwixt ’em. You know wot that means. ’Tis the sign o’ the Wearat!”

Without either of them knowing, little Brinky had been eavesdropping on the conversation. She skipped to the forge, calling out in a singsong baby chant, “A Wearat, a Wearat, Uggo see’d a Wearat!”

Every Redwaller knew what a Wearat was, though none had ever seen one. Wearat was a forbidden word in the Abbey. It was an unmentionable horror, a thing of nightmare. There was a moment’s silence, then frightened shouts rang out from everybeast.

“A Wearat? Uggo Wiltud saw a Wearat?”

“Where did he see it—is it in our Abbey?”

“Oh, no, we’ll all be murdered in our beds!”

“Lock the gates, bar the doors, it’s a Wearat!”

Abbot Thibb came hurrying in to see what the alarm was about. “What Wearat? Where?”