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anybeast could be so deeply wounded an’ live. Sork used fish glue to mend his skull bone. When that was all clean and set, I used long hairs from his own back as thread to stitch the skin back over. We set lots of spider web over it all. Give it a few days, then we’ll wash it gently with valerian and sanicle to deaden any pain. Shoredog says he’ll have to be moved to the old cave where it’ll be quieter. We’ll make him a big bed of silver sand and moss.”
    Abruc nodded. “That should help. I’ll keep a warm fire of pine an’ sweet herbs burnin’ there, night an’ day.”
    Marinu rose. “I’m going back inside. Sork wants to borrow some of the broth off’n my chowder to feed him. A hard task with such a big beast who’s still senseless.”
    When she had gone inside, Abruc and Stugg finished off the remaining food. The young otter sat watching his father attach a slim line, from the end of his rudder, to a thick root growing from the bankside. Abruc took a chunk of beeswax and began rubbing it into several more loose lines of tough flaxen fibre.
    The sea otter eyed his young son. “Shouldn’t you be off to yore bed, ’tis getting’ late.”
    Stugg rubbed some of the beeswax on his paw curiously. “Wot are you doin’ wiv dat stuff, farder?”
    Abruc explained as he worked. “I’m makin’ a bowstring, a good stout one that won’t rot or break under strain.”
    Young Stugg pursued his enquiries. “Wotta you be wantin’ a bowstring for, farder?”
    Abruc answered patiently. “T’aint for me, it’s for our big badger. I’ve got a feelin’ he’ll be well again some day. When the time comes, he’ll be leavin’ us to go westward.”
    Stugg persisted. “Is a bowstring good to go westward wiv?”
    His father began deftly plying the waxed fibres together. “Aye, son, that big feller’s an archer. He’ll have t’find ’imself the right wood t’make a new bow, but the least I can do is to plait him a proper bowstring. Then he’ll be well armed to settle up with the vermin who tried to slay him an’ murdered his ole friend.”
    Stugg nodded. “I bet they be sorry then!”
    Abruc stopped working momentarily. “Sorry ain’t the word, young ’un. When a badger goes after his enemies, there ain’t noplace they can run or hide from him. I’ll wager our big beast will come down on ’em with the Bloodwrath!”
    Unfamiliar with this strange word, Stugg posed a new question. “Wot’s a Bloodraff, farder?”
    Abruc shook his head decisively. “Bloodwrath is terrible, somethin’ you don’t ever want t’see or know about. Go on now, off to bed with ye, me son!”

4

    Old Father Phredd was the Redwall Abbey Gatekeeper. He had once been Abbot, but his seasons caught up with him. Passing the position over to Carrul, he retired to the gatehouse. Phredd was ancient, probably the oldest hedgehog in all Mossflower, and enjoyed being very old, and rather eccentric as well. Although the Old Gatekeeper sought the privacy of his beloved gatehouse and slept a lot, when he was up and about, he could be rather sprightly. His skinny form, with drooping silver spikes, often caused a smile around the Abbey and its grounds. Phredd spoke to stones, trees, plants and flowers, carrying on long conversations and debating with the most everyday objects.
    He had arrived late for lunch, shunning the main crowd that was now gathered in the orchard. Preparing his own plate in the deserted kitchens, Phredd first chose a scone. He prattled on to it as he made his way around the tables.
    â€œHee hee, you’re a fine fresh fellow. Now what’ll I have to go with you, eh, eh? Speak up!”
    Placing an ear close to the scone, he cackled. “Teeheehee! Of course, some honey, a piece o’ cheese and a