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’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.
    â€œA Wearat? Uggo Wiltud saw a Wearat?”
    â€œWhere did he see it—is it in our Abbey?”
    â€œOh, no, we’ll all be murdered in our beds!”
    â€œLock the gates, bar the doors, it’s a Wearat!”
    Abbot Thibb came hurrying in to see what the alarm was about. “What Wearat? Where?”
    Little Brinky was sobbing with fright. Jum came from behind the barrels and swept her up in his paws. “There now, liddle un. There’s nought to fret about.” Raising his voice, he silenced the panicked cries. “Calm ye down now, goodbeasts. There ain’t no Wearat at all, so stop all this noise or ye’ll disturb my barrels of October Ale. Nothin’ worse than unseemly shoutin’ for October Ale!”
    Abbot Thibb confronted the Cellardog. “Then perhaps you’d best keep your voice down, sir. Mayhaps you might explain this upset to me.”
    Dorka curtsied respectfully to Thibb. “’Twas my fault, Father Abbot, but I didn’t know the Dibbun maid was lissenin’. I was tellin’ Jum that after you left my gate’ouse, Uggo was talkin’ in his sleep again, describin’ the marks on the sail of the green ship ’e saw in ’is dreams. ’Twas the sign o’ the Wearat, weren’t it, Jum?”
    The big Cellardog caught the warning look in Thibb’s eye, so he chose his words carefully.
    â€œWell, that’s wot Uggo said it was, but who can tell wot an overstuffed liddle ’og sees in a bad dream, eh?”
    Dorka’s observation slipped out before she could think. “But ’e did describe the sign right, I’m sure of it!”
    Jum saw the look of dismay on his sister’s face. Making light of the situation, he smiled, patting her back. “Now you lissen t’me, ole gel—an’ you Redwallers, too. There ain’t no Wearat within twenny sea leagues of ’ere, nor is there likely t’be. There was only one such beast I ever ’eard of. Razzid Wearat, the corsair cap’n. I know wot ’appened to that un, ’cos when I went t’the coast I saw my ole uncle Wullow, the sea otter. ’Twas Wullow that gave me a gift o’ those fine clamshells wot yore usin’ t’drink from. Any’ow, some seasons ago, Wullow got news from ’is kinbeast, Skor Axehound, chieftain o’ the High North Coast. It seems that Razzid Wearat an’ ’is corsair crew came a-raidin’.” Jum paused to give a wry chuckle.
    â€œSorriest day o’ that Wearat’s life, ’twas. Skor an’ them wild sea otters loves battle more’n Uggo loves stolen cakes. They gave those vermin a mighty whackin’. Aye, slew most o’ the corsairs an’ set their cap’n back out t’sea, with decks awash in gore an’ the ship in tatters an’ flames. So ye can take my ole uncle Wullow’s word, as give to ’im by the Axehound hisself. If there ever was a Wearat, well, ’e’s lyin’ on the seabed now, burnt to a soggy crisp!”
    An audible sigh of relief rang through the cellars. Abbot Thibb stowed both paws in his wide sleeves,