Free Eulalia! by Brian Jacques

through no fault of his own, none of that lot back there understood him. Mouldy old Elders! Trouble with them was that none of them could take a little joke. Huh, they all got their stuff back, didn’t they? Well, nearly all. Still, that was no reason to turn a harmless little hog out into the wilds. It was their fault he was stuck in a ditch, covered with slutch. Orkwil managed to extract a plain oat scone from his bundle. He gnawed at it, thinking up recriminations to heap upon his tormentors’ heads.
    Suppose he got trapped here and couldn’t get out, what then, eh? A huge storm might come, with torrents of rain, and the ditch would fill up, into a raging river, to wash him away and drown him in the process. Probably Granspike Niblo would find his young battered body, when she was out gathering watercress. Orkwil pictured the scene. His limp carcass being carried back to Redwall, on a stretcher strewn with woodland blossoms. The Dibbuns howling with grief, and the Elders having to accept the blame for their harsh sentence. Hah, they’d be sorry then, especially that Marja Dubbidge, and Fenn Bluepaw, seeing as it was they who started all his misfortunes. Father Abbot Daucus would shake his head sadly and say that no youngbeast would ever be banished for a full season again. Redwallers had learned a stark lesson from young Orkwil Prink, a good little creature, cut off in his tender seasons.
    Orkwil finished his plain oat scone, feeling very self-righteous. At least he had done something good for all the other young Redwallers. Saved them from such harsh punishments in the seasons to come. Well, of course he had. He wagered they would probably raise a memorial over his grave in the Abbey grounds. Aye, and hold an Orkwil Prink rememberance day, once every summer. At this point, Orkwil could not hold himself back from shouting aloud.
    â€œAnd that’ll teach you all a lesson, won’t it?” His cry disturbed two blackbirds that were nesting in the bush, which shook as they fluttered off. What was that? Orkwil wondered. He crouched there, shivering, until he fell into weary sleep, clinging to the branches.
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    Is not the light of day a wondrous thing? It banishes all fears and worries of the previous night. Warm sunlight shafting into the leafy bush canopy wakened Orkwil. He stretched his paws, yawned and promptly fell from the shelter of the bush, down into the ditchbed ooze. Uttering some very fruity oaths, which would have earned him a good dressing-down at the Abbey, he scrambled back up onto the pathside.
    Wolfing down another plain oat scone and an apple, Orkwil breakfasted as he resumed his journey, regardless of the foul-smelling mud, which was caked thick on his spikes. As he trudged along, an idea began forming in the young hedgehog’s mind. Maybe he could find a friendly little family of woodlanders, dormice or bankvoles. They would probably live in a snug little cottage, somewhere along a riverbank. He could become useful to them, helping with the everyday chores. Then he could pass away a pleasant season, with a roof over his head, and vittles aplenty. Maybe he would stay with his new friends for more than a season, perhaps two.
    Orkwil giggled aloud. They’d start getting worried at Redwall, when he didn’t turn up at autumn. Probably wear their paws out, sending search parties to look for him. Now, where was the nearest river on the northern path? It had to be the River Moss. He’d heard Skipper Rorc talking about it. There was a ford that crossed the path, someplace further up, Skipper had said so.
    With a lighter heart, and a renewed spring to his paws, Orkwil forged onward. He halted at noon, peering up the path, not sure whether the shimmer in the distance was from the heat haze, or the ford waters. Plumping himself down on the mossy bankside, he undid his bundle. There were only more plain scones and a flask of pennycloud cordial. The young hedgehog pulled a face.