Pearls of Lutra

by Brian Jacques

  Auma held Martin tight. He was still struggling, tears of helpless rage flowing openly down his cheeks, and she had to exert all her strength to hold him.

  ‘Skipper, let’s get him back down into the gatehouse,’ she said, ‘we need to think this out calmly. Grab his footpaws, he has the power and wildness of a badger Lord. I’ve never seen Martin like this!’

  Unaware of what had taken place on the walltop, Tansy sat with Rollo, Piknim and Craklyn in the cellars, puzzling over Fermald the Ancient’s third, and what seemed to them most baffling, rhyme. Tansy read it aloud for the umpteenth time:

  ‘My sad third tear is shed, for one who now lies dead,

  A friendly foe it was to me, a cunning old adversary.

  Now heed the clues and read my rhyme,

  Patience pays but once this time.

  Inside the outer walls I lie,

  Without me you would surely die.

  I am not earth nor am I stone,

  No shape at all to call my own,

  Not bird or beast or flow’r or tree,

  Yet captives live within me free!’

  Rollo removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, sighing wearily. ‘Is there any of that dandelion and burdock cordial left? Pour me some, please, Craklyn. This is a real poser and no mistake!’

  The squirrelmaid offered a suggestion as she poured the drink. ‘I wonder if Fermald was writing about the dead creature, Graylunk? See, the first line says, my sad third tear is shed, for one who now lies dead. What d’ you think, Tansy?’

  The hogmaid studied the slim paper scrap in front of her. ‘No, it couldn’t be. Graylunk’s remains are outside in Mossflower, and this line states clearly, inside the outer walls I lie.’

  The mousemaid agreed. ‘Correct. What we’re looking for lies within the walls of our Abbey. It’s not much of a clue, but I think it means something not actually inside this main building.’

  Craklyn thought about it, then seconded her friend’s view. ‘Aye, when we talk of things in the grounds we always say inside the Abbey walls. Not within the Abbey, but between the building and the outer wall.’

  Rollo was tired, but the logic suddenly dawned upon him. ‘Oh, I see! You mean outside – the orchard, the lawns and so on. Right, who do we know who lies buried out there?’

  Furlo Stump was restacking the firkins back in place, listening to the conversation. Leaving his work he ambled over, wiping slowly at his strong paws with a damp cloth. ‘Beg pardon, but don’t mind me sayin’, I thinks yore wrong lookin’ for a he or a she. The poem says it were an it, not he nor she. A friendly foe it was to me the line says. I’m prob’ly wrong though, but I jus’ thought I’d mention it.’

  Tansy shook Furlo’s paw heartily. ‘Well done, mister Furlo. That was cleverly thought out! Sometimes we can get too smart for our own good and miss the clue, and that’s when we need good common sense like yours, sir. Come on, let’s take a look around outside, there’s still time before dark.’

  The friends had barely ventured outdoors into the gathering dusk when Auma came hurrying towards them, calling, ‘Have you seen Martin or Skipper recently, are they inside?’

  Tansy sensed something was wrong by the worried look on the badger’s homely face. ‘No, we haven’t seen them, Auma. What’s happened?’

  Ushering them back inside, the badger Mother glanced about. ‘Come, help me search for Martin and Skipper. I’ll tell you as we go . . .’

  BOOK TWO

  Westward the Warriors

  19

  PALE WHITE AS watery milk, a spring moon cast its light over the still trees of Mossflower, patching light and deep shadows throughout the silent woodlands. Without the need of lanterns, Martin the Warriormouse strode abreast with the Skipper of Otters, Clecky the mountain hare and his companion Gerul the barn owl. Martin had sheathed the sword of his legendary namesake across his back; Skipper carried sling, stones and a light javelin, whilst Clecky had found a hare longbow and quiver of arrows in Redwall’s armoury. Gerul had his formidable talons and fierce curved beak, weapons enough for any owl.

  Telling only Auma of their plans, the four friends had slipped away from the Abbey, making a pact that they would only return in the company of Abbot Durral and Viola bankvole. Skipper and Martin were both experienced trackers. A broken twig, a crushed leaf or the slightest pawdent in the Mossflower loam was sufficient to tell them that they were right on the trail of Lask Frildur and the vermin crew.

  It was long after midnight when they spotted the glimmer of campfire ’twixt the treetrunks. Martin waited with Clecky and Skipper, while Gerul flew to investigate, gliding like an elusive moonbeam through the high foliage.

  They had not long to bide before Gerul returned. Fluttering down to the low boughs of an alder, the owl blinked and ruffled his breast feathers briskly. ‘Ah, ’tis them all right, sir, bold as brass an’ cheeky as chaffinches, squattin’ on their hunkers an’ gnawin’ at pore dead birds. But the big lizard spoke truth, so he did. There’s not a sign of the good ould Abbot, nor the liddle volemaid, he’s hid them away on that ship he spoke of, the scurvy rascal!’

  Martin unsheathed his sword. ‘Skip, you go in from the left, Clecky, you and Gerul circle in from the right, I’ll take the centre. Wait for my call, then it’s straight in and give no quarter. But remember, we want to take the leader alive, so don’t slay the big one called Lask. We need him to bargain for the Abbot and Viola. Go now and good luck be with you!’

  A single vermin sentry had been posted on the left side. It was closest to the woodland edge, and Lask considered that the most likely place an attack would come from. Normally he would not have bothered with a sentry, but something in the maddened eyes of the Warriormouse had told him that this was no creature who would sit still and bargain whilst those under his protection were held hostage.

  The sentry was a burly stoat called Skarbod, veteran corsair of many fights and battles. Hiding behind an elm trunk, Skarbod watched Skipper creeping noiselessly forward. The stoat stood well hidden by the broad elm as, drawing a scimitar, he waited for the otter to pass him.

  Skipper heard the corsair’s blade start whistling through the air; only speed saved the otter Chieftain’s life. Throwing himself flat to the earth, he left the blade slashing night air, then, rolling over, he thrust upward like lightning with his javelin.

  ‘Yeeeeaaagh!’

  Skarbod’s last scream was cut short as he fell dead on top of his slayer. As Skipper threw him off, pandemonium broke out.

  Martin charged through the centre like a thunderbolt.

  ‘Redwaaaaall!’

  A searat who was not fast enough fell to Martin’s blade. Lask Frildur immediately signalled his Monitors to follow him. Leaping back out of the firelight, he hissed at the corsairs, ‘He iz only one, kill the mouze!’

  Suddenly Martin was hemmed in by vermin swinging a variety of weapons; he cleaved a ferret immediately in front of him. A weasel behind him raised an axe, but before the vermin could strike a feathered shaft took it through the nape of its neck, and the time-honoured battlecry of hares and badgers rang through the glade.

  ‘Eulaliaaaa!’

  Clecky and Gerul stormed in at the same time Skipper hit hard on the opposite flank of the mêlée. Four more fell before the corsairs broke and scattered in all directions.

  The fire had been scattered in the ambush. Clecky coughed and rubbed his eyes as he staggered about, shouting, ‘Onward the buffs! Death before dinner! Stand an’ fight!’

  Skipper halted the hare, who had picked up a broad-bladed cutlass and was in danger of felling anybeast with it.

  ‘Whoa there, mate, can’t yer see they’ve fled!’ the otter said.

  As the smoke cleared it became apparent that the four Redwallers were alone. Martin stepped out of the cloud of choking smoke, saying, ‘What happened to the lizards?’

  Gerul beat the air with his wings to clear it. ‘The blackguards never even stopped t’fight, sir, they were away through the dark like
a half-dozen ould swallows flyin’ south!’

  Skipper had picked up the trail on the far side of the camp. ‘They went this way, Martin, come on!’

  Lask and his Monitors had a good head start. They emerged from the woodlands onto the path, where most of the panic-sped remnants of the crew joined them. The Monitor General found himself facing an angry searat brandishing a spear.

  ‘Yew rotten coward! Slidin’ away an’ leavin’ yore shipmates in the lurch! Yer a spineless, scale-faced . . . Unhh!’

  Lask wasted no time. One great smash of his heavy tail left the searat lying with a broken neck. Scuttling across the path, Lask leapt into the ditch running along its west side. ‘We muzt get back to the vezzel. Follow me, or ztay and die like he did!’

  Wordlessly they piled into the ditch and splashed along behind the Monitor General, their flight made more desperate by the knowledge that the Redwallers would soon be on their heels.

  Skipper was lagging behind. Martin waited for him to catch up, and saw that he was hobbling slightly.

  ‘Skip, what’s the matter, you old streamdog?’ he asked.

  The otter grimaced and lifted his right footpaw. ‘Oh, I’ll be all right, mate. Stepped on some vermin’s fallen sword back there, ’tis only a scratch . . .’

  Clecky inspected the wound. ‘If y’call that a scratch, bucko, then I’d hate t’see what you call a real wound. Gerul, Martin, scout about, see if y’can come up with any herbs. Sit still, old chap, this shouldn’t take long.’

  Martin returned with dock leaves, but Gerul had found some young sanicle, of which he was very proud. ‘Me ould mother always said sanicle’s just the plant fer keepin’ wounds from gettin’ infected. She said ’twas also a grand remedy for the owl wumps an’ spotty egg pimples, so she did!’

  Martin tore a strip from his tunic sleeve, and Clecky used it to bandage the dock and sanicle tightly to Skipper’s footpaw. ‘There y’go! You’ll never see an otter totter with a bandage like that on his jolly old paw, wot wot? An’ y’won’t have to worry about spotty egg wumps or owl pimples, or whatever it was that burblebeak’s old mum was always goin’ on about. So that’s you fixed up, me ole scout, good as new!’

  Clecky was right. Skipper could get along on the bandaged footpaw as if it had never been injured.

  Dawn was starting to streak the sky as the friends scoured the path for signs. It did not take Skipper long to discover Lask’s plan.

  ‘Hah! Ole scaletail thinks he’s throwin’ us off the scent by jumpin’ in the ditch an’ sloshin’ through the water. Just look ’ere, Martin, bruised nettles, broken reeds, mud sloshed everywhere, it’s plainer’n the nose on yer face!’

  They walked along the edge of the ditch following the signs as the sun rose on a bright spring day.

  20

  BREAKFAST AT REDWALL that morning was a subdued affair. Tansy hardly noticed little Arven and the molemaid Diggum helping themselves slyly to the blackcurrant muffins on her platter. She looked up from a beaker of mint tea growing cold in front of her; Auma the badger Mother was rising from her seat. A gradual hush fell on the diners as Auma’s paw went up.

  ‘Friends, there is a lot of gossip and rumour abroad in our Abbey since last night, so let me set matters straight. Our Abbot and young Viola bankvole have gone missing; they are probably lost in Mossflower Wood somewhere. Martin has taken some companions and gone to search for them. I am sure that eventually they will all come home safe. Meanwhile our life at Redwall must carry on as usual, Abbot Durral would wish it so. Therefore I ask you to carry on with your work as you always do, look after the Dibbuns, do not wander outside the Abbey gates, see to your chores, and above all please do not indulge in gossip and scaremongering. That is all.’

  Diggum absently took a gulp of Arven’s pennycloud cordial. ‘Worrum ’bout ee gurt blizzard, will ee cum back an’ eat us oop?’

  Arven considered this as he stole Diggum’s nutbread. ‘Naw, blizzards on’y eat h’Abbots an’ voles’s!’

  Tansy wiped cordial from Diggum’s chin. ‘The word is lizard, not blizzard. And don’t say such horrible things. What has Mother Auma just said about gossiping?’

  Arven wrinkled his nose at the hogmaid as he climbed down from the dining bench. ‘She din’t say Dibbuns not gossip, we be likkle an’ don’t know no better. C’mon, Diggum.’

  With their paws about each other’s shoulders, the unstoppable pair ambled off chanting at each other, ‘Gossip gossip gossip gossip gossip!’

  Rollo joined Tansy, nodding in the Dibbuns’ direction. ‘What are those two up-to?’

  Tansy shook her head, smiling fondly at the retreating Dibbuns. ‘Oh, they’re just gossiping, they’re too little to know any better.’

  Rollo adjusted his glasses higher on his nose. ‘Let us gossip a bit about these pearls. Auma tells me we need all six of them to ransom Viola and the Abbot from their captors.’

  Tansy got up and accompanied Rollo outside. ‘That’s a lot easier said than done. This third rhyme has me well and truly stumped, Rollo. Did you dream up any solutions during the night? I know I didn’t.’

  Piknim and Craklyn were already outside, sitting on the ramparts over the gatehouse. Teasel the hogwife was with them, sipping at a large mug of dandelion tea.

  ‘Mornin’, Rollo, mornin’, Tansy. My, wot a nice day ’tis. I’m just coolin’ my ole paws out ’ere an’ takin’ tea, them kitchens gets so steamy ’ot after breakfast.’

  Rollo and Tansy went up to the walltop and continued studying the rhyme with Piknim and Craklyn, whilst Teasel sipped tea and hummed to herself.

  Tansy passed the thin paper to Piknim. ‘Oh, here, you have it. I’m getting dizzy just looking at that rhyme and getting nowhere with it. My sad third tear is shed, for one who now lies dead, a friendly foe it was to me, a cunning old adversary. Hmm, I can repeat it by heart now. Teasel, you knew Fermald the Ancient as well as any; what friends did she have to your knowledge?’

  The good hogwife scratched her headspikes. ‘Friends, y’say? I don’t know as Fermald ever spoke of otherbeasts as friends, ’ceptin’ that wounded vermin Graylunk an’ maybe ole Grimjaw, an’ that’n she spoke of as friend an’ foe in the same breath. Aye, Fermald were a right ole strange ’un!’

  Rollo looked up sharply from the rhyme. ‘Grimjaw? Who in the name of autumn apples was Grimjaw?’

  Teasel sipped at her tea, rocking back and forth. ‘Fermald often told me about Grimjaw, though goodness knows wot she’d ’ave done with the thing if ever she’d ’ave caught it.’

  Rollo blinked impatiently over his glasses at the hogwife. ‘Really, marm, will you please stop talking in riddles and tell us what you know about this . . . this Grimjaw!’

  Teasel blew huffily on her tea to cool it. ‘Now don’t you get all sharp wi’ me, mister Recorder, or I shan’t say another word. Politeness don’t cost pear pudden, they say!’

  Tansy smiled winningly, stroking the ruffled hogwife’s paw. ‘There! I’m sure Rollo didn’t mean to be sharp, missus Stump. Please tell us about Grimjaw – it’s very important that we know.’

  Teasel cast a fond glance at the young hogmaid. ‘Well, all right, missie. Never mind that ole grump, I’ll tell you. Every time there was about t’be a feast or celebration, Fermald brought out her rod’n’line to fish the Abbey pond. She was forever tryin’ to catch a big ole grayling that’d lived there for more seasons than most could remember. Fermald wanted that fish to grace the Abbot’s table, but she never did manage to catch it. She’d stop out there from dawn till dusk, empty-pawed an’ ’ungry. Later, I’d serve ’er supper leftovers. Teasel, she’d say, that grayling is my best friend and my worst foe, the long hours I spent trying to catch that fish, she’d say, but he won’t be caught, the old villain, he always escapes my line! That’s wot she’d say.’

  Suddenly everything became clear to Craklyn. She waved the paper, chanting,

  ‘Inside the outer walls I lie,

  Without me you would surely die.


  I am not earth nor am I stone,

  No shape at all to call my own,

  Not bird or beast or flow’r or tree,

  Yet captives live within me free!

  ‘The answer is water! Without it anybeast would surely die. Water’s not earth, stone, beast, bird, flower, or tree. It has no shape of its own. Fish swim freely in it, though they are really captives of whatever stretch of water they live in. Our water lies within the Abbey walls – I can see it from here, the Abbey pond!’

  Teasel watched the young ones scampering down the steps and speeding over the lawns, with Rollo in their wake. She sipped her tea. ‘Dearie me an’ lackaday, dashin’ an’ a rushin’ about, where’ll it all end? Ah well, leastways now a body can sup ’er dan’elion tea in peace’n’quiet, afore it’s time t’get lunch prepared!’

  The four searchers stood at the edge of Redwall’s pond. It was a pretty spot. Rushes and sedge sprouted thick in the shallows of its far edge, and an old, flat-bottomed punt lay moored at the east bank. At its southern end the ground was light and sandy, running from a soft mossy hillock into the sunwarmed shallows. Deeper out the water took on an emerald-green hue, and myriad small flying insects dipped to cause ripples in the stillness.

  Gazing at the peaceful scene, Tansy raised a question which had been bothering her since she had first heard about the grayling.

  ‘How do we know old Grimjaw is dead? Fermald never caught the fish and we’ve only her word that he died. Maybe Grimjaw was just too old to rise to the bait; perhaps he’s still alive down there.’

  It was a sobering thought. None of them fancied searching a dim pond where a big grayling might be lurking in the depths or hiding among the reeds to defend its territory against intruders.

  Then Tansy came up with a quick solution. ‘Hi, Glenner, got a moment to spare down here?’ she called to the walltop.