Mossflower (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Eagerly the woodlanders did as they were bid, then they sat with the Loamhedge Brothers and Sisters.

  Bella rose and embraced Abbess Germaine. ‘My old friend, we were many summers younger when last we ate together.’

  The Abbess placed a thin, worn paw over Bella’s hoary pad. ‘Yes, the seasons are born anew, but alas we grow older, my friend.’

  ‘But not you, Germaine,’ Bella chuckled. ‘You look as young as ever. What news of Loamhedge?’

  The Abbess could not prevent a tear trickling onto her grey whiskers. ‘Loamhedge, what magic in that name. But the happy times there are gone like leaves down a stream. You heard of the great sickness?’

  Bella nodded. ‘I had heard something from travellers, but I thought it was far south. I did not think it had found its way to your home.’

  Germaine shook and closed her eyes as if trying to ward off the memory. ‘Only those you see here escaped. It was horrible. Everything it touched withered and died, I could not. . . .’

  Bella patted the old mouse gently. ‘There, there, no need to say more. Try to forget it. You can call my home your own, for you and your mice, as long as you like, and please don’t thank me – you’d do exactly the same if I needed shelter. In fact you did, many years ago, when I was young and liked to travel.’

  The two old friends went to the kitchen and began preparing the meal. Bella told Germaine of all that had taken place in Mossflower. ‘This is a sad and oppressed place you have come to, though once it was happy under the rule of my father, Boar the Fighter. I was still young then. I returned from my wanderings with Barkstripe – he was my mate; we met far to the southeast and returned to stay with my father at Brockhall. I think that father was waiting for this to happen. My mother was long ago gone to the gates of Dark Forest; she died when I was a cub. Boar the Fighter was a good father, but a restless spirit. He had tired of ruling Mossflower and wanted to go questing, just as his father, Old Lord Brocktree, did before him. One day he left here and Barkstripe ruled in his stead. Those were good seasons. We had a cub, a little male called Sunflash because of his forestripe, which had an odd golden tinge. He was a sturdy little fellow.

  ‘In the autumn of that year the wildcats arrived. Verdauga and his brood took over that old ruin of a fortress. There was none to oppose him, and he brought with him a vast horde of wicked vermin. At first we tried to fight back, but they were so cruel and merciless that they completely crushed us. Barkstripe led a great attack upon Kotir, but he was slain, along with many others. Those who did not escape into Mossflower were caught and left to rot in Verdauga’s prisons. Alas, that was all long ago. We have learned to keep ourselves safe here in the thick woodlands now.’

  Germaine drew loaves from the oven on a long paddle. ‘Where is your son, Sunflash? He must be quite big now.’

  Bella paused as she laid the bread to cool. ‘While I was ill and grieving for Barkstripe, our son stole out of here one night. They say he went to Kotir to avenge his father’s death, but he was far too young. Sunflash has never been seen or heard of since. Many, many seasons have gone by since then, so I think that one way or another my son ended up at the gates of Dark Forest with his father.’

  Outside in Mossflower the afternoon shadows began to lengthen over the trees that were budding and leafing, promising a thick emerald foliage for the summer. In another part of Mossflower not far from Kotir, a mailed tunic and tabard bearing the Thousand Eye device slipped carelessly from a high spruce branch and landed in a crumpled heap on the forest floor. Argulor shifted from claw to claw as he preened his pinions, carefully arranging his long wing feathers. A good fat stoat was extremely welcome, but pine marten . . . ah, that was a delight he had yet to savour. Argulor would wait. His time would come; a marten with a wooden leg could only run so fast in any direction. The eagle snuggled down into his plumage, glad that the spring nights were kind to young and old alike. It was good to visit old hunting grounds again.

  9

  THE EVENING CHORUS of birdsong fell sweetly upon Martin’s ears as he strolled along through the woodlands with Skipper and Gonff, revelling in his new-found freedom after the long winter in Kotir prison. The otters were never still; they were playful as puppies, bounding and cavorting through the trees and bushes. Skipper was instructing Martin in the art of the slingshot. He was delighted to have such a keen pupil and took every opportunity of amazing the warrior mouse with his expertise. Casting a pebble high into the air, Skipper reslung a second pebble and shot it, hitting the first one before it had time to fall to earth. The otter shrugged modestly. ‘It’s only tricks, me hearty. I can teach you them anytime. Ha, I’ll bet afore the summer’s through you’ll be able to sling a pebble across any villain’s bows.’

  Gonff was great friends with the otters. He wholeheartedly shared their recklessness and sense of madcap fun. The little thief imitated their nautical mode of speech perfectly, telling Martin that he was, ‘As likely a cove as ever pirated vittles from Kotir’s galley.’

  Martin enjoyed himself. Having been a solitary warrior for so long, he found it a pleasant change to be in the company of such gregarious friends. Skipper presented him with his own personal sling and pouch of throwing pebbles. He accepted the gift gratefully. The otters were naturally curious about the broken sword hilt Martin kept strung about his neck, so he told them the story, and was taken aback by their hatred of Tsarmina. Though, as Skipper remarked, ‘Wildcats never bothered us. Once our crew is together, there ain’t nothin’ on land or afloat that’ll trouble otterfolk.’

  Looking about, Martin could quite believe it. Gonff danced on ahead with two otters who did a hornpipe as he sang.

  ‘I’m a mouse with a very long tail,

  With a heart and voice to match.

  I’ve escaped from the pussycats gaol.

  They’ll find me hard to catch.

  So, away, through the grass, the flow’rs and leaves,

  Like smoke on the breeze, the Prince of Thieves.

  Let’s cheer for the day when we will see

  The Mossflower country safe and free.’

  Martin was tapping the happy tune from paw to paw when he saw that Skipper had dropped back a few paces. The otter was standing with an air of intense concentration, swaying from side to side, sniffing the breeze. At a sign from him, Gonff stopped singing and the entire crew grew silent.

  Skipper said in a gruff whisper, ‘Some beast’s a-comin’, mates. Not from astern, mind. Over yonder there. Birds stopped singin’ over that way first. Ha, I’ll wager it’s the cat.’ Skipper pointed. They could soon make out shapes moving from tree to tree. As the intruders drew nearer, it was plain to see they were Kotir soldiers in full armour, led by Tsarmina, a barbaric figure wearing a splendid cloak and a helmet that covered her head completely except for slitted eye, ear and mouth apertures.

  At Skipper’s growl of command, the otter crew spread themselves out in fighting formation, faces grim, weapons at the ready. Skipper stood fearlessly out in the open where Tsarmina could see him, paws folded across his chest, a sling hanging from the right one, loaded and ready. Tsarmina halted a short distance away. She stretched out a paw, letting a wickedly sharp claw spring dramatically forth to point at Martin and Gonff.

  ‘The mice are mine, otter. I will take them from you.’

  Skipper’s voice was hard as flint. ‘Back off, cat. You’re on my quarterdeck now. This is Mossflower, not Kotir.’

  ‘All the land belongs to me.’ Tsarmina said imperiously. ‘I am Tsarmina, Queen of Kotir and Mossflower. These mice are escaped prisoners. Give them to me now, and I will not punish you. Your creatures will be allowed to go unharmed.’

  A thin smile played about Skipper’s mouth. ‘Go and chase your mangy tail, pussycat!’

  The breath hissed from between Tsarmina’s teeth at the otter’s fearless impudence. She raised a paw to her soldiers, who began fitting arrows to bowstrings. As they did, some sixth sense tingled through the wildcat and she looked up. L
ady Amber stood in a tall elm, in her paw a light javelin poised for throwing. Reacting instinctively, Tsarmina grabbed the nearest soldier to her – a ferret.

  There was a swish and a thud. She felt the impact as the luckless soldier took the javelin that was intended for her.

  The squirrel Queen concealed her disappointment at the lost opportunity by aiming another javelin and calling out, ‘Unstring those bows quick, all of you. She can’t hold him in front of her for long, and this next one will get her between the eyes if you don’t obey me right now!’

  Tsarmina, still holding the ferret with the spear protruding from his lifeless form, said urgently out of the side of her mouth, ‘Do as the squirrel says.’

  They obeyed instantly.

  Tsarmina let the ferret fall, twisting the body as she let go of it. Skipper was backing off into the bushes with his crew. He waved up to Amber. ‘Thankee kindly, marm. D’you mind keepin’ a weather eye clapped on ’em while we push off?’

  Suddenly the wildcat plucked the javelin from the fallen soldier and flung it up at Lady Amber.

  ‘Cut and run crew!’ Skipper shouted as he bolted off with the rest. Amber had momentarily relaxed the javelin in her paw; she ducked in the nick of time as her weapon came hurtling back at her. Tsarmina did not wait to see if she had scored a hit but took off after Skipper and the crew, yelling, ‘This way! Cut them off through the bushes!’

  Martin and Gonff ran with the otters, Skipper urging them on as they pounded through the undergrowth. ‘Hurry now, crew. Amber can’t hold ’em off forever – there’s too many of ’em. Hark, they’re back on to us.’

  Tsarmina was no fool; she had sensed the direction they would take. Accordingly, she retreated then came back at a tangent to cut down the distance on an angle. Suddenly Martin and Gonff found themselves on the banks of a broad fast-flowing river with steep grassy sides. Skipper stamped his paws and sighed. ‘Belay, we nearly made it. Too late, here they come!’

  Tsarmina and her troops broke through the trees and came hurrying along the bank toward them.

  Martin could see there would be no talking this time. He drew his sling, as did the otters around him. They let fly the first volley before their foes had time to notch arrows or raise spears. The hail of stone caught the enemy head-on. Rock clattered on armour as Tsarmina threw herself flat yelling at her soldiers, ‘Down, get down and return fire!’

  Martin saw two otters felled by heavy spears. Now Skipper’s crew was trapped between the open stretch of bank and the river. The otter crew rattled off another salvo of rocks.

  This time Tsarmina had anticipated it; she had the front rank take the stones on their shields, while another rank behind hurled their spears over the tops of the shield-bearers. Some of the spears went too far, but one found its mark: an otter standing up with a whirling sling dropped back, killed by a well-aimed throw.

  Reinforcements arrived, with Lady Amber bringing squirrel archers through the trees to fire at the Kotir troops from behind.

  Skipper saw Tsarmina’s forces turn to face the new foe. He seized his chance. Martin found himself grabbed by the otter leader, while Gonff was clasped by a big otter named Root. ‘Take a good breath, messmate. We’re goin’ for a swim!’

  The entire otter crew took a short bounding run and dived into the river with a loud splash.

  Tsarmina was facing the squirrels with an arrow notched to a bow. She spun round and loosed the shaft, catching the last otter in the back before it hit the water. Despite this, the otter still managed to submerge and get away.

  Lady Amber found that she was loosing troops. She decided on a quick withdrawal now that the otters had escaped. Ducking the arrows and spears, the squirrels took off through the trees.

  Tsarmina howled her victory to the sky. Running to the water’s edge, she called a halt to those soldiers who were aiming weapons into the river. ‘Enough! Cease fire! They’re gone. Stand still, everyone.’

  The troops stood fast as the wildcat peered into the depths. They watched Tsarmina draw back from the river’s edge. She was scratching at her fur as if trying to dry herself, shuddering as she muttered, ‘Urgh! Dark, damp, wet – water everywhere, swirling, swirling. Ugh!’ When she was away from the water, Tsarmina recovered her composure. Throwing off her helmet and cloak, she slumped moodily at the foot of a beech tree. Night had crept up unawares. The soldiers stood watching, puzzled at their Queen’s strange behaviour. Tsarmina stared back. ‘Well, what are you all gawping at? Brogg, Scratt, listen carefully. I want you to go back to Kotir, see Fortunata and tell her to bring the Gloomer to me. I want you back before dawn. Get going, the pair of you!’

  Brogg and Scratt stood rooted; terror loosened their tongues. ‘The Gloomer, Milady? Surely you don’t mean. . . .’

  ‘Lady, he’s completely mad!’

  Tsarmina rolled herself in her cloak and settled down beneath the tree. ‘I know he is, idiots. But I’ll get a sight madder if you don’t move yourselves. Now be off! Guards, set up a sentry on river watch. If anything happens, let me know straight away. Otherwise I’m not to be disturbed until Fortunata arrives with the Gloomer. If Brogg and Scratt are still here, give them a good whipping with bowstrings for idling.’ Tsarmina settled down to sleep, lulled by the sounds of the two ferrets crashing and blundering off through the undergrowth.

  Nothing could escape the Gloomer in the water. The wildcat Queen had tasted victory that day. She was not about to let it all slip away because of incompetent soldiers. The Gloomer must be brought here quickly to consolidate her triumph.

  10

  THE WHOLE WORLD was black, icy cold, airless and wet.

  Martin concentrated on holding his breath. When he ventured to open his eyes, it became a murky dark grey, but he could sometimes make out shapes moving around him. He began to wish he were anywhere but beneath a river – even back in his cell at Kotir. At least there had been air to breathe there.

  Skipper’s strong paws gripped him relentlessly by the scruff of his neck. Water rushed by them, roaring in his ears as the powerful swimming otter dragged him along.

  Fresh air, just one breath, he wished, one lungful of good clean air.

  Skipper held Martin tighter as he began to wriggle in panic. Bubbles of air were escaping from his mouth, an iron band was crushing his skull. Why was Skipper drowning him?

  Martin opened his mouth to shout, but the water came pouring in. With a huge rush accompanied by much barking and shouting, the otters broke the surface, shaking their coats.

  Skipper hefted Martin’s body and tossed him out upon the bank. The warrior mouse lay coughing and gasping, gulping in vast quantities of clean fresh air. Never again would he take such a wondrous gift for granted.

  All around him otters were whooshing playfully in and out of the water, ducking one another and generally behaving as if the whole thing were a great lark. Martin looked about until he sighted Gonff. Immediately he dashed across to his friend. Gonff had not fared as well as he on the underwater journey; the little thief lay face down on the bank, his body looked forbiddingly limp and still. Root, the big otter who had borne Gonff underwater, began pushing and pumping at Gonff’s inert form with his strong forepaws.

  Martin felt a surge of panic. ‘Is he all right? He’s not drowned? He’ll live, won’t he?’

  Root laughed and gave Martin a huge wink. ‘Bless yer life, matey, he’s fine. Little thief, stealin’ our riverwater like that. Here, he’s comin’ around now.’

  A moment later Gonff was spluttering and shaking indignantly. ‘Root, you great clodhopping water monster, I’m sure you took the long way round to get here. Have I coughed all that water back? Yuk! Bet I lowered the river level by a foot or two, matey. Oh, hello Martin. Well, how d’you like Camp Willow?’

  Martin had not looked at his surroundings. Now that the danger was past he took stock of where they had beached. It was a large, sandy, shelflike area, the roof of which was a mass of gnarled willow roots. Phosphorescence from the sw
ift-flowing water palely illuminated the cave system of the underground bank. A canal ran through the middle of Camp Willow, emanating out of the gloomy darkness of hidden caves and bolt holes in the rear.

  Skipper watched proudly as Martin gazed about. ‘You won’t find no better ‘ccommodation for an otter anywhere, Martin. Camp Willow was built by otter paws.’

  Martin nodded shrewdly. ‘A right fine job they did of it, too, Skipper.’

  The Skipper of otters swelled out his barrel-like chest. ‘Andsome of you to say so, mate, but belay awhile and I’ll call muster.’

  It soon became apparent that three of the crew were dead, possibly four; nobody could account for the fact that a young female called Spring was missing. Skipper’s face was grim as he called two young males, Duckweed and Streamer, to search the river for the missing one. With barely a ripple, the two plunged back into the water and were gone.

  Martin and Gonff were given rough barkcloths to dry themselves. They sat upon the bank with the otters round a bright fire, eating thick wedges of carrot and parsley bread, which they dunked in a steaming bowl of river shrimp and bulrush soup, seasoned with fiery ditchnettle pepper. It was delicious, but extremely hot.

  The otters munched away happily, laughing at the two mice and calling out old river proverbs.

  ‘Ha ha, don’t taste no ’otter to an otter, matey.’

  ‘The more ’otter it is, the more ’otter otters likes it.’

  Martin and Gonff swigged cold water and laughed along with the crew.

  Not long before they settled down to sleep, Duckweed and Streamer returned. They emerged, dripping, into Camp Willow. Between them they were supporting young Spring. Streamer had removed the arrow from Spring’s back. Fortunately, she was not badly hurt.

  Skipper was delighted to see her, and he dressed the wound carefully. ‘Ho, ’tis me, little matey Spring. Never you fear, young un. If they gave you an arrow, we’ll pay ’em back with a shower of javelins. You get some vittles and a good rest. You’ll be right as a river rock tomorrow.’