The Pearls of Lutra

by Brian Jacques

‘Wullger, come on, matey, wakey wakey. Let’s pay the kitchens a visit and see how the feast preparations are progressing.’

  Wullger yawned, stretched and blinked in one movement, then, scratching his rudderlike tail, he stood up. ‘Wakey wakey y’self, Rollo. I wasn’t asleep, jus’ closin’ me eyes ’cos yore scratchy pen was annoyin’ me. Hah! Look at y’self, you got more skins on than an onion!’

  The bankvole sniffed airily. ‘Young snip! You’ll learn as y’get older that comfort outweighs fashion. I need to wrap up warm until ’tis early summer!’

  The two friends bent their heads against the wind and rain as they left the gatehouse, still keeping up a friendly banter.

  ‘Lissen, you need all that wrappin’, matey, stops yer blowin’ off like an ole autumn leaf!’

  ‘Know your trouble, fatty tail, no respect for your elders. It makes me shiver just looking at you, trolling round wearing little else but belt and tunic.’

  ‘Gah! Fresh air an’ a spot o’ rain never ’urted anybeast. Come on, wrinklechops, step out smartlike!’

  The kitchens were a bustle of steam, noise and merriment. Teasel, the hogwife of Higgle Stump, was crimping the edges of an apple and damson pie, prior to putting it in the oven. She was about to open the oven door when a little molemaid called Diggum bumped into the back of her with a flour trolley. Teasel fell backward with a whoop, holding the pie, and landed on top of the trolley. Diggum shot off regardless, head down, pushing the trolley at full speed. Foremole saw them coming, swiftly threw down a barrel wedge and flung wide the oven door where his deeper’n ever pie was cooking. The trolley stopped with a jerk, Foremole grabbed the back of Teasel’s apron as she let go of the pie, and it shot from her paws to land neatly in the oven alongside Foremole’s creation.

  He grinned and nodded at her, rumbling in the curious molespeech, ‘Thurr yew go, marm, bain’t no sense a wasten oven space, hurr hurr!’

  Diggum dusted flour from her smock and blinked. ‘Thankee, zurr. Can oi use ee uther oven furr moi chessberry flan?’

  Foremole raised a cloud of flour as he patted her dusty head. ‘Whoi, surrpintly ee can, liddle missie, but wot be chessberries?’

  Diggum twitched her button nose in despair at Foremole’s ignorance. ‘Whoi, chessnutters an’ blackb’rries, zurr, wot else?’

  Teasel the hogwife hid a smile as she took Diggum’s paw, saying, ‘Chestnuts an’ blackberries, indeed. Come on, we’ll make it t’gether, I’ll roll the pastry.’

  Diggum curtsied prettily. ‘Thankee, marm, an oi’ll eat any blackb’rries wot be a wrong size.’

  Friar Higgle Stump was topping off a multicoloured woodland trifle with yellow meadowcream, roaring orders all about as he did.

  ‘Hoi, Piknim, see that mushroom soup don’t boil, keep stirrin’ it.’

  ‘Stirrin’ hard as I can, Friar – shall I throw chopped carrot in?’

  ‘Aye, do that, missie. Gurrbowl, be a good mole, nip down the cellars an’ see if my brother Furlo ’as broached a new barrel of October Ale. Tell ’im I could do wi’ a beaker to liven up my dark fruit cake mixture.’

  ‘Roight ho, zurr, tho’ you’m sure et ain’t to loiven up yurrself?’

  ‘Get goin’, y’cheeky wretch! Craklyn, see if you can get some o’ that dried mint down off the rafter ’ooks, I need t’make tea.’

  The squirrel Craklyn shot off like a rocket; she bounced from a stove top to a high cupboard and leapt up to the rafter hooks, skilfully plucking a bundle of dried mint. Cutting a somersault she landed next to Friar Higgle, dropped the mint in his paws, scooped a blob of meadowcream from the mixing bowl and vaulted off licking her paw.

  Abbot Durral watched her admiringly as he carried a deep dish to place in front of Higgle. ‘What an acrobat our Craklyn is, eh, Friar? Taste that and tell me what you think, my old friend.’

  With a knifetip, Higgle sampled a morsel from the dish edge. ‘Mmmm! Now that is what I call a real honey rhubarb crumble!’

  Durral shuffled his footpaws in embarrassment at the praise given to his simple offering. ‘Oh, it’s just something I made up from an old recipe. Shall we have the tables laid for around twilight? I’ve lit a good log fire in Great Hall, that’ll warm it through nicely.’

  Higgle, topping his trifle, nodded agreement. ‘Good idea, Father Abbot. Have you seen Martin about?’

  Abbot Durral scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Can’t say I have. Perhaps he’s up in the infirmary with Sister Cicely. I’ll go and take a look.’

  Wind and rain shook the treetops of Mossflower until they swayed and undulated madly; howling gales sang a wild dirge between the weighty treetrunks. Paw in paw, fighting for breath, Tansy and Arven staggered doggedly on towards the forest fringe. Both of them were weary and pawsore and, driven by fright, they had partially lost their way. Then Tansy spotted the tall spire of Redwall through a gap in the woodlands. Staggering, the pair ran; slopping through a narrow ditch, fighting against whippy spring brush and squelching through rain-drenched ferns. Heedless of young nettles lashing at their footpaws they rounded a massive three-topped oak. Straight into the paws of a dark-cloaked form.

  ‘Yeeeek!’

  The baby squirrel and the young hedgehog maid squealed aloud in fright as they felt themselves held by strong paws.

  ‘Whoa now, my little ones – here you are!’

  The strong kindly face of Martin, the Warrior of Redwall, smiled reassuringly down at them. With a shriek of relief, Tansy and Arven buried their faces in Martin’s cloak. Perching Arven on his shoulder and taking Tansy by the paw, Martin strode back towards the Abbey.

  ‘Sister Cicely was getting quite worried about you two,’ Martin said gently. ‘You should have been back at the Abbey hours ago, when the storm broke. Where in the name of seasons have you been, all muddy and scratched, with your clothes torn like that?’

  Arven was not afraid of anything now that Martin had found them. He had perked up considerably. ‘Me found a skallingtung inna rocks!’ he cried.

  Martin chuckled. ‘A skallingtung?’

  ‘In the sandstone rocks, sir,’ Tansy explained, ‘down a deep crack, there was a skeleton of somebeast. Ugh! All white an’ bony an’ raggy!’

  Martin saw the young hogmaid was bone weary. He let her lean against him and shielded her with his cloak. ‘Well, you’re safe now,’ he said. ‘You can tell the elders about it when we get back to the Abbey. Oh! I forgot to tell you, there’s to be a surprise spring feast in Great Hall this evening. How d’you like that, eh, young ’uns?’

  But they were both dozing, almost asleep with fatigue.

  Sister Cicely put both Arven and Tansy straight to bed when Martin delivered them back to her at the sick bay. They had been sound asleep before Martin arrived at the Abbey gate. Spreading his cloak by the hearth to dry, Martin accompanied Cicely downstairs, explaining as he went. ‘Something frightened them in the woodland today. I’ll tell you about it when we’re with the elders.’

  Nobeast could be quite sure what made the spring feast such a success, the food or the fun. Martin and Cicely sat at the table with the Abbot, Foremole, Higgle, Auma and some other elders. They watched in amusement as the younger ones sat with their food on a thick rush mat, eating and providing their own entertainment. The smallest Abbey babes, the Dibbuns, ate all in sight with growing appetites.

  ‘Oi thurr, Garffy, pass oi yon fruitycake. Yurr, you’m c’n ’ave some o’ this plum pudden, ’tis turrible tasty!’

  ‘Well thankee, my ole moleymate, I didn’t know it were you be’ind those cream whiskers. Father h’Abbot, sir, would you like some o’ my strawberry rolypoly?’

  Smiling, the Abbot shook his head. ‘No thank you, Durgel, I baked that specially for you and Garffy. Besides, I’m enjoying my salad. Nothing like fresh spring salad after the winter – what d’you say, Auma?’

  The badger Mother held up a piece of cheese in her huge paw. ‘Aye, Durral, and when there’s soft white cheese and hot baked oatbread to go with it, well, I
’m happy.’

  Martin looked up from a steaming mushroom and leek pastie. ‘I’ve never seen you sad when there’s food about, Auma!’

  Amid roars of laughter at her huge appetite the badger winked at Martin. ‘Well, sir, I’m only making up for all the food that you used to scoff from in front of me, when you sat on my knee as a Dibbun!’

  Furlo Stump the cellar-keeper poured himself a beaker of October Ale. ‘Be you not careful, marm, an’ Martin’ll sit on yore knee agin an’ scoff all that bread’n’cheese, I’ll wager!’ he chortled.

  Rollo put aside a platter which had contained chestnut and blackberry flan and banged the tabletop with a soup ladle. ‘Come on, you young ’uns, how’s about a bit of song and dance for your poor elders before we fall asleep from boredom!’

  In a flash Piknim the mousemaid and Craklyn the squirrelmaid were up and bowing to each other as they warbled an old ballad.

  ‘Oh, look out, it’s the terrible two!’ Sister Cicely murmured in Martin’s ear.

  Piknim and Craklyn sang alternate verses at each other.

  As I strode out gaily, one morning in spring,

  I spied a fair mousemaid, who happily did sing,

  She sang just as sweet, as a lark’s rising call,

  For she wore a green habit, and she came from Redwall.

  I walked alongside her, and bade her good morn,

  And her smile was as pretty, as rosebuds at dawn,

  She captured my heart, and she held it in thrall,

  For she wore a green habit, and she came from Redwall.

  I said, ‘Lovely mousemaid, where do you go to?’

  ‘To Mossflower Wood, sir, for flowers of blue,

  To decorate my bonnet, at the feast in Great Hall,’

  For she wore a green habit, and she came from Redwall.

  To the woodlands we went, and ’twas there in a glade,

  I gathered wild bluebells, for my young mousemaid,

  Then I walked her back home, lest she stumble or fall,

  For she wore a green habit, and she came from Redwall.

  ‘Pray sir,’ said the mousemaid, ‘be my gallant guest.’

  O how happy was I, to take up her request,

  For I never will leave, that old Abbey at all,

  Now we both wear green habits, and we live at Redwall!

  Piknim and Craklyn flounced about, grinning broadly and curtsying deeply at the cheers and applause they received.

  Auma chuckled, watching mouse and squirrelmaid milking the ovation for all it was worth. ‘Those two, what a pair! Hi there, Gurrbowl, what about a reel?’

  The little mole took up his drum and thrummed at it with his heavy digging claws, calling to Friar Higgle, ‘Coom on, zurr ’iggle, owt with ee ’ogtwanger!’

  The Friar produced his hogtwanger, a curious three-stringed instrument which had belonged to his father, Jubilation Stump. Holding it strings-down over his head, he began humming a tune and nodding oddly. As he did, his headspikes struck the strings in time to the nodding and humming. Hogtwangers can only be played by hedgehogs, and Friar Higgle Stump was an expert.

  Recognizing the lively reel, Abbeybabes and Dibbuns sprang up and jigged about furiously, calling aloud, ‘Frogs inna gully! Frogs inna gully!’

  Auma sat watching, great footpads tapping until she could restrain herself no longer. Then the big badger Mother of Redwall lumbered out to join the dance, clapping her paws and whooping, ‘Frogs in the gully! Frogs in the gully!’

  Martin and the elders remained seated, helpless with laughter at the sight. Gurrbowl stepped up the drumbeat and Higgle kept pace on his hogtwanger; faster and faster they played. Hopping, skipping and leaping, the dancers whirled, hallooing loudly.

  While Auma made her own hefty pace, exhausted Dibbuns perched on both her footpaws and were bumped up and down. Then, dropping to all fours, Auma let the tiny creatures climb onto her broad back. When she was fully loaded the crafty badger danced off in the direction of the dormitories, followed by Higgle and Gurrbowl, still playing as they shepherded the other young ones up to bed.

  Later, when she had rejoined the elders at table, Auma sat back and sighed wearily. ‘Phew! I’m getting too old to do that much longer!’

  Martin patted her striped muzzle affectionately. ‘You’re a sly old fraud, Auma, you enjoy it more than the Dibbuns.’

  He poured her a beaker of cold mint tea, his voice growing serious. ‘Little Arven and Tansy were in a dreadful state when I found them in Mossflower Wood today: dirty, ragged, weary, and very frightened.’

  ‘Indeed they were,’ agreed Sister Cicely, ‘both so exhausted they couldn’t speak. I popped up to see them in the sick bay not an hour back – fast asleep, the pair of them. Strange though, Tansy is a proper little rock of good sense. Did she say what had frightened them, Martin?’

  Martin looked around the expectant faces of the elders, and said, ‘They found a dead creature in the woodlands . . .’

  ‘A dead creature in the woodlands?’ Abbot Durral repeated in hushed tones.

  Questions followed from around the table.

  ‘What sort of creature was it?’

  ‘Where did they find this creature?’

  ‘I wonder how it got there?’

  The Warriormouse held up a paw for silence. ‘Please, let me explain. This was not a recently dead beast. Tansy said it was a skeleton, clad in rotten rags, so evidently it had been there for some time. They came upon it down a crack in the sandstone rocks of the woodlands. I know the place well, actually they weren’t far from the rocks when I found them, so they must have been running in circles since they were caught in the thunderstorm. Poor Tansy, she was terrified, but doing her level best to protect little Arven and get him back to Redwall.’

  Foremole nodded from behind a large beaker of October Ale. ‘Ho aye, she’m a liddle guddbeast awroight. May’ap you’m goin’ thurr on the morrow to see furr eeself, zurr Marthen?’

  Martin pushed back his chair and stood up decisively. ‘Why leave it until tomorrow, friends? The night is fine now, I’ll go and be back before dawn. No need to upset our Abbey creatures by starting an expedition in full daylight. Besides, I can’t sleep at all if there’s anything bothering my mind, so it’s best that I investigate it this very night.’

  ‘Aye, with me by yer side, mate, soon as I finds me ash stave!’

  No sooner had Wullger the other gatekeeper spoken than the others were all including themselves.

  ‘Hurr, oi too, ee may ’ave need o’ a gudd digger, zurr!’

  ‘I’ll bring a long stout rope from the winecellar!’

  ‘Right, an’ I’ll fetch lanterns, we’ll be in need of light!’

  Martin hesitated a moment, then nodded. ‘So be it. I’ll get the sword. Meet back here as quickly as you can. Auma, will you stay behind and watch the main gate?’

  ‘Gladly, friend. I don’t feel much like charging around woodlands after our spring feast this evening.’

  5

  THE REDWALLERS SET off north up the path, Martin in the lead with the sword buckled about his middle. This was the fabulous blade which belonged long ago to Martin the first Warrior, he who had helped build Redwall Abbey and establish the order of Redwallers. The spirit of this brave mouse was said to help the Abbey creatures, appearing in dreams and offering wise counsel in troubled times. For countless generations the sword had been lost: it was Matthias, father of Mattimeo and grandsire of the present Martin, who had found the sword and restored it to Redwall Abbey.

  Silent as shadows, the little party slipped into the night-darkened trees. They were skilled in the ways of woodlanders and knew that stealth and care combined with speed was the rule of safety, even in their own beloved Mossflower. There was no moon to light the way east, but Martin was an expert leader. Skirting thickets, bypassing brambles and staying close to the deep shadows, he led his companions to the clearing where the sandstone rift could be seen, poking up at an angle out of the ground.

 
; Martin signalled quietly for Wullger and Foremole to accompany him, indicating that the rest should stay in the tree shelter at the clearing’s edge, ready to come running should they be needed. Drawing his sword, the warrior edged forward; the mole and otter followed, carrying rope and lantern. The rain had stopped, though a sighing wind was still blowing up from the south. Mounting the rocks, Martin waited whilst Foremole put flint to tinder and lit his lantern. Shielding the light in the cowl of his cloak, Martin led his friends across the ridged surface. As they came upon each cleft, the lantern was lowered down on the rope to explore its darkness. They had nearly covered half the area when Foremole, shuffling backward away from a small fissure, disappeared with a gruff bass yelp.

  ‘Whurrhumm!’

  The lantern was swiftly lowered as Wullger called down to him. ‘You all right, matey, not ’urted are yer?’

  Wiping his paw disgustedly upon his smock, the good mole wrinkled his snout. ‘Yurr ee is, zurr, oi foinded ee skallertung. Yurkk!’

  Martin dropped swiftly into the crevice, landing lightly beside Foremole. He held the lantern close, illuminating the gleaming white bones that poked through rain-sodden rags.

  Wullger peered down at the skull, fixed in its death grin. ‘Poor wretch, fancy dyin’ down there all alone.’ There was compassion in the otter’s tone.

  Martin knelt and retrieved something from the fleshless claw of what had once been the creature’s right front paw. ‘Aye, poor beast, what was it that brought him here?’

  A low whistle from the tree fringe caused Wullger to throw himself flat upon the rocks. ‘Hearken an’ hide that lampglim, we’ve got visitors!’

  Swiftly Martin pulled off his cloak and gave it to Foremole. ‘Stay down here, keep that light covered. Hang on to the rope, Wullger, I’m coming up!’

  Sheathing his sword, the Warriormouse clambered paw over paw up the rope, with Wullger taking the strain. ‘Remain here with Foremole, stay low!’ Martin whispered.

  Wraithlike, Martin appeared beside Rollo among the trees. The Recorder squeaked with fright. ‘Oo! Don’t sneak up on me like that!’