The Pearls of Lutra

by Brian Jacques

  ‘Martin, what can we do to help?’

  The Warriormouse paused a moment before he entered the gatehouse where the other elders were waiting. ‘Keep on with the search for the other five pearls, you two. I’ve a feeling we may need them!’

  Tansy pulled Rollo towards the wallsteps. ‘Let’s sit out here, it’s a nice afternoon, maybe we’ll think better out in the fresh air.’

  Rollo read out the rhyme from the waxy paper for the fourth time. Like all Fermald’s poems it seemed to make little sense.

  ‘I shed my second tear, into the cup of cheer,

  But look not into any cup, the answer’s written here!

  My first is in blood and also in battle,

  My second in acorn, oak and apple,

  My third and fourth are both the same,

  In the centre of sorrow and twice in refrain,

  My fifth starts eternity ending here,

  My last is the first of last . . . Oh dear!

  If I told you the answer then you would know,

  ’twas made in the winter of deepest snow.’

  Tansy drummed her paws in frustration on the steps. ‘Ooh, that Fermald! If she were still alive I’d give her a piece of my mind! This rhyme’s twice as tricky as the last one!’

  They sat in silence, racking their brains until the Abbey bells tolled four times. Rollo had started to doze, but the bells woke him, and he said, ‘Come on, Tansy, let’s go for tea!’

  It was such a nice afternoon that Brother Dormal and Teasel had arranged tea in the orchard. Rollo and Tansy took scones, crystallized fruits, cream and steaming rosehip tea and sat with Piknim the mousemaid and Craklyn the squirrelmaid beneath the spreading boughs of an old gnarled apple tree. No sooner had Tansy sat down than Arven’s face appeared upside down in front of her. He wrinkled his nose and stuck out his tongue.

  ‘Tansy pansy toogle doo . . . Boo!’

  The little squirrel was hanging by his tail from a bough. Tansy unhooked him and lifted him down.

  ‘You little maggot, you’ll fall on your head one day!’

  Arven helped himself to a pawful of cream and ran off, giggling at the clever trick he had played.

  Piknim looked over Rollo’s shoulder at the waxy paper. ‘What’s that, mister Rollo, the words of a song?’

  The Recorder threw up his paws in despair. ‘I wish it were, miss, it’s a riddle.’

  ‘Ooh, a riddle, lovely!’ Piknim and Craklyn chorused in a single voice.

  Rollo looked at them over his spectacle tops. ‘You mean that you like riddles? Are you any good solving them?’

  The two friends immediately broke out into:

  ‘If string cannot sing then answer this riddle,

  What sings as sweet as the strings of a fiddle,

  The fiddlestring sings, but it never can throw,

  An arrow so far as the string of a bow,

  But a bow plays a fiddle and I’ll marry thee,

  If you give a bright bow of ribbon to me!’

  They curtsied prettily as Rollo applauded, saying, ‘Well sung, misses, you can help us solve our riddle!’

  Piknim and Craklyn read the rhyme twice then began tittering and winking at each other. Tansy looked from one to the other. ‘You’ve solved it, haven’t you?’ she demanded.

  They began teasing.

  ‘Well yes, but then again, no!’

  ‘We’ve solved it, but not all the rhyme.’

  ‘But we know what the main part means!’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s a six-letter word!’

  Rollo could restrain himself no longer. ‘Well, in the name of seasons and summers, tell us!’

  Piknim and Craklyn were real teasers. They went off into gales of tittering and giggling until they were unable to talk.

  Tansy placed a restraining paw on the irate Recorder. ‘Leave this to me, Rollo!’ Scooping up two large globs of cream, she faced the laughing duo.

  ‘If you don’t tell me by the time I count three, stand by for a creamy facewash. One . . . Two . . .’

  They both yelled out, ‘It’s a barrel, it’s a barrel!’

  Still holding the pawfuls of cream, Tansy commanded them, ‘Right, show us how you arrived at the answer.’

  Piknim and Craklyn talked like a double act, one after the other.

  ‘Well, we don’t know what the first two lines mean, all that stuff about cup of cheer and shed a tear.’

  ‘But that line, my first is in blood and also in battle. Only two letters appear twice in both words, the B and the L.’

  ‘Yes, and the next line’s easy. Acorn, oak and apple have only one letter in common, the A.’

  ‘Now, look at these lines, my third and fourth are both the same, in the centre of sorrow and twice in refrain. The middle of the word sorrow contains the letter R twice, and R crops up twice in the word refrain. So it’s R and R.’

  ‘Correct, now the next line. My fifth starts eternity ending here. Simple, what starts the word eternity and ends the word here, the same letter, an E.’

  ‘The final one isn’t too difficult either. My last is the first of last. Huh! The first letter of the word last is an L.’

  ‘So, we’ve got a B or an L, then an A, two Rs, an E and an L.’

  ‘And it’s certainly not larrel, so it’s got to be barrel!’

  Piknim jumped up and down clapping her paws, squeaking, ‘Oh, this is fun, can we help you some more?’

  Tansy was musing over the word and gazing at the waxy paper. ‘What? Yes, of course you can help. Hmmm, barrel, where in Redwall would we find a barrel?’

  Rollo put his food to one side. ‘In the winecellar?’

  Piknim and Craklyn were off, running ahead of Tansy and Rollo. ‘Last one to the winecellar is a jumpy toad!’

  Rollo trailed on behind Tansy. ‘Carry on, young misses, with your fleet young paws. I’ll just take my time like any old jumpy toad!’

  18

  THE STUMP FAMILY had been in charge of Redwall’s winecellars for many seasons. Friar Higgle Stump’s brother Furlo was a strong fat hedgehog, conscientious and tidy in all things pertaining to his beloved cellars. He sat the three maids and Rollo down on a bench and fetched them a drink.

  ‘This’ll cool you down, fresh-brewed dandelion and burdock cordial,’ Furlo said as he poured out four beakers from a big jug. It was cool, sweet and dark with a creamy foam head, and they drank gratefully.

  Then the cellar-keeper dug his paws into his wide apron pocket, saying, ‘Now, young ’uns, an’ you Rollo sir, what can I do for ye?’

  The Recorder wiped a foamy moustache from his mouth. ‘I know this sounds silly, Furlo, but we’re looking for a barrel.’

  ‘Well, sir, I’ve got lots o’ barrels down ’ere, which one’d you like?’

  Tansy spread the waxy paper flat on the bench. ‘Trouble is, sir, we don’t know. Maybe if you read this it may help.’

  Furlo Stump was a slow reader. He borrowed Rollo’s spectacles and scanned the rhyme for what seemed an age. Then he scratched his huge spiky head in bewilderment. ‘Dearie me, I can’t unnerstand none of that, missie. ’ere, you ’ave a look round my cellars whilst I think about it.’

  Rollo took them on a tour. He had worked in the winecellars on many an occasion when he was younger and had a fair knowledge of things.

  ‘What a lot of barrels, mister Rollo!’

  ‘They’re not all barrels, miss Craklyn; those great giant ones standing in the corner, they’re called tuns. Beetroot wine is kept in them. Barrels are these smaller ones, mainly for ale. Then there’s the kilderkin, a bit smaller, for cordials and such, and smaller again, half the size, is the firkin, usually for wines. Any small quantities of strong wine are kept in these little casks.’

  Tansy waved her paw around, indicating the cellar stocks. ‘So we can rule out most of these, and just pay attention to the barrels, is that right, Rollo?’

  The old Recorder shrugged. ‘Who knows, maybe Fermald knew little of cellars and they all looked l
ike barrels to her. Where are we then?’

  Furlo approached them, still scratching his head and looking very unsure of himself. ‘Beg pardon, Rollo sir, but I been thinkin’ about the poem as was written down on that paper. There’s somethin’ a botherin’ my ’ead, those words at the end o’ the rhyme, the winter of the deepest snow. I remember when I was but a Dibbun, my father told me somethin’ about a cellar-keeper name of Ambrose Spike, long afore my time, though what it was ’e told me I can’t recall.’

  Rollo halted him with an upheld paw. ‘Ambrose Spike – I remember him from when I was a Dibbun. Piknim, you’re the fastest runner, nip across to the gatehouse and ask Wullger to dig out the volumes of a Recorder named Tim Churchmouse. Craklyn, go with her, there may be more than one volume to carry. Bring them straight back here to me, quick as y’like now!’

  The two young ones sped off out of the cellars, shouting. ‘Last one to the gatehouse is a frumpy frog!’

  As it turned out, neither of the young maids was a frumpy frog. They matched each other for speed all the way to the gatehouse and back to the winecellar, arriving breathless and burdened down with two volumes apiece. Furlo poured out more dandelion and burdock cordial for everyone. With tiny spectacles balanced on his nose end, Rollo pored through page after yellowed page, muttering to himself.

  ‘Spring of the lesser periwinkle, hmm, later than that. Autumn of the late marjoram, hmmm, later I think. Summer of the rosebay willowherb, ha, I’ve gone too far, it was the winter before that. Yes, here it is, winter of the deepest snow, got it!’

  The three young maids leaned over Rollo’s shoulder eagerly. ‘What does it say, sir, tell us?’

  Rollo took a deep draught of cordial before reading, ‘Ambrose Spike was lucky, he harvested all the rhubarb he had been growing alongside the west wall before the snows started. The snow is now so deep they have named this season the Winter of the Deepest Snow. The weather outside is harsh and gloomy, but Redwallers are merry and snug within our Abbey. I helped Ambrose in the cellars today; he is squeezing the rhubarb with great stone slabs and ale barrels as weights. The juice we mixed with clear honey and poured into a firkin; it is a beautiful pink colour. Ambrose Spike would not allow me to touch it, he says it will not be properly ready for at least two seasons, but when it is ready Ambrose is of the opinion it will be unequalled for taste.

  ‘I left him to go back to my recording today. Ambrose was fitting the lid tight onto the firkin with soft willow withes. He had a brush and vegetable dye to paint the name on the firkin. I like the name he has chosen for this wine: the Cup of Cheer.’

  Tansy repeated the first line of the rhyme aloud, ‘I shed my second tear, into the cup of cheer!’

  Rollo slammed the volume shut, sending up a small dustcloud. ‘Of course, a pink pearl in pink wine!’

  There were a lot of firkins, each one identical to the next. They stood on end, two high. Furlo bade them stand aside as he lifted each one down for inspection. Tansy and her friends could not help smiling at the fashion in which hedgehog cellar-keepers wrote the names on different firkins, though they did not laugh aloud for fear of offending Furlo Stump. The powerful hedgehog lifted down one firkin after another for their inspection, and Rollo translated the simple spelling.

  ‘Persnup corjul, ahem, that’ll be parsnip cordial. Pinnycludd win, er, that’ll be pennycloud wine. What’s this one – rabzerry viggen?’

  Furlo chuckled. ‘That’s raspberry vinegar, sir. Us cellar ’ogs ain’t the best o’ scholars, but we know our own marks when we sees ’em!’

  Tansy and Craklyn dusted off the bottom of a firkin which Furlo had laid on its side. Piknim read out the faint green lettering, ‘Ambrows Spiks faymiss Kopachir?’

  Tansy said the last word several times before it dawned on her. ‘Kopachir . . . Kop a chir . . . Kup a chir . . . Cup o’ chir . . . Cup of Cheer!’

  Rollo stroked the aged wood reverently. ‘This is the one, made long ages ago in the winter of the deepest snow. Ambrose Spike’s famous Cup of Cheer!’

  It took quite a while for the cellar-keeper to tap the bung. With his coopering hammer, he knocked a sharp spigot through the centre of the firkin bung without losing a drop of its contents. Then, with a mighty heave, Furlo lifted the firkin onto a table and began running the liquid off into an empty barrel. They watched the pink rhubarb wine splashing out in a shining stream.

  Rollo caught some in a beaker and tasted it. ‘Delicious, but very strong, perhaps Sister Cicely could make use of it in the sick bay for cold and chills.’

  Tansy could not resist adding, ‘Instead of warm nettle broth!’

  When the firkin was empty Furlo removed both tap and bung and began shaking it; something clattered around inside.

  Piknim had the smallest paw; she reached inside and felt around. ‘Move it a touch this way, please, mister Furlo, a bit more . . . Ah, got it!’

  It was a tiny stone beaker, of the type used for medicine doses. Its top had been sealed over with beeswax. Furlo cut the wax away with a small quill dagger, and out fell an exquisite pink pearl.

  ‘My, my, that ’un’s a fair beauty of a treasure,’ the cellar-keeper remarked admiringly. ‘Ain’t never seen anythin’ as ’andsome in all me born days!’

  Tansy, however, was far more interested in the thin fold of paper lining the bottom of the beaker; she picked it out and unfolded it.

  Auma looked around the worried faces inside the gatehouse and spread her paws placatingly. ‘Please, friends, let’s not do anything hasty. There’s still time for the Abbot to return yet. I’ve often known him to stay out far later than this.’

  ‘But not when there are corsairs and vermin abroad in Mossflower,’ said Martin.

  The badger Mother turned her gaze on him. ‘What do you suggest we do?’ she asked.

  The Warriormouse stared out of the window at the evening sky. ‘I think the best thing is to wait until dark. If Viola and the Abbot are not back by then, something is surely amiss. I can lead a party out into the woodlands by night. We know the woods better than strangers do, and they will not be expecting us.’

  Skipper seconded Martin’s proposal. ‘Yore right, matey. I’ll go along with you. Hark, what’s that?’

  Wullger the gatekeeper knew immediately. ‘Somebeast poundin’ on the main gate outside. It ain’t the Abbot, though, ’e knocks proper like a gentlebeast, always three taps. I’d advise you go atop of the wall to see whatbeast is makin’ that sort o’ din!’

  Martin, Auma and Skipper raced out of the gatehouse and up the wallstairs. They stood on the main threshold over the gate, staring down at a band of creatures, the leader of whom seemed to make the rural twilight sinister and unclean with its presence.

  Even tough Skipper was taken aback. ‘Seasons o’ slaughter!’ he whispered to Martin. ‘Am I ’avin’ a bad dream, or is that thing real?’

  Surrounded by half a crew of corsairs and searats, the Monitor General stood head and shoulders over his remaining five lizards. Lask Frildur made a horrific and impressive sight. His flat reptilian eyes watched the Redwallers as he pointed a monstrous scaled claw and rasped officially, ‘Open your gatez, I have wordz to zay to you!’

  The Warriormouse showed no fear. His voice rang out like steel striking an anvil. ‘I command these gates, not you! Say who you are and what you want, but don’t try giving orders to me!’

  The huge Monitor puffed out his throat balefully. ‘I am Lazk Frildur, Monitor General to the mighty Emperor Ublaz. I come here to collect zigz pearlz called the Tearz of all Oceanz. They were ztolen from my mazter – you will return them!’

  Auma leaned towards Martin, her voice low. ‘I don’t like this. That reptile wouldn’t turn up here demanding anything if he didn’t have something up his sleeve.’

  Skipper’s lips barely moved as he muttered, ‘She’s right, matey, you’ll ’ave to see if’n y’can bluff ’im!’

  Martin kept his face grim and resolute as he murmured to his friend, ‘I certainly will h
ave to bluff my way along; we don’t have six pearls and it could be a long while until we do. Let’s see if I can find out what’s making this lizard so confident.’

  Lask’s tongue was beginning to flicker impatiently. ‘I am waiting, mouze!’

  Martin leaned carelessly against the battlements. ‘Supposing we did have these six pearls to give you, what would we receive in return for them?’

  ‘The livez of your Abbotmouze and a bankvole!’

  Martin felt his heart sink, but he kept up a nonchalant attitude. ‘You lie, lizard. How do I know you are holding them?’

  At a signal from the Monitor General, one of the lizards hurled up a small bundle weighted with a stone. It clattered on the threshold. Auma seized it and tore away the vine-wrapped rags.

  Martin felt his worst fears confirmed as he saw Skipper pick up two pairs of Redwall sandals, one pair slightly larger than the other. It was hard for the Warriormouse to keep his voice calm as he said, ‘These are just two pairs of sandals, they could belong to anybeast . . .’

  For the first time, Lask Frildur smiled, showing yellowed rows of evil-looking teeth. ‘The Abbotmouze iz called Durral, Viola iz the maid’z name. You want more proof – here!’ Lask’s claw shot out as he hurled something up.

  Auma swallowed hard. She picked up the delicate object, both finely polished crystal lenses smashed. ‘Father Abbot’s glasses. Look, Martin.’

  Blood rose in the Warriormouse’s eyes. Raging and roaring, he tried to tug free of Skipper and Auma, straining to climb over the battlements at his foe. ‘Touch one hair of their heads and I will slay you, scalescum! You and all your rabble, I will send you to Hellgates!’

  Lask had never seen such ferocity from any creature. He realized that Romsca’s warning had not been an idle one: these Redwallers did indeed have warrior blood in their veins. Steadying himself, he called back to the raging beast on the walltop, ‘Your friendz are unharmed, but they are far from here on a vezzel anchored out on the great waterz, you cannot rezcue them. Bring me the pearlz and I will releaze the captivez to you!’