The Pearls of Lutra

by Brian Jacques

  ‘Now, I want you to put flame to this place and burn it down!’

  Skipper’s voice registered his incredulity at the proposal. ‘Burn it down?’

  But there was no hesitation in Rollo’s determined mood. ‘Aye, burn it down until it is just a heap of rubble and bad memories. This has become a place of evil. I have read in the Abbey Records that on two occasions the enemies of Redwall used this place as a refuge. The first was Cluny the Scourge in the time of Matthias the Warrior, then there was Slagar the Cruel in the time of Mattimeo, when I was but a Dibbun. Now it has been used a third time as a den of thieves and murderers. Burn it!’

  Dawn the next morning was gentle and bright; a silence seemed to lie over Mossflower country, even the birds remaining mute. Goodwife Teasel and the badger Mother Auma stood together on the ramparts of the outer wall facing south. From where the path curved they could see a dark column of smoke rising above the tops of the woodland trees.

  Auma nodded towards it. ‘Skipper and his crew are still down there, seeing that it burns to the ground and the fire doesn’t spread. Will you pack some food for them, Teasel? I’ll take it down myself.’

  The hogwife patted her friend’s paw. ‘Aye, I’ll pack plenty, knowin’ wot good appetites yon otters ’ave. Though at the moment I detests to look at vittles or prepare ’em. Friar ’iggle, bless ’im, he sent me off from the kitchens an’ stayed to fix brekkist fer anybeast as wants some, but none came.’

  The hogwife threw her flowery apron up over her face and wept. ‘The pore liddle maid, to end up like that, an’ she were so young too. I ain’t no warrior, marm, but I ’opes those wicked birds got all they deserved off Log a Log an’ Skipper’s big gel!’

  Auma stroked her friend’s headspikes soothingly. ‘There, there, don’t take on so, those birds paid dear for their evil ways. Log a Log told me all about it last night: ’twill be many a long season before we hear the call of a jackdaw in our land again, I promise you.’

  The grief at Piknim’s death was so great in Redwall Abbey that Auma had to assume the mantle of Abbess and request that none came to the burying, because it would be far too upsetting for young and old. Accordingly at mid-noon she and Rangapaw laid the young mousemaid to rest themselves. They chose a shady spot in the orchard, to one side beneath a great sweetchestnut tree, where they held a simple ceremony. Small gifts of remembrance from every Redwaller were placed in the grave. When the task was done both Abbey bells tolled slowly, their clappers muted with velvet to soften the tone.

  Craklyn, Tansy and Rollo stood at an upper window overlooking the orchard, despite the protest of Sister Cicely regarding their condition. The otter Glenner supported Craklyn as she stood at the window and sang. Her sweet voice, which had sounded out in harmony with Piknim many times before, was now alone. It echoed beautifully off the outer walls until it seemed to fill the entire Abbey and its grounds.

  ‘Fare you well upon your journey,

  To the bright lands far away,

  Where beside the peaceful rivers,

  You may linger any day.

  In the forests warm at noontide,

  See the flowers bloom in the glades,

  Meet the friends who’ve gone before you,

  To the calm of quiet shades.

  There you’ll wait, O my beloved,

  Never knowing want or care,

  And when I have seen my seasons,

  We will walk together there.’

  Glenner and Sister Cicely walked the three friends back to the room they were sharing at the infirmary. There they lay upon their beds, all with their own deep personal thoughts. Teatime passed and still they had not stirred. Tansy lay on top of her counterpane, fully dressed, watching the sunlight lengthening afternoon shadows through the window.

  The door creaked open and Friar Higgle Stump crept in bearing a tray laden with slices of nutbread, a hot mushroom and leek pastie in gravy, a bowl of fresh fruit salad and a flagon of his brother Furlo’s best dandelion and burdock cordial. He wiggled his nose at them.

  ‘Good afternoon, friends. I couldn’t bear the thought of you up ’ere bein’ fed warm nettle broth; that shouldn’t ’appen to anybeast. So I brought up a little summat to tickle yore appetites.’

  He placed the tray down, but they did not even look at it. The Friar shook his head sadly. ‘Dearie me, now if miss Piknim were about she’d ’ave beat you all to it an’ gobbled everythin’ up.’

  Craklyn sat up shaking her head. ‘No she wouldn’t. Piknim would have shared it with us ’cos we’re her friends . . . I mean, we were her friends.’

  Rollo sat up also, arching his eyebrows indignantly. ‘Were? You mean we’re not still Piknim’s friends?’

  Then Tansy sat up, glaring at Rollo. ‘Craklyn never meant that. We’ll always be Piknim’s friends, her dearest and best most treasured friends, so there!’

  A smile played around Friar Higgle’s face. ‘I knows ’ow you can be such good friends with Piknim that nobeast’d believe it!’

  Craklyn and Tansy spoke in unison. ‘How?’

  The Friar perched upon the window sill, his face serious. ‘Just carry on like yore doin’ now an’ don’t eat no more, you’ll soon be reunited with yore friend by starvin’ t’death!’

  He winked broadly at Rollo, knowing the Recorder would recognize the wisdom in his words. Rollo did. He sat up, filled himself a beaker and chose a thick slice of nutbread, then, eating and drinking, he began to speak.

  ‘I vote we carry on searching for the Tears of all Oceans. Now, you maids keep silent, just eat and listen to me. Eat!’

  The old Recorder’s voice was sharp and commanding; neither Tansy or Craklyn had ever heard him speak like that. Seating themselves close to the tray, they began eating.

  Rollo tossed the fourth pearl in the air and caught it.

  ‘See this thing? Piknim gave her life for it. Between us we vowed to find those six pearls because they may be needed to ransom our Abbot back from the enemy. I don’t know about you two, but Rollo bankvole never breaks his word. I intend to find the other two pearls. Tchah! I’ll wager Piknim would have had a very low opinion of us had she seen us a moment ago. Moping and moaning with no thought of carrying on the very quest that she died for. Is that the act of friends?’

  Tansy slammed her paw down on the tray so hard that she broke the bread platter. ‘We’ll find those pearls together, all three of us!’

  Craklyn whirled her bushy tail fiercely. ‘Aye, and when we do we’ll stuff ’em down the throats of those scum who kidnapped our friends, one by one!’

  Friar Higgle crept smiling from the infirmary, murmuring, ‘Very nice talk for young Abbeymaids, charmin’. Enjoy yore tea.’

  38

  TANSY SPLIT THE acorn shell that held the scrap of parchment. Unfolding it, she read aloud,

  ‘There is a warrior,

  Where is a sword?

  Peace did he bring,

  The fighting Lord.

  Shed for him is my fifth tear.

  Find it in the title here,

  Written in but a single word,

  An eye is an eye, until it is heard.’

  Tansy paused, shaking her head in despair. ‘Written separate to the rhyme is a pile of numbers which don’t seem to make any sense at all. Listen to this: Lines. One of one. Eight of two. One of three. Three of four. One of five. Six of six. Two of seven. Four of eight.’

  She tossed the scrap of parchment to Craklyn. ‘There you are, friend, sort that little lot out!’

  Chewing slowly on a wedge of pastie, the squirrelmaid narrowed her eyes, glaring a challenge at Tansy. ‘Do you think I can’t?’

  Rollo peered over the tops of his glasses at her. ‘We have great faith in you.’

  Craklyn took a great swig of her dandelion and burdock cordial. ‘Then you’re both a pair of dimwits, ’cos I haven’t the faintest clue what it all means!’

  The three friends sat staring at one another for a moment, then broke out into spontaneous l
aughter.

  Rollo dug his spoon into the fresh fruit salad. ‘If we’re a pair of dimwits then that makes you a blockhead, so between the three of us we’ll solve it. Hahaha!’

  The Skipper of Otters was on his way upstairs to the infirmary when he met Sister Cicely coming down. Waving his rudderlike tail politely at her, he said, ‘Good noon t’ye, marm. I was just on me way up t’see Gerul. How is he today? Prob’ly still sleepin’ his injuries off, I wager.’

  The good Sister glared frostily at the husky otter. ‘Hmph!’ she replied.

  Ever the gentlebeast, Skipper nodded courteously at the Sister. ‘Humff, marm? I s’pose there’s a wealth o’ meanin’ in the word, but it don’t tell me nought about ole Gerul. The pore bird was so badly wounded he was at death’s doorstep last night. Pray tell wot’s his condition today, marm?’

  Cicely was in no end of a huff. ‘That . . . that . . . owl! He rose not an hour ago, refused all treatment and hurled a pot of my best warm nettle soup from the infirmary window! You want to know his condition, go and find out for yourself, sir – he’s down in the kitchens, surrounded by otters, shrews and Dibbuns, cooking and eating everything in sight.’ Brushing Skipper aside, Sister Cicely flounced downstairs.

  Friar Higgle and Hogwife Teasel had dismissed the kitchen roster for the day, leaving the place open to anybeast wanting to drop by and prepare something. Gerul and his friends had taken Higgle and Teasel at their word, and now chaos reigned in Redwall Abbey kitchens.

  Gerul and Arven were demolishing a huge fruit cake between them, whilst issuing orders to Rangapaw, Diggum and some shrews.

  ‘Ah now, don’t be stingy, throw in a few more pawfuls of those luvly candied chestnuts. An’ y’need far more meadowcream than that if yore t’make a decent sweet owl junket. As me ould mother used t’say, plenty more’s better’n plenty less if yore cookin’ fer more’n a few. Ain’t that right, Arven me liddle mate?’

  The squirrelbabe was sure it was. Waving a ladle at the cooks, he issued orders like one born to command. ‘Gerra more chessnuts anna big buckit of cream, a hooj big ’un. An’ frow some strawbees in, Arven like strawbees!’ Then he turned to his owl friend with a serious frown. ‘Yore muvver musta been good an’ clever.’

  Gerul dipped his talon in a pot of plum jam and sucked on it. ‘Ah, sure she was so clever she used to ask herself questions, so she did, it’s no good knowin’ wot y’know if you can’t ask yer own advice, she always said. Log a Log, how’s that shrew concoction comin’ along?’

  The shrew Chieftain looked up irately from a steaming pan he was stirring. ‘The vegetables are doin’ nicely, but every time we get the pastry rolled out those moles keep pinchin’ it. Gerroutofit, rogues!’ He threw a wet dishcloth at Gurrbowl and several other young moles who were shuffling off with his latest batch of pastry.

  Foremole blinked quizzically at them over the top of a special deeper’n ever pie he was creating. ‘Hurr, wot do ee wanten all um pastry furr, Gadgee?’

  The molebabe Gadgee poked his snout out from under a floppy layer of pastry he was carrying. ‘Furr maken ’unnymoles, zurr!’

  Skipper joined the little moles as they kneaded dough on a countertop, busy as bees and covered in flour. ‘Ahoy, mates, wot’s an ’unnymole?’ he asked.

  Gurrbowl crossed his digging claws on his stomach, tut tutting at the otter’s ignorance. ‘Chut chut, zurr! You’m doan’t knoaw wot ee ’unnymole is? Lukk an’ oi’ll show ee, you’m pay ’tenshun naow!’

  The molebabe rolled out a small patch of pastry, spread it thick with honey and placed on it a strawberry and a raspberry. Wrapping the pastry carefully over the fruit he coated the lot with a mixture of honey and damson juice. It looked nothing like a honeyed mole, but the molebabes thought it did. Gurrbowl licked his digging claws proudly and added his “unnymole’ to several others on a tray, ready to go in the oven. He wrinkled his nose proudly at Skipper.

  ‘Hurr, that’n be ’ow t’make ’unnymoles, zurr!’

  Skipper winked broadly at the molebabe. ‘Thanks, matey, I’ll remember that, should come in useful!’ Then, opening a cupboard, he took out a bag of dried watershrimp.

  Glenner sidled up with an expectant gleam in her eye. ‘Shrimp’n’hotroot soup, Skip?’

  The otter Chieftain showed his white teeth in a mock-villainous grin. ‘Aye, matey, you go get the ’otroot, oh, an’ some onions. Ahoy, Rangapaw, where do they ’ide the mushrooms in this galley? An’ leeks too, we’ll need lots o’ leeks, aye, an’ white turnips.’

  Gerul meanwhile had finished the last of the fruit cake, and now he and Arven set about making another, even bigger one.

  ‘Cummon now, ye young rip, a tankard of October Ale, flour an’ honey, what’s next?’ asked the owl.

  Arven counted off the ingredients on his paws. ‘Plums, damsins, ’azelnuts, chessnuts, blackb’rries, er, er . . .’

  Gerul limped off to the pantry chunnering to himself. ‘Sure we’ll toss in a bit of everythin’, as me ould mother used t’say, if y’ve got everythin’ in a cake then yer sure t’have left nothin’ out providin’ it’s all in!’

  Sister Cicely had brought Auma down to the kitchens. She pointed a paw of condemnation at the shambles. ‘Just look at that. Did ever you see such a mess in your life?’

  The badger Mother wandered over to where the molebabes had left their tray of honeymoles to cool, and popped one in her mouth. ‘Mm, very tasty! Cicely, let them have their fun – have we not had enough sadness and misery in Redwall for one day? This bit of disturbance is easily cleared up, but it helps them to recover their spirits, especially the young ones. I look on this not as mourning the death of Piknim, but celebrating the happy life she led. Come now, Sister, leave them to their enjoyment.’

  Tansy, Craklyn and Rollo had deserted the confines of the infirmary. The early evening was soft and balmy, and it was far nicer out in the fresh air than lying about indoors and being fussed over by Sister Cicely. They sat on the gatehouse steps, staring at the rhyme and puzzle that went with it, but the clue to the fifth pearl remained a mystery to them.

  ‘Perhaps if we concentrate on the rhyme it may help.’

  Craklyn shook her head at Tansy’s suggestion. ‘No, I’m sure the key is in these figures. Once we know what they refer to I have a feeling the rest will be easy.’

  Rollo polished his glasses and scrutinized the figures closely. ‘Hmm, I’ve a feeling you’re right, miss. Let’s concentrate all our attention on these figures for the moment. Lines. One of one. Eight of two. One of three. We’ll take that bit first.’

  All three gazed at the parchment scrap, cudgelling their brains for inspiration.

  Wullger the otter gatehouse-keeper was in the process of cleaning out his small domain. He opened the gatehouse door wide and began sweeping about with a heather-topped broom. So pleasant was the aroma of the heather that he took his own good time, brushing diligently in every corner and singing a song as he went about his chore.

  ‘There was an otter by a stream,

  Come ringle dum o lady,

  Who fell asleep and had a dream,

  All on the bank so shady.

  He dreamt the stream was made of wine,

  It flowed along so merry,

  And when he drank it tasted fine,

  Like plum and elderberry.

  And all the banks were made of cake,

  Come ringle ding my dearie,

  As nice as any cook could bake,

  That otter felt quite cheery.

  He drank and ate with right good will,

  Till wakened by his daughter.

  She said, “I hope you’ve had your fill,

  Of mud and cold streamwater!”

  Come ringle doo fol doodle day,

  Come wisebeast or come witty,

  A fool who dreams to dine that way,

  Must waken to self-pity.’

  The three friends on the wallsteps outside heard Wullger’s song clearly; they shook their heads and chuckled. As Wull
ger emerged sweeping dust in front of him, Craklyn called down, ‘That’s a good ditty, I’ve never heard it before.’

  The old otter smiled up at the squirrelmaid. ‘I’m glad you liked it, missie, ’tis a song that’s been passed down through my family. If you like I’ll teach ye the lines . . .’

  Tansy leapt up, yelling, ‘The lines, it’s the lines!’

  Wullger stared in amazement at the three creatures dancing paw in paw on the wallsteps as they chanted together, ‘The lines, the lines, it’s the lines!’

  He shrugged and went indoors to continue his cleaning. ‘Maybe when yore not so busy dancin’ an’ chantin’ I’ll learn ye the song.’

  Tansy scanned the poem’s first line.

  ‘There is a warrior, that’s line one, so one of one must mean the first word or the first letter of the line. What d’you think, Rollo – the first word or the first letter?’

  The Recorder was quite definite which it was. ‘It has to be the letter, one of one. Because the second clue states eight of two, but there’s only four words in the second line, so we’re looking for enough letters to make a word.’

  Tansy read out the lines, Craklyn counted the letters and Rollo scraped each letter upon the sandstone step with his quill knife.

  ‘There is a warrior. One of line one. Letter T.

  Where is a sword. Eight of line two. Letter A.

  Peace did he bring. One of line three. Letter P.

  The fighting Lord. Three of line four. Letter E.

  Shed for him is my fifth tear. One of line five. Letter S.

  Find it in the title here. Six of line six. Letter T.

  Written in but a single word. Two of line seven. Letter R.

  An eye is an eye, until it is heard. Four of line eight. Letter Y.’

  The friends sat but for a brief moment, looking at the word Rollo had scratched upon the step. Then Craklyn and Tansy dashed off towards the Abbey, with Rollo hobbling behind as they yelled, ‘The tapestry!’