The Pearls of Lutra

by Brian Jacques

  Realization suddenly struck Plogg. ‘The seals were sayin’ Waaylumm! Maybe that’s ’cos they couldn’t say Wallyum properly!’

  Clecky absentmindedly cuffed Plogg’s ear. ‘Huh, I know that. Seal language, speak it perfectly, old chap, perfectly. I think friend Martin’s right though, missie. You’d better take us to your dear old pater, wot!’

  Winniegold directed them to take the logboat further round the side of the rock. A cable made from twined seaweed and kelp hung from a niche carved into the rock; it trailed away into the sea like a great thick serpent. The little ottermaid unhooked the cable and, passing it to Grath, she explained its purpose.

  ‘Look down into the water, what d’you see?’

  Grath stared downward into the clear depths. ‘There’s a hole like some sort o’ tunnel in the mountain, right near the surface here. The cable goes into it!’

  Winniegold lowered her voice as if revealing a secret. ‘If we wait the sea will lower itself and the tunnel will appear in front of us. My father says it is the trough between every nineteenth and twentieth wave that washes against the east side of our mountain; suddenly the sea level will sink and expose the cave mouth. If we all lie flat in your boat and heave on the cable we can pull ourselves through to the inner island.’

  Viola leaned over the boat’s edge, gazing at the great hole in the rock fearfully. ‘But it’s underwater,’ she cried, ‘we’ll all be drowned! I’m scared!’

  Winniegold giggled at the timid volemaid. ‘Silly, there’s no need t’be feared, you’ll see. I haven’t been countin’ the waves, but I think it’s best we all lie down.’

  Without warning a wave lapped high, sending the boat up on its crest, then it dropped sharply. There was a swoosh as if some gigantic monster had exhaled and they were looking straight into the mouth of the tunnel, wide and dark and dripping seawater, directly in front of them.

  ‘Get down, mates, lie flat!’ Winniegold yelled.

  She gave a mighty heave on the cable and the logboat shot into the opening, like a tiny fish into the mouth of a whale. They were surrounded by an eerie blue light shimmering from the tunnel walls. The logboat rose, stopping no more than a pawslength from the shell-encrusted tunnel ceiling. As Winniegold tugged on the cable their vessel shot forward, and the entire logboat crew seized hold of the thick kelp and seaweed hawser and, lying flat on their backs, began pulling. The little craft sped along inside the tunnel. Limpets, barnacles, shells and hanging fronds almost scraped the prow of the boat, and great crabs scuttled about in the bluish light above their faces. The transition from sudden bright tropical sunlight to aquamarine dimness caused golden sunbursts upon their vision whenever they blinked. It was the oddest of experiences.

  Suddenly it was bright, hot daylight again. Still holding the cable they stood up slowly and gazed awestruck at the scene surrounding them. Where the cable ended it was made fast to a treestump on the banks of a broad stream. Fields stretched about the entire area, ending in trees, which gave way to dense vegetation and shrubbery climbing the mountain’s inner slopes.

  Martin turned full circle, staring up at the high circular rockrim. ‘It’s like some kind of a massive crater, as if the mountain had had the heart taken out of it. We’re in a big basin!’

  Cupping both paws to her mouth, Winniegold cried out, setting echoes bouncing and ringing from the surrounding heights: ‘Rudddaaaawaaaaaaake!’

  Otters came bounding from everywhere, dashing across the fields, tumbling down the banks and popping from the stream’s surface. They crowded around the logboat, staring silently at the newcomers. Everybeast, male and female, even the babes, was fully armed; slings, clubs and javelins were much in evidence. Then a murmur ran through the ranks and they parted.

  A magnificent male otter, fully a head taller than the rest, strode purposefully forward. His fur was dark, almost sable, and he was forbiddingly muscled through his sleek neck and broad shoulders. Grath stared curiously at the big bow he carried, a shaft set ready upon its bowstring. Over his shoulder she could see a quiverful of red-feathered arrows. He glanced down from the top of the bank, noting that she also carried a bow and arrows, then he nodded and stood to one side.

  From behind the big otter another appeared, old and grey, but radiating a presence of wisdom and calm. The old otter carried an oak staff and was garbed in a long, homespun tunic of light brown colour. His voice was deep and warm.

  ‘Do you come to Ruddaring in peace? Are you friends?’

  Martin realized who the patriarchal-looking beast was. Leaving the boat he waded ashore and, bowing low, placed his sword on the ground in front of the old otter.

  ‘Peace be upon you, Wallyum Rudderwake, and all of your holt. I am Martin the Warrior of Redwall Abbey. The Hawm of sealfolk delivered us to your island. We are friends.’

  Wallyum’s grizzled features creased into a gentle smile. He nodded to Grath. ‘Which holt come you from?’

  Grath inclined her head to one side, allowing her rudder to rise and tip beneath her chin in a courtly old-fashioned gesture.

  ‘I am Grath Longfletch of Holt Lutra, sire.’

  Wallyum appeared extremely gratified by Grath’s politeness. ‘Well said, maiden. It is a long time since I saw such courtesy in an otter – would that half of my holt had your good manners! You and your friends look as if food would do you no harm. Come, I always find conversation far more pleasant over a good meal. Inbar, will you carry our friend Grath’s bow and arrows for her?’

  Wallyum’s huge, dark-furred son leapt forward willingly, missing the smile that passed between his father and Martin.

  The old otter picked up the Warriormouse’s sword. ‘I will carry this for you. ’Tis a blade that I have only once seen the like of, the sword of a great warrior, ancient and beautiful.’

  Helped by numerous otters, the friends set out along the streambank to Holt Rudderwake.

  42

  THE HOLT WAS a sprawling comfortable cave in the mountainside, next to where the streamsource bubbled from the rocks. Thick woven rushmats and rockslabs for tables were the only furniture; a fire was kept under an oven made of baked clay and stone.

  The otters were partial to great soups and stews of seaweed and shellfish. Also much in favour, owing to the tropical and fertile nature of their island, were magnificent fruit salads. As they ate, Martin related their story to Wallyum and his wife, a great fat old grandma otter called Dorumee, who seemed always to be surrounded by grandbabes climbing over her and swinging on her apron strings. Wallyum listened carefully to Martin’s narrative, as did several of the holt elders.

  Clecky was the centre of attention with the rest of the otters. His ever-present appetite for staggering amounts of food astounded them. The hare declined shellfish, but did justice to everything else.

  ‘Can’t abide the old edible molluscs, wot!’ he announced. ‘Cockles’n’mussels an’ all that bring me out in an itchy paw rash, chaps, sorry. Oh, I say, you fellers, this big ball tastes rather splendid!’

  The otters hooted with laughter.

  ‘’Tain’t a ball, mate, that’s a melon. Yore not supposed to eat the seeds, though.’

  ‘Oh, I dunno, taste pretty good t’me. ‘Scuse me, old chap, d’you mind not hoggin’ that seaweed soup? Nice salty taste, sort o’ contrasts jolly well with these peach thingees. Owch! My word, y’could use these stones to chuck from your slings, great lumpy things, er, you there, otterchap, have the decency to unstone that big peach for a feller, will you, that’s the style!’

  Inbar was admiring Grath’s bow and arrows. ‘Nice string, well twined. I don’t know which has the stronger pull, your bow or mine. Our arrows are the same length, too.’

  Grath closed one eye, sighting down the shaft of one of Inbar’s red-feathered arrows. ‘Mmm, good’n’straight – they’d fly true!’

  The normally taciturn otter tested an arrowpoint on his paw. ‘That’s my full name – Inbar Trueflight. I’ll show you where I usually practise, maybe we can lo
ose off a few shafts together?’

  Grath agreed, a hint of challenge in her smile. ‘I’d like to do that, Inbar. We’ll match each other arrow for arrow after we’ve eaten.’

  Wallyum’s wife Dorumee was speaking to Martin, whilst her husband took the little otters off to watch Clecky. The babes had never seen a hare before.

  ‘Our Holt of Rudderwake’s lived on this isle I don’t know ’ow long. It goes right back into the mists of time. There’s some say that it were four otter families who escaped from a corsair vessel an’ found their way to this place purely by accident. Anyway, Martin, our ancestors made Ruddaring Isle their own. They fought a great battle with the lizards that used t’live ’ere. Wot lizards they didn’t slay were driven off to another isle ‘way west o’ here, may’ap ’tis that Sampetra place you talk of. That was more seasons ago than a score of otters could count. Ruddaring Isle is our ’ome now. Searats an’ corsairs passin’ in their ships don’t even know this is an island, to them ’tis just a mountain pokin’ up out o’ the ocean with no place to land upon. Nobeast knows we’re livin’ ’ere, ’cepting the seals an’ you an’ yore friends, Martin. Swear if ever you leave ’ere not to tell a livin’ creature of our isle.’

  The Warriormouse patted Dorumee’s paw. ‘I swear it will be so. I’d hate to think of me or my crew being the cause of ever bringing unwelcome visitors here to your beautiful home.’

  Viola, Plogg and Welko were trying to learn an otter dance. They found it very difficult, not having the balance that an otter’s rudderlike tail affords. Winniegold and her chums were whirling and wheeling about, balancing first on one footpaw, then hopping onto the other with a skilful tailspin between each leap.

  A deep-voiced old otterwife battered two drums with her tail as she sang for the dancers.

  ‘Ho comb yore whiskers, brush that tail,

  Place a flow’r behind yore ear,

  Wash those paws in my ole pail,

  We’re off a dancin’, dear! Oooooooh!

  Paws up high, rudder on the deck,

  Pace up to yore partner, check!

  Rudder in the air, paws on the ground,

  Whirl that otter round an’ round!

  Vittles onna table, drink’s there too,

  Hear the music playin’,

  Smile at me I’ll dance with you,

  Every otter’s sayin’! Oooooooh!

  Shuffle back an’ clap both paws,

  I’ll clap mine an’ you clap yours!

  Turn away now back to back,

  Slap those tails down whackwhackwhack!’

  Giggling and laughing, they fell to the floor exhausted.

  Clecky looked up from a wild grape trifle, shaking his head. ‘Do y’self a mischief, prancin’ about like that after eatin’. Don’t you chaps know any good slow ballads t’settle the jolly old digestion?’

  He was immediately beset by several young otters. ‘Sing for us, mister Clecky! Oh, please do, sir!’

  Finishing his trifle in two great gulps the hare was up on his paws, ready to sing, but denying it strenuously. ‘Oh, have a heart, you young rips! I haven’t twiddled the old vocal chords in an absolute age, doncha know!’

  ‘Now leave our friend alone if he don’t wish to sing,’ Old Wallyum remonstrated.

  The hare took the centre of the floor as if he had not heard Wallyum’s remark. ‘Oh well, if you insist, I’ll just do one. A very bad salad, er ahem, I mean sad ballad. Right, here goes, chaps . . .’

  Drooping his whiskers and quivering his ears in a most pathetic manner, he clasped both paws and stared soulfully at his audience.

  ‘This is the story of Corkal hare,

  Which is most terribly tragic, horribly sad an’ pretty awfully fearfuuuuuuuul!

  So pray give attention, list’ to my song an’ don’t fall asleep.

  Although ’tis not too cheerfuuuuuuuuuuul!

  Poor Corkal fell foul of an evil fox

  Who was mean an’ horribly cruuuuuuuuuel!

  An’ foolishly he challenged him,

  Next mornin’ at dawn to a duuuuuuuuuuuuel!’

  Here Clecky paused and glared at Plogg and Welko. ‘Either of you rogues spit another melon seed at me an’ I’ll kick y’little fat tails halfway up yonder mountain. Ahem, beg pardon for the untimely interruption, chaps, now where was I? Oh, yes.

  ‘Both creatures chose as their weapons,

  To hurl at each other, salaaaaaaaaaaad!

  Good job they never chose soup or else,

  I might never have wrote this ballaaaaaaaaad!

  So the very next mornin’ as dawn did break,

  All bright’n’hot’n’warm an’ sunneeeeeeeeeeee!

  Which considerin’ it was the dead o’ winter,

  Our hero did not find too funneeeeeeeeeee!’

  Clecky jumped and clapped a paw to his tail, glaring at Plogg and Welko, who were sitting looking the pictures of innocence. ‘Just one more melon seed, you rotters, just one more . . .’

  He continued his elongated recitation.

  ‘There in the field the two creatures met,

  Each beast with salad ladeeeeeeeeeeeeeen!

  A terrible sight not fit for the eyes,

  Of any tender young maideeeeeeeeeeeen!

  An’ the lettuce an’ the carrots an’ the onions they all flew like lightniiiiiiiiiin’!

  An’ they fought’n’they ate, an’ they ate’n’they fought,

  The scene was pretty frightniiiiiiiin’!’

  Clecky twitched his nose as a melon seed bounced off it. He narrowed his eyes and pointed vehemently at the two shrews. ‘Right, that’s it! Soon as I’m finished this heartrendin’ ditty you two are for it!’

  He finished the song at top speed as if it were a fast jig:

  ‘But now my friends I’ve reached the end of my most sad renditiiion,

  At the end of the epic battle royal this was the sad positiiiion,

  Neither the fox nor the hare had won, they were both in bad conditiiiiiiion,

  Sufferin’ from fierce indigestion because, they’d ate all the ammunitiiiiiiiion!’

  With a bound he was away after the two shrews, who shot off like sardines with a shark on their tails. The audience fell about laughing helplessly.

  Dorumee held her tubby sides, shaking with mirth. ‘Ohohohohooohooh! That’ll teach ’em t’spit melon pips at ’im!’

  Viola and Winniegold were chuckling so hard that tears coursed down their cheeks as they confessed. ‘Heeehee, it wasn’t heehee Plogg or hahaha Welko spittin’ those pips . . . Hoohoohooh! It was us. Heehahaheehohoho!’

  Wallyum Rudderwake and his otters were excellent hosts to the first land visitors they had ever received. Entertainment, singing, eating, drinking and dancing went on far into the night, only stopping because everybeast was totally exhausted. Interspersed with the weary logboat crew, otters slept where they fell, everywhere about the cave. Babes, youngsters and parents lay draped over rocks or curled on rush mats in a tangle of paws and tails.

  Wallyum sat in the light of the oven fire. He and Martin were the only two left awake. The otter patriarch stared piercingly at the Warriormouse until eventually Martin felt he had to speak and break the silence.

  ‘Tell me, Wallyum, how did you come to know the sealfolk?’

  The otter shifted his gaze to the fire and shrugged. ‘We have always known them. My father and his father before him treated the seals – bulls, wives and pups – for injuries and ailments. So it has fallen to my lot now. I am their Healer. Hawm and his followers have great respect for the Holt of Rudderwake; they would do anything for us. Lucky ’twas that you had an otter in your crew, or they might never have brought you to my island.’

  That seemed as much information as Wallyum was willing to impart. Silence fell on the two creatures as they sat together in the soft tropic night, staring into the ash-shrouded embers burning low beneath the oven.

  Martin felt slightly uneasy in the presence of Wallyum. From the corner of his eye he n
oted the otter had transferred his gaze from the fire. Hairs on the back of the Warriormouse’s neck began to prickle. He turned suddenly and locked eyes with Wallyum’s piercing stare. ‘Friend, is there something you are hiding from me?’

  Rising slowly, Wallyum beckoned Martin to follow him. ‘Let us walk together in the moonlight,’ he said.

  In the limited view of sky surrounded by the high mountainous crater, a summer moon hung like a pale gold coin, shedding its light on the two figures strolling through lush grasses towards the streambank. Wallyum Rudderwake spoke when they were out of hearing from the cave.

  ‘Hearken to me, Martin of Redwall, I have things to tell you, things that I could tell to no otherbeast, lest they think I am growing feeble in the brain. Would it surprise you to know that I already knew your face, that I had seen you long before you came to this island?’

  The Warriormouse sat down on the streambank. ‘It would surprise me greatly. Tell me more, Wallyum.’

  Leaning on Martin’s shoulder, the old otter lowered himself to sit upon the bank. He tossed a twig into the stream and watched the water bear it away to the seas.

  ‘Three moons ago I had a dream. That was when you appeared in my mind – but was it you, or one who looked just like you? It was a mouse, a warrior like yourself. When you arrived at my island today, I knew then, it was you! You were not wearing armour like the mouse in my dream, but your face was the same as his and the sword you carried was the same wonderful blade. I knew this for certain when I picked up that sword to carry it for you. I could feel it in the hilt and the blade.’

  Martin nodded, understanding beginning to dawn on him. Wallyum had been visited in his dream by the first Martin of long ago. ‘Did the mouse speak words to you, friend? Was there a message?’

  In the darkness, the otter’s eyes opened wide with surprise. ‘Yes, he did! I felt a great calm come over me. His voice sounded like a distant bell, echoing, warm. These are the very words he spoke. My name is Martin of Redwall. You are a goodbeast, Wallyum Rudderwake – help my friends to defeat evil and bring happiness back to our Abbey. Do this thing for me and the name of Holt Rudderwake will be remembered on the stones of Great Hall.’