Nimbalo seemed a bit distracted as he answered. ‘Aye, sir, we’ll take care . . . Tagg, can you ’ear a bumpin’ sound?’
The otter listened carefully, turning downstream. ‘Sounds as if it’s coming from down that way. What d’you think?’
Ruskem turned in the opposite direction. ‘I think ’tis a comin’ from upstream, but yore ears are younger an’ better than mine, Trigg.’
They chose to search downstream, round a bend. A gaunt pine tree trunk was floating there, its thick end bumping the bank, trapped in the shallows as the stream rushed swiftly by.
Tagg tested it with his footpaw, leaning down hard.
‘Good fortune for us, mate, a ready made boat. This’ll save our footpaws for a day or so. We can make it to the foothills on this.’
Ruskem pointed up the mountain’s north face. ‘Stream starts up there, in the north foot’ills. When there’s been a storm it swells, an’ one part branches off to loop down here before circlin’ round t’the mountain again. Dries up after a score o’ days. Yore right, though, Cragg; if ye can free that trunk while the flood’s this high it’ll take ye close t’the west face in no time.’
Tagg trimmed spare branches from the pine and held the trunk steady, whilst Nimbalo boarded with their provisions. Wading waist deep, the otter pushed the makeshift craft out into the current and leaped aboard. Ruskem waved his stick as they were swept speedily away.
‘Fare ye well, Frogg an’ Numble. May yore stummicks be full an’ yore path smooth!’
They shouted back as the log raced downstream.
‘Goodbye, Ruskem. Take good care o’ yourself!’
‘Aye, an’ thankee for yore ’ospitality, mate!’
The ancient shrew watched until they were out of sight, waving his stick and murmuring to himself, ‘Wish I was a goin’ with ye. Heehee, there’s two young rips bound off adventurin’. Ah no, I’m ’appy where I am. Did enough rovin’ in me younger days. Oh well, time fer me nap.’
Ruskem went into his den without bothering to look beyond the upstream bend, where he thought the noise had come from. Had he taken a glimpse there he would have seen the bloated carcass of Grobait, washed up and stuck to the bankside as the sun dried the mud, baking it hard as rock.
* * *
16
Broggle had been on breakfast duties in the kitchen. Filorn watched him hastily stacking dishes and wiping tables. The kindly ottermum relieved him of his tasks.
‘I’ll finish off here. You’re anxious to be with your friends in Cregga Badgermum’s room, aren’t you? Go on, off with you!’
Wiping his paws on his apron, Broggle backed off, bowing politely. ‘Thankee, marm, very kind of you, marm, you’re a real mal, parm, er, I mean a real pal, marm!’ He turned and dashed away upstairs.
Boorab, who was last at table, rose and began collecting dishes. ‘Allow me to assist you in these menial chores, O fair one.’
Filorn smiled at him and curtsied deeply. ‘My thanks t’you, kind sir. Pray, what’s the reason for this sudden rush of helpfulness?’
The hare winked broadly as he loaded a tray with bowls. ‘Just my sense o’ duty, marm, an’ of course there’s always lots o’ nice leftovers from brekkers, wot!’
Filorn picked up a tray of beakers and followed him out to the kitchens. ‘Oh, I’m sure we can find you somethin’ to tickle your palate, sir. I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll have a nice cup of rosehip tea together.’
Bells tinkled on Boorab’s ears and cap as he shook his head in admiration of Filorn’s understanding nature. ‘You, marm, are an opal among otters, if you’ll allow a chap t’speak poetically. A diamond midst the dreary dross of daily duties, wot!’
Fwirl placed her paw on the windowsill, judging it as accurately as she could. ‘There, that’s about dead centre, I’d say.’
Mhera approved her decision. ‘Right, put the nail right on that spot, please, Broggle.’
With a stone-headed hammer, Broggle drove a small clout nail into the woodwork, to about half its length. Fwirl explained her plan as she worked. ‘This is how you make a plumb line. I tie one end of the thin cord to this knife hilt, and now I let it out over the windowsill.’
Gundil scrambled up on to the sill. ‘Ee knoife be’s goen daown an’ daown on ee corder, miz.’
Fwirl played the cord out slowly. ‘Tell me when ’tis almost near the ground, Gundil.’
The mole watched the knife’s steady descent. ‘Jus’ ee likkle bit more, miz . . . Stop! That be furr enuff!’
Fwirl tied the cord around the nail as Cregga called from her chair, ‘What’s going on? Keep me informed, please.’
Brother Hoben did the explaining. ‘Fwirl has made a plumb line. It runs straight and true, right from the centre of your window to the ground below.’
Cregga levered herself up out of the chair. ‘Of course! The clue that Song could see through the monocle before the ash tree grew will be somewhere on that line, probably between the cracks or on the wall itself!’
Gundil thought he had found a flaw in the plan. ‘Oi bain’t a climberin’ oop ee gurt ’igh walls. You’m be needen summ turrible long ladders furr ee job!’
Cregga lifted Gundil down from the windowsill. ‘Who needs ladders when we’ve got our Fwirl?’
‘But that’n be ee flatted wall, et bain’t ee tree,’ Gundil protested. ‘Miz Furl be a fallin’ off on she’m skullbones. Hurr!’
Fwirl reassured the doubting mole. ‘Don’t fret, Gundil. I can walk up a wall as easily as you can walk about on the ground, you wait and see.’
Gundil scurried to the bed. Burying his head beneath a pillow, he cried out in a muffled voice, ‘Ho no, luvly mizzy, oi cuddent burr to watch ee. Moi ’ead wudd be assidurably dizzied a wurryin’ abowt ee. Burr, lackeeday!’
Redwallers gathered on the grass below, necks craned upward, while those in the bedchamber leaned over the windowsill to stare downward. All eyes were on the squirrelmaid, searching the wall, spreadeagling herself parallel with the plumb line as she moved back and forth. Broggle was practically bursting with pride and admiration.
‘Now that’s what I call a champion climber. Skilful, magnificent!’
Fwirl stopped moving, concentrating on one particular block of wallstone. She studied it for a moment, her bushy tail twirling with excitement, then she shot upward like an arrow, straight back through the window and on to Cregga’s lap.
‘I’ve found it! Writing carved into the stone, but I can’t read or write words down. What should I do?’
Mhera and Brother Hoben came up with a simple scheme right away, and shortly thereafter Fwirl scampered back down and found the sandstone block with the carving on it. She spread a clean white table napkin, its four corners smeared with honey, over the writing. Then, taking a stub of beeswax candle, the squirrelmaid coloured in the white linen all over and made a perfect rubbing of the characters beneath the cloth. A cheer went up from the onlookers as she pulled it from the wall and waved it like a banner.
‘I did it! I’ve got it!’
Cregga’s room became jammed to the door again. Everybeast listened in breathless silence as Brother Hoben read out the message carved into the wall of the Abbey long seasons ago.
‘’Twas I slew the Scourge in days of old,
Then I was one, but now we are two.
We who are dumb, yet sound so bold,
Day and night to order you.
We are those who announce a feast,
Or victories of the brave-hearted.
We are those whose solemn farewell,
Mark sadly a loved one departed.
On our oak see knowledge unfold,
We never speak ’til we’re told?
We never speak ’til we’re told.’
In the brief silence which followed, Fwirl shook her head. ‘What a puzzle. Great seasons, what’s it supposed to mean?’
Her comment was greeted by roars of laughter. Broggle bristled. ‘Don’t laugh at her, it’s not fair!’
Mhera pounded the small tabletop until she restored silence. ‘Broggle’s right, you shouldn’t laugh at Fwirl. She’s only just come to our Abbey. How is she supposed to know about Redwall?’
Everybeast began explaining at once, until Cregga roared, ‘Silence, please! Floburt, would you like to explain it all to Fwirl? I don’t want to hear a murmur from anybeast except Floburt, thank you!’
The hogmaid recited what every Redwaller had learned at Abbey school.
‘The poem means our two Abbey bells. They’re called Matthias and Methuselah. A long time ago Redwall had only one great bell, called the Joseph Bell, after its maker. Our Abbey was captured by an evil rat, Cluny the Scourge, but a mouse named Matthias fought him. Matthias took the great sword of Martin the Warrior and cut the ropes holding the Joseph Bell. It fell on Cluny and killed him, but the bell was split by its fall. Later, the metal was melted down and recast into two smaller bells, Matthias and Methuselah, the pair we have in our bell tower today. If you know this the answer becomes clear. Bells cannot speak, yet they make sounds, ringing out at midnight, midday and eventide. They ring for feasts, triumphs and also for a death. The line that’s repeated at the poem’s end is a clever play on words. We never speak ’til we’re told. Think about it. A bell will make no sound until you toll it, so they never speak ’til they’re tolled!’
Old Hoarg the Gatekeeper sat down on the bed. ‘Hah! I didn’t see that ’un ’til you explained it, Floburt. Very clever indeed. But wot about the line speakin’ of knowledge unfoldin’ on our oak? Where do we find our oak?’
Mhera whispered something to her mother. Filorn nodded understandingly, then she made an announcement. ‘You’ll learn the answer right after the entertainment contest!’
Everybeast appeared bemused at this.
‘What entertainment contest?’
‘Hurr, furst oi yurr’d abowt et.’
‘’Tis a new one on me too.’
‘I didn’t know about any entertainment contest, did you?’
Mhera restored order. ‘It’s to be held by the gatehouse very shortly. Give your names to Gatekeeper Hoarg if you wish to enter. Any kind of entertainment will be considered. My mum will present the winner with a large woodland fruit trifle, topped with meadowcream. Line up outside the gatehouse if you’d like to put your name down!’
Seconds later, Broggle gazed around the deserted bedchamber. ‘Well, Mhera, that certainly cleared the place. They went out of here like ants chasing honey. Still, who wouldn’t for one of your mum’s woodland trifles with meadowcream? Whose idea was that?’
Mhera giggled like a Dibbun. ‘It was mine. The entertainment contest, too. We don’t need that lot following us around all day. Come on, let’s go and take a look in the bell tower. That appears to be the place where this riddle is centred.’
Cregga shook her great striped head as she rose from her chair. ‘You’re a crafty otter, Mhera. That was cleverly done. Now, I’m too old for climbing bell tower stairs, there’s too many of ’em for my liking. But you could drop me off by the gatehouse. I want to hear about this entertainment contest. Who knows, I might put my name down. I’d dearly love one of your mum’s trifles all to myself.’
The search party assisted the Badgermum down the stairs, joking.
‘What’ll you do, Cregga? Sing the song of the ancient badger?’
‘Ee cudd resoite summ gurt dramatuck vursus, marm!’
‘Haha, or play tunes on Boorab’s haredee gurdee!’
Cregga sat on the bottom stair to catch her breath. ‘Insolent wretches! I’ll have you know I was very skilled at entertaining in my younger seasons. Maybe I’ll perform a quick acrobatic dance, that should do the trick!’
Mhera and Fwirl were laughing so hard that they could not help Cregga upright again.
Inside the bell tower it was dim and cool, but the spiral stairs seemed to go on for ever. Halfway up, Brother Hoben had to sit down and rest awhile. ‘Phew! Lackaday, now I know why Cregga didn’t want to come!’
Fwirl’s voice came from high above them. ‘Put a move on down there, I’m already up here!’
Gundil wiped a paw across his brow, trudging doggedly on. ‘Hurr, easy furr ee t’say, moi booty, but this choild bain’t nuthin’ but ee pore molebeast, not fitted furr cloimbin’ oop sturrs wot goes rownd an’ rownd!’
Together they stood up near the small conical roof, astride a massive wooden beam with stout ropes bound round it. Below them was a dizzying drop, with two tolling ropes hanging the length of it. Mhera pointed out the two bells suspended from the beam below their footpaws.
‘The one on your left is the Matthias bell, this one on the right is the Methuselah bell. See their names embossed around the edges? A pretty awesome sight, isn’t it?’
Gundil’s nosetip had gone dry. He turned his eyes aside, moaning, ‘Bwhurr, oi bain’t no burd, an’ oi bain’t feelen too gudd noither!’
Mhera and Fwirl assisted him off the beam and sat him lower down on the steps. The mole turned his face to the wall. ‘Oi woan’t be ‘arpy ’til oi’m saferly on ee gudd furm grownd.’
Broggle inspected the beam on all fours. ‘This is definitely made from a great oak. Look at this huge scar cut across it. Wonder how that happened?’
Brother Hoben, being the Recorder, instinctively knew. ‘That’s where Matthias severed the bell rope with Martin’s sword. Such a forceful blow he struck that he scored the beam deeply.’
Broggle picked at it with his small kitchen knife. ‘Must have hit the hem of his habit, too. Look, there’s a piece of cloth wedged in the cut.’
Mhera saw what was going on as she returned to the beam with Fwirl. ‘Don’t damage it in any way, Broggle. Try as carefully as you can to get the cloth out all in one piece!’
Broggle shaved the wood delicately away, either side of the cloth. ‘That’s easy. See, it just lifts out!’
‘He’s a real artist with that little blade,’ Mhera whispered to Fwirl, loud enough for Broggle to hear. ‘There’s nobeast in Redwall more skilled with a kitchen knife than our Broggle.’
Blushing with modest pride, the assistant cook gave the cloth to Mhera. It was only a small square of light green material, simple and homespun, nothing elaborate or special. Mhera sniffed it before laying it flat on the beam.
‘Hmm. Still got a faint scent of lilac on it. I wonder who it belonged to? Ah, there’s letters inked on to it. Let’s see . . . HITTAGALL? What’s that supposed to mean? The letters aren’t even written straight across horizontally, like ordinary writing. They’re written vertically. HITTAGALL all in capitals from top to bottom. Brother Hoben, what d’you make of it?’
Folding the material carefully, Hoben slid it into his belt pouch. ‘Nothing right now, but let me think on it. What do you say we go down and discuss this over lunch? I think Gundil’s illness is catching. I’m beginning to feel a bit woozy up here.’
Friar Bobb was sitting with the rest of the audience in front of the west wallsteps, by the gatehouse. When the friends appeared he waved for them to sit down by him, whispering, ‘Sorry about lunch, I’ll fix something later. Come and enjoy yourselves. We’ve had some marvellous entertainment here.’
Egburt and Floburt were tootling flutes and performing a jig, while Grandpa Drogg beat a small drum as he sang for them.
‘We never have to comb our spikes,
Because they won’t lie flat,
An’ that is why you’ll never see,
A hedgehog wear a hat.
I’ve seen some hares wear helmets,
And bees in bonnets too,
While molemaids favour mob caps,
All stitched with bluebells blue.
But hedgehogs don’t wear headgear,
An’ that’s my sad refrain,
Poor hedgehogs get as wet as frogs,
When left out in the rain!’
They skipped off to great applause, still tootling their flutes.
The next item was a real novelty. Sister Alkan
et and three little ones, Durby the molebabe, a tiny mousemaid named Feegle and the smallest hedgehog who could just about toddle, called Wegg, climbed up on to the wallstep, which served as a stage. In her severe and precise tones, the Sister recited a cautionary poem. Much to the hilarity of the audience, the three infants acted out the lines with serious faces and much paw wagging.
‘’Tis often said by otherbeasts,
And trust my word ’tis so,
There are certain manners,
Which Abbeybabes should know!
All Dibbuns must behave themselves,
From break of dawn ’til night,
Tug their ears, touch their spikes,
In general, be polite.
Bid all their elders time of day,
Don’t interrupt . . . My word!
Our rule is Dibbuns may be seen,
But very seldom heard.
One must wash one’s paws and face,
Before one ventures out,
And up one’s sleeve a kerchief keep,
With which to wipe one’s snout.
Never sup soup noisily,
Say please and thanks when able,
Remember to excuse oneself,
Before one leaves the table.
If Dibbuns heed these golden rules,
They grow up good and true,
Early to bed, straight to sleep,
And don’t hide when bathtime’s due . . . Thank you!’
The little ones bowed, to tumultuous applause, though Foremole Brull was heard to remark to Cregga, ‘Doan’t hoide when barthtime be due? Hurr hurr, lookit likkle Durby thurr, larst toime me an’ ’is mum barthed that ’un ee water turned to solid mudd, burr aye!’
Before any other contestant had a chance to present themselves, Boorab leaped up, flourishing his long robes dramatically. ‘I do this not for any triflin’ reward, wot wot, get it, trifle? Ahem, pray attention, goodbeasts all, for as Abbey Poet I have composed a small recitation which I shall recitate. These few lines would bring tears to the blinkin’ eye of an underwater fish! Mothers, cover your babes’ tender ears! For ’ere goes, ear goes? Hawhaw, that was a good ’un, wot, wot?’
The Taggerung (Redwall) Page 18