Contents
About the Book
Title Page
Map
Epigraph
Book One
The Maid From The Sea
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Book Two
The Strange Forest
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Book Three
The Sound Of A Bell!
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
About the Author
Also by Brian Jacques
Copyright
About the Book
The mousemaid Mariel is washed up on the shores of Mossflower, half-drowned, battered and bruised but still alive! She finds her way to Redwall Abbey, where her incredible story of badger lords, fighting hares and Gabool the Wild gradually unfolds . . .
BRIAN
JACQUES
A TALE OF REDWALL
MARIEL OF RED WALL
Illustrated by Gary Chalk
Old stories told by travellers,
Great songs that bards have sung,
Of Mossflower summers, faded, gone,
When Redwall’s stones were young.
Great Hall fires on winter nights,
The legends, who remembers,
Battles, banquets, comrades, quests,
Recalled midst glowing embers.
Draw close now, little woodlander,
Take this to sleep with you,
My tale of dusty far-off times,
When warrior hearts were true.
Then store it in your memory,
And be the sage who says
To young ones in the years to come:
‘Ah yes, those were the days.’
BOOK ONE
The Maid From The Sea
1
ABBOT BERNARD FOLDED his paws deep into the wide sleeves of his garb.
From a viewpoint on the threshold of Redwall Abbey’s west ramparts he watched the hot midsummer day drawing to a glorious close. Late evening light mellowed the red sandstone Abbey walls, turning them to dusty scarlet; across the flatlands, cloud layers striped the horizon in long billows of purple, amber, rose and cerise. Bernard turned to his friend Simeon, the blind herbalist.
‘The sun is sinking, like the tip of a sugar plum dipping into honey. A perfect summer evening, eh, Simeon?’
The two mice stood silent awhile before Simeon turned his sightless face towards the Abbot.
‘Father Abbot, how is it that you see so much yet feel so little? Do you not know there is a mighty storm coming tonight?’
The Abbot shook his head, disbelieving, yet unwilling to deny Simeon’s unerring instinct. ‘A storm? Surely not!’
Simeon chided Abbot Bernard gently. ‘Perhaps you have other things on your mind, my friend. Maybe you have not felt the cooling breezes die away. The air has become still and hot, the birds stopped their evensong much earlier than usual, even the grasshoppers and the buzzing bees have ceased what little noise they make. Listen!’
The Abbot cocked his head on one side, perplexed. ‘I hear nothing.’
Simeon chuckled drily. ‘That is because you are hearing the sound of silence, Bernard. One thing I have learned in my life is to listen to the sounds of Mossflower country. Every sound carries information; so does every silence. This is going to be a mighty storm, one that we have not seen the like of in many a long season.’
Taking Simeon by the paw, Abbot Bernard led his blind companion down the rampart steps and across the lawn towards the main Abbey building.
Simeon sniffed the air. ‘Mmmm! I smell hot apple pie and raspberry cream pudding, and scones, fresh from the oven too, with damson preserve spread on them. We’d best hurry before the moles get here or there’ll be none left.’
The Abbot quickened his pace. ‘How d’you know the moles are coming?’
‘Bernard, Bernard, did you ever know Sister Sage to serve raspberry cream pudding and no moles to arrive?’
‘Right again, Simeon. Your powers of observation leave me in the shade. Oh, I must tell young Dandin to beat the log alarm. It’ll warn anybeast still outdoors to come in.’
Simeon grimaced. ‘Oh dear, do we have to suffer that noise again? Young Dandin is a bit overenthusiastic at beating a hollow log with two clubs.’
Abbot Bernard smiled reflectively. ‘Yes, he does rather put his heart into it, doesn’t he. Still, I wish everyone were as willing in their duties as our Dandin. If ever Redwall Abbey gets a bell, I’ll be the first to vote him as bellringer.’
The two mice made their way between the flowerbeds which dotted the dark green sward. An ominous grumble of thunder muffled its way over the far horizon to the northwest. Abbot Bernard turned in the doorway of the Abbey, attempting to conjure up his powers of smell.
‘Hmmm, cider poured cold from the cask, eh, Simeon?’
The blind herbalist wrinkled his nose. ‘Wrong, it’s pear cordial.’
The Father Abbot of all Redwall tried not to look amazed. Even though Simeon could not see him, he might sense his Abbot’s expression.
Far, far over the horizon, far to the northwest, far across the oily blue green billows which were rising, lashing their tops into rippling white peaks of foam, far over the abysses and deeps of the heaving seas, far from the peace and calm of Redwall Abbey, stood Gabool the Wild.
Clouds of jet black and slate grey boiled down out of the sky to meet the lashing waves. A blast of hot wind like the gust from hell-furnace doors set Gabool’s scarlet cape fluttering as he stood on the high cliffs of his island, defying the elements. Thunder boomed out, forked lightning ripped through the lowering vault of the sky. Gabool drew his jewel-hilted sword and waved it at the storm as he roared and laughed in exultation. The deadly curved blade with its sharp double edges hummed and sang against the wind.
Gabool the Wild ruled the seas, he was the dread Lord of Terramort Island, King of the Searats, Warlord of all Rodent Corsairs, Captain of Captains. No creature alive was a fiercer fighter than Gabool. From the lowly position of a young scullyrat he had fought his way up to be the biggest, the most savage, the cruellest and the most ruthless. In all the seas and oceans there had never been a rat like Gabool the Wild. Huge gold hoops dangled from his ears, his fangs (which he had lost long ago in hard-fought combat) were replaced by sharp jutting gold canines, each one set with a glinting green emerald. Below his weird yellow blood-flecked eyes, an enormous dark beard sprouted and curled, spilling down to his broad chest, silk ribbons of blue and red woven through it. Whenever Gabool moved, his rings, bracelets, medals and buckles jangled. Gold, turquoise, silver, ivory – plunder from the far places of the high seas. Strange weapons with shimmering twisted blades were thrust into the purple sash about his waist. Dangerous to serve and deadly to trust,
he stood laughing in the teeth of the gale, satisfied that the creature who had dared go against him was now fish bait on the sea bed. Thunder crashed overhead as the skies released a deluge of whipping, lashing rain. Lightning crackled around the rocky tor, illuminating the barbaric figure as if even the high heavens were challenging him.
The Warlord of all Waters threw back his huge head and shrieked out his battlecry to the storm.
‘Gaaaabooooool!’
The pitifully tiny figure of a mousemaid was hurled about like a chip of bark in the eastward rush of high roaring seas. Tormented rolling waves, whipped to a frenzy by the screeching wind, billowed and swelled, long combing chariots pulled fiercely along by tossing white stallions of foam and spray.
The mousemaid, partially stunned, dared not even let one paw free to undo the rope about her neck. Her numbed paws clung grimly to a jagged spar of driftwood as she plunged wildly about in the maddened waters, now on top of a wave high as a castle, hurtling down blue green valleys into a trough that yawned like a deep, dark monster mouth, now being spun sideways with the spume, now being flung backwards from greater heights to vaster depths.
The rope became tangled around the wooden spar; painfully the little maid-tried to bite at the hemp. Seawater gushed into her mouth, and she retched as the water threatened to choke her. A flailing end of rope struck her across the eyes. Unthinkingly she let go of the spar; it whipped off in a different direction from her. With both paws tearing feebly at the rope circling her neck, she was shaken about like a small fish upon rod and line.
All consciousness was finally beaten from her body when the spar struck her across the head, and the helpless figure was lost amid the pounding crashing seas. Obscured by the boiling cloud curtains above the maelstrom, not even the stars or moon were witness to the fate of the little mousemaid, victim of Gabool’s cruel whim.
2
CLOSE TO THE north side of the Abbey building, a new construction was under way.
Astride the wooden scaffolding of a half-finished belltower, young Dandin pounded doggedly away at the hollow beech log.
Thonkthonkthonkthonk!
Though he was a sturdily built little mouse, he felt himself driven aback by the blasting wind. Shaking rainwater from his eyes, he bent his head against the onslaught of the storm and continued stubbornly thwacking the log with two hefty yew clubs. Whenever Dandin raised his gaze slightly he could see the fringe of surrounding Mossflower Woods swaying and hissing, rustling and sighing, like a restless ocean.
‘Dandin, come down, you’ll catch your death up there!’
The young mouse peered over the scaffold, shielding his eyes against the deluge. Draped about with a clean worn-out floursack, Mother Mellus the Redwall badger stamped a huge paw upon the wet sward.
‘D’you hear me, young mouse? I said down, this instant!’
Dandin blew rainwater from his whiskers, smiling roguishly he called back, ‘Right this instant, mann, just like you say’.
Without a backward glance Dandin threw himself from the tower and came plunging earthward to the accompaniment of the badger’s startled growls. Not more than a fraction from the ground, he stopped falling and swung there, dangling by a strong vinerope harnessed about his waist. Dandin touched his nose with a wet paw.
‘Came as quick as I could, marm . . .’
A huge paw cuffed him roughly about the ears as Mother Mellus freed him from the encircling vinerope. Tucking him firmly in her elbow crook like a baby, she hurried in out of the rain, scolding Dandin as he complained loud and long.
‘Put me down. I’m not a baby, I can walk . . .’
‘No, you’re not a baby, you’re a young pickle, d’you hear, and you should know better. Throwing yourself from a high tower like that! By the weasel’s whiskers, you scared me out of ten seasons’ growth!’
‘I know what I’m doing; it was completely safe. Now will you put me down? I can stand on my own paws, you know . . .’
‘I’ll put you down, you young rip. Next time I’ll tan your hide so hard you won’t be able to sit down until berrypicking. Just let me catch you jumping from high places like that again! What’d you do if the vines snapped, eh? Then we wouldn’t have to dig a grave. You’d go so far into the earth when you hit the ground you’d be able to shake paws with the taproots of an oak. Be still, you little blaggard, or you’ll feel the back of my paw. Young Abbey beasts these days, I don’t know . . .’
Scolding and arguing by turns, the young mouse and the old badger went inside the Abbey. Mother Mellus kicked the huge door shut behind her, leaving the storm to rage on outside.
Across Great Hall in the cosy surroundings of Cavern Hole, Abbot Bernard sat at head of table with Brother Simeon on his left paw and Foremole, the mole leader, on his right. Lanterns twinkled around the homely festive board, moles jostled shoulders with mice, hedgehogs sat next to otters and squirrels. The Abbey infants were allowed to sit at table with their elders; they were mainly woodland orphans gathered in by Mother Mellus – baby mice, small hedgehogs, a young squirrel and twin otters who had been brought by their parents. Little ones who were known as Dibbuns, they were sat on the table edges, facing the Brothers and Sisters of Redwall, the good mice who tended and cared for them.
Redwall fare was famous throughout the length and breadth of Mossflower. The Abbey grew all its own produce, and Redwall cooks were experts.
Foremole had his nose buried in a raspberry cream pudding, speaking in the rustic mole language through mouthfuls of his favourite sweet.
‘Hohurr, baint nuthen loik rabserry pudden, no zurr. Oi could eat this yurr pudden till next moleday an’ still ax furr more.’
Gabe Quill, the hedgehog cellar-keeper, held a noggin of pear cordial up to a lantern, swishing it about as he inspected its bright amber colour critically.
‘Hmm, what d’you think of that for a touch of good cellar-keepin’?’
A big male otter named Flagg relieved Gabe of the drink and slurped it down in one gulp.
‘Very nice, sir. Too good to swill cellars down with.’
Gabe’s face was a picture of indignation. ‘Why you ’orrible otter!’
Grubb, a baby mole, looked up at the general laughter, wiping damson jam from his snout he shook a small digging paw at Gabe Quill.
‘You’m can ’ave an ’orrible owl, but otters is orful, buhurr aye.’
Sister Serena, a rotund mouse who ran the Abbey infirmary and sickbay, wiped the jam from Grubb’s whiskers and passed him a bowl of honeyed milk as she reprimanded him.
‘Hush now, Grubb. Don’t correct your elders.’
Grubb sucked noisily at the milk, coming up with a cream-coated chin.
‘Burr elders, Dandin says oi’m a liddle owd feller, that be maken oi an elder too. Betcher oi’m elder’n they, an’ woiser may’ap.’
At the head of the table the Abbot paused with a hot scone between paw and mouth. ‘The log pounding’s stopped. Where is Dandin?’
Simeon took a sip from a foaming tankard of October ale. ‘In the kitchen. Can’t you hear him? He’s getting a drying-down, dry clothes and a good telling-off from Mellus.’
The reprimands of Mellus and the protests of Dandin echoed loudly down the corridor between the kitchen and Cavern Hole.
‘Keep still, your ears are saturated!’
‘Owow! I won’t have any ears left, the way you’re going. Ouch! And I’m not wearing that great big habit, it belongs to fatty Brother John.’
‘Ooh, you ungrateful little scamp! How dare you call Brother John a fatty when he was good enough to lend you his spare robe! Hey, come here, come back, I say . . .’
The smack of wet paws on the floor of the passage to Cavern Hole announced the culprit’s escape. Dandin scampered in. He sat between Foremole and a squirrel named Rufe Brush. Grabbing a wedge of speckled nut-cheese, he jammed it between two slices of oat farl and began munching, pouring himself a beaker of cold strawberry cordial as he did. Flagg, the big otter, winked at Da
ndin and passed him a bowl of otters’ hotroot sauce to dip his farl into.
‘Aye aye, matey, run a-foul of Ma Mellus again, have ’ee? Quick an’ dip yer bows now – yonder she comes.’
Dandin ducked beneath the table just in time. Mother Mellus came bustling by, a dean linen bonnet tied about her great striped head. She nodded to the Abbot and took her place at the far end of table in a large armchair. Sitting two young mice on her lap and a baby mole on the arm of the chair, she soon forgot Dandin as she occupied herself feeding the Dibbuns, wiping chins and generally taking charge.
‘Come on now, little one, eat up your woodland salad. Pudding later.’
‘No, don’t lika sala’ wanna pudden.’
‘Salad first, pudding later. You want to grow up big and strong like me, don’t you?’
‘No, wanna stay lickle an’ eat pudden alla time!’
Abbot Bernard reached beneath the table and nudged Dandin.
‘You can come out now, young mouse. Mother Mellus has her paws full with those Dibbuns. You did a fine job as log banger, Dandin, though there was no need to stay out in the storm so long.’
Dandin sat up proudly and reached for a raspberry cream pudding.
‘Thank you, Father Abbot. I stayed out until I knew all our Abbey creatures were inside, safe and dry. It’s my job.’
Blind Simeon smiled. ‘Well done, young Dandin. You’re just the type of mouse Redwall Abbey needs. One day when the Abbey is fully built and completed, who knows, you could be our next Abbot.’
Dandin wrinkled his nose, not too pleased with the idea. Abbot Bernard laughed heartily.
‘No Abbotship for you, eh, young rip? It’s easy to see that you come from the line of Gonff the Mousethief. I wish that Martin the Warrior had left ancestors behind.’
Simeon held up a paw. ‘Maybe he did, my friend – not direct descendants, but spiritual ones. Martin was a Warrior and the founder of Redwall; his presence is all around us in these very stones. I have never talked with a creature whom I felt was actually touched by Martin’s spirit, but then we have never needed such a one in this time of peace. However, I feel that one day before my seasons have run, I will meet some creature whose life has been touched by the shadow of our Warrior.’
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