Mariel Of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

‘To help and comfort the dispossessed, harbour orphans and waifs, offer shelter to all creatures alike, give clothing, warmth and food to any beast or creature that is deemed in need of such. To educate and learn, particularly in the healing arts, comfort the sick, nurse the injured and help the wounded . . .’

  Dandin received Brother Hubert’s nod to continue from Saxtus.

  ‘Er, er, help the wounded. . . . Er, lessee now, er. . . . Oh yes! To take our food from the earth and replenish the land by caring for it, er, husbanding crops and living in harmony with the, er, seasons always. To honour and protect our friends and brethren, only raising paw to do battle when our life at Redwall is threatened by treachery and the shadow of war; at these times every Redwall creature should show courage, fortitude and obedience to the Father Abbot. Albeit the taking of another life must always be justified and never carried out in a wanton manner.’

  Brother Hubert came out from behind his desk.

  ‘Well done, Saxtus, and very clearly spoken. As for you, young Dandin, you stammer and hesitate, you seem to have difficulty in remembering – except, that is, until you come to the part that deals with treachery, war and battle.’

  Dandin looked down at the floor, gnawing at the side hairs of his paw.

  Brother Hubert leaned back against the desk, took a beaker of cordial, blew some dust from its rim and took a sip before continuing.

  ‘Right, Saxtus. Tell me what has been going on in Great Hall for three seasons now.’

  Saxtus stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘Going on . . . Great Hall . . . er, er. Oh, is it the making of some cloth picture? Is that what you mean, Brother Hubert?’

  Brother Hubert polished his spectacles upon his habit sleeve.

  ‘I don’t know, are you asking me or telling me? My my, what a pair of little puddenheads. See if you can tell him, Dandin.’

  This time it was Dandin’s turn to brighten up.

  ‘In Great Hall for the past three seasons, actually it’s three and a half, the Brothers and Sisters, also many woodlanders, are combining their skills to make a wonderful tapestry. This will depict our founder, Martin the Warrior, showing how he battled with villainous vermin, foxes, rats, stoats, ferrets and weasels, even a huge wildcat like that awful Tsarmina. Martin the Warrior wasn’t bothered by those evil beasts, oho no; he got his famous sword and buckled on his bright armour, took up his shield and drove them from Mossflower country. Wham! Blatt! He whirled his deadly blade, the rats screamed, the foxes dived into hiding. Swish! Chop! Martin was right after them and he whirled his sword an –’

  ‘Enough, enough, you bloodthirsty young scamp. How do you know all this?’

  Dandin smiled. A reckless light burned in his bright eyes.

  ‘Because the father of my father’s father was Gonff the Prince of Mousethieves, Martin the Warrior’s famous companion. He could steal the nose from under your eyes while you were watching and he was a great ballad-maker.’

  Brother Hubert nodded wisely. ‘Yes indeed, an unusual fellow, by all accounts – thief, rogue, warrior, questor, but all for the good of other creatures. He married the lovely Columbine, if my memory serves me rightly, so he could not have been too bad a creature. Never let me catch you stealing, young Dandin. Wait, there was something I meant to tell you. Ah yes, I have it here somewhere.’

  He began rummaging among piles of old records until the dust flew, finally coming up with a small object. By this time all three were coughing and spluttering amid the dust. Hubert shepherded them outside into the cool shadow of the ramparts before he presented Dandin with the item. It was a small flute, beautifully made from a piece of straight applewood, bored out by a red-hot iron rod and wonderfully carved, and it had an ornamental letter ‘G’ near the mouthpiece.

  ‘I was looking through some ancient records,’ Brother Hubert explained. ‘They said that the family of Gonff lived down at old Saint Ninian’s church for six generations. Before Gonff moved away from Redwall Abbey, however, he was presented with a flute by Abbess Germaine, our first Abbey Mother. But apparently Gonff thought it was far too splendid and fancy for him – he preferred a reed flute – so he left this behind. I think this is the flute; it carries his initial and looks very old. I’m sure it belongs rightly to you, Dandin. Do you think you can play it?’

  Dandin gazed at the flute, his eyes shining. ‘I’ll certainly try, Brother.’

  Hubert dusted his habit before returning to the gatehouse.

  ‘Good, perhaps we’ll hear you at the Abbot’s Mid-summer Jubilee feast?’

  Saxtus squinted at the sun. ‘When’s that, Brother?’

  ‘Three days hence, though some of the older Brothers and Sisters have been planning it for quite a while now. Our Father Abbot is very modest and does not want to cause too much fuss, so we have kept it quiet; we didn’t want to get you young ones too excited. Still, I suppose you’ve got to know at some point . . .’

  Both young mice leapt for joy, hugging each other and laughing aloud at the prospect of the great event.

  ‘Hurray! Abbot Bernard’s Jubilee feast. Redwaaaaaaalll!’

  Brother Hubert’s dry, dusty old features broke into a wide grin.

  ‘Go on now, be off with the pair of you. No doubt you’ll be needed to help with the preparations.’

  Sister Sage was not on duty serving breakfast that morning. She took herself off for a breath of fresh air on the ramparts, enjoying the soft breeze that drifted over Mossflower Woods.

  She came down from her morning stroll along the walltop to join Brother Hubert, and together they watched the two young mice hopping and leaping like wild crickets, across the sunlit lawns and flowerbeds, towards the Abbey kitchens.

  Sister Sage chuckled and shook her head. ‘Cowslips! Look at those two young uns, would you! It makes you feel good to be alive on a summertide.’

  With that, she hopped off after them, capering madly despite her long seasons. Brother Hubert attempted a small caper, until dust arose from his habit and his glasses fell off. He looked about quickly to see no creature had been watching, then hurried into his gatehouse.

  5

  THE MIDDAY SUN glinted off the waters of the far northwest sea as thick-headed revellers from the previous night hauled anchors to sail out and scour the seas or range the coasts in their constant search for plunder and booty, slaves and trinkets. Gabool the Wild watched them from the high window of his banqueting hall, Waveblade, Blacksail, Rathelm and Greenfang, four good craft laden with the rakings and scrapings of seas and oceans, murderers all.

  Gabool had conferred captaincy of the Greenfang on Garrtail, an up-and-coming member of the searat brethren, but dull and wholly servile to his master Gabool, Lord of all Waters. Dull Garrtail might be, but Gabool knew that it would not stop him gossiping to the master of the Darkqueen, Saltar, brother of Bludrigg. Garrtail knew that the Darkqueen habitually ranged the seas to the south; he would make sure his path crossed with Saltar. There was little doubt the corsair master of Darkqueen would hear the tale of his brother’s death, chapter and verse.

  Gabool tore at a leg of roasted kittiwake and chewed reflectively. Saltar had the reputation of being a hard searat to cross. Though they had never matched blades, Gabool knew Saltar to be a corsair hook fighter, using a vicious metal hook to impale opponents before slaying them with his curved sword. Gabool spat the meat away and hurled the kittiwake leg out of the window, watching it bounce off rocks on the sheer face until it hit the sea below.

  He laughed slyly. Two could play at that game!

  Taking a long dagger from his waist sash, Gabool went to the far end of the hall. A coloured cloth wallhanging, held outward by a wooden rail near the ceiling, reached from on high down to the floor. Gabool pushed it to one side and found the crack in the stonework behind it. He jammed the long dagger, handle first, into the crack so that it was wedged, with the blade pointing outward, then let the wallhanging fall back into place. Though he was a renowned fighter and a fearless one, Gabool
never took chances, particularly since the incident with the mousemaid. Standing back, Gabool surveyed the trap. Good, the wallhanging looked like any other in the hall, perfectly harmless.

  Now his restless eye was caught by the great bell. He wandered around its wide perimeter, fascinated by the object. Surely no Searat King had ever taken such a magnificent prize. Gabool pinged it with his long curving claws, sounded it by banging his rings and bracelets upon its brazen surface, amazed by the clear musical noises it made, tingling, humming and vibrating. He bared his lips. Leaning close in, he bit lightly at it, making his gold teeth reverberate with the echoes from the bell. Gabool stroked the cool curving object as he crooned softly.

  ‘Speak to me, beauty, we must get to know each other well. I am Gabool the Wild, your owner, but you need not fear me. Your voice will call to my fleet one day, your tones will terrify my enemies. You will be the voice of Gabool when I set you atop of my fort and let your tongue swing free. Then, ah then, you will boom out across the waves so that all the seas will know Gabool is King.’

  On a sudden impulse Gabool dashed off. Slamming the door behind him, he took the downward stairs three at a time, deeper and deeper into the depths of his own lair. Two guards were standing at the entrance to the prison cells. Gabool whirled upon them with a snarl.

  ‘Get out of my sight and leave me alone here!’

  As the guards fled, Gabool made his way to a cell that was little more than a cage. He lounged against the bars, grinning at the pitiful creature locked up inside.

  ‘Well, bellmaker, ready to work for me yet?’

  Joseph the Bellmaker was chained by his waist to the wall. The floor of the subterranean cell was awash with seawater which seeped through from outside. Joseph had once been a powerful, well-fleshed mouse, but now his cheeks were sunken and dark circles formed around his eyes. Starvation and ill treatment had taken their ruthless toll on the bellmaker, though as he raised his head both eyes burned with remorseless hatred for his captor.

  ‘I would sooner be eaten by the fishes of the sea than serve you, rat.’

  Gabool continued as if he had not heard the prisoner. ‘You can do it, Joseph, I know you can. A belltower strong enough to hold the great bell, right on top of my fort, where the whole world will hear it.’

  Joseph pulled forward, straining at the chain in the enclosed space, his voice shaking with pent-up rage.

  ‘Never. I would not soil my paws with your mad ideas and evil schemes. That bell was made for the badger, the Lord of Salamandastron, enemy of all seascum. It will never ring for you!’

  Gabool drew his sword and dashed it against the cell bars.

  ‘Hell’s guts! D’you think I care who it was made for, you fool? The bell is mine now, mine to do what I like with. Its voice will sound for me alone. I, Gabool, Warlord of the Waves, say this!’

  Joseph slumped down, shaking his head in despair.

  ‘You’re mad, completely insane and evil. Kill me, do what you want with me, I don’t care any more.’

  Gabool sheathed his sword. Drawing close to the bars he whispered low, ‘And your daughter?’

  The bellmaker’s face betrayed the agony his mind was suffering.

  ‘No, please! You wouldn’t harm her, you couldn’t! She’s so young and, and. . . . Don’t you dare hurt my daughter!’

  Gabool now sorely regretted drowning the bellmaker’s daughter. Still, if the old buffoon thought she was alive, there might be a bit of fun here. Gabool decided to toy with his victim.

  ‘If you build my belltower I will let you see her again, but not until you’ve carried out the work.’

  Joseph tugged at the chain. He bit his lip until blood showed, torn by the decision he knew he had to make.

  ‘Gabool, listen. I would not put a single stone atop another for you. Why? Because it would mean death, torture or slavery for countless other good creatures. Don’t you understand rat, my conscience would not let me, after I saw what they did to the Captain and crew of our ship when searats captured us. I know it means that I may never see my young one again. It tears my heart apart, but I must do the right thing for the sake of others.’

  Gabool summoned up all his cunning, his black soul driving him on to wickedness, belying the smile on his face as he threw his claws wide.

  ‘Haharr, very stubborn, Joseph, but I can see that you’re a good creature. Sometimes I wish that I’d never been born wicked, but decent like you. I suppose I’ll have to think of somethin’ else now. But hark, bellmaker, I’m sure you’d like to see your daughter again, wouldn’t you, matey?’

  Tears of gratitude beaded in the unsuspecting prisoner’s eyes. ‘She means more to me than anything. Please let me see her!’

  Gabool took the keys from a wallspike. ‘Hell’s gates! I must be getting soft in me old age. Come on, then.’

  They stood in the banqueting hall, barbarian and bellmaker. Joseph looked around him, dragging his chains as he did.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Gabool touched the great bell with his sword. ‘Not so fast, shipmate. If you won’t build me a belltower then at least tell me what these little pictures and strange words round the top ’n’ bottom of my bell mean.’

  Joseph shuffled anxiously around the bell, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of his daughter as he reluctantly read off the rhyme at its base.

  ‘I will ring for wedding times, when two hearts unite.

  I will toll the hours out, all daytime and through night.

  I will wake good creatures up, from their beds each morning,

  Or toll when they’re in danger, a clear and brazen warning.

  For all the family, son and daughter, husband and goodwife,

  I will boom a sad farewell, when they must leave this life.

  For many great occasions, for many different reasons,

  Listen and my voice you’ll hear, throughout the changing seasons.

  Though I may boom, clang, peal or toll, command and use me well.

  But hark, beware the evil ones who would misuse this bell.’

  Gabool stared hard at Joseph. ‘Trash! I’ll have it filed off one day. What about the little drawin’s an’ pictures round the top, what do they mean, bellmaker?’

  Joseph spread his shackled paws. ‘Only the Lord of Salamandastron knows that. He gave me a parchment with those drawn upon it. Who knows what goes through the minds of the great badger rulers of the fire mountain; they are creatures of destiny. I’ve told you all I know, now can I see my daughter?’

  Gabool led him to the open window.

  ‘Of course, matey, I can’t show you the exact spot where she lies, but I can show you how to find her . . .’

  For Gabool it was but the work of a moment, one swift push!

  In the late afternoon the mousemaid cast a long shadow as she wandered the deserted beach alone. Hunger, thirst and attacks of myriad gnats and sandflies had wakened and forced her to desert the hiding place. Over one shoulder she still carried the knotted rope. A long line of pawprints in the sand behind her emphasized the desolation of sea, sand and sky, seemingly inhabited only by predatory seabirds. She had tried gnawing at some young seaweed washed up on the tideline, but the heavy salt taste in the maiden’s dry swollen mouth caused her to spit it away. Swaying slightly, she shielded her eyes from the hot orb of the sun and gazed about. Fresh water was nowhere to be had. Turning inland, she made her weary way towards a large outcrop of sand dunes to the south.

  Some perverse dogged spirit drove the mousemaid onwards, though often she would be toppled over by the hot shifting sand of the dunes. Rolling downhill, she would pick herself up, wipe grit from her eyes and begin climbing again. It was on top of one difficult dune she encountered the first sign of life that was not a seabird. It was a small lizard, eyes half-dosed, basking in the heat. The reptile did a sideways shuffle, watching her warily. The maiden tried several times to communicate, managing only a croaking noise. The lizard’s head weaved from side to side as it snapped bad-t
emperedly at her.

  ‘You norra frog, you make frognoise, wharra you want?’

  The mousemaid managed to gasp out a single word: ‘Water.’

  The small lizard moved its head up and down, its throat pulsating.

  ‘Water faraway. You norra lizard, you die soon, never make it to drinkwater, too far. Soon now they eat you.’

  She followed the creature’s upward nod. Gulls were beginning to circle overhead; the scavengers of the shore, sensing when a living thing was becoming weaker and more defenceless. The maid grasped the knotted rope and swung it, calling at the sky in a hoarse voice, ‘I’m not finished yet. You’ll see!’

  When she looked down, the lizard had gone. Without a backward glance she descended the other side of the dune, half stumbling, half falling. The foot of the dune was in shadow. Before her lay a sandy flatland dotted with scrub and coarse grass. The little mousemaid rested awhile in the welcoming shade. Idly her paw sank into the sand as she leaned back. Suddenly she sat bolt upright. The sand was firm and damp just beneath the surface. Realization that she was not on the seaward side of the dunes brought with it the shining hope of one precious thing. Water!

  Scrabbling dizzily, her strength failing rapidly, the maid began digging with all paws. Soon she was rewarded by darker, damp sand. Her paws made a delicious scroping noise as she tossed sand out of the shallow hole. Digging with the urgency of desperation, she was finally rewarded with one wet paw. She sat sucking her paw as the moisture seeped through the ground into the hole, forming a small muddy pool. Throwing herself flat, the little mousemaid shoved her head into the hole and drank greedily, disregarding the gritty sand and ooze, as life-giving water flowed down her throat. New vitality surged through her. Gurgling with delight, she lifted her head and found herself staring into the predatory eye of a gannet that had been sneaking up on her.

  Thwack! Thwop!

  With eye-blurring speed she belted the knotted rope twice into the bird’s face. It stumbled, fell over, sticklike legs buckling under it. The mousemaid advanced, swinging her weapon, with battle light in her eyes and a clear angry voice.