Mariel Of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  7

  DAWN BROKE MISTILY over the dunes, promising another hot summer day. The mousemaid Storm awoke to find herself surrounded by toads. During the night the well she had dug had filled up with water, and all around Storm the toads were dosing in on her and the precious water. She closed her eyes again, feigning sleep. Her paw grasped Gullwhacker, the knotted rope, as she watched them through partially dosed eyes. It was a dangerous situation; many of the toads were armed with tridents. She waited until a large male natterjack was practically standing over her before springing into action.

  Whop!

  Gullwhacker came down with such a resounding force upon the toad’s head that he was laid out senseless. Storm whirled the rope, shouting aloud. ‘Back off, slimyskins, or I’ll whack you into the middle of next season!’

  A huge overweight speckled toad hopped heavily forward, flanked by two tough-looking young ones armed with the fearsome three-pointed tridents. The fat one blinked several times, his throat bulging and quivering.

  ‘Grroikl! This is our land, this is our water. Grrokk! You are not allowed to stop here. Go now or die, Oykamon has spoken. Rrrebb!’

  Storm was not about to go and she did not mince her words. ‘You can speak all you want, fatface. This is my land and my water, this little bit right here. I am called Storm Gullwhacker. I come from the sea and I’m going nowhere. But I’ll fight to stay here!’

  Oykamon puffed himself up to full swell. ‘Grriokk! You are very insolent for a mouse. Krrrr! We are too many for you. If you fight you will die here. Grakk!’

  Storm sprang forward with a yell, swinging her rope. The toads backed off slightly. She laughed scornfully.

  ‘Right then, I’ll die here, but I’ll take a few of you with me. Well, come on, froggies. Who’s first? Or are you going to sit there clicking and grocking until I die of old age!’

  At a signal from Oykamon the toads advanced. Storm dipped the knotted end of Gullwhacker into the wellwater to make it heavier. Two toads sprang at her. Recklessly she jumped upon one, knocking the wind completely out of him as she scored a bull’s-eye on his companion’s snout with her weapon. Two more rushed from behind her. Storm thwacked at them wildly. As she did, one young toad ran in on her blind side and stabbed her footpaw with his trident. Maddened with pain, she hurled herself upon him, throttling with one paw and belabouring with the rope in the other. Now toads began hopping in on top of her, their weight carrying her to the ground, although she fought ferociously every bit of the way. Suddenly a cry rang from the dunetops.

  ‘Eeeeuuulaliaaa!’

  There was a croak of alarm from the attackers, followed by the pounding of swift paws. In the next moment toads were flying through the air like birds as three hares attacked with lance butts. Teeth bared and eyes wide, the three tall creatures moved with the practised ease of natural fighters, their long ears streaming out behind them as they skilfully kicked with big supple hindlegs, each a sandy-coloured seasoned warrior, brooking no nonsense from their flabby adversaries. Thudding, thwacking and tossing with immense energy, they drove the toads from Storm. Belabouring and punishing without once using their lance points, the hares defeated the toad band swiftly. Storm sat up nursing her wounded paw as the oldest of the hare trio strode lankily to the well.

  ‘Good egg! I say, young ’un, is this your water? May I?’

  Storm nodded dumbly. The hare drank his fill, spitting out the grit.

  He pulled a wry face, and made a leggy old-fashioned bow. ‘Pshaw! Tastes pretty yucky, don’t it. Allow me to introduce us. I am Colonel Clary, family name’s Meadowclary, of course, but you can call me Clary, everybeast does. This young wag over here is none other than the celebrated Brigadier Thyme, and the young gel is our ward the Honourable Rosemary, Hon Rosie to you. Capital! Now, pray tell me whom I have the honour of addressing, marm, though you’re a bit young to be a marm, aren’t you.’

  Storm stood up, favouring her uninjured footpaw. She threw the rope across her shoulders, squinting at the odd trio.

  ‘My name’s Storm Gullwhacker. This is my Gullwhacker – d’you like it?’

  ‘Hmph!’ Brigadier Thyme snorted through his stiffly waxed whiskers. ‘Adequate for the purpose, I suppose, but there’s nothing like a lance butt for dealing with toads, young mouse – you take it from me.’

  The toads had begun to regroup indignantly. Oykamon repuffed himself.

  ‘Grrogg! I will collect many more toads, we will be as many as the sands of the shore, then you will all die. Krrrrik!’

  Hon Rosie had an ear-splitting laugh, every creature present winced as she launched into it.

  ‘Whooyahahahah! ‘Fraid we’ll be long gone by then, you old frogwalloper. Sorry we can’t stop around and be slain, wot! Duty calls.’

  Oykamon spat bad-temperedly. ‘Krroik! Go then. Death awaits you if you return to this place!’

  The other toads shuffled forward aggressively, shaking their tridents.

  Colonel Clary strode decisively forward. He twirled his lancetip, disarming the leading toad with a flick. Clary’s eyes grew hard.

  ‘Right, pay attention, you slimy rabble! We are the long patrol from Lord Rawnblade of Salamandastron. Nobeast stops us – we range where we please and when, carrying out orders. If you take one more step forward, we will use our lancetips, not the blunt ends. Then you will really see death visit this spot. Back off now, marshspawn. You there, leader chappie, tell all ranks to retreat, or you’ll be the first to have your gizzard decorated by lancepoint.’

  Oykamon croaked out some sullen orders, and the toads retreated hastily.

  Hon Rosie turned to Storm. ‘I say, can you walk on that bally hoof?’

  Storm tested her injured footpaw. ‘I’ll be all right. Where are we going?’

  ‘Somewhere you can get proper fodder ’n’ drink, old gel. You don’t want to be hangin’ about this thumpin’ great wasteland twiddlin’ your paws.’

  Brigadier Thyme inspected the paw. ‘Hmm. Not much wrong with that fetlock, young mouse.’

  The three hares carried satchels across their backs. Hon Rosie took hers off.

  ‘Righto, first-aider Rosie to the rescue, wot? Whoohahahahah! I can’t resist bandaging things, jolly good at it. Now, some hart’s tongue fern, staghorn clubmoss, dab of salt and bind the blinkin’ lot up with a few strands of maidenhair fern. There! I’ll bet you could trip a mouse mazurka with that little lot on. Try it.’

  Storm tested the footpaw. It felt very comfortable and easy. ‘Thank you, Rosie. It feels as good as new.’

  Colonel Clary had been pacing restlessly up and down. He shielded his eyes and took some bearings from the sun.

  ‘Good egg, ladies. Got all the latest in shrubbery foot fashions sorted out now? Top-hole, then we can get going. Actually I was thinking of heading nor’east into the woodland fringes. We could have lunch there and visit old Pakatugg. What d’you say, Thyme?’

  ‘Hmmm, yes, why ever not. Best idea under present circs, wot!’

  It took some time for Storm to fall in with the hares’ mode of speech. They seemed to treat everything in a very casual offpaw sort of way, but they were usually correct in their judgements.

  By early noon they had left the flatlands. Behind them the gritty expanses mottled with sparse vegetation shimmered in the summer heat, with the dunes a hazy half-mirage in the distance. More dunes stood out ahead, paw-sinking shifting sand dunes that were difficult to surmount. Topping one such sandhill, they found themselves facing a fringe of pine-clad woodland, dark green and shady, a haven from the glare of the midday sun.

  Brigadier Thyme marked out a vast hornbeam and led them to it. He held up a cautionary paw.

  ‘Keep mum, chaps. Old Pakatugg’s close – I can feel it in m’ whiskers.’

  A pointed dart whistled past Thyme’s ear, burying itself in the hornbeam. From somewhere close by a gruff angry voice rang out.

  ‘You’re a-trespassin’ on Pakatugg’s land. Who be yer?’

  ‘Cl
ary, Thyme and Rosie, the long patrol of the foot ’n’ fur Rangers,’ Colonel Clary answered. ‘Oh, and we’ve got a young thingummy with us. . . . A mousegel.’

  Though Storm tried to see who it was, she could make out no sign of a living creature.

  ‘Thingummy mousegel,’ the gruff voice answered. ‘What sorta thingummy? Anyhow, how do I know you’re you? What’s the password?’

  Clary snorted impatiently. ‘Oh, come out, you old buffoon, you know it’s us. Listen, I’ll even give you the bally password. “Pakatugg Treefleet, we bring you good things to eat.” There, now come out, you old barkwalloper.’

  Storm had to bite her lip so as not to laugh at the odd creature who dropped down from a nearby spruce.

  Pakatugg Treefleet was a fat old squirrel. He carried a long hollow blowpipe and a pouch of darts. Sticking out of his ears, wound about his tail and paws and covering all his body were leafy twigs. He resembled a small moving bush with eyes.

  ‘Huh, landotters, what’ve you brought Paka for lunch?’ Pakatugg growled fiercely through the two teeth remaining in his mouth.

  Brigadier Thyme sniffed. ‘We’re not landotters, we’re hares, and if your manners don’t improve, laddie, you won’t be dining on oatscones and mountain cheese, followed by berry ’n’ barley bake.’

  Pakatugg nearly tore the knapsack from Thyme’s back. ‘Oatscones, mount’n cheese, where?’

  ‘Hoho, not so fast, laddie buck. Take us to your hide-out first. We want to put the old nosebag on in comfort, y’know.’

  Pakatugg led them into the woodland to a small gurgling stream. Lilacs, wildrose, shrubs and trees overhung the spot, turning it into a shady green grotto, and the rocky outcrop which edged the stream was covered in soft moss. Gratefully they sat down. The old squirrel went to fetch them water.

  ‘Real son of the land, old Pakatugg,’ Colonel Clary whispered to Storm. ‘No harm in the blighter as long as you feed him and obey his silly little rules. The chap’s an absolute fanatic on secrecy, passwords, blindfolds, secret signs – the bally lot We’ll see if he can get you to Redwall.’

  Storm echoed the strange word. ‘Redwall, what’s that?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a jolly place – you’d love it, all the best mice live there. Hush, here comes Pakatugg.’

  The odd squirrel set a steaming kettle and five beakers out.

  ‘Rosebay willow’erb tea. Put the kettle on when I saw you comin’ a while back. Now, out wi’ the grub, landotters.’

  Digging in their packs, the trio turned out the promised repast, together with some extra delicacies they had brought along. Storm could not recall when she had tasted a meal so delicious. The hares sipped gratefully at the fragrant rosebay willowherb tea, nibbling at this and that. Pakatugg however, launched himself upon the food, as did the hungry Storm. They practically ended up fighting over candied apple rings. The old squirrel glared at her.

  ‘Yer a tough ’un, mouselet. By my brush y’are.’

  ‘Whoohawhawhawhah!’ Hon Rosie gurgled as she poured more tea. ‘I’ll say she is. We caught her tryin’ to battle with a full toad army, single pawed. Storm Gullwhacker’s not short of grit, by a long chalk. By the by, Storm old sport, where d’you come from?’

  Storm stuffed the apple ring into her mouth. ‘Mmmmfff, that’s good! Where’m I from? Don’t know really, don’t know where I was bound either before I met you. Can’t remember my name, called myself Storm ’cos I was thrown ashore by the storm. Came from the sea, I s’pose, me and Gullwhacker here.’

  Pakatugg chewed on an oatscone and stared hard at the young mouse. ‘Y’mean you ain’t got no name, no home, you can’t remember nothin’?’

  Clary coughed politely, struck by a sudden idea. ‘Ahem! Sad, isn’t it? That’s why we brought her here. We thought you might be able to take her to Redwall. They’d probably find out who she is jolly soon – good at riddles an’ mysteries, those Abbey thingummies.’

  Pakatugg stood up, dusting his paws off. ‘Whohoa! Don’t get ahead of yer tail there, landotter. You ain’t landin’ me with no mousegel as can’t remember which season it be.’

  Storm jumped up indignantly. ‘Who said I want to be left anywhere with anyone? I’ve got some say in this, you know. Besides, who needs a squirrel that can’t make up his mind whether he’s a beast or a tree . . .’

  Hon Rosie pulled Storm down beside her. ‘Steady on, old gel. We know you’re the bravest of the brave, and all that rot, but you’re in a strange land now, among strange creatures; this is dangerous territory. We’re only trying to get you back to your own bally kind. I mean, what better for one than to be with one’s own creatures, eh?’

  Pakatugg gathered up the kettle and beakers. ‘Huh, y’can dress it up whichway you likes, I’m not bein’ saddled with no mindless mouse, by the great ’ornbeam I’m not!’

  For the first time, Storm felt alone and unwanted. She walked off out of the squirrel’s bower into the surrounding trees, swinging her rope.

  ‘Me and Gullwhacker don’t need anybeast. We’re all right.’

  Brigadier Thyme eyed the squirrel coldly. ‘Now see what you’ve done, bucko.’

  Pakatugg pulled his tail over his head and chewed the end. ‘Oh, all right, then. But mark, you landotters ain’t havin’ things all yer own way, by cracky yer not!’ Cupping his paws he called to Storm: ‘Come on back ’ere, mouse, afore you ferget who we are. I’ll take you to Redwall Abbey, but only on certain conditions . . .’

  Storm had turned and was walking back. ‘Conditions, what conditions?’

  Pakatugg turned to the hares. ‘Grub! I need food fer the journey, nice grub like you landotters carry, so I’ll take her if you give me all the food out o’ those havvysacks.’

  Clary twitched his whiskers. ‘I say, steady on. What’ll we eat?’

  ‘Oh, we can live off the jolly old land until we make it back to Salamandastron,’ Hon Rosie interrupted. ‘We’ve done it before.’

  Brigadier Thyme emptied his knapsack out. ‘So be it. What else, squirrel?’

  ‘Hah well, I don’t want everybeast in the world knowin’ where my gaff is, see – my home’s me own secret. So I want the mouse blindfolded when I take ’er to Redwall, so’s she can’t find the way back to this place.’

  Hon Rosie looked at Storm. ‘You can use your Gullwhacker as a blindfold.’

  Storm nodded agreement. She was becoming curious about this place called Redwall Abbey. Pakatugg made his final demand.

  ‘Lastly, I don’t stir paw until tomorrow dawn cracks – take it or leave it.’

  Clary waited for Storm’s nod of assent before he spoke.

  ‘Righto, you old vagabond, but you take jolly good care of this mousegel, d’you hear. She’s got all the makin’s of a top-flight warrior.’

  Within a very short time Pakatugg had settled down on the mossy bank and was snoring loudly. Clary shrugged as he too lay down.

  ‘Cool and snug here. If old Pakatugg says it’s a secret place, then y’can bet a bee to an ant it is. We might as well have a rousin’ good snooze; tomorrow we travel to Salamandastron. As for you, young Storm, you’re bound for a new life at jolly old Redwall Abbey. What d’you think of that?’

  But no answer came from the young mouse. She was curled up asleep on the moss in the green stillness, with Gullwhacker her rope weapon clutched tight in both paws.

  8

  DANDIN WAS COMPOSING songs for the Abbot’s feast. He sat in the shade of a great spreading oak, trilling on his flute, running through old songs, tunes and ditties. Saxtus sat with him, as did several of the moles and Redwall creatures. They joined in choruses of well-known songs and called for Dandin to sing some more. The moles would not be satisfied until Dandin rendered their particular favourite.

  ‘Sing us ’ee song ’bout zur Gonffen an’ ’ee gurt cake, Dandin.’

  Dandin nodded and picked up his flute. It was one of his own special ballads, telling of how his ancestor Gonff, Prince of Mousethieves, stole a cake baked by Abbess Germa
ine, first Mother of Redwall Abbey. He trilled an introduction on Gonff’s own flute before launching into song.

  ‘It happened in the springing time,

  When all the leaves were green,

  And once again, Abbess Germaine,

  A-baking cakes had been.

  She stirred them good and mixed them fine,

  With honey, nuts and flour,

  Then put them out to cool awhile,

  Until the teatime hour.

  But then along came bold Sir Gonff,

  His eyes a-twinkling bright.

  A cake he’d set his heart upon,

  For suppertime that night.

  He took the greatest cake of all, from off the window ledge

  And hid it in a secret place, close by the forest edge.

  The Abbess came to check her cakes, about the mid-noontide

  And found the mousethief with a bow, and arrows at his side

  “Why stand you there, O Gonff,” said she,

  “With bow and arrows armed?”

  “My good Abbess” the thief replied, “You must not be alarmed.

  I saw an eagle steal your cake, he swooped then flew away.

  So I stand guard upon your cakes lest he returns today.”

  The Abbess chose another cake, which to Sir Gonff she gave,

  “Take this reward, young mouse,” she said,