Storm tried hard to keep her voice level. ‘No! I’m not going blindfold and hungry for you or anybeast!’
Swiftly Pakatugg leapt up and fitted a dart to his blowpipe. ‘Gotcha now, missie. Do as I bid or I’ll deaden your paw fer a season wi’ this dart.’
As Storm stood up and reached for her rope, the squirrel fired. She threw herself sideways, hearing the thud as a sharp dart buried itself deep in the bark of a nearby pine. Launching herself forward, the mousemaid thwacked out with her Gullwhacker.
The blowpipe was knocked from Pakatugg’s mouth. He sat down hard, his eyes watering copiously as he clutched the end of his nose where the knotted rope had belted him. Storm stood over him, the light of battle in her eyes.
‘First you blindfold me, then you starve me, now you try to wound me. Sit still and don’t make a move, squirrel, I don’t trust you any more.’
Hungrily munching alternate bites from an apple and a scone she watched the squirrel applying a leaf poultice to his swollen snout. He was muttering fiercely.
‘Huh, me, Pakatugg, lettin’ a slip of a mouse break me nose!’
Storm shook her weapon grimly. ‘Listen, squirrel. I’m no slip of a mouse, I’m Storm Gullwhacker, so don’t think you can bully and trick a creature smaller than yourself. I’ve split this food into two equal halves. You can go where you want and take yours with you. I’ll find Redwall Abbey on my own, without having to protect my back against you.’
Grumpily Pakatugg stuffed half of the provisions into his knapsack. He hurried off down the dim trail, yelling back derisively, ‘Yah! I’m glad you did that, you liddle fool. You’ll never find Redwall alone; you’ll die in this forest wi’out Pakatugg to guide you.’
Storm saw the slight humour of the situation. ‘Aye, and I’d never have reached Redwall being blinded, starved and wounded,’ she called back. ‘On your way, you nasty old fleabag!’
The mousemaid ate a leisurely meal and rested awhile before packing the remainder of her provisions and setting off to find Redwall alone. There was no trace of Pakatugg, nor any living creature, just the still, green summer forest. Storm tossed her Gullwhacker high in the air. It landed with the knotted end pointing in the opposite direction to that taken by the squirrel. Trusting to luck, she strode off in the direction the knot had pointed.
The afternoon wore on. Hardly a breeze stirred the leafy canopy overhead as the tiny figure trekked resolutely through the maze of tree, bush and fern, noting from time to time the position of the sun, which she tried always to keep at her back, knowing that if it set in the west she must be travelling east. To restore her confidence, in the enveloping silence Storm tried to hum odd snatches of songs, but she could not remember any. With a careless shrug she pushed on, the soft swish of her paws through grass and occasional birdsong the only sound that fell upon her ears. Once, she came on a small stream. The mousemaid drank and bathed her paws, wondering what Redwall would look like, if ever she was fortunate enough to find it.
Shades of evening turned the forest to a gloomy black-green vault as Storm plodded on, not sure whether she was going in the direction of her goal or travelling in circles. Gradually every tree, leaf and bush began to look the same. Night dosed in on the forest and the mousemaid lost her way completely. She strayed from the dim trail and into impenetrable shrouds of wood and vegetation. Storm kept her confidence up by telling herself that being lost in a wood was better than being lost at sea, but the surrounding night and oppressive silence sat heavily upon her spirit. She fervently wished that it was daylight, or that she could meet another living creature. Sitting despondently at the foot of an elm she sipped mintwater from a flask, ate some white cheese studded with dark roast acorns and decided to await the dawn.
Then she saw the light.
Faintly at first, like an elusive will-o’-the-wisp faraway amid the trees. Swiftly and silently Storm made her way towards it. Still some distance away, she could tell it was a campfire of some sort. There was music too. Some creature was playing a stringed instrument and singing a song in a raucous voice.
‘If I were a stone I’d lie alone
Amid the earth and clay-o,
’Til some good beastie picked me up
And threw me faraway-o.
Lolly too diddle um
Rinky doo skiddle dum.
There’s bread ’n’ cheese ’n’ cider,
Said the hedgehod maid who sat to supper,
But now ’tis all inside ’er.’
It was a funny-looking hare dressed in jester’s attire, half green, half yellow. He sat by a small campfire, tinkling a curious stringed instrument.
Storm decided there was no use beating about the bush; she had already met some hares who were friendly. Boldly she strode in and sat down on the opposite side of the fire. The hare winked at her and continued.
‘Now my grandpa, he was by far
A dreadful fat old liar.
“It’s cold in the river tonight,” he said,
As he sat upon the fire.
’Til my old grandma came along
And hit him with the ladle.
“There’s another egg been cracked,” she laughed,
As she set him on the table.
Doodle oo lolly tum
Tiddly oodly iddly um.
I loved a rabbit’s daughter,
And she fed me on pots of tea
Made out of boiling water.’
Storm laughed at the odd creature and his cornical ditty. He twitched his floppy ears.
‘Now then, young mouse me gel, what can we do for you?’
Storm shrugged. ‘Not a lot, sir. I’m lost, you see. Perhaps I could rest by your fire until dawn.’
The hare shook his head sadly. ‘Lost! I knew a woodpecker once who got lost.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Did you find him again?’
‘Find him? Of course I found the blighter – that’s how he came to get lost in the first place. Who lost you – or better still, who do you want to be found by?’
‘Nobody lost me, and I’m looking for Redwall Abbey, so how could an Abbey find me?’
‘Hmm, good question. But no need to fret your mousy little heart, young whatsyourname. I’m going to Redwall, so we can both get lost together.’
‘You mean you’re lost too?’
‘Who said I am? Don’t talk ridiculous. Never been lost in m’ life, young thingy. Do I look lost? Sittin’ here by my own campfire, singin’ away and twangin’ m’little harolina . . .’
To stop any further indignation, Storm commented on the instrument. ‘Ah, so that’s what it’s called, a harolina. What a nice instrument. I’ve never seen one before.’
‘Never seen a blinkin’ harolina? Corks, no wonder you’re lost. I say, is that a long patrol medal you happen t’ be wearing?’
‘This? Oh yes, it was given to me by Colonel Clary, Brigadier Thyme and Hon Rosie . . .’
Before Storm could say any more, a dreamy look crossed the jester hare’s face, making him look extra foolish.
‘Egads! Hon Rosie, the Honourable Rosemary – exquisite creature, completely adorable gel, doncha know. Did she mention my name by the way?’
‘I don’t know. What is your name?’
‘Tarquin L. Woodsorrel, though she may have called me Tarkers or jolly old Tark. She did mention me, didn’t she? You wouldn’t kid a chap, would you? Go on, say she did.’
Storm saw that the poor fellow was so agitated that she had to lie a bit. ‘Oh, Tarkers, yes, she did nothing but talk about you.’
‘Good egg. I knew it. Go on, go on, what’d she say?’
‘Er, let me see. She said you were very handsome, a fine singer and a wonderful player, and she wished you were on patrol with her.’
Tarquin L. Woodsorrel fell flat on his back, kicking his long legs ecstatically into the air.
‘Absolutelyballyspiffinhunkydory! Whoohoo!’
Storm coughed politely. ‘Does this mean you’ll take me to Redwall Abbey, Mr Woods
orrel?’
‘Abbwall Reddymouse, ’course I will. You can call me Tarquin. I’ll call you early. D’y’know I couldn’t eat a thing right now. Rosie, ah Rosie, I could live on that sweet name the rest of my life without eating.’
Storm curled up by the fire, yawning loudly. She did not fancy an entire night listening to a lovelorn hare singing the praises of his beloved.
‘Oh well, I’d best get some sleep. By the way, my name’s Storm Gullwhacker. This rope is my weapon – actually the rope’s called Gullwhacker.’
Sleep was some time coming to the mousemaid as she had to lie there listening to Tarquin composing dreadful love songs and plunking odd chords on his harolina.
‘O Rosie the Hon, you’re certainly the one,
I’ll bet my bally life,
With your cute little nosie, beautiful Rosie
You’d make a lovely wife . . .
Hmm, lessee now, what rhymes with wife? Strife, knife . . . life. That’s it!’
The fire burned to white ash and red embers in the deep night time forest.
10
ALMOST AN HOUR before he was usually up and about, Abbot Bernard was wakened by the first rays of dawn and a loud knocking on his bedroom door. Hastily stowing his nightcap beneath the pillows, he rubbed sleep from his eyes and tried to look as dignified as a Redwall Abbot should.
‘Ahem, the door’s open, come right in, please.’
Bagg and Runn entered, bearing a tray between them.
‘Good mornin’, Father Habbot, an’ a happy Jubilee to you, sir.’
The Abbot hid a smile as he propped himself into a sitting position.
‘And good morning to you, young otters. I’d completely forgotten about my Jubilee. It’s a good job you reminded me. Now, what’s all this?’
‘It’s your breakfast, Father. Meadowsweet and sage tea.’
‘Aye, and arrowroot curd with strawberries.’
‘And barleytoast spreaded with honey.’
‘Some hot blackberry muffins too.’
‘And cold willowcake and greengage jam . . .’
The Abbot held up his paws. ‘Oh, my goodness, how will I get through it all? It’s far too much for me. I’ll just have the meadowsweet tea for now. How kind and thoughtful of you. I’ll bet you haven’t had your own breakfast yet. How about you two helping me to finish all this?’
It was no sooner a word than a bite with two hungry young otters. Bagg and Runn sat on the bed as morning sunlight filled the room, doing full justice to the good breakfast they had prepared while showing the Abbot a barkpaper card they had made for him.
‘See, there’s you, Father, standing on the lawn by the pond.’
‘Oh yes. What a good likeness, and that’s a splendid tree I’m standing by.’
‘That’s not a tree, it’s Mother Mellus. Can’t you see her stripes?’
‘Of course. I thought this one over here was Mother Mellus.’
‘No, that’s Simeon looking for herbs, and this one is Gabe Quill rolling out a barrel of October ale for your feast.’
‘Why so it is. Well done indeed!’
The morning blossomed into sunlight fullness, Redwall Abbey stirred itself into life, lazy blue smoke from its kitchen chimneys drifting towards the woods, where it tangled gently to blend in with tendrils of white mist hanging in the trees. Preparations were well under way, flower garlands decked the long tables set out in the orchard. Creatures from the outlying woodlands and fields began arriving, bringing gifts, food and their families with them. Brother Hubert stationed Dandin and Saxtus on the ramparts over the gatehouse.
‘Do a slow patrol of the walls. If you see any creatures coming in who might need assistance, then run down and help them.’
Both young mice nodded importantly, proud to be helping in such an adult way. They puffed out their chests, frowned intently and with swinging paws set out on tour of the high ramparts round the outer Abbey walls.
Friar Alder put the finishing touch to his great masterpiece. Knowing the Abbot’s taste for the savoury rather than the sweet, he had concocted an invention of his own, Bernard Bread. It was a vast loaf of wheat-and-oat bread, almost the size of a grown badger. Alder opened the big oven doors as he called to his assistant, Cockleburr.
‘Lend a paw here, Cockles. The Abbot’s surprise is almost done.’
A small hedgehog came running, stumbling and tripping over a long white apron, his assistant-cook’s hat falling over his eyes.
‘Simmerin’ seasons, lookit the size of it. Comin’, Friar!’
Together they inserted the long wooden paddles and set them in the grooves either side of the bread tray. Sweating and panting, they heaved with might and main until the Bernard Loaf began moving slowly and majestically towards the oven doors.
‘Steady! Easy now, here it comes. Push that stonemason’s trolley over here. We’ll need something to land it on.’
With a gentle thud the trolley received its precious burden. Cockleburr stood back, wiping his brow on the corner of his apron.
‘Perishin’ puddens, Friar. It’s a monster! Lookit that crust. It’s like a shiny golden mountain, all crispy an’ steamin’.’
Friar Alder seated himself upon a sack of flour. ‘So it is, Cockles. So it is. There’s leeks, sage, rosemary, bay, turnip, beetroot, onions, mushrooms of six varieties, young cabbage, fennel, cucumber and corn, all floating in a mildpepper and cream gravy. What d’you think of that, young ’un?’
‘Frizzlin’ frypans, there’s no doubt ’bout it, you’re a fantastic Friar, a colossal cook, a stupenduous stewer, a . . . a. . . .’
‘All right, Cockles, that’s quite enough. I know I do have a certain skill. All that remains is to heat it slightly before we bring it to table this evening. Now, is everything else in order, preserved fruits, berry flans, oh, and the Four Seasons Forest Trifle?’
‘Just finishin’ the pipin’, Friar. I got up early and did the pink rosettes and green leaf shapes with the mint cream, and now all I’ve got to do is the twirly bits along the edges with yellow buttercup cream.’
‘Good, you carry on with that while I go and check the wine, ales and cordial lists with Gabriel Quill. Always remember, Cockleburr, the right drinks complement the right food. Right food, right drink – success. Wrong food, wrong drink – disaster. Always remember that, m’lad.’
The excitement of events to come increased with the advance of late afternoon. A pleasant breeze ruffled the grass, taking the edge off the intense summer heat. The young Redwallers and woodland creatures, joined by some of the more active elders, began an impromptu sports day in the Abbey grounds. Dandin and Saxtus, however, stayed faithfully patrolling the walltops, peering over battlements, scanning woodland, path and flatland, highly concious of their responsible position. Several times that day they had unbarred the main gates to assist with carrying babies, helping the old ones and other useful tasks. Now they rested awhile together on the northern corner of the west wall, watching their companions at play.
‘Haha, look at Bagg and Runn. Trust two otters to win the three-legged race. What a pair of scallywags, eh, Dandin.’
Dandin had turned. He was shielding his eyes, gazing up the path to the north.
‘Here, look at this, Saxtus. There’s two creatures coming towards the Abbey. D’you know them?’
Saxtus peered at the odd pair of figures dogtrotting along the dusty path. ‘Hmm, can’t say I’ve ever seen them before. Looks like a hare and a mouse dressed as a ragbag.’
‘Go and tell Mother Mellus, will you, Saxtus. I’ll stand by with the gate open. She’ll prob’ly want to speak with them.’
Trudging silently along beside Tarquin, the mousemaid had her first view of Redwall Abbey. She liked what she saw. With the dusty brown path running across its front, the late afternoon sunlight played over the structure, giving it a faded rosy glow. Behind the stout outer wall with its battlements and ramparts, she could see the high spired Abbey roof, flanked by lower sloping ones, pe
aceful and serene, standing homely and solid with the summer green forest at its back. Redwall. Now she knew why creatures talked of it with a reverence; it appeared to blend with the surrounding Mossflower country as a haven of rest and tranquillity, in harmony with all nature, like some gentle giant of a mother, sheltering and protecting her children.
The badger and the two young mice stood out upon the path and Tarquin and Storm walked up. Mother Mellus and the hare clasped paws.
‘Well well, Tarquin Longleap Woodsorrel, you old bounder!’
‘Stap me vitals, Mellus, are you still alive and growlin’, you old stripedog?’
Saxtus and Dandin stood watching as the two old friends greeted each other. Dandin eyed the ragged mousemaid. She stood by, swinging a thick knotted length of rope. Unconcerned by her filthy appearance or the sea-scoured, sand-worn, forest-torn, loose burlap sacking dress she wore, the maid stared boldly back at Dandin as badger and hare conversed.
‘So, how goes it at Salamandastron? Who rules there now?’
‘Oh, the old fire mountain’s still there y’know, strong as ever. The Lord badger there is Rawnblade, biggest dog badger you’ve ever set eyes upon. Some say he’s the image of his great-grandsire Sunstripe the Mace. Ha, what a warrior! He can flay a crew of searats before breakfast, and that’s on a bad day. But enough of all this fiddle faddle, old stripehead. You’d remember me at old Abbot Thomas’s final jubilee – I was only a bobtailed leveret then.’
‘Of course, I remember it well. You were with your father Lorquin. Ah, those were the seasons, eh. Who’s your young friend?’
The mousemaid stepped up and spoke for herself. ‘I’m Storm Gullwhadcer. This is my weapon, the Gullwhacker.’
Mellus nodded courteously, hiding her amusement at the newcomer’s confident and forthright manner. ‘Welcome to Redwall Abbey, Storm Gullwhacker. Perhaps you’d like to be shown around our home. Dandin, Saxtus, take this young mousemaid inside and see if you can get her some decent clothing and a bath.’
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