Mariel Of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  Clanggggg!

  ‘Er, I say, M’lord, old chap, are you all right?’

  Colonel Clary was at his side. Rawnblade came fully awake, rubbing his eyes with one paw, he gazed down at the sword in the other.

  ‘What? Er, oh, yes, thank you, Clary. It was merely a dream.’

  ‘My aunt’s kittens! That must have been rather a jolly dream, M’lud. Look what you did to that shield!’

  Rawnblade stared at the shield which had been in the way of his swordswing. The thick metal plate had been sheared in half.

  It lay on the floor, completely severed. Absent-mindedly the badger Lord tested the unmarked blade of Verminfate.

  ‘No alarm, old friend. Go back to your rest – it was only a dream.’

  ‘A dream, eh? Something out of the past, perhaps?’

  Rawnblade lay back on the bed and held the formidable blade tightly.

  ‘No, this was something from the future. I know it.’

  Gabriel Quill stood up amid the tables and multicoloured lanterns that graced the orchard. He held a tankard of best October ale high and cried, ‘Righto, everybeast. Let’s give a real Redwall toast to our Abbot!’

  Every creature stood, raising bowls, beakers, tankards, cups and flagons. The soft summer night echoed as the multitude called aloud in one voice, ‘Abbot Bernard! Father of Redwall Abbey! Hurraaaaaaah!’

  Saxtus sat down with a groan, holding his middle. ‘Whoof! Shouldn’t be yelling like that on an overfull stomach.’

  Tarquin scoffed as he relieved Saxtus of his plate. Emptying the Forest Trifle, strawberry flan, pear gateau and hazelnut cream junket into his own oversized wooden bowl, he grabbed a spoon and tucked in.

  ‘Haw haw! What’s the matter, laddie buck? Little tum too full, is it? Scrumff! Old Tarkers’ll show you how to navigate yer way round a bowl of tucker, Mmm! I say, any more of that Summercream Pudden stuff left?’

  Grubb the Dibbun mole replied as he nodded sleepily forward towards an overheaped plate of Woodland Summercream Pudding, ‘Burr, baint no more pudden, zur. Oi snaffled ’ee last o’ it. Snurr!’

  Buxton and Willyum mole immediately left off eating huge portions of steaming Bernard Bread and dug into either side of Grubb’s plate, eating furiously as the baby mole’s sleepy head drooped nearer the pudding.

  ‘Ho, save the choild, ’urry up an scoff quick now, lest the hinfant be drownded in yon pudden. Hurr hurr!’

  Tarquin joined them indignantly. ‘I say, you chaps, chew each mouthful twenty times and leave this to me. Bally unthinkable, poor little blighter bein’ drowned in a plate of pudden. Do not worry, young sire, help is at spoon. I’ll save you. Gromff!’

  Storm tried to stop spluttering Gabe Quill’s giggly buttercup ’n’ honey cordial across the table. She shook with unbridled laughter at the antics of Tarquin and the two moles rescuing the dozing Grubb. The mousemaid had never been so happy in any of the life she could remember – the food, the delicious drinks, the food, the kind Abbey creatures, the food, the good friends about her, and, of course . . . the food. Never had she tasted such marvellous things. Alternating between Bernard Bread, blackcurrant pie, summer salad, cheese ’n’ nut flan, mintcream cakes and honeyglazed preserved fruits, she held her own with the best trencherbeasts.

  Dandin was showing off slightly for her benefit, tossing redcurrants up and catching them in his mouth. He was quite good at it.

  ‘Here, watch this, Storm. Betcher can’t catch redcurrants like me.’

  ‘Haha! Who can’t? I’ll show you. Watch!’

  Unfortunately the giggly cordial had got the better of her. Storm tossed a redcurrant high and missed it completely. It bounced off Foremole’s head and lodged in the ear of Treerose, who was feeling tired and sulky.

  ‘Whahaah! I’ve gone deaf in one ear. She threw something at me!’

  Foremole flicked the offending redcurrant out on to the grass. Taking up a great spoonful of otter’s hotroot soup, he held Treerose’s nose and poured it down her open mouth.

  ‘Yurr, missie, ’ee doant eat vittles boi stickin’ ’em in ’ee earlugs. Daown thy mouth et should be a-goen, loik this, liddle missus.’

  Treerose was not heard to complain again that night. She was too busy pouring cold water down her throat to kill off the taste of the otter hotroot soup, which it was said could thaw out an icy river in midwinter.

  Most of the eating was now over, and speeches began. Abbot Bernard thanked the Friar for supervising the wonderful feast, also the helpers, layers of table, Gabe Quill for the excellence of the drinks and all present for attending. In response various creatures stood up to thank the Abbot, toast Redwall and congratulate their hosts. Rufe Brush called for some dancing but was silenced by an oat scone; dancing and jigging was out of the question after having eaten so much. So the singing began. Never being backward at coming forward, Tarquin was up on his paws, chewing the last of a celery surprise as he tuned his harolina. Finishing the food, he launched into the song of the long patrols.

  ‘Oh, it’s hard and dry, when the sun is high

  And dust is in your throat,

  When the rain pours down, near fit to drown,

  And soaks right through your coat.

  But the hares of the long patrol, my lads,

  Stouthearts they walk with me,

  Over hill and plain, and back again,

  By the shores of the wide blue sea.

  Through mud and mire to a warm campfire,

  I’ll trek with you, old friend,

  O’er lea and dale, in a roaring gale,

  Right to our journey’s end.

  Yes, the hares of the long patrol, my lads,

  Love friendship more than gold.

  We’ll share good days, and tread long ways,

  Good comrades brave and bold.’

  Drubber mole banged his tankard upon the table amid the applause. ‘Gurr! That’n be a gurt ballad, bringen tears to moi eyes, it do.’

  Then it was Willyum mole’s turn to get up and sing the mole song. He did it solemnly in the correct mole manner and was cheered loudly, though this time it did bring Drubber to tears. He wept unashamedly.

  ‘Burrhoohurr! B’aint nothen loik music to soften a hanimal’s ’eart.’

  Dandin was called upon. He rose and performed a newly written tribute to Abbot Bernard, accompanied by Tarquin on the harolina.

  ‘Long may you rule, Father Abbot,

  Long may you reign over all

  The woodlands of Mossflower

  And the Abbey of Redwall.

  When I was a young mouse I learnt at the knee

  Of the Father of Redwall,

  The lessons for you and the lessons for me

  From the Father of us all.

  In those good Dibbun days, I learnt many kind ways,

  To be honest, strong and true,

  And wherever I go, I’ll remember always,

  That I learned them, sir, from you.

  Long may you rule, Father Abbot,

  Over all of these creatures and me,

  And may we all say in our own simple way,

  Have a happy Jubilee.’

  Every creature present insisted on singing the song again, with Tarquin calling out the words from a scroll. It was a huge success, though Drubber broke down completely and had to be comforted by Danty and Buxton.

  ‘Yurr now, doant ’ee take on so, Drub, owd lad. Et be on’y a song.’

  ‘Hurr aye, doant be a-sobben naow. Take moi ’ankerchiefy.’

  Several more singers were called on to perform. Durry Quill sang the comic song ‘Why Can’t Hedgehogs Fly?’ The otter twins Bagg and Runn recited the epic poem, ‘Otter Bill and’ the Shaking Shrimp’. This led to more demand for poems, and Saxtus was finally coaxed up to recite the poem he had memorized in the gatehouse. Nervously Saxtus stood up, clasping and unclasping his paws as he began falteringly.

  ‘The wind’s icy breath o’er the land of death

  Tells a tale of the yet to come.


  ‘Cross the heaving waves which mark ships’ graves

  Lies an island known to some,

  Where seas pound loud and rocks stand proud

  And blood flows free as water,

  To the far northwest, which knows no rest,

  Came a father and his daughter.

  The mind was numb, and the heart struck dumb,

  When the night seas took the child,

  Hurled to her fate, by a son of Hellgate,

  The dark one called The Wild.

  You who they seek, though you do not speak,

  The legend is yet to be born;

  One day you will sing over stones that are red,

  In the misty summer dawn.’

  In the silence that followed before the applause, Storm Gullwhacker gave vent to a hoarse strangled sob, which echoed amid the startled revellers.

  12

  A LIGHT MORNING sea mist hung over the waters around Terramort Isle. The last four ships of Gabool’s fleet were returning. They silently nosed into the cove, sails hanging slack, oars shipped as the oily swell carried them noiselessly into harbour. The King of Searats knew they had returned; he had watched them break the night horizon, hours before the mist started to descend. Now Gabool would need all his cunning and slyness if he were to win his Captains over completely. Saltar had never been a popular Captain, neither had his brother Bludrigg; but the fact remained, they were both Captains and he had slain them. Naturally the other four shipmasters, Orgeye, Hookfin, Flogga and Garrtail, would feel their positions threatened – they would need reassuring. Once they were happy with Gabool’s continuing rule, their crews would follow them into the very fangs of Hellgates. The Warlord knew all this and set his plans accordingly.

  The morning remained grey and uncertain as hordes of searats marched past the rock portals into Fort Bladegirt. Gabool watched them from the banqueting hall window, voicing his thoughts aloud. ‘Look at ’em, the rakin’s an’ scrapin’s of the earth, scum from the wharves, taverns an’ cellars, their mothers were bilgerats an’ their fathers were barrelsloppers. Murderers, thieves, pillagers, all of ’em. Haharr, they’d steal the very fires of hell to keep ’em warm of a winter night and singe the Dark One’s whiskers. Vermin after me own black heart. Haharrhahaharr!’

  The Warlord’s description fitted every searat from the tip of his ragged tail to the point of his scarred nose. They were clad in motley rags, some wearing worn-out seaboots and threadbare frock coats, others dressed in the tattered silks of corsairs. Brass ear, nose and tail rings were much in evidence, eyepatches, skull bandages, missing ears and fearsome scars. But every searat was armed to the teeth; cutlasses, scimitars, straight swords, sabres, claymores, daggers, dirks, bodkins, spears and pikes bristled everywhere throughout the barbaric mob.

  Gabool sat grim-faced on his throne, facing the great bell. All around, the banqueting tables were piled high with food and drink; nervous slaves stood waiting, ready to serve their savage captors. The searat crews crowded in. Those who could not find seating leaned against the walls or slouched upon the floor. Nobody touched a morsel of food. An expectant hush settled over all; the King of Searats was not his usual roaring commanding self. Claws settled upon weapons, ready to fight at a moment’s notice, it was a taut and perilous situation. The Captains grouped together at one table, Orgeye of the Waveblade, Hookfin of the Blacksail, Flogga of the Rathelm and Garrtail of the Greenfang, they were joined by the masters of the three ships that were under repair, Riptung of the Nightwake, Catseyes of the Seatalon and Grimtooth of the Crabclaw. Against these seven Gabool was facing mighty odds, their cold, quick eyes watched him mistrustingly – even Garrtail, who now had his own ship and felt equal to other Captains. The threat of instant death hung heavy in the air.

  Gabool’s heavy sigh broke the stillness. He stood up, slowly drawing his curved sword. He dropped it; the bright blade clattered on the floor in front of him as he pointed to the nearest rat.

  ‘You there, matey. You’ve got the look of a poor old searat who don’t have two crusts to rub together. What’s yer name/shipmate?’

  ‘Weltskin, sire,’ the ragged searat said in a puzzled voice.

  Gabool nodded. ‘Well, you pick up that fine blade, Weltskin. My sword belongs to you now. Go on, take it, matey.’

  The searat Weltskin picked up the sword, his eyes shining. No common crewrat had ever owned such a weapon.

  Gabool faced the assembly. Throwing his arms wide, he appealed to them.

  ‘Aaahh, shipmates, what’s it all come to? Treachery, deceit an’ lies, aye, that’s the sad fact, mateys. A Cap’n who scorned me, Bludrigg, an’ his brother Saltar out fer revenge, who tried to slay me when I was unarmed in me own home . . .’

  Gabool shook his head sadly. ‘Aharr, bad weather ’n’ black days, lads, though I knew all the time those two searobbers was plottin’ against me. Still an’ all, I offered ’em welcome an’ vittles in Fort Bladegirt – their crews too. Why, some of you was there an’ ate the same food an’ drank the same drink an’ saw it all happen. Base traitors they were, messmates. I’d heard them whisperin’ together; they wanted it all – my island an’ your ships. You Cap’ns there, aharr, I wish you’d been here to see it – you would’ve sided with old Gabool, I know you would. Faithfulness always has its reward.’

  Gabool struck the side of the bell with a drinking cup. Twenty slaves bearing chests of plunder staggered in and turned out the glittering contents at Gabool’s feet. Necklaces, stones, bracelets, goblets, silks and fine weapons cascaded out across the floor in a sparkling heap. Gabool’s quick eyes noted the greedy glances the plunder attracted. He held out his claws to the seven Captains.

  ‘Every bright star has seven true points. You, my shipmasters, my good an’ trusty mates, come an’ take what you want from this lot. What use is booty an’ plunder if a rat ain’t got friends he can trust?’

  The Captains stumbled and tripped over other searats in their haste to grab what they could. Ripping silks and tossing all they could hold into makeshift carriers, the seven shipmasters bit, scratched and jostled silently as each strove to grab what he thought was more than his fair share. When they drew back, dragging their portions with them, there was still a large mound of loot upon the floor.

  ‘Why, you greedy old plunderers,’ Gabool laughingly upbraided the Captains. ‘Snafflin’ away without a thought for your crewrats. See if you can dear this lot away, lads. Come on, it’s all yours!’

  With a wild howl, the searat crews threw themselves upon the remainder of the booty. Scrabbling, kicking, screeching, clawing and ripping, they fought for baubles all over the hall. Gabool laughed madly as he ploughed among them. He had won. The plan was working like a charm. Now he sowed the seeds of dissension as he roved among the crews, whispering, ‘Is that all you got, matey, a few earrings an’ a dagger? If I was your Cap’n I would have give you first pick. Ah, but Cap’ns is Cap’ns – they was ever the greedy ones. Hoho, Halfnose, me ol’ messmate, did you see that Cap’n Hookfin? He was a shovin’ an’ a-pushin’ your Cap’n Orgeye like he didn’t want him to get his proper share. I’d tell Orgeye that if I was you, mate. ‘Here, Shornear, what good is two earrings to you, eh? You ‘ark t’ me, shipmate – that Garrtail, he looked as if he were tryin’ to grab everythin’ for hisself, an’ him only a new Cap’n. I’m sorry I chose him now. If I’d been thinkin’ aright at the time, I’d have made you master of the Greenfang. Never mind, matey. There’ll always be another day, eh?’

  When the plunder had all been claimed, the searats threw themselves upon the food ravenously, each one mistrusting the other and all of them feeling more loyal to Gabool than to their own Captains.

  The Warlord had yet to play his final card. He banged the bell for silence.

  ‘Now, me lucky rats, I’m goin’ to let you in on a secret, so cock yer lugs! There’s another traitor, more black’earted than any, but he ain’t here this day. What’s his name? I ’ear you ask. . . . ’Tis Greypatc
h – aye, Greypatch. There’s a name for the Dark One’s book. We sailed fair seas an’ foul together since we was both liddle sloprats, an’ now the foul blaggard has robbed the best craft in the fleet for hisself. Aye, the Darkqueen, Saltar’s ship. Greypatch crewed her an’ sailed off in Darkqueen behind me back, an’ I trusted him like a brother. But here’s the worst of it, lads – that ship’s carryin’ three times the loot in her hold, on my affidavy it is, more plunder’n you could clap eyes on. . . . And I want Greypatch’s scurvy head! You can do what you will with the booty – first one to it gets it all – as long as you bring me back the Darkqueen with Greypatch’s head nailed to the bowsprit. How’s that fer an offer, you hellscrapin’s?’

  Tables were overturned, food scattered, furniture smashed as the Captains and their crews made a hasty exodus from the hall, jamming in the doorway, cursing and fighting in an effort to be first to weigh anchor and hunt down Greypatch and the Darkqueen.

  ‘Hoist sail, Ledder. I’ll be down straightways!’

  ‘Weigh anchor, Froat. We’ll get ’im first!’

  ‘Get the crew aboard, Bullfang. Hurry!’

  ‘Come on, you wavescum. Stir yer stumps – there’s prize to be had!’

  Weltskin was one of the last to leave, striding importantly with Gabool’s fine curved sword over his shoulder. Gabool called him back.

  ‘Weltskin, matey, c’mere.’

  The searat marched back and saluted his King with the sword.

  ‘D’you want somethin’, sire?’

  Gabool stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Let’s see you swing that sword.’