Mariel Of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  Greypatch wandered over and slapped Kybo with the flat of his swordblade. ‘C’mon, gullywhumper. Back aboard the Darkqueen. We can afford to wait the night floodtide to send us across the shore now. No more pullin’ her on towropes.’

  Kybo turned to look at the last of the Greenfang, wiping smoke from his smarting eyes as the blazing hulk drifted seawards.

  Gabool was in a foul temper. Most of his servant slaves had gone to the galleys of the three ships under repair, and he was left with only four. Blinking his red-rimmed eyes, he watched them polishing his bell. The Warlord was afraid of the night; sleep brought with it only nightmares of avenging mice, fearsome badger figures and the angry boom of the bell, tolling around his brain like a harbinger of doom. Virtually alone now in Fort Bladegirt, he did not have the satisfaction of asserting his power as King of all Searats. There was nobeast to plot against, to bend to his will, only sitting around waiting and festering with hate for his one-time ally Greypatch. He aimed a kick at a dormouse who was down on all fours furiously rubbing away at the great bell.

  ‘You there, scabpaws. Where’s my food?’

  The slave continued polishing, not daring to stop as he replied, ‘Master, I am not a cook. You sent the cooks away to your ships. All I do is polish your bell as you have told me to.’

  ‘Get me something to eat and drink,’ Gabool snarled. ‘You’re a cook now.’

  The dormouse dropped his rag and bowed, trembling. ‘Master, I cannot cook. I am only a bell polisher . . .’

  Gabool’s cruel claws dug into the slave’s body as he drew him upright, glaring at him through sleepless sore eyes.

  ‘Get down to the kitchens, and light a fire. You’ll find dead seabirds there – roast me a few, bring wine too. Get out of my sight!’

  As the dormouse picked himself up and scurried off, Gabool vented his spleen on the remaining three slaves.

  ‘Out! Get out, all of you! Leave me, I want to be alone.’

  Gabool flung a knife at the last dormouse to disappear around the door. It clattered harmlessly off the wall, and he slumped dejectedly in his chair. ‘Must be losin’ me touch. Should’ve pinned him easily.’

  The afternoon sun slanting through the window cast its warmth over him. Gabool’s tired eyes began to droop. He sighed as his chin slowly sank on to his chest. Outside, the sounds of the restless sea grew distant. Finally sleep overcame the King of Searats; his eyes closed and his head slumped gently forward in the quiet summer noontide.

  A badger was advancing upon him, a huge warlike badger brandishing a broadsword that made a searat blade look like a toy. He turned in fear. A mouse had crept up behind him – it was the one he called Skiv – she was carrying a heavy knotted rope and the light of battle was in her eyes. Somewhere he could hear Greypatch laughing, a contemptuous mocking sound . . .

  Bong!!!

  Gabool sat bolt upright, wide awake. There was no creature in the room save himself . . . And the bell.

  ‘Well, what a riddle t’be sure. I’ll bet even Hon Rosie couldn’t make head nor tail of this jolly old thing. Wot, wot?’

  Mariel aimed a candied chestnut at Tarquin and threw it. He merely caught it in his mouth and munched reflectively. ‘Course, y’know, I’ve never seen her solvin’ riddles and whatnot. Bet she’s bally clever at it, though. Hon Rosie’s pretty good at most things.’

  Mellus stuck a huge paw under Tarquin’s nose. ‘Listen, doodlehead, if I hear you mention Hon Rosie one more time . . .’

  The friends sat at table in Cavern Hole. They were not to be disturbed, on the Abbot’s orders. Outside in Great Hall the rest of the Redwallers took supper and chased reluctant Dibbuns around in an effort to get them washed and up to their beds. Mariel picked up the scrolls from amid the supper-laden table.

  ‘There’s no puzzle or mystery about it, the whole thing’s a straightforward map in rhyme. Maybe we don’t know what certain things are – Fieldroan the Traveller had an odd way of expressing himself – but don’t worry, I’ll find out what it all means as I go along.’

  Saxtus helped himself to more mushroom-and-cress soup. ‘Read it again, Mariel. Perhaps it may sound clearer if you do.’

  Mariel drew a deep breath. ‘Right, here goes for the tenth time . . .

  If I were fool of any sort,

  I’d leave Redwall and travel forth,

  For only fools seek Terramort

  Upon the pathway leading north.

  This trail brings death with every pace;

  Beware of dangers lurking there,

  Sticklegs of the feathered race

  And fins that in the ford do stir.

  After the ford, one night one day,

  Seek out the otter and his wife.

  Forsake the path, go westlands way,

  Find the trail and lose your life.

  When in the woods this promise keep,

  With senses sharp and open eyes,

  “My nose shall not send me to sleep”

  For buried ones will surely rise.

  Beat the hollow oak and shout,

  “We are creatures of Redwall!”

  If a brave one is about,

  He’ll save any fool at all.

  Beware the light that shows the way,

  Trust not the wart-skinned toad,

  In his realm no night no day.

  Fool, stay to the road.

  Where the sea meets with the shore,

  There the final clue is hid;

  Rock stands sentinel evermore,

  Find it as I did.

  The swallow who cannot fly south,

  The bird that only flies one way,

  Lies deep beneath the monster’s mouth,

  Keep him with you night and day.

  His flight is straight, norwest is true,

  Your fool’s desire he’ll show to you.’

  Brother Hubert made a show of polishing his spectacles busily. ‘Complete balderdash and nonsense, of course. Fieldroan was, like most old travellers, given to tall stories and half-truths. The very idea of it! Sticklegs and fins, otters’ wives, sleeping noses and buried ones rising. Huh! Truth was a cuckoo’s egg to that fellow.’

  Tarquin left off chewing an enormous turnip ’n’ leek pastie. ‘I say, that’s a bit strong, old boy. What reason would old Fieldroan have to tell a pile of fibs?’ Personally I’m inclined to believe the bally poem, even though I can’t make head nor tail of it.’

  Simeon touched Mariel’s paw. ‘What do you think, young one? After all, the decision to travel upon this information is yours.’

  Mariel patted the blind herbalist’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, Simeon. I will tell you what I think. I never knew Fieldroan so I cannot say if his poem is totally correct, but it is all I have to go on if I am to reach Terramort, so I will do what the rhyme says to rescue my father and return the great bell to Lord Rawnblade.’

  The Abbot pursed his lips. ‘But that is not all you intend to do, Mariel.’

  The mousemaid’s voice had a ring of determination which no creature could deny.

  ‘I have only one other thing to do – I must slay Gabool the Wild. None of you can know the hatred I bear toward this barbarian. He must be sent to Hellgates so that decent creatures can live in peace; only then will I rest. I must do this alone. I thank you my friends for all the kindness and hospitality you have shown to me, a stranger in your midst. Continue to live, prosper and be happy in your wonderful Abbey, but do not try to follow me. The responsibility is mine alone, and I cannot allow any Redwaller to risk life and limb on my behalf. Now I must sleep. Tomorrow my journey begins.’

  When the mousemaid had retired to the dormitories, Dandin looked at the friends around the table in Cavern Hole.

  ‘I am going with her. She cannot achieve her aims alone.’

  Mother Mellus rapped the table. ‘You’ll stay right here at Redwall, Dandin.’

  The young mouse turned to the Abbot. There was no change of verdict.

  ‘Dandin, we are creatures of
peace, and also duty. You must obey Mother Mellus. You are still a very young mouse in our care.’

  ‘But . . .’

  The Abbot held up a paw in a gesture of finality. ‘No more arguments, please. The hour is late and sleep beckons.’

  Shadows of drifting nightcloud meandered past the moon. A light breeze made the hot night more tolerable, and trees rustled and sighed in Mossflower Woods, sending their whisperings echoing around the stones of Redwall. Simeon sat propped up by cushions in his armchair near the open window – he seldom slept in bed. It was sometime after midnight. Unsure of whether he was half awake or half asleep, the blind herbalist felt a presence in the room.

  ‘Is that you, Bernard, old friend?’ he said softly into the darkness.

  The voice that replied was not that of the Abbot; it was strong, firm and reassuring, a voice that Simeon instinctively felt he could trust.

  ‘Simeon, friend, Dandin must go. Mariel needs him.’

  The blind mouse felt a light touch against his paw. All around was the scent of woodland flowers, columbine, wood anemones, bryony, honeysuckle and dog rose. The voice spoke again.

  ‘The blood of Gonff flows in Dandin. Mariel needs a friend as I once did. Do not be afraid, come with me.’

  Simeon arose from the chair and left the room, guided by his strange visitor, though somehow with the odd feeling that none of this was real and he was still sitting in his chair. Convinced that he was asleep, Simeon decided to settle back and enjoy the dream.

  Down stairs and down more stairs, along winding and twisting corridors, never touching the walls as he usually would, yet not putting a paw wrong, as he was guided by the friendly presence the blind herbalist practically floated. He heard a door creak softly as it opened. Gliding through, Simeon sensed that he was in a rock chamber somewhere deep beneath the Abbey. It was so peaceful and quiet here, yet wistful, with a breath of summers long gone, and autumn mists hanging like dried tears. Simeon could not suppress a long sigh in the silent calm of the chamber. Something was pressed into his paws; he felt it as the voice spoke again.

  ‘Leave this with Dandin. Do not wake him – he will understand.’

  Drawing the thing from its long case, the blind herbalist felt it. From the smooth pommel stone, across the curving hilt and down the perilous blade to the winter-keen tip, Simeon touched it. He had never felt a sword before, but the blind mouse knew that had he felt ten thousand swords, none would have been fit to compare with this one. The balance was perfect – wieldy, yet light as a feather; dangerous, but safe as a rock to the paw that held it; a blade of death, yet of destiny and justice.

  Simeon hardly remembered the journey back. He dimly recalled leaving the sheathed sword alongside Dandin as he lay sleeping. Then he was back in his armchair, wide awake, with the cool night breeze wafting on him through the open window, the woodland flower scent, and a fading voice calling from far off: ‘Goodbye, Simeon. May the seasons rest easily upon you . . .’

  Simeon smiled and settled back in his chair as sleep closed in on him.

  ‘And may the peace of Redwall Abbey be upon you, Martin the Warrior.’

  15

  THE SAILS OF the Darkqueen had to be tight furled to avoid overhanging trees. Oarslaves had been brought up from the galleys, pitiful wretches; they stood on deck, using the long oars to punt the massive vessel upriver. Greypatch stood at the helm, supervising the movements, moonlight patching down through the night foliage upon his lean figure. Floodtide had lifted the Darkqueen’s nose from the sandbank, and then with a favourable night breeze she had spread sails and glided across the shore towards the forest-fringed dunes.

  Pakatugg had been following the progress of the ship since he first spotted it offshore from the dunes. The recluse squirrel had followed along the shoreline and seen everything, from the near mutiny of Greypatch’s crew as they hauled the Darkqueen, to the murderous encounter with Garrtail and the burning of Greenfang. Pakatugg was on the scavenge; anything he could steal from the searats he considered would be his by right. When he saw the ship sailing across the beach towards the forest, his respect for Greypatch grew – he would have to treat this searat with some respect. A ship in full sail, gliding over a beach in the night, what a strange sight!

  Dawn was peeping over the treetops to a loud chorus of birdsong when Greypatch chose an inlet far upriver. With no proper anchorage on the pebbly riverbed, he ordered Darkqueen made fast by stem, stern and midship ropes to a sycamore and two elms. Greypatch felt a real sense of truimph as he gave orders.

  ‘Frink, Deadglim, take Ringtail, Lardgutt, Ranzo an’ Dripnose. Patrol this forest awhile, see what y’can see. There must be life hereabouts – we crossed a path that was forded by the river durin’ the night. There’s always somebeast around to tread that path – might be a settlement of some sort. Anyhow, get your carcasses movin’ an’ report back to me at noon. Kybo, Bigfang, Fishgill, you stay on deck an’ keep a weather eye out hereabouts. I’m off t’ me bunk for some rest after steerin’ all night. The rest of you, keep your heads down below decks until we know what sort of country this is.’

  Pakatugg tracked the six searats as they patrolled northward through far Mossflower Woods. He could tell they were raw and inexperienced in woodland matters. Frink, who was leading the party, walked straight into a bed of stinging nettles, tripping on an exposed treeroot and falling headlong.

  ‘Yaagh! Owouch, help me, mates. Ow, oo! These things are alive!’

  Lardgutt and Ranzo pulled him out. He sat nursing a rapidly swelling face and cursing.

  ‘Chahah! Me nose – look, it’s blowin’ up like a balloon. Garr! I hate this place – trees everywhere. A rat can’t even take a decent breath. Give me the open sea anytime.’

  ‘Ahoy, Frink. Over here! Ringtail’s been stung by one o’ those wasp things.’

  Deadglim pulled the dart from Ringtail’s paw, catching a glimpse of Pakatugg dodging behind a tree with his blowpipe as he did. Deadglim inspected the dart and flung it away.

  ‘So that’s what a wasp looks like, huh. We’ve got some learnin’ t’ do before we’re proper landlubbers. I’m goin’ back to the Darkqueen. You lot carry on with your patrollin’.’

  Pakatugg missed the wink which passed between Deadglim and the other five. The squirrel followed the remainder of the patrol, sniggering quietly at their ignorance of woodland lore.

  ‘Hey, Frink, what d’you suppose these are – strawberries?’

  ‘No, they’re blackberries or raspberries or somethin’. Anyhow, why ask me? I don’t know – don’t ‘wanna know either.’

  ‘Haha, why don’t you try eatin’ one, Lardgutt? Are yer scared mate?’

  ‘Who, me? ‘Course I’m not. Here, watch this.’

  ‘How does it taste, Lardy me old shipmate?’

  ‘Mmmm, tastes nice. Wonder what they’re called?’

  ‘Deadly nightshade or somethin’ – they’re probably poison.’

  ‘Yarghphutt!’

  ‘Garn, what’d you spit ’em out for? If you ate some an’ didn’t die, then we’d know they’d be all right to eat. Proper mean to your mates you are, Lardgutt. Betcher Kybo wouldn’t ’ave spat ’em out.’

  Pakatugg decided it was time for a wasp sting again. He was chuckling silently to himself and loading his blowpipe when a tattooed arm circled his neck and a swordblade pressed against his throat.

  ‘One move an’ yer fishbait, squirrel. We might not know much about forests, but a searat can sniff the enemy a mile away. Ahoy, lads, lookit what I got!’

  They flocked around, Deadglim, licking his knife-blade and smiling evilly at Pakatugg. Frink snapped the blowpipe and threw it aside.

  ‘So it’s our wasp, eh. What’s yer name, wasp?’

  Pakatugg swallowed hard and tried to stop trembling. ‘Pakatugg’s my name.’

  Frink twitched his tender nose. ‘Pakatugg, eh. What’d you call ’im Ranzo?’

  ‘Hah! I’d call him Deadsquirrel, or maybe Nopaws. Then again,
Slittongue might be an ‘andsome title fer a squirrel who follers searats round a-firin’ darts at ’em.’

  They bound Pakatugg’s paws tightly. Dripnose threw a noose about his neck and gave it a sharp tug.

  ‘Move lively, matey. We’ll see what name Cap’n Greypatch can think up for yeh.’

  Clary, Thyme and Hon Rosie stood to attention in the armoury at Salamandastron. Lord Rawnblade paced up and down, a worried frown creasing his broad brow.

  ‘Longeyes has reported a smouldering wreck of a ship – Greenfang, it’s one of Gabool’s. There may have been trouble further north up the coast. Clary, I want you to take your patrol up there, fully provisioned and well armed. Find out what’s been going on and report back to me. But if you are needed up there by any good creatures, then stay and help out as best you can. Understood?’

  Clary made an elegant salute with his lance. ‘Leave it to us, sah!’

  Rawnblade allowed himself a fleeting smile. ‘Thank you, Clary. Move your patrol out whenever you wish.’

  The badger Lord watched them go from his high window. The three hares swiftly bounded across the beach, sometimes skipping in and out of the small wavelets at the water’s edge. Rawnblade turned back to his forge and quenched a red-hot spearhead in water. He remembered, long seasons back, three similar hares, young carefree fighters, their bodies washed up on the tideline after Gabool’s searats had finished with them.

  Rawnblade set the spearhead on the anvil and began beating it with mighty blows. His heavy hammer rose and fell; sweat mixed with tears and sizzled into the embers of the forges as the ruler of the fire mountain renewed his vow.

  ‘I cannot leave my mountain and these shores undefended, but one day, Gabool, one day you will sail back to here and I will be waiting. Oho, Gabool, all the seas of the world cannot keep us apart – it is written that we will meet again. We will meet! We will meet! We will meet!’