Mariel Of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  Saxtus was still a novice in the art of war, and the sudden death shocked him. ‘Y-you k-killed him! He’s dead!’ he stammered to the grim-faced hare.

  Clary issued longbows to the others. ‘Aye, young mouse, it was a clean shot. Keep your head down and issue us with arrows as we call for them. In case you’re feeling sorry for that wretch, let me tell you something: fire is the most dangerous thing to any living woodlander. Once it takes a hold it means death and destruction to everyone and everything. Only a searat would use fire. Sometimes I think it is because they do not realize the danger, being creatures who live on the great waters. But most of the time I think it is because they are evil vermin. We at Salamandastron have battled against searats all our lives. I would not dare tell you some of the sights I have seen. Searats are complete enemies. They live only to kill and conquer; they are completely merciless.’

  Thyme notched an arrow to his bowstring. ‘Righty-ho, chaps. Give ’em vinegar, wot!’

  Five more messengers of death hissed through the early morning.

  It was then that Saxtus decided the hare’s manner was merely a front, presented to others because they would forget the real purpose behind the guardians of the shores. The young mouse doled out arrows, knowing that he would never get used to warfare – and be a jolly fellow one moment, and a ruthless fighter the next.

  Pandemonium reigned in the searat camp. Greypatch ran hither and thither, trying to stop his searats retreating out of the range of the deadly longbows, exhorting them to carry on with his plan, which had worked quite well until the appearance of the hares.

  ‘Come on, shipmates. Don’t let a few arrows scare yer off! Lardgutt, Kybo, get back here. We were beatin’ ’em – we still can!’

  Bigfang sat well out of range, a smug expression on his face. ‘I told yer about those rabbits, Greypatch, but you wouldn’t listen, would yer? Oh no, you knew best.’

  The searat Captain’s temper broke completely. ‘You lily-livered, worm-hearted, bilge-scrapin’s! Mutineers, deserters, the whole pack of yer! We had the battle nearly won, an’ now you’ve turned tail an’ slunk off like a load of sea slugs! Look at me. Am I afraid? Am I scared? Haharr ha ha ha! I laugh at ’em!’

  Greypatch grabbed a fire-swinger. Putting light to it, he began swinging it furiously.

  ‘I’ll show yer, Abbeyscum, I’ll bring yer Redwall down in flames!’ He dodged, ducking a flying arrow. The fire-swinger lost momentum right at its peak and the burning section fell on to his footclaws.

  ‘Yaaheeeoooooh!’

  Greypatch hopped about, beating at his burning limb, fur smouldering as he threw himself upon his back, screeching and thudding his scorched footclaws against the ground.

  Hon Rosie fell back, whooping hysterically. ‘Whoohahahahooh! Oh, I say, chaps, that was a real old hotfoot!’

  Down in the orchard, Gabriel Quill and Burgo Mole sat looking at each other.

  ‘Yurr, they vermints baint chucken no more foir at us’n’s?’

  ‘Nor they aren’t neither, Burgo. Hoho, your eyes are all red ’n’ smoky!’

  ‘Hurrhurr, talk about ’eeself, Gabe’l Quill. You’m gotten a sutty nose!’

  Brother Hubert wandered wearily across. ‘Whew! Just look at the state of my paws – scorched, soiled and grubby. A fine state of affairs for an Abbey Recorder, I must say.’

  ‘Ho urr, scruffy old Hoobit. No more foirs now tho’, zurr.’

  ‘Indeed. It’s thanks to those hares – splendid creatures.’

  ‘I’ll drink t’ that, Hubert. What d’you say we go to my cellars and have a small drop to drive away the heat an’ dust of our night’s work?’

  ‘Burr, oi’m with ’ee, Gabe’l. ’Tis a turrible thurst come on oi.’

  ‘Marvellous idea. Count me in, Mr Quill!’

  The three old friends trundled off paw in paw.

  As Abbot Bernard watched them go, he felt Simeon pulling on his sleeve.

  ‘I think there should be room for two more in Gabriel’s cellar, Bernard.’

  ‘Yes, they’ll manage to squeeze us in somehow, Simeon.’

  Inside the Abbey, young Cockleburr had been given charge of Dibbuns’ breakfast time. He mopped his brow as he chased Grubb about with a bowl of corn pudding.

  ‘Oh, wanderin’ woodpigeons, will you come an’ eat this breakfast, you dreadful scoundrel!’

  Grubb hid beneath the table with Bagg and Runn. ‘Nay, oi baint eaten no brekkist. Us’n’s a-goen out t’ play.’

  ‘Sister Serena said there’s no more fire an’ we can go out.’

  ‘I don’t like corn pudden, wanna play inna orchard!’

  ‘Fidgetin’ frogs, Mother Mellus told me nobeast goes out without eatin’ breakfast first, ‘specially Dibbuns.’

  ‘Ho well, do ’ee sling it unner yurr an’ us’n’s will force et daown.’

  28

  MARIEL AND DANDIN dropped silently to the bottom of the pool.

  Dandin, with sword in one paw and weightstone in the other, immediately turned to face the lobster’s den. He could see the big crustacean – it watched them as it lay unmoving, one great claw hanging in front, the other by its side. The lobster looked peaceful enough for the moment. Still, Dandin did not relax his vigilance for a single instant.

  Mariel let go of her weightstone and tried to dislodge the tiny metal swallow, but it was lodged firmly between two slabs of rock. She chose the smaller of the two slabs and began wresting it out of the way. By this time both she and Dandin were longing for a breath of air. Struggling with the cumbersome rock, Mariel could feel the blood pounding round inside her head. She set her footpaws on the large rock and gave the smaller rock a mighty shove. Without warning it shifted, giving off an odd crumbling noise underwater. Clouds of silt and sand boiled up as it toppled to one side.

  Disturbed by the noise and movement in its pool, the huge blue-black lobster came scurrying out. Dandin barely saw the monster come; he backed water, thrusting the swordpoint at its eyes. Mariel snatched at the swallow, but it slipped from her grasp and slid into the sand. In the confusion of disturbed cloudy water she realized that she had lost the precious object. Now the lobster had Dandin trapped up against the rock. Thinking quickly, he pushed forward, landing in between its claws. It was a clever move. He was stuck up against the hideous face of the creature, too close for it to use its cumbersome oversized nippers; they clacked across his back like giant shears, unable to bite him. But it was like being caught in a vice. Dandin was held fast in the embrace of the heavy-shelled joints. The sword was squeezed from his grip and fell to the bottom of the pool.

  He shouted aloud in desperation, but the sound was only a boggle of noise, lost amid the air bubbles that escaped from his mouth. However, Mariel had heard it. Forgetting the swallow, she turned to the aid of her friend. Lungs bursting, she scrabbled about on the pool bed until her paw came in contact with the sword.

  The lobster doubled up to rid itself of Dandin, and the hefty fanlike tail caught Mariel a swipe as she tried to get close. The air was now forcing itself out of the mousemaid’s mouth in huge bubbles. She wondered why her friends on the surface were not attempting to haul them up. Her limbs felt like lead and her head was ringing. Blindly she struck out with the sword and pierced the lobster’s back, down near its tail. Infuriated, the lobster turned, lashing out with one claw.

  Instantly freed, Dandin felt himself being hauled quickly to the surface. The lobster locked on to the sword blade with its vice-like pincer. Mariel felt herself being hauled up on the rope. She was now upside-down in the water, clinging grimly on to the sword, the lobster below her hanging on to the sword blade with one claw whilst trying to get at her with the other.

  A large rock came splashing down on to the lobster, followed by another and another. It let go of the sword as it was battered to the pool bottom by yet more rocks. Mariel was pulled clear of the pool with a whoosh of spray and a rush of air, and she fell upon the sand, spitting out water and gasping for breath.
r />   Tarquin sat her up, pushing her back and forward. Mariel’s head was rising and falling as it nearly touched her footpaws, and the water gushed out as she coughed.

  ‘Come on, old gel. Just like the village pump, wot!’ Tarquin chuckled cheerfully.

  Dandin was in slightly better shape, having been pulled out marginally sooner than Mariel. He sat with his back against the rocks in the sunlight as Durry fussed about him.

  ‘Any more water t’ come up, matey?’

  ‘No, thank you, Durry. Just let me rest. I’ll be all right.’

  They sat Mariel beside him. She wiggled a paw in her ear.

  ‘Well, what about that little adventure, eh, and all for nothing!’

  Bobbo squatted in front of her, smiling behind his glasses. ‘Well now, why do you say all for nothing, young mouse?’

  Mariel scuffed the sand irritably. ‘Because we never got the swallow.’

  Bobbo pressed something into her paw. ‘Then tell me what this is!’

  Mariel stared at the tiny metal bird she was holding. ‘But how . . .?’

  Bobbo chuckled and patted her paw. ‘It was Firl, I told you that the newts are very good at the swimming. He went in and got it while you and your friend Dandin battled with the creature. We could not risk pulling you up, you see. The water was too cloudy and disturbed, and we could not see what was happening. Then Firl dived in and I myself decided you needed air or you would both drown, so I said, “Pull up, whatever is happening. Pull!”’

  Durry swelled his chest out proudly. ‘The rocks were my idea, missy. Me ’n’ Tarquin hurtled ’em at the beastie as we pulled you out.’

  Mariel got slowly up and hugged them one by one. ‘What good friends you are, all of you.’

  Later, in the cave, they took a closer look at the little swallow. It was made of some shining blue metal which gave off strange glints in the sunlight, shaped like a fan-tailed swallow, wings spread wide as if it were flying. Dandin noticed a small hole bored through one of the wingtips.

  ‘See this hole – what d’you suppose it’s for?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe for something to fit into it.’

  ‘Hmm, it’d have to be pretty thin to fit through that tiny hole.’

  Bobbo pulled a thread from the lining of his velveteen longcoat. ‘Something as thin as this, are you thinking, wayfarers?’

  Dandin nodded. ‘Yes, that’s thin enough. Let’s try it.’

  The swallow hung by the piece of thread. It dangled there, turning slowly, then stopped, facing the right wall of the cave. They watched it; the little bird remained still.

  Tarquin took hold of the thread. ‘Here, let’s see the bally old bird.’ He spun it on the thread. Round and round it went, finally coming to rest facing the same way again, the right wall of the cave. No matter how many times it was spun it still ended facing the same direction.

  The wall on the right side of Bobbo’s cave!

  Durry shook his head in amazement. ‘Just like the poem says, “The swallow who cannot fly south”.’

  Mariel smiled. ‘Aye, it flies the opposite way: north!’

  Dandin recited the last lines of the poem.

  ‘His flight is straight, norwest is true,

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

  Bobbo held up the swallow on its thread, watching as each time it stopped turning it pointed due north.

  ‘This is a thing of great magic. You could be going anywhere, in dark or fog, yet it would guide you, see. Northwest is at the point of the bird’s neck, between its head and left wing. So you see, travellers, let the little swallow think he is flying north, but you take the northwest course. Truly a marvellous bird, my friends.’

  At supper they sat around the fire discussing their next move. Mariel knew well what it was.

  ‘We need a boat.’

  Dandin left off polishing the sword. ‘How long would it take to build a boat? Where would we get the timber? We know nothing of boatbuilding.’

  A gloomy silence prevailed. The fire flickered warmly about the rock walls as they sat mentally wrestling with the problem. Bobbo looked from one to the other before speaking.

  ‘Ah well now, it is sad and dreary your faces are. You are my friends, I would like you to stay here forever, but I know that your fate and search are elsewhere and you will leave sooner or later. So listen to what I must tell you. You want a boat; I do not have a boat, but I know where a ship lies . . .’

  Mariel sprang up. ‘Where? Please tell us where the ship is, Bobbo.’

  The old dormouse sat back, stroking Firl’s head gently.

  ‘I saw her a few days ago, she was drifting north round the headland. A curious ship, with not a living creature aboard her. So then I followed her along the shore. She had neither masts nor rigging. The tide sent her up into the cove on the other side of the headland, and I boarded her in the shallows. ’Twas a terrible sight to see, a searat ship, Greenfang she was named, burnt out in some battle, though not anyone aboard of her. There was no supplies, or things I could be using myself. Ah well then. I anchored her fast to some rocks and left her there. Now I warn you, she has neither sail nor masts, the cabins are all gutted by fire, but the hull is sound and she has steering and a rudder. She will take you where you want to go. I will show you her on the morrow and you can decide for yourselves, though I see by your faces that your minds are already set on it. Go you to sleep now, ’tis probably the last good rest you will be taking in many a perilous day ahead. As for myself, I will bide here with my friend Firl. I am too old for such wild adventures. Peace is all I seek now.’

  By mid-morning of the next day they were riding the charred hulk of Greenfang out upon the tide, with scant supplies, no proper accommodation and an outward wind. Mariel held the long tiller, the metal swallow constantly pointing north under cover of a makeshift awning. Tarquin wiped a paw bravely across his eyes, Dandin sniffed copiously, Durry wept unashamedly, but Mariel smiled fondly at the two small figures growing dim in the distance as they waved from the shoreline. She would never forget Bobbo the quaint little dormouse, or his silent friend Firl the newt and their peaceful existence in the cave amid the tall rocks. Now the mousemaid turned to the open sea, and the unknown dangers that lay before them.

  29

  ABBOT BERNARD REALIZED the value of battle-trained hares. Accordingly he allowed the trio full rein in defending the Abbey, trusting to their military judgement.

  Clary organized most things within Redwall whilst the threat of attack was still a possibility. He was very good at it. Sentries were posted upon the walls in a regular rota – with the exception of Simeon, no creature was excluded. At least one longbow archer was posted at all times, night and day, fully armed and ready to shoot. Apart from that, the day-to-day routine was not interfered with; creatures got on with the business of living at the Abbey, carrying out their chores and taking their ease and pleasure when permitted. Tonight was such a night.

  The Abbot had ordered a special supper in honour of the hares, Flagg offering to take Thyme’s watch with the longbow. Cavern Hole was the venue, tables were laid around the walls with a splendid running buffet spread upon them. One thing the hares did not lack was appetite. The splendid fare offered by the famous Redwallers made the Salamandastron food seem spartan in comparison. Colonel Clary found himself ushered around, plate in paw, by Sister Serena.

  ‘Colonel, perhaps you would like to try some of this deeper ’n’ ever pie?’

  ‘Deeper ’n’ wot, marm? Looks delicious, I must say. Jolly strange name.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a great favourite of the moles, you know – full of turnip ’n’ tater ’n’ beetroot, to use the mole language.’

  ‘I say, I rather like this red gravy stuff, very spicy!

  ‘Oh, that’s otters’ hotroot sauce. You know what they say?’

  ‘No, marm. What do they say?’

  Serena chuckled and adopted her otter voice. ‘Ain’t nothin’ ’otter for an otter!’

/>   Brigadier Thyme was being entertained by Gabriel Quill. The hedgehog was pointing out to him the finer nuances of food with drink.

  ‘Now lookit this, Brig, a nice sparkly strawberry cordial. You might think it’d go well with yonder damson shortcrust an’ cream.’

  ‘Well, what d’you think, Gabe old scout? Does it?’

  ‘Not on your aunty’s washtub it don’t. ’Ere, you try a beaker of my cowslip an’ parsley comfort wi’ that damson shortcrust. Go on.’

  ‘Mmm, absolutely top-hole, old thing. My, it does make a difference. I say, what’s that jolly brown stuff in the tankards?’

  ‘Good October ale. Redwall’s famous fer it, an’ I’m the beast as brews it. Now, you want to sample some o’ that with cheese an’ mushroom pastie – that’d make yer tail curl a bit.’

  ‘Rather. I’ve always fancied m’self with a curly tail. Hi, Rosie, how are you gettin’ on with the jolly old nosebag, wot?’

  Hon Rosie waved a ladleful of summercream dip. ‘Whoohahahahooh! Look at these Dibbuns chaps doin’ an impression of us, Thyme. Very droll. They’re an absolute hoot. Whoohahahahooh!’

  Bagg, Runn and Grubb had decided to take on new roles as hares carrying longbows. They strutted about with their bows and arrows, mimicking all the mannerisms of Clary and his long patrol.

  ‘I say, ol’ boy, ol’ thing, ol’ top, pip pip an’ all that!’

  ‘Hurrhurr, wotwotwot? Us’n’s gotten gurt bows ’n’ arrers, ol’ bean. You’m jolly well watch owt iffen you’m one o’ they searattens, boi okey!’

  ‘Rather, ol’ scout. Wot an ‘oot. Whoohoohoohoo!’

  Thyme twirled his whiskers in a very offpaw manner. ‘Hmm, exceedingly comical, I’m sure.’ He seated himself next to a mole who was munching away at a large crusty pie, Thyme nodded at the fellow. ‘Pie looks jolly nice. What’s in it?’