Mariel Of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  Mariel trod water, holding the swallow between her teeth, the Gullwhacker about her neck weighing heavily in the sea. Cries from the searat ship died away into the fog, and now she was alone on the deep, shrouded by the all-enveloping mists and without her companions. Suddenly something grabbed her footpaws and pulled her under. Kicking madly she wriggled and fought underwater. The mousemaid lashed out, connecting hard with something. Whatever it was had let go of her. Mariel fought her way to the surface, and emerged next to Tarquin, who was spitting water and gurgling.

  ‘Gwaawhg! I must’ve gone right t’ the bottom then. I say, was that your paws I grabbed hold of?’

  Mariel was overjoyed to see her friend. ‘Tarquin, it’s you!’

  ‘I’ll say it is. Who did you expect, a fish with fur an’ ears?’

  ‘It was a searat ship that rammed us. They’ve got Dandin and Durry aboard. I heard them call it the Seatalon.’

  ‘Oh, corks. Dandin ’n’ Durry captured by searats! What’ll we do?’

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Which way did this Seatalon go?’

  ‘Over that way, I think – though it’s hard to tell in this fog.’

  ‘Then there’s only one thing for it, we’ll have to swim after it and see if we can get our friends back. Come on.’

  They struck out into the fogged sea, swimming as hard and as fast as they could. After a while, Tarquin halted, treading water as he floated.

  “Sno use, Mariel. Whew, I’m out of breath!’

  ‘Me too. We could be going in circles in this fog.’

  ‘Then I vote we just float here until it clears. D’you want my harolina? It makes rather a good float.’

  ‘We’ll both use it, then.’

  Together they rested their paws on the instrument. It buoyed them slightly, and they kicked their legs slowly to keep afloat.

  ‘Well, this is a pretty mess we’re in and no mistake.’

  ‘How far do you suppose we are from shore, Tarquin?’

  ‘No idea, old scout. It’s sink or swim from here on in. I say, I’m famished. You don’t happen to have any tucker on you . . .?’

  ‘Sorry, all I had was that cold oatcake, and I lost that in the wreck.’

  ‘Ah well, at least we won’t make a nice fat meal for any fishes that are feelin’ peckish. I suppose there are fishes around here.’

  ‘Could be, might be one or two big ones with huge mouths and sharp teeth . . .’

  ‘Steady on, miss! You could scare a chap out of a season’s growth, talkin’ like that.’

  Mariel and Tarquin lost all reckoning of distance or position as they floated for what seemed like endless hours. Gradually the fog began to thin, giving way to slightly choppy water and mists, which were soon dispelled by a stiff breeze. There was not much to see – no sight of the searat galley, nor of land; they were completely surrounded by rising waves. Helping each other as best as they could, the two friends conserved their energy by floating, only swimming when the seas became too rough. Mariel looked up at the sky; evening was not far off.

  ‘It gets cold on the sea at night.’

  ‘Hmm, y’don’t say. It’s blinkin’ cold enough now. My paws have gone all dead an’ shrivelled with the salt water.’

  ‘Mine too. Tarquin, I’m sorry I got you into this. I should have travelled alone. Now Dandin and Durry are the prisoners of searats and we’re not going to last long out here.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense, old miss mousy. I wouldn’t have had it any other bally way. None of it was your fault. We’d have come along whether you liked it or not. Now stop that kind o’ talk an’ save your breath.’

  ‘You’re a good friend Tarquin L. Woodsorrel. I won’t forget you.’

  ‘Should jolly well hope not. Rosie too. Hope she thinks of old Tarkers feedin’ the fish now an’ then. Oh, Rosie, you’ll never find another as devil-may-care an’ handsome as me, poor old thing!’

  Mariel draped her Gullwhacker across the harolina. Her limbs were beginning to tire; sea water lapped into her mouth and she spluttered.

  ‘I say, why don’t you take the swallow out of your mouth an’ tie it round your neck?’

  ‘Good idea, Tarquin. Thank you.’

  ‘Oh dear, there’s the jolly old sun beginnin’ to set.’

  ‘I’m so tired, I could lie back in the water and go to sleep.’

  ‘Steady on there – don’t start talkin’ like that. Here, I’ll hold you up for a bit.’

  ‘No, Tarquin, you need all your energy to stay afloat yourself.’

  ‘Fiddle-de-dee! I’ve got energy I haven’t even used yet. There, how’s that, Mariel Gullwhacker?’

  ‘That’s fine, Tarquin. But you won’t be able to keep us both up for long.’

  ’S’pose not, but when that time comes we’ll sink together, wot?’

  Clinging to each other, they bobbed on the open sea, oblivious of the glory of the setting sun and the manyhued sky which reflected in the waters all round. Night closed in on the hare and the mousemaid.

  Two massive paws shot down into the water and grabbed them both, hauling them effortlessly out of the night sea and on to a heaving deck.

  ‘Woodsorrel, I might have known it would be you!’

  Semi-conscious and shivering uncontrollably, Tarquin peered up into the huge striped face of Rawnblade.

  ‘I s-s-say, m’Lord, d-d-didn’t know you’d taken t’ b-b-boatin’, wot?’

  ‘You young rogue, I suppose you’ve brought this poor mousemaid along with you just to get her drowned!’

  ‘Quite the c-c-contrary, s-s-sir.’

  ‘Hmm, we’ll discuss that later, after you’re both fixed up.’

  When Mariel regained consciousness she was in the cabin of the Waveblade. A charcoal fire burned in the small stove, and she was clad in cast-off searat garments. Lord Rawnblade made her drink some heavy dark wine and eat a little dried fruit.

  Tarquin was fully recovered. Mariel could not suppress a smile at the comical figure he cut, dressed in searat silks with a cloak of yellow chenille draped about him. Tarquin admired the daggers and swords he had stuffed into the wide sashed belt of orange satin, and earrings and bangles jangled as he twirled about dramatically.

  ‘Haharr, me booties, ’tis only I, Tarquin the Terrible!’

  Rawnblade sniffed away a smile threatening to steal across his face. ‘I’d say awful was more appropriate than terrible.’

  The badger Lord turned to Mariel.

  ‘So tell me, mousemaid, what were you doing bobbing about on the high seas in company with this addlebrained creature?’

  Mariel sipped more of the wine, feeling its dark warmth comfort her. ‘Well, it’s a long story, sir, but I’ll start at the beginning.’

  Outside, wind keened the darkness, scouring the face of the sea as rain began to spatter the decks. Waveblade cut her course northward, her tiller lashed in position by the sodden Gullwhacker as the ship ploughed on through the night, guided by a small metal swallow.

  31

  ABBOT BERNARD WATCHED the two young shrews as they attacked the Abbey breakfast board like hungry wolves, swigging pear cordial, stuffing plum and greengage tart and grabbing hot elderberry muffins dripping with honey.

  ‘My word, Mother Mellus, those two young ones can put it away!’

  ‘Aye, bless them, you’d think we were facing a ten-season famine.’

  Simeon checked the paw of one from reaching for acorn and rhubarb crumble. ‘How many more of you do the searats have?’

  ‘Seventeen, I s’pose, or eighteen – aye, eighteen countin’ the squirrel.’

  Friar Alder turned his eyes upwards, nudging young Cockleburr. ‘Dearie me, imagine another eighteen like that at breakfast!’

  ‘Boilin’ breadloaves, Friar. They’d eat us out o’ kitchen an’ Abbey!’

  Clary sat in Gabe Quill’s cellar, sampling the latest rosehip squash with Foremole as they nibbled cheese and beechmast bake to counteract the sweetness of the drink.

>   ‘Ahurr, you’m say ’ee wants four of us’ns this comin’ noight, zurr.’

  ‘Yes indeed, four stout mole chaps – all good diggers, mind you.’

  ‘Hurrhurr, baint no crittur better at diggen than us’n molers. Oi’d say Dan’l, Buxton, Groaby an moiself. Aye, we’n’s the ones.’

  ‘Righty-ho, Foremole sir. Meet us at the gatehouse two hours after dark.’

  ‘Doan’t ee wurry, zurr. Us’ll be thurr, boi ’okey us will.’

  ‘Good chap, knew I could count on you. Have some more of this rosehip stuff. Quite nice, but a trifle sweet, wot?’

  ‘No sweeter’n rose’ips orter be, zurr. Fill ’er up iffen ’ee please.’

  Gabe Quill filled a jug from a polished cask. He set it on the table, sniffing righteously over the remarks being made about the sweetness of his rosehip squash.

  ‘Try some o’ this elderflower an’ larkspur cordial iffen you likes a less sweeter drink. But while you’re a-doin’ that, tell me, Mr Clary, why did you only free two slaves las’ night?’

  Clary sipped the new drink, raising his eyebrows appreciatively. ‘Well, Mr Quill, it’s quite simple really. More than two at a time would be rather awkward to cope with, seein’ as how they’ve got to be helped every step of the way. After all, they are in chains, y’know; bein’ oarslaves, they’re still chained in twos, each creature to his galley bench partner. If we can manage more’n two, all well an’ good. We’ll see how many of the poor blighters we can bag tonight. Now, listen carefully, Foremole me old digger, here’s the plan . . .’

  Greypatch had been all day making the searats’ woodland camp secure against intruders. He sat on a log, checking out the new set-up with Fishgill.

  ‘Tripwires hidden in the undergrowth all around the edges o’ the camp, rope traps in the trees?’

  ‘Aye, Cap’n. Me ’n’ Frink an’ Kybo rigged the rope traps. Anybeast sneakin’ around out there at night’ll find themselves suddenly hangin’ upside-down from a tree. The tripwires are all stretched tight an’ well-hidden too.’

  ‘Good! Now these oarslaves – we’ll hold ’em in the centre of the camp, just to one side of the main fire. That way they’ll be surrounded by the crew.’

  The evening fires had been lit. All around them, searats squatted, cooking whatever they had found during the day. Bigfang roasted dandelion roots and some small hard apples he and Lardgutt had come across, grumbling as he watched Kybo.

  ‘Huh, what use is roots an’ sour apples to me ’n’ Lardgutt? We’re searats; this woodland garbage wouldn’t feed a sick maggot. Kybo, matey, how’s about sharin’ that great fat woodpigeon yer roastin’, with a couple of old messmates?’

  Kybo kept his eyes on the roasting meat, his claw straying to a long rusty dagger he kept nearby. ‘Get yer own rations, Bigfang. Me ’n’ Fishgill an’ Greypatch snared this one while we was layin’ out tripwires an’ you was lyin’ round snorin’ like a hog. You want meat, get out an’ hunt it.’

  Lardgutt’s eyes strayed to the roasting woodpigeon as he absently reached into the embers for a toasted apple, with the result that he scorched his claws. Bad-temperedly he flung the apple from him. ‘Yowch! That’s it! I’ll starve afore I eat that muck!’

  Bigfang looked around at other searats who had not been fortunate enough to obtain meat. They were toasting, roasting and charring almost any kind of vegetation they could scavenge. Bigfang spat into the flames.

  ‘Hah! Livin’ off the fat o’ the land, eh, buckoes? Does this look like the berth we was promised? Landlords of Mossflower – look at us! Grubbin’ fer roots an’ berries, scrapin’ about an’ fightin’ with yer own shipmates fer anythin’ growin’ outta the soil! Why don’t we attack Redwall agin, that’s what I want ter know. Sittin’ round protectin’ some oarslaves like they was precious booty, where’s that a-goin’ to get us, eh?’

  Murmurs of agreement arose round the camp. Greypatch strode over, carrying a heavy limb of dead oak. He threw it on to the fire, causing a shower of sparks. Bigfang and Lardgutt were forced to jump back, beating off the fiery splinters which landed on them, their apples and roots completely squashed and ruined beneath the wood Greypatch had thrown on the fire. The searat Captain prodded Bigfang viciously in the ribs with his curved sword.

  ‘Always the thickhead an’ the rabble-rouser, eh, Bigfang. I don’t know why I keep yer alive. It’s not for your brains, I can tell ye. Anybeast with half a grain o’ sense would tell yer what I’m about. Last night taught me a lesson: if those Redwallers want to free the slaves, they’ve got to come an’ try, see? Look at it this ways, they’re goin’ to no end o’ trouble to rescue slaves who they don’t even know. I’ve seen their type afore. Now, imagine how they’d feel if we captured some of their own? Haharr, that’d be somethin’ now, wouldn’t it! Us havin’ Redwallers as hostages. It’d be like ownin’ a ticket fer free entrance to their Abbey.’

  Bigfang rubbed his ribs where the sword had scraped his hide. ‘How do we know they’re goin’ to come back?’

  Greypatch shook his head as if despairing. ‘Short on brains an’ long on mouth, that’s you, matey. Of course they’ll come back. They’re noble creatures, they couldn’t leave poor slaves in the claws of us cruel searats! But this time we’ve laid the traps, this time we’ll catch them, an’ I’ll parade ’em in chains outside their Abbey. You mark my words, those Redwallers won’t be so high ’n’ mighty then. They’ll be ready to listen to old Greypatch’s terms, mates. Aye, short on brains, Bigfang, just like I said. You stick with me, matey. Let me do the thinkin’, and one day we could be rulers of a whole slave army of Redwallers, hahah! Imagine that, they could be mercenaries, spearfodder – with an army that size we could build ourselves another fleet an’ conquer Terramort for ourselves, kill Gabool an’ seize his island. Then we’d be rulers of Redwall an’ Terramort, mates!’

  Hon Rosie lay on her back a short distance from the camp. She twanged upon a tripwire as she listened to Greypatch lecturing his crew. Clary and Thyme sat with the moles, holding a whispered conference.

  ‘Super plan, y’know – tripwires, springropes an’ hostages. I’d give the scurvy blaggard an “A” for alertness, wot?’

  Foremole extended his powerful digging claws. ‘Oi knows wot oi’d loik t’ give ’im, pesky searatter!’

  Clary was busy undoing a tripwire. ‘Good effort, all the same. Come on, hares, let’s undo this little lot an’ set it up in a new location. Thyme, can you manage those rope traps?’

  ‘Certainly, Clary old chap. I say, these searats are rather good at tying knots and whatnot, must be with all that messin’ about in boats.’

  ‘I ’spect so. How’re you mole chaps feelin’, fancy a spot of diggin’?’

  ‘Hohurr zurr, we’m frisky as frogs an’ fitter’n fleas. Whurr do ’ee want us a-start gaffer?’

  Foremole trundled about muttering calculations, glancing from certain spots on the ground towards the rat camp.

  ‘Gurr’m, let oi see naow. Root crossens thurr, thurr an’ yon. Stoans a-layen yurr an’ thurr. Reckemin’ fer a swift ’n’ easy deep tunn’l, oi sez us’n’s be hadvised to start diggen roight yurr!’ He scratched a large X on the woodland floor with his digging claws.

  Dan’l, Groaby and Buxton went to it with a will.

  Sentries were posted all around the fringes of the camp. Greypatch settled down close to the fire, his one good eye searching the woodland edge for signs of movement. Bigfang and Lardgutt fought briefly over possession of a ragged blanket before ripping it in half, then each lay down, trying to cover himself with the skimpy remnant. Gradually the searats encampment quietened down for the night, the silence broken only by an odd crackle of burning branches on the fires. Sentries blinked their eyes to stay awake, heads drooping as they leaned heavily on pike and spear.

  Brigadier Thyme watched the scene from the low boughs of a sycamore some distance away. Finally satisfied that everything was ready, he climbed down and reported back to Clary.

  ‘O
peration Oarslave now feasible to commence. Sah!’

  ‘Good scout, Thyme. Right, troops. Forward, the Buffs. Oh, and Rosie, try to remember, will you, one whoop an’ we’re in the soup!’

  ‘Oh, I say, Clary, jolly poetic – one whoop an’ we’re in the soup. Not to worry, I’ve given up whoopin’ for the moment;’

  A searat named Fleawirt lay asleep facing the main fire. It was difficult trying to sleep in open woodlands after a life of sprawling to rest in the swaying, rocking crew’s accommodation of a ship. Fleawirt awoke. His face was scorched and burning with the fire, though his back was stiff and chilled to the bone by the night breezes. He turned grumpily over, placing his back towards the fire. As he did, a sharp twig stuck in his cheek. Fleawirt sat up, cursing silently as he rubbed his injured face. Then a very strange thing happened.

  Sitting up, facing away from the fire, Fleawirt found himself looking at the oarslaves. They lay sleeping, chained in pairs, some whimpering in their dreams, others clutching each other tightly in slumber. Then there was a slight clink of chains and four oarslaves vanished into the ground!

  Fleawirt rubbed his eyes and yawned, half turning to lie down once more. Then the oddness of what he had seen hit him. He stood bolt upright as another two slaves disappeared into the earth!

  ‘Cap’n Greypatch! Look, the slaves!’

  Fleawirt’s cries aroused the entire camp. Greypatch sprang up and began shaking Fleawirt.

  ‘What’s goin’ on? Tell me!’

  ‘The slaves, the ground, four of ’em, then another two, the floor, I saw it!’

  ‘Stop babblin’ like a fool. Now tell me what happened, properly!’

  ‘Well, I was sittin’ up awake an’ all of a sudden I saw four of the oarslaves just vanish into the floor. I looked again an’ another two went, right in front o’ me eyes, Cap’n. I swear it!’

  The oarslaves were wakening, yawning and rubbing at their eyes as the noise around them grew into a hubbub. Greypatch ran among them, scattering the thin bodies left and right, a flaring torch held high. Quickly he counted them – twelve, including the squirrel. Fleawirt was right – six oarslaves had vanished, somehow. He stumbled as he stepped into a small pothole, which on closer inspection proved to be a tunnel which had been backfilled after the slaves escaped. Greypatch sank his sword uselessly into the loose earth, stabbing at it wildly.