Mariel Of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  Bigfang had his answer ready this time. ‘I say we use our weapons to get food, not to’ fight some Abbey or guard a lot of useless oarslaves. Split up, go in gangs, fish the streams an’ ponds, kill the birds with slingshots, arrows, anythin’, but let’s get some decent grub inside of us!’

  Amid the roars of approval, Greypatch waved his sword for silence.

  ‘All right, all right! That sounds sensible t’ me. I never had no objections to a searat crew feedin’ theirselves, mateys. But there’s still these oarslaves. They’re ours, and We can’t let ’em be nabbed away by those Redwallers, so I suggest we build a cage for ’em, then we can go huntin’. Avast, what do ye say?’

  Bigfang pointed his sword at Greypatch. ‘You do what you want, rat. We’re goin’ to get food!’

  The entire crew stopped what they were doing and watched. Bigfang had finally laid down his challenge. Greypatch gripped his sword tight and confronted his enemy.

  ‘So, it’s come t’ this, eh, matey!’

  Bigfang circled, crouching low, sword at the ready. ‘I’m no matey o’ yours, rat!’

  ‘Haharr, I reckon you fancy yourself as Cap’n round here!’

  ‘Couldn’t make no worse a job of it than you, smartmouth!’

  With a roar they clashed, blade striking upon blade. The searats formed a circle for them to fight in. Bigfang was strong; he used his sword like a club, hacking and bludgeoning at his opponent. Greypatch was vastly more experienced; he ducked and parried, dodging away from the main attacks, using the campfire as a barrier.

  They fought in silence, none of the crew shouting encouragement to one or the other lest the shouter back the losing beast. Dust and ashes from the fire rose in billows as the pair battled savagely, Bigfang gaining the upper claw slightly with his size, strength and ferocity. Greypatch countered most of the moves, sometimes making Bigfang look awkward and ungainly, but as sword locked sword they gritted and sweated, their faces almost touching.

  Greypatch began to realize that he was not as young and powerful as Bigfang. Fighting desperately to keep the foe from his blind side, he felt himself starting to tire and weaken. But experience was on his side; he kept his single eye on the main chance. Striving wildly, he turned Bigfang so that his back was to the fire and redoubled his attack. Bigfang was forced backwards until one foot went into the fire. He yelped in pain. Greypatch dodged away, as if giving his adversary a chance to recover. Bigfang looked down at his scorched footclaws for a vital second.

  It cost him his life. Greypatch snatched the spear that Frink was holding and hurled it. He was too dose to miss.

  From the branches of a tall beech close by, a fat squirrel sat watching. He shook his head as he saw Bigfang fall. ‘Hmm, could’ve told him that’d happen. That old rat’s no fool!’

  Greypatch stood with his narrow chest heaving. He glared around the circle to reassert his authority as Captain.

  ‘Come on riffraff, anyone else wanna be Cap’n? Speak up!’

  A deathly hush had settled over the crew. The only sound was the crackling of the campfire as they stood staring at the carcass of Bigfang, who only moments ago had been alive and arguing. Greypatch laid the flat of his sword against Lardgutt’s throat.

  ‘Come on, bagbelly. Do you fancy tryin’ fer Cap’n?’

  Lardgutt could not even gulp, the sword was so tight on his neck. ‘Not me, you’re the Cap’n . . . Cap’n!’

  Greypatch nodded approvingly, immediately changing his mood. ‘Right, matey. I’m the Cap’n an’ I gives the orders. So let’s see plenty o’ stout wood bein’ cut to make a cage fer our oarslaves. After that we’ll head out into these woodlands an’ plunder all the vittles a searat can lay claws on. Now, what’ve ye got t’ say to that?’

  Though the tone was subdued they all replied. ‘Aye-aye, Cap’n.’

  Rufe Brush gave a shout of delight as the fat squirrel came bounding in across the north wall with acrobatic skill.

  ‘Oak Tom, you old bushrumbler! Well, curl my tail!’

  They hugged and wrestled, as squirrels do, then the normally taciturn Rufe held his friend out at paw’s-length.

  ‘Let me look at you, treejumper. By the fur, you’re twice as fat as a badger at a feast. What’ve been doin’ to yourself?’

  Oak Tom patted his vast stomach and chortled. ‘Yukyukyuk! Rovin’ and eatin’, though mostly eatin’. Doesn’t slow me down at all. I’m faster than I ever was, young Rufe!’

  Again they fell to wrestling and hugging. Several Dibbuns had gathered to view the performance. They called encouragement, thinking it was some sort of fight.

  ‘Bite his tail off, Rufe!’

  ‘Kick ’im in ’ee gurt fat tummy, squirr’l!’

  Mother Mellus and Abbot Bernard came hurrying over. Oak Tom released Rufe and performed several acrobatic pawsprings.

  ‘Abbot Bernard, how are ye, Father? Oh, look out, it’s old stripy top. Bet y’can’t catch me for a bath now, Ma Mellus!’

  The badger put on a mock-serious expression, wagging her paw at him. ‘Just let me catch you, Oak Tom. You were the worst Dibbun Redwall ever had to put up with. I’ll wager you’ve not had a bath since you left here last summer.’

  The fat, nimble Oak Tom bounded up on Mellus’s broad back and whispered in her ear, “Course I have. Here, this is for you.’

  Pulling a small package from his travelling bag, he dropped it in Mellus’s paw. The badger sniffed it appreciatively.

  ‘Oh, jasmine and lavender soap! Where did you get it? No, don’t tell me, I’d hate to think of one of my Dibbuns stealing.’

  Oak Tom pulled a long face. The Abbot patted his head fondly.

  ‘She’s only joking, Tom. Come and talk to me, tell me all the news of your travels. You’re just in time for lunch – we’re eating out in the orchard. Summer salad, leek and celery soup, hot rootbread and strawberry trifle to follow.’

  ‘You must’ve known I was comin’ back. My favourite of all: strawberry trifle. Yahoooooo!’

  Oak Tom went hurtling away towards the orchard in a series of blurring somersaults. Runn and Grubb watched him go.

  ‘He must’ve been a terrible Dibbun, worser’n us!’

  ‘Buhurr aye, oi weager’ee wurr a gurt fat hinfant!’

  The news Oak Tom brought was extremely serious, particularly to Clary and his long patrol. They listened intently.

  Mellus glancing anxiously at Clary when Oak Tom finished telling what he had witnessed at the searat camp. Clary paced about in the shade of a gnarled pear tree.

  ‘A big cage, y’say. Just how big, Tom?’

  ‘Big ’n’ strong enough t’ hold all twelve o’ them. Well made too, with thick branches an’ lashings. Very heavy, I’d say.’

  Clary struck the tree with his paw. ‘Darn! I knew it’d come t’ this, somehow.’

  ‘What does it mean, Colonel?’

  Clary coughed and brushed his whiskers with the back of a paw. ‘Oh nothin’, marm. At least, naught fer you to worry your head about. Leave it t’ me. I’ll have a word with my jolly old pals – we’ll sort it out. Tickety-boo – that’s the word, wot!’

  Simeon groped about with his paw until he touched Mellus’s cheek. ‘There was a lot of false bravado in what Clary said. I think he’s worried.’

  Saxtus watched the lanky figure of the hare retreating towards the Abbey. ‘Yes, the more anxious hares get the lighter they seem to make of things, have you noticed?’

  Mellus stared at the young mouse intently. ‘That’s a shrewd observation for one so young, Saxtus!’

  In the dormitory allotted to them, the three hares sat upon the rush-matted floor. Clary had laid out a plan of the searat encampment with various bedroom articles. He placed a lantern squarely in the middle. ‘That’s where the bally cage is, chaps.’

  They studied it, Thyme stroking his waxed moustache whiskers.

  ‘Hmmm, difficult, extremely awkward, wot! But y’say they’ve all gone out killin’ birds an’ the like. P’raps ther
e’s a chance we could pay the confounded camp a visit now and make a surprise sortie?’

  Clary shook his head. ‘No chance, old lad. Oak Tom went an’ scared off all the game in the blinkin’ neighbourhood. There won’t be a bird or a fish for miles. They’ll prob’ly be back by now, roastin’ roots an’ burnin’ apples an’ whatnot. It’s a rotten ol’ standoff.’

  Hon Rosie shrugged. ‘No way out – we’re stumped!’

  Clary sighed. ‘There is one way, the only sure way. I knew it’d come down t’ this eventually, as soon as I saw those searats in Mossflower country I felt it in m’ bones.’

  They sat looking at each other awhile, then Clary sniffed airily.

  ‘Still an’ all, Lord Rawnblade wouldn’t have us do anythin’ else.’

  Thyme chuckled. ‘Rather, old Rawney’d have a blue fit if we didn’t!’

  Hon Rosie picked up her lance and began polishing it. ‘I say, then let’s do it, just for a lark. Whoohahahahooh!’

  Gabool the Wild did not bother covering up the pit any more. He cackled madly as he gazed in at the loathsome sight of the huge black scorpion perching on the carcass of Fishtail, former ship’s mate of the Seatalon.

  ‘Haharrharrharr! That’ll teach Catseyes t’ send scurvy traitors spyin’ on me. What d’ye say, Skrabblag?’

  The glistening arachnid clicked and rustled balefully. Gabool strode out gesturing into the air as he conversed with himself.

  ‘No need for Cap’ns when there’s a King! I’ll show ’em, badgers ’n’ bells, ships ’n’ searats, Cap’ns ’n’ Kings. Haharr, round an’ round they run, a-chasin’ each other through my head, but Gabool will win in the end!’

  He swept into the banqueting hall, where the assembled searats watched in astonishment as he stood, daws on hips, talking to the great tarnished bell which dominated the centre of the floor.

  ‘Go on, ring yer way out o’ that one, hearty! Oh, you’ll sing fer me one day. Ring, ring, Gabool the King!’

  He whirled upon the two crewes. ‘An’ what’re you all gawpin’ at, pray? Nothin’ t’ do, nothin’ to report?

  ‘The Seatalon’s been sunk in the cove!’

  Not bothering to see which rat had spoken, Gabool dashed to the window. ‘Hellfires! That’s two vessels in as many days, first Darkqueen an’ now Seatalon!’

  ‘That wasn’t Darkqueen, Lord, it was Rathelm, Cap’n Flogga’s ship.’

  Gabool stroked his long, unkempt beard. ‘Darkqueen, Rathelm same thing. There’s Waveblade, Nightwake, Crabclaw, an’ Blacksail, all t’ come in. Let me know the moment they anchor.’

  After he had left the hall the gossip ran rife.

  ‘Gabool’s crazier’n a scalded beetle!’

  ‘Don’t let him fool yer, matey. He could still recall what ships he’s got out at sea – aye, an’ their names, too.’

  ‘I tell yer he’s bats, chattin’ away to a bell, pretty as y’please.’

  ‘Well, crazy or not, this is the place where all his booty’s hid. Cap’n Flogga told me that.’

  ‘Aye, an’ where’s Flogga now?’

  ‘An’ Fishtail as well. I’ve seen nary a sight o’ him since we came here.’

  ‘I say let’s wait’ll the rest o’ the fleet’s in, then we’ll see what the other Cap’ns have t’ say about all this rigamarole.’

  ‘Wait – what else can we do but wait, shipmates? Both our vessels are sittin’ on the bed o’ the cove down there. Somebeast scuttled ’em; they’re sunk!’

  ‘Gabool’s changed. See his eyes? They’re red like blood. He’s actin’ strange, mates – runnin’ round this place filthy as some ol’ tramp. That was never his way. I don’t mind tellin’ yer, I’m scared.’

  ‘Anyrat who isn’t is a fool, matey. But we’re stuck ’ere, so we better make the best of it. Any vittles in the kitchens, I wonder?’

  Tarquin kept for’ard lookout, Mariel took the stern, Rawnblade stood at the tiller, steering a course off line with the little swallow’s flight as it dangled on its thread beneath the awning.

  Mariel left off scanning the horizon to stare at the impressive figure of Lord Rawnblade Widestripe. He resembled some giant stepped out of legend, clad partially now in helmet and breastplate, the sword Verminfate resting beneath one paw as he steered with the other. Spray glistened, dewing the shaggy fur, as his keen dark eyes gazed out across the seas, brows lowered as if he were pondering some mystery known only to badger Lords. This then was the creature for whom her father had cast and made the great bell; she could think of no nobler or worthier owner for her father’s masterpiece. Her father, Joseph. The name meant everything to Mariel: security, love, guidance and a comradeship between parent and child that was more like having a best friend than a father at times . . . his humorous twinkling eyes and ready wit.

  ‘I say, old gel, have y’gone asleep back there? Ships ahoy and astern!’

  The sound of Tarquin’s voice brought Mariel back to reality.

  Three sets of sails had appeared on the horizon in their wake, and Lord Rawnblade gave swift instructions. Without questioning his authority, Mariel and Tarquin took up their positions whilst the badger Lord concealed himself in the cabin below.

  The three vessels Nightwake, Crabclaw and Blacksail were travelling back to Terramort in loose convoy, though now they sensed Terramort was reasonably near they broke formation and began racing to see who could anchor first in the cove.

  Captain Hookfin of the Blacksail held the tiller steady as they ran before the southwest wind, tacking occasionally to keep his craft on course. He cursed as the Nightwake drew level, with her master Riptung at the helm. ‘A cask of dark wine I beat ye back, Riptung!’

  Riptung swung the tiller over recklessly, causing him to veer. ‘Haharr, not in that ol’ tub y’won’t, matey!’

  With superb skill and daring, the corsair Grimtooth plied his craft between them both. ‘Hoho, I’ll show ye how a real searat sails, mates, an’ I’ll drink that wine to teach ye both a lesson in searatship!’

  The Nightwake was now closest to Mariel and the Waveblade as the three ships bore onward, all oars pulling and sails at full stretch.

  Riptung wiped spray from his eyes and looked across. From the distance all he could see was a very small steersrat and an extra-lanky lookout, both decked out in the tattered finery of searats.

  ‘Ahoy, Waveblade, where have ye come from?’ Riptung called out.

  The small steersrat indicated back across her left shoulder, but did not shout a reply. Riptung understood.

  ‘South, eh. We wer down that way, must’ve missed yer. Are you on for a race back to Terramort, cask o’ wine fer the prize?’

  The small rat shook its head, jiggling the tiller and shrugging.

  Riptung nodded. ‘Rudder trouble, matey? Where’s Cap’n Orgeye?’

  The lanky one on lookout pantomimed sleep, resting his head on the foredeck rail and pointing below.

  Riptung laughed aloud. ‘Haharr, lazy ol’ Orgeye, snorin’ like a hog. Too much wine, eh?’

  The lanky one did a stagger and held his stomach and forehead at the same time. Riptung smote the tiller, laughing uproariously.

  ‘Scupper me, the drunken ol’ blubberfish. Ahoy there, tell ’im when he wakes that he missed a chance o’ winnin’ a big cask o’ wine.’

  The two searats waved back as the ships drew away, racing pell-mell for Terramort, Riptung shouting tidings of Orgeye to the other two Captains, who shook their heads with merriment.

  Rawnblade’s huge head poked out of the cabin doorway. ‘Have they gone?’

  Tarquin blew out a long sigh of relief. ‘Aye, m’Lord, but it was a close thing. Any nearer to us and the game would’ve been up; they would have seen we weren’t bally searats.’

  Mariel leaned back against the tiller, wiping her brow. ‘Whew! See that? It isn’t seaspray it’s sweat. How they could ever have taken me and Tarquin for a couple of scurvy searats, I’ll never know.’

  Rawnblade strode up on deck. ‘We�
�ll furl in the sails and let them get in to Terramort well ahead of us. Up you go, Woodsorrel. I’m too heavy to be climbing masts, and Mariel’s needed on deck.’

  Tarquin took a look at the swaying mainmast billowing with sail. He threw a paw across his eyes and staggered giddily.

  ‘Oh, corks. Do I have to climb up that great swayin’ thing an’ fold all those windy old bedsheets? Do I really, sir?’

  Rawnblade pointed a stern paw to the topmast. ‘Up, Woodsorrel, up!’

  Tarquin spat on his paws but made a last-ditch plea to a passing gull. ‘I say, birdie old bean, just furl a jolly old sail or two as you’re passin’, there’s a good chap.’

  The seagull flew heedlessly on. Rawnblade stood with his hefty paw still pointed into the rigging. ‘Up!’

  Tarquin nervously scaled the mast, calling out to the seagull, who had decided to hover overhead and view the performance.

  ‘Yah rotten ol’ featherbag, bet your mum was a cuckoo. Oh golly, if Hon Rosie could see me now she’d split her fur laughin’.’

  34

  AT THAT PRECISE moment Hon Rosie had never been more serious in her life. She stood in a small spinney, just out of sight of the searat camp. With her were Clary, Thyme, Rufe Brush, Oak Tom and the pretty squirrel Treerose. The hares were armed to the teeth – lances, bows, arrows and a dagger apiece. Clary was talking to the squirrels.

  ‘Now you know the drill, chaps. As soon as I shout out t’ you then you come runnin’, get the slaves away pretty darn quick an’ head north, take a loop south an’ straight back to the Abbey. I’ve left that big otter chappie Flagg a note – he’ll know what t’ do. Don’t forget now – whatever happens, keep the bally slaves goin’ full speed an’ get ’em back to Redwall posthaste, wot!’

  Rufe Brush clapped Clary on the back. ‘Got it. Keep the slaves goin’ till we’re safe back home, right? But what about you three?’