‘Honestly, I felt just like a naughty Dibbun, the way those two young snips ordered me off to the pond!’
The Abbess sandwiched a wedge of cheese with bread. ‘Me too, bless their hearts. They meant well, though.’
Bella snorted. ‘Meant well? The little tyrants, they sent me back to the pond twice, to wash my snout properly!’
Migglo had been eavesdropping, and he called across to them, ‘Aye, but they’re a credit to ole Skipper, that they are!’
Suddenly, everybeast started with fright as a loud cry rent the air.
‘Redwaaaaaaaaaalll!’
Bella was on her paws in a flash, pointing upward. ‘Look! They’ve raised the weather vane on south gable!’
Everybeast in the orchard raised their paws and returned the shout to the tiny figures high up on the Abbey building.
‘Redwaaaaaaaaaallll!’
Cheering broke out as the Squirrelqueen, Lady Amber, stood out, balancing on the crosspieces of the iron vane, swaying as a light breeze turned its metal arrow topspike. Ferdy and Coggs clung to the North and South struts, waving jubilantly to their friends below. As Columbine gazed up at the completed south wall, she hugged the Abbess. ‘Oh, they’ve done it, Mother Abbess. Isn’t it beautiful!’
Germaine looked for as long as she could, then shut her eyes tight to stem the tears.
‘At last! My Redwall Abbey. I never thought I’d live to see the dream become reality!’
Bella picked the Abbess up as though she weighed nothing, sitting the ancient mouse upon her shoulder to allow her a better view. Whilst Germaine was up there, Bella took advantage of her robe hem to wipe her own eyes.
‘Three cheers for Redwall Abbey. May it stand as long as seasons change and the sun rises, my friends!’
Never were three cheers raised so joyously.
‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!’
* * *
38
ON A RARE boisterous autumn morn, two otters stood waist deep in the waters where Northfork stream merged with the main flow seaward. It was here in the swirl of currents that the finest watershrimp were to be found. Unstaking a long tubular reed net, they hauled it carefully to the bank. The elder of the pair, a sleek tough otterwife, instructed her half-grown son in the rudiments of his tribe’s fishing tradition.
‘Always haul the net in slow’n’easy, Jiddy. I seen silly beasts lose all their catch many a time, from rushin’ things. There now, lookit our net, son, bulgin’ with the liddle beauties. Tie the end off good’n’tight, that’s it!’
Grinning from ear to ear, Jiddy patted the well-packed net. ‘Haharr, wait’ll Chief Tungro claps eyes on this lot! I bet by next season he’ll let me come ’ere alone—’
The young otter had no time for further conversation. His mother knocked him flat into the cover of hanging willow fronds. Stifling his mouth with a swift paw, she lay beside him, peering upstream at the strange craft in the distance.
‘Strike me rudder, will y’look at that thing. I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it in these waters. Wait! I’d know that beast standin’ in the bows if’n he was the last otter on earth. C’mon, Jid, let’s get the bad news back to Tungro!’
They hurried off southward along the bank, toting the loaded net between them, with Jiddy, like most youngsters, besieging his mother with questions.
‘It was an otter on that boat, I saw ’im too. But why’s it bad news for Tungro? Does he know the otter?’
‘Hah, know ’im? I’ll say he does. That’s Folgrim, his mad brother. I thought we’d seen the last o’ that ’un.’
‘Mad? Why’s he mad? What did he do?’
‘Well he used t’go huntin’ vermin, an’ when he caught up with ’em he’d, er, he’d . . . Never you mind what he did. Now keep up, an’ don’t drop that net or ’twill burst!’
The day was rather overcast, though the sun showed at intervals, between masses of grey-white cloud, which the playful wind chased to the south-east. The Honeysuckle rode at half sail, Furmo steering her into the bank, which was crowded with otters. Trimp stood alongside Folgrim, watching him closely.
‘My goodness, Fol, they’ve all turned out to welcome you home. See, there’s your brother Tungro!’
Chugger launched himself from the mast on to his friend Folgrim’s shoulders. ‘Tchah! Otters not welcome you, mista Fol, nobeast laugh or shout ’ello t’you, big long faces on ’em.’
Folgrim settled the little squirrel on his strong shoulders. ‘They got good cause not t’be cheery, mate. My tribe fears me. I was nought but a load o’ trouble to ’em.’
Chugger growled. ‘Gurrr! You not t’ubble, mista Fol, you my matey. I choppa they tails off for ya!’
Folgrim slid over the side, still carrying Chugger. ‘You sit up there an’ be’ave yoreself now. Leave this t’me.’
Otters parted ranks, fearing to be near the returning warrior. But Tungro waded swiftly forward. Clasping Folgrim’s paws tightly he smiled into the heavily scarred face with great fondness.
‘My brother, welcome back to the holt! Come on, matey, bring y’liddle friend, bring all yore friends. Rest and eat!’
The holt was an enlarged bank cave, old and very comfortable, filled with beautifully carved furniture, which was the speciality of Tungro’s tribe, who were master craftsbeasts, proud of their carpentry skills. Most of the tribe were still wary of Folgrim, so he kept to the company of the Honeysuckle’s crew. They sat on elaborately carved benches by the fire, dining on fresh hotroot and watershrimp soup, oatfarls and a riverbank salad.
Martin and Gonff sat at a highly polished table with Tungro, who poured steaming blackberry and sage cordial for them whilst the cooks served their food.
‘You and your friends have worked wonders with my brother. He is not the same savage beast, thanks to you, Martin.’
The Warrior sipped his cordial gratefully. ‘Don’t give me the credit, friend. It was young Trimp and little Chugger who wrought the change in Folgrim.’
Turning to Gonff, the otter enquired, ‘Why do you keep staring at me, Mousethief?’
The irrepressible Gonff shrugged. ‘The more I look at you, the stronger you remind me of somebeast. Martin, would you say Tungro resembles Skipper?’
‘Aye, mate, now you come to mention it, he does, very much!’
Tungro sat up at the mention of the name. ‘Skipper? Is he an otter about old enough to be my father?’
Gonff slapped the table. ‘I knew it, yore related to him!’
A faraway look entered Tungro’s eyes as he unfolded the tale.
‘My grandmother gave birth to three sons on the same day, Bargud, my father, and his two brothers, Riverwyte and Warthorn. Riverwyte was much like my brother Folgrim, a great fighter and slayer of vermin. Everybeast thought him sick in the head because of his love for battle. He left our holt to go roving, and they say his tail was severed by foebeasts. An otter without a rudder, as you know, is like a fish without water. Riverwyte became a woodland dweller, a master of disguises, and he called himself Mask because of this. Travellers told my father that he had been slain, though where, when an’ how it all happened we never got t’know. The other brother, Warthorn, was the biggest an’ strongest of all three. He left the holt when he was scarce half grown, because he couldn’t ever buckle down to my grandfather’s strict rule. Warthorn was such a natural leader that nobeast used his given name, they nicknamed him Skipper, which is a title we give to otter Chieftains. Anyhow, he went off to found his own tribe an’ hasn’t been heard of since. When Bargud my father was alive, he’d look at me an’ say that I was the image of his lost brother Skipper. Then he’d turn to Folgrim an’ say that he was the double of Riverwyte, his other brother.’
Martin leaned across the table and held Tungro’s paw. ‘Would you like to meet your uncle Warthorn?’
Tungro nodded wistfully. ‘I’d love to, I’ve heard so many tales about him, but he’d left this holt long afore I was born. Do y’think I ever could meet Warthorn?’
/> ‘Certainly, my friend. Journey to Redwall with us, and you will.’
A few days later, Log a Log Furmo’s large fierce wife, Honeysuckle, was coping with her brood on the streambank of their summer camp. Energetically she scrubbed at the wriggling body of her eldest.
‘Be still, you liddle worm. I’ll teach ye to roll about in that midden of a water margin, filthy shrew!’ Flicking out with a wet rag she caught another young one a stinging slap across the tail. ‘Git yore paws away from those scones, or I’ll chop y’tail off an’ bake ye in a pie. Go on, be off with you!’
Four tiny shrewmaids came dashing along the bank, squeaking, ‘Mamma mamma, daddy’s comin’ in a big boat wiv a sail!’
Honeysuckle grabbed the nearest one. ‘Just lookit the bankmud on that smock, an’ it was clean on this very morn. Go an’ git a fresh one off’n yore granma, not one of those off the rock ledge, they ain’t dry yet. So, the great rovin’ Log a Log’s decided to come home again, has he?’
Furmo’s deep rich voice hailed her from upriver. ‘Honeysuckle me precious, I’m back, O dew of me life!’
She scowled at Furmo, standing heroically in the prow of the skiff as it sailed inshore. Twirling the corner of a face cloth she wiggled it down the ear of the little shrew she was attempting to clean up. ‘Back at the end o’ summer, my darlin’, I’ll return on the first autumn mist, O jewel o’ the woodlands. What time d’ye call this t’be gettin’ back, you great useless lump o’ Guosimfur, eh?’
Gonff sprinted ashore, with two shrews in his wake, carrying a carved otter footstool and several strings of Dunehog quills and beads in various gaudy colours. He pointed to the name plate on the skiff’s bow, planting a genteel kiss on the shrew wife’s sud-covered paw.
‘O beauteous beast, yore spouse brings ye gifts from afar, an’ all borne on a fine vessel that carries yore own fair name. He has done nought but pine f’you night’n’day!’
Honeysuckle melted immediately in the face of Gonff’s gallantry. Fluttering her eyelids, she gave him a playful shove, which sent him sprawling in the shallows.
‘Oh, mister Gonff, you ole flatterer, fancy callin’ that luvly ship after me. Wotever gave you the idea?’
The Prince of Mousethieves stood up, shaking water from his rear end, still spouting eloquently. ‘ ’Twas all your good Furmo’s idea, m’lady. We wanted to call the boat Gullywacker, but he wouldn’t hear of it. No no, sez he, we must call it Honeysuckle after my beloved!’
Furmo gasped as Honeysuckle grabbed him from the prow and squeezed the air from his lungs in a mighty embrace.
‘Ow ow, I wronged you, me dear one, forgive me. All these wunnerful things you brought back for yore wife. Ow ow, I could cut out me tongue for wot I said about you!’
Furmo managed to gasp out in a stifled mutter, ‘Cut yore tongue out? No such luck, more’s the pity!’
She dropped him in the shallows. ‘Wot was that you said?’
Furmo scrambled up, thinking quickly. ‘I said, cut yore tongue out? No no, my duck, yore far too pretty!’
Vurg and his friends were greatly taken with the shrewbabes, but none more so than Beau. The gluttonous hare allowed the tiny creatures to feed him vast amounts of food at the noontide meal.
‘Can you eat more plum pudden, sir?’
‘Just try me, laddie. Shove it this way, wot!’
‘My mamma maked this salad, sir, d’you like it?’
‘Rather! What a clever lady your mamma is. Fill m’bowl up again, there’s a good little tyke!’
‘D’you like apple’n’pear turnover, sir?’
‘Like it? Steer it in my direction, y’young tailwagger, an’ I’ll show you whether I like it!’
Honeysuckle perched gingerly on the footstool, which she thought was a small chair, casting a jaundiced eye in Beau’s direction.
‘I’d hate t’be standin’ next to that long-eared rabbit in a famine season. Where does he put it all? No thanks to you, Gonff, you fetched ’im ’ere, an’ that tribe o’ starvin’ otters too. We’ll soon be eaten out o’ house’n’home!’
Gonff tweaked the shrew wife’s cheek slyly.
‘Well, me beauty, you don’t want vittles goin’ stale in the larder. Not whilst yore away on the nice trip that Furmo’s planned for you!’
‘Trip? Furmo never told me about no trip?’
‘Aha, that’s ’cos he wants to surprise you, pretty one. How d’you fancy a nice boat trip to Redwall Abbey?’
‘Ow ow, bless ’is good ’eart, is there nothin’ Furmo wouldn’t do fer me? Wot a wunnerful thoughtful beast ’e is!’
Furmo waggled a paw in his numbed ear. ‘Oh, give yore wailin’ a rest an’ pass the beer.’
‘Wot was that you said, Furmo Log a Log?’
‘I said, my love’s unfailin’, nothin’ but the best for you, my dear!’
Squeaks of fright from the little ones caused Martin to leap up, sword in paw. A dark shadow circled overhead, suddenly dropping like a stone into their midst. The great goshawk, Krar Woodwatcher, folded his wings and bowed courteously.
‘Oh joyous day, thou hast returned to my fiefdom, Prince of Mousethieves, and thou too, Martin Warrior of Redwall.’
Gonff nodded formally, with appropriate regal disdain. ‘Lackaday, sirrah, have thou a care, landing in such manner ’mongst the babes of Furmo, our faithful vassal!’
Krar lowered his beak to the ground in the face of such royal displeasure from the Prince of Mousethieves.
‘Alas, ’twas not my intention to affright the babes thus, Prince. My hasty landing was prompted by a desire to be in company with thee an’ thy noblebeasts once more.’
Martin allowed his footpaw to touch the lethal beak. Krar did not see him exchange a wink with Gonff.
‘I pray you, Prince Gonff, be not wrathful with our friend Woodwatcher. For we know him to be a good an’ honest bird. Tarry with us, Krar, there are victuals aplenty here.’
The huge fierce goshawk awaited Gonff’s decision. Sensing he had pushed his luck far enough with the dangerous bird, Gonff smiled magnanimously, patting the ground at his side.
‘I spoke in haste. Come, sit thee beside me, my faithful friend. It comes to my mind that one who battled with a swan in our defence must surely be worthy of our hospitality!’
Honeysuckle nudged Furmo, almost knocking him over. ‘D’ye hear that? Why don’t you learn to speak like Gonff an’ Martin? Proper gentlebeasts they are!’
Beau sat watching in open-mouthed admiration as food vanished down Krar’s beak at an alarming rate.
‘Great seasons o’ starvation, d’you suppose that chap’ll be able to fly when he’s finished scoffin’, wot wot?’
Trimp could not help teasing the hare with a wry comment. ‘I wonder if the Redwall Abbey kitchens will have enough food to keep up with the both of you?’
Dinny shook his head at the hedgehog maid’s observation. ‘Burr aye, miz, oi ’adn’t thought o’ that. They’m two’ll keep ee cooks gurtly busy, oi’m surrting o’ that!’
Travelling upstream was not difficult as they traced back their original path. Tungro’s tribe were strong swimmers, and they weaved in and out of the growing flotilla of shrew logboats surrounding the Honeysuckle, lending strong paws wherever they were needed. On a lazy golden afternoon, Gonff lay stretched out beneath the stern awning, tossing hazelnut pieces in the air and catching them in his mouth. Martin was napping nearby, whiskers gently twitching against a curious midge, bent on investigating his face. A fragment of nut, which Gonff had missed, bounced off Martin’s nose, and he opened one eye slowly.
‘D’you mind not disturbing me? It’s not often I get the chance of an odd snooze.’
Gonff aimed another piece of nut at his companion. ‘Snooze? How can you talk about snoozin’, mate, we’re nearly home! I’ll be seein’ my Columbine soon, haha, an’ that Gonflet o’ mine. Wonder if he’s grown at all?’
Martin stared up at the changing leaf patterns, blinking as the sun traced through, blur
ring the edges.
‘Oh, I imagine Gonflet will be tall enough to cause us more trouble, young scamp! Hope the work on our Abbey has progressed without too much bother. I bet Bella’s missed us, though the kitchen crew will probably be glad you’re gone. Pies can lie cooling on windowsills in safety.’
‘Hah! Not with my Gonflet runnin’ loose they won’t!’
In one smooth motion, Tungro slid aboard the skiff. He whispered urgently to Martin, ‘We’re due to run into trouble, I think!’
The Warrior lay still, though his paw was seeking his blade. ‘What makes you think that, friend?’
‘Well I can ’ear a waterfall somewheres up ahead, but that ain’t really it. Somebeasts are followin’ us. I saw movement in the trees, ripples in our wake, an’ I think they’re up ahead of us too!’
Immediately Martin arose, sword in paw. ‘Sounds like they’ve got us surrounded, eh, Gonff?’
‘You two stop here. I’ll go an’ take a peek.’
Gonff crawled out on deck and took stock of the situation. Tungro’s otters were in the water, guarding the shrew logboats, which Furmo had grouped around the Honeysuckle. Only the streamsounds and the distant waterfall broke the ominous silence. Suddenly the soft autumn noontide had grown dangerous. Krar perched upon the Honeysuckle’s prow, watching keenly. Folgrim had his axe out, and was standing in the stern of the back logboat. Furmo and his Guosim crouched, rapiers drawn. Gonff held up his paws, signalling everybeast to wait. His eye caught a movement in a tree-shaded shallow.
Then the Mousethief relaxed, waving his paws for the crew to stand down. He shouted then, his voice cutting the stillness. ‘Haharr, I’ll bite y’tail off an’ stuff it down yore ear!’
A gruff voice responded from the shallows. ‘Surrender, mousey, yer surrounded, mate!’
Gonff gave a broad wink to the Guosim shrews. ‘Surrounded? Y’great lard barrel, stay there, I’m comin’ to surround you, ye forty-faced frogflusher!’
The Legend of Luke Page 33