[Redwall 18] - High Rhulain Page 10
dogrose heather harebell blue,
violet pansy speedwell too.
Heyla huppla Mister Bee, make some honey just for me!
From the blossom’s nectar sweet,
comes a hearty honey treat,
I can’t wait ’til you arrive,
at my table from your hive.
Heyla huppla Mister Bee, make some honey just for me!
Golden rich and gooey thick,
sticky likkle paws I lick,
scrumptious munchious gorgeous stuff,
Dibbuns just can’t get enough.
Heyla huppla Mister Bee, make some honey just for
me!”
Abbess Lycian knew the song well, and she sang it prettily. Watching her Abbeybabes dance always gave her enormous pleasure. However, she also found it puzzling: The little ones were normally stumbling, bumbling toddlers, but the instant they heard music, they were completely transformed. Away they went in perfect rhythm, clapping, jigging, bowing, twirling and performing some artful high kicks and fancy paw-work. Some of them could actually somersault and cartwheel.
The applause from the Redwall audience was almost drowned out by the two big birds as they reared up, beating their outspread wings furiously. Brantalis honked, whilst Pandion threw back his head and skriked to the skies. Encouraged by the ovation, the Dibbuns threw themselves into the dance again as an encore. Tiria began wondering if she would ever get the chance to interview the two birds.
After a while, Sister Doral put the fiddle away and went to get her tea. Tiria was about to speak with Brantalis when her father and Brink came and joined them. Banjon sat on the lawn, enjoying some warm scones, damson preserve and hot mint tea.
“Ahoy, Tiria, me gel! Me’n Brink been out trollin’ the woodlands for yore water rats. We lost their trail in the nor’east woodlands, by the marshes borderin’ the watermeadows. I don’t think ye’ll be seein’ them again. Ain’t that right, Brink?”
The sturdy Cellarhog seated himself laboriously, trying to balance a trencher that was piled high with salad, pasties, soup, bread and cheese. He winked at the ottermaid. “Aye, beauty, those vermin are either sunk without trace, or they made it o’er the watermeadows an’ headed up north out o’ Mossflower. Are ye alright now, missy? That was a funny liddle turn ye took, back in the ditch earlier.”
Tiria decided to let them in on her dream experience. “I wasn’t ill at all. It was that I’d suddenly recalled a dream I had last night. If you’ve a moment to spare, I’ll tell you all about it.”
As the shadows began lengthening, Skipper Banjon listened avidly to his daughter’s narration of her vision and the subsequent events. When Tiria had finished, he stared oddly at her.
“Rip me rudder, gel, I always knowed you was fated for somethin’ other than Abbey life. Ever since we lost yore dear Ma, fates rest her memory. You was nought but a liddle furball then, but I sensed it in ye. Aye, the more ye’ve growed, the more certain of it I am. Tiria, yore different from the others. A true Wildlough, that’s wot ye are!”
Brink peered over the rim of his soup bowl. “Great seasons, if ye’ve been visited by Martin the Warrior, well that’s the proof. Just say the word, darlin’, an’ yore dad an’ me’ll help ye any way we can!”
The ottermaid clasped their paws gratefully. “Thank you both, especially you, Skip. I was worried as to how you’d take the news of me having to leave Redwall and seek out the Green Isle. Brantalis the goose knows the way, and our fish hawk was reared there. He should be able to tell us more about the place. I was just about to start questioning them, but now look!”
Both birds had joined the Dibbun circle, and Sister Doral had been persuaded to take up her fiddle again. She played a simple reel, whilst the Abbeybabes gave the osprey and the barnacle goose their first dancing lesson. Squirrelbabe Taggle and molebabe Groop were bossing them about severely.
“No, no, y’kick yore paws uppa like dis, Mista Panjon!”
“Hurr, naow do ee stop a-flappen yurr gurt wingers abowt, zurr, you’m nearly knockered oi snout o’er suppertoime!”
The two birds seemed slightly relieved when Banjon and Brink came to their rescue. “Avast there, mates. Come an’ talk to the maid wot saved yore lives. We’ll teach ye to dance proper tomorrow. Steer clear o’ these liddle rogues.”
There was nobeast around the gatehouse wallsteps, so they took their food and adjourned there.
Tiria started immediately with Brantalis. “Listen, my friend. I know I can’t fly like you, but I must find the way to Green Isle. Are you willing to help?”
The barnacle goose clacked his beak resolutely. “I am thinking that I will help you, Tiria, after all your kindness to me. Here is the way Skyfurrows always take to Green Isle. Every autumn season we are flying down from the far northlands. Always we fly south, aye, fly south and follow the coast, until we are reaching the old mountain, home of the longears and great stripedog lords. Know you of it?”
Skipper Banjon did. “Aye, that’d be Salamandastron, where the fightin’ hares an’ Badger Lords dwell. I’ve heard of it but never been there meself. ’Tis a mighty trek from Redwall to that mountain, I can tell ye!”
Brantalis nodded sagely. “A mighty trek, indeed, for earthcrawlers such as you. But I am thinking, there is a better route. If Brantalis could not fly, he would use the River Moss, north of here. I could speak the way to you, whilst you mark it down. The creatures of the Red Walls are good at marking ways down I am thinking.”
Tiria thumped the wallsteps with her rudder. “Of course, a map! It would make things a lot simpler if I had a map to guide me!”
Brink raised his spiky eyebrows. “Oh, lots easier, missy, but ye forgot to mention that ye’ll need a boat to make yore journey in. No otter could swim o’er the Great Western Sea alone. ’Tis impossible!”
Banjon merely winked at his Cellarhog friend. “Don’t ye fret, matey. If’n my Tiria needs a boat, ye can wager she’ll soon git one, won’t ye, gel?”
Tiria shrugged, as though the matter were no great concern. “Aye, I’ll get a boat, one way or another. Now, after supper we’ll ask Sister Snowdrop to draw up the map, exactly the way in which Brantalis describes it to her. Good, that’s that settled! So, Pandion my friend, tell me about your home. What’s it like on Green Isle?”
The osprey regarded her with his savage golden eyes. “Kaharr! If I knew the way to my home, I would fly there this day. Green Isle is a place of great beauty, with soft morning mists, mountains, loughs and rivers full of fine fish. Kraak! But it is also an island of much evil and danger. Cats rule there—big, cruel, warlike beasts. One called Riggu Felis is their warlord. He it was whom I wounded badly, when he and his two sons tried to kill me for sport. There are also seadogs there, and riverdogs, just like you, Tiria. But, alas, they live under the cat’s paw, they are slaves, and runaways, outlaws. There is a big timber fortress at the head of a lake. The cats have ruled there since back into the mists of time. You will not be welcome on Green Isle. It belongs now to Riggu Felis and his warriors!”
Tribsy gave forth a deep mole growl. “Hurrrrr! Us’n’s not a-feared o’ ee catters. We’m bee’s gurt Redwall wurriers!”
Brinty clenched his paws truculently. “Aye, and we’re great fighters, too. Those water rats soon found that out when we whacked them with our staves!”
Tiria shook her head. “I’m sorry, mates, but you won’t be going. I couldn’t risk your lives. Since the dream was mine, I feel I must fulfill it alone.”
Skipper placed his paws around the crestfallen pair. “She’s right, buckoes. Ye’ve always been good friends t’my Tiria, young Girry, too, an’ I thank ye kindly. But ’twould be too perilous to risk yore lives, far from yore Abbey in a strange land. Besides, there was no mention or sign in Tiria’s dream commandin’ anybeast to go but her.”
Brink suddenly came up with a practical idea. “Why don’t ye take the big fish ’awk with ye, miss? Granted, ’e don’t know the way, but I wager Pandion would be of service to ye wh
en ye get to the isle, eh?”
Brantalis favoured Brink’s scheme. “I am thinking this is a good idea, yes! I cannot go until when the autumn leaves fall, when my skein comes down the coast from the north. I will know when the time is. Then I will be flying to the shores to meet them. Skyfurrows always fly together. So I am thinking, it will be many moons before I join my family. The hookbeak should go with you, Tiria!”
Pandion Piketalon hopped up onto the battlements. Spreading his wings, he stared regally down his lethal beak at Brantalis. “Karralah! I go to Green Isle with my friend Tiria. Let that waddling flatbeak linger here until he ventures forth to meet with his kind. Pandions do not fear flying alone. I need no gaggle around me!”
The barnacle goose flared up, beating his heavy wings aggressively. “Brantalis is thinking he was not named flatbeak. Beware, fish eater! A Skyfurrow’s wings can break bones!”
Tiria was forced to come between the big birds. “Don’t start again, you two! There’s no cause for all this disagreement and wing flapping. Either make your peace or begone from here. It is against our laws to battle within the walls of this Abbey!”
An instant later, the touchy situation was forgotten. Girry came hurtling across the lawn, leaping over flower beds and shouting frantically. “Quick, quick! Come to the attic above the library. Sister Snowdrop’s found something which you must see!”
10
Daybreak drifted sluggishly over Green Isle, dull and grey. Thick mist shrouded the lake and shores in a pall of silence, but the peace was rudely shattered by agonised shrieks from the pier.
“Hiiiyeeeee! My son, my Jeefra! Eeeeeeyyyaaaaarrrr!” Lady Kaltag howled and screeched like a wounded beast. Catguards crowded in front of her, barring the way to the sodden form which lay huddled and lifeless on the pier end. She fought tooth and claw to get past them, wailing dementedly.
Scorecat Groodl was in charge of the guards. He tried to slink away as he caught sight of Riggu Felis emerging from the fortress. The warlord was a nightmarish sight, his hideously injured face exposed as he carried his helmet and face mask in one paw. He stopped Groodl in his tracks.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Trembling, the scorecat tried to avoid looking at the wildcat’s maimed features. “Lord, we had to search for your son. Atunra told us to drag the lakeshore waters with ropes and hooks.”
Swinging his helmet, Riggu Felis caught Groodl a lightning swift blow, which knocked him flat. He snarled savagely at his catguards. “Get him away from here, fools, quickly! Bury him out of sight, far along the bank. Go!”
Pitru lounged casually in the fortress doorway, his face betraying nothing. Riggu confronted him. “You know more about this than you are telling!”
Pitru shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. Our boat was upturned out on the lake last night. Otters did it, probably that Shellhound one who broke Scaut’s jaw. I never saw Jeefra after we both went into the water. I searched for him and shouted for help, but none came. I had to make my own way back to the shore. That’s all I know.”
Kaltag was following Groodl and the catguards who were bearing Jeefra’s body away. Seeing her remaining son, she turned and ran to him. Seizing Pitru’s paw, she sobbed brokenly, “What happened to your brother? Tell me, my son, tell me!”
Wrenching his paw free, Pitru pointed accusingly at his father. “Ask him, he was the one who forced us to join the catguards. Jeefra would still be alive if he hadn’t!”
Kaltag flung herself at the warlord, scratching and biting. He held her off, shouting in a harsh voice, “Do you not think I grieve for the death of my son? It was you, always shielding and making excuses for them both, indulging their whims. You were responsible for turning them into spoilt cats. I have to rule as Lord of Green Isle, with no time to be a nursemaid, yet I decided to do something for them. I sent them to serve as catguards so they could grow up with some sense of responsibility. The death of Jeefra is a hard thing for me to bear, but he died like a warrior, honourably in battle!”
Riggu signalled to Atunra and two guards standing nearby. They managed to get Kaltag away from him. She was led indoors, yelling at him, “Murderer! Assassin! You killed your own son! What next, Riggu Felis, Great Lord of Green Isle? Will you slay both me and your other son so you can rule alone?”
Pitru shed his guard’s attire and gave his father a satisfied smirk before following his mother indoors.
Weilmark Scaut, still with his jaw in bandages, marched up and saluted the wildcat with the stock of his whip. “Lord, there was little damage done by the fire, we contained it before it could get a hold. The fortress walls are old and thick, so they hardly suffered, apart from a bit o’ scorched bark.”
If he expected any thanks for the information, Scaut was sadly disillusioned. The warlord vented his spleen on the unwitting weilmark. “So, you think that makes everything alright, do you? One of my sons is slain, the otters freed the prisoners, they tried to burn down my fortress and they had all my catguards chasing their own tails. They made fools of us!”
The sight of Riggu Felis with rage stamped on his unmasked face was a frightening thing to behold. Scaut backed off, keeping silent lest his Lord’s wrath descend upon him.
Slamming on his helmet, Riggu grabbed his war axe. “You will summon my catguards, every one of them. Have them lined in ranks on the shore by the time this mist breaks. I’ll straighten their backbones!”
The weilmark did not know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or apprehension as the warlord strode off to his tower chamber.
Out on the coast, just above the tideline, were cliffs with thick vegetation hanging down over deeply undercut rock shelving. This had once been the habitat of all the Shellhound sea otters, but Leatho was the last survivor of his clan. The long, low-ceilinged cavern was well disguised, and was on a stretch of the coast seldom visited by any creature.
On that misty morning, every free otter gathered there in force to celebrate the victory over their foes. A huge cauldron of kelp and seafood stew bubbled over a sizeable fire of driftwood, charcoal and sea coal. A jubilant air prevailed overall, with little ones playing games of jinkshells and elders gathering round the far side of the fire to gossip and exchange news with friends and relatives. Ould Zillo the Bard sat in a corner, composing a ballad of the night’s heroic events. Otterwives doled out freshly baked pawpad turnovers and bowls of stew.
A jolly, wide-girthed old grandfather named Birl Gully was pouring tankards of his home-brewed invention from a barrel to a waiting line of clanbeasts. His vast stomach wobbled with merriment as he passed out the stuff.
“Hohoho! Come on, me bhoyos, drink ’earty now! There ain’t nothin’ like my Gullyplug Punch t’put the curl back in yore whiskers. ’Twill give ye a rudder like a rock an’ backfur like velvet moss!”
Big Kolun Galedeep carried two tankards outside the curtain of vegetation which covered the cave front. Leatho was seated on a rock outside, staring into the thick, rolling mist that lay upon the calm, ebbing tide. Sitting beside the outlaw, Kolun gave him a tankard of Birl Gully’s punch.
“Git that down yore throat, matey. ’Twill warm the cockles of yore ’eart!”
Leatho sipped pensively, still silently watching the sea mists. Big Kolun was not renowned as a sipper. Emptying his tankard in two swallows, he wiped the back of a hefty paw across his mouth.
“Well now, Shellhound. The clans seem t’be enjoyin’ theirselves in there, while yore mopin’ about out ’ere. Wot ails ye, mate? You can tell me.”
Leatho swilled the punch around in his tankard. “One single victory don’t mean we’ve won the war, Kolun. That wildcat ain’t goin’ to hold still after wot we’ve done. Felis is bound to come back at us hard as he can. I don’t know exactly how the villain’ll do it. So ’tis up to me to try an’ outthink him.”
Kolun threw a paw around his friend’s shoulders. “Aye, well, you do yore outthinkin’ later, buckoe. Yore wanted in there right now. C’mon, stir yore rudder
!”
Rousing cheers greeted the outlaw as he joined the throng. Amid copious back slapping and paw shaking, he was escorted to a seat of honour by the fire. Leatho had issues he wanted to address the otters about, but as he made to rise, Big Kolun’s missus, Deedero, shoved him firmly back down, proclaiming, “Arrah, sit ye down, Shellhound. The bard’s composed a fine lay about ye. Whisht now, the singer’s got the floor!”
Ould Zillo’s rudderdrum began thrumming the beat, whilst a flute and fiddle joined in. The one-eyed bard launched into his newly written ballad.
“Harroo for the Shellhound, ain’t he the bold beast,
he’s the hero we’ve all come to toast at this feast,
for he singed the cat’s tail, and put flame to his fort,
the whiskery tyrant, his threats came to nought!
O pity those slaves who were bound ’neath the pier,
an’ for the three babies we all shed a tear,
all sentenced to death in the dreaded Deeplough,
’twas enough to put any pore otter in shock!
’Til the Shellhound arrived in the dark o’ the night,
an’ to the cats’ fortress his warriors set light,
with freedom their watchword, they championed the
cause,
as they battled with catguards along the lakeshores!
With slingstone an’ spear they attacked the cruel foe,
an’ as for the outcome, well I’m sure that ye know,
they freed the brave captives an’ got clear away,
an’ were back here safe home by the dawn of the day!
Ye wicked ould wildcat this lesson ye’ll learn,
or yore guards will be slain an’ yore fortress’ll burn,
sure ye’ll wail in the ashes an’ stamp the bare ground,
an’ ye’ll rue the sad day that ye met the Shellhound!
Shellhound. . . . Shellhound . . . Shellhooooouuuuund!”
All around the cave, voices and tankards were raised. “Leatho! Leatho! Speech speech speech!”