Triss: A Novel of Redwall Read online

  The Abbot opened his eyes and winked at his companion. “Protest noted. Now go and look, will you?”

  Turning her back, Malbun leaned against the battlement. “Don’t have to look, I can hear ’em. . . . Listen!”

  Carrying over the still air, voices could be heard raised in song, young and old alike.

  “All in the days of spring,

  When flowers do bloom about,

  We merrily go and sing ho ho,

  Whortleberries come out.

  Whortleberry, blaeberry, bilberry, too,

  They taste so good to me, my friend,

  As they must do to you,

  And yet I say to you now,

  Oh what is in a name,

  For whortle bil or blae sir,

  The berry’s all the same.

  We range the forest far, for,

  There’s nobeast will deny,

  Nought is half so good, ho ho,

  As a whortleberry pie.

  Bil whortle blae, blae whortle bil,

  All around the woodlands,

  Field or valley or hill,

  Get ready good old cook, marm,

  Stoke up your oven’s fire,

  A whortleberry pie this eve,

  Is my dear heart’s desire!”

  Apodemus rose and stretched lazily. “We’d best go down and open the gate if we want any pie for supper. C’mon, I’ll race you!”

  Malbun Grimp’s huge middle shook with laughter. “Are you talking to me or that snail just by your footpaw? Race me indeed, we’ll soon need a hoist to get us up and down the wallstairs!”

  The Abbot gazed ruefully at his considerable stomach. “Oh, for the days when we were Dibbuns.”

  The two old friends linked paws and shuffled off down the broad, red sandstone wallsteps, chunnering away to one another.

  “I’ll wager that snail would’ve beaten you easily.”

  “Aye, you’re right, Mal, we’re built for comfort, not speed.”

  “Right, and we’ve got the dignity of our positions to consider. Wouldn’t look right, a Father Abbot and a Healer Recorder, charging about like two frantic frogs.”

  Wandering between vegetable patches and around through the orchard, they came out onto the front lawns. Late daffodils, blue milkwort, buttercup and pink speedwell bordered the soft green grass. Behind them, as they made their way down the gravelled path to the main gate, Redwall Abbey reared high in dusty rose-hued splendour. Arches, buttresses, bell tower, carved gables and long stained-glass windows sat square in the centre of Abbey grounds and stout outer walls. Apodemus stopped a moment, turning to cast a fond eye over the ancient structure, then gripped his friend’s paw a little firmer and sighed. “I love our Abbey, Mal. Sometimes I get up early just to look at it in dawn’s light. There’s no place like it, is there?”

  Malbun patted his paw fondly. “No place at all, Ap. We’re lucky to be living here, very lucky!”

  Between them the two mice lifted the wooden gatelock bar amid ribald calls outside from the Redwallers.

  “Open up or we’ll scoff all these berries!”

  “Quick, afore we starve t’death!”

  “Hurr you’m never starven t’death with ee gurt stummick loike that on ee, zurr!”

  “Huh, take a look at y’self, ole fatty chops!”

  The huge oaken doors swung open. Apodemus and Malbun jumped smartly aside as the Abbey creatures poured in: squirrels, mice, moles, hedgehogs, some shrews, three otters, even a large old female hare. All of them carried some form of basket, pail or trug, laden with ripe whortleberries. Abbeybabes, or Dibbuns as they were called, had their paws and faces liberally stained with the purplish blue juice. The Abbot shook his head in mock severity at a molechild who was stained from top to tail.

  “Dearie me, master Ruggum. You look as if you’ve had a busy day.”

  Ruggum explained in curious molespeech. “Oi wurr doin’ gurtly well, zurr. ’Til ee rascal Bikkle pushed oi into ee barsket o’ berries, but oi etted moi way out’n ’em!”

  Bikkle, a tiny squirrel with a huge bushy tail, tried hard to look the picture of innocence as she defended herself. “Farver h’Abbot, Ruggum pulled me tail, so I chased ’im an’e falled into the berries hisself by askident!”

  Apodemus could not hide a smile as he replied. “By askident? Goodness me, that Ruggum’s always having askidents. What d’you say, Memm Flackery?”

  The fat old female hare, who was nurse to all the Dibbuns, pulled off her poke bonnet and fanned her whiskers with it. “Fiends, marauders, all of ’em, wot! Into the tub with the bloomin’ lot of you, that’s what I jolly well say!”

  Yells of dismay arose from the Dibbuns.

  “Waaah! Not more tubs, Memm. Us on’y got baffed last night!”

  “Oi’ll be scrubbed to ee shadow if’n you’m put oi in ee tub again, marm. B’aint that roight, Turfee?”

  Turfee the mousebabe scowled darkly. “They scrubs likkle ones t’death in this h’Abbey.”

  Gurdle Sprink, the hedgehog Cellarkeeper, eyed Turfee sternly. “You mind yore manners, young ’un. A bath’ll do ye the world o’ good, then off t’bed with the lot of ye!”

  A horrified silence fell over the Dibbun contingent, then Ruggum raised a small clenched paw and shouted. “Dab!”

  Immediately the little creatures scattered, all yelling, “Dab! Dab! Dab!”

  Memm Flackery grabbed the two nearest her to stop them escaping. “I say, somebeast close the flippin’ gates, sharpish!”

  Skipper of otters was lithe and brawny. He swiftly closed the gates and dropped the gatelock shut. Catching a hogbabe by her apron strings, he shook his rudderlike tail in puzzlement. “Dab? Wot’s Dab s’pposed t’mean, mate?”

  Crikulus, the ancient shrew Gatekeeper, explained. “It’s those liddle scamps’ latest secret society. Dibbuns Against Bedtime, that’s wot Dab means. They don’t like bein’ sent off t’the dormitories early. Huh, I’ll never join ’em, I loves my bed. I’d stay there all season if’n I could.”

  After a deal of chasing, the Dibbuns were rounded up and herded inside the Abbey. Memm and Friar Gooch, the Abbey squirrel cook, followed them in.

  “Hmm, think I’ll preserve some o’ those berries in honey.”

  Memm tried not to look crestfallen. “Not all of ’em, Friar, you are goin’ t’cook some tonight?”

  Friar Gooch patted her paw. “Don’t fret yoreself, marm, I’ve planned some whortleberry sponge puddens with cream’n’crumble toppin’.”

  The fat Harenurse’s eyes lit up greedily. “Oh my aunt’s whiskers, you’re a bloomin’ toff, Gooch, an absoballylutely first-rate grubslinger, wot wot!”

  Beyond the locked Abbey gates, Ruggum the molebabe and Bikkle the little squirrel sat on the path giggling. They had evaded capture by nipping out a second before Skipper shut the doors.

  “Hurr hurr hurr, ee Skipper a’most chopped moi tail offen in yon doors. Oi bee’s most speedy furr a mole-choild, hurr hurr!”

  Bikkle whirled her bushy tail in delight. “Us won’t get baffed an’ sended to bed early no no more!”

  Ruggum sucked juice from a berry he found on the path. “Burr, Bikk, we’m shore t’get catchered if’n uz be a stoppen owt yurr. Ee Memm bee’s orful farst furr a gurt fatty beast.”

  Bikkle did not hesitate. She grabbed her friend’s paw resolutely. “Cummon, us run ’way an’ live inna woods, Ruggs!”

  Ruggum brightened up at the thought of this capital scheme. “You’m roight, Bikk. They’m b’aint goin’ to keep baffin uz an’ senden uz oop t’bed urrly til we’m old an’ dead and buried!”

  Paw in paw, the two Dibbuns trundled off north up the path, cutting off east into Mossflower woodlands and making plans for the marvellous life that lay ahead of them.

  “We live up inna tree an’ eat h’apples, an’, an’ . . . anyfink!”

  “Boi ’okey uz will, an’ never get ee baff, or even ee likkle wash!”

  “Us jus’ play an’ play, all day an’ all ni
ght long. Heehee!”

  “Burr, they’m big uns be vurry sad us’n’s gonned.”

  “Tchah! Now they ’ave to baff each other an’ all go to beds early. That teach ’em a lessing, heeheehee!”

  Spring eventide threaded crimson gold and lavender rays through the leafy woodland canopy. Day’s last long shadows darkened Redwall’s lawns, shading the grass to a rich emerald carpet. Single notes and trills of nightingales echoed from the Abbey orchard, serenading the coming darkness.

  Gooch and his trusty assistant cook, a young molemaid named Furrel, checked the rows of earthenware basins as they loaded up trolleys in the kitchens. Both were satisfied that the whortleberry puddings were perfect in every respect. Foremole, Redwall’s traditional mole leader, stood by his trolley, button nose aquiver at the delicious aroma from the basins. Furrel chuckled at the look of bliss upon his face.

  “Yurr, h’uncle, oi’ll ’elp ee load yon trolley, afore yore snout be a fallen off in deloight.”

  Foremole patted his niece’s paw fondly. “You’m a gudd an’ koindly mole, Furrel, thankee gurtly moi deary.”

  Redwall had two dining rooms, the Great Hall, which was used for large feasts or special occasions, and Cavern Hole, a smaller, more comfortable chamber. Abbot Apodemus took his seat in Cavern Hole, alongside Gurdle Sprink.

  Rubbing his paws in anticipation, the Cellarhog remarked, “I wager in less’n a score o’days ’twill be light and warm enough to take our evenin’ meals out in the orchard.”

  Apodemus watched Redwallers seating themselves. “Aye, summer will soon be upon us, Gurdle. Oh, look out, here comes trouble, but don’t they look nice and clean!”

  Straight from the bathtubs, a horde of Dibbuns in clean smocks came dashing in to claim their favourite places at table. Memm, Sister Vernal, and Malbun shepherded them in, issuing cautions as they tried to keep order.

  “Don’t run! What’ve you been told about running, eh? Walk nice and slowly now. That includes you, Turfee!”

  “I say, go around the table, you little rip, don’t you dare try to climb over the Father Abbot!”

  “Come here, Toobles; there’s still soap in your ears. Gotcha!”

  The tiny hedgehog squealed outrageously as Malbun cleaned out the soap with her apron corner. “Waaah! I bein’ slayed, ’elp me!”

  Old Crikulus the Gatekeeper covered both ears and closed his eyes tightly, until peace was restored and the Dibbuns seated. Abbot Apodemus rose from his chair to recite a grace.

  “Be thankful for the season,

  And happy for the day,

  Be grateful for the bounty,

  Which comes to us this way.

  Good food from the earth is grown,

  And brought unto our table,

  By honest toil and labour,

  Let’s eat, whilst we are able!”

  The silence was broken by Turfee the mousebabe, banging his spoon upon the table and roaring, “Where are me pudden?”

  Gurdle Sprink glared severely at the rowdy Dibbun for a moment. Then he called out, “Aye, where’s that child’s pudden? Bring it right away!”

  Amid hoots of laughter the puddings were served.

  Halfway through the meal, Skipper of otters was pouring out dandelion cordial for some of the little ones, when he glanced around and scratched his rudder.

  “Where’s liddle Ruggum an’ Bikkle, anybeast seen ’em?”

  Sister Vernal looked at Memm. “I can’t recall bathing them, can you, Memm?”

  “Not really. I say, Malbun old thing, did you scrub those two rascals, wot?”

  Malbun tapped a paw against her chin thoughtfully. “No, marm, but I recall we had two clean smocks left over when we dressed the Dibbuns. I just thought they were extras.”

  The Abbot addressed the other Dibbuns, who were spooning in whortleberry pudding and swigging cordial as if they had survived a seven-season famine.

  “Did any of you see Ruggum or Bikkle this evening?”

  Foremole murmured into the Abbot’s ear, “No use arskin’ they’m h’infants, they’m busy h’eatin’ puddens.”

  Memm Flackery chuckled drily. “Indeed they are, old scout. You’d get more sense out o’ the puddens than those ravenous scoundrels. Just look at ’em eat!”

  Gooch and Furrel went and took a quick look around the kitchens. The two missing Dibbuns were nowhere to be seen.

  Old Crikulus shrugged his narrow shoulders. “They’ve prob’ly pinched a couple of puddens for themselves and gone off to eat ’em without gettin’ bathed first.”

  Apodemus was inclined to agree with him. “That’s right, they’ll turn up sooner or later. I wager they’re snoozing in some quiet corner. If anybeast should find them, I’d be grateful if you’d bring them both up to my room. I intend to have a severe word or two with the master Ruggum and miss Bikkle!”

  Out in Mossflower Woods darkness had descended. Moonshadows and shifting breezes created an eerie pattern through the leafy tree canopy. Somewhere an owl hooted and a nightjar’s churring staccato rent the woodlands. Ruggum and Bikkle huddled together in the shelter of a fallen beech tree. Both were cold, hungry and frightened little creatures.

  “Yurr Bikk, oi’m a thinken et bee’s toime t’go ’ome.”

  Bikkle was of the same mind as her molefriend. “Me wanna go ’ome too, but Memm be shoutin’ at us an’ send us to beds wiv no puddens. Me still wanna go ’ome, though.”

  “Yurr, then us’ns go roight now, and you be knowen ee way, Bikk?”

  “I not know. You said you knowed.”

  “Hoo urr, you’m gurt fibber, oi never said oi knowed ee way.”

  They sat looking at one another, then chorused aloud, “Waaaaaah, we’s lost!”

  3

  Nightdark waves lapped softly upon the western shores, like a black velvet cloak, endlessly unfolding. A full honey-dipped moon shed its light over the scene below, softening the rugged formation of the mountain fortress known as Salamandastron. Four creatures, two badgers and two hares, leaned on a smooth, wide windowledge, about halfway up the mountain. Watching the activity of two young creatures below, they conversed in hushed tones.

  Lord Hightor, the great badger ruler, heaved a sigh of resignation. “Oh well, if he’s got to go, then I suppose ’tis inevitable. Maybe out there Sagaxus will learn a bit of sense. I can’t take much more of that young rip. It’s probably all for the best. If he stays here disobeying me, we’re bound to meet head-on before long. I still have my doubts about it, though!”

  Hightor’s wife, the Lady Merola, stroked his paw soothingly. “It didn’t do you much harm when you ran off for a few seasons as a young badger, you told me so yourself. Two male badgers on the same mountain, ’twould never work, even I can see that. Poor Sagaxus, he’s a born rebel. I can’t help worrying about him, he’s got a lot of hard lessons to learn out there. I do hope he’ll be all right.”

  Colonel Whippscut of the Long Patrol was a hare of the old school. Twirling his waxed moustached whiskers, he puffed out his medal-clad chest and murmured confidently, “All right, m’Lady, h’rumph! Why shouldn’t they be jolly well all right, wot wot? Your son an’ my son leavin’ home for a bloomin’ good adventure or two, do ’em a bit o’ good, I say. Keep the blighters out of our fur for a while. D’you know, it’s flippin’ hard t’tell who’s the worst rascal between ’em, young Sagaxus or that Bescarum o’ mine. Rogues! Rogues ’n’ bounders, the pair of ’em! H’rumph, they won’t come t’much harm, believe me.”

  The Colonel’s wife, Dunfreda, interrupted him sharply. “I should say they won’t come t’much harm, Whippy, ’cos you’ll be out there followin’em. Every pawstep of the way!”

  The Colonel looked slightly deflated. He began blustering, “I say, steady on there, old gel. Me, followin’ those two rips for a couple o’ seasons? What d’you think I am, a bloomin’ stalkin’ duck? H’rumph! Out o’ the question, I’m afraid. I’ve got my command to attend to here, wot wot?”

  That did it. Dunfreda
whipped out a small kerchief and commenced weeping inconsolably. “Whoohoohoo, you heartless hare, waaaaah, my poor little Bescarum an’ Merola’s only son, wanderin’ round the world willy-nilly like two homeless waifs. Whoohoowahaaah!”

  Whippscut raised his eyes in despair, apologising to Lord Hightor, as Lady Merola comforted Dunfreda. “Beg pardon, sah, the good lady wife can’t resist a jolly good blubber now’n’again, wot. Here y’are, old gel, take my kerchief. That’n won’t be enough t’stop the tide comin’ in, wot!”

  Lord Hightor placed a paw about his friend’s shoulders. “Dunfreda’s right, you’d best follow them. Keep an eye on that pair. It’ll only be for a season or two, but it will put all our minds at rest. I’ll look after the mountain.”

  Colonel Whippscut was flabbergasted. “Wot, wot, wot? Harrrumph! Y-y-you don’t really mean that.”

  “O’ course he means it, you waxy whiskered clot. Go on, follow the two poor dears, right now, this very instant. Go!”

  Hightor peered out of the window at Sagaxus and Bescarum on the beach far below. Both were starting to head north, carrying massive backpacks of food, purloined from Salamandastron’s kitchens. The Badger Lord could not resist a chuckle.

  “Look at that lot they’re carrying, ’tis enough to keep a regiment going for a full season. No need to hurry, Whippscut. At the rate they’re travelling, you’ll pick up their trail quite easily after breakfast tomorrow morning. Huh, that’s if they’ve left enough vittles in the kitchens for the cooks to make a meal.”

  Bescarum tried to set the pack more evenly between his shoulderblades, grunting with exertion. “Wait f’me, Sagax old lad. Me blinkin’ paws are sinkin’ in the sand with this confounded heavy pack!”

  Sagaxus, who liked to be called Sagax, was by far the stronger of the pair, though even he was staggering a little as he called back over his shoulder to Bescarum, who preferred the name Scarum.