Mariel Of Redwall Page 4

  ‘Come on! What d’you want, the water or me? Come on. I’ll fight you, you great featherbed!’

  The twirling knot struck the gannet a further three times before it managed to flop off into the air with a half-stunned squawk. The little mousemaid felt the blood thrumming in her veins. She tore up a nearby plant and shook it at the sky.

  ‘That goes for all of you. I’ll kill the next one that comes after me. D’you hear?’

  She found herself shouting at an empty evening sky. The birds had gone in search of less ferocious prey. Inspecting the plant she had pulled from the ground, she noticed that the root was attached to a fat white tuber. Without further hesitation she began munching upon it. The tuber tasted good, something like raw turnip.

  Evening gave way to night as the maid sat at the foot of the dune, bathing the wound on her head with a corner of her burlap smock which she had soaked in water from her new-found well. Dabbing at the cut with one paw and devouring a root held in the other, the mousemaid talked aloud to herself, enjoying the sound of her own voice.

  ‘No name, no memory, no. idea where I am. Ha! I know, I’ll call myself Storm, because it was the storm that brought me here. Yes, Storm, I like that . . .’

  She held the rope up and twirled it. ‘And you are my faithful Gullwhacker. There, we’ve both got new names now. This is good – I’ve got you, the shade from my sandhill, water and food.’

  Storm settled down in the sand as the warm summer night closed in on her. ‘Wish I knew who I really was, though . . .’ Her voice sounded small and lonely amid the scrub and desolation.

  A pale golden moon peeped over the dunes at the little mousemaid sleeping by the foot of the hill, clutching a piece of knotted rope, for all the world like some infant in slumber nursing a favourite toy.

  6

  THE FAMOUS KITCHENS of Redwall Abbey were abustle with activity that night. Friar Alder, the thin, lanky mouse in charge of it all, added wild plumjuice to an enormous hazelnut crumble he had just pulled from the oven. Alder blew on a scorched paw, complaining loudly.

  ‘Not enough time. That’s all I’ve been given, just not enough time. Who do they think I am, a magician? Less than three days hence and I’ve got to supervise a full-blown Abbot’s Midsummer Jubilee. Berry tarts, cream puddings, twelve different kinds of breads, cheeses and salads, not to mention a surprise cake . . .’

  Bagg and Runn, the otter twins, followed Alder, waving their paws and repeating his every word in comic imitation.

  ‘Breads, cheeses and salads, not to mention a surprise cake. . . . Owch!’

  Friar Alder had turned quickly and dotted them both between the ears with a wooden spoon. ‘I told you not to mention a surprise cake. Now off you pop, the pair of you. Go and help Dandin and Saxtus.’

  Dandin and Saxtus were being taught the art of woodland summercream pudding-making by a charming little red squirrelmaid named Treerose, though they were paying far more attention to the pretty cook than to the recipe.

  ‘Now, to make woodland summercream pudding we need a deep earthenware bowl. Pass me that one, please.’

  Dandin and Saxtus fought each other to grab the bowl and give it to Treerose. Calmly she took it from them with a disarming smile.

  ‘Great sillies, you nearly broke it, fighting like that. Right, now pay attention. First a thick coating of redcurrant jelly inside the bowl. Next, roll out your sweet chestnut pastry very thin, like this. . . . Bagg! Runn! Stop eating those blackberries – I need them for the pudding!’

  The twin otters bounded away to torment some other creature, their mouths stained purple from the berries. They caught a young bankvole named Petunia and kissed her cheeks until she was covered in purple otter-lip marks. Petunia’s mother grabbed them and set about them with a soggy dishcloth. Dandin and Saxtus roared laughing, but Treerose merely pursed her mouth primly and reprimanded them.

  ‘There’s nothing funny about those two ruffians. Watch me, or you’ll never learn. Now, make sure the sweet chestnut pastry is well bedded into the redcurrant jelly around the sides of the bowl, then we coat the pastry with an extra-thick layer of yellow primrose cream. Having done that, we take the blackberries and, starting from the bottom of the basin, we place them on the cream, pressing just lightly enough to make them stick to the cream. Tch tch, you great clumsy fellows, not like that. You’ll burst the berries. Wipe your paws and watch me.’

  Blushing furiously, Dandin and Saxtus wiped their paws as the young charmer carried on efficiently.

  ‘Now I’m going to coat these thick almond wafers with some light honeycream, like so. . . . You see how easily they stick to the blackberries when I use them as the next layer. There, that’s that. All that remains now is for me to spoon the applecream into the centre until the basin is full. To finish off, cover the whole thing with a short hazelnut pastry glazed with clear honey to give it a nice shiny crust. Open that bottom oven door, please.’

  ‘Owch! Ooch! Yagh! Woop!’

  ‘Great silly mice! Use oven cloths to protect your paws. Out of the way! I’ll see to it. You two are as much use as moles up a tree.’

  Dandin and Saxtus sucked their scorched paws and stood watching, red with embarrassment as Treerose, the perfect little Miss Efficiency, swung the oven door wide, popped the pudding inside and shut the door with a few deft movements.

  Mother Mellus wandered over, trimming the edges from a strawberry flan. ‘Hello, Treerose. How are the two star pupils doing?’

  ‘Clumsy as ducks on an iced pond, Mother Mellus.’

  Treerose turned and flounced off. The badger ruffled the ears of the crestfallen mice.

  ‘Never mind. Tell you what – if you get me some cider from Gabriel Quill to bake my horse chestnuts in, I’ll let you try one each.’

  The pair dashed off happily to the wine cellars. Mellus chuckled as she helped herself to a pawful of apple, cheese and nut salad that Sister Sage was chopping.

  ‘Poor old Dandin and Saxtus. That young Treerose is enough to turn any novice’s head and set him on his tail. She does it all the time.’

  Sister Sage topped the salad off with crushed mint dressing. ‘Yes, I can remember a young mouse being like that about me when I was a snip of a mousemaid. Brother Hubert, would you believe.’

  Mellus chuckled deeply. ‘What? You mean old dusty drawers Hubert? Surely not!’

  ‘Oh, he was quite a handsome young dog at one time. We studied together under Sister Verity. She was a stern old stickler; “Hubert,” she’d say, “stop staring like a hungry owl at Sage and get on with your work.”’ Sister Sage patted her rotund little waist. ‘That was when I fell out of love with Hubert and into love with food. Ah well, that’s the salad. What’s next? Pears in custard with wild cherries. Mmmm, my favourite!’

  In the wine cellars, Dandin and Saxtus followed Gabe Quill. His nephew Durry carried the lantern for them as Gabe pointed out some of his specialities.

  ‘See that liddle keg yonder – aye, that un. Well, that’s the best wild plum brandy ever fermented in these cellars. They do say it was made by big Brownspike O’Quill, my ancestor. Marvellous stuff it is, one tot of that’d cure a drownin’ fish. That’s why Sister Sage or Simeon are the only beasts who use it – medicinal purposes. That big tun barrel at the back now, that’s dandelion beer. Very good of a cold winter’s night with toasted cheese. This one here, haha, you must try this rascal. Funniest drink I ever did make. It was meant to be buttercup ’n’ honey cordial, but I made it too sweet, so I takes a herb here an’ a plant there an’ chucks ’em in to bitter it a touch. Mercy me! It didn’t go any less sweet, no sir, it started a-fizzin’ an’ bubblin’. Little uns do love it dearly. Here, try some.’

  Dandin, Saxtus and Durry stood wide-eyed as Gabe Quill tapped the barrel and drew three small beakers off. The bright yellow cordial popped, fizzed and gurgled as if it were alive. Drinking it proved almost impossible. Gabe Quill stood by, quaking with mirth as the three young ones tried.

  ‘Whah! Ooh,
it’s gone right up my nose!’

  ‘Heeheehee! It tickles all the way down!’

  ‘Woogolly! It’s like having a tummyful of mad butterflies!’

  Gabe took a jug over to his cider barrels. ‘D’you want a drinkin’ cider or a cookin’ cider?’

  ‘Oh, a cooking one, I s’pose. Whoops, heehee! Er, sorry. It’s for Mother Mellus. She’s baking horse, teehee, chestnuts, whoo! For the Jubilee, phwaw! That stuff could tickle you to death, Mr Quill. Hahaha!’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly got you young uns all of a-wiggle. You’d never make it upstairs carryin’ a jug o’ cider. Siddown now an’ sip some of this cold motherwort tea. That’ll calm you a bit.’

  Above stairs in the kitchens, Friar Alder was at his wits’ end. The Foremole and his team had decided to make the biggest raspberry cream pudding ever seen in Mossflower country. Alder threw his hat down and danced upon it.

  ‘Flour, raspberries, honey and cream everywhere. I can’t stand it!’

  Foremole ignored him, but a fat mole named Buxton waved a reassuring paw at the harrassed Alder. ‘Burr, doant you a-froight yerself, maister. Us’ns knows wot we’re about.’

  A young mole named Danty, white with flour from tail to tip, climbed into one of the huge copper stockpots.

  ‘Hurr aye, doant ’ee fret thoi whiskers, zurr Alder. Yurr, Burgo, tipple some o’ they rabserries in yurr, an’ moind that garleck doant go near ’em.’

  Burgo turned indignantly to Foremole, who blanched at the smell of the wild garlic Burgo always carried. His voice sounded squeaky through the peg he wore at the tip of his snout. ‘Yurr, wot’s Danty rubblin’ on about? Oi doant loik the smell o’ garleck noither. ‘At’s whoi oi allus pegs me nose up toight. Oh lookit, liddle Grubb’s fell in ’ee honey.’

  Foremole fished Baby Grubb out of the panful of warm honey. ‘Gurr you’m toiny racsal, wot do ’ee want ter fallen in honey furr?’

  Grubb waved a sticky carefree paw. ‘Hurr, better fallen in honey than mud, oi allus says. Baint nothen wrong wi’ honey. Bees makes et.’

  Foremole wrinkled his button nose, nodding in agreement. ‘Ho urr, the choild be roight, he’m be growen up wisely clever. Stan’ o’er thurr an’ lick thoiself off, liddle Grubb. Buxton, Drubber, see wot you’m c’n do for zurr Alder – he’m fainted roight away. Doant leave ’im alyin’ thurr in yon rabserry pudden mixture.’

  From the kitchen doors Abbot Bernard stood watching the proceedings, with Simeon chuckling beside him.

  ‘My my, those moles are certainly teaching Friar Alder a thing or two, Bernard. His kitchen will never be the same again.’

  ‘Indeed, Simeon. Excuse me a moment, will you? Brother Ash, would you help those little mice to roll that great cheese they’re trying to move? If it falls on one of them he’ll be flattened. Oh, Treerose, I don’t wish to interfere, but is that a woodland summercream pudding I can smell beginning to burn in the ovens?’

  Treerose had been bustling about, efficiently attending to several things at once. However, she had forgotten the woodland summercream pudding she had put in the oven some time before. Panic-faced, she dashed off to attend to it.

  Simeon nodded in admiration. ‘Your sense of smell is getting better, Bernard.’

  ‘Thank you, Simeon, but I had a double motive. Treerose is very pretty but far too efficient and snippy. It will teach her that even the best of us can make mistakes. Also, I would hate a woodland summercream pudding to be burnt in the ovens, especially hers. To tell the truth – and I wouldn’t tell her – Treerose does make the best woodland summercream I’ve ever tasted.’

  Treerose arrived at the ovens, grabbed up a cloth and swung the door wide.

  ‘My pudding. . . . It’s gone!’

  ‘I smelled the crust edges just begin to scorch so I pulled it out for you.’

  She turned to see Rufe Brush standing by her pudding, which was set on the big flat cooling slate. Rufe was a rough-looking squirrel, not given overmuch to hanging about kitchens or joining the growing band of Treerose’s admirers. He sniffed at the pudding before sauntering off. ‘Looks all right to me.’

  Treerose watched him go. What a fine bushy tail, well-pointed ears and powerful shoulders . . .

  Mother Mellus banged a ladle upon a saucepan. ‘Come on, all you Dibbuns. Bedtime now.’

  Abbot Bernard yawned. ‘I think I’ll join the Dibbuns, Simeon.’

  ‘Me too, Bernard. It’s been a long day and we’re getting no younger, my friend. I’ll just take a stroll first and check that all the outer gates are secured.’ Simeon the blind herbalist placed a paw on his friend’s shoulder.

  ‘Right, I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No you won’t. I can sense your weariness. Besides, what could you see in the dark that I could not feel ten times better? Day and night are alike to me.’

  ‘You are right, of course. Good night, Simeon.’

  ‘Good night, Bernard. Sleep well.’

  The Abbot went off to his room, knowing that shortly the kitchen fires would be damped for the night, the cooks would retire and peace would settle over his beloved Redwall Abbey.

  As Gabool predicted, the ship Greenfang had crossed bows with Darkqueen, the huge black galley commanded by Saltar. Upon hearing of the death of his brother Bludrigg, the corsair Captain put about, piling on sail and oars as he set course for Terramort Isle. The whips cracked below decks as drivers flogged the galley slaves on to greater efforts. The searat atop of the mizzenmast scoured the waves for sight of land; below his claws the wide sails bellied out on the night breeze. Saltar stood in the bows putting a fine edge to his curved sword on an oilstone. Bleak-eyed and grim-faced, the searat muttered beneath his breath.

  ‘I’ll send you down where the fish will eat your flesh and the sea water rot your bones, Gabool the Wild. There was never any love lost between me and Bludrigg, but he was my brother, and blood must be repaid with blood.’

  ‘Terramort rocks sighted off the starb’d bow, Cap’n,’ the lookout called down. ‘We can drop anchor in the cove afore dawn with this wind behind us.’

  Saltar sheathed his sword and began polishing the needletip of his cruel gaff hook, scowling at the dark lump on the horizon which marked the black forbidding rocks of Gabool’s pirate kingdom.

  ‘Ledder, douse all lights. When we’re close enough to harbour, furl in all sail. Tell the crew to arm up and stand ready. There’s killin’ to be done tomorrow.’

  Saltar’s first mate Ledder went aft to carry out his orders.

  With the hook swinging from a neck cord and his sword at his side, Saltar stood leaning on the for’ard rail. He had never lost a fight or left an enemy alive. Gabool the Wild might rule Terramort and Fort Bladegirt, but Saltar had heard, as had every other salty searat, the story of how he was nearly bested by a mousemaid.

  The corsair spat viciously over the side at the curving bow wave. ‘Lord of all Seas, King of Searats! Huh! You’ll find out tomorrow, Gabool. You’ll learn that Saltar the Corsair is no mousemaid!’

  In the banqueting hall of Fort Bladegirt, Gabool stood giving instructions to three fortslaves, dormice who had been captured in a land raid.

  ‘Stand on his shoulders, you. Polish up round the top where the ring is. You, be still, and don’t put yer bare paws on the metal – you’ll have pawmarks all over me bell. Of course, you know what that means, don’t you?’

  Doing his best to stand still and not to touch the bell, the ragged slave called over his shoulder, ‘Yes, Master. Pawmarks all over the bell mean whipmarks all over our backs.’

  Gabool slouched down on his throne. He picked idly at a dish of fruits crystallized in sugared honey and poured a goblet of wine.

  ‘That’s right, three lashes each for every pawmark. If I were you, I’d rip me shirt up and wrap it round me paws – save yerself a lot of whipping.’

  The three slaves hurried to comply with the suggestion, tearing up the pitiful remnants of tattered shirts and bandaging their paws with the strips. />
  A thin grey rat with a patch over one eye came running. ‘Lord, the Darkqueen’s sails have been sighted.’

  ‘Where away?’

  ‘To the north. She should drop anchor here by dawn.’

  Gabool stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Good, are the troops standin’ ready, mate?’

  ‘Aye, Lord. Five score to board the Darkqueen and sail her off once Saltar and his crew step ashore, fifty archers halfway up the cliff and a hundred more fully armed with pikes and spears to form his reception committee, just as you ordered.’

  ‘You’ve done well, Greypatch. Have a cup o’ wine and some of these sweetmeats with me. Dawn will soon be here.’

  Greypatch pulled out a mean-looking dagger and tested its edge. ‘Last dawn Saltar’ll ever see, eh, Lord.’

  ‘Aye, he can go and visit his brother Bludrigg at Hellgates, and you, me old shipmate, you can wear a velvet patch when you’re Captain of the Darkqueen. Hey, you! Polish harder, put your skinny back into it.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’ The unfortunate slave polished harder.

  Gabool laughed. ‘Maybe you’re hungry. D’you like eating fish?’

  ‘Yes, master. I like eating fish.’

  Gabool winked at Greypatch as he called back to the dormouse slave. ‘Well, if you don’t rub harder, the fish’ll like eating you. Hahaha!’

  The thin bodies of the slaves shook and quivered with effort as they rubbed and polished at the great bell with all their might. Gabool’s jokes were not to be taken lightly.

  Gabool and Greypatch took their wine and sweetmeats over to the window, where they could watch the Darkqueen sail in upon the tide.

  Greypatch watched the savage Searat Ruler and reflected as he sipped his wine that Gabool was becoming more difficult to tread around. They had been ship-rats together since their young days, Gabool commanding, Greypatch obeying – that was the way it had always been. However, for some time now Greypatch had been looking more to his own ends. When a Searat King began murdering his Captains on the slightest pretext, times were becoming perilous; now the patch-eyed rat was sure of it. Gabool was drunk with his own power and had become dangerous; anybeast could be slain at his whim. But not Greypatch. Offers of Captaincy and velvet patches did not impress him – it could easily turn into a blade between the ribs if Gabool saw fit. In his fertile brain Greypatch began forming his own plans as he laughed and joked with his unpredictable companion, while all the time the Darkqueen rode the waves to Terramort.