Triss: A Novel of Redwall Page 4
Drufo took her paw and clasped it fervently. “Yore the model of yore dad, missy. Good luck an’ fortune be with ye!”
5
Far from the Northlands and Riftgard, beyond the great seas, dew glinted off the leaves as a warm spring day dawned over Mossflower Wood. Bikkle was still asleep, curled up beneath the beech trunk, covered by last autumn’s dead leaves. Ruggum, however, was up and about, as the molebabe’s confidence had returned with the advent of daylight and sunshine. He dug up coltsfoot roots and found more whortleberries and young dandelion buds. Trundling back to the fallen tree trunk, he wakened his little squirrel friend by tickling her nose with a stem of hedge mustard plant.
“Yurr, waken ee oop, gurt dozeychops, oi finded brekkist!”
Bikkle rubbed her eyes with grubby paws, sat up and scratched her bushy tail. “H’I’m firsty!”
Ruggum reached up and grabbed a low-hanging wych hazel branch. Shaking it, he drenched Bikkle’s head with dew, chortling, “Hurr hurr, you’m ’ave a gudd drink, moi dearie!”
Bikkle seized another branch and sprinkled him back. They giggled and chuckled, splashing one another with dew and rolling in the dead leaves.
The breakfast was not a roaring success. Bikkle lost no time in telling her friend, “I still hung’y, that not nice brekkist, me like warm pasties an’ strawbee juice. When are us goin’ back to the H’Abbey?”
Ruggum lay on his back, gently kicking the wych hazel twigs and catching the water in his open mouth. “We’m losted. Dunno ee way back to H’Abbey. Oi ’speck they’m come a looken furr us’n’s afore long. Whichaways de ee thinken Red’all bee’s, Bikk?”
The Dibbun squirrel pointed with her tail. “West norf h’east, dat way . . . me fink.”
They set off in the direction she had indicated, neither of the two babes feeling very confident.
But it was a warm bright day, almost summerlike, and the anxiety they were causing did not occur to their infant minds. Along the way they found other things to eat and a small stream, where they drank their fill and had a good old paddle.
Gurdle Sprink had discarded his heavy apron and climbed the cellar stairs for the third time that morning. Puffing and panting, the Cellarhog made his way out into the orchard, where he sat down on an upturned wheelbarrow, next to Malbun.
“That’s the fourth time I’ve searched those cellars o’ mine. Still not a whisker of those two rogues t’be seen.”
The Healer Recorder beat dust from her faded green habit. “I’ve been scouring the gatehouse since the crack o’ dawn without any luck whatsoever. Where can they be?”
Crikulus, the ancient shrew Gatekeeper, approached. “Move up there, Gurdle, my old paws are weary from rootin’ round the dormitories, an’ me back is broken in ten places from crawlin’ round under beds. What a pair o’ pickles those Dibbuns are. Ho there, Memm Flackery, anythin’ new?” The fat Harenurse dug a few warm almond scones from her apron pocket and munched on them worriedly.
“Nope, ’fraid not, old lad. That rotten Gooch won’t jolly well let me search his kitchens anymore! Huh, cooks are like that, ain’t they? Heard the Abbot tellin’ Skipper to round up his otters for a woodland search, though I can’t think for the bally life o’me how the little scoundrels slipped out, wot?”
Abbot Apodemus stood at the gate, calling advice to Skipper and two stalwart young otters as they set off north up the path. “Find a stream if you can. See if there are any Guosim shrews about, they may have seen our Dibbuns.”
Skipper waved his javelin in the air, acknowledging Apodemus. “Right y’are, Father Abbot, though if’n shrews ’ad found ’em, they’d prob’ly brought ’em back ’ere long since. ’Tis worth a try, though. Don’t fret yoreself, mate. We’ll find Ruggum’n’Bikkle if’n they’re out there. Go in, an’ keep those gates closed now.”
The sunny day clouded slowly. It was late afternoon when the two little runaways decided they were even more lost than they had been. All around them the silent vastness of Mossflower seemed to be closing in. Ruggum was making plans for the oncoming darkness.
“Hurr, Bikk, us’ns b’aint a-getten caught out in ee open when it bee’s dark, burr, nay marm. We’m lukk abowt furr ee cumfy likkle den an’ camp in thurr, all safe an’ cozy loike.”
Bikkle was forced to agree. She pointed off to the sky eastward. “Lookit dem clouds, might rain by dark.”
Even though they were only Dibbuns, the tiny creatures had instinctive feelings about weather conditions. Wandering farther into the woodland, Ruggum held up a pudgy digging claw.
“Oi’m thinken ee bee’s roight, Bikk, breezes starten to move ee treetops. Us’n’s best foind ee gudd cover, hurr, by ’okey aye!”
As often happens with springtide weather, the change was sudden. Low breezes gathered force, scurrying through the random ranked trunks of oak, beech, alder, sycamore, elm and other forest giants. The tree canopy began swaying, creating a forceful rustling of twig, branch and leaf. Paw in paw, the two little ones ran through the gusting woods, afraid of being outside the Abbey walls, which represented safety, peace and home. Late noontide darkened as lowering clouds raced to cloak the previously bright day. After an all-too-brief spit-spot of damp, the rains came sweeping in, thick and heavy, driven by the gale, slanting through the leafy canopy and drenching the loamy ground.
Breathless and fearful, the Dibbuns took temporary refuge against the massive trunk of an ancient spreading oak. Still clutching one another’s paws, they stood with their backs against the rough bark. Ruggum cast an angry glance at the skies, resentful of the trick played on him by the elements. Bikkle, scared out of her wits by the stormy event, began to whimper.
“Me not like alla this, ho no, not one likkle bit!”
Ruggum pulled her around to what appeared to be the lee side of the oak. She gave a sudden squeak. “Yeek!”
The Dibbun mole blew a sigh of frustration. “Worra matta now, marm? B’aint so windy this yurr soide.”
Bikkle turned to face the tree. “Likkle door wiv words on it, see?”
It was a door, let into the broad oak trunk low down.
Ruggum traced the word carved on it with his digging claw. “Oi wonders wot ee wurd do say, Bikk?”
Bikkle shrugged. “I non’t know. Open a door afore uz gets soaked an’ drowned.”
Moss, soil and dead vegetation had built up under the door. Ruggum found a stout stick and levered at it whilst Bikkle shoved hard. The door scrunched against the ground as it gave way, fraction by fraction, opening inward. Groaning rusty hinges popped free and the whole thing heeled crazily. This left a space through which they could both enter.
Some Guosim shrews, who had been on their way to visit Redwall, met up with Skipper and his two otters as they entered the fringes of Mossflower.
Spiky-furred little creatures with coloured headbands and short kilts, they all carried rapiers in their broad belts. Guosim were known by the initials of their kind, Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower, and they were traditional friends and allies of Redwall Abbey. Their Chieftain held the title Log a Log. He was always the toughest and wisest of the shrews.
Skipper saluted them cheerily, hugging the leader affectionately. “Haharr, Log a Log Groo, you ole stream-whomper. Yore just the laddo we’re lookin’ for. I bring ye a message from the Abbot.”
Groo and his twenty shrews listened as Skipper told them of the two lost Dibbuns. They agreed to help with the search, one of them piping up from the back, “We’ll find the liddle snips, an’ old Gooch the Cook’ll reward us with double ’elpings of everything. Yum yum!”
Log a Log Groo cast a severe eye over the speaker. “I’ll reward ye with a pair o’ boxed ears, m’laddo. We don’t need no rewards fer helpin’ friends. That ain’t the Guosim way.”
Skipper chuckled. “No offence, mate, I know wot yore pal meant. We’ll all get double ’elpings if’n we find the Dibbuns. Come on.”
They struck off into the woods and soon picked up a trail.
“Oi wonder wot thiz yurr place be called?”
Bikkle stared at the lettering, blinked and yawned. Sleep was beginning to overcome her. The word on the door was written thus: “Brockhall.”
She pretended that she could read and translated. “I can read words better’n you, Rugg. It say, hide in ’ere from d’rain.”
“Burr, you’m makin’ et oop!”
“No I not!”
“Yuss you bee’s!”
Bikkle was tired and not prepared to continue the argument, so she changed the subject. “Wonder wot down dose steps?”
The molebabe ventured to the top step and peered downward into the gloom. “Sumthin’ shoiny!”
Bikkle scoffed. “You not see’d sumthin’ shiny down d’steps.”
Ruggum was a molebabe born to argue. “Ho, yuss oi did!”
Bikkle sat down. Leaning against the wall, she closed her eyes, not wanting to get into another debate with her stubborn friend. “Well, if it bee’s nice’n’shiny, you go an’ gerrit f’me.”
Ruggum needed no second bidding, he was overcome with curiosity. “Roight, then, oi’ll goo an’ gerrit to show ee oi speaked true!”
Nerving himself up, he descended the steps, hugging the side wall closely.
Bikkle dozed off amid visions of Cavern Hole and a wonderful meal of hot plum pudding with creamy almond sauce, and a beaker of strawberry cordial. She was very partial to anything with the flavour of strawberries. But she was instantly brought back to reality by the sound of a gruff mole shriek, as Ruggum came out of the gloom like a dark-furred cannonball, a shiny golden object gripped in one paw. He grabbed Bikkle with his free paw and pulled her along, out into the rain and wind.
“Whooooaaarrr! Coom on! Quick loike!”
Bikkle dug her footpaws in, reluctant to be out in the weather. However, the look of shock and dumb terror on Ruggum’s face and the fearful glance he shot over his shoulder at the dark hole behind them soon decided her. Wordlessly she ran headlong beside him, out into the darkness of the storm-torn woodlands.
Brambles snagged their smocks, sodden shrubbery made them stumble, rain beat in their faces. Both Dibbuns fled as though a pack of foxes were after them.
“Over here, I see ’em, there they go!”
The strange gruff-sounding voice sent them scurrying even faster, hearts pounding fearfully, sobbing for breath. Suddenly they were seized in a grip of iron. Their tiny footpaws left the ground as they were whirled high into the air.
“Haharr, gotcher, me liddle beauties!”
6
Skipper of otters held the two limp figures close to him. Log a Log Groo took a swift look at them, shaking his head reprovingly at the otter Chieftain.
“Wot were ye thinkin’ of, y’great riverdog? You gone an’ scared the liddle ’uns right out their senses. Pouncin’ on ’em like that, shame on ye!”
Skipper’s face was such a picture of dismay that Log a Log was forced to smile. He clapped his friend’s back. “No real harm done, Skip. They’re safe enough now. Let’s get ’em back to Redwall. Memm Flackery an’ ole Malbun’ll soon ’ave the rascals as right as rain!”
Skipper covered the unconscious pair with his cloak. “Ain’t nothin’ right about rain, matey. Don’t tell Memm or Malbun this, or they’ll ’ave me rudder for rugstrings!”
Gurdle Sprink and old Crikulus were keeping watch on the northeast wall battlements. Peering out into the rain-swept night, they held their lanterns high.
The Cellarhog was first to hear Skipper’s powerful shout. “Ahoy the Abbey, anybeast ’ome? We’re comin’ in!”
Crikulus swung his lantern to and fro as Gurdle yelled, “Come in by the northeast wicker gate, Skip me ole mate!”
Hurrying down the wallstairs, the Gatekeeper and the Cellarhog withdrew the bolts on a small gate in the centre of the rampart wall. He held up his lantern.
“Over ’ere, Skip! Hah, I see you got some Guosim with ye. Welcome, friends, get in ’ere outta the weather. Well well, ye found the Dibbuns. Good trackin’, pals!”
Blankets were laid near the hearth in front of the fire at Cavern Hole. Abbot Apodemus watched anxiously as Malbun Grimp tended to the little ones’ bruises and scratches. Skipper warmed his paws by the blaze.
“Groo spotted ’em east an’ a touch north in the woodlands. I’m surprised two babes could’ve gotten that far alone.”
Memm Flackery held a small camphor vial under the Dibbuns’ noses. Screwing their faces, they coughed and whined as they began to come around. The Harenurse spoke without looking up. “Huh, I’m never surprised at anythin’ flippin’ Dibbuns can get up to, wot. Especially these two fiends, wot wot? I say, Groo old lad, what’s that thing you’ve got there?”
Log a Log Groo passed the shining object over to the Abbot. “It fell from the molebabe’s paw when Skipper grabb . . . er, picked ’im up. ’Tis ’eavy enough, I tell ye.”
Apodemus inspected the object, holding it near to the firelight. It was bright yellow metal, a thick oblong band, smooth to the touch. On either curve of the oblong a jet black stone twinkled. Sculpted at the centre of the band was a curious inset design.
The good Father Abbot passed the stone on to Crikulus. “I can’t make head nor tail of it. You take a look, old one.”
Nodding his head, the ancient shrew Gatekeeper spoke. “Hmm, ’tis a pawring, meant to fit over the broadest part of somebeast’s paw. Very nicely crafted too, from the finest gold. You see these two black stones? They are true jet, rare precious gems. But as for the markings on it, I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea what they mean.”
Ruggum and Bikkle were sufficiently recovered to sit up. They looked at their elders sheepishly. “Hurr, zurrs, we’m gotten losted.”
Bikkle nodded vigorous agreement, then decided to blame Memm and Skipper. She pointed an accusing paw at them. “Youse locked d’gate on us, we was shutted out. Us knock an’ knock, but nobeast ’ear us. So we go for a walk inna woodses.”
The Harenurse muttered under her breath. “Locked ’em out? Fibbin’ little wretches, wot wot!”
Foremole Urrm, the traditional leader of all Redwall moles, came trundling in. Urrm had brought supper for the runaways. “Yurr, oi saved ee summ workleberry pudden an’ a beaker of strawbee corjul apiece. Tho’ you’m b’aint deservin’ of et. You’m a roight pair o’ scallywaggers, hurr aye!”
The Dibbuns hugged Foremole Urrm, then set about eating like ravenous beasts.
Apodemus whispered to the Foremole. “Baby Bikkle is a dreadful liar, we won’t get the truth out of her. See if you can coax Ruggum to tell you what happened.”
Urrm wrinkled his jolly face as he winked both eyes at the Abbot. “You’m leave et to oi, zurr. Oi’ll foind out ee trooth!”
Dibbuns liked and trusted the Foremole, and Urrm soon had the molebabe telling all. Licking pudding from his wooden spoon, Ruggum related his story:
“Yurr now, let oi think. Ho yuss, we’m was losted in ee furrest, summwhurrs east norf south. Et wurr a comen on to rain, us’n’s run round an’ round looken furr shelter. Ee skoi went all darkened an’ wind blowed an’ rain falled. Et wurr turrible, zurr, jus’ turrible! H’all of ee sudding we foinded a gurt h’oak tree, burr ay, wi’ a likkle door in et. So uzz opinged ee dor an’ getted in owt ee rainwet.”
As if not wanting to explain further, the molebabe went silent and began licking his pudding bowl out. Foremole Urrm took the bowl from him and shoved the pawring under Ruggum’s nose.
“Tell ee zurr H’Abbot ’ow ee gotted this yurr h’object.”
Ruggum babbled out a veritable deluge of words. “Oi falled down ee gurt ’ole wi’ stairs on et an’ grabbed ee h’ob
jeck. Thurr wurr ee gurt monister surrpint an’ ee snowy whoite giant, oi runned away vurry farst afore they eated oi!” Ruggum threw himself facedown on the blanket, wrapping it round his head, an indication that he would speak no more to anybeast.
Foremole Urrm took Bikkle upon his lap. “Yurr, ee’m a silly ole feller, bain’t ee. You’m a gudd choild, tell oi abowt ee likkle door in ee h’oak tree.”
Bikkle dipped her paw in the strawberrry cordial and did a scrawl upon the floor near the hearth. “Me fink dat was writted onna door.”
The squirrelbabe’s markings were hard to decipher. B o k a l. The gaps in between the letters were filled in with Bikkle’s fanciful swirls. Urrm studied it, scratching his chin.
“Lukks loike ee wurm wriggle to oi.”
Malbun, however, grew quite excited. She turned to Crikulus. “Can you see what it looks like?”
The ancient shrew peered at it and shrugged. “I’m afraid not. Should I know?”
Without replying, Malbun took a charred twig from the hearth and wrote underneath Bikkle’s attempt the word Brockhall.
She compared the word to the letters the Dibbun had made.
“See, there’s the B, an o, a k, an a and one of the l’s. It’s Brockhall, sure as the fur on your face, they’ve found Brockhall!”
Memm Flackery busied herself wrapping both Dibbuns in their blankets, ready to be carried up to the dormitories. “What’n the name of my aunt’s pinafore is Brockhall, wot?”
Malbun explained patiently. “Brockhall was once the home of badgers, but it was used by Redwallers before the Abbey was ever built. It was so long ago that the exact location of the place has been lost. Crikulus and I read of it in some old gatehouse records. We’ve been researching it, trying to find out more about Brockhall. It’s a vitally important part of our Abbey’s early history. Now the Dibbuns have stumbled upon it purely by accident. Who knows what we might find inside that ancient place?”