The Legend of Luke Read online

  Sure enough, there were several creatures moving about on the dam, shrouded by the enclosing gloom. Dinny groaned.

  ‘Hurr, us’n’s be en real trouble naow!’

  A hearty voice, quite unlike the Flitchaye, rang out from the dam as shadowy shapes dashed back and forth.

  ‘Whupperyhoooo, cullies, I see Flitchayes. Whupperyhooooo!’

  Gonff began jumping up and down with joy. Cupping both paws around his mouth he yelled to the creatures on the dam.

  ‘Garraway Bullow, ye ole dogswamper, ’tis me, the Mousethief!’

  A figure hurled itself from the damtop, cut the water neatly and came swimming at them with the speed of an attacking pike. Chugger nearly fell from his perch with surprise as a large powerful otter bounded on to the willow as if she had been propelled from the water on a giant spring. Gonff threw himself upon the otter and wrestled her the length of the trunk, both of them laughing and shouting.

  ‘Well frazzle a frog, you ole Majesty, good to see yer!’

  ‘Haharr, Gonffo me ole tatercake, you got a belly on ye like a poisoned plant louse! What brings ye to my neck o’ the country, cullie?’

  ‘Yah, we didn’t wanna come, ’cept that there’s more’n twoscore Flitchaye tryin’ to slay an’ eat us, mate!’

  Garraway Bullow tossed Gonff aside like a leaf and stood up. She looked Martin up and down, shaking his paw firmly.

  ‘’Strewth, I wager you’d account for a few vermin before they brought ye down, with a sword like that. No matter, cullie, you leave the filthy Flitchaye to my fighters!’ Placing a paw to her mouth she gave a loud ear-piercing whistle, then called to the otters on the dam.

  ‘Whupperyhoooo! ’Tis Flitchayes all right. Go an’ get ’em afore they run off. Nought like a Flitchaye hide t’make cloaks for our liddle ’uns, an’ winter’s on’y two seasons off!’

  Otters materialised from everywhere, big warlike beasts, tattooed from ear to tail and armed with double-tipped javelins. Whooping and bellowing they took off after the weasels, who turned and fled in terror. The tree nosed gently into the dam as Gonff was making introductions.

  ‘That there’s Dinny Foremole, the pretty hogmaid’s called Trimp, an’ the serious-lookin’ sword carrier, who ain’t nearly so pretty as me, is Martin the Warrior, my matey. Friends, I want ye to meet Garraway Bullow, Queen of all the Nort – the Northern Otter River Tribes!’

  Garraway helped them on to the dam, then she hauled the willow in sideways and lashed it to the timber and mud structure, remarking, ‘No sense in wastin’ good wood – ’twill strengthen our dam. Come on, Gonffo, an’ bring yore mateys too. Seein’ as you ain’t been ate by Flitchayes, you must be ’ungry, right?’

  Gonff laughed impudently at the Otterqueen. ‘D’ye ever recall a day when I wasn’t hungry? I could eat a boiled otter right now, but I ain’t got the time to cook ye, burly Bullow, so lead us t’the vittles!’

  ‘Hoi, worra you fink, I’m a likkle flower growin’ on dis tree? Worrabout Chugger?’

  Trimp rescued the tiny squirrel from the branches, where he had been taking a short nap. He waved at Garraway Bullow.

  ‘’Lo, my name be Chugger, I ’ungry too!’

  The Otterqueen swung him up on to her brawny shoulder. ‘Haharrharr, you ain’t back’ard in comin’ forward, are ye, master Chugg? Well, I reckon you don’t eat much, so we’ll find a smidgen o’ vittles for ye. Though I don’t know rightly where yore from, or if’n our vittles’d suit ye, matey. How’d you get caught by the Flitchaye?’

  The little fellow shrugged. ‘I live inna woods wiv granny. One day she go ’sleep. Chugger shake’n’shake granny, but she not wake up. So I on me own, ’til Fish eyes catcher me. But Martin, Trimp’n’Gonffo be’s Chugger’s friends now. You be my friend too?’

  Garraway Bullow wiped something from her eye with the back of a paw. ‘I’d like t’meet the beast who says I ain’t yore friend, Chugger mate!’

  * * *

  5

  THE OTTER DEN, or holt, consisted of a spacious cavern, dug into the bank, directly under where a massive ancient beech tree grew. Thick gnarled beech roots, criss-crossing in all directions, formed a ceiling, wallbeams, and in places long stout seats. It was lit by a great fire in a stonebuilt hearth and mantel, with ovens on both sides and cauldrons suspended over the flames by iron trivets. Otters were everywhere, though mainly babes and oldbeasts, since the mature males and females were out chasing Flitchayes. One wrinkled old male twitched his nose at Garraway, putting aside a wooden spoon he was carving.

  ‘Why didn’t ye tell me there was Flitchayes abroad? I’d ’ave gotten me javelins an’ gone out with the crew. Young snipfur, y’are, never tell me nothin’!’

  The Otterqueen inspected his work approvingly. ‘That’s a fine spoon, Daddo. You put paid to more vermin than anybeast in yore young seasons. Better f’you to take things easy an’ whittle nice spoons. We need more spoons.’

  The oldster sighed and resumed his carving. ‘Yore tellin’ me, daughter. ’Tis those Kitts. They think spoons is boats, go out a-sailin’ ’em an’ lose ’em, they do.’

  The little otters, known as Kitts, were anxiously watching an old otterwife putting out spoons on the table for supper. She waggled a paw at them.

  ‘I’ll be countin’ these spoons after, an’ woe betide you Kitts if’n there’s a single one gone astray!’

  Gonff sniffed at one of the cauldrons appreciatively. ‘Mmm, Bubblin’ Bobbs if I ain’t mistaken!’

  Trimp allowed the delicious aroma to wreath her face. ‘Smells marvellous, Gonff. What are Bubblin’ Bobbs?’

  The Mousethief managed to hook a sip on his knife edge before dodging a swipe from the big fat cook. ‘Well, first you put on a soup of chopped leeks, parsley an’ shredded white turnips, with loads o’ secret otter herbs in. Then you get a paste made from cornflour, rolled oats an’ carrot juice, roll it into dumplin’s an’ press a good fat watershrimp into the middle of each one. Fry ’em crispy in corn oil, then chuck ’em in the soup. At first they sink, but when the soup starts a-bubblin’, the dumplin’s bob to the top. That’s why otters call it Bubblin’ Bobbs. Come on, let’s find a seat, Trimp. Supper looks about ready!’

  Before the meal started, Daddo laid aside his carving and plucked a few chords with his tail on a flat round instrument, which made a banjo-like sound. He called to Garraway.

  ‘C’mon, daughter, give us yore song afore the rest gits back.’

  Queen Garraway fluttered her eyelashes demurely and launched into a ballad with a voice that shook the very rafters.

  ‘I’m bound to sing this song,

  Though I shouldn’t really ought,

  I’m Queen of all these otters yet,

  They call me Queen of Nort?

  Yes Queen of Nort!

  My goodness who’d have thought,

  One day I’d be a Majesty,

  Or something of that sort,

  But all the otters that I see,

  Must bow and wave their tails to me,

  Whilst I just nod back graciously,

  I’m Queen of Nort!

  Good Queen of Nort,

  My northern otter tribe,

  Live all along the riverbanks,

  And beat their foes with tails like planks,

  I rule them wisely and give thanks,

  I’m Queen of Nort!

  There’s nought I’d rather be,

  I say to myself constantly,

  Your Majesty is really me,

  And don’t I look like royalty,

  I’m Quee-ee-ee-ee-heeeeen of Nort!

  N . . . O . . . R . . . T, may I rule long and graciously!’

  Queen Garraway Bullow bowed modestly as the listeners applauded, clipping the ear of a Kitt who was stuffing a spoon in his apron pocket and rapping the paw of another who was making rude gestures at her elders. Suddenly the pre-supper calm was disrupted, as bounding and hooting the fighting otters returned, hungry as hunters and flushed with victory. Trimp foun
d herself sandwiched between two husky females, who jostled and joked.

  ‘Ahoy there, mate, budge over a bit, will ye!’

  ‘Yah, go an’ budge yoreself, barrelbeam!’

  Eventually, after much shoving and hustling, everybeast was seated, and a big rough-looking one-eared male bellowed, ‘Whupperyhoo! Wheel in the vittles hard’n’fast there!’

  Queen Garraway threw him a frosty glance. ‘Not afore you’ve made yore report, Cap’n Barrool!’

  Barrool flicked his powerful tail and winked at her. ‘Oh, that! Well, there ain’t no more babe-eatin’ wicked Flitchayes plunderin’ the land no more, we slew ’em all!’

  Daddo eyed him doubtfully. ‘How d’y’know they’re all slain?’

  One of the big females called out, ‘’Cos we asked ’em real nice, an’ any who said they wasn’t got fixed up good’n’quick!’

  This brought roars of laughter from the fighters. Trimp shook her head sadly, remarking to the female next to her, ‘How can you joke about killing other creatures?’

  The otter’s face became severe as she replied, ‘If you’d seen wot Flitchayes have done to old ’uns an’ Kitts when they raided here in bygone seasons, you’d unnerstand, missie. Besides, the crew’s only jestin’ ’cos they all came back alive an’ un’urt. This time we were lucky. Those scum didn’t ’ave time to sneak up on us with their smoulderin’ herbs an’ knock us out, so they ’ad t’fight paw to paw, see.’

  The Bubbling Bobbs soup was delicious, as was the riverbank salad, arrowroot scones with honey, hotroot celery cream dip and dandelion cordial. Martin sat next to the Queen, explaining where the four were travelling to. Garraway was very helpful.

  ‘Northern shores, eh? You’d be best to go by water, Martin.’

  ‘Hmm, maybe so, but you’ve dammed the stream and we’ve lost our willow – it’s reinforcing your dam, remember?’

  Garraway brushed aside his objections cheerfully. ‘We only dammed the stream to make a liddle waterfall an’ a good slide for the Kitts. Another stream cuts in below the falls. We’ll lend you a raft. It’ll be easy, matey. The river runs straight west t’the sea shores, an’ from there you only have t’head north along the coastline, right, Gonff?’

  The Mousethief slurped the soup from his bowl. ‘Right, marm, an’ thankee kindly for yore ’elp’n’hospitality!’

  Garraway whacked him playfully with her tail. ‘Lissen, Gonff, you don’t get off with it that easy. Come on, out with that flute of yours an’ give us a jig. Er, “Tails in the stream”? Aye, that’s wot it was called!’

  Gonff pulled out his flute and returned the whack, grinning. ‘Yore a wicked ole Queen, forcin’ pore travellers t’sing for their supper. Right, here goes. “Tails in the stream”!’

  At the first merry trills of the flute every otter in the holt was up and jigging wildly. Martin, Trimp and Dinny had to climb to a high root perch to avoid the flailing tails and whirling limbs. They sat clapping their paws in time to the furious pace. Chugger was down on the floor with a gang of Kitts, linking tails as they whooped and kicked up footpaws, speeding round in a milling circle. Even the oldsters danced vigorously. Every now and then the floor would reverberate as otters thumped their tails on it in unison as they sang.

  ‘Tails in the stream mates, tails in the stream,

  No time t’sit around the bank an’ dream,

  Is it a pike perch roach or a bream?

  No, t’sit an otter with his tail in the stream!

  Whupperyhoo mates whupperyhoo,

  Clouds are white an’ the sky is blue,

  Rap with y’tail an’ stamp that paw,

  Bow to y’partner an’ around once more!

  Bread’n’honey’n’cakes’n’ cream,

  Supper’s in the oven an’ tails in the stream!’

  Gonff tootled faster and faster, and the dance speeded up until the entire place was a blur of whirling fur and thumping tails, finishing finally in a glorious collapse of giggling, bellowing otters. Gonff danced nimbly around them, waving his flute and chuckling.

  ‘Hahaha, c’mon now, you idle lot, up on y’paws. I’m goin’ to play “Riverdogs ramble round”!’

  Panting and blowing, Queen Garraway extricated herself from the jumble, waving her paws. ‘Mercy, Gonffo, ye picklenosed rogue, you’ll have us danced out of our skins!’

  Gonff helped her to a seat. ‘Right then, ole Majesty, sit an’ rest those ancient paws. Everybeast sit now, but leave a space in the centre. Hi there, Martin, get down here an’ show ’em the Battleblade Dance. C’mon, matey, don’t be shy!’

  Reluctantly Martin clambered down and unsheathed his sword. ‘Gonff, I’m sure nobeast wants to see that old thing!’

  The Mousethief appealed to the otters. ‘Course you do, mates, don’t you?’

  Martin sighed. By the furious applause that followed his friend’s remark, it was obvious they wanted to see him perform. Trimp sat Chugger on her lap, settling down to watch Redwall’s Champion, whilst Gonff and Dinny set the stage. A big red apple was placed on an oaken stump stool, and Dinny sat on the floor, an upturned cooking pot in front of him. When he began tapping it with his digging claws, it gave out a sound like raindrops hitting a thin slate roof. Tock tokkatokka tock tokka tokka!

  The Mousethief sat beside his molefriend. Taking two mushrooms he stood one on Dinny’s head and the other on his own, then he held his paws straight in front of him, a dandelion held firmly in either one. Gonff signalled Martin with a wink. What Trimp witnessed then she could scarce believe, but it convinced the hogmaid that nobeast living could wield a sword like Martin the Warrior.

  Martin began moving slowly at first to Dinny’s beat, whirling his blade in all directions. Underpaw and over-paw, round both shoulders and overhead, the sword moved in a slow flashing pattern, humming and whirring, with fireglow playing along its blade. Everybeast stared in silent fascination at the wonderful display. Martin skiphopped, his keen blade tip missing both footpaws by a fraction, then he gave a piercing yell.

  ‘Redwaaaaaaall!’

  Dinny speeded up his rhythm, with Martin keeping perfect time, eyes half closed in concentration. Redwall’s great sword became a blur of liquid light, travelling so fast that it left patterns upon the air, figures of eight, circles, crescents, even shapes like flowers.

  Tocktokkatokkatocktokkatokkatocktokkatokka . . .

  Faster and faster the mole’s digging claws rapped on the upturned copper pot. Otters held their breath as the perilous blade sang within a whisker of their faces. Trimp nearly bit through her lip at what happened next. Martin gave a wild animal roar, and whirled upon his two friends, the blade striking down on their heads. Once! Twice! Both mushrooms fell apart sliced from cap to base. Like a living thing the sword hummed and flicked round Gonff’s paws, lopping off the dandelion heads so that they curled lazily up in twin arcs, landing neatly ’twixt the cut mushrooms on Gonff and Dinny’s heads. With a leap and a bound, Martin was at the big red apple, his lethal blade appearing to be six swords at once, chopping like lightning at the apple. Never once was the blade edge heard to strike the oaken stump, on which twelve perfect apple slices lay. Sweeping the flat blade to and fro, the Warrior sent the slices spinning into the watchers’ laps. Tossing the sword in the air so that it turned on its own length, Martin took a half-pace backward. With an audible thud the sword came down point first to stand quivering in the floor. Martin clasped both paws on the pommel-stoned hilt and bowed.

  The Nort otters went wild. They cheered and danced around Martin and his two friends, lifting them shoulder high and carrying them round the cave. Chugger was already up with his pals, the Kitts, stuffing apple slices in their mouths as they cast about for dandelions, mushrooms and swordlike sticks to repeat the Warrior’s feat. Queen Garraway Bullow gripped Martin’s paw tight, pumping it up and down fiercely.

  ‘Never seen aught like that on land or water, matey. Hoho! Thought you was goin’ to make two moles out o’ Dinny an’ leave ole Gonffo pawles
s for a moment back there. You’ll have t’show me how t’do it, Martin. Great thunder, matey, wot I wouldn’t give for a sword like that’n o’ yours!’

  When the Warrior could get a word in edgeways, he shook his head ruefully at the crowd of admiring otters.

  ‘Please, ’twas only a fancy exercise in sword control I thought up to relieve the boredom of training. Normally I wouldn’t let anybeast see me do it, but I made the mistake of performing it once at a Redwall feast and Gonff’s been trying to talk me into doing it again ever since.’

  Gonff patted his friend’s back, obviously proud of his skill. ‘Fiddley dee, mate, shows yore a real Warrior. Huh, if’n I could do that I’d be at it ten times a day for sure!’

  Late that night Martin sat alone on the dam. Inside the holt of Queen Garraway it was snug and warm, and he could hear the snores and murmurs of sleep talkers drifting forth into the soft summer darkness. Martin smiled, recalling how Gonff had grabbed the sword and told a disobedient gang of Kitts about a tail-chopping trick he knew, for naughty little otters who would not go to sleep. It worked like a treat – they fled to their beds instantly. The Warrior stared into the night, wondering what sort of a father Luke was. He wrestled with fogged memories, confusing the images of his mother Sayna and his grandmother Windred as they merged together in his mind’s eye. He tossed a stone into the water, watching the moon-rimmed ripples. What sort of place had the far north shores been? Had Luke his father ever kept his word and returned there? It was all too puzzling, so he turned his mind to thoughts of the Abbey. What would Redwall look like, one day when it was finally completed? That turned out to be a puzzle too.

  Next morning Queen Garraway took the travellers beyond her dam. There had once been a broad waterfall further down the stream, but the damming had cut it down to half its original size, allowing the otters to build a steep mudslide. Squeaking Kitts, covered from ears to tails in wet brown clay, shot down it like stones from a sling, splashing into the pool below and emerging clean of mud. The friends laughed uproariously at their antics. Trimp pointed out one, zooming down backwards.