Lord Brocktree
Martin the Warrior
Mossflower
The Legend of Luke
Outcast of Redwall
Mariel of Redwall
The Bellmaker
Salamandastron
Redwall
Mattimeo
The Pearls of Lutra
The Long Patrol
Marlfox
The Taggerung
Triss
Loamhedge
Rakkety Tam
High Rhulain
Click onto the Redwall website and find out more about your favourite characters from the legendary world of Redwall, and their creator, Brian Jacques!
www.redwall.org
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First published by Hutchinson 1991
Red Fox edition published 1992
Red Fox edition reissued 2007
This ebook published 2017
Text copyright © The Redwall Abbey Company Ltd, 1991
Illustrations copyright © Gary Chalk, 1991
The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978–1–448–15705–1
All correspondence to:
RHCP Digital
Penguin Random House Children’s
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL
Old stories told by travellers,
Great songs that bards have sung,
Of Mossflower summers, faded, gone,
When Redwall’s stones were young.
Great Hall fires on winter nights,
The legends, who remembers,
Battles, banquets, comrades, quests,
Recalled midst glowing embers.
Draw close now, little woodlander,
Take this to sleep with you,
My tale of dusty far-off times,
When warrior hearts were true.
Then store it in your memory,
And be the sage who says
To young ones in the years to come:
‘Ah yes, those were the days.’
Abbot Bernard folded his paws deep into the wide sleeves of his garb.
From a viewpoint on the threshold of Redwall Abbey’s west ramparts he watched the hot midsummer day drawing to a glorious close. Late evening light mellowed the red sandstone Abbey walls, turning them to dusty scarlet; across the flatlands, cloud layers striped the horizon in long billows of purple, amber, rose and cerise. Bernard turned to his friend Simeon, the blind herbalist.
‘The sun is sinking, like the tip of a sugar plum dipping into honey. A perfect summer evening, eh, Simeon?’
The two mice stood silent awhile before Simeon turned his sightless face towards the Abbot.
‘Father Abbot, how is it that you see so much yet feel so little? Do you not know there is a mighty storm coming tonight?’
The Abbot shook his head, disbelieving, yet unwilling to deny Simeon’s unerring instinct. ‘A storm? Surely not!’
Simeon chided Abbot Bernard gently. ‘Perhaps you have other things on your mind, my friend. Maybe you have not felt the cooling breezes die away. The air has become still and hot, the birds stopped their evensong much earlier than usual, even the grasshoppers and the buzzing bees have ceased what little noise they make. Listen!’
The Abbot cocked his head on one side, perplexed. ‘I hear nothing.’
Simeon chuckled drily. ‘That is because you are hearing the sound of silence, Bernard. One thing I have learned in my life is to listen to the sounds of Mossflower country. Every sound carries information; so does every silence. This is going to be a mighty storm, one that we have not seen the like of in many a long season.’
Taking Simeon by the paw, Abbot Bernard led his blind companion down the rampart steps and across the lawn towards the main Abbey building.
Simeon sniffed the air. ‘Mmmm! I smell hot apple pie and raspberry cream pudding, and scones, fresh from the oven too, with damson preserve spread on them. We’d best hurry before the moles get here or there’ll be none left.’
The Abbot quickened his pace. ‘How d’you know the moles are coming?’
‘Bernard, Bernard, did you ever know Sister Sage to serve raspberry cream pudding and no moles to arrive?’
‘Right again, Simeon. Your powers of observation leave me in the shade. Oh, I must tell young Dandin to beat the log alarm. It’ll warn anybeast still outdoors to come in.’
Simeon grimaced. ‘Oh dear, do we have to suffer that noise again? Young Dandin is a bit overenthusiastic at beating a hollow log with two clubs.’
Abbot Bernard smiled reflectively. ‘Yes, he does rather put his heart into it, doesn’t he. Still, I wish everyone were as willing in their duties as our Dandin. If ever Redwall Abbey gets a bell, I’ll be the first to vote him as bellringer.’
The two mice made their way between the flower beds which dotted the dark green sward. An ominous grumble of thunder muffled its way over the far horizon to the northwest. Abbot Bernard turned in the doorway of the Abbey, attempting to conjure up his powers of smell.
‘Hmmm, cider poured cold from the cask, eh, Simeon?’
The blind herbalist wrinkled his nose. ‘Wrong, it’s pear cordial.’
The Father Abbot of all Redwall tried not to look amazed. Even though Simeon could not see him, he might sense his Abbot’s expression.
Far, far over the horizon, far to the northwest, far across the oily blue green billows which were rising, lashing their tops into rippling white peaks of foam, far over the abysses and deeps of the heaving seas, far from the peace and calm of Redwall Abbey, stood Gabool the Wild.
Clouds of jet black and slate grey boiled down out of the sky to meet the lashing waves. A blast of hot wind like the gust from hell-furnace doors set Gabool’s scarlet cape fluttering as he stood on the high cliffs of his island, defying the elements. Thunder boomed out, forked lightning ripped through the lowering vault of the sky. Gabool drew his jewel-hilted sword and waved it at the storm as he roared and laughed in exultation. The deadly curved blade with its sharp double edges hummed and sang against the wind.
Gabool the Wild ruled the seas, he was the dread Lord of Terramort Island, King of the Searats, Warlord of all Rodent Corsairs, Captain of Captains. No creature alive was a fiercer fighter than Gabool. From the lowly position of a young scullyrat he had fought his way up to be the biggest, the most savage, the cruellest and the most ruthless. In all the seas and oceans there had never been a rat like Gabool the Wild. Huge gold hoops dangled from his ears, his fangs (which he had lost long ago in hard-fought combat) were replaced by sharp jutting gold canines, each one set with a glinting green emerald. Below his weird yellow blood-flecked eyes, an enormous dark beard sprouted and curled, spilling down to his broad chest, silk ribbons of blue and red woven through it. Whenever Gabool moved, his rings, bracelets, medals and buckles jangled. Gold, turquoise, silver, ivory – plunder from the far places of the high seas. Strange weapons with shimmering twisted blades were thrust into the purple sash about his waist. Dangerous to serve and deadly to trust, he stood laughing in the teeth of the gale, satisfied that the creature who had dared go against him was now fish bait on the sea bed. Thunder crashed overhead as the skies released a deluge of whipping, lashing rain. Lightning crackled around the rocky tor, illuminating the barbaric figure as if even the high heavens were challenging him.
The Warlord of all Waters threw back his huge head and shrieked out his battlecry to the storm.
‘Gaaaabooooool!’
The pitifully tiny figure of a mousemaid was hurled about like a chip of bark in the eastward rush of high roaring seas. Tormented rolling waves, whipped to a frenzy by the screeching wind, billowed and swelled, long combing chariots pulled fiercely along by tossing white stallions of foam and spray.
The mousemaid, partially stunned, dared not even let one paw free to undo the rope about her neck. Her numbed paws clung grimly to a jagged spar of driftwood as she plunged wildly about in the maddened waters, now on top of a wave high as a castle, hurtling down blue green valleys into a trough that yawned like a deep, dark monster mouth, now being spun sideways with the spume, now being flung backwards from greater heights to vaster depths.
The rope became tangled around the wooden spar; painfully the little maid tried to bite at the hemp. Seawater gushed into her mouth, and she retched as the water threatened to choke her. A flailing end of rope struck her across the eyes. Unthinkingly she let go of the spar; it whipped off in a different direction from her. With both paws tearing feebly at the rope circling her neck, she was shaken about like a small fish upon rod and line.
All consciousness was finally beaten from her body when the spar struck her across the head, and the helpless figure was lost amid the pounding crashing seas. Obscured by the boiling cloud curtains above the maelstrom, not even the stars or moon were witness to the fate of the little mousemaid, victim of Gabool’s cruel whim.
Close to the north side of the Abbey building, a new construction was under way.
Astride the wooden scaffolding of a half-finished bell-tower, young Dandin pounded doggedly away at the hollow beech log.
Thonkthonkthonkthonk!
Though he was a sturdily built little mouse, he felt himself driven aback by the blasting wind. Shaking rainwater from his eyes, he bent his head against the onslaught of the storm and continued stubbornly thwacking the log with two hefty yew clubs. Whenever Dandin raised his gaze slightly he could see the fringe of surrounding Mossflower Woods swaying and hissing, rustling and sighing, like a restless ocean.
‘Dandin, come down, you’ll catch your death up there!’
The young mouse peered over the scaffold, shielding his eyes against the deluge. Draped about with a clean worn-out floursack, Mother Mellus the Redwall badger stamped a huge paw upon the wet sward.
‘D’you hear me, young mouse? I said down, this instant!’
Dandin blew rainwater from his whiskers, smiling roguishly he called back, ‘Right this instant, marm, just like you say’.
Without a backward glance Dandin threw himself from the tower and came plunging earthward to the accompaniment of the badger’s startled growls. Not more than a fraction from the ground, he stopped falling and swung there, dangling by a strong vinerope harnessed about his waist. Dandin touched his nose with a wet paw.
‘Came as quick as I could, marm …’
A huge paw cuffed him roughly about the ears as Mother Mellus freed him from title encircling vinerope. Tucking him firmly in her elbow crook like a baby, she hurried in out of the rain, scolding Dandin as he complained loud and long.
‘Put me down. I’m not a baby, I can walk …’
‘No, you’re not a baby, you’re a young pickle, d’you hear, and you should know better. Throwing yourself from a high tower like that! By the weasel’s whiskers, you scared me out of ten seasons’ growth!’
‘I know what I’m doing; it was completely safe. Now will you put me down? I can stand on my own paws, you know …’
‘I’ll put you down, you young rip. Next time I’ll tan your hide so hard you won’t be able to sit down until berrypicking. Just let me catch you jumping from high places like that again! What’d you do if the vines snapped, eh? Then we wouldn’t have to dig a grave. You’d go so far into the earth when you hit the ground you’d be able to shake paws with the taproots of an oak. Be still, you little blaggard, or you’ll feel the back of my paw. Young Abbey beasts these days, I don’t know …’
Scolding and arguing by turns, the young mouse and the old badger went inside the Abbey. Mother Mellus kicked the huge door shut behind her, leaving the storm to rage on outside.
Across Great Hall in the cosy surroundings of Cavern Hole, Abbot Bernard sat at head of table with Brother Simeon on his left paw and Foremole, the mole leader, on his right. Lanterns twinkled around the homely festive board, moles jostled shoulders with mice, hedgehogs sat next to otters and squirrels. The Abbey infants were allowed to sit at table with their elders; they were mainly woodland orphans gathered in by Mother Mellus – baby mice, small hedgehogs, a young squirrel and twin otters who had been brought by their parents. Little ones who were known as Dibbuns, they were sat on the table edges, facing the Brothers and Sisters of Redwall, the good mice who tended and cared for them.
Redwall fare was famous throughout the length and breadth of Mossflower. The Abbey grew all its own produce, and Redwall cooks were experts.
Foremole had his nose buried in a raspberry cream pudding, speaking in the rustic mole language through mouthfuls of his favourite sweet.
‘Hohurr, baint nuthen loik rabserry pudden, no zurr. Oi could eat this yurr pudden till next moleday an’ still ax furr more.’
Gabe Quill, the hedgehog cellar-keeper, held a noggin of pear cordial up to a lantern, swishing it about as he inspected its bright amber colour critically.
‘Hmm, what d’you think of that for a touch of good cellar-keepin’?’
A big male otter named Flagg relieved Gabe of the drink and slurped it down in one gulp.
‘Very nice, sir. Too good to swill cellars down with.’
Gabe’s face was a picture of indignation. ‘Why you ’orrible otter!’
Grubb, a baby mole, looked up at the general laughter, wiping damson jam from his snout he shook a small digging paw at Gabe Quill.
‘You’m can ’ave an ’orrible owl, but otters is orful, buhurr aye.’
Sister Serena, a rotund mouse who ran the Abbey infirmary and sickbay, wiped the jam from Grubb’s whiskers and passed him a bowl of honeyed milk as she reprimanded him.
‘Hush now, Grubb. Don’t correct your elders.’
Grubb sucked noisily at the milk, coming up with a cream-coated chin.
‘Burr elders, Dandin says oi’m a liddle owd feller, that be maken oi an elder too. Betcher oi’m elder’n they, an’ woiser may’ ap.’
At the head of the table the Abbot paused with a hot scone between paw and mouth. ‘The log pounding’s stopped. Where is Dandin?’
Simeon took a sip from a foaming tankard of October ale. ‘In the kitchen. Can’t you hear him? He’s getting a drying-down, dry clothes and a good telling-off from Mellus.’
The reprimands of Mellus and the protests of Dandin echoed loudly down the corridor between the kitchen and Cavern Hole.
‘Keep still, your ears are saturated!’
‘Owow! I won’t have any ears left, the way you’re going. Ouch! And I’m not wearing that great big habit, it belongs to fatty Brother John.’
‘Ooh, you ungrateful little scamp! How dare you call Brother John a fatty when he was good enough to lend you his spare robe! Hey, come here, come back, I say …’
The smack of wet paws on the floor of the passage to Cavern Hole announced the culprit’s escape. Dandin scampered in. He sat between Foremole and a squirrel named Rufe Brush. Grabbing a wedge of speckled nut-cheese, he jammed it between two slices of oat farl and began munching, pouring himself a beaker of cold strawberry cordial as he did. Flagg, the big otter, winked at Dandin and passed him a bowl of otters’ hotroot sauce to dip his farl into.
‘Aye aye, matey, run a-foul of Ma Mellus again, have ’ee? Quick an’ dip yer bows now – yonder she comes.’
Dandin ducked beneath the table just in time. Mother Mellus came bustling by, a clean linen bonnet tied about her great striped head. She nodded to the Abbot and took her place at the far end of table in a large armchair. Sitting two young mice on her lap and a baby mole on the arm of the chair, she soon forgot Dandin as she occupied herself feeding the Dibbuns, wiping chins and generally taking charge.
‘Come on now, little one, eat up your woodland salad. Pudding later.’
‘No, don’t lika sala’ wanna pudden.’
‘Salad first, pudding later. You want to grow up big and strong like me, don’t you?’
‘No, wanna stay lickle an’ eat pudden alia time!’
Abbot Bernard reached beneath the table and nudged Dandin.
‘You can come out now, young mouse. Mother Mellus has her paws full with those Dibbuns. You did a fine job as log banger, Dandin, though there was no need to stay out in the storm so long.’
Dandin sat up proudly and reached for a raspberry cream pudding.
‘Thank you, Father Abbot. I stayed out until I knew all our Abbey creatures were inside, safe and dry. It’s my job.’
Blind Simeon smiled. ‘Well done, young Dandin. You’re just the type of mouse Redwall Abbey needs. One day when the Abbey is fully built and completed, who knows, you could be our next Abbot.’
Dandin wrinkled his nose, not too pleased with the idea. Abbot Bernard laughed heartily.
‘No Abbotship for you, eh, young rip? It’s easy to see that you come from the line of Gonff the Mousethief. I wish that Martin the Warrior had left ancestors behind.’
Simeon held up a paw. ‘Maybe he did, my friend – not direct descendants, but spiritual ones. Martin was a Warrior and the founder of Redwall; his presence is all around us in these very stones. I have never talked with a creature whom I felt was actually touched by Martin’s spirit, but then we have never needed such a one in this time of peace. However, I feel that one day before my seasons have run, I will meet some creature whose life has been touched by the shadow of our Warrior.’
Rufe Brush looked up from a plate of hazelnut cream and apple pie.
‘Not on a night like this you won’t, Simeon. Listen to that rainstorm. Any creature out on a night like this must be drowned by now.’
Simeon was about to answer when he suddenly turned his face aside and clasped a table napkin to his nose.
‘Whaaaw! Somebeast’s eating wild garlic!’
A fat mole named Burgo several places down with a clothes peg fitted snugly upon his nose was tucking into a big basin with a spoon. He waved a paw at Simeon.
‘Burr, nor c’n oi stan’ the smell o’ garleck. Oi do dearly luvs the taste of it tho’. ‘At’s whoi oi keeps moi snowt pegged! Garleck woild soup! nuthin’ loik et, zurr.’
Amid the laughter that followed, Dandin turned to Rufe Brush.
‘By the fur, Rufe, that rain sounds as if it were trying to knock our Abbey down. You were right, anybeast out in this must be well drowned by now!’
Fort Bladegirt stood at the edge of the high rocks which towered above Terramort cove, the big window of its banqueting hall facing out to sea. It had a courtyard and a high wall which ran around its perimeter where the ground was open, though part of the actual fort building integrated with the outer wall where it overhung the cove. The entire structure was built from solid rock with heavy wooden doors at the entrances both to the fort and courtyard. On three sides it was overlooked by hills. Gabool the Wild had taken it as his by right; indeed whoever owned Bladegirt was absolute King of Searats, as long as he could hold it. Inside the fort chaos and misrule were the order of the day. Corsair rats left their ships to come ashore after long plundering voyages. They made their way to Bladegirt in droves, leaving their ships at anchor in the cove. Roistering, fighting, gambling and drinking, the searats enjoyed their shore leave after the hardships of a life at sea.
In the high banqueting chamber Gabool sprawled on a carved rock throne, which he had made more comfortable by covering it with the skins of his slain enemies. He stared with loving fascination at a great bell dominating the centre of the floor; monumental in its size the prize stood, reflecting the torchlights and revelry through its burnished sheen. Copper, silver, brass and gold had been used in its casting. Heaving himself up, Gabool strode forward, sword in one claw, a chalice of wine in the other as he traversed the perimeter of his greatest prize. Grinning like a child with a new toy, he tapped his swordblade against the marvellous bell; the soft musical note vibrated gently like a giant harp strummed by the wind. As he walked, Gabool’s restless eyes roved up and down, from the strange figures embossed around the top to the intricate words ranging round the wide base of the great bell.
Gabool was puzzled as to their meaning, but they were pretty decorations which made his prize all the more fascinating to look upon.
‘Blood ’n’ thunder, Cap’n. Give it a good belt an’ let’s hear it ring out!’ A burly drunken searat named Halfnose pulled a wooden cudgel from his belt and thrust it towards Gabool. With lightning speed the Warlord grabbed the club and crashed it down on Half-nose’s skull, at the same time landing a thrusting kick into the drunkard’s belly, which sent him reeling into an open cask of wine. Halfnose slumped across the wine, his head submerged. Gabool roared with laughter.
‘Drink or drown, seascum. Nobeast comes near Gabool’s bell!’
The carousing searats shrieked their appreciation at his joke. Gabool pointed at Halfnose with his sword.
‘If he ever gets out o’ there, give him a cup of wine t’ revive him.’
This caused further merriment, except from the table where Bludrigg, Captain of the ship Greenfang, sat with his mates. Though Gabool laughed as heartily as the others, Bludrigg had not escaped his notice. Everyone was laughing, but not Bludrigg – Bludrigg the surly, Bludrigg the argumentative, Bludrigg the trouble-causer, the seadeck lawyer. Gabool watched him closely. Bludrigg, who could sense the scheming mind behind his King’s false merriment.
Things between the King of Searats and his Captain had been building to a head for a long time; Gabool decided to settle accounts with Bludrigg now. Gulping wine from the chalice and allowing it to spill freely into his beard, Gabool pretended to stagger drunkenly. He winked in a friendly manner and thrust his sword point down into a chest of booty. Tottering over to the table, Gabool banged the half-empty chalice down in front of the Greenfang’s Captain.
‘Bludrigg, me old matey, c’mon, drink up!’
Bludrigg’s face was sullen as he thrust the chalice aside.
‘Don’t want no wine. I can drink all I want aboard me ship.’
All around the hall they stopped drinking, singing and gambling; an air of expectancy settled over the searats. Gabool blinked, as if trying to shake off the effects of the wine, and swayed slightly.
‘Food then. Can’t have my Captain starvin’. Roast meat, fruit, fish, sugared preserves? Here, bring m’ friend Bludrigg some vittles.’
Bludrigg’s swordclaw fondled the hilt of his sheathed scimitar.
‘Leave the food, Gabool. I eat well enough.’
Gabool sighed, shaking his head as if in puzzlement. He sat next to Bludrigg and threw a comradely claw about his shoulders.
‘Hmmm, no wine, no food, no smile on me old shipmate’s face. What d’you want then, bucko?’
Bludrigg shook Gabool’s claw off. He stood upright, knocking the chair over behind him, his eyes blazing with suppressed rage at the drunken Warlord.
‘I want my share of the plunder. There’s been none from the last three sailings. I’m tellin’ you, Gabool, I want my portion of the booty – an’ I’ll have it tonight; come hell or high water!’
From around the packed hall there were murmurs of agreement. Gabool spread his arms wide and smiled.
‘Blow me down! Is that all? Why didn’t you say so sooner?’
Bludrigg was lost for words; the expected clash had not come. Now he felt slightly foolish in front of his crew. He shrugged, mumbling half-heartedly; he tried excusing himself as if he were complaining on behalf of his searats.
‘Well, I never thought… . It’s just that my crew were startin’ to complain, they thought you’d forgotten us …’
Gabool looked injured. He went over to the chest of booty, where his sword stood upright amid a heap of armlets, goblets, baubles and shiny stones. Drawing forth the sword, he turned one or two items over with its point until he found what he sought. Gabool flicked the sword up as a shiny gold coronet studded with gems slid along its blade.
‘Aharr, friend Bludrigg, the best for you. A crown fit for a King!’
Bludrigg felt a sudden rush of confidence; he had done it! Gabool was notoriously mean with plunder, but he, Bludrigg, Captain of the Greenfang, had actually got the better of Gabool. The King of Searats had backed down before him. Bludrigg’s chest swelled as he accepted the beautiful coronet from Gabool’s swordblade and placed it on his head. A cheer rose from the company as Gabool spread his arms wide. Extending the sword away from Bludrigg, he addressed them.
‘See, yer scurvy wave-riders. Pay attention, you jetsam of the oceans, I am Gabool the Wild, this is how I repay me friends… .’ Without warning Gabool swung a powerfully savage blow with his sword. ‘And reward my enemies!’
Even the hardened searats moaned in horror as the head of Bludrigg thudded to the floor. The coronet rolled in front of Gabool. He picked it up on the dripping swordblade and held it forth to the assembly.
‘Would anyone else like to wear the crown, mateys?’
Heralded by the call of seabirds, eastern sunrays flooded warm and golden into a sky of calm blue reflected in the millpond sea below. The angry storm has passed, leaving summer serenity in its wake. The sun warmed the wet bundle on the flotsam-strewn tideline until it stirred. Seawater and bile flooded from the mousemaid’s mouth as she coughed feebly. The damp paw set tiny flies buzzing as it reached for her throat and began weakly grappling with the knotted rope. The wooden spar lay across her back. A seabird landed upon it; the added weight caused the mousemaid to vomit more salt water forth with a gurgling groan. Startled, the bird rose noisily into the air, cheated of the carcass it had taken for dead. Other seabirds began to wheel and circle overhead. A tiny crab tried nibbling at the maid’s rough wet burlap dress, gave up and scuttled away.
Finally undone, the rope fell away from her bruised neck. Painfully she shifted the spar and rolled over on to her back. The mousemaid lay still awhile; some of the more venturesome seabirds spiralled lower. Rubbing sand and grit from her face with the back of a paw, she opened both eyes, immediately shutting them again against the glare of sunlight. Small wavelets trickled and lapped gently away from the shore; the tide was ebbing. The mousemaid ventured to explore the wound that the spar had inflicted upon her head. She winced and left it alone. Turning over again, she shielded her eyes with her paws and rested on the firm damp sand, soaking up the life-giving rays of the comforting sun. A large speckled gull landed close to her. Readying its dangerous beak it stalked slowly forward; the mousemaid watched it from between her paws. Within a necklength of her prostrate body the seagull stood upon one webbed foot and began bringing its beak down in an exploratory peck.
Thwack!
She swung the wet-sand-weighted end of the rope. It was knotted and her aim was good. The rope’s end thudded solidly into the bird’s right eye. With a squawk of pain and distress the seagull did an awkward running takeoff, flopping into the air and dispersing its alarmed companions.
The little mousemaid began dragging herself laboriously up the beach, her throat parched, mouth dry, head aching, limbs battered almost numb by the pounding seas. She reached a tussock of reedgrass in the dry sand above the tideline. Pulling the grass about her, she lay down in the safety of its shelter. As sleep descended upon her weary body, strange thoughts flooded her mind. She could not remember who she was, she had no name she could recall; apart from the stormy seas that had tossed her up, there was no memory of anything – it was all a cloudy grey void. Where had she come from? Where was she now? What was she doing here? Where was she going? Her last thought before sleep enveloped her brain was that she was a fighter. She could beat off a large seagull with a rope’s end, even lying stranded and half-dead from exhaustion, and she had survived the sea.
She was alive!
Dawn arrived clad in hushed rosiness upon the wake of storm-torn night. Abbot Bernard had not lain abed, he was up and about. Concern for his beloved Redwall had driven sleep from his mind; the ravages of galeforce winds and rain would need repairing. He made a swift tour of inspection, finishing up on the east battlements. Leaning back upon the strongly hewn stones, Bernard allowed himself a sigh of relief. There was not much that any weather conditions, no matter how severe, could do to the Abbey. However, there were broken branches and wrecked tree limbs overhanging the ramparts to the east and north, with here and there some ill-fated sapling or hollow woodland monarch toppled against the walls. Inside, the grounds had largely been protected by the outer structure – a few crops flattened, fruit bushes in disarray and a loose window shutter on the gatehouse blown awry. The Father Abbot descended the wallsteps thankfully and went to summon Foremole to head a repair crew. They could attend to the damage after breakfast.
The calm after the storm also had its effect upon the inmates of Redwall Abbey. Young creatures tumbled out of the Abbey building into the sunlit morning. Whooping and shouting, they teemed into the orchard to gather fruit brought down by the winds of the gale. The otter twins Bagg and Runn frisked and bounded round the apple and pear trees to the strawberry patch, then lay on their backs, squeaking with laughter as they gobbled up the juicy fruit, inventing fictitious reasons as to why the berries were lying there.
‘Heehee, look what was blown down from the strawberry trees by the wind last night. Heeheehee!’
Durry Quill, Gabe Quill’s little nephew, joined them. He sat in the strawberry patch, trying to decide which was the biggest berry, eating all the possible candidates as he listened to the otters. Durry was not at all sure whether he should believe they had come from a strawberry tree.
‘Strawb’rry trees, I don’t see no strawb’rry trees. Where be they?’
Bagg coughed hard to stop himself tittering. He put on a serious face as he explained the logic of fictitious strawberry trees to the puzzled little Durry.
‘Teehee, er harumph! What? You never see’d a strawb’rry tree. Dear oh dear. Why, they’re great giant things with blue speckly leaves, very light of course, only weigh as much as two goosefeathers. That’s why the wind blowed ’em all away. Whoosh! Straight o’er the top of the Abbey walls.’
The gullible Durry looked from one to the other, half convinced.
Runn nodded serious agreement and continued the story. ‘Sright, I see’d it meself from the dormitory window. Way away they blowed, all those poor old great strawb’rry trees, carried off by the wind to the Gongleboo mountains where the Grunglypodds live.’
A half-eaten strawberry dropped from Durry’s open mouth. ‘Grunglyboo’s mountain where Gronglepodds live, where be that?’
Under a nearby pear tree Dandin stood paws on hips with his friend, young Saxtus the harvest mouse. Both smiled as they listened to the two otters leading Durry Quill astray with their tall tales. Saxtus bit into a windfall pear and grimaced.
‘Don’t know why we came out here to eat fruit. Most of these windfalls aren’t even ripe yet. Taste this pear, hard as a rock.’
Dandin sat down with the otters and Durry. ‘No thanks, I’ll try my luck with all these berries that fell from the strawberry trees.’ He looked over the top of a large strawberry at Bagg and Runn. ‘Strawberry trees indeed! You two should be ashamed of yourselves, telling a poor little hedgehog such whopping great fibs.’
Saxtus sat down with them, keeping his normally solemn face quite straight. ‘Dandin’s right, y’know. Otters that tell lies get carried off by the big pink Waterbogle.’
Bagg tossed a strawberry in the air. It missed his mouth and bounced off his nose as he remarked airily, ‘Oh the pink Waterbogle. We’ve been carried off twice this summer by him, haven’t we, Runn?’
Runn giggled. ‘Teeheehee! I’ll say we have. We told him that many whoppers he said he’s not carrying us off any more.’
From the direction of the damson and plum trees Simeon’s voice interrupted.
‘Saxtus! Dandin! Brother Hubert wants you for your Redwall history and recording lessons. He is not getting any younger, and someday we will need a new recorder; traditions must be upheld. Come on, young scamps, I know you’re there!’
The two young mice dropped flat in the strawberry patch, Dandin holding a paw to his lips.
‘Shush! It’s Simeon. Lie low – he might go away.’
The steady pawsteps of the blind herbalist came nearer. Simeon called again.
‘Come on, you two. I know you’re hiding in the strawberry patch.’
Saxtus tugged Bagg’s tail and winked at the young otter. Bagg winked back as he called out, ‘It’s Bagg and Runn, Simeon. We’re the only ones here.’
Simeon appeared, chuckling. ‘I’m going to count to three, and if you two otters and that nephew of Quill’s aren’t off to the Abbey kitchen to help with the chores, I’ll tell Mother Mellus to come and fetch you with a hazel twig. As for Saxtus and Dandin, unless you want me to give you an extra lecture on the value of nightshade and campion as herbs, you’ll come out now and stop lying there trying to breathe lightly. I may not have eyesight but my ears and nose have never deceived me yet.’
Saxtus and Dandin stood up ruefully, wiping away dew from their novices’ habits. Wordlessly they followed Simeon to the gatehouse at the entrance to the outer walls. Simeon strode boldly ahead, a smile hovering about his lips.
‘Hmm, pity the strawberry trees got blown away in the storm. You could have climbed up one and hidden in its branches.’
Brother Hubert sat at his desk in the gatehouse. Though Redwall Abbey was of no great age, he was surrounded by old books, parchments and scrolls. Dust was everywhere. It settled in layers on furniture and shelf alike, providing a fine patina to the tomes and volumes piled willy-nilly, coating the yellowed parchments and writing materials, lazily drifting in a slow swirl around the morning sunlight shafts flooding through the window. Hubert kept his head bent to the task of recording the Abbey’s daily life, the long feathered quill pen waving back and forth as he wrote. Saxtus and Dandin stood in front of him, listening to the scratch of quill on parchment, keeping a respectful silence until Brother Hubert spoke to them. Looking over the top of his spectacles, Hubert blinked severely.
‘What is punctuality?’
Saxtus spoke out. ‘The respect we show other creatures by being on time.’
‘Hmm, you two young Brothers have more respect for strawberries than you do for me, is that not right?’
Saxtus and Dandin stood in silence. Brother Hubert put aside his pen.
‘Tell me in turn our Abbey charter. Dandin, you may begin.’
Dandin swallowed hard, looked at the ceiling for inspiration, shuffled his paws and began hesitantly.
‘Er, to be Brothers and Sisters of peace and goodwill, er, living together in harmony under the protection of Redwall Abbey, er, er, forsaking all unnecessary forms of violence, not only to Mossflower, its trees, grasses, flowers and insects, but to all living creatures …’
Brother Hubert nodded at Saxtus to continue. He did so with much more confidence and less hesitancy than Dandin.
‘To help and comfort the dispossessed, harbour orphans and waifs, offer shelter to all creatures alike, give clothing, warmth and food to any beast or creature that is deemed in need of such. To educate and learn, particularly in the healing arts, comfort the sick, nurse the injured and help the wounded …’
Dandin received Brother Hubert’s nod to continue from Saxtus.
‘Er, er, help the wounded… . Er, lessee now, er… . Oh yes! To take our food from the earth and replenish the land by caring for it, er, husbanding crops and living in harmony with the, er, seasons always. To honour and protect our friends and brethren, only raising paw to do battle when our life at Redwall is threatened by treachery and the shadow of war; at these times every Redwall creature should show courage, fortitude and obedience to the Father Abbot. Albeit the taking of another life must always be justified and never carried out in a wanton manner.’
Brother Hubert came out from behind his desk.
‘Well done, Saxtus, and very clearly spoken. As for you, young Dandin, you stammer and hesitate, you seem to have difficulty in remembering – except, that is, until you come to the part that deals with treachery, war and battle.’
Dandin looked down at the floor, gnawing at the side hairs of his paw.
Brother Hubert leaned back against the desk, took a beaker of cordial, blew some dust from its rim and took a sip before continuing.
‘Right, Saxtus. Tell me what has been going on in Great Hall for three seasons now.’
Saxtus stroked his chin thoughtfully.
‘Going on … Great Hall … er, er. Oh, is it the making of some cloth picture? Is that what you mean, Brother Hubert?’
Brother Hubert polished his spectacles upon his habit sleeve.
‘I don’t know, are you asking me or telling me? My my, what a pair of little puddenheads. See if you can tell him, Dandin.’
This time it was Dandin’s turn to brighten up.
‘In Great Hall for the past three seasons, actually it’s three and a half, the Brothers and Sisters, also many woodlanders, are combining their skills to make a wonderful tapestry. This will depict our founder, Martin the Warrior, showing how he battled with villainous vermin, foxes, rats, stoats, ferrets and weasels, even a huge wildcat like that awful Tsarmina. Martin the Warrior wasn’t bothered by those evil beasts, oho no; he got his famous sword and buckled on his bright armour, took up his shield and drove them from Mossflower country. Wham! Blatt! He whirled his deadly blade, the rats screamed, the foxes dived into hiding. Swish! Chop! Martin was right after them and he whirled his sword an —’
‘Enough, enough, you bloodthirsty young scamp. How do you know all this?’
Dandin smiled. A reckless light burned in his bright eyes.
‘Because the father of my father’s father was Gonff the Prince of Mousethieves, Martin the Warrior’s famous companion. He could steal the nose from under your eyes while you were watching and he was a great ballad-maker.’
Brother Hubert nodded wisely. ‘Yes indeed, an unusual fellow, by all accounts – thief, rogue, warrior, questor, but all for the good of other creatures. He married the lovely Columbine, if my memory serves me rightly, so he could not have been too bad a creature. Never let me catch you stealing, young Dandin. Wait, there was something I meant to tell you. Ah yes, I have it here somewhere.’
He began rummaging among piles of old records until the dust flew, finally coming up with a small object. By this time all three were coughing and spluttering amid the dust. Hubert shepherded them outside into the cool shadow of the ramparts before he presented Dandin with the item. It was a small flute, beautifully made from a piece of straight applewood, bored out by a red-hot iron rod and wonderfully carved, and it had an ornamental letter ‘G’ near the mouthpiece.
‘I was looking through some ancient records,’ Brother Hubert explained. ‘They said that the family of Gonff lived down at old Saint Ninian’s church for six generations. Before Gonff moved away from Redwall Abbey, however, he was presented with a flute by Abbess Germaine, our first Abbey Mother. But apparently Gonff thought it was far too splendid and fancy for him – he preferred a reed flute – so he left this behind. I think this is the flute; it carries his initial and looks very old. I’m sure it belongs rightly to you, Dandin. Do you think you can play it?’
Dandin gazed at the flute, his eyes shining. ‘I’ll certainly try, Brother.’
Hubert dusted his habit before returning to the gatehouse.
‘Good, perhaps we’ll hear you at the Abbot’s Mid-summer Jubilee feast?’
Saxtus squinted at the sun. ‘When’s that, Brother?’
‘Three days hence, though some of the older Brothers and Sisters have been planning it for quite a while now. Our Father Abbot is very modest and does not want to cause too much fuss, so we have kept it quiet; we didn’t want to get you young ones too excited. Still, I suppose you’ve got to know at some point …’
Both young mice leapt for joy, hugging each other and laughing aloud at the prospect of the great event.
‘Hurray! Abbot Bernard’s Jubilee feast. Redwaaaaaaalll!’
Brother Hubert’s dry, dusty old features broke into a wide grin.
‘Go on now, be off with the pair of you. No doubt you’ll be needed to help with the preparations.’
Sister Sage was not on duty serving breakfast that morning. She took herself off for a breath of fresh air on the ramparts, enjoying the soft breeze that drifted over Mossflower Woods.
She came down from her morning stroll along the walltop to join Brother Hubert, and together they watched the two young mice hopping and leaping like wild crickets, across the sunlit lawns and flowerbeds, towards the Abbey kitchens.
Sister Sage chuckled and shook her head. ‘Cowslips! Look at those two young uns, would you! It makes you feel good to be alive on a summertide.’
With that, she hopped off after them, capering madly despite her long seasons. Brother Hubert attempted a small caper, until dust arose from his habit and his glasses fell off. He looked about quickly to see no creature had been watching, then hurried into his gatehouse.
The midday sun glinted off the waters of the far northwest sea as thick-headed revellers from the previous night hauled anchors to sail out and scour the seas or range the coasts in their constant search for plunder and booty, slaves and trinkets. Gabool the Wild watched them from the high window of his banqueting hall, Waveblade, Blacksail, Rathelm and Greenfang, four good craft laden with the rakings and scrapings of seas and oceans, murderers all.
Gabool had conferred captaincy of the Greenfang on Garrtail, an up-and-coming member of the searat brethren, but dull and wholly servile to his master Gabool, Lord of all Waters. Dull Garrtail might be, but Gabool knew that it would not stop him gossiping to the master of the Darkqueen, Saltar, brother of Bludrigg. Garrtail knew that the Darkqueen habitually ranged the seas to the south; he would make sure his path crossed with Saltar. There was little doubt the corsair master of Darkqueen would hear the tale of his brother’s death, chapter and verse.
Gabool tore at a leg of roasted kittiwake and chewed reflectively. Saltar had the reputation of being a hard searat to cross. Though they had never matched blades, Gabool knew Saltar to be a corsair hook fighter, using a vicious metal hook to impale opponents before slaying them with his curved sword. Gabool spat the meat away and hurled the kittiwake leg out of the window, watching it bounce off rocks on the sheer face until it hit the sea below.
He laughed slyly. Two could play at that game!
Taking a long dagger from his waist sash, Gabool went to the far end of the hall. A coloured cloth wallhanging, held outward by a wooden rail near the ceiling, reached from on high down to the floor. Gabool pushed it to one side and found the crack in the stonework behind it. He jammed the long dagger, handle first, into the crack so that it was wedged, with the blade pointing outward, then let the wallhanging fall back into place. Though he was a renowned fighter and a fearless one, Gabool never took chances, particularly since the incident with the mousemaid. Standing back, Gabool surveyed the trap. Good, the wallhanging looked like any other in the hall, perfectly harmless.
Now his restless eye was caught by the great bell. He wandered around its wide perimeter, fascinated by the object. Surely no Searat King had ever taken such a magnificent prize. Gabool pinged it with his long curving claws, sounded it by banging his rings and bracelets upon its brazen surface, amazed by the clear musical noises it made, tingling, humming and vibrating. He bared his lips. Leaning close in, he bit lightly at it, making his gold teeth reverberate with the echoes from the bell. Gabool stroked the cool curving object as he crooned softly.
‘Speak to me, beauty, we must get to know each other well. I am Gabool the Wild, your owner, but you need not fear me. Your voice will call to my fleet one day, your tones will terrify my enemies. You will be the voice of Gabool when I set you atop of my fort and let your tongue swing free. Then, ah then, you will boom out across the waves so that all the seas will know Gabool is King.’
On a sudden impulse Gabool dashed off. Slamming the door behind him, he took the downward stairs three at a time, deeper and deeper into the depths of his own lair. Two guards were standing at the entrance to the prison cells. Gabool whirled upon them with a snarl.
‘Get out of my sight and leave me alone here!’
As the guards fled, Gabool made his way to a cell that was little more than a cage. He lounged against the bars, grinning at the pitiful creature locked up inside.
‘Well, bellmaker, ready to work for me yet?’
Joseph the Bellmaker was chained by his waist to the wall. The floor of the subterranean cell was awash with seawater which seeped through from outside. Joseph had once been a powerful, well-fleshed mouse, but now his cheeks were sunken and dark circles formed around his eyes. Starvation and ill treatment had taken their ruthless toll on the bellmaker, though as he raised his head both eyes burned with remorseless hatred for his captor.
‘I would sooner be eaten by the fishes of the sea than serve you, rat.’
Gabool continued as if he had not heard the prisoner. ‘You can do it, Joseph, I know you can. A belltower strong enough to hold the great bell, right on top of my fort, where the whole world will hear it.’
Joseph pulled forward, straining at the chain in the enclosed space, his voice shaking with pent-up rage.
‘Never. I would not soil my paws with your mad ideas and evil schemes. That bell was made for the badger, the Lord of Salamandastron, enemy of all seascum. It will never ring for you!’
Gabool drew his sword and clashed it against the cell bars.
‘Hell’s guts! D’you think I care who it was made for, you fool? The bell is mine now, mine to do what I like with. Its voice will sound for me alone. I, Gabool, Warlord of the Waves, say this!’
Joseph slumped down, shaking his head in despair.
‘You’re mad, completely insane and evil. Kill me, do what you want with me, I don’t care any more.’
Gabool sheathed his sword. Drawing close to the bars he whispered low, ‘And your daughter?’
The bellmaker’s face betrayed the agony his mind was suffering.
‘No, please! You wouldn’t harm her, you couldn’t! She’s so young and, and… . Don’t you dare hurt my daughter!’
Gabool now sorely regretted drowning the bellmaker’s daughter. Still, if the old buffoon thought she was alive, there might be a bit of fun here. Gabool decided to toy with his victim.
‘If you build my belltower I will let you see her again, but not until you’ve carried out the work.’
Joseph tugged at the chain. He bit his lip until blood showed, torn by the decision he knew he had to make.
‘Gabool, listen. I would not put a single stone atop another for you. Why? Because it would mean death, torture or slavery for countless other good creatures. Don’t you understand rat, my conscience would not let me, after I saw what they did to the Captain and crew of our ship when searats captured us. I know it means that I may never see my young one again. It tears my heart apart, but I must do the right thing for the sake of others.’
Gabool summoned up all his cunning, his black soul driving him on to wickedness, belying the smile on his face as he threw his claws wide.
‘Haharr, very stubborn, Joseph, but I can see that you’re a good creature. Sometimes I wish that I’d never been born wicked, but decent like you. I suppose I’ll have to think of somethin’ else now. But hark, bellmaker, I’m sure you’d like to see your daughter again, wouldn’t you, matey?’