The Pearls of Lutra

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About the Author

Brian Jacques was born and bred in Liverpool. At the age of fifteen he went to sea and travelled the world. He worked as a stand-up comedian and playwright and hosted his own programme, Jakestown, on Radio Merseyside. His bestselling Redwall books have captured readers all over the world and won universal praise. He died in 2011.

About the Book

Far away, on the Isle of Sampetra, the evil Emperor Ublaz sends his lizard army on a murderous mission to Redwall. Meanwhile, Tansy the hedgehog and her fellow Abbey dwellers race against time to unravel the fiendishly difficult riddles leading to six rose-coloured gems – the Pearls of Lutra.

THOUGH TANSY WAS still only a young hedgehog, she was known to be a veritable rock of good sense by the elders of Redwall Abbey. Because of this, she was one of the few youngsters allowed outside the Abbey walls, mainly to gather materials for Sister Cicely’s remedies. Fine spring sunshine, tinged light green from the semi-transparent new leaves, filtered down through the high canopy of Mossflower Wood, and somewhere off deeper in the woodlands a cuckoo sang its repetitive aria to the growing season. Tansy put her basket down upon a mossy knoll and began setting out food: a little chunk of yellow cheese, small farls of soft nutbread, a few candied chestnuts and a flagon of elderberry cordial. Fussily she dusted out the insides of two wooden beakers on her apron, then she peered about at the surrounding tree trunks.

‘I know you’re there, Arven, now come out this instant, or I’ll eat all this lunch an’ you won’t get a crumb!’ she called.

The tiny squirrel leapt from a nearby elm, landing neatly in a sitting position right next to her. Tansy stifled her surprise at his sudden appearance, and busied herself unfolding two clean serviettes as she lectured her charge severely.

‘What’ve you been told about wandering off? D’you know I’m responsible for you? Just look at those mucky paws, wipe them off on the moss before you touch a single thing, you maggot!’

Arven scrubbed his little paws on the clean linen smock he wore, leaving two muddy patches across it. He smiled winningly and grabbed a candied chestnut. ‘Am never wandled oft, no need t’be asponsible f’r Arven, not gett’n lost, ho no, too starven t’be losted!’

Tansy tried to hide a smile, but found herself unable to. Chuckling, she poured out a beaker of cordial for her friend. ‘You’re a little maggot! What are you?’

‘Me a lickle starven maggit, heeheehee! But Arven eat all lunch, then me be big maggit an’ go hohoho!’

The little squirrel was never still. As he ate and drank he hopped around the knoll chanting, ‘Miggity Maggity hohoho! Tanzee panzee toogle doo!’

‘I’ll Tansy pansy you if you make yourself sick jumping round while you’re eating,’ Tansy muttered, more to herself than Arven, as she checked over the plants she had collected. ‘Hmm, old hogweed stalks, young angelica shoots, let’s see, what else did Sister Cicely want . . . Wintergreen, there may be some by the rocks.’

She glanced up at the sky. It had been gradually clouding over as they ate, and now a few tell-tale drops on her face caused the young hedgehog to tut with annoyance. ‘Tch tch! Rain! There was no sign of it earlier, sky was clear as a bell. Come on, Arven, help me to pack this lot back into the basket. You can finish your lunch while I search among the rocks, there’s good shelter there.’

Swiftly the two friends repacked their basket and set off east, deeper into the woodlands. A chill wind sprang up, buffeting the treetops, whipping the increasing downpour until rain found its way through and began thrumming against the loamy earth. Tansy shielded Arven with her cape as he railed against the unpredictable mid-spring weather.

The rocks were dark red sandstone ledges, tilted at a crazy angle in a small scrubby clearing. They pushed up out of the ground, piled against each other like a row of books gone askew on a bookshelf. Gaps caused by erosion formed many small shallow caves, and Tansy and Arven huddled under the nearest one as the wind chased the rain.

Arven went into a little dance, shaking himself vigorously. Tansy shielded her face by holding up the basket.

‘Be still, you rogue. I’m quite wet enough without you splashing rain all over me. Oh look, wintergreen!’

Reaching out into the rain, she plucked a tiny plant with pale green, spear-shaped leaves.

Arven was more interested in warmth. ‘Lighta fire, Tansy, make Arven dry’n’warm,’ he whimpered.

Tansy studied the strong-smelling seedling, which had been crushed underpaw by them as they entered the cave, explaining to the little squirrel as she did, ‘I don’t have flints or tinder with me. Besides, old Rollo the Recorder says that only grown and experienced beasts are allowed to light fires in the woodlands. Fire is a very dangerous thing if it gets out of control.’

Arven was not impressed by old Rollo’s words. ‘Huh! Fire very dangerful, kuffwarh!’ he said as he hopped out into the rain. ‘Any’ow, Arven wet now, can’t get more wetted, me gonna play.’

He bounded off out of view, with Tansy calling after him, ‘Stay close to the rocks, d’you hear me? Don’t go wandering off, and keep that new smock in one piece, or Mother Auma will tan your tail good an’ proper!’

When Arven was out of sight, Tansy sat miserably, watching the rain pattering off the rocks and staring at the ground in search of other wintergreen shoots. The day out that she had planned for herself and Arven in Mossflower woodlands had been ruined by rain. It wasn’t fair, especially after she had begged and pleaded with Auma to be allowed to take Arven with her. The morning had started off bright and sunny; she had made up the lunch and packed it herself, listened carefully to Sister Cicely’s instructions, then set off holding Arven with one paw and the basket in the other, feeling very grown up and responsible. Wullger the otter was on gate duty, and he had winked and tipped his tail to Tansy as he let her out of the main wallgate.

She smiled to herself, remembering how Viola bankvole had been watching from the rampart steps. That snippy Viola! Mincing about and giving herself all kinds of airs and graces, always making smart remarks. But Viola was too flibberty-gibbet to be allowed out alone. The young hedgehog had made a special point of waving at her and calling aloud, ‘Just popping out to Mossflower, see you later, Viola dear!’

Arven’s scream brought Tansy back to the present like lightning. Tossing aside the basket, she hitched up her smock and went dashing out into the rain, scrambling up the rocks as she charged forward to the sounds of the screeching babe.

Hurtling along the uneven top of the sloping sandstone mass, Tansy yelled into the wind and rain, ‘Arven, where are you? Keep shouting, keep shouting!’

Speeding to the spot where the sound came from, Tansy threw herself on all fours, reaching her paws down into a broad crack in the rocks. She felt Arven’s tiny damp paws latch onto hers and breathed a swift sigh of relief.

Before she could start lifting him, the nimble little fellow had scrambled up over her paws, stepped on her nose and onto the back of her neck, and leapt clear, shouting, ‘Lookalooka! Down there! Eeeeeeee!’

Lying face down, Tansy gazed into the rift. With a gasp of horror she found herself staring into the eyeless sockets of a skull. Gap-toothed and grinning, with rain pattering on it to produce the most dreadful hollow sound, it stared back at her. Bleached bones and the ragged remnants of clothing clinging to them comprised the remainder of the skeleton, trapped in the jaws of the narrow rift. Thunder rumbled as a vivid flash of lightning lit up the stark scene. A scream of terror tore itself from the hedgehog maid’s throat.

Forgetting plants, basket and picnic lunch, heedless of pelting rain and wind, Tansy grabbed Arven’s tiny paw. Together they leapt from the sandstone rocks, rolling, stumbling and bounding down onto the wet grass. Both creatures sped off as if the skeleton had risen from the rift to pursue them. Blindly they rushed through the storm-lashed woodland, footpaws slapping the ground, hearts racing madly, as they sought the path back to the warmth, peace and safety of their home, Redwall Abbey.

FAR ACROSS THE heaving deeps of restless ocean, some say even beyond the place where the sun sinks in the west, there lies the Isle of Sampetra. At first sight, it’s a lush tropical jewel, set in turquoise waters where seasons never change from eternal summer. But a closer look would reveal that Sampetra is rotten as a flyblown fish carcass. It is a crossroads of evil, haven to the flotsam of the high seas. Corsairs, searats and all manner of vermin wavescum make their berth at Sampetra, the domain of a pine marten, the mighty Emperor Ublaz!

He is also known as Mad Eyes, though none ever called him that to his face and lived. He dwells in a palace built on a flat-topped escarpment at the island’s southwesterly tip. Any ship entering the harbour must pay tribute to Ublaz, and captains who do not choose to anchor at Sampetra are considered to be foes of the Emperor. It is his decree that their ships and even their lives are forfeit; they are fair game to his followers.

Mad Eyes is cunning, all-powerful. Like a spider at the centre of a great web, he rules Sampetra. No trees grow upon the island, but Ublaz has a vast timber stock in his courtyard. Wood for ship repairs is given only to those who pay him heavy tribute. The island is a good place for vermin from the seas to rest and roister: there are taverns dotted about the harbour area. Ublaz is served by a regiment of rats who carry long tridents as a mark of their rank; his Trident-rats patrol the harbour night and day. However, the most fearsome of his creatures are great flesh-eating lizards known as the Monitors, who have inhabited Sampetra for as long as anybeast can remember. Only the mad-eyed Emperor can control the dreadful reptiles, with the power of his hypnotic stare.

Conva the corsair captain was not a happy stoat as he watched his steersrat bring their craft, the vessel Waveworm, into the bay of Sampetra. On the jetty Conva could see lizards and Trident-rats waiting, and he knew what they were there for – to take him before the Emperor. Had the corsair known any pleas or prayers to the fates, he would have said them right then, hoping that Mad Eyes might have forgotten the treasure called ‘Tears of all Oceans’. But then he recalled his meeting with Ublaz before the voyage, and the eyes, the strange mad eyes that had compelled him to return.

Sounds of singing, fighting and feasting drifted up from the taverns by the jetty as Waveworm hove alongside. Conva was relieved of his curved scimitar and marched off between two Monitors and two Trident-rats. The remainder of the guards boarded the ship, to make sure the crew stayed in their quarters until they received permission to come ashore.

As he was ushered into the throne room of the Emperor, Conva glanced around. It was the peak of barbaric splendour. There were silks, marble, rich velvet cushions and satin hangings, and the air was heavy with the scent of strange aromatic herbs smouldering in wall braziers. The Emperor was seated on a great carved cedar throne.

Though Conva feared Ublaz, he could not help but admire him. A big creature, this pine marten: strong, handsome and sleek, with fine brown fur from head to bushy tail, complemented by a creamy yellow throat and ears. He was clad in a green silk robe with a gold border; blue sapphires twinkled from the handle of a slim silver-bladed dagger, thrust into a belt of shark’s skin. The face of Ublaz was immobile. Savage white teeth showed slightly through a thin, almost lipless mouth, and above the curled perfumed whiskers and light brown nosetip, two jet-black almond-shaped eyes stared at the corsair captain.

All was silence. Conva stood riveted by the eyes; they pierced him to the core. Silent and mysterious Ublaz sat, transfixing the corsair with his gaze until words began flowing from the hypnotized captain.

‘Mighty One who knows all, your commands were carried out. We raided the den of Lutra the otter on the far north shores. They were taken by ambush and slain, every one of them, and all that they possessed was loaded aboard my ship.’

For the first time Ublaz spoke, his voice scarce above a whisper. ‘Tell me what you took, everything.’

The corsair repeated a list of spoils. ‘Beakers set with coloured stones, platters also, carved bone tail- and pawrings, one gold neckband, a box of small purple pearls and another box made from a hinged scallop shell. This shell contained six large, rose-coloured pearls.’

The Emperor drew in his breath sharply. ‘The Tears of all Oceans, you have them!’

Conva began to shiver visibly. He collapsed to the marble floor, his voice trembling with fear. ‘Mighty One, they were stolen!’

Ublaz sighed deeply, slumping back on his throne as if the bad news came as no surprise to him. ‘Tell me how this thing happened.’

Two Monitors entered the throne room bearing a litter containing the booty from Conva’s ship Waveworm. At a nod from Ublaz they set it down in front of him.

The corsair continued his narrative in broken tones. ’Two moons after we slew the tribe of Lutra I charted a course following the coast south. I knew a stream of freshwater runs out across the beach near an area named Mossflower. We dropped anchor there and took on fresh water. When Waveworm was ready to get under sail again, two of my crew, both weasels, Flairnose and Graylunk, were discovered missing. So were the rose pearls in the scallop shell – they’d stolen them and jumped ship. I gave chase, tracked them, leaving behind only three to guard the ship. We found Flairnose wounded sore three days later. They had quarrelled over the pearls, and Graylunk had stabbed him. We searched Flairnose – he had no pearls, though before he died he told us that he’d given Graylunk a bad skull wound when they fought.

’Two days on, following Graylunk’s trail, we came upon a big building called Redwall Abbey. I had my crew scout around it in a wide circle, but the only track of Graylunk we could find went straight to the main door. This Redwall is a large, well-fortified place, with many creatures living there. We did not let them see us; their numbers were tenscore more than ours.

‘Graylunk is inside Redwall with the pearls, or if he has died from his wound then the pearls are still within the walls of that Abbey. I could do no more, Mighty One, not with the numbers I had. I made it back to my ship with all speed and hastened here to bring you the news.’

Ublaz moved smoothly around the booty on the litter, sifting through it with his silver-bladed dagger. ‘Dented beakers, bone tailrings, gold neckband, huh, more like brass,’ he said to himself. ‘Small purple pearls, worthless musselseeds. Except for the rose pearls, the tribe of Lutra had nothing of value – they were poor as beggars!’

He ceased his examination and stood over the quaking corsair. ‘And you, bold Conva, what shall I do with you?’ The Emperor’s fearsome eyes bored into Conva’s mind.

His spirit completely broken with terror, the corsair grovelled shamelessly at the Emperor’s footpaws. ‘Mighty One, Great Emperor, spare me. I. will gather more crew and the help of other captains. Give me a chance and I will go to Redwall and bring back the Tears of all Oceans.’

Ublaz stepped hard on the back of Conva’s neck, trapping his head against the floor. ‘Scum of the sea, fool who cannot control his own crew!’ the pine marten said, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘Do you think I would let an idiot like you travel half round the world to fight a war against Redwall Abbey? I have heard of that place. The bones of warlords moulder at its gates; more than one has tried to breach those red walls and died miserably. If I am to retrieve the Tears of all Oceans it needs cunning strategy.’ Ublaz pointed his dagger at a Trident-rat guard. ‘You, go and fetch my Monitor General!’

Leaning down, the pine marten nicked Conva’s ear with his dagger. ‘You I will let live, until I know the truth of your story. Take him away and billet him in the Monitor barracks.’

Conva knew it was pointless to beg for mercy. He had escaped instant death, but how long would he survive unarmed in the barracks of the strange, flesh-eating lizards? He was led off stunned, almost speechless with terror.

Lask Frildur the Monitor General stood before the Emperor, flat reptilian eyes unblinking, scales making a dry rustle as his heavy spiked tail swished lazily against the marble floor. Ublaz nodded approvingly. The Monitor General had never let him down; everybeast on Sampetra knew and feared the reputation of Lask Frildur.

‘Does all go well with you, my strong right claw?’ Ublaz said, as he poured wine for them both.

The Emperor turned his head from Lask’s foul breath as the lizard answered, ‘Yarr, Mightinezz. Lazk Frildur awaitz your orderz!’

The mad-eyed marten took a sip of wine and wiped his mouth fastidiously on a silk kerchief. ‘Good! I want you to take the ship of Conva and carry out an important mission for me.’

The Monitor General’s eyes flickered momentarily. ‘I will go the endz of oceanz if Ublaz commandz!’

He accepted the goblet of wine that was pushed towards him, holding it at throat height. Lask never let his eyes stray from those of Ublaz; his head did not dip to the goblet, instead a long tongue snaked out and lapped at the wine as the Emperor gave his instructions.

‘It is a long voyage to where the sun rises in the east, a place called the land of Mossflower. Take the Waveworm and her crew, with Romsca the ferret as captain, and a score of your Monitors. Here is what you must do . . .’

Outside the surf boomed on the sunwarmed rocks of the escarpment, and ships bobbed at anchor in the harbour. Sampetra shimmered under the midday sun, a once beautiful jewel of the oceans, now tainted by the evil of its ruler.

SAGITAR SAWFANG WAS bigger than most searats, lean and sinewy with a mean disposition. She was second only to Lask Frildur the Monitor General. Sagitar had fought her way up through the ranks of the Emperor’s Trident-rats, until she held the undisputed title of Chief Trident-rat. Whilst the rats under her command patrolled Sampetra’s harbour and taverns, keeping order among the sea vermin, Sagitar leaned on a jetty stanchion, watching Waveworm grow small on the eastern horizon, bound for Mossflower. Grasping her trident haft resolutely, she allowed herself a grim smile of satisfaction. Now she alone was the strong right paw of Ublaz, solely responsible for discipline among the wavescum who anchored at Sampetra.

Fate however is a cruel trickster. Turning her face west, Sagitar saw her happiness would be short-lived. The Chief Trident-rat knew the identity of the barque sailing in from the western ocean. No other vessel flew streaming red pennants from three mastheads – it had to be the Freebooter. She rapped the three-pronged metal head of her trident against the jetty timbers until a Trident-rat came running to her summons.

Few ships that sailed into Sampetra had a master with a reputation for danger like Barranca, captain of the Freebooter. Scorning pawholds, he balanced perfectly, high on the heaving prow, reckless and daring. Barranca was every inch a real swashbuckler, clad in flame-red silks, with a long sabre thrust into his broad, black, garnet-studded belt. Loose ends of the corsair stoat’s headband fluttered in the breeze as he pointed shoreward, calling out to his steersrat, ‘Haharr, see, Guja, ’tis ole sourpuss Sagitar an’ a welcomin’ committee awaitin’ us, let’s not disappoint ’em!’

Swinging nimbly to the deck, Barranca whipped out his sabre and began roaring orders to Freebooter’s crew. ‘All paws on deck, an’ arm yerselves to the teeth, mates!’

The vessel’s crew were a villainous and motley collection, mainly searats but with a scattering of ferrets, stoats and weasels. They fairly bristled with an array of cutlasses, daggers and axes.

Barranca drew his weasel mate Blowfly to one side. ‘Don’t stand any ole nonsense off’n Mad Eyes’ creatures, y’hear?’

Blowfly produced a broad curved knife. Showing his blackened teeth, he licked the blade meaningfully, and said, ‘Aye aye, Cap’n, we’ll show ’em they cain’t push Freebooter’s buckoes round, just you give the word!’

‘Dangerous, matey, we’re dangerous!’ The corsair tossed his sabre high in the air, catching it skilfully as the blade flashed downwards. ‘Haharr, you watch me tweak Sagitar’s tail. I’ve never liked the cut o’ that pompous rat’s jib an’ she don’t like me, so there ain’t no love lost atwixt us!’

Twoscore Trident-rats stood to rigid attention on the jetty. Grim-faced, Sagitar watched Freebooter heave starboard side on to the pier and make fast to it. Barranca’s loud insulting challenge hailed her.

Sagitar pointed her trident menacingly at the grinning corsair. ‘Lask Frildur is the least of your worries. I’m the one who’ll be dealing with you and your rabble if there’s any trouble!’

Barranca leapt up, straddling the jetty and ship’s rail. ‘Yer don’t say? Where’s our ole mate the Monitor General then? Done us all a favour an’ died, I ’ope. Haharrharr!’

Sagitar allowed herself a thin malicious smile. ‘Not at all. Lask is still very much alive, sailing for the Mossflower coast on Waveworm at this very moment.’

Barranca turned and winked at Blowfly. ‘Hoho, is he? I’ll wager me brother Conva ain’t too pleased about that, eh, mate, ’avin’ that scaly ole reptile aboard as a passenger.’

Sagitar did not attempt to conceal the pleasure in her voice. ‘Your brother Conva is no longer captain of the Waveworm. He is now a prisoner of Emperor Ublaz and is kept in the Monitor barracks. I’ll give him your best regards when I see him. Right, let’s see what you’ve got on board in the way of tribute.’

Barranca blocked the Chief Trident-rat’s path aboard, his eyes fierce with challenge. ‘Put one paw aboard o’ my ship, rat, an’ I’ll gut ye! Crew, stand by to repel boarders!’

Freebooter’s crew crowded the starboard rail, weapons ready for use against the Trident-rats. Barranca’s gleaming sabretip hovered close to Sagitar’s throat.

She gulped visibly. ‘I warn you, this is the command of Emperor Ublaz you are defying!’

The corsair did not back down a fraction. ‘No it ain’t, this is one of yore fancy ideas. The tribute fer Ublaz will be unloaded onto this jetty by my crew – you can come back tomorrow an’ collect it. Now shift yerself, rat!’

Sagitar knew she had lost the argument. Drawing back, she marshalled her command, calling aloud to Barranca as they marched off, ‘I’ll report this to the Emperor. He will hear of your defiance!’

The derisive reply stung her as she left the jetty. ‘Report wot yer like, ratnose! Ublaz knows my ship always brings the best booty to ’im, an’ he trusts me to unload it!’

Word of Barranca’s arrival ran like wildfire around the harbour. He was popular and well liked by all the pirates on Sampetra. Grog was broken out for all searat and corsair captains, who met with Barranca aboard his ship.

Having heard from them of his brother’s arrest and imprisonment, he addressed them fiercely. ‘Who does Mad Eyes think ’e is to lord it over us, mates? That pine marten was only a corsair like ourselves who chanced t’ find this island first. Now ’e takes the best of our plunder, makes us live by some fancy set o’ rules he invented, an’ kills or imprisons who ’e likes. It ain’t right, I tell yer!’

A grizzled searat captain called Slashback answered, ‘Aye, messmate, but Ublaz has Trident-rats an’ Monitors to do ’is biddin’. They enforce the laws round ’ere.’

Barranca whacked the flat of his sabre blade down on the table. ‘I remember when seabeasts were free an’ the only rules we ’ad were our own. Now look at us! Wot ’ave we come to, mates?’

A tall sombre weasel captain called Bilgetail shrugged. ‘No one can stand against Mad Eyes an’ his army.’

Barranca looked around the assembly. ‘You, Slashback, an’ you, Rocpaw, Bloodsnout, Rippdog, Flaney, yore all cap’ns, you command crews. By my reckonin’ we must outnumber lizards an’ Trident-rats two to one, think of that! An’ ’ere’s another thing: Lask Frildur ain’t ’ere no more. Who knows if’n ’e’ll ever make it back? Aye, an’ a score o’ Monitors gone with ’im too! If ever there was a right time fer us to take over this island it’s now!’

There was a moment’s silence, then Rippdog the weasel stood alongside Barranca and voiced her opinion. ‘I’m with you, mate! Our lives ain’t our own since we been dockin’ at Sampetra. That pine marten even ’as us attackin’ each other if’n we don’t drop anchor ’ere an’ pay ’alf a cargo to ’im!’

Bloodsnout, another female corsair, joined her companion. ‘Rippdog an’ Barranca are right, Ublaz is too greedy! He’s got all the shipbuildin’ an’ repairin’ wood piled up back of ’is palace. There ain’t any good trees growin’ on the island no more. Last trip my vessel run afoul o’ rocks, ripped part of the stern away, Sagitar an’ Lask took all my cargo in payment fer timber to fix ’er up again. We should get wood free, whenever we needs it!’

Bilgetail nodded, moving decisively to Barranca’s side. ‘I’ll join ye. Mad Eyes is growin’ too powerful, ’e executed two of my crew for arguin’ with those Monitors over booty. Just ’ad ’em dragged off an’ slain – you all remember it.’

Heads nodded around the table. Barranca stove in the top of a cask with his sabre handle. ‘Dip yore beakers into this ’ere seaweed grog an’ drink if yore with me, mates. Anybeast that don’t dip a beaker is against us!’

Ublaz stood watching the ship Freebooter from the high window slit of an antechamber. Sagitar waited apprehensively at the pine marten’s side. After a while, the Emperor turned to his Chief Trident-rat.

‘Slashback, Flaney, Rocpaw – all the captains are aboard Barranca’s ship. What would you say they are doing, Sagitar?’

The Trident-rat chose her words carefully. ‘Mightiness, who knows what is in the minds of wave vermin?’

The silver dagger blade tapped gently against Sagitar’s tunic. ‘I do. Ublaz knows all, that is why I am Emperor. They are plotting against me, they think I am weak without Lask Frildur. But we will show them, won’t we, my strong right paw?’

The Trident-rat bobbed her head respectfully. ‘As you say, Excellency. I am yours to command!’

The pine marten tapped the dagger blade against his sharp white teeth a moment, before giving further orders. ‘Take all your Trident-rats fully armed, quickly now, and block off the end of the jetty. Do not attack, but don’t let any of the captains pass. Keep them aboard the ship, and await my command.’

Sagitar went swiftly off to carry out orders. Ublaz motioned to a Monitor guard. ‘Assemble all my Monitors in the courtyard and bring the prisoner Conva here to me.’

Grath Longfletch, a daughter of Holt Lutra, should have been dead two seasons ago. She had been found three nights after Conva’s attack on her family home, crawling through the mud of a half-dried stream with horrific injuries. Glinc the watervole and his wife Sitch dragged Grath between them to an overhang in a mossy bank, close to their den. As best they could, the voles tended the otter, but there was little the pair could do, save give her some hot soup and cover her with dry bracken.

Grath lay all season long, at the very entrance to death’s door, some hidden inner flame keeping her alive – reliving in nightmares with loud cries the horrors she had survived. Gradually she recovered and spent her days eating and sleeping, growing slowly in strength and agility. At her request, Glinc brought a long sturdy yew branch to Grath. With a flint shard the otter scraped and fashioned it, wetting and steaming the wood over a fire. She strung it with flaxen threads, twined and greased by beeswax. Then one by one she made her arrows of ashwood, each as straight as a die, feathered with the green plumage of a lapwing Sitch had found dead upon the shore.

Then, early one spring morn, Grath rose wordlessly and strode off along the stream shallows. Glinc and Sitch followed the silent otter, watching her intently. They had never spoken to Grath, nor she to them, since the night they had found her. Glinc and his wife seldom spoke to one another; some bankvoles are like that.

Near the northern shore both voles sat on a streambank, where it broadened to meet the estuary. On the opposite bank, Grath was a long time out of sight, inside the holt of her father Lutra.

Emerging stone-faced and still silent, Grath set aside her weapons and went to work. Gathering twigs, root branches and stones she piled them up over the holt entrance. She carried mud from the riverbank and plastered it over the doorway, mixing it with grass and leaves. It took her a full day and most of the night to seal up the humble cavern, making it a tomb for her massacred family.

Afterwards, Grath washed herself in the stream. Silvery scar traces showed through her wet fur. Then, standing motionless in the water, she watched the gentle spring dawn spread its light across the skies, blinking as she shed tears for her kin.

Gathering her great bow and the quiverful of green-feathered shafts, Grath Longfletch waded to the far bank and took hold of the two bankvoles’ paws.

‘Friends, I know not yore names, but I thank ye both, for takin’ care o’ me an’ savin’ my life. I won’t be back this way, so fortune care for y’both. Farewell!’

Grath shouldered her quiver and bow, then turning west she set off at an easy lope towards the dunes along the shore. Both watervoles stared at the back of the long figure until it was lost to view. Then Glinc spoke to his wife.

‘I would not like to be one of the beasts that slew her kin. That creature carries death in her paws!’

EXTRACT FROM THE journal of Rollo bankvole, Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower country.

Spring weather can change suddenly as the mind of an old mousewife choosing mushrooms. Dearie me, how it can make the most carefully laid plans go astray!

This very morning the weather was so soft and fair that Abbot Durral decided to hold our first spring season feast out of doors. Poor Durral, he spent most of the night in the kitchens, cooking and baking with his friend Higgle Stump. Strange, is it not: Higgle was one of the winecellar-keepers of the family Stump, yet he wound up as Redwall’s Kitchen Friar, and Durral was once a lowly kitchenmouse, but now he is Father Abbot of all Redwall. He is such a humble old fellow, his love of the kitchens never left him.

Ah me! Seasons roll upon seasons and yet our Abbey remains the same, a loving old place, filled with happiness and peace, even though our old friends are but memories to us now. We who were once young are now greyed with age. Orlando the Axe, our great badger Lord, roamed off long ago, as male badgers will, to end his seasons at Salamandastron, mountain stronghold of great badger warriors. I do not know if he still lives. Auma, his daughter, is now the Abbey Mother; badgers are indeed noble creatures, with a lifespan which nobeast can equal.

So, that only leaves two, Auma and myself, Rollo bankvole, who have lived and prospered in bygone seasons. The others have gone to their well-deserved rest, including Mattimeo and Tess Churchmouse whose son, Martin, is now our Abbey Warrior. Peacefully they went in the certainty that the wisdom and knowledge they gave to this great Abbey is still held strong in the stone of Redwall and in the minds of its creatures who carry on the wonderful tradition . . . Great seasons! How I do wander off, I should have been called Rollo of the roving quill pen. Where was I? Oh yes, I was telling you of the outdoor feast our Abbot had planned. Well, needless to say, as soon as a few tables were carried out to the orchard and some benches to sit upon, swoosh, down came the rain! However, I must own up to the fact that I was not totally unhappy. The Great Hall inside our Abbey is a comfortable place for feasting, far better for my creaky bones than a draughty orchard in early spring.

Foremole, the leader of our Abbeymoles, has convinced the Abbot to commence festivities late this afternoon. This will give Foremole and his crew time to create a huge turnip’n’tater’n’beetroot pie, a most homely delicacy. Actually, I think my paw rheumatism is playing me up a bit, so here I’ll end my daily recording and pop off over to the kitchens, where I can savour the sights and smells of the good food. Not that I’m a greedy creature, you understand, merely appreciative, and slightly peckish too. My warm old cloak will give me sound protection in this awful rainstorm, the walk from gatehouse to Abbey seems to get longer as I get older . . .

Rollo the Recorder donned his cloak and stirred the fat otter curled in slumber on the hearthmat by the gatehouse fire.

‘Wullger, come on, matey, wakey wakey. Let’s pay the kitchens a visit and see how the feast preparations are progressing.’

Wullger yawned, stretched and blinked in one movement, then, scratching his rudderlike tail, he stood up. ‘Wakey wakey y’self, Rollo. I wasn’t asleep, jus’ closin’ me eyes ’cos yore scratchy pen was annoyin’ me. Hah! Look at y’self, you got more skins on than an onion!’

The bankvole sniffed airily. ‘Young snip! You’ll learn as y’get older that comfort outweighs fashion. I need to wrap up warm until ’tis early summer!’

The two friends bent their heads against the wind and rain as they left the gatehouse, still keeping up a friendly banter.

‘Lissen, you need all that wrappin’, matey, stops yer blowin’ off like an ole autumn leaf!’

‘Know your trouble, fatty tail, no respect for your elders. It makes me shiver just looking at you, trolling round wearing little else but belt and tunic.’

‘Gah! Fresh air an’ a spot o’ rain never ’urted anybeast. Come on, wrinklechops, step out smartlike!’

The kitchens were a bustle of steam, noise and merriment. Teasel, the hogwife of Higgle Stump, was crimping the edges of an apple and damson pie, prior to putting it in the oven. She was about to open the oven door when a little molemaid called Diggum bumped into the back of her with a flour trolley. Teasel fell backward with a whoop, holding the pie, and landed on top of the trolley. Diggum shot off regardless, head down, pushing the trolley at full speed. Foremole saw them coming, swiftly threw down a barrel wedge and flung wide the oven door where his deeper’n ever pie was cooking. The trolley stopped with a jerk, Foremole grabbed the back of Teasel’s apron as she let go of the pie, and it shot from her paws to land neatly in the oven alongside Foremole’s creation.

He grinned and nodded at her, rumbling in the curious molespeech, ‘Thurr yew go, marm, bain’t no sense a wasten oven space, hurr hurr!’

Diggum dusted flour from her smock and blinked. ‘Thankee, zurr. Can oi use ee uther oven furr moi chessberry flan?’

Foremole raised a cloud of flour as he patted her dusty head. ‘Whoi, surrpintly ee can, liddle missie, but wot be chessberries?’

Diggum twitched her button nose in despair at Foremole’s ignorance. ‘Whoi, chessnutters an’ blackb’rries, zurr, wot else?’

Teasel the hogwife hid a smile as she took Diggum’s paw, saying, ‘Chestnuts an’ blackberries, indeed. Come on, we’ll make it t’gether, I’ll roll the pastry.’

Diggum curtsied prettily. ‘Thankee, marm, an oi’ll eat any blackb’rries wot be a wrong size.’

Friar Higgle Stump was topping off a multicoloured woodland trifle with yellow meadowcream, roaring orders all about as he did.

‘Aye, do that, missie. Gurrbowl, be a good mole, nip down the cellars an’ see if my brother Furlo ’as broached a new barrel of October Ale. Tell ’im I could do wi’ a beaker to liven up my dark fruit cake mixture.’

‘Get goin’, y’cheeky wretch! Craklyn, see if you can get some o’ that dried mint down off the rafter ’ooks, I need t’make tea.’

The squirrel Craklyn shot off like a rocket; she bounced from a stove top to a high cupboard and leapt up to the rafter hooks, skilfully plucking a bundle of dried mint. Cutting a somersault she landed next to Friar Higgle, dropped the mint in his paws, scooped a blob of meadowcream from the mixing bowl and vaulted off licking her paw.

Abbot Durral watched her admiringly as he carried a deep dish to place in front of Higgle. ‘What an acrobat our Craklyn is, eh, Friar? Taste that and tell me what you think, my old friend.’

With a knifetip, Higgle sampled a morsel from the dish edge. ‘Mmmm! Now that is what I call a real honey rhubarb crumble!’

Durral shuffled his footpaws in embarrassment at the praise given to his simple offering. ‘Oh, it’s just something I made up from an old recipe. Shall we have the tables laid for around twilight? I’ve lit a good log fire in Great Hall, that’ll warm it through nicely.’

Higgle, topping his trifle, nodded agreement. ‘Good idea, Father Abbot. Have you seen Martin about?’

Abbot Durral scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Can’t say I have. Perhaps he’s up in the infirmary with Sister Cicely. I’ll go and take a look.’

Wind and rain shook the treetops of Mossflower until they swayed and undulated madly; howling gales sang a wild dirge between the weighty treetrunks. Paw in paw, fighting for breath, Tansy and Arven staggered doggedly on towards the forest fringe. Both of them were weary and pawsore and, driven by fright, they had partially lost their way. Then Tansy spotted the tall spire of Redwall through a gap in the woodlands. Staggering, the pair ran; slopping through a narrow ditch, fighting against whippy spring brush and squelching through rain-drenched ferns. Heedless of young nettles lashing at their footpaws they rounded a massive three-topped oak. Straight into the paws of a dark-cloaked form.

The baby squirrel and the young hedgehog maid squealed aloud in fright as they felt themselves held by strong paws.

The strong kindly face of Martin, the Warrior of Redwall, smiled reassuringly down at them. With a shriek of relief, Tansy and Arven buried their faces in Martin’s cloak. Perching Arven on his shoulder and taking Tansy by the paw, Martin strode back towards the Abbey.

‘Sister Cicely was getting quite worried about you two,’ Martin said gently. ‘You should have been back at the Abbey hours ago, when the storm broke. Where in the name of seasons have you been, all muddy and scratched, with your clothes torn like that?’

Arven was not afraid of anything now that Martin had found them. He had perked up considerably. ‘Me found a skallingtung inna rocks!’ he cried.

‘In the sandstone rocks, sir,’ Tansy explained, ‘down a deep crack, there was a skeleton of somebeast. Ugh! All white an’ bony an’ raggy!’

Martin saw the young hogmaid was bone weary. He let her lean against him and shielded her with his cloak. ‘Well, you’re safe now,’ he said. ‘You can tell the elders about it when we get back to the Abbey. Oh! I forgot to tell you, there’s to be a surprise spring feast in Great Hall this evening. How d’you like that, eh, young ’uns?’

Sister Cicely put both Arven and Tansy straight to bed when Martin delivered them back to her at the sick bay. They had been sound asleep before Martin arrived at the Abbey gate. Spreading his cloak by the hearth to dry, Martin accompanied Cicely downstairs, explaining as he went. ‘Something frightened them in the woodland today. I’ll tell you about it when we’re with the elders.’

Nobeast could be quite sure what made the spring feast such a success, the food or the fun. Martin and Cicely sat at the table with the Abbot, Foremole, Higgle, Auma and some other elders. They watched in amusement as the younger ones sat with their food on a thick rush mat, eating and providing their own entertainment. The smallest Abbey babes, the Dibbuns, ate all in sight with growing appetites.

‘Oi thurr, Garffy, pass oi yon fruitycake. Yurr, you’m c’n ’ave some o’ this plum pudden, ’tis turrible tasty!’

‘Well thankee, my ole moleymate, I didn’t know it were you be’ind those cream whiskers. Father h’Abbot, sir, would you like some o’ my strawberry rolypoly?’

Smiling, the Abbot shook his head. ‘No thank you, Durgel, I baked that specially for you and Garffy. Besides, I’m enjoying my salad. Nothing like fresh spring salad after the winter – what d’you say, Auma?’

The badger Mother held up a piece of cheese in her huge paw. ‘Aye, Durral, and when there’s soft white cheese and hot baked oatbread to go with it, well, I’m happy.’

Martin looked up from a steaming mushroom and leek pastie. ‘I’ve never seen you sad when there’s food about, Auma!’

Amid roars of laughter at her huge appetite the badger winked at Martin. ‘Well, sir, I’m only making up for all the food that you used to scoff from in front of me, when you sat on my knee as a Dibbun!’

Furlo Stump the cellar-keeper poured himself a beaker of October Ale. ‘Be you not careful, marm, an’ Martin’ll sit on yore knee agin an’ scoff all that bread’n’cheese, I’ll wager!’ he chortled.

Rollo put aside a platter which had contained chestnut and blackberry flan and banged the tabletop with a soup ladle. ‘Come on, you young ’uns, how’s about a bit of song and dance for your poor elders before we fall asleep from boredom!’

In a flash Piknim the mousemaid and Craklyn the squirrelmaid were up and bowing to each other as they warbled an old ballad.

‘Oh, look out, it’s the terrible two!’ Sister Cicely murmured in Martin’s ear.

Piknim and Craklyn flounced about, grinning broadly and curtsying deeply at the cheers and applause they received.

Auma chuckled, watching mouse and squirrelmaid milking the ovation for all it was worth. ‘Those two, what a pair! Hi there, Gurrbowl, what about a reel?’

The little mole took up his drum and thrummed at it with his heavy digging claws, calling to Friar Higgle, ‘Coom on, zurr ’iggle, owt with ee ’ogtwanger!’

The Friar produced his hogtwanger, a curious three-stringed instrument which had belonged to his father, Jubilation Stump. Holding it strings-down over his head, he began humming a tune and nodding oddly. As he did, his headspikes struck the strings in time to the nodding and humming. Hogtwangers can only be played by hedgehogs, and Friar Higgle Stump was an expert.

Recognizing the lively reel, Abbeybabes and Dibbuns sprang up and jigged about furiously, calling aloud, ‘Frogs inna gully! Frogs inna gully!’

Auma sat watching, great footpads tapping until she could restrain herself no longer. Then the big badger Mother of Redwall lumbered out to join the dance, clapping her paws and whooping, ‘Frogs in the gully! Frogs in the gully!’

Martin and the elders remained seated, helpless with laughter at the sight. Gurrbowl stepped up the drumbeat and Higgle kept pace on his hogtwanger; faster and faster they played. Hopping, skipping and leaping, the dancers whirled, hallooing loudly.

While Auma made her own hefty pace, exhausted Dibbuns perched on both her footpaws and were bumped up and down. Then, dropping to all fours, Auma let the tiny creatures climb onto her broad back. When she was fully loaded the crafty badger danced off in the direction of the dormitories, followed by Higgle and Gurrbowl, still playing as they shepherded the other young ones up to bed.

Later, when she had rejoined the elders at table, Auma sat back and sighed wearily. ‘Phew! I’m getting too old to do that much longer!’

Martin patted her striped muzzle affectionately. ‘You’re a sly old fraud, Auma, you enjoy it more than the Dibbuns.’

He poured her a beaker of cold mint tea, his voice growing serious. ‘Little Arven and Tansy were in a dreadful state when I found them in Mossflower Wood today: dirty, ragged, weary, and very frightened.’

‘Indeed they were,’ agreed Sister Cicely, ‘both so exhausted they couldn’t speak. I popped up to see them in the sick bay not an hour back – fast asleep, the pair of them. Strange though, Tansy is a proper little rock of good sense. Did she say what had frightened them, Martin?’

Martin looked around the expectant faces of the elders, and said, ‘They found a dead creature in the woodlands . . .’

The Pearls of Lutra

A Tale of Redwall

Brian Jacques

Illustrated by Allan Curless

THE TALES OF REDWALL

About the Author

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