[Redwall 18] - High Rhulain (6 page)

As the dispirited cats carried their wounded weilmark from the scene, high up, far out of arrowshot, a barnacle goose honked its delight to the skies.

That evening at supper, the Great Hall of Redwall was abuzz with the exploits of Tiria and her friends. The ottermaid sat with her father, Abbess Lycian, molemum Burbee, Brink Greyspoke and Foremole Grudd. She had already related her story of the incident, though quite modestly.

The Abbess clasped Tiria's paw warmly. “You were very brave to save the bird's life, my dear, particularly when you were outnumbered two to one by the vermin. You have a courageous daughter, Skipper.”

Almost at a loss for words, Banjon swelled with pride as he patted Tiria's back. “I wish yore mamma had lived to see ye now, gel. She always said us Wildloughs were a warrior clan from somewhere. Yore a credit to us, Tiria.”

The ottermaid asked a question she had often mulled over. “Do you think I'll become a Skipper someday?”

Her father put aside his tankard of October Ale, explaining almost apologetically to her, “Ye'd make a finer Skipper than any otter I've ever met, myself included. But the Law of Otters says that maids can't become Skippers. I know it's not fair, Tiria, but the law's the law, an' we've always lived by it.”

Tiria persisted. “But I've heard tales saying that there were maids who became Skippers in other parts of the land.”

Banjon took a draught of his October Ale and then slammed the tankard down decisively. “This ain't the time or place t'be talkin' of these matters, me gel. May'ap there are places where it happens, but not in Mossflower territory, an' I ain't responsible for wot sea otters do. We abide by our Otter Law, an' that's that!”

There was a moment's awkward silence, which was broken by the arrival of Friar Bibble. The shrewcook was pushing a trolley, upon which rested a steaming cauldron. He wiped perspiration beads from his snout with a spotted kerchief before he proclaimed proudly, “Look you, Tiria. I've made a pot of special shrimp'n'hotroot soup, just for you, my brave young 'un!”

Freshwater shrimp'n'hotroot soup was a dish dear to the heart of all otters. Tiria sniffed its fragrant aroma, complimenting the kindly friar. “Marvellous! Nobeast can make shrimp'n'hotroot like you do, sir!”

As he began ladling the soup out, Bibble winked at Skipper. “Indeed to goodness, missy, don't be sayin' things like that. You'll be causin' trouble twixt me an' your da!”

Banjon accepted a bowlful eagerly. “Oh no, mate, 'tis a fact. Even I can't make it taste like you do. Ye can make 'otroot better'n an otter, Bibble!”

Tiria chuckled. “Exactly what do you put in it, sir?”

The friar began explaining. “Well, I uses more watercress an' scallions than some does, an' a touch of wild ransom . . . ” He halted and glared at her with mock censure. “Indeed to goodness, missy, I can't be tellin' everybeast about those secret herbs an' spices I uses in my recipes!”

Foremole Grudd had been watching Brinty, Tribsy and Girry. They were seated at the other end of the table, telling of the day's adventures . . . with many embellishments to the facts.

Grudd laughed aloud. “Hurr hurr hurr! Do ee lissen to they'm young 'uns? Oi never hurd such fibbin' in all moi borned days!”

Brinty was positioning various items on the table as he told of his role. “See these candied chestnuts? Well, they were the water rats. Wicked villains, all twelve of 'em!”

The molebabe Groop interrupted. “Oi hurd Miz Tirree sayen' et wurr h'eight ratters!”

Girry cleared his mouth of plum pudden. “She was too busy whackin' about with her sling to be counting vermin. Actually, there were thirteen rats. I battled with two of 'em, big rascals who'd climbed up onto the branch of the tree while I was cuttin' the big bird's rope.”

Tribsy left off demolishing some rhubarb crumble to make his contribution to the fictional action. He took two loaves and stuck a fork in each one, placing them amid the candied chestnuts. “Yon loafers wurr ole Brinty an' moiself. Hurr, wot ee purr o' wurriers we'm was! These yurr forks bee's ee yew staves us wurr a-carryen'. Bain't that roight, Brin?”

Brinty got carried away as he invented further heroics. Using the loaves and forks, he sent chestnuts bouncing and flying widespread as he yelled, “That's right, we fought 'em! Bangbashwallopsplat! We sent all fourteen of those giant rats scurryin'. Wailin' for their mammas they were, the fatty-bottomed cowards!”

After wiping a splash of soup from his cheek, Skipper Banjon peered at the candied chestnut floating in his bowl. “Look, a rat's just landed in my soup. We'd best eat up, daughter, afore they tell the tale again an' increase the number of vermin they defeated!”

 

After supper, most Redwallers went to sit out on the Abbey steps to enjoy the summer evening's warmth. Tiria and her father joined Abbess Lycian and Brink Greyspoke on a visit to the Infirmary to check on the hawk's progress. Brother Perant and Old Quelt, the Recorder-cum-Librarian, were studying the bird. It had flown up onto a window ledge and was inspecting its new surroundings.

Perant reported his findings avidly. “Well, friends, what can I say? That bird is a most remarkable creature, just look at it! Earlier today you wouldn't have given a split acorn on its chances of survival. However, no sooner had I removed the barb from its mouth and cleaned up its bumps and bruises when it began drinking water. Hah, and not just wetting its beak, it consumed nearly a full basin. Almost a magical recovery you'll agree!”

The learned Brother pointed at his patient. “See how those golden eyes glitter. Notice how it has preened its plumage back into shape, truly remarkable! Admittedly its mouth and beak must be rather stiff and quite sore, but what a grip on life our feathered friend has, eh? A real survivor I'd say, yes indeed!”

The big bird swept its savage golden eyes over the assembly, then went back to grooming its wing feathers. Tiria felt happy for the bird, clearly a brave and solitary creature. “Do you think its thick plumage saved it from severe injury, Brother? Those rats were brutal vermin.”

Perant nodded. “I don't think we fully realise just how strong the bird is, Tiria. It's a formidable creature.”

Much to everybeast's surprise, Abbess Lycian strode calmly over to the big bird and began gently stroking its head. It stayed quite still, perhaps sensing that she meant it no harm. Lycian spoke softly to it.

“My goodness, you certainly are a big, strong fellow. I wonder what sort of bird you really are?”

Old Quelt had the answer. He was a silver-furred squirrel, an ancient dry stick of a beast, bent by many long seasons. Besides being the Redwall Recorder, Quelt had appointed himself the first Abbey Librarian. He had commandeered the lowest of the attic rooms and made it his own. There he had gathered every piece of written material Redwall possessed. Brink and Foremole Grudd had shelved the room out at his request. Parchments, scrolls, pamphlets, tomes and volumes covered the library from ceiling to floor. The old squirrel held in his paw a slim, bark-bound book. All of the Abbey members who had assembled listened carefully to what he had to say.

“This is a record of birds, written by one Abbess Bryony in the far bygone seasons. She had a particular interest in hunting birds. Let me read you what she wrote about this specimen.”

Peering through his rock crystal spectacles, Quelt leafed the yellowed parchment pages. “Hmm, here it is. A bird that is rarely seen in the Mossflower territories. They have been reported by geese who have visited Redwall as mainly inhabiting a place called Green Isle, where they hunt the rivers, loughs and streams. They are said to be large, powerful birds; their description runs thus. Dark-brown upper plumage, with white feathers underneath the body. Long wings, with brownand-white-patterned undersides, angled two-thirds of the way along. The head is white-crowned, with two dark stripes. These are barred across the eyes, giving a masklike aspect. The eyes are broadly gold-ringed, with jet-black centres. These birds have lethally curved beaks. They also possess four black talons of savage aspect on each blue-grey scaled leg.”

Closing the book, Quelt favoured Tiria with a rare smile. “So then, do ye not think your bird fits the description?”

The ottermaid agreed readily. “Indeed I do, sir, perfectly!”

The ancient Librarian pointed a bony paw at the bird. “These were known as pandions in olden times. What you have brought to our Abbey is an osprey, the great fish hawk!”

Brink Greyspoke stared admiringly at the osprey. “A fish'awk, eh? That 'un must need vittles wot he's used to. What d'ye think, Skip? Shall we go an' catch our osprey a fish? There's grayling aplenty in the Abbey pond.”

Skipper, who loved to go fishing but seldom got the chance, was all for the idea. “Aye, let's do that, Brink. Can't see that big ole feller starve now, can we? Er, with yore permission, Mother Abbess, me'n Mister Greyspoke would like to go night fishin'.”

Lycian could not help smiling at the eager pair. “Just for the benefit of the osprey, of course? Nothing to do with taking the little boat out on the pond, together with some refreshment for a quiet summer's night.”

Brink's eyes went dreamy at the thought. “Just me'n ole Skip, out on the pond in our liddle boat with the moon above, a flagon o' my best pale cider, some cheese'n'mushroom pasties an' a calm, warm night. Aaaah!”

Banjon kicked the Cellarhog's footpaw to silence him. “Er, no, Abbess, nothin' like that, but just like you said, for the benefit o' the osprey. By me rudder, it can be hard work, fishin' all night long for a fish big enough t'feed that feller's beak. That it will, marm!”

Neither could see Lycian's eyes twinkling as she bowed her head gravely. “A charitable and worthy act, my good friends. You have my permission.”

Tiria piped up excitedly. “Can I come too, please?”

Her father shook his head. “You've had quite enough for one day, me gel. I reckon a good night's rest is the best thing for ye.”

Seeing her crestfallen face, the Abbess suggested an alternative. “Obey your father, Tiria. Who knows? Tomorrow we may have more responsible tasks, now that you're growing up. But first you may go to the kitchens. Tell Friar Bibble I sent you for a treat, after all your good work today. I'm sure he'll have something special for you.”

Flashing the Abbess a brief smile of thanks, the ottermaid hurried off downstairs.

 

Friar Bibble looked up from his ovens. “Indeed to goodness,'tis the heroine of the woodcutters. What can I do for you, lovely miss?”

Tiria explained that the Abbess had sent her for a treat.

The tubby little shrewcook waved a paw around his domain. “Well now, what would ye like to eat, beauty?”

She shrugged. “I don't really know, sir.”

Taking a wooden paddle, Bibble opened one of the long oven doors. “Indeed to goodness, there's a thing, a young 'un who can't make up her own mind. Come and lend a paw here, missy, maybe I'll treat you to a Friar's Special.”

Using the long beechwood paddle, Tiria helped Friar Bibble to pull out loaves, cobs, farls and rolls, all for next morning's breakfast table. “What's a Friar's Special, sir?”

Bibble selected two crispy little golden batch loaves. “It's what I like to treat myself to after a long day's bakin'. You'll like it. Pass me that small pot off the oventop. Wrap a towel around it now, don't want to burn your paws.”

Tiria did as he bade, placing the pot in front of him. “Mmm, it smells delicious! What is it?”

Bibble sliced both batch loaves through with his knife. “Damsons an' crushed almonds cooked in honey an' aged cider.”

He ladled the mixture onto the cut loaves, then produced a flagon and two beakers. “Elderberry an' burdock cordial, just the thing. Come now, we'll sit on those sacks o' flour whilst we have our snack.”

Tiria began praising the wonderful treat. “It tastes really nice, sir.”

Bibble held up a flour-dusted paw. “Quiet now, don't go tellin' anybeast about my Special, or I'll have a full kitchen every night, so I will.”

The ottermaid promised him that she would keep silent, but only on condition that he would allow her to visit again for more.

The shrewcook shook his head in mock surprise. “Indeed to goodness, Tiria Wildlough, you're a beauty an' a rogue all in one. Be off to your bed, you young scallywag!”

Playfully he pursued her from the kitchens, waving a paddle.

Leaving the kitchens, Tiria wandered through Great Hall, stopping for a while at the beautiful Redwall tapestry. This was an intricately woven work, depicting as its main theme the legendary mouse, Martin the Warrior. He had been one of the Abbey's founders and the famed Champion of Redwall. Lanterns illuminated his heroic figure, whilst all around him vermin could be seen fleeing for their lives. Tiria often visited the tapestry. She loved to look at the Warrior, he was a valiant fighter, standing courageously against all odds. Formidable, yet with the light of kindness radiating from his eyes. Martin stood holding his great sword, which had been forged from a piece of a fallen star in the mountain fortress of Salamandastron, home of the mighty Badger Lords. Above the tapestry, lying on two wallspikes, the actual sword was displayed. It was nothing elaborate—a real warrior's blade, perfectly balanced, as deadly as chain lightning in a winterstorm, its point as keen as an ice needle. Tiria instinctively touched the only weapon she had ever known, the sling she had named Wuppit, belted about her waist, with its stone pouch attached.