Marlfox (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Song hoped that her friends had heard. She stood up silently behind the broad trunk of a sycamore and held her breath. Within a hair’s breadth she sensed one of the weasels stalking by. She stepped out behind the dark shape and hit out with the greenstone-topped stick, slamming it square between the weasel’s scraggy ears. He fell without a sound. Song placed her paw on his chest; he was stunned, but still alive. She hauled him into a sitting position, binding his paws behind him to the trunk of an ash with his own thonged sling. Then she undid the vermin’s broad belt and gagged him with that.

  Dippler lived by the code of the Guosim shrews, who seldom took prisoners. The weasel who had gone to the right met his end at the point of the young shrew’s rapier.

  Dann backtracked slightly, then stepped out in front of the stoat and took him completely by surprise. But the stoat was quick. He leapt to one side and began whining and pleading with the hard-eyed warrior with the deadly sword.

  ‘’Twas nought but a joke, mate. Can’t yer take a joke? We was jus’ ’avin a bit o’ fun wid youse . . .’

  Dann saw the stoat’s dagger coming and dodged sideways. Then he leapt forward, striking down with the blade of Martin. The stoat fell with a shriek as Song and Dippler came charging through the trees.

  ‘Dann, are you hurt, did you get him?’

  Dann stayed the writhing stoat on the ground with his footpaw. ‘I’m all right. Unfortunately my aim was bad in the darkness, or this scum would’ve been dead now.’

  The stoat groaned, then spat viciously at Dann. ‘You wounded me bad, y’stupid young fool. Couldn’t yer see ’twas only a joke? We wasn’t goin’ to ’urt yer!’

  Dann placed his sword edge on the side of the stoat’s neck. ‘One more word out o’ yore lyin’ mouth an’ yore head’ll be talkin’ to y’tail. How’s that for a joke, eh?’

  Song nodded back into the woodland. ‘Knocked my vermin cold and left him gagged an’ bound to a tree. How did you fare, Dipp?’

  Dippler wiped his rapier with a pawful of grass. ‘Ole Guosim proverb, a dead enemy ain’t an enemy no more!’ Sheathing his blade he went to the boat, calling aloud, ‘Burb, ’tis me, Dipp. Y’can bring ’er inshore now, mate.’

  Dann took Song to one side. ‘What do we do with the stoat?’ he said quietly. ‘I couldn’t bring myself to kill him, and we can’t just leave him here.’

  The squirrelmaid watched the writhing, groaning beast as she sought for a solution. ‘Go and get some rivermud. Leave this to me.’

  Dann fetched a good glob of mud from the shallows. Song knelt by the stoat, who was wounded deep in his right side. She tore off a strip of his tunic, slapped the mud on his injury and placed the torn tunic in a pad on top of it. ‘There, you’ll live. Tomorrow you can free your friend – he’s tied to an ash back there. Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you, stoat.’

  The stoat sneered and cleared his throat as if he were about to spit at Song. She gave him a quick hard cuff to the face. ‘Spit at me and I’ll leave you to my Guosim friend. You heard his rule about enemies. From now on you’ll have to learn to live with yourself. No more bullying, stealing or villainy for you, stoat. With that wound you’ll probably limp or walk bent for the rest of your days. My advice to you is to build yourself a home, grow your own food, or harvest it from the woodlands, fish, do what you will, but learn to lead a quiet honest life.’

  When Song arose the stoat lay sneering at her. ‘Leave me alone, squirrel. I knows ’ow t’lead me own life, see!’

  Dann tugged her away from the wounded vermin. ‘Leave him. Somebeasts never learn. He’ll be an idiot all his life an’ end up a dead fool!’

  It was not wise to stay any longer where they had camped. The four friends paddled off downstream and chose a campsite on the opposite bank. Too weary to do anything further, they dragged the Swallow onshore, overturned the boat and slept under it for the short remaining time until dawn.

  Morning brought with it another bright summer day. Eager to be off, the travellers breakfasted hastily. Soon they were paddling along in the centre of the wide stream. Sitting behind Burble, the young squirrelmaid could not help but notice the dark bruise at the base of his neck. ‘Take a rest if you need it, Burb. We’ll do the paddling.’

  ‘No need fer that, thank ye, missie. I’m all right. Us River’ead voles are tough as ould oak trees. Yiss yiss, that’s a fact!’

  Dann shipped his paddle. ‘No need for any of us to paddle, matey,’ he called back to Song. ‘See ’ow fast this current’s runnin’. May’s well sit back an’ rest. We’ll only need paddles to steer round rocks’n’things.’

  By mid-morning the green tunnel of overhanging tree branches was showing signs of thinning out. When noon arrived they were sorry the shade had been lost, for there was little respite from the blazing sun as the Swallow shot along on the swift stream. Dry arid scrub and rockstrewn banks, with little shrubbery growing in the dusty brown earth, stretched before them on both sides.

  Now they needed the paddles. The broad, deep stream grew treacherous, and sharp stone pinnacles began to appear, some with heavy drifts of timber, washed down by the water, piled up against them. On either side the stone sides of the banks rose higher, banded umber and fawn, worn smooth by the rushing torrents. The Swallow’s prow bobbed up and down as she sped between the steep walls of the gorge. There was little the travellers could do to arrest their furious progress. Dann and Dippler sat for’ard, plying their paddles this way and that to get the Swallow round the pinnacles, while Song consulted the rhyme Friar Butty had given her, speaking it aloud to Burble.

  ‘Then when the sky shows blue and light,

  And clear down to the bed you gaze,

  Be not deceived by rainbows bright,

  Beware tall stones and misted haze.’

  Song turned her eyes upward. ‘We’re no longer in the green tunnel, so there’s the sky showing blue and light. Is the water muddy or clear, Burb?’

  ‘Ah, ’tis fast-runnin’ as y’know, but still the stream’s deep an’ clear, yiss yiss, very clear, I see the bottom deep down.’

  ‘Great seasons, lookit the size o’ those rocks ahead!’

  They looked in the direction Dippler was pointing.

  Two enormous rock pinnacles, their tops thick with vegetation, reared out of the water further downstream like primitive sentinels. What lay beyond them was lost in a haze of mist formed by water spray shooting high as the stream divided three ways round the rock bases. The awesome spectacle was enhanced by a breathtakingly beautiful rainbow bridging the gorge.

  Suddenly, Song seized her paddle, shouting out above the roaring waters, ‘Bring her in to the side. Find somewhere we can stop. Quickly!’

  Backs bent and paddles digging deep, they fought the headlong current. Tacking and veering, drenched to the skin, the four friends battled to bring the frail vessel towards the high rock wall which formed one bank.

  Burble spotted a possible place. ‘There, see, yiss yiss, there, where the rift is!’

  Backing water madly, they checked the Swallow as she ran close to the towering cliff. All Dann could see for a moment was a wraithlike armoured mouse, hovering in the mist ahead, his hollow voice blending with the roar of waters.

  ‘The sword, Dann, my sword!’

  Leaning dangerously out from the prow, Dann whipped forth the sword and thrust it instinctively into the large crack running up the rock face. Throwing his weight forward against the hilt, Dann pushed hard. The Swallow hovered for a moment, then turned in a fast circle on the dashing waters until Dann found himself facing upstream. The boat had turned completely round. Straining against the mighty pressure, Dann held her firm.

  ‘Song, do something quick! I can’t hold her much longer!’

  There was a ledge overhead. Song reached it the only way she could. With a bound she was on Burble’s shoulders, thrusting herself into an upward leap. Her paws grasped the ledge and she hauled herself upward, scrabbling to find holds in the rifted stone. Sh
e pulled and struggled until she was lying flat on the ledge, hanging over the edge. She held out her paws. ‘Burble, throw me the stern rope!’

  The river vole threw the rope into her waiting paws, then made the other end fast by looping it round the rear seat. Song knotted the rope around a spur in the side of the rift while the others tossed their paddles up on to the ledge. Dippler was first up the rope. He and Song leaned over to help Burble, with Dann following in the rear. As soon as they were safe from the thundering waters, the four companions hauled the Swallow up to the rocky platform, with their supplies intact.

  Dann sat panting, his back against the sunwarmed rocks. He patted the hilt of the sword. ‘Whew! Thanks to Friar Butty’s rhyme an’ this sword we made it. See that haze down yonder, beneath the rainbow? I’d take me oath that I saw a vision of Martin the Warrior hoverin’ there. ’Twas he told me to shove the sword into the crack.’

  Song looked from the misted haze to the sword. ‘I don’t doubt that you did, Dann. That blade must be some powerful kind of steel to hold a boat and us four safe from those waters. I dread t’think what would’ve happened to us if we’d been swept away between those two big rocks. I wonder what’s down that way?’

  Dippler was setting out a makeshift meal of scones and fruit. ‘Let’s ’ave a bite to eat first. Then we’ll foller these ledges downstream an’ see where the current leads.’

  Burble found a flask of dandelion and burdock cordial and swigged thirstily at it, massaging the back of his neck. ‘Aye, you three go off an’ explore awhile. Yiss yiss, I’ll stay ’ere an’ guard our gear. Me ould neck’s a bit sore. You didn’t ’elp matters by leapin’ all over me head’n’shoulders to get up on this ledge, missie, you serpintly didn’t!’

  Song helped the watervole to rub his neck. ‘Ah, poor old Burb. Never mind, mate, you’ll live, but don’t doze off now. Keep an eye on everything whilst we’re gone.’

  When they had finished eating, Song, Dann and Dippler took the rope from the Swallow and set off across the rocks to explore downstream. The grandeur of the scenery was awesome: hurtling water, towering stone and spray forever cascading through curtains of mist, over which the rainbow arched like a massive coloured bridge. Travelling in single file, they made good use of the rope to span places where there were gaps in the ledges. Sometimes they rested in sombre moss-strewn crevices where sunlight never reached. Other times they pawed cautiously over expanses of smooth banded stone, almost hot to the touch. Just beyond the two big rocks which stood centre stream, the mist cleared and they halted with gasps of wonderment at the sight.

  It was as if they were standing at the very edge of the earth. Billowing, leaping, roaring, vast masses of water fell abruptly downward into the shrouding fog of boiling spray far below. Dippler clasped his friends’ paws, eyes wide as he stared down into the hurtling chaos, his shouts almost lost in the reverberating din.

  ‘Lookit that waterfall! Wooooooow!’

  They sat on the rock edge, drenched with spray, watching the awesome majesty of the waterfall. Dann pointed to the far side, where the bank ran out a short distance underwater, forming an incredibly swift shallows. There was a great bird pacing up and down the bankside, watching the water intently.

  ‘Great seasons, look at the size of that feller! What sort o’ bird would you call him?’

  Dippler had spent his life around waterways. Though he had only ever seen the species once before, it was unforgettable. ‘That’s a fishin’ eagle. ’Tis called an osprey!’

  The bird had a white crown of plumage, and its underparts too were snowy white. A mask, dark brown, almost black, stretched round its savage golden eyes, spreading back over shoulders and wings; it had a heavy hooked beak and fearsome talons. Silently they watched it prowling the bank. It struck once, but came back without any catch. Song was puzzled. ‘Aren’t they supposed to fly and swoop on the fish, Dipp?’

  ‘Aye, that’s what they usually do. Aha, look!’

  The eagle struck the water again, but could not catch the fish it was chasing. It gave a shriek of temper and charged awkwardly into the water, one wing flapping to retain its balance. Dippler nodded knowingly. ‘It can’t fly, see, keeps one wing close to its side. Musta been injured at some time, I reckon, Song.’

  The pretty young squirrelmaid was full of sympathy. ‘Oh, the poor bird. Imagine having big beautiful wings and not being able to use them. Oh, it’s so sad to watch him!’

  Dippler chuckled as he saw a brown trout leaping and squirming in the shallows as the osprey chased it.

  ‘Pore bird? What about the pore fish, missie? Mind though, that trout’s leadin’ the eagle a merry dance. Mebbe it’ll escape!’

  As the Guosim shrew spoke, the trout gave a mighty leap and made it to deep water. The osprey was almost out of its depth. Squawking angrily, it stumbled and was swept into the wild lashing deeps.

  Dippler put a paw over his eyes. ‘Nothin’ we can do to save ’im now. That’n’s a goner!’

  Before the words had left his mouth Song was in action. Tying the rope hastily around her waist, she slung the end to Dann. ‘Hang on to this. I’m goin’ after him!’

  Dann grabbed the rope instinctively, shouting, ‘Song, no, you’ll be killed!’

  But the young squirrelmaid had already plunged into the roaring mêlée of waters.

  * * *

  24

  During the night the White Ghost’s eerie sighing and wailing echoed ceaselessly around the Queen’s bedchamber. Silth crouched in her bed, gaunt and hollow-eyed, her voice reduced to a hoarse croak from shouting for her guards.

  ‘Oooooh Silth, come to me Siiiiiilth!’

  There it was again. Silth buried her face in a satin coverlet, knowing it was not a dream. When she ventured to peep out, all the candles had sputtered and died. Only a single lantern remained burning on the bedside table. The room had become an ill-lit cavern of shifting shadows, draughts and breezes moving the silk wall hangings like fluttering shrouds. Silth’s voice was a piteous whine. ‘Guards, help me, where are my guards?’

  Spectral tones answered her desperate plea. ‘Gone, all goooooooone!’

  Lantur beckoned Wilce out of the room from which she had been impersonating the White Ghost. ‘That’s enough wailing for now, rat. There’s no reason for any of the guards to be up here since I dismissed them for the night. But just in case anybeast tries to gain entrance, you stay at the head of the stairs and keep them away. Tell them the High Queen is very ill and any creature coming up here against my orders does so under pain of death. Got it?’

  Wilce nodded silently and went off about her task.

  Lantur took up the tray she had prepared. It had two goblets upon it. One was Silth’s own drinking vessel, beaten from fine gold, with her personal crest embossed on its stem. The other was a plain serviceable pewter type. Lantur made sure the Queen’s goblet was on the far side of the tray as she carried it into the bedchamber. Silth cowered away from her, bunching the satin coverlet tight under her chin.

  ‘Where are my guards? How long is it until morning light? The White Ghost has been haunting me again. Did you hear it? Well, did you? Speak, daughter.’

  Smiling benignly, Lantur perched upon the bed, placing the tray next to the lantern on the table. Her voice was that of a true Marlfox, sweet as honey and deadly as an adder’s bite. She removed the coverlet gently from Silth’s chin.

  ‘Don’t upset yourself, Mother dear. I sent the guards away because I don’t want them clanking and tramping about outside your door when you need rest. This White Ghost, ’tis all in your imagination. Sleep will cure all that. Things will look better in the light of day.’

  Silth seemed to regain some of her regal composure. She chided Lantur sceptically. ‘Sleep? How can I sleep? You haven’t the slightest idea how I suffer. I order you to stay here for the rest of the night to keep me company through the dark hours. What’s this you’ve brought, eh?’

  Lantur held the tray out to her mother, taking care
that she presented it so the Queen’s cup was nearer to the royal paw. ‘’Tis a harmless drink, made from warm damson wine and special herbs. It will help you to sleep.’

  Silth sniffed the goblet without touching it. ‘I don’t care what it is, I’m not drinking any!’

  Lantur moved the tray closer to her mother. ‘Now don’t be silly, Mother. See, I’ve filled a goblet for myself. I’m going to drink, aye, and enjoy it.’

  She picked up the plain pewter goblet. It was halfway to her lips when the Queen rasped out, ‘Stop! Put that goblet back on the tray. I command you!’

  With a look of long-suffering hopelessness, Lantur did as she was bidden. Silth smiled craftily at her. ‘You placed the two goblets on the tray so that my personal one was closest to me, as if you wanted me to drink from it.’

  Lantur smiled innocently back. ‘But of course, Majesty. ’Tis your own cup. None but the High Queen would dare to drink from it.’

  Silth pushed the royal goblet across to Lantur. ‘Here’s a better idea. You drink from my goblet and I’ll drink from yours. What do you think of that?’

  Lantur shrugged and picked up the golden vessel. ‘A wonderful idea, Majesty. I’ve never taken wine from a Queen’s cup. Mayhaps I’ll get used to it!’

  Silth snatched the golden goblet before Lantur could taste it. ‘No you won’t, that’s mine. Now, let me see you drain the other one. Drink!’

  Lantur’s face blanched with fright. Her paw trembled as she picked up the pewter goblet. Silth cackled evilly. ‘Drink it all, you wicked young schemer, or I’ll have my guards feed you to the Teeth of the Deeps. Drink!’

  Lantur was forced to swallow, her throat quivering fitfully, wine dribbling from the corners of her lips, her eyes wide with horror. Silth sipped at her own goblet, fully recovered from her former cringing self as she lectured her treacherous daughter.