Martin The Warrior (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  ‘Spybeasts? I ain’t never used spybeasts, matey.’ The pirate stoat adopted a look of injured innocence.

  ‘There, there.’ Badrang patted Clogg’s neck affectionately. ‘I know you haven’t. There’s nothing worse than a spybeast. Why, if I thought there was one in my fortress I’d tie him to the gates and let my archers use him for target practice. Look, just like that fox over yonder.’

  He turned Clogg’s neck with his paw so that the corsair was looking at the inside of Marshank’s main gates. The carcass of Skalrag hung there, stuck with so many arrows it was like a pincushion.

  Even though he was seething inwardly, Clogg grinned from ear to ear. ‘Foxes was allus traitors. I never liked that one.’

  Badrang tightened his grip on Clogg’s neck momentarily then released him. The Tyrant matched the corsair grin for grin.

  ‘Neither did I, matey, neither did I!’

  Early morning sun bathed the shore beyond the headland, promising a high hot day. Rowanoak harnessed herself between the shafts of the Rosehips’ gaily painted cart and they moved further along the shoreline, away from the close proximity of Marshank. Felldoh and Brome enjoyed the company of the Rambling Rosehip creatures greatly, they had been accepted immediately as friends and possible members.

  By midmorning they had set up their camp on the clifftops, where they had an excellent view of the area without revealing their presence. The hare Ballaw De Quincewold and Rowanoak were in close conference whilst the rest unpacked and prepared lunch. Brome helped Gauchee and Kastern to prepare a leek and bean soup, sniggering with the two mice as they watched the pretty squirrel Celandine trying to flirt shamelessly with a much embarrassed Felldoh as he unloaded the cart, blushing to his tailtip at her simpering compliments.

  ‘Oh Mister Felldoh, you’re so strong! You lifted that trunk as if it were no more than a feather. I’ll bet you must be the most powerful squirrel in the whole country!’

  Felldoh was completely lost for words. He turned away from the cart and started breaking some driftwood up for the fire.

  Celandine dabbed at her brow with a dainty lace square. ‘Oh my, oh my. I’d be all season just trying to break one teensy piece of that wood with an axe, and look at you, sir, snapping it in those great paws of yours like it was dead grass!’

  Trefoil the other squirrelmaid unceremoniously bundled a pile of tunics at Celandine. ‘Here, missy, get your paws wet washing those through and leave that poor fellow alone before he turns into a beetroot!’

  The temptress flounced off in a huff, laden with dirty washing. Trefoil began snapping wood alongside Felldoh.

  ‘Take no notice of her, friend. I’ve seen her fluttering her eyelashes at dragonflies.’

  Buckler the mole was erecting the awning as a sunshade. ‘Burr aye, she’m a gurt flutterer, that un,’ he chuckled. ‘Oi losed moi ’eart to ’er long seasons agone. Hurr, but she’m a foin arctress too!’

  The food was good and simple, hot soup followed by wheatflour pancakes spread with wild honey. The company lounged beneath the awning, eating and drinking cool mint and buttercup cordial from an old stone jar.

  Rowanoak shook her great head.

  ‘What in the name of trees and turnips made us ramble this far up the land, I’ll never know. We had good times in the south, friendly creatures to entertain, nice places to stop awhile . . .’

  Ballaw the hare made a pancake disappear with alarming speed. ‘True, true, but what’s a chap got up here in this bally neck o’ the woods? Fortresses, tyrants an’ corsairs. Bit thick, isn’t it, wot? About the only-decent thing was meeting you two jolly lads.’

  The rest of the company murmured agreement.

  Rowanoak stared patiently at the hare. Ballaw carried on guzzling cordial, unaware that he had interrupted her flow. ‘If you’re quite finished, Mister De Quincewold?’ she continued.

  Ballaw dispatched another pancake, daintily licking honey from his paws. ‘Not finished dealin’ with these pancakes, Rowan me old oak, but don’t let me stop you talkin’. You eat less when y’ talk. Hawhaw!’

  The badger eyed him frostily before continuing. ‘Thank you! Now what I have to say concerns our new friends Felldoh and Brome. Here is what I propose. We’re up here anyway, for better or worse, so we may as well do something useful. It goes without saying that we will keep our eyes peeled for any sign of their companions, Brome’s sister, Martin and the mole Grumm. But meanwhile, as Felldoh has told us, his father Barkjon is a slave in that dreadful fortress. It makes my blood boil when I think of a creature being enslaved, robbed of freedom, beaten, starved and forced to labour for some jumped-up villain. What do you think?’

  There was an instant chorus of agreement with Roanoak.

  ‘Shame, poor old Barkjon!’

  ‘It’s a flamin’ liberty, wot?’

  ‘Yurr, nobeaster should be slave to anuther!’

  ‘Oh, I can’t imagine it, we’ve always been free!’

  ‘It’s disgraceful. That horrid stoat!’

  Rowanoak let them carry on working up their indignation before carrying on with her speech. When they had done she continued.

  ‘When Ballaw and I formed the Rambling Rosehip Players we took on only talented creatures we knew we could rely on. I personally have never been disappointed in any of you, that is why today we are all gather –’

  ‘Oh, stop takin’ a bally seavoyage to get round a cockleshell, old gel. We all want to rescue Felldoh’s old pater, don’t we?’

  ‘Aye!’ The response was loud and wholehearted.

  ‘Good show. Then let’s stop jawbangin’ an’ get to it, wot?’

  Rowanoak passed Ballaw the pancakes and honey. She was smiling. ‘Thank you, Bal, you old rascal. Now we need a strategy, and you know the best way that a travelling company can scout the land?’

  Buckler held up a sticky digging claw. ‘Yurss, marm, Us’ns goo thurr an put on ’ee show!’

  ‘What?’ Felldoh spluttered on his drink. ‘Now just hold fast a moment friends. It’s very kind of you to offer to rescue my dear old dad. But we’ve an appointment with Martin in Noonvale. Our plan is to raise an army and free all the slaves. And anyway you’d last as long as a leaf on a bonfire at Marshank.’

  Kastem the mousemaid chuckled. ‘Listen, squirrel, if you’d been half the places we’ve been and done a quarter of the things we’ve done, you’d know better.’

  ‘Chaha! I’d say y’ would, old lad. Gauchee, remember we put on the courtin’ of the frog an’ the caterpillar for all those fierce toads in the south swamps?’

  ‘Do I ever!’ The mousemaid nibbled her carrot, shaking with mirth. ‘With you playing the villainous toad uncle. I thought those toads were so enraged they were going to toss us in the swamp!’

  Celandine giggled. ‘And they would have, too. Good job they let Celandine butterfly tie them all up with the magic rope that would make them all handsome. Heeheeheehee!’

  The whole company fell about laughing as Kastern pointed at Rowanoak. ‘That was when Badger Bountiful hoisted them all up into a tree and told them they too would turn into beautiful butterflies and fly away. Hahahahahaha!’

  ‘Hoohoohoo! You should’ve seen their bally faces when we ate all their feast and went off, leavin’ ’em all hanging’ from a tree waitin’ to turn into butterflies. Hawhawhaw!’

  When the laughter had subsided, Rowanoak winked at Felldoh and Brome, ‘No need to worry about us. We know what we’re doing.’

  Felldoh grasped the badger’s paw. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  Trefoil was rummaging in the cart. ‘Oh, don’t thank us. We won’t be doing it all on our own – you two will be taking part in the show.’

  Brome leapt up in alarm. ‘But they’d recognize us right off!’

  Kastern placed a huge frog mask over the young mouse’s head. ‘There, your own mama wouldn’t recognize you now.’

  Rowanoak clapped her hefty paws together. ‘Righto, clear the food away. We’ve got a show to rehea
rse. Felldoh, you look strong enough to be a good catcher . . .’

  Celandine fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Ooh, he could catch me anytime of the season!’

  Rowanoak gave her a glare then ignored her. ‘Brome, sorry you can’t sing on this job. Your voice is too recognizable. However, you would make rather a good frog maiden.’

  ‘Me, a frog maiden?’

  ‘Why certainly, old lad. An’ I’ll be your wicked uncle toad. Hoho, me proud beauty, you shall never marry that caterpillar!’

  Felldoh shook his head in bewilderment as Buckler stuck a large red ball on the tip of his nose. ‘It sounds just crazy enough to work!’

  13

  IT WAS STILL early morning and already Martin was feeling tired. He and his friends had been roused several times that night by the familiar Squidjee cry, gluggadrink. It seemed that every baby pigmy shrew woke at least twice nightly wanting a drink.

  Rose hauled her log away from the noisy breakfast table. She was spattered with food and drink.

  ‘Good morning, Martin. You’ll never guess what’s planned for the morning after breakfast is through.’

  Martin shook his head. ‘Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.’

  Rose told him anyway, stifling a smile as she did. ‘We’re taking all the Squidjees down to the beach for a paddle in the rock pools. Evidently the whole tribe go down there every day to check on their fishing nets. If it’s good weather like today, the little fiends are brought along to amuse themselves.’

  ‘Oh how nice. It will be fun!’ Martin put on his fixed smile.

  Grumm and Pallum had their paws full wiping off sticky baby whiskers. ‘Cumm yurr, you’m – ’orrible liddle toad. Thoi whisker’n be full o’ oatmeal.’

  The Squidjees dodged about chanting ceaselessly. ‘Wannago shoreshore! Wannago shoreshore!’

  Descent to the shore from the high cliffs was not as difficult as it first looked. There was a hidden stairway, cunningly carved into the rock by the pigmy shrews. Martin and his companions had to make the trip several times. Watched by Amballa and her ever vigilant shrews, the four friends had to carry each Squidjee piggyback fashion down to the sand. When all the shrews were attending their nets, the Queen turned to Pallum.

  ‘Squidjees playnow, youwatch plennygood!’

  She shook her sword at them in warning before seating herself comfortably where she could keep an eye on everything.

  The Queen’s infant son Dinjer was trouble on wheels. The other Squidjees were relatively calm and happy, burying Grumm up to his neck in the sand. Martin, Rose and Pallum were building a sandcastle for some others. Pallum pointed to Grumm.

  ‘That was what I always hated, when they decided to bury me. Grumm seems to be enjoying it.’

  The mole pulled loose a digging paw and waved to them. ‘Burr aye, ’tis noice ’n’ cool on an ’ot morn loik this’n.’

  ‘Stillagrumm, staystill!’

  Several Squidjees started draping wet seaweed on the mole’s head.

  Martin looked about for Dinjer. Rose spotted him.

  ‘There he is, the little blaggard. Look, climbing!’

  Dinjer had strayed from the rest and taken a notion to scale the cliff face. The section he chose was slippy and steep, with sharp crags sticking out above it. Martin’s patience snapped. He leaped up, pointing at the miscreant.

  ‘Get down from there, you stupid little beast, or you’ll fall!’

  The Queen heard him. Angrily she threw a rock, catching Martin sharply on his unprotected back.

  ‘Biggamouse biggamouth! Notalk Ballamum son likethat, badtalk. Ballamum killslay biggamouse!’

  Martin was about to make some reply when there was a loud screech. ‘Yeeeaaakkk!’

  A great gannet had swooped down and snatched Dinjer from the rocks. The infant pigmy shrew was carried high into the air, held by his tail and the hem of his loose robe in the lethal amber beak of the predator. He wriggled and squealed like a midget piglet. Immediately all activity on the shore ceased as Amballa’s wails rent the air.

  ‘Waaah waaah! Dinjergone himdead likefather, likefather!’

  ‘I remember that when I was younger,’ Pallum whispered to Rose. ‘Dinjer’s father was taken by a big gannet like that one. Poor little mite, he’s as good as dead now.’

  Amballa had slid down from her seat on the rocks. She covered her eyes and wept inconsolably. ‘Nomore Dinjerbabe! Himgone, deadnow!’

  Martin grabbed her by the paws, pulling her upright. ‘Notdead, Ballamum, Dinjer notdead. Biggamouse savehim!’

  Seizing the Queen’s sword, which was no more than a dagger in his paw, Martin bowled the nearest two pigmy shrews over and snatched their fishing net. Dashing off along the shore after the gannet, he called back to his friends. ‘Get more nets and follow me. Hurry!’

  The gannet soared upwards, wheeled, and dropped down on to a high ledge in an isolated part of the cliffs. Dinjer was stunned by the landing. The infant lay limp between the big bird’s well-clawed and webbed feet. There was a large untidy nest on the ledge, with two scrawny half-feathered gannet chicks in it. On seeing their mother they set up a cackle.

  As he ran, Martin watched the bird descend and alight on the high ledge. Without pausing, he ran to the cliff face directly below it. Pausing only to grip the swordblade in his teeth, he hurled the fishing net upwards. The meshes caught on the rocks. Giving a quick tug to check its firmness, Martin began climbing, pulling himself up paw over paw on the tough kelp net. When he reached where the net had caught, he disentangled it, whirling it around his head he hurled it aloft, catching another rocky crag. Again he began hauling himself up over the meshes.

  Below on the beach, the whole of the Highbeast pigmy shrew tribe had gathered. They watched as Martin continued his ascent. Rose began spreading the other nets on the sand, lashing four of them together. The pigmy shrews were getting in her way, ignoring her as they trampled the nets and gazed up. Rose, Pallum and Grumm bulled into them, pushing them backwards.

  ‘Get out of the way. Can’t you see we’re trying to help him?’

  One of the Highbeasts kicked out at Rose. ‘Cheekamouse! Notalka me likethat.’

  Amballa bit him savagely on the neck and knocked him down. ‘Gettaway quicknow like mousesay, allayou!’

  A piercing cry came from Dinjer as he woke and saw his predicament. ‘Eeeee! Helpme helpmeeeeee!’

  Martin heard the cry and redoubled his efforts, throwing the net upwards and scrambling over it. He chanced a quick look up – only about three more lengths to go.

  Dinjer’s tear-stained face appeared over the rim of the ledge. ‘Eeeeeee helpadinjer eeeeeee!’

  He was dragged back by the formidable beak of the gannet. The huge bird tossed him against the side of the nest. Dinjer curled up tight as the two hungry chicks tried to crane their floppy necks over the edge of the nest to get at him.

  Below on the shore, Amballa hid her face in horror of what might happen to her little son. Rose put a comforting paw around the Queen’s shoulders.

  ‘Nocry, Ballamum. Biggamouse Martin is mighty warrior. He will get your Dinjer back, yousee, yousee!’

  Amballa seemed to understand Rose. She clung to the mousemaid as she anxiously watched the high ledge.

  Breathing raggedly with exertion, Martin pulled himself up on to the ledge, hauling the net up after him.

  Dinjer saw him and jumped up, yelling. ‘Biggamouse Martinmouse, savemeeeee!’

  The gannet turned its bright dangerous eyes on Martin as he took the sword from his mouth.

  ‘Dinjer, nomake nonoise, bestill, still!’

  The gannet took a stalking stride towards Martin, lowering its lethal yellow beak. The young mouse swung with the little sword. It clacked harmlessly off the great bird’s beak, but caused the gannet to stop where it was. Now Martin shook the net out and swished it at the bird’s feet. It took a step back. Behind him he could hear Dinjer sobbing with terror. Working his way across the ledge, jabbing with the sword and sw
eeping with the net, Martin gradually got himself into a position where he was between the gannet and its nest.

  Sensing danger to its chicks, the gannet began spreading its wings, lowering its neck and opening its beak wide as it hissed at the intruder. Martin knew there was not much time, it was getting ready to attack. He would have to act quickly. Throwing back his head, he shouted aloud into the gannet’s face, hoping that he could be heard below on the beach.

  ‘Stretch the nets! Hold them up, lots of you. Be ready!’

  Rose heard him. She had thought of giving her eagle call, but if Martin or Dinjer were in the nest they would be crushed under the gannet, which would naturally sit on its nest to defend the chicks against anything. Grasping a corner of the net, Rose held it high, yelling aloud, ‘Holdup net. Stretch it tight. Now!’

  The Highbeast tribe stood uncertainly for a moment, until a harsh order from Amballa their Queen sent them scurrying to the edges of the net, with Rose, Pallum, Grumm and Amballa at each corner.

  The Queen snapped out directions. ‘Holda netup, upup! Stretcher tightnow!’

  The net was ready, up and tight stretched.

  Martin reached back with his footpaw, keeping a wary eye on the gannet as he kicked Dinjer lightly.

  ‘Movenow, Dinjer. Get over to the edge . . .’

  Dinjer began crawling on all fours. The gannet, sensing it was being robbed of its prey, tried to pass Martin to get at Dinjer. Martin jabbed with the sword. This time he nipped the bird in its open mouth. It retaliated with lightning swiftness, pecking him sharply in the side. Martin drew his breath in short at the pain. He clamped his paw over the spot, feeling warm damp blood.

  Dinjer was now at the edge of the cliff, peering over at the dizzy drop down to the shore.

  ‘Jump, Dinjer, jump!’ Martin hissed at him.

  ‘Eeee nojump nojump, Dinjer ’fraid!’

  There was nothing else for it. Martin turned swiftly and gave the baby pigmy shrew a hefty kick on the bottom that sent him flying outwards over the edge.