Martin The Warrior (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Grumm picked it up and took a bite. ‘Burr, ’tis still warm an’ spreaded wi’ ’unny too!’

  ‘Hoi! Can I have one too?’ Pallum called out cheekily into the darkness.

  No sooner had he spoken than a scone thudded on the ground by him. The hedgehog chuckled with delight, not questioning where the food came from. Pallum was a simple soul, practical too.

  ‘Go on, Martin. Have a go. Ask for one!’

  The young mouse was standing alert and upright, Amballa’s small sword in his paw. He peered into the darkness murmuring, ‘Yes, I’d like a scone with honey. Wouldn’t mind something to drink too. Strawberry cordial would be nice.’

  The scone struck his footpaw. He did not see which direction it came from. As he bent to get it a voice called out of the woods, ‘You’m can ’ave the scone, moi dears, but oi bain’t throwen moi gudd beakers abowt an’ spillen drinks ’ither ’n’ yon. Hoo arr no!’

  Grumm leaped up waving his ladle, which he had retrieved from the pigmy shrews. ‘Oi’d be knowen that speak. ’Tis a moler loik oi!’

  A mole came plodding out of the darkness. She was dressed in an oversized mob cap and a huge flowery pinafore.

  ‘Hurr, oi bain’t nawthen loik you’m, maister. Oi be just loik oi, Polleekin.’

  She sat on the grass beside them, wiping her paws on the flowered apron and conversing as if they had always been there.

  ‘Moi ’eart, ’twas an ’ot summer day t’ day, et surely wurr. Oi was gatheren oop ’ee scones after coolen ’em off in ’ee shade, when oi yurrs sumbeast a-longen furr scones, so oi throwed him’n summ.’

  Rose laughed her merry tinkling laugh. ‘Oh you’re so kind, Polleekin. Thank you!’

  The mole stood up, dusting herself off busily. ‘Oi aspeck yore well ’ungered an’ thursty too. Young uns allus are, partickly travellers. Coom on then, ’ome wi’ oi.’

  They introduced themselves and told Polleekin their story as she led them to her dwelling in the wood.

  Grumm looked up at it, hardly able to believe his eyes. ‘Moi seasons! A moler liven oop inna tree. Hurr!’

  Polleekin did actually live up in a tree. It was an old dead oak that had fallen at a crazy angle against a tall rocky outcrop. The trunk was practically a stairway. They followed her up to a large comfortable room built between three thick boughs. It was floored with driftwood and cordage and roofed with the same material, tightly chinked with moss, earth and leaf packing to keep out wind and weather. The walls were formed by the foliage of the surrounding trees, skilfully woven together. They sat on a low mossy branch broad enough to be a bed, listening to Polleekin chatter as she prepared their supper.

  ‘Hurr, oi be all alone in ’ee wurld naow. Fam’ly growed, troibe gone, so oi do as oi loiks wid moiself, liven in ’ee tree, fearen nobeast an’ given welcumm to most, hurr aye.’

  The supper when it came was little less than spectacular. Strawberry cordial, dandelion and burdock beer and hot mint tea. From a small stone charcoal-fed oven the homely mole produced a stew of carrot, turnip, peas and leeks, a large cottage loaf and a button mushroom turnover garnished with parsley. From her larder came a dark heavy fruitcake with maplecream topping and an assortment of wildberry tartlets. She bustled about, laying them on the floor.

  ‘Get thoi jaws round that liddle lot. Oi allus keeps vittles in plenty yurr, you’d be apprised at ’ee visitors oi gets, moi dears.’

  Conversation and talk went out of the leaf-screened windows as they applied themselves to the business of serious eating. Polleekin watched them, rocking back and forth on a springy bough and tapping her old digging claws together. Only when they had slowed down to the picking stage did she venture to speak.

  ‘They creeturs you’m be a-looken for bain’t passed thisaways.’

  Rose sighed as she poured herself some of the fragrant mint tea. ‘I hope they’re safe and well, Polleekin.’

  The mole dosed her eyes, nodding slowly. ‘Ho, they’m safe enuff an’ awroight furr ’ee moment, mizzy, never fret.’

  Pallum stared at her curiously. ‘How do you know?’

  Still nodding and smiling, with closed eyes the mole spoke. ‘Oi knows lots o’ things but oi doant know why oi knows ’em. Places, faces, ’appenings an’ all manner o’ things runs in an’ out o’ moi ole ’ead, loik beefolks in an’ out o’ ee hoives.’

  Martin stared fixedly at the wise old mole, his food forgotten. ‘Yes, I had a feeling when we first met that you were not ordinary.’

  Polleekin shrugged, opening one eye to look at Martin. ‘Oi carn’t ’elp it, maister. You’m be a wurrier beast loiken thoi daddy afore you’m. That liddle knoife bain’t ’is sword. You’m got a longways t’ go afore yon sword cooms back to ’ee. Doant maken you’m less’n a wurrier, tho’. Oi seen gurt brave wurriers in moi long seasons, but none like you’m, Marthen.’

  The mole went into a doze then. She talked no more. When they were finished eating they lay back on the broad comfortable bough and were soon asleep. Moonlight filtered through the leaves on to the faces of the four friends as they slumbered. Polleekin moved silently, touching each of their faces tenderly. She shook her head and wiped her eyes on the flowery apron.

  ‘Pore young uns, so much ’arpiness an’ sadness afore ’ee, iffen on’y you’m knowed. Oi be glad moi seasons are near run an’ oi doant ’ave to carry otherbeasts’ loives around in moi ole ’ead for long naow.’

  Martin opened his eyes to the song of small birds with dawn sun filtering green and gold through the leafy walls of the tree house. Rising silently, he climbed down to the woodland floor. There was a cool spring rising out of the rocks, bubbling its way into a small pool. The young mouse swilled his face and paws, shaking away the droplets and drying off with a pawful of grass. Polleekin bustled past with a small rush basket.

  ‘Mawnin’, zurr Marthen. Lookee, liddle mushyrooms, celery, lettuce an’ early ’azel nutters, green uns, some dandelion an’ crabapples.’

  Pallum appeared, looking into the basket and nodding hungrily. ‘Mmm, they look lovely and fresh.’

  The old molewife slapped his paw away as he reached for a young button mushroom. ‘Gurr, you’m young roguer. ’Old still till oi make thoi breffist.’

  Grumm and Rose took a hurried wash at the spring. Shaking themselves dry, they scrambled swiftly back up to the tree house for breakfast. Polleekin could work wonders with vegetables, and she did. They feasted on mushroom and celery soup garnished with young dandelion petals, followed by the scones she had baked the day before, now well soaked through with honey. Rose poured crabapple cider for them as the old mole began outlining her luncheon menu.

  ‘Oi’ll bake a gurt cake wi’ woild plum ’n’ damson from moi last autumn larder. Hurr, an’ meadowcream aplenty to go wid et.’

  ‘Rurr, oi’m drefful sorry, marm but us’ns be gone afore long.’ Grumm’s voice was heavy with regret.

  Polleekin wiped hefty digging claws on her apron. ‘Aye, so you’m shall, tho’ oi dearly wisht ’ee would stay yurr wid oi awhoil, p’raps two day or more.’

  Rose sat next to the old molewife, patting her back. ‘I wish we could stay for ever, Polleekin, but we must get to searching for my brother Brome and our friend Felldoh. That is, if they still live.’

  Polleekin sighed. ‘Oi told you’m larst noight, mizzy. They two be aloive an’ well. Doant ask me ’ow oi knows, ’cos oi cuddent tell ’ee, but take moi word, oi knows it fer sure. You’m three creeturs be best travellen straight fer Noonvale. Stay ‘way from ’ee vurmin fort. Bad fortune awaits ’ee thurr iffen you’m return.’

  Martin leaned forward. ‘What sort of bad fortune, Polleekin?’

  The old one closed her eyes, rocking back and forth. ‘Nay, zurr Marthen, ’tis not for oi t’ say, lessen oi be a-tellen lies an’ moi ole mem’ry be playen tricks loike it do sometimes.’

  The friends did not pursue the question further, though Rose had a request to make of Polleekin.

  ‘You told us to travel to No
onvale. I for one think it a good idea. But I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest idea where it is from here. We’re completely lost. Can you help us?’

  The mole opened her eyes. Moving slowly about, she began rummaging through her larders and stores.

  ‘Oi’m no good at markin’ an’ maken wroiten, mizzy. Yurr, take this an’ mark as oi say whoile oi make up thoi supplies.’

  Rose took the proffered barkcloth and charcoal stick. With great care the mousemaid wrote everything down, sometimes making Polleekin repeat things two or three times until she was satisfied. The old molewife gave out her instructions almost grudgingly as she went about the business of making up four packs of provisions.

  Pallum watched her, shaking his head and smiling fondly. ‘What a wunnerful ole molewife. I bet even Squidjees would be nice to her. My ’eart and stummick is longin’ to stay longer in this place with Polleekin, but we’ve got to go. Still, I’ll make myself a promise by my spikes that I’ll return ’ere someday an’ taste her cookin’ again.’

  Midmorning sunlight lanced through the gently swaying foliage as Polleekin wandered silently off to replenish her larders. The four friends sat studying the message she had dictated to Rose. Grumm smiled sheepishly. ‘Hurr, oi’m drefful iggerant at wurdin’, Miz Roser. Kin you’m read it to oi?’

  Rose read the message slowly.

  ‘Follow your frontshadow, do not stop

  Till you reach the one with dead three top.

  See the twin paths, beware of one

  Sweet as the spreading atop of a scone.

  Camp close by night, watch out by day

  For the three-eyed one who bars the way.

  More you will not learn until

  Meeting the warden of Marshwood Hill.’

  Martin scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘I wish Polleekin would have explained it a little clearer.’

  Rose shrugged. ‘She doesn’t want us to go. The poor old creature loves to have company. However, knowing that we must carry on and find Noonvale, she did the best she could with her rhyme. Let’s take it a bit at a time as we go. Follow your frontshadow, do not stop. What in the name of seasons is a frontshadow?’

  Pallum shouldered his pack. ‘I think it’s when the sun is at our back, and the shadow we throw is in front of us. Come on, let’s make a start. Now let me see.’ He looked up at the sun, calculating which way it would travel. ‘This way, straight into the woodland. In two hours the sun will be at our backs.’

  Grumm picked up his pack reluctantly. ‘But whurr’s Miz Polleekin?’

  Rose pointed into the scrubby thickness surrounding them. ‘Somewhere in there, having a quiet sulk, I shouldn’t wonder. Ah well, I don’t blame her. I feel pretty bad about leaving here myself, but we must go. I’ll sing her a farewell. She’ll hear it, I’m sure.’

  The friends set off into the warm midday. Martin kept his eyes on the country ahead, listening admiringly to Rose’s beautiful singing voice.

  ‘Goodbye, my friend, and thank you, thank you, thank you,

  It makes me sad to leave you upon this summer day.

  Don’t shed a tear or cry now. Goodbye now, goodbye now.

  I’m sure I’ll see you somehow, if I pass by this way,

  For the seasons don’t foretell

  Who must stay or say farewell,

  And I must find out what lies beyond this place.

  But I know deep in my heart

  We are never far apart

  While I have a mem’ry of your smiling face.

  Goodbye, my friend, and thank you, thank you, thank you,

  Your kindness guides me ever as I go on my way.’

  Grumm sniffed, wiping away huge rolling tears as they pressed into the leafy fastness. ‘Hurr, fair breaks moi ’eart, you’m reckern she ’eard ’ee song, Pallum?’

  Martin pointed swiftly to a patch of rustling ferns. They caught a glimpse of flowered apron disappearing. ‘Don’t fret, Grumm. She heard Rose’s song. Look!’

  Four slices of plum and damson cake spread thick with meadowcream, affixed to the drooping branch of a hawthorn, hung bobbing in their path like strange fruit.

  Grumm picked one. Sitting down on the ground, he began eating, smiling through the tears that coursed openly down his homely face. ‘Moi ’eart but she’m a wunnerful creetur. Oi’d be fair proud t’ be a choild of that thurr moler.’

  BOOK TWO

  Actors and Searchers

  16

  EVENING SHADOWS LENGTHENED as the hot day drew to a dose. The shore lay warm and dusty beneath the last rays of daylight. Fortress Marshank’s gates were thrown open wide. Torches and seacoal fires illuminated the courtyard as the corsair crew mingled with the Tyrant’s horde. An alfresco supper had been laid for the two leaders, and their aides. A temporary jollity prevailed in the light of the promised entertainment, though Badrang and Clogg still regarded each other suspiciously.

  The Tyrant stoat nibbled a leg of roast gull, sipping daintily from a beaker of greengage cordial as he smiled patronizingly at the corsair Cap’n. Tramun Clogg sniffed at a pickled mackerel. With a defiant grimace he dunked it thoroughly in Badrang’s cordial bowl and wolfed it down in one mouthful. Choking and coughing, he grabbed a half-empty puncheon of kelp beer, tilting it to his mouth and drinking deeply as it splashed widespread down his braids on to the tabletop. With a loud belch and a villainous grin, he slammed the puncheon back on the table.

  ‘Harr, that’s better! Ho lookit, ’ere comes me mate Tibbar an’ ’is pals!’

  Badrang eyed the approaching troupe scathingly. ‘Hmm, so this is the entertainment we’ve been waiting for?’

  Clogg half drew his cutlass, thrusting his face close to Badrang. ‘Aye, so ’tis, an’ they’re friends of me good matey Tibbar, so don’t you fergit it.’

  Badrang turned his head, avoiding Clogg’s fish-laden breath. He had dropped his corsair accent now that he held the upper paw. ‘Forget it? How could I? You’ve done nothing but gabble on about it all day.’

  Clogg was offended by the Tyrant’s manner. He squinted fiercely at him. ‘That weren’t gabblin’, matey, ’twere a warnin’. Don’t mess with those creatures, an’ get any thoughts o’ slave-takin’ outta yer ’ead, Badrang. It’s double bad luck to any who tries to ’arm me magic friends, see!’

  Brome felt himself freeze beneath the huge frog mask that enveloped his head. The sight of Badrang and Marshank caused panic in his mind.

  Rowanoak pushed him gently from behind. ‘Hurry along now, young froggy. Hop to it!’

  Remembering that he was invisible beneath his disguise gave Brome the confidence he needed. Giving a loud croak, he hopskipped into the centre of the courtyard and began setting up the scenery from the cart with the other Rosehip troupers. Felldoh was concealed beneath a big comical fox outfit. The tongue wobbled and the eyes rolled every time he moved his head. Beneath the mask, Felldoh peered wildly around, seeing each familiar hated face: Badrang, Gurrad, Hisk. But no sign of his father Barkjon.

  Ballaw was in his element. The show, mixed with the ever present danger of appearing before enemies, made his heart beat fast with excitement. Dressed in the flowing costume of Tibbar the magic rabbit, he cartwheeled boldly up to the leaders’ table and tweaked Clogg’s plaited beard.

  ‘Cloggo, me old crab carcass, me jolly old wavedog companion, top o’ the evenin’ to you, wot wot?’

  Tramun laughed uncontrollably, highly amused at his new friend’s antics. Ballaw produced two spoons from Clogg’s beard and began dacking them rhythmically together by bouncing both spoons off the corsair stoat’s vast stomach.

  ‘When’s a stoat not a stoat?

  When he wears dogs an’ a velvet coat!

  When’s a stoat an old seadog?

  When he’s whiskery friskery attery biskery Cap’n Tramun Clogg!’

  ‘Whoa hoho harrharrharr! Ain’t ’e a caution, haharrharr!’ Clogg thumped Badrang heartily upon the back. The Tyrant managed to put his beaker down before cordial spilled on
his polished breastplate. He glared at Clogg before turning to Ballaw.

  ‘So you’re the magic rabbit. Well, let’s see some magic.’

  Ballaw took Badrang’s beaker and emptied it at a single gulp. Before the Tyrant could protest, he refilled the beaker from a nearby flagon and tossed the contents of it into Badrang’s face. The Tyrant gave a gasp of surprise and threw up his paws, only to find that the beaker showered him not with drink but with dead leaves. Clogg fell off his chair laughing.

  ‘See, I told yer, that’s me ole matey Tibbar the magic rabbit! Haharrhohoho! Make more magic, Tibbar.’

  Ballaw bowed elegantly as he leaped down from the table. ‘Lord Badrang, what d’you wish, old chap – a play, or more magic?’

  Badrang refilled his empty beaker, checking to see that it was greengage cordial, and not dead leaves. ‘I’ll go along with friend Clogg here. Make more magic.’ Ballaw extended his paw dramatically.

  ‘Bring forth the deadly dagger of death!’

  Gauchee and Kastern came forward, bearing between them a red silk cushion. On it lay a long dagger which glittered wickedly in the firelight. Rowanoak chanted in the background,

  ‘From the deepest darkest dungeons,

  ‘Neath the mountains of the moon,

  Comes the dreadful dagger of death,

  To bring a creature to sad doom!’

  Rowanoak then came forward, dragging Celandine. The squirrelmaid threw a paw to her brow, protesting theatrically,

  ‘No no, no no! Not I, Not I.

  One so young and pretty as me

  Is far too fair to die!’

  Ballaw took the dagger. Producing an apple from an astounded searat’s ear, he sliced it in quarters with the glittering blade, smiling wickedly as he called to the assembled vermin,