Martin The Warrior (Redwall)
Page 33
High noontide hung over Marshank. It lay open to the insects, birds and seasons. A breeze lingered there, swirling the dust and sand into miniature spirals, mingling it with ashes around the carcasses of Badrang’s horde, which had been left for the gannets and scavenging sea birds to dispose of. The once proud fortress of the Tyrant now stood deserted and forsaken.
The first gannet to land was chased off by Cap’n Tramun Clogg, waving his spade as he trundled out of hiding from the grave surmounted by the upturned wheelbarrow.
‘Garn! Gerroutofit, you robbin’ featherbag! Leave my ’orde alone. I’m master ’ere now, just like I said I’d be one day, haharrharr!’ The crazed corsair clumped about, turning first this one and then another, chatting amiably with the slain.
‘Crosstooth, me ole matey, yore lookin’ prime!’
‘Harr, Boggs, sorry ye didn’t join yer ole Cap’n to dig graves now, are ye?’
‘Stumptooth, I allus said you should’ve sided with me. Never mind, mate, I’ll find ye a snug berth. Leave it to Cloggo!’
He worked his way around until he found what he was looking for. ‘Badrang! Arr, where’s yer fine dreams of empires now, you swab? Met a warrior who was more’n a match for ye, eh! Well, we’re gonna be ’ere for ever now, you’n me, so let’s not quarrel an’ fall out with each other, matey. Tell yer wot, I’ll dig ye a smart new grave, nice an’ deep, aye, with rocks piled atop an’ yer name carved all ’andsome like on one of ’em!’
The sea birds wheeled and soared over the lone figure below, sitting in the slave compound as he argued and gossiped with the dead stoat, who made no reply as he stared through sightless eyes at the unclouded blue sky of the Eastern Coast.
44
DAYS SHORTENED, AND the flowers of summer died one by one as leaves began turning brown and gold. It was on one such mist-shrouded autumn morning that Martin sat in the odd tree house, with the molewife Polleekin and his three friends, Boldred having long since departed for her mountain and her family.
All through the remainder of the summer Polleekin, Grumm, Pallum and Rowanoak had spent sleepless nights and restless days, nursing the Warrior back to health. Martin had come through it in silence, never speaking a word. He looked young still. Though healed in body and getting stronger by the day, his eyes still had a faraway look in them.
Grumm was about to speak when Polleekin silenced him with a glance. She nodded to the sword at Martin’s side. ‘Oi be a-needen more foirewood, Marthen. Will you’m cut some?’
Wordlessly Martin took up his sword and went off, descending to the forest to cut wood. Pawing at the scar cut through his backspikes, Pallum got up as if to follow, but the molewife forbade it. ‘You’m set thurr, ’edgepig. They Wurrier garn off to shed tears!’
Rowanoak shook her head wonderingly. ‘I heard him yesterday as I was walking through the forest. It must be very hard for him, he never mentions Rose.’
Polleekin busied herself with breakfast. ‘No, marm, nor will him’n, oi doant think never. That liddle mousey-maid be locked in Marthen’s ’eart, and thurr she’m bound to stay.’
Grumm blinked and sniffed. ‘Marthen be a gurt brave wurrier, tho’ him’n woant go back to Noonvale; too many mem’ries furr ’im thurr.’
Polleekin’s breakfast was good homely fare, oatmeal with honey, nutbread spread thick with strawberry preserve and a steaming pot of mint and dandelion tea. Martin ate automatically, neither tasting nor commenting on the food. When he had finished he made a simple announcement. ‘I am leaving today.’
It was the first time he had spoken since the battle at Marshank. His friend waited for him to say more, but he sat silent, staring at his empty plate, face calm and resolute.
It was then that Rowanoak knew Martin had rejoined the land of the living. ‘Will you come to Noonvale with us? We will be leaving to go there today.’
The young mouse sat, testing the swordblade against his paw, pressing so hard that he almost drew blood.
‘I can never return to Noonvale. I will travel alone. South.’
Grumm knew it was no use trying to change his friend’s mind. ‘Whurr be you’m a-goen? Wot be you’m a-goen t’ do, Marthen?’
They listened carefully, knowing that this would be the last time he would speak to them at any length. ‘One day maybe I will hang up this sword and be a creature of peace. Until then, I must follow the way of the Warrior; it is in my blood. Have no fear, I will never mention Noonvale, or any of you. Noonvale is a secret place untouched by evil. I could not forgive myself if I unknowingly sent trouble there. Nobeast will know from where I came.’
Pallum stared quizzically at his stern-eyed friend. ‘But what will you say? We had such adventures together, maybe in another time and another place you will tell the tale.’
‘Never!’ Martin shook his head slowly. ‘I will only say that I guarded my father’s cave against searats while he was away. When I felt that he would not return I began my wanderings. How could anybeast understand what we went through together, the freedom we won and the friends we lost?’
The comrades sat in silence, each with their own memories. Polleekin rose stiffly and cleared away the remnants of their final meal together.
Soft autumn sunlight had cleared away twining wreaths of mist that hung over the still woodlands, leaves were falling in a crisp brown carpet, and a mild hoar frost melted to glistening dewdrops as the five companions took their leave of each other in the silent, timeless morning. Martin carried his sword slung across his back over an old cloak. Polleekin had made packs of food for them all. Grumm held his ladle in front of his face to hide the tears he could not stop from flowing. Rowanoak embraced the Warrior awkwardly, standing back as Pallum and Grumm did likewise. Polleekin kissed them all on the cheeks.
Rowanoak squared her broad shoulders and smiled. ‘We will never forget you, Martin the Warrior. Come on, let’s see if we can make this place ring one last time with the old war cry!’
Birds flapped their startled wings as four voices yelled aloud, ‘Fur and Freedoooooom!’
Polleekin stood alone, watching as Martin was lost among the trees, a solitary figure going south. The ancient molewife slowly pawed her flowery apron, eyes clouding over as the destiny of the lone traveller stole unbidden into her mind.
‘Hurr, oi told you’m ’twould be bad fate iffen you’m returned t’ Marshank wi’ thoi mousemaiden. Naow thurr be on’y you’m left, young un. Bo urr, you’m got some ’ard days to go yet awhoil, tho’ ’appiness will be thoine in toime yet t’ come. But furr all seasons everybeast shall amember thoi name, Marthen ’ee Wurrier!’
45
DOWN IN CAVERN Hole at Redwall Abbey, a night and a day had passed and the fire and wall torches had been replenished four times since the mousemaid Aubretia had begun her story. There was not a one who had fallen asleep throughout the whole epic tale, nor was there a creature who had not shed a tear.
Abbot Saxtus took off his spectacles and sighed in the silence that had reigned since Aubretia stopped talking. ‘Polleekin was right, of course. Martin did go on to find happiness. He forsook the Warrior’s way and dedicated himself to peace, the founding of our order and the building of Redwall. But tell me, how did you know all this, who told the story to you, Aubretia?’
The big hedgehog Bultip put aside his tankard. ‘I can answer that, Father Abbot. Aubretia comes from the ruling line of Noonvale, though she and I have not been back there in a full season. The blood of Urran Voh runs in her veins – her great ancestor was called Brome the Healer, Brother of Rose. My great ancestor, far back in the mists of countless days, was called Pallum the Peaceful. I am a direct descendant of his line.’
Simeon passed his sensitive paws gently over Aubretia’s face. ‘You have inherited the beauty of Brome’s sister.’
The mousemaid undid a thong from about her neck. On it was a brilliantly carved locket of scallop shell. She opened it. ‘Every creature who sees this says the same thing.’
Abbot Saxtus
took the locket carefully. Inside was a picture painted with plant and vegetable dyes on a small tablet of polished cherrywood. It was a miniature portrait of Martin and Rose carried out in loving detail. Both their faces seemed to stare out at him across the dust and time of bygone seasons. ‘Martin looks exactly like his picture on the tapestry, though younger. You are right, Aubretia. You could have passed for Rose’s twin sister. This is a marvellous thing, where did it come from?’
‘It was given to the family of Brome by an owl called Emalet,’ the mousemaid answered as she rummaged in her herb satchel. ‘Boldred her mother was a great artist, besides being a good mapmaker. Bultip and I left Noonvale early last summer. We had heard tales of Martin and Redwall from travellers since we were babes, so we set out to see the Abbey for ourselves. Here is something I brought with me for Redwall.’
The Abbot took the gift. Donning his spectacles, he looked at it curiously, turning it this way and that. ‘Thank you very much, but please excuse my ignorance, what is it?’
Aubretia explained about the sprig with its attached wet loam bag. ‘Grumm planted a rose on the grave of Rose. It is a red rose. Sometimes it flowers later than others, and we call it Laterose. This is a cutting from the original bush. It is very sturdy.’
Simeon felt the little shoot tenderly. ‘This spring I will plant it in our Abbey grounds. It will bloom and flourish in memory of the mousemaid. Laterose, what a pretty name. That was Rose’s full title as you told it, Laterose of Noonvale, daughter of Urran Voh and Aryah.’
Abbot Saxtus returned Aubretia’s locket. ‘We thank you, my child, for everything. Laterose will remain precious to Redwall Abbey. Martin gave it strength, now Rose will give it beauty. Now I am tired, and you must be too, friends. Go and rest. Stop at our home for as long as you wish – you are both welcome.’
The entire company walked together up the stairs from Cavern Hole to their rooms. Aubretia and the Abbot went paw in paw. ‘Thank you for your offer. Father Abbot. Bultip and I would love to stay here through winter, until the spring.’
‘There is always room for you and Bultip here, Aubretia. Our Abbey is a place of friendship. Anyone, young or old, who has read or heard of Redwall may come and visit us. If you are honest and of good heart, no matter what the season our door is open to you. Whether for the first time, or for the return of an old companion, you are welcome. Please feel free to visit us anytime you pass by this way.’
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.
THE TALES OF REDWALL
Lord Brocktree
Martin the Warrior
Mossflower
The Legend of Luke
Outcast of Redwall
Mariel of Redwall
The Bellmaker
Salamandastron
Redwall
Mattimeo
The Pearls of Lutra
The Long Patrol
Marlfox
The Taggerung
Triss
Loamhedge
Rakkety Tam
High Rhulain
Redwall Friend & Foe
A Redwall Winter’s Tale
The Tribes of Redwall: Mice
The Tribes of Redwall: Badgers
Click onto the Redwall website and find out more about
your favourite characters from the legendary world of
Redwall, and their creator, Brian Jacques!
www.redwall.org
MARTIN THE WARRIOR
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 15706 8
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Random House Group Company
This ebook edition published 2012
Copyright © Brian Jacques, 1993
Illustrations copyright © Gary Chalk, 1993
First Published in Great Britain by Hutchinson, 1993
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