Salamandastron (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  The hare sat down beside him. ‘Aye, sir. I turned the key meself.’

  The badger Lord’s eyes narrowed in a hard line. ‘Good! I’d hate to think that a ferret and a weasel were skulking about our mountain during the night.’

  Sapwood tapped a paw alongside his nose. ‘Haint much fear o’ that, sir. I posted two sentries near their door – Catkin an’ Big Oxeye. If’n they ever did manage to sneak out o’ that room, those two would really find theirselves wi’ problems. Big Oxeye don’t like vermin, no sir!’

  Urthstripe could not resist a small chuckle. ‘Almost makes you wish they’d try something, doesn’t it? It’s been a few seasons since I saw Oxeye chastise an enemy.’

  The Sergeant nodded wholehearted agreement. ‘Hoho, ’e can chastise all right. I never did see anybeast return for a second ’elpin’ off Big Oxeye!’

  Soft summer night cast its shades over the mountain stronghold. The two friends sat up into the small hours, discussing and reliving old days of past seasons. Outside, the full moon beamed down upon the deserted shore, tipping countless small wavetips with a thread of pale silver light.

  Perched high in the rocks of the lookout post, Feadle strove to keep awake. He spat on his paws, rubbing them hard into red-rimmed eyes. Blinking intently he peered among the moon-shadowed dunes, fearful lest he missed Klitch’s return.

  Ferahgo sat apart from the rest of his band, pawing thoughtfully at the gold badger medal about his neck and stirring the flames of a guttering fire. Keeping his voice low, the Assassin spoke to a small stringy water rat seated close by him.

  ‘Tell me again, Sickear, how did you find out about the mountain?’

  ‘I was a searat, and I saw the place a few times, Master, though only from a distance. They call it Salamandastron.’

  Ferahgo stroked the badger medal, repeating the name slowly as if it were a magic charm. ‘Salamandastron. I like the sound of it. Salamandastron. But tell me the rest, you know, the part I like to hear.’

  Sickear repeated the tale, as he had done many times in secret to Ferahgo since joining his band last winter.

  ‘The searat Captains said there was great treasure hidden inside the mountain – their old legends are full of it. The fortress is guarded by tough fighting hares and ruled by a badger Lord – always has been, since anybeast could remember. The present ruler is called Urthstripe the Strong, a great and fearsome warrior.’

  Ferahgo moved closer to the speaker, his eyes shining blue in the firelight, aglitter with greed. ‘The treasure – tell me about the treasure!’

  Sickear swallowed hard as the Assassin’s claws closed on his shoulder. He repeated what Ferahgo wanted to hear.

  ‘It is said the great badgers never lacked riches. As each one lived out his seasons, or died in battle, so his possessions were added to the pile, hidden somewhere inside the mountain. Pearls from the sea, many-coloured precious stones, armour wrought from silver, gold and copper, spears and other great weapons, all made by the badgers at their forge. Bright war axes that can cut through stone, shields that are wonderful to look upon, swords with blades that can slice armour like butter, red and green stones set into their handles, sheathed in cases of the finest . . . aaaarrghh!’

  Ferahgo’s claws had pierced the rat’s shoulder. Sickear whimpered in pain, tears rolling down his narrow face. The weasel Chieftain freed his claws from the matted fur and flesh with a quick wrench. Slumping to one side, Sickear moaned piteously, trying to lick his injured shoulder. Ferahgo grinned, his strange blue eyes twinkling in the firelight like a happy infant.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, friend. I must have got carried away. Never mind, it’s only a scratch. The best thing for you is fresh air and something to take your mind off it. Listen now, you shin up those lookout rocks and keep Feadle company the rest of the night. It’ll do you good. Stop weeping and groaning now. Come on, up you go!’

  The Assassin’s eyes smiled wide and innocent as he watched the injured Sickear hauling himself painfully up among the rocks. With a note of deceptive concern he called softly up to the weary lookout, ‘Not sleepy yet, Feadle?’

  The lookout stared down into the treacherous blue eyes smiling up at him. Straightening his back against the rock, he sang out in an alert manner. ‘No sign of your son or Goffa yet, Master. I’m wide awake!’

  Feadle’s heart sank at the cheerful reply.

  ‘Good work! Stop up there and keep Sickear company. Keep your eyes open now, both of you. There’s a fresh edge on my skinning knife that I haven’t used yet.’

  Feadle stretched down. Grasping Sickear’s paw, he helped him up to the lookout post. Below them Ferahgo lay flat on his back, watching through half-closed eyes.

  4

  Rosy dawn light caressed the Abbey walls as Bremmun the squirrel climbed the stairs to the Infirmary. Knocking softly on the door, he entered. Brother Hollyberry never slept in a bed; he sat propped up by cushions in his armchair, watching the birth of another summer day rise over the windowsill. Arula and Samkim lay asleep in their beds, Bremmun nodded towards them, keeping his voice low.

  ‘Good morning, Brother. How are they today?’

  Hollyberry yawned and stretched in his chair. ‘Morning, Bremmun. See for yourself. I worked the tails off them both until late last night, washing nightgowns, stitching pillowcases. They’re two very sorry young uns – cried themselves to sleep after all those chores.’

  Bremmun’s face softened, and he stared guiltily at the two young sleepers, Arula sucking her paw, Samkim with his bushy tail curled under the pillow.

  ‘By the fur ’n’ whiskers, Brother, you must have driven them hard. They look completely tuckered out.’

  Hollyberry raised his eyebrows. ‘I was only carrying out your instructions. You set the penalty.’

  ‘Do you think they’ve had enough?’

  Hollyberry snorted. ‘Hmph! What do you think!’

  ‘Yes of course, they have been punished sufficiently. When they wake you can tell them they are free to leave. D’you know, I feel quite awful about the whole thing. I just hope those young uns have learned their lesson.’

  Hollyberry breathed on his spectacles, polished and rebalanced them on his nosetip, and stared earnestly at Bremmun. ‘Oh, I’m sure they have. Hmm, quite sure!’

  A rather shamefaced Bremmun tip-pawed out, closing the door carefully behind him.

  Samkim opened one eye and stifled a snigger. Brother Hollyberry wagged a paw at him.

  ‘You squirrelly little wag, you were listening!’

  ‘Hurrhurrhurr! Oi wurr a-listenin’ too, zurr Berr’olly.’

  The old mouse shook his head ruefully. ‘It’s not good for young ones to hear their elders tell lies.’

  Samkim sprang grinning from the bed. ‘But you weren’t telling lies, Brother. You just forgot what sort of jobs you gave us. Eating candied chestnuts is very hard work – my jaws are still aching!’

  Arula tumbled to the floor, clinging to her pillow. ‘Aye, zurr, an’ playen yon game. Boohurr, those pebbles ’n’ acorns be fearful ’eavy. ‘Spec’ moi young mussles be infected fer loif, hurr!’

  A smile hovered about Hollyberry’s face. It was soon replaced by a grin as his chuckles turned into rib-quaking laughter. Arula and Samkim rolled about the floor in merriment.

  ‘Ahahahahoohoo! Old Bremmun had a face on him like ahahaha! Like a frog suckin’ a rock. Heeheehee!’

  An infant dormouse pursued Abbess Vale across the front lawn from the Abbey to the gatehouse. ‘Muvva Vale, Muvva Vale, when’s a Nameday?’

  The old mouse turned her eyes skyward in despair. ‘Dumble, will you please stop pestering me! I haven’t had breakfast yet and I can’t think right if I’m hungry. Now be off with you this instant!’

  The little dormouse carried on tugging Vale’s habit and pleading. ‘Owww! Stoppa momint, Muvva Vale, an’ say when’s a Nameday, or Dumble turn all purkle an’ cry!’

  The Abbess halted and wagged a severe paw. ‘You’ll turn purple and cr
y, eh? Are you threatening me?’

  The infant smiled and nodded. ‘Mmm yeh, Dumble go all purkle an’ cryancryancry lots!’

  Mr Tudd Spinney limped out of the gatehouse, shaking his walking stick aloft. ‘Whoa now, who’s a-doin’ all the cryin’ ’ereabouts? Spike me if it ain’t young Dumble. What’s a matter with ye, liddle laddo?’

  The Abbess struggled to unfasten Dumble from her habit. ‘Would you believe it, Mr Spinney, this rogue says that if I don’t choose a Nameday he’s going to cry and cry.’

  The hedgehog threw his ash stick in the air and caught it. ‘Dumble, you liddle pudden, what a good idea. Come on, marm, pick a Nameday or I’ll join ’im. You ain’t heard me cry – I’m a champion wailer, an’ I c’n turn purple too!’

  ‘Shame on you, Mr Spinney. I can’t even think up a proper name for the season yet.’

  Dumble fastened himself to the habit skirt again. ‘Owwww, ’urry up an fink of one, Muvva Vale!’

  She set about detaching him once more. ‘The Summer of the Annoying Baby Dormouse – that’s about all I can think of at the moment!’

  Mrs Faith Spinney came bustling out of the gatehouse. ‘Summer of the Villainous Archer, more like it. Ooh, that dreadful young Samkim!’

  Thrugg and his sister Thrugan trudged up to join them. Between them the two otters bore a fine netful of fresh water shrimp. Thrugg held them up proudly.

  ‘Caught at dawn in our own Abbey pond, marm. They’ll make a tasty soup with plenty o’ pepper an’ bulrush tips. Stow me gaff, I’ve never seen so many shrimp in that pond as there be this season. I reckon that ol’ trout ain’t eatin’ ’em – he’s got too fat ’n’ lazy. Lookit, there he goes now!’

  The ancient trout flopped noisily on the surface. As they walked in the direction of the pond, Tudd wagged his cane. ‘That there fish be older’n me. I recall he was near full growed when I was only a liddle ’og, y’know. Great walloper!’

  They stood at the pond’s edge. From just beneath the surface the trout watched them, its mouth opening and closing slowly. Thrugg shook the dripping net at it.

  ‘Look ’ere, matey, we pinched all yore shrimps!’

  The big fish performed a moody half-leap, splashing them with water as it fell back into the pond.

  Dumble stuck out his tongue and pawed his nose at it. ‘Lazy ol’ trout!’

  Mrs Spinney produced a dried plum from her apron pocket, and triumphantly she stuffed it in the infant’s mouth. ‘That’s it, the Summer of the Lazy Trout!’

  The Abbess pulled a wry face. ‘Oh dear, I’m not sure I like that. Seasons are usually named after trees or flowers. Summer of the Lazy Trout, hmm, a bit irregular, but in the absence of a better name I suppose it’ll have to do. When do you want it held?’

  A concerted shout went up. ‘Tomorrow!’

  Abbess Vale looked to her friend. ‘Very short notice for a Nameday. Could you cope, Faith?’

  Mrs Spinney straightened her apron and mob cap in a businesslike manner. ‘Ready an’ willin’ to try, Vale!’

  At this they all gave a rousing cheer. Tudd Spinney tripped on his stick and fell, and little Dumble got overexcited and leaped over Tudd, straight into the pond. Thrugan waded swiftly in and hauled the dripping infant out.

  After breakfast the word was all over the Abbey. Over at the south wallsteps young creatures whooped and jumped with delight, Samkim and Arula among them.

  ‘It’s tomorrow! Hooray! The Nameday’s tomorrow!’

  ‘There’s going to be a party! We’re going to have a party!’

  Clad in a clean dry smock, Dumble led them, marching up the steps and along the ramparts, chanting the traditional rhyme which young ones recited in anticipation of the feast.

  ‘Food to eat and games to play.

  Tell me why, tell me why.

  Serve it out and eat it up.

  Have a try, have a try.

  Nameday, Nameday, fun and game day,

  Come, Brother, Sister, join our play.

  This season has a name!’

  The great Joseph Bell pealed out happily over the sunny morn, and birds twittered in excitement over the joyous din. Old Abbeydwellers who were not busy in the kitchens gathered on the lawn to watch the young ones and remember long ago Namedays they had enjoyed taking part in.

  Other creatures outside Redwall heard the sounds of celebration that morning – Dingeye and Thura, the two stoats who had deserted Ferahgo’s army some weeks earlier. They lay in the ditch on the opposite side of the path which skirted the west wall. Days and nights of roaming the west flatlands, scavenging, begging and thieving to eke out their mean existence showed on their gaunt faces. Dingeye was sleeping in the warmth of the morning sun, dreaming of roast meat and red wine, when Thura shook him.

  ‘Lissen, can yer ’ear that mucker?’

  Dingeye sat up. He rubbed his face with a ragged sleeve and waggled a paw in his ear to clear it, cocking his head on one side. Gradually his ugly face split into a crooked grin, and he waved his paw in time with the chanting.

  ‘Yersss, yersss indeedy! Sounds like a good ol’-fashioned whoopdedoo. Wot d’you make of it, mucker?’

  Thura was chewing a blade of grass. His stomach growled loudly, and he pulled a face and spat out the grass. ‘Erm erm, I’d say it soun’s the same ter me as it do ter you. Somebeast ringin’ billyo out of a bell, a load of young uns settin’ up a racket. All soun’s very nice, though. ’Ere, wot d’you reckon that place is, mucker?’

  ‘It’s an abbey.’

  ‘A nabby? Wot’s a nabby?’

  Dingeye shoved Thura sideways, and he rolled down into the slime. ‘An abbey, weedbrain, abbey. That must be the one called Redfall, or summat. I ’eard of it one time off of a fox.’

  Thura stood up, wringing damp and ooze from his dirty shirt. ‘Huh, you don’t know any foxes, slobber-chops. An’ if yer did they prob’ly wouldn’t wanna know you. Redfall Nabby, chah!’

  Dingeye leapt on him and clamped a paw over his mouth. ‘Shurrup, somebeast’s a-comin’ this ways.’

  Several moles came trundling along the path in the wake of their leader, a Foremole. The stoats watched from the ditch as the Foremole hailed the walltop.

  ‘Yurr, gudd morn to ’ee, Sankin, an’ ’ee, young ’Rula. Be guddbeasts naow an’ oppen ’ee gate fer uz.’

  The young ones skipped down the west wall steps to open the big main gate of Redwall. As the moles filed in, Dingeye nudged Thura.

  ‘Come on, mucker. ’Ere we go. Imagine yer a mole, and we’ll latch on to the line an’ march in with ’em!’

  Scurrying across the path, they joined the file behind the back mole, crouching double and making moleish sounds. ‘Hoo arr, mucker, ho urrmucker, hur hurr!’

  Walking with heads down, they marched slapbang into Thrugg. The brawny otter grabbed both stoats by their scruffs. ‘Back oars, mateys. Where d’you think yer off to?’

  Dingeye fell on all fours. Grasping Thrugg’s left leg, he began wailing outrageously. ‘Ho, woe is us, sir. Kindness’ll foller yer all yer days if’n yer shows pity on a pair of gentlebeasts fallen on ’ard times!’

  Thura joined his companion, clasping Thrugg’s other leg. ‘Wahaah! Yer a luvverly creature, sir. We ’ad a mother once, just like yerself. Don’t turn me an’ me mucker away yet Lordship. Show charity ter two starvin’ wretches. Whahahaah!’

  Thrugg folded his paws across his chest, unable to move one way or the other. He called out to Samkim above the wailing, ‘Cut along an’ fetch Abbess Vale, young’n. Sharpish now!’

  By the time the Abbess arrived the two stoats were face down on the Abbey lawn, kicking their limbs and blubbering unmercifully. She held up both paws. ‘Silence, please. Stop all this caterwauling. You’re not injured!’

  Dingeye appeared inconsolable, strewing grass on his head, pounding the earth with all paws and sobbing brokenly. ‘Not injured! Aaaaaoooowwww! Kind lady, if only you knew the ’arf of it. If yer calls starvin’, ill fortune an’ limpin’ round t
he land till yer paws are wore down t’ the bone not injured, then so be it. But say nothin’ of the days of ’eartache, an’ the freezin’ cold rainy nights, an’ not a pudden rag atwixt me an’ my mucker ’ere t’ keep us warm an’ dry from the thunder an’ lightnin’. Not injured, yer say? Wahahahaah!’

  Samkim and Arula could not help giggling at the tragicomic display put on by the two stoats. Abbess Vale silenced the young ones with a stem glance. Turning, she addressed the stoats in a no-nonsense manner.

  ‘Tut-tut! If you wish to stay at our Abbey you must cease this disgraceful exhibition immediately. Do you hear me?’

  Instantly Dingeye and Thura stopped howling and sat up.

  ‘Do yer mean we c’n stay?’

  ‘An’ we can come to yer whoopdedoo an’ scoff . . . I mean ’ave summat to eat?’

  The Abbess nodded. ‘Redwall Abbey is a place of peace and plenty, but while you are here you must observe our rules: to live in harmony with the creatures about you, and help the sick, the aged and the very young. Also you must never raise a paw in anger against any creature. We are a peaceful order, we tend the land and prosper from its bounteous way of life. If you are willing to abide by our laws then you may stay here gladly.’

  The Abbess’s words set them both off afresh.

  ‘Whaahaah! Forgive me fer cryin’ luvverly lady, but you reminds me of me ol’ mother – she looked just like yew!’

  ‘Whaaaaw! Lackaday, I never knew my mother, but I’m sure she woulda looked just like yer too. Bless yer, mum, with yore kind eyes an’ gentle voice an’—’

  Thrugg and the Foremole hauled the stoats upright.

  Tudd Spinney looked doubtfully toward the Abbess. ‘What d’you think, marm? Pers’nally, I don’t much care for the look o’ these two.’

  Foremole seconded Tudd’s opinion. ‘Burr, nor do oi. They’m looken loik a roight ol’ pair o’ gullywashers!’