Dumble glared suspiciously about at them. ‘Och, yer no laughin’ at the bonny Dumble, are ye?’ He had begun affecting a smattering of Northland into his speech.
The Wild King MacPhearsome, perched on his favourite log in the orchard, nodding his approval as the falcons circled above, dipping their wings in tribute to him.
‘Aye, they’re a grand bunch o’ laddies, nae doot!’
As evening drew on, Dumble was carried off snoring to his bed by Thrugann. Thrugg sat relaxing with a flagon of October ale, glad to be back safe in his beloved Abbey. A deputation of Redwallers attended as Tudd Spinney presented the otter with a specially carved bowl and spoon of applewood. The old hedgehog twirled his stick awkwardly as he made the presentation speech.
‘Er, oh dearie me, I’m not much at words, but this is a liddle gift from us all to you, Thrugg. Redwall owes its life to you. It’s all carved pretty, like, wi’ your name an’ so on, an’ Friar Bellows says as he’ll fill it with shrimp an’ bulrush ’otroot soup any time you pleases. So er, ’ere ’tis, an’ thank ye!’
Three rousing cheers went up for Thrugg. He hid his head with embarrassment, placing the bowl over his blushing face. ‘Thank ye, mateys. Thank ye kindly, but ’t weren’t nothin’, you’da did the same fer me, an’ I knows it!’
Late that night they all sat together in the orchard around a small fire. The summer was drawing to a close and nights were getting chilly. Brother Hollyberry held out his mug for more hot spiced cider, and Foremole filled it from a big black kettle, eyeing the laden apple trees as he did.
‘Burr, ’twill soon be toim fer ’arvestin’. ’Ee arples do make a noice drop o’ cider for next summertide.’
Hollyberry blew on the steaming drink and sipped reflectively. ‘Aye, the seasons turn and the fruit ripens well, old friend. Oh dear me, I wish that young Samkim and Arula were back with us, I do miss those two scamps.’
Foremole poured himself a mug of the hot spiced cider. ‘You’m roight thurr, zurr Berry’olly. ’Tis not fittin’ furr a young moley maid t’ be gone so long. Burr hurr, no taint.’
Sister Nasturtium had been sitting staring long into the flames. In the silence that followed she sang:
‘Bring me back a squirrel carrying my blade,
Bring me back a little mole, a pretty fair young maid,
Bring me back a speedy one with hunger and long ears,
And a Redwall Guardian to watch us through the years.’
Nasturtium shook herself and sat up straight. ‘My goodness, there I go again, singing silly songs that I know naught of. I am sorry!’
‘Nay nay, Aspershum, doant ’ee ’pologize.’ Foremole patted her paw. ‘That wurr Marthen ’ee Wurrier.’
Abbess Vale stirred the fire with a twig. Sparks drifted upward to dissolve in the night. ‘Thank the seasons for that! Now I can stop worrying over those two young ones. If Martin says they’re coming back, that’s good enough for me. I’ll post lookouts on the ramparts tomorrow as soon as it’s light.’
High above Mossflower Woods the moon shone down over Redwall, and the fire burned to embers as everybeast about it dozed in drowsy contentment.
The sun burned through to the shores of Salamandastron, dispelling the wreaths of sea mist to reveal the Guosssom shrews standing side by side with the hares of the Long Patrol. All eyes were on the front entrance, and a hubbub arose as the boulder was rolled to one side, revealing Loambudd, her head garlanded in a wreath of wildflowers. She was clothed in a magnificent robe of blue. She stepped aside and silence fell as the procession emerged from the mountain.
As honoured guests from far Redwall, Samkim and Arula led the line, the young squirrel holding aloft the sword of Martin, the molemaid bearing a shrew paddle wound about with ivy. Behind them walked the shrew leaders, Log-a-log and Alfoh, green cloaks about their shoulders, paws resting on sheathed rapiers. Then came Mara and Pikkle – the badger maid in a decorated smock of rich autumn brown, carrying a large bouquet of late roses upon a lancetip. Pikkle in light sandy-yellow, bearing a hare longbow and a quiver of grey-flighted arrows. Ashnin walked behind them, wearing a splendid cloak adorned with sea shells. Urthwyte was flanked by Sapwood and Oxeye. They were the last to emerge.
Now that Urthstripe lay at rest clad in his best ceremonial armour, the great white badger was wearing his brother’s old fighting armour. It had been retrieved from the shoreline where he fought his last great battle. The armour had been restored, rebeaten and burnished at Urthstripe’s forge by Urthwyte himself.
He looked every inch the true warrior now, and it shone from his eyes and face, told in every movement of his giant limbs as he strode easily out in front of the assembly. The sun bounced and glimmered off snow-white fur and glittering metal as Oxeye presented him with his own huge oaken club and Sapwood knelt and placed his head beneath Urthwyte’s free paw.
‘This is my grandson,’ Loambudd’s voice rang out majestically. ‘His grandsire was Urthclaw, his father Urthound and his brother Urthstripe the Strong. He stands before you this day and for all the time until his seasons have run, Ruler of the mountain! Commander of the Long Patrols! Warrior Lord of Salamandastron! Salute Urthwyte the Mighty!’
Lances, bows, rapiers and paddles went up like a sea of weaponry.
‘Eulaliaaaaaaaaaa!’
All creatures alike yelled the mountain war cry until the very rocks rang and the clear morning air was filled with the swelling sound. Salamandastron had a new badger Lord.
After the ceremony there was a meal spread out upon the shore. It was good solid food, but quite plain. Salamandastron being a warriors’ place, even the best of cooks there could never match the skills of Redwall creatures at preparing a festive board.
They sat among the rocks and sprawled on the sand, happily sharing the homely fare. Arula, Pikkle and Nordo were building a likeness of Salamandastron from the sea-damped sand. Alfoh and Ashnin perched on a low rock watching them.
The wise old shrew smiled wistfully. ‘Look at them playing at sandcastles like a proper bunch of young uns. Arula, what about a tunnel entrance?’
The young molemaid touched a heavy digging claw to her nose. ‘Thankee, zurr Alfoh. Oi’ll do that straight-ways, hurr hurr.’
Arula vanished in a spray of flying sand as Ashnin shook her head in wonderment. ‘They bounce right back like springy little branches. That’s a good thing, Alfoh. It helps them to forget all the hardships, warfare and slaying they’ve been through. Look at young Samkim sitting alone down there by the sea. I wonder what he’s thinking of. He’s been very quiet all morning.’
Samkim was staring at the logboats moored above the tideline. The sword of Martin lay beside him. He made no move to join the others, staying alone and apart from everybeast.
Still clad in her new smock, Mara approached the solitary young squirrel. She sat beside him, gazing out at the sea pensively. Without looking at her, Samkim began to voice his thoughts. It soon developed into a conversation though they both avoided each other’s eyes.
‘The season is dying, Mara. I feel that summer is gone and the autumn is upon us. The leaves will turn gold and brown.’
‘So they will, Samkim. Nobeast can stop the turn of the seasons. I think you are lonely and far from home. What is Redwall like in the autumn?’
‘Oh, it’s a happy place to be at anytime. Autumn is harvest time: the fruits and crops are gathered in, October ale is made, chestnuts are candied in honey. We sit up late in Cavern Hole around a great fire, enjoying supper and listening to the stories and songs of bygone days. The mornings are quiet and misty. Leaves rustle in Mossflower Woods, and you can feel the dew on the grass between your paws, smell the bread and cakes being baked in the kitchens, lie in the orchard on a sunny afternoon and eat a russet apple or a ripe purple plum. Oh yes, Redwall is like no other place.’
‘You must love your home very much, Samkim.’
‘Aye, the Abbey is everything to me. What about you, Mara? Salamandastron is a fine place –
don’t you like being here?’
The badger maid ran dry sand from the rocks through her paws. ‘It is all I can remember – I grew up with the mountain. This morning I feel that I have a certain fondness for it, but I can never make it my home again. There are too many unhappy memories hovering around it. Lord Urthstripe put his mark upon that mountain. The graves of creatures we knew look lonely here by the great sea, and it will take a lot of healing. Time alone can do it, though I would not be happy staying here to grow old. Even today I noticed the change in Urthwyte – he is becoming a badger Lord. The life here is not for me.’
‘Then what will you do, Mara? Where will you go?’
‘I will follow my dream.’
‘Ah! The dream you dreamed last night of Martin the Warrior?’
‘Samkim, how did you know . . .?’
‘Because I too had a dream. Martin came to me also. He told me to stay apart from the others today and I would see the Guardian of Redwall Abbey come to me. Is it you, Mara?’
The badger maid turned and looked at him. ‘Martin said in my dream that this was my destiny. He told me that I will be happy at Redwall, happier than ever before.’
Samkim took hold of her paw. ‘So you will be. Come on, let us go home, Mara of Redwall!’
42
Though the season was well advanced, Abbess Vale stoically refused to hold any Nameday feast. Each day she had posted lookouts on the ramparts, and they watched until torches were lit and lanterns shone with the onset of night. Through sunny days, cloudy days, and days when soft drizzle and mist hung low over woodlands, the vigil continued, still with no sign of Samkim or Arula returning.
Sitting in the gatehouse one windy morning, Abbess Vale and Faith Spinney took hot mint tea and nutscones with cream as they embroidered a bedquilt together.
Faith took the spectacles from the end of her nose and massaged her eye corners gently. ‘My ol’ eyes get tired pretty quick these days, Vale. ’Spect it’ll be with standin’ out on yon wall all yesternoon.’
The Abbess looked rather severely over the top of her glasses. ‘Faith, what have I told you? There are lots of younger ones happy to do lookout duty – you have no need to be up on the ramparts in all weathers.’
The hedgehog lady poured more tea for Vale. ‘But I wants to be first to see ’em. ’Sides, it keeps me out of Dumble’s way. That infant’s become a reg’lar liddle terror.’
‘Indeed he has.’ The Abbess nodded in agreement as she picked up a stitch. ‘Everywhere I turn he’s following me, bullying away in his north country speech for a Nameday feast.’
‘The Hautumn of the Heagle, you mean.’ Faith chuckled.
Vale threw her paws up to her ears. ‘Honestly, if I hear that name once more I’ll tan the little villain’s tail!’
The little villain in question was hatching a conspiracy, together with Thrugg, MacPhearsome, Friar Bellows and several others. It had been brewing for three days. Secret meetings in the cellars with Foremole and Tudd Spinney standing guard, clandestine gatherings in the dormitory with Brother Hollyberry watching the door, and whispered conferences in the orchard were becoming the order of the day at Redwall. Dumble made the participants swear deathly oaths that Abbess Vale and Mrs Faith Spinney should not know a thing until the time was ripe.
The kitchen fires burned late, heating the ovens as extra cakes, pies, flans and pasties were baked to a golden turn. Bands of moles plundered the orchard regularly, and young ones were seen coming and going, muttering furtively to each other as they covered for others who wheeled great cheeses from the storerooms, lugged forward big barrels of October ale and strawberry cordial from the cellars and grunted beneath mysterious bulky sacks as they strove to move them in secret.
Around lunchtime the wind dropped, and so did Abbess Vale’s head. She fell asleep in the armchair by the fire. Faith Spinney covered her with the quilt they had been working on and stole quietly out of the gatehouse.
The sun was breaking through scudding cloud masses as the Wild King MacPhearsome flapped his wings and did a short run. The golden eagle nearly collided with Faith as she came out of the gatehouse. He pulled up short and stalked off huffily to the start of his intended launch. Faith followed him.
‘Sorry, Your Majesty. Did I disturb your exercises?’
MacPhearsome sniffed the air, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘Och no, wee lady, Ah’m just off for a stretch o’ the wings, ye ken. Mah fithers need a guid wind rufflin’ ’em.’
Swaying from side to side, he dashed forward and launched himself into the air. Faith shook her head in bewilderment as she watched the huge bird soar gracefully.
‘Whatever you say, I’m sure! Dearie me, I wish I could understand one single word from that bird’s beak.’
Hollyberry watched from the sickbay window, explaining the scene to Foremole, who was sitting on a bed tucking into a huge wedge of yellow celery-studded cheese.
‘He’s about to start his second run now – hold on, he’s talking to Faith Spinney. I can’t hear what he’s saying. There he goes, up into the air! Faith’s looking up and saying something. Let’s hope MacPhearsome hasn’t given the game away to her.’
Foremole wrinkled his nose. ‘Missus Spinney doant unnerstand heagly burds. They’m can’t talken propply. Doant ’ee wurry, zurr Berry’olly.’
The five shrew logboats were on a broad open expanse of the Great South Stream. Mara sat side by side with Samkim, paddling steadily, as well as any two shrews. The badger maid could hear Arula telling Pikkle of Redwall feasts as they sat paddling in the prow of the boat opposite.
Pikkle kept interrupting with what could only be described as groans of delight at the mention of each fresh dish.
‘Yurr, an’ then they takes the meddyo cream an’ —’
‘Whoo, my growlin’ tummy! Don’t tell me, let me guess, they take the jolly old meadowcream an’ spread it thick over the damson pudden an’ chuck lots of those candied chestnuts on top, wot?’
Arula blinked earnestly, shaking her head in amazement. ‘Bohurr aye. But ’ow did ’ee knoaw, zurr Ffloger?’
Pikkle rubbed his stomach. ‘The name’s Ffolger, ol’ thing, not Ffloger – an’ if it’s absoballylutely anythin’ to do with tucker, you can bet an acorn to a boulder that a Ffolger’ll know about it. We’re professional gluttons, y’ see.’
Mara splashed him with her paddle. ‘I can vouch for that, Arula!’
‘Back water, ship paddles! Bows ’n’ slings at the ready, Guosssom!’
Mara looked up to see a massive bird of prey beating its wide wings close to the water as it sped towards the logboats. Swiftly she brandished her paddle in the air as Samkim drew his sword and stood by her.
Log-a-log roared out further orders: ‘Don’t fire until it tries to attack – it may not be hunting!’
The great bird soared over them, brushing Mara and Samkim with a wingtip as it mounted into the air and wheeled in a circle. ‘Ach, yer braw beasties the noo, but if ye fire one arra’ Ah’m a-coming doon tae mak’ ye regret it!’
Pikkle put down his paddle and scratched his ears. ‘What in the name of the crazy cuckoo is the chap burbling on about? Can anybeast tell me?’
Alfoh placed a paw across Pikkle’s mouth. ‘Wait, I think he’s trying to tell us something. The bird certainly doesn’t mean us any harm or he’d have attacked by now. Hi! You up there! We’re the Guosssom shrews. Who are you and where are you from?’
The golden eagle dived, screeching like a siren.
‘Redwaaaaaaaalllll!’
Samkim leapt up, waving his sword as he yelled out the reply:
‘Redwaaaaalllllll!’
The eagle wheeled slowly then flapped off at a leisurely clip, turning off north to follow the course of another channel.
Samkim quivered with excitement as he picked up his paddle. ‘Did you hear that, Mara? Come on, Guardian, paddle! I’m sure he wants us to follow him. What do you say, Log-a-log?’
The shrew leader too
k up his paddle. ‘I think you’re right. He’s certainly travelling in the right direction – that branch stream will make a good short cut, now I come to think about it. Right, let’s follow the bird. Up paddles, Guosssom. Take the watercourse on the portside. We’ve got a new navigator to take us to Samkim’s home!’
‘Beating up the river, paddling down the stream,
Find me a berth, lads, somewhere I can dream,
Still quiet waters there, where the lilies float,
Cool and green, dark and clean, there I’ll moor this boat.
Oho, you old paddle, you have made me sore,
Bent all my back and wearied all my paw.
Pull me into harbour, there I’ll make my thanks,
Lie by the river, slumber on the banks.
Where the willow’s leaning o’er
And the waters kiss the shore,
That’s the place that I will rest, linger evermore.’
‘Abbess, marm, Missus Spinney, would you please get in the cart!’ Thrugg stood with the harness about his shoulders, and the little green Abbey cart stood waiting on its four small wheels. Abbess Vale and Faith Spinney had been roused when it was barely dawn and hustled out of gatehouse and Abbey dormitory by Tudd and Sister Nasturtium. They stood hastily dressed on the lawn.
Thrugg looked over his shoulder at them. ‘Come on, ladies. Stir yore paws. Hop in the cart an’ we’ll go a nice ride down the path, eh?’
Faith Spinney fussed with her cloak fastener. ‘Mercy me, Mr Thrugg, whatever for?’
The otter snorted impatiently. ‘For some o’ those violets an’ saxifrage wot grows in the churchyard of old Saint Ninian’s, of course! I’ve told ye, Brother’ Ollyberry needs ’em fer a new batch o’ physick. Now come on, Marms. We can’t be lettin’ ’im down, can we?’
Salamandastron (Redwall) Page 32
