The Sable Quean (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Without further ado, Diggs swaggered off at the head of the column. Jango scratched his beard in astonishment.

  “Well, don’t that sink the logboat? Ole greedy lardbucket Diggs refusin’ vittles—I don’t believe it!”

  Mumzy sorted out some candied chestnuts to give the little ones on their march. “Ah, sure, pay no heed t’the beast friend. He’s as mad as an ould boiled frog, but he means well.”

  The line of little ones holding on to the rope was still filing past Buckler, which caused him to remark, “There’s about twoscore an’ five young uns here, Mumzy. Where did they all come from?”

  The water vole filled her apron pockets with tit bits. “Some found their way to my cave, an’ the rest we found wanderin’ round the woodlands. Orphans, their parents slaughtered by the Sable Quean’s lot. I been gatherin’ ’em in whenever I could. They were cryin’ their eyes out, hungry an’ lost. Sure, I couldn’t leave ’em to fend for themselves, now, could I, sir?”

  Buckler pressed her old paw affectionately. “You certainly couldn’t, marm. Come on, let’s go to Redwall Abbey. There’s room for everyone there!”

  32

  Over the western flatlands, swallows flitted and swooped against a sky aflame with crimsoned evening glory. Slim narrow clouds, lilac and pearly grey, hemmed the far horizon. Redwall Abbey was bathed in soft rose light from eaves to gables. It was a sight which would be forever emblazoned in the memories of those young creatures seeing it for the first time.

  The column trudged wearily along the path in a haze of fine dust sent up by their footpaws. Some of the babes, too exhausted to march, were carried on the backs and shoulders of their rescuers.

  Trajidia Witherspyk, balancing on the southwest edge of the battlements, espied them first. She hallooed out in full dramatic style. “Hearken, one and all. I see them, I see them yonder!”

  This set off the twin Abbey bells, booming out their message of home and safety for all.

  The Abbey gates swung open as cheering creatures rushed down the path en masse to greet the travellers. Swaggering martially at the column’s head, Diggs (alias Colonel Crockley Sputherington) bellowed out orders in fine parade-ground style. “Eyes front! Hold the line, back there! Mind your dressing, watch your pace, keep in step! No breakin’ off an’ dismissin’ ’til I give the command!” His words were suddenly lost as both sides met.

  Dymphnia Witherspyk seized Jiddle and Jinty, squeezing them until they were gasping for breath. “Oh, my beautiful liddle hogs, I’ve not slept a wink since you’ve been gone. Oh, my dears, y’don’t know what this does to a mother’s heart!”

  Diggs pushed roughly past the trio, trying to restore some order to the happy chaos. “By the left, right’n’centre, discipline’s gone to flamin’ pot. They’re nought but a bloomin’ rabble!”

  Dymphnia gave him a hefty pat on the back, which nearly knocked him flat. She steadied him, gushing, “Oh, well done, Mister Diggs, well done!”

  He stood quivering with rage from ear to scut. “Mister Diggs, marm? Confound Mister flippin’ Diggs an’ all his blinkin’ ilk. D’ye know whom you’re addressin’?” He strode off, waving his swagger stick, yelling, “Back in your ranks, you slab-sided puddle-pawed cads!”

  Dymphnia was perplexed. She turned to Buckler. “What did I do? Did I say something wrong?”

  The young hare drew her to one side as the jubilant crowd flooded through the gates into the Abbey grounds. “You’ll have to forgive him, marm. It’s that wound he took to the head. Thinks he’s some otherbeast now, wants t’be called Colonel Crockley Sputherington.”

  Dymphnia allowed Jiddle and Jinty to run off and be reunited with the rest of their family. “Oh, dear, I never guessed that. I knew he’d been injured, but nobeast told me about Mister Diggs thinkin’ he was some other creature. Ah, well, not to worry, Buck. I’ll soon fix him.”

  She hurried off after her babes, not explaining how she could effect a cure for Diggs.

  Fortunately, the orchard decorations had been left up, and thanks to the good efforts of Friar Soogum and his staff, a further feast was set up, waiting. When everybeast was gathered there, Abbess Marjoram mounted an upturned wheelbarrow.

  Skipper called the chattering, laughing crowd to order. “Ahoy, mates, silence one an’ all for Marjoram, Mother Abbess of Redwall. Stow the gab an’ quiet, please!”

  Visibly moved by the sight of the freed captive young ones, Marjoram wiped a habit sleeve across her eyes and sniffed several times before starting her speech.

  “Welcome to Redwall Abbey, my friends, both old and new! You are all free to live here in peace and safety. Please treat this place as your home for as long as you wish. Now, I won’t waste a beautiful and happy summer’s eve with lots of boring talk. I see you are hungry and tired. Sister Fumbril, Drull Hogwife and other helpers—not forgetting our new friend, Mumzy Water Vole—will tend to the babes. They will have fine new clothes, a dormitory with soft little beds and, who knows, maybe a good bath in our Abbey pond tomorrow. But for now I want you all to enjoy the feast. Eat, drink, sing, dance and be merry. And once more welcome, twice welcome and thrice welcome to Redwall Abbey. Let the celebrations begin!”

  Everybeast tucked in with a will. The appetite of the newly arrived young ones was so hearty that Friar Soogum stood wide-eyed.

  “Goodness me, I’ll have to get extra supplies from the kitchens if they carry on at this rate!”

  Drull Hogwife shook her head in wonderment. “I thought those liddle uns was wearied out an’ more’n ready to sleep. Good grief, lookit them eat!”

  Tura lifted her smudged face from a bowl of blackberry sponge in arrowroot sauce. “Beggin’ y’pardon, marm, but if’n you’d never seen vittles like this, wot’d you sooner do, eat or sleep?”

  Smiling at the squirrelmaid’s logic, Skipper filled himself a bowl of his favourite shrimp’n’hotroot soup. “Well said, missy, they can always sleep later. Ahoy, Colonel, d’ye want to try a bowlful o’ this?”

  Diggs had not touched food thus far. He had been wandering about the orchard, chunnering to himself. Curling a lip at the Otter Chieftain, he snapped, “Doesn’t anybeast think of anythin’ but stuffin’ one’s flippin’ face? A disgustin’ exhibition, sah! Those young uns should be abed now, catchin’ up on their shuteye, wot, wot? Well, alls I can say is that they’d better be up bright’n’early on the morrow. Ho, yes, I want t’see them all on parade, ready for a long route march! I’ll lick ’em into shape, sah, see if I don’t!”

  Cellarmole Gurjee objected strongly. “You’m’ll do nuthin’ of ee sort, zurr. They’m likkle uns needs carin’ furr!”

  Dymphnia Witherspyk did not seem in agreement with Gurjee. “Oh, tut tut, sir. I’m sure a good long march’ll do the babes a power o’ good. Ain’t that right, Oakie?”

  Putting aside a hefty fruitcake, Oakheart nodded. “Quite right, m’dear! Oh, Colonel, might I have a private word with ye, a whisper in your good ear, sir?”

  The Colonel strutted over to where Oakheart was sitting. Leaning down, he bent his unbandaged ear at the florid hog. “Whisper on, sah. What d’ye jolly well want?”

  With a chunk of the cake clutched in one paw, Oakheart swung out, catching the hare a stunning blow to the back of his head. Colonel Crockley Sputherington fell to the grass, knocked out cold.

  There was an immediate uproar. Buckler ran at Oakheart, his paws clenched. “What’n the name o’ blood’n’vinegar did y’do that for?”

  Trajidia wailed, “Oh, Father, what a cowardly thing to do, striking down a poor beast in such a sly manner!”

  Oakheart merely grinned, consulting his wife’s opinion. “How was that, m’dear? Did I do it right?”

  Dymphnia clutched his fruitcake-filled paw. “Couldn’t have done it better myself, Oakie. You hit him right on the button, just as I did to you, darling!”

  The Abbess hurried forward with a pail of cold water and a cloth. “Will somebeast pray tell me what’s going on?”

  Dymp
hnia obliged willingly. “My Oakie once struck his head on the tiller of our raft, knocked himself clean out. When he came to, he thought he was an owl. Egbert Whootfellow, we had to call him. We put up with him for six days, sitting perched on top of the mast making owl noises. In the end, I could stand it no longer. So, I climbed the mast when he was asleep one night and shoved him off. He wasn’t really an owl, you see, couldn’t fly. Fell to the deck headfirst, knocked out again. Would you believe it, when he came around again he was Oakheart Witherspyk once more. I think it was the second knock to his head that cured him.”

  Abbess Marjoram rolled up her habit sleeves. “Right, let’s see, shall we?”

  Whoosh! She emptied the bucket of cold water over the head of the senseless hare. He sat up groaning. Wiping water from his eyes, he swiftly viewed the splendid feast, then launched into a tirade.

  “Yah, you rotten bunch o’ cads, helpin’ your bally selves to all this bloomin’ tuck while I was asleep! I hope your scringey tails wither an’ drop off!”

  Buckler threw a paw about his friend. “Diggs, is it really you?”

  Wrenching himself loose, his companion began heaping a plate with all he could lay his paws on. “Of course it’s me, ye great blitherin’ oaf! Who did ye think it was, a duck with a top hat on? Call y’selves friends, wot! Rotten, the whole bunch of you are, lowly bounders’n’cads. What a slimy trick t’pull on a starvin’ young subaltern. I’ll never speak to you again, never! Specially you, Buck Kordyne!”

  Without warning, his mood changed. He smiled. “I say, that summer salad looks jolly nice. Mind passin’ me a goodly portion, Buck old lad, wot?”

  Everybeast laughed, cheering at the transformation. Diggs was Diggs once again, gluttonous as ever.

  The feast continued until dawnlight, when lots of young ones fell fast asleep where they sat, bowls and spoons still in paw. Mumzy, Sister Fumbril and other dedicated helpers began carrying the babes off to their dormitories. Ambrevina wandered by, laden with four young creatures. She nodded to Buckler. “I think Clarinna would like a word with you. She’s over in Great Hall.”

  Dawn rays were shafting through the tall windows, tinted by the stained glass. Buckler found Clarinna sitting by the tapestry of Martin the Warrior. He sat down beside her.

  “Are Calla and Urfa both asleep now?”

  Clarinna nodded upward. “Tucked up in the dormitory, bless them. Here, Buckler, these are for you.” She placed the great broadsword and the coin medallion in front of him. Buckler sat staring at them awhile, then pushed them back to her.

  “These are my poor brother Clerun’s birthright. By family tradition, they belong to Calla, his eldest son.”

  Clarinna shook her head. “I and my little ones won’t be returning to Salamandastron. It’s my wish that they grow up here, with me at Redwall Abbey. I don’t want to see them being raised under a Badger Lord, joining the Long Patrol and learning warriors’ ways of war, regiments and weapons. Redwall is a place of peace, gentleness and wisdom.”

  She hung the medallion around Buckler’s neck. “You must wear this. You have always been the true Blademaster. Clerun was a farmer at heart.”

  Buckler touched the bright gold emblem. “But it was you who slew Zwilt the Shade. You were the brave one, Clarinna.”

  She pointed to the figure of Martin the Warrior. “No, it was he who did it, really. Martin bade me to take his sword. After that, I remember nothing, only seeing the sable lying dead in front of me. I think Martin would not allow that evil beast to murder a babe in his Abbey. Nor would he see a bravebeast like you sacrifice his life to save that babe.”

  Buckler picked up the broadsword. “Martin was very wise. He knew Zwilt would have killed us all if he had gotten the chance. I’ll wear the medal, Clarinna. But what of this sword? It’s not a weapon that I’m suited to. I have my own long rapier, which Lord Brang forged for me.”

  The hare mother stared at the blade with something like loathing in her eyes. “I’ll have no more to do with that thing. As far as I’m concerned, you can throw it in the sea!”

  Buckler patted her paw understandingly. “Leave it to me, Clarinna. I know the very beast it will suit. A broadsword forged at Salamandastron by a mighty Badger Lord is far too precious to throw away.” Wearing the medallion and shouldering the hefty blade, Buckler strode from Great Hall, out into the sunlight of a new summer day.

  Soft autumn mist lay in the hollows and vales of the dunelands by the far west coast. It would be fully midmorn before the sun’s warmth evaporated it. A young hare, Windora Rowanbough of the Long Patrol, stood atop a high hill. Leaning on her slender javelin, she peered intently at a distant dunetop. Having ascertained what her keen eyes could see, she wheeled, shooting off like a shaft from a bowstring in the direction of Salamandastron.

  Windora was a Runner, the swiftest and best on the mountain. She was poetry and grace in motion, limbs moving like silent pistons, ears blown flat back by her re markable speed.

  Lord Brang was at his anvil, putting the final touches to a helmet. It was a work of great beauty, a polished steel dome with a bright copper spike at its centre. A curtain of fine steel mesh, both functional and simple, hung halfway around it, protection for a warrior’s neck and upper shoulders. The huge badger polished away at the helmet with a piece of greased silk, making it shine in the forgelight.

  General Flurry Flackbuth entered, giving a small cough to make Brang aware of his presence. The Badger Lord did not even look up.

  “Don’t you bother to knock anymore, Flurry?”

  The old bewhiskered hare shook his head. “Beggin’ y’pardon, m’Lud, I knocked twice!”

  Brang placed the helmet carefully on the windowsill. “Didn’t hear ye, my friend. I must be gettin’ old.”

  Flurry replied almost apologetically, “We’re none of us gettin’ any bally younger, sah. You were busy, let’s say, er, occupied with your work, eh?”

  Brang filled two tankards from an ale cask. Taking a red-hot dagger blade from the forge fire, he quenched it in the tankards, passing one to his friend.

  “Mulled ale. Always makes the morning a little more bearable. Well, then, General, what news?”

  Flurry savoured a sip of his drink, standing with his back to the forge fire. “Young Runner Rowanbough just reported in, sah. Seems there’s three bodies approachin’ here from the east.”

  The Badger Lord looked over his tankard rim, speaking as though he were talking to himself. “Two of our own, and a long-overdue badgermaid. My dreams were right, Flurry. Send out a score of our Long Patrol in full fig to meet them. Bring all three right here to me.”

  The autumn mist had died to milky wisps as the three travellers halted on the hilltop, where the haremaid had stood earlier.

  Buckler drew his rapier, pointing at the great mountain on the coastline. “Well, there it is, Ambry. Salamandastron!”

  The badgermaid stared at it for a long moment. “Incredible! It’s exactly as I used to see it in my dreams. Can you believe that?”

  Diggs twirled his sling idly. “Don’t see why not, marm. You’re a bloomin’ badger, aren’t ye? Who are we to question your flippin’ visions an’ whatnot, wot!”

  Ambrevina’s paw strayed to the hilt of her broadsword. “Look—we’ve got company approaching, maybe twoscore.”

  Diggs set off downhill, calling back, “That’ll be the jolly old reception committee, wot. All good friends an’ stout comrades. Huh, I bet they didn’t think to bring a measly plum pudden to welcome returnin’ heroes, famine-faced bounders. Hah, look who’s leadin’ the parade, old Flackers! An’ there’s Skinny Swippton, Algie Bloggmort, Tubby Magrool an’ Lancejack Cudderfauld. All in their best number ones, just to meet Sub Digglethwaite, wot! I don’t know whether t’feel flattered or battered. Hi, there, you chaps!”

  The escort kept pace with General Flurry, who was limping slightly, favouring a gouty footpaw. Then he halted, awaiting the arrival of the trio, exchanging the customary salute with Buckler. />
  “Blademaster Kordyne, welcome back.”

  Keeping his eyes to the front, the young hare replied, “Thankee, General, sah. Afraid we haven’t had the chance to spruce up appearances, sah!”

  Flurry noted their travel-stained tunics and dusty appearance in contrast to his escort’s smart turnout.

  “Hmmph! No matter, laddie buck, no matter. Er, Subaltern Diggs, can’t ye do anythin’ about that left ear? It’s floppin’ about like a flag in a breeze, wot!”

  Diggs managed a stiff heroic grin as he explained, “Oh, that, sah. ’Fraid I can’t. Lost the ear in battle, doncha know. Only left me with one dainty shell like, see?”

  He unfastened the chinstrap, holding the false ear out for inspection. “Charmin’ old hedgehog named Crumfiss Witherspyk knitted this for me. Rather fetchin’, ain’t it, sah? Flops about in the wind a bit, but it looks jolly well like the real thing from a distance, wot wot!”

  He slipped the chinstrap back on, adjusting the ear to a rakish angle. This brought many admiring remarks from the young hares, to whom there was nought like a real battle-scarred warrior.

  “I say, top hole, Diggs. That’s really the duck’s nightie!”

  “Rather. I love the way it sort of flops halfway!”

  “Didn’t you get anythin’ chopped off, Buck? Bet you wish you had. Old Diggs looks absolutely dashin’, wot!”

  “You could win all kinds of wagers in the mess with an ear like that, old lad. Chaps’d give you all their pudden ration just to try it on!”

  General Flurry cut sternly through the banter. “Silence in the ranks, there!” He saluted Ambrevina courteously. “My ’pologies, Milady, ignore these young rips. Lord Brang awaits you in his quarters, soon as possible.”

  The badgermaid gave him a brief, gracious nod. “Thank you, General. Please, lead on!”

  There were banners staked out along the beach and an honour guard of Long Patrollers leading up to the fortress entrance. The Regimental Band, complete with fifes and drums, belted out a brave marching air named “Hares in the Heather.” Resplendent in burnished armour and a magnificent cloak of carmine velvet, Lord Brang emerged to greet the trio.