While Mellus and Tarquin continued their conversation in the open gateway, Dandin and Saxtus walked inside, accompanied by Storm. Saxtus noticed some of the young ones staring open-mouthed at Storm.
‘Er, I say, Storm, we’d best go and find Sister Sage. She’ll get you cleaned up and dressed nicely.’
Storm swung Gullwhacker deftly, flicking the head off a daisy. ‘Nobody’s washin’ an’ dressin’ me up, mouse. I’m all right as I am.’
Saxtus disagreed. ‘No no, you must do as Mother Mellus says!’
Dandin saw something in the mousemaid’s face, something which reminded him of himself. He turned to Saxtus.
‘Leave Storm alone, friend. If she says she’s all right, then she is. Let her be.’
As they strolled through the grounds together, young Redwallers sported and cavorted everywhere. Storm watched them with amusement in her eyes.
‘What are they doing, Dandin?’
‘They’re playing. It’s a sort of sports day.’
‘Sports day, playing – what’s that mean?’
Saxtus was about to explain when a twine-tied leaf-ball rolled in front of them. A baby hedgehog came chasing it. Storm picked up the ball.
‘Is this something for playing?’
The little hedgehog stood smiling at her with all the innocence of a Dibbun. ‘Gorra see how high you c’n frow it.’
Storm spun the ball in her paw. ‘How high I can throw it . . . let’s see.’ She tossed the ball into the air. As it came down, she swung with the knotted end of Gullwhacker. It struck the ball spot on, sending it soaring into the sky until it was a mere dot.
Dandin, Saxtus and the Dibbun hedgehog gasped in admiration. Storm smiled.
‘Good. I like playing. What’ll we play next?’
‘Yeek!’
Some distance away, Treerose was struck on the back by the falling ball.
Rufe Brush came sauntering over. ‘What’s the matter, squirrel?’
Treerose was furious. She grabbed the ball and came marching over to where the three mice stood. Holding the ball out, she chattered fiercely.
‘Who did that? Come on, own up.’
Storm did not realize the ball had struck Treerose. She stood forward, grinning cheerfully, and nodded at the squirrel in a friendly way. ‘I hit the ball high. It’s called playing. D’you want to play?’
Treerose went red with temper. ‘You dirty filthy little ragamuffin, I’ll teach you a lesson!’
Swiftly she lashed out, scratching the side of Storm’s face with her sharp little dewclaws. Before anybeast could stop her, Storm whacked the knotted rope squarely between Treerose’s ears. The squirrel sat flat on her tail in the dust, tears pouring from her eyes.
Storm was perplexed, she rubbed her cheek as she turned to Saxtus. ‘What’s the matter with her? What did she scratch me for?’
Treerose saw Rufe Brush watching and set up a wail. ‘Waah! She hit me! What are you going to do about it, Rufe Brush?’
Rufe shrugged. ‘Dunno really. S’pose I’d better shake ’er paw!’
‘Boohoohoo! That dirty little scruffbag has broken my skull. Boohoohoo!’
Mother Mellus’s huge paw swept Treerose upright and dusted her down. ‘Stop that wailing or you’ll bring on the rain, miss. Stoppit! You’re not really hurt, and if I ever hear you insulting a guest of Redwall I’ll dust your tail so hard you won’t sit down for a season. Now go and get washed with cold water. Your eyes are all squidgy with whingeing. Be off with you!’
Mother Mellus turned on Dandin and Saxtus. ‘And as for you two pickles, didn’t I tell you to get this mousemaid a bath and some proper clothes?’
‘She said she doesn’t want any,’ Dandin protested.
Mother Mellus eyed the rebellious Storm. ‘Oh, doesn’t she. Well, we’ll see about that!’
Mellus took a step forward; the mousemaid took a step backward.
‘Keep your paws off me, y’great stripy lump, or I’ll Gullwhack you!’
‘You’ll what?’
Storm swung the Gullwhacker. ‘You heard me, badger. Now back off!’
Mother Mellus looked over Storm’s shoulder. She smiled and curtsied. ‘Good afternoon, Father Abbot.’
Storm turned to see who the badger was addressing. Mellus pounced! The mousemaid was pinioned by two large badger paws, the rope dangling uselessly at her side as Mother Mellus whispered in her ear, ‘Gotcha, missy! Now let’s see if soap and water and a dress will civilize you, you little savage.’
Saxtus and Dandin fell about laughing as Mother Mellus carried off a kicking, yelling Storm.
‘Yah, lemmego! Paws off, you great lump of an Abbeydog. Fight fair like a warrior, you big stripy trickster. Lemmego. Yaaaaaahhhh. Grrr!’
Tarquin joined them, tinkling away on his harolina. ‘Oh, corks! Old Mellus has her work cut out there, no mistake. Well then, you chaps – Dandin and Saxtus, isn’t it? Allow me to introduce myself, Tarquin L. Woodsorrel at y’service. I remember Redwall Abbey quite fondly y’know. Of course, I was only a little sprog last time I was here. D’y’know, I think a chap could do a lot worse than stop here an’ become the jolly old resident hare, wot?’
The two young mice immediately took to the garrulous Tarquin. Dandin especially admired the harolina and the skilful way the hare played it.
‘That’s a beautiful instrument, Mr Tarquin. I play the flute – see, this is a whistle that belonged to my ancestor. Do you know “Frog in the Rushes” or “Otter Hornpipe”? I like “Fieldmouse Frolic” myself.’
In a very short while, young Redwallers had gathered round Dandin and Tarquin, clapping their paws, hopping and dancing as the pair played merrily, complementing each other with instrumental harmonies.
Tarquin’s words proved true; Storm was no easy mousemaid to deal with, as Mother Mellus, Sister Sage and Sister Serena soon found out.
‘Garrr! Sputch! Gerrat soap out of me face, you murderers!’
Mellus held Storm firmly by the scruff of her neck as she kicked and lashed about in the tub. Sage and Serena battled gallantly with soap and loofah as bathwater splashed and sprayed all over them and the infirmary floor. Mellus ducked Storm’s head under the warm sudsy water, hauling her up for Sister Sage to scrub away at the mousemaid’s neck.
‘Good golly! You could grow a crop in the muck we’re getting off you, missy. Here, give me the soap, Serena. Go and get another bucket of water.’
‘Arragh! This is worse’n bein’ drowned at sea. Grrrmmmfff! Lemmego!’
‘Be still, you young rip. I’m soaked to the hide here. Keep her away from that Gullwhacky rope thing, Sage, or she’ll cause havoc!’
‘Whooshplut! Just lemme get me paws on my rope. I’ll show you three torturers . . .’
Slipping and sploshing, the three battled furiously with slippery Storm.
Abbot Bernard and Simeon passed the infirmary door on their way to Cavern Hole.
‘My stars, Simeon, it sounds like a fully fledged massacre in there.’
‘Well guessed, Bernard. You’re not far wrong!’
‘Still, who knows, young Storm Gullwhacker may prove a dean and valuable member of our little community.’
‘Yes, clean at least when Mellus, Sage and Serena have finished with her. What about the other one, the hare?’
‘Oh, you mean Tarquin. He’s to be our first resident hare. He brought a scroll with him from Lord Rawnblade, the Master of Salamandastron. Here, I’ll read it to you. It says, “To Abbot Bernard of Redwall, from Rawnblade Protector of the Shores. It comes to my mind that the ties between your Abbey and my mountain should be strengthened, therefore I send this hare, Tarquin L. Woodsorrel, to you. He is frivolous, a glutton, lovesick and prone to composing dreadful ballads; added to this he has an odd sense of humour, a strange idea of dress and is disruptive with other hares. Be that as it may, he is a fearless fighter, an excellent scout and totally honest. I hope you will find his services satisfactory. Give my good wishes to Mellus and all the good creat
ures at Redwall. May the seasons be kind and bring you peace with long prosperity. Rawnblade Widestripe, Lord of Salamandastron.” There, what d’you think of that for a reference, Simeon?’
The blind herbalist gathered up his habit for the stairs ahead. ‘At least Rawnblade is truthful. The hare has his faults, but he also has good features. The badger Lord would not send him to us if there was not something in his clever mind. Maybe he fears the approach of trouble and has decided that we need a link with Salamandastron. I like the sound of this Tarquin L. Woodsorrel. Maybe Rawnblade’s loss will turn out to be Redwall’s gain.’
‘I hope you are right, my friend. Your intuition has never let us down.’
Early evening found Storm Gullwhacker being propelled forcibly out of the main Abbey doors to mingle with the other young creatures of Redwall. She fought half-heartedly as Mellus shooed her out.
‘There now, go and play. My my, you look very pretty now, Storm.’
‘Pretty? What’s that supposed to mean? I feel stupid with this dress on and half the hide scrubbed from me. Couldn’t I wear my old burlap smock. Please?’
‘What? That scruffy old thing? Certainly not, child. I told Sister Sage to burn it.’
‘Where’s my Gullwhacker? You haven’t burnt that too, have you?’
‘No, don’t worry, Storm. We gave it a good scrub in what was left of your bathwater, and it’s hanging out of the infirmary window to dry. You can have it back tomorrow. Now play outside with the young ones, but don’t get yourself all messed up again. It’s nearly time for the Abbot’s feast.’
Dandin could hardly believe his eyes. Was this pretty mousemaid in the light green linen habit the frowsy-looking terror he had encountered earlier that day. It seemed hardly possible. He held out his paw to her.
‘Come on, Storm. I’ll take you round to the orchard. You can sit between me and Saxtus at the Abbot’s Jubilee feast tonight.’
‘What’s an Abbot’s Jubilee feast?’
‘Listen, do you like singing, dancing and as much of the very best food and drink as you can swallow?’
‘Yes. Is that what it’s all about?’
‘You’ll soon find out. Come on, let’s run. There’s Durry Quill – we’ll race him.’
The two young mice dashed off across the lengthening shadows of the Abbey lawn as the birds trilled their evensong to the setting sun.
11
RAWNBLADE WIDESTRIPE’S MASSIVE form dwarfed the hares who stood in front of him. The blood of many Salamandastron badger Lords flowed in his veins, and he seemed to fit perfectly into the vast rocky hall of the mountain, seated on his throne with the huge broadsword Verminfate resting lightly in his hefty paw. The wise brown eyes partially closed as he digested the information from the returning hares of his long patrols. Torches flickered in rockwall sconces of the roughly hewn hall, blending with dying rays of the sun as its fiery orb sank into the western seaward horizon. Silence would follow each report until Rawnblade questioned his scouts.
‘So, you sent this mousemaid Storm Gullwhacker with Pakatugg to Redwall. A wise move, Clary. They may cross trails with Tarquin Woodsorrel; the Abbey will be a good place for them both. What news of my bell, Shorebuck?’
‘None, Lord,’ a sandy-hued hare leaning upon his spear replied. ‘No creature we spoke with knows where the great bell may be.’
Rawnblade sighed, resting his chin on the sword handle. ‘Hmmm, three seasons late and nobeast knows the whereabouts of Joseph or the bell. Searats have the answer, I know it. Only time will tell. Fleetleg, any more about the ship from the northwest?’
A tall, saturnine hare stood forward. ‘We sighted her earlier this evening, Lord. She was sailing too far off to be certain, but Longeyes says that it could be the Darkqueen.’
Rawnblade sat up straight. ‘Are you sure of this, Longeyes?’
The hare called Longeyes lounged at the window, scanning the horizon. He turned to address Rawnblade.
‘I’m practically certain, Lord. My eyes see further than others. It looked to me like Darkqueen; no other ship in Gabool’s fleet has red sails. If she had cut in closer to land, I would have been able to tell you more, but she tacked off windward and travelled north by east.’
‘Did you see who was at the helm?’
‘It was not Saltar, Lord – of that I’m sure. I didn’t get much of a glimpse, but I’d guess by his build it was the one called Greypatch.’
‘Greypatch? He’s Gabool’s best steersrat. It could mean that Gabool has left his island. Darkqueen is the only ship he would sail in if he did.’
Brigadeer Thyme ventured an opinion. ‘M’Lord, if old Gabool has taken to sailin’ again, there could be trouble.’
Rawnblade arose. He strode across to the window, where he stood gazing at the restless sea ebbing and flowing eternally.
‘The prophecies carved on Salamandastron’s walls tell of a time coming soon when trouble will become a byword; my destiny and trouble walk the same path paw in paw. Eat and sleep now, my faithful patrols. Our fortune and fates are written in these rocks. Leave the worrying and wondering to the waves and clouds.’
A night mist had fallen when Greypatch anchored offshore. A longboat was lowered to take the reconnaissance crew ashore. Greypatch stayed aboard with Frink, his lookout, always watching north and west for signs of Gabool in pursuit.
Greypatch called down to Deadglim, his bosun, ‘See if you can find a likely spot, mate – freshwater and cover in plenty.’
Deadglim took the scimitar from between his teeth long enough to answer. ‘Leave it t’ me, Skipper. I’ve got a nose for likely coves.’
Mist-shrouded moonless night enveloped Deadglim as he led the shore party forward into the dunes. He peered into the darkness.
‘Not much ’ereabouts, lads. Nought but sandhills. Here, Gurd, gerrup on yer paws – time fer sleepin’ when we’re back aboard Darkqueen. Gurd?’
Gurd lay still, unable to answer because of the toad trident lodged in his throat. Immediately a score of tridents descended amid the unsuspecting searats. The screams of two wounded pierced the still night.
Deadglim waved his scimitar, yelling at the silent dunes, ‘Come out an’ fight! Show yerselves, you creepin’ bilgewashers!’
Suddenly the dunes echoed to thunderous croaking as countless toads hopped out, armed with tridents. Deadglim knew his challenge had been a foolish one. Throwing valour to the winds, he took to his paws shouting, ‘Retreat! Retreat! Back to the longboat!’
From the ship’s rail, Greypatch and Deadglim could see the tideline teeming with trident waving natterjacks. Deadglim shuddered.
‘Cap’n, if anybeast ever tells you a toad is slow, don’t believe it. We barely made it t’ the longboat ahead of those slimy devils. There must be thousands of the croakin’ scum.’
Greypatch turned from the rail. ‘Set another course nor’ an’ east, Fishgill. We’ll try our luck further up the coast. Jump to it now, you swab. I don’t want Gabool hovin’ over the briny at our wake!’
Gabool the Wild could not sleep. He paced round and round the bell, chopping at midair with his sword, relating his thoughts to the brazen prize.
‘Greypatch’ll curse the day he was spawned when I catch up with him. I’ll boil his skull an’ bring it here for you to see, my beauty – see if I don’t. Haharr, first Bludrigg an’ then his mizzuble brother Saltar. Corsair, huh! he’s nothin’ but fishbait now. Like the other two, the scratchy liddle mousemaid an’ her dear daddy Joseph, haharr! He’s the one that made you, isn’t he? Gone to fishbait for his foolishness.’
Bonggggg!
Gabool jumped back with a yell, then he ran round the bell in a wide circle, searching and seeking, but there was nobeast in the room save for himself. Gradually he became calm.
‘Haharr, ’twas only the wind playin’ tricks.’
Striding back to the bell he stroked it fondly. ‘Belay! So what if yer do talk, you can tell old Gabool all your secrets.’
The bell rem
ained silent. The King of Searats gazed up with narrowed eyes at the figures embossed around the top of the bellskirt.
‘Hellsteeth! What do it all mean? Tell me, what’s all those pretty liddle pictures, mice, badgers, rats, ships, an’ all manner o’things? You tell me; I’m your master now. Speak! D’you hear me? Speak!’
But the bell remained still and voiceless, an inanimate metal object.
Gabool’s wild temper rose. He spat upon the bell and kicked it. Still no sound came forth. In high bad mood he strode from the room, turning in the doorway and brandishing his sword at the great bell.
‘Hell ’n’ gullbait! You’ll talk to me afore I’m done with yer!’
He slammed the door furiously and strode off to his bedchamber.
Behind him in the empty room the bell tolled one booming knell.
Gabool’s nerve deserted him. He cut and ran. Leaping into bed, he threw the covers over his head and lay there shivering.
Sleep was a long time coming to Gabool the Wild, but when it did he wished that he had stayed awake. Badgers, mice, searats and spectral ships sailing upon phantom waves pursued him down the corridors of his restless imagination. The figures around the bell had come to life to torment him throughout the long dark night.
Lord Rawnblade too was sleeping. His vast form lay sprawled upon the bed near his armourer’s forge in Salamandastron mountain. The sword Verminfate lay upon the bed, close to paw as it always was. In his dream the badger Lord found he was looking at the bell that he had commissioned Joseph the Bellmaker to cast for him. It was beautiful, just as he had imagined it would be, shining with a dull sheen, graven round top and bottom with the poem and the mysterious pictures which only badger Lords could interpret. Now a shape was materializing through the burnished curve of the bell metal – his archenemy Gabool the Wild. Curving sword in claw, the Searat King advanced, ornaments jangling, golden emerald-studded teeth glinting in a fiendish smile. Rawnblade’s reaction, even in sleep, was instantaneous; he seized his broadsword and leaped from the bed, striking out with savage force.
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