Mariel Of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  ‘Skrabblag, matey, it’s me, Gabool. Sing out – are y’there?’

  There was no reply. Gabool jabbed down into the inky darkness with the long spear. There was a dry, rustling sound, accompanied by an odd clicking noise. The searat grinned.

  ‘Aharr, you murderous villain, I can hear yeh. What’s it like down there, livin’ on rotten fishheads an’ scraps o’ dead seabird?’

  The rustling and clicking increased. Something caught the spear blade, but Gabool pulled it back quickly.

  ‘Hoho, not so fast, bucko. I know you’d like to drag me down there, but you bide your time and old Gabool will give yer a little gift. Remember Greypatch? Aye, he was the one that helped catch you an’ take you from your nice warm island to this cold dark berth. Well, you stop down there an’ think what you’d like to do to Greypatch. Pretty soon now I’ll let him drop in an’ pay you a call. You’d like that, wouldn’t yer?’

  The clicking and rustling increased. Gabool laughed heartily as he slid the stone back into place with the spear.

  Outside, the wind moaned around the rocks of Terramort and the stones of Bladegirt. The restless sea pounded coves and inlets as seabirds deserted the skies for nests and perches. Gabool sat once more in his banqueting hall, chin in claws as he slouched across the table and spoke to his bell.

  ‘Hah! Yer gettin’ dirty now since there’s no slaves to spit an’ polish yer shiny hide. An’ that’s the way it should be, big an’ dirty with a brassy voice. One day the belltower will be built, then I’ll string you up there an’ make you sing every time I tug the rope. I’ll make yer sing or be quiet, just as I please. What’ve y’got to say to that, eh?’

  The great bell remained silent. Gabool sat watching it until his weighted eyelids began drooping over weary blood-seared eyes. A ship in flames passed his vision, followed by another lying on its side in a creek, overgrown by trees, and yet a third ship washed up and holed upon a reef. Bluddrig, Garrtail, Saltar and Orgeye floated lifeless in the waves sweeping across his fevered dream, dead rats all. Through the shifting grey mists a huge armoured badger strode. Raising his sword, he struck.

  Bongggg!

  Gabool was awake once more, glaring his hatred across the table at the bell whose very presence haunted his every moment.

  22

  ‘HAHARR, ME OLD shipmates, how was your voyage?’

  Greypatch had his sight back now, though his eye was still quite swelled. He sat on a fallen log with Fishgill, watching his sheepish crew. Bigfang kept noticeably out of the way. Kybo, still the unofficially elected spokesrat, unfolded the unfortunate encounter with the hares and reported on the sorry state of the vessel Darkqueen. Greypatch listened to the woeful narrative as he sat sketching on the ground with his swordpoint. When Kybo had finished, the other searats gathered round to hear what Greypatch had to say. He kept them waiting awhile before he spoke.

  ‘A sad an’ mis’rable tale, mateys, but what ship can last for ever? Darkqueen was a good craft, but she’d be a floatin’ death warrant for us against the might of Gabool. Leave ’er to rot in the creek, I say. Redwall Abbey’s worth a hundred Darkqueens, we’ll be Lords of this land, country gentlerats if y’please, instead of floatin’ bilgeslops at the mercy of wind ’n’ water, tryin’ to grab a livin’ with one claw while usin’ the other to fend off that madrat Gabool. No more of that fer us, messmates. This is the warm soft country, and it can be all ours if yer willin’ to follow me. Well, what d’yer say?’

  There was an immediate roar of approval. Many claws reached out to pat the searat Captain’s back.

  ‘We’re with you, Skipper!’

  ‘Aye, Greypatch always led us right!’

  ‘You give the word, Cap’n, an’ we’ll follow yer to Hellgates an’ back!’

  Greypatch tapped his swordpoint at the drawing he had been working on. ‘Right then, buckoes, here’s me plan. This here’s the Abbey. Now what we’ll do is this: there’s nigh on a hundred of us, closer to a hundred an’ twenty countin’ the oarslaves. Bigfang, here’s yer chance, mate. Rush ’em an’ burn the gates you said, as I recall. Well, that’s exactly what you’re goin’ to do. Take Frink, Fishgill, ’ere, and five others. Keep the oarslaves so you’ll look more like an army. Try burnin’ those big Abbey gates down any way you can. Now then, I’ll be in front on the flatland t’other side of the ditch with Ranzo, Dripnose an’ a score or so others. We’ll make a great show of firin’ arrows an’ slingin’ stones; that way the attack will look like it’s comin’ from the front, but it won’t. Kybo, you take the rest round the east side and sneak through the woodlands – they’re good ’n’ thick there. Use ropes an’ grapnels, just as if you were takin’ a tall fat merchant ship. Ropes an’ grapnels, lads, that’s the key. Nice an’ quiet like, slide over those walls. There’s a little wallgate I’ve noticed on the north side. Get that open an’ we’ll be with yer in a trice. Bigfang should have the gates well ablaze by then. Do as I say an’ we’ll be takin’ supper in Redwall Abbey tonight!’

  Everyone cheered aloud, with the exception of Bigfang. Somehow he felt as if he had been tricked by Greypatch, though being in disgrace and having the whole crew against him left him in no position to complain.

  Hot summer vegetable soup was being served with large flat oatcakes, there was fourseason plumcake and elderberry cup to follow. The sentries on the Abbey walls took theirs as they watched the surrounding countryside for signs of movement. The food was being served in the orchard. Sister Sage and Mother Mellus dished it out to the little ones, and each carried their portion to a corner of the orchard where the Abbot, assisted by Simeon and Foremole, stood ready to give them a lecture. Seated in a group beneath a gnarled apple tree, the Dibbuns began eating. Abbot Bernard cast a kindly eye over them, shook back his habit sleeves and began.

  ‘Righto, my little friends. Carry on eating while I talk to you. Er, Grubb, stop dipping your oatcake into Baby Turgle’s soup and listen to me, please.’

  Grubb did as he was told but immediately started complaining. ‘Yurr zurr Habbit, ’ee squirrel Turgle’s adrinken moi drink!’

  The infant squirrel grinned over the top of Grubb’s beaker and sucked noisily at his stolen elderberry cup. The Abbot turned his eyes skyward as if looking for patience. Foremole went among the Dibbuns and took charge of the situation.

  ‘Gurr, you liddle terror, give ’ee drink back ter Grubb, an’ yew, maister Grubb, touch yon Turgle’s soup agin an’ oi’ll bite ’ee tail offen.’

  The Abbot took a deep breath and continued. ‘Now, as you may know, there are some very naughty creatures who’ve been hanging about outside our Abbey, but there’s no need for you to worry or be frightened – we’ll take care of them. Meanwhile, I want all you Dibbuns to be very good little creatures. Do what you are told by those who look after you, Mother Mellus, Sister Sage, Sister Serena, Simeon, Brother Saxtus, myself . . .’

  ‘An’ Bruvver Hoobit, too?’

  ‘Yes, and Brother Hubert too.’

  ‘An’ Foremole as well, Habbit?’

  ‘Yes yes, Foremole as well.’

  ‘An’ Muvver Mell’s too?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve already said Mother Mellus. Now listen to me please . . .’

  ‘An’ the fishes inna pond?’

  ‘Now don’t be silly, I said listen to wha –’

  ‘An’ a big red strawberry too?’

  ‘Big red strawberry? What big red strawberry? Oh dear, Simeon, help me please!’

  The blind herbalist spread his paws wide and cried out, ‘The Grockledeeboo eats noisy Dibbuns!’

  Immediately a silence fell; the little ones sat wide-eyed in fright. Simeon took the opportunity to finish the lecture.

  ‘But we’ll chase the Grockledeeboo away if you’re all very good, so listen to me. You must obey all the grown-up creatures – do as they say. If you are sent indoors, go straight in. Do not try to leave the Abbey; we don’t want you going outside. Stay out of the way, eat all your food, keep yourselves clean and go t
o bed on time. Most important of all, stay away from the walltops. If there is fighting, you could be hurt, and we couldn’t have that now, could we?’

  ‘No, sir, Simeon, sir!’ the chanted chorus came back at Simeon.

  ‘Hurr, liddle goodbeasts, you’m eaten up all ’ee vittles naow an’ run along ter play.’

  Foremole chuckled as he strolled off with Simeon and the Abbot. ‘Oi’m a-thinken they’m got the messenge, zurrs.’

  Leaning against a battlement, Flagg twirled his sling idly, scanning the northward path. ‘All quiet this side, young Saxtus.’

  Saxtus licked plumcake from his paws before shouldering his spear. ‘This side too, Flagg. But I’m wondering for how long.’

  ‘Hmm, can you feel it too, mate? It’s as if there’s a sort of calm before the storm. I don’t like it.’

  Dandin and Mariel were anxious to be away, but half the morning was gone and still they had to wait about. Stonehead’s wife Thunderbeak had insisted on reprovisioning their empty packs, and she was somewhere off in the woods. Stonehead and his four owlchicks put on several exhibitions of wrestling, butting and kicking. Tarquin and Durry had to keep avoiding being used as demonstration examples. Finally Thunderbeak arrived back with the knapsacks.

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid, but it’ll have to do! Plenty of apples, some white mushrooms, wild damsons, not too ripe, bit of celery, some other bits and bobs. Oh, there’s some woodland scones, though they’ve been lying about a bit – my own make, very nourishing.’

  They thanked her, allowed themselves to be pecked and kicked one last time by the owlchicks, then struck westward led by Stonehead.

  The strange forest grew dimmer and more gloomy until finally they were in a world of black shadow and green light. Trees were immensely tall, with long bare trunks crowded together like black columns, the foliage growing at their tops completely blocking daylight, turning it into sinister green shafts. Little or no shrubbery grew on the forest floor, which was composed of squishy dark leaf mould with massive tree roots crisscrossing like dark giant veins. Mariel noticed that the silence was total. Whenever they talked their voices echoed spectrally round the gaunt trees. To cheer things up a bit, Tarquin twanged his harolina and began a ditty.

  ‘Old missus hedgehog, here’s what she likes,

  A little fat husband with lots of spikes,

  And a quarrel with a squirrel

  Who wears flowers round his middle,

  And a chestnut for her supper on a winter’s night . . .’

  He came to a faltering halt as Stonehead turned his great golden eyes upon him.

  ‘Do you have to make that silly noise, rabbit? One more song out of you and I’ll wrap that hare-liner thing round your skull! This is bad country; we don’t want to attract attention to ourselves, do you hear me?’

  Tarquin walked behind Durry and Dandin, muttering under his breath, ‘Sure sign of a savage, no appreciation of good music. Huh, bet the bally feller wouldn’t complain if it was a piece of boiled Flitchaye instead of a piece of beautiful music.’

  ‘Aye,’ Durry whispered back, ‘an’ what’s a poor lad t’ do, wanderin’ round like an ant lost in a dark well bottom? What I wouldn’t give fer a flagon of my ol’ nuncle’s giggly juice right now.’

  Mariel watched the back of Stonehead’s enormous figure, sometimes hopping before them, other times winging low between the trees. How he knew the way westward was a mystery to her. She had lost all sense of time and distance, tramping through this eerie world.

  Quite suddenly, after what seemed an endless trek, Stonehead fluttered on to a fallen tree and turned to them. ‘This is it, Swampdark land! Never go any further than here myself! Not afraid of it, just don’t like the place! Right, you’re on your own now. I won’t say good luck, because you’ll end up dead or devoured, I’m sure of it! Always remember, though, if you ever get back to my part of the forest give me a call! We McGurneys aren’t the wisest owls anywhere, but it’s an acorn to an appletree we’re the bravest!’

  With that he was gone, winging away through the trees before they had a chance to thank him or say goodbye.

  Dandin sat on the fallen tree and undid his knapsack. ‘Well, goodbye, Stonehead McGurney. I’m starving. Let’s sit here awhile and have lunch in peace for a change. Golly, look at this!’

  They climbed up on to the fallen trunk, staring in the direction they would be taking. It was practically pitch-black. Low-hanging trees with heavy weed trailing from them held out knotted and gnarled branches like predatory daws waiting to seize the unwary traveller. The ground was a greeny brown with odd clumps of blue and white flowers sticking up. Through it all ran several raised paths, humps of solid rocky earth which meandered off in various directions. The whole scene was one of complete depression; it weighed on their spirits like a millstone.

  ‘Oh, corks, you chaps. The place is enough t’ give a bod the complete pip just lookin’ at it, wot?’

  Mariel busied herself collecting twigs and dry bark. ‘Doesn’t it just! Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do – light a fire and cook up something tasty. Who knows the next time we’ll get a decent feed, roaming through that lot!’

  The suggestion was whole-heartedly endorsed. With flint and tinder they soon had a merry blaze going. The gloom was dispelled temporarily as they delved through their packs.

  ‘Let’s toast some o’ these liddle mushrooms an’ wrap some apples in wet leaves to bake.’ Durry was toasting away even as he spoke. Dandin took a bite at one of Thunderbeak’s scones. He winced and held the side of his jaw.

  ‘Ouch! I wonder how many seasons ago these were baked!’

  Tarquin chuckled. ‘We could always sling ’em at any enemies we meet.’

  Dandin rummaged further down his knapsack. Suddenly he gave a cheer. ‘Look, it’s my flute! I’d forgotten that I’d packed it – must’ve stuck in my pack lining. Thank goodness the Flitchaye never found it. Well well, can you beat that, eh – the flute of my ancestor Gonff the Thief. Let’s see if it still sounds all right.’

  Trilling an old Abbey reel called ‘Otter in the Orchard’, Dandin set his companions’ paws to tapping as the music skirled and tootled round the lonely trees. Hot food, a glowing fire and merry music lifted the spirits of the travellers. Even the blinking eyes that watched them from the dark swamp stopped winking and stayed wide open with fascination as they awaited the travellers’ next move into their miry world.

  Fleetleg, Shorebuck and Longeyes returned from the south beaches patrol to Salamandastron. They were first back. The hares found little welcome; the mountain chambers were deserted. Longeyes saw something at the doorway of the badger Lord’s forge room: deep-scored marks in the solid rock. He groaned in despair. ‘Lord Rawnblade did this with his bare claws, gouged the rockface like this. I knew it would happen someday.’

  Shorebuck ran his paws across the scars in the solid rock. ‘The Bloodwrath has come upon Rawnblade Widestripe!’

  Fleetleg picked up his lance. ‘Come on. We must find him. No badger Lord has suffered the Bloodwrath since Boar the Fighter. But be careful. Rawnblade might kill anybeast foolish enough to stand in his way.’

  The fog had long dispersed. Beneath the high bright sun on the tideline the three hares found the results of their Lord’s terrible madness. Fully a hundred searat corpses drifted and rolled in the shallows around the reef, hewn, hacked or cleaved through. Blood spattered the stones and swirled in the water, broken swords and shattered spears decorated the rocks. Shorebuck slumped against the reef, his eyes shut to blot out the awful carnage.

  ‘So this is why he got rid of us, sent out all the patrols. I’ve seen battlefields before, but never anything like this!’

  Fleetleg leaned upon his lance. ‘It is written that a badger Lord can slay many when the Bloodwrath is upon him, but how did these searats come here? Where is their ship?’

  Longeyes had been wading round the west side of the reef, he called out, ‘Here, round here. There’s one still a
live!’

  The searat was mortally wounded. With his life ebbing fast he gasped out what he had witnessed.

  ‘Ship . . . Waveblade, ran on to the reef in fog, stuck and holed. Cap’n Orgeye . . . waited until fog went. We fixed ship up, here on reef . . . waitin’ for tide to lift us off . . . Ohhhh . . . ohhhh . . . monster! Badger came rushing out of sea . . . Eulaliaaaaa!’

  Longeye cradled the searat’s head on his lap. ‘That was Rawnblade!’

  ‘Rawn . . . blade . . . I don’t know. Giant . . . water rushin’ off his armour, spikes, studs, silver metal. . . . Like some wild beast out of the sea. Aaaaahhhh! That sword, like a great jib boom. We didn’t stand a chance! D’ye hear me, mates? . . . Fivescore searat fighters an’ we didn’t stand a chance! Roarin’, shoutin’, “Gorsepaw! Crocus! Sergeant Learunner!” Killin’, slayin’ . . . I tell yer, mates . . .’

  Longeye looked at Fleetleg. ‘Sergeant Learunner, wasn’t he your father?’

  Fleetleg stared out to sea. ‘Aye, Gorsepaw and Crocus were brother and sister too – my brother and sister. I was only a newborn infant then. Our mother never lasted more than a season after they died. Rawnblade reared me and when I was old enough he told me that he had found them floating on the tideline, delivered there by Gabool and his searats.’

  The injured searat lifted his head and stared at Fleetleg. ‘Screamin’, shriekin’ an’ a-wailin’. . . . An’ dyin’. . . . Dyin’!’

  The searat’s head lolled to one side. He died with eyes wide open, horror frozen on his face as his spirit sailed for Hellgates.

  Somewhere out on the blue deeps of the crested sea, the ship Waveblade ran before whichever course the wind chanced to take her. Summer breezes sent spray skimming over the decks, washing them clean of blood and battlestain. Stretched out on the forecastle, oblivious to all about him, Rawnblade Widestripe slept deeply, still fully armoured, his great sword hanging loosely from one paw, unmindful of the stinging salt water which dewed his fresh scars. The awful Bloodwrath had left him; he knew not when it would visit him again. He slept on, as peaceful as any infant at its mother’s side.