The onlookers crowded out onto the sun-warmed wallsteps alongside the gatehouse. Old Quelt sat in their midst. He opened the book in question and sought the appropriate page, from which he read aloud, “ ‘Chapter two. Fabled Weapons. Concerning the lance of Corriam Wildlough, brother of the High Queen Rhulain.’ ”
Two logboats sailed downstream. Tiria sat in the stern of the leading craft, listening as both Guosim crews plied their vessels skillfully, singing a shrew waterchant in their gruff bass tones.
“Pass to me my good ole paddle, steady as ye go,
bend y’backs ye sons o’ Guosim, row mates row!
First a spring comes from the mountains,
fed by rainfall from the sky,
’til it joins up with another,
bubblin’ from the rocks on high,
spring to rill an’ rill to brook,
growin’ stronger constantly,
blendin’ flowin’ always goin’,
on its journey to the sea.
Pass to me good ole paddle, steady as ye go,
bend y’backs ye sons o’ Guosim, row mates row!
As the day runs into night,
brooks do meet t’form a stream,
travellin’ through dark an’ light,
where the silver fishes gleam,
here’s a river deep an’ han’some,
windin’ o’er the grassy plain,
speedin’ with the current onward,
soon we’ll taste the salty main.
Pass to me my good ole paddle, steady as ye go,
bend y’backs ye sons o’ Guosim, row mates row!”
Morning sun twinkled through the tree foliage which formed a leafy canopy over the water. The current was fairly fast, running through a high-banked slope, chuckling as though it were enjoying a secret joke of its own. Dobra was in the prow of the second logboat, which had a crew of four Guosim paddlers and was carrying a cargo of food. Log a Log Urfa commanded the leading craft. Tiria could see his back, forward of their four shrew crew. Skipper sat amidships with Brink alongside him. The Cellarhog’s face looked drawn and wan. Not the best of sailors, he clung to the slim logboat’s side miserably.
Feeling sorry for the poor hedgehog, Tiria called out to Urfa, “How long will we be on this River Moss, sir?”
There was a hint of laughter in the Guosim chieftain’s voice as he shouted back to her. “This ain’t the Moss, beauty.’Tis only a sidestream that leads to it. See the bend up yonder? Well, the river lies beyond it. Hold tight now, miss, it gets a bit bumpy soon. We’ll be headin’ downhill, y’see, over a few rapids, but nothin’ t’worry about. Ye’ll know yore on the River Moss when we jump the ripflow that joins it with this stream. If’n ye likes sailin’, then ye’ll enjoy that part.”
Though Tiria sympathised with Brink’s discomfort, she had to admit to herself that she was enjoying the experience immensely. As the crew slewed the logboat deftly around the bend, spray cascaded high, and the stream really began to race along downhill. The ottermaid felt like yelling aloud with joy at the wildness of it all.
Log a Log Urfa stood balanced expertly in the prow, bellowing out orders as they weaved and tacked down the wild, watery slope. “Keep ’er down at the stern an’ up by the head, buckoes! Back water to port, take ’er round those rocks! Don’t reef the banks now, keep ridin’ ’er to midstream!”
Bankside trees shot by in a green blur as water sprayed everywhere, with Urfa still roaring over the melee. “Luff yore starb’d oars now, luff I say! Steady to port! Steady . . . steady! Now give ’er full oars, me buckoes! Get yore backs into it! Heave! Pull! Heave! Pull! Up oars an’ ship ’em, Guosim!”
Tiria felt the logboat leave the water, leaping like a fighting fish. Then it slammed down hard, catching the boiling rift of breakwater. Both boats skimmed out like arrows onto the broad swirling surface of the River Moss.
They were out of the trees, with the sun beaming on them from an open summer sky. Everybeast cheered loudly as they slid sleekly along. The crews slowed their oars back to a normal stroke. The river was wide, with shallows and sandbanks either side.
Banjon pointed upward. “See, Tiria, there’s yore matey!”
The ottermaid waved to Pandion Piketalon as he wheeled overhead. The osprey hung briefly on a thermal, then went into a sidelong skim and called, “Kraaahakaaaah!”
As they drifted through the bright morning, Tiria watched the countryside gradually change. Green-mantled flatlands merged into hummocks, lilac and yellow with heather and gorse. Now the ottermaid understood why the Guosim loved to travel in their logboats.
She was about to mention this to her father and Urfa but found them busy attending to Brink. The Redwall Cellarhog was still suffering from his water-motion sickness. Skipper bathed Brink’s face with a cold, damp cloth, whilst Urfa dosed him with herbs and encouraging advice.
“You chomp on these special ’erbs, matey. They’ll put the roses back into yore spiky ole cheeks!”
The faithful hedgehog mumbled pitifully as he chewed on the odd-tasting herbs. “Don’t ye fuss now, friends. I’ll be right as rain afore ye know it. Phwaaaw! I wish I was sittin’ in my cellars, back at the Abbey right now. Nice’n’peaceful an’ still, an’ not rockin’ back’n’forth an’ to’n’fro like this.”
As Dobra’s logboat drew level, he hailed them. “Nobeast stoppin’ for lunch today? I’m famished!”
Brink replied mournfully, “I wish ye wouldn’t mention food, young ’un. The thought o’ vittles makes me want t’die!”
Urfa pointed to a line of dunes in the distance. Between them glimpses of sun-sparkled sea could be viewed. “We’ll hang on ’til we reach those sandhills afore we put in to land. Then ye can eat yore fill.”
Tiria’s appetite was well whetted when they reached the dunes at midnoon. However, nobeast was more thankful than Brink Greyspoke as the logboats nosed into the sandy shallows. He leaped ashore and threw himself flat, hugging the ground fervently.
“Never again, Skip, not if’n I lives more’n a thousand seasons. I’m done with sailin’, mate!”
The shrews were kindling a cooking fire. As Skipper watched them laying out huge quantities of food, he did a swift head count.
“There’s four paddlers apiece to each logboat, Tiria and meself, Urfa, Brink, an’ Dobra, an’ Pandion somewheres up there. So why are ye layin’ out enough vittles for an army? Does yore friend have a crew with him?”
Log a Log Urfa was scattering some stale shrewbread on the dunetop. It was already attracting seagulls. “No, Skip. My friend Cuthbert sails alone. He’s a real odd ’un. I’d be hard put to explain him to ye. So ye can judge for yoreself when he gets here.”
Coming down from the dunetop, the Guosim chieftain forestalled Tiria even before she asked the question. “Seabirds’ll come from afar for vittles. My friend Cuthbert usually sails these waters. Once he sights gulls flyin’ over this way, he’ll follow ’em. Cuthbert ain’t a beast to give up a chance o’ vittles lightly, miss. Ahoy, Dobra, git up on that other dune an’ give a shout when ye sight a sail out at sea.”
Pandion landed amid the gulls and frightened them off, so Tiria went and had a word with him. “You can’t stop here! You’re scaring the gulls off and making the Guosim shrews nervous.”
The big fish hawk glared hungrily about. “Yarraka! Then I’ll fish out on the sea. When shall I return?”
Tiria stroked the osprey’s lethal talons. “When you see me aboard a sailing ship, come down and land on it. Go now, my friend.”
Pandion soared swiftly off. Soon he was nought but a dark speck out above the waves, hunting for food.
Sunset had settled over the western horizon in a glorious riot of scarlet, purple and gold when Dobra shouted from his vantage point, “Ship ahoy, layin’ offshore!”
Everybeast climbed the dune to look. A vessel with one large, square sail, rigged amidships, was standing off from the shallows. Urfa identified it.
“The Purloined Petunia, t
hat’s Cuthbert’s ship, shore enough. He’s waitin’ for floodtide—that’ll carry ’er up the rivermouth an’ across the shore close to these dunes. Come on, mates, let’s eat. Ole Cuthbert should join us soon.”
Guosim shrews could not be faulted as cooks: They laid on a feast fit for many warriors. There was a cauldron of beetroot, potato and radish soup; massive portions of summer salad, cheeses, breads and pastries; and a sizeable bowl of fresh fruit salad. Hot blackberry cordial and a keg of special Olde Guosim Nettlebeer completed the spread. Even Brink perked up, declaring himself fit enough to sit with the dining party. Tiria was curious to learn more about the creature who would be joining them, but Urfa was not very forthcoming on the subject, telling her to wait and see for herself.
At one point the ottermaid went up to the dunetop to view what progress the ship was making. It was halfway across the beach, with the floodtide behind it. She could not see the captain, but Pandion perched on the masthead, seemingly unbothered by anything. Tiria made her way back to the fire and sat by Urfa.
“Your friend’s not far off these dunes. He’ll be here shortly. What do we say to him, sir?”
The Guosim chieftain sliced a cheese with his rapier. “Don’t ye say a word, miss. Leave the talkin’ to me!”
As a half-moon rose in solitary splendour over the coast, their guest made his appearance. He turned out to be a big, capablelooking hare. But Tiria was surprised to see him dressed as a Guosim shrew, complete with coloured headband, kilt, broad belt and a rapier far too large for any shrew to wield. His body was crisscrossed with old scars, and he lacked half of his left ear. He loped silently up and sat by the fire. Then he began eating as though he had lived through several famines. Not a word passed his lips as he ravenously tackled soup, salad, cheese, bread and pastries.
Urfa rose quietly, beckoning everybeast except the hare to follow him. He led them to the shoreside of the dune and signalled them to sit. Tiria fidgeted impatiently, but Urfa waited a while before speaking in a low voice.
“Hush now, an’ lissen t’me, mates. No jokin’, though, I’m deadly serious. Tonight Cuthbert thinks he’s a shrew, so his name’ll be Log a Log Boodul. Have ye got that?”
Brink scratched his headspikes. “But I thought you said his name was Cuthbert somethin’ or other Bloodpaw. Why’s he changed his name all of a sudden?”
Urfa cautioned the Cellarhog, “Keep yore voice down, Brink. Ye call him Cuthbert when he’s a sea otter pirate, but whilst he’s a shrew his name is Log a Log Boodul. Understand?”
Tiria sighed with frustration. “No, I don’t understand. What sort of a game is he playing, anyway?”
Urfa stared out at the moonlit sea. “ ’Tis a long story that I don’t have time t’tell, but trust me. This hare is the bravest of the brave. At the mountain of Salamandastron, where he comes from, he’s wot they call a perilous beast. If’n he takes a shine to ye, then he’s loyal to death—there ain’t a more honourable or faithful friend than that hare. I don’t know the full story, but I heard he ain’t right in his mind anymore. That ’appened from all the wounds an’ knocks’n’blows he’s taken in battle. So play along with me, an’ I’ll see he takes ye to Green Isle, Tiria. Just leave it t’me, fair enough?”
The ottermaid shook Urfa’s outstretched paw. “Of course, sir, I trust you completely!”
They trooped back to the fire and sat down with the strange hare, who was still eating. Without warning he dropped his food, staring at them as if seeing them for the first time. He laughed happily.
“Well, sink me in the bay, if’n it ain’t Urfa Westbrook. Wot brings ye to these waters, ye bottle-nosed rascal?”
Urfa smiled and poured nettlebeer for them both. “Log a Log Boodul, good to see ye, me ole shipmate! These ’ere are me otterpals, Banjon Wildlough an’ his daughter Tiria. That other cove’s a Redwall Cellarhog, he’s called Brink. They’re good, trusty messmates.”
The hare did not even acknowledge them. He split open a pastie and packed it with salad, then wolfed it down in two gulps. “Oh, I knows about ’em. My eagle Pandion told me. Have ye met my ole eagle matey Pandion? Funny, that, ain’t it? Us shrews don’t usually take to eagles, but me’n’ him gets on ’andsomely t’gether. So then, wot can I do for ye, me ole logboat swamper?”
Urfa brought Tiria forward. “ ’Tis this ’ere ottermaid. She needs t’get to Green Isle, ye see. But nobeast has the guts to take ’er, ’cos of the big battle goin’ on over there.”
A wild light gleamed in the hare’s eyes. “Haharr, a battle, ye say? Can I take part in it, me darlin’?”
Tiria responded eagerly. “We were hoping you would, sir, knowing your reputation as a perilous warrior.”
Without another word, the hare bounded up and streaked off in the direction of his ship.
Tiria looked at Urfa in dismay. “Did I say anything wrong? Is he offended?”
The Guosim chieftain shook his head. “Nay, ye did just fine, gel. Wait’ll I see who he is when he comes back, an’ then take yore lead from me.”
They sat by the fire a while, picking at the wonderful food and puzzling over the strange hare. Long before they saw the hare, they could hear him. He was bawling out a sea shanty in a raucous voice.
“O shiver me timbers an’ swab me decks,
ye bullies to me hark,
Or I’ll gut yore tripes an’ dock yore necks,
an’ feed ye to the shark!
’Twas in the winter we set sail,
ye bullies to me hark,
in the eye of a storm an’ the teeth of a gale,
I fed ’em to the shark!
Their cap’n was a greasy oaf,
ye bullies to me hark,
I tied him to an ole stale loaf,
an’ fed him to the shark!
I stewed his crew in seaweed punch,
ye bullies to me hark,
an’ seein’ as ’twas time for lunch,
I fed ’em to the shark!
So if ye think yore big’n’tough,
ye bullies to me hark,
I’ll stuff ye all with skilly’n’duff,
an’ feed ye to the shark. Haharrhaaaaaarrr!”
Scowling and growling ferociously, the hare swaggered into view. This time he was wearing a tricorn hat with a big fluffy feather, which he kept blowing upward to stop it flopping into his right eye. His left eye was hidden beneath a musselshell patch. A brass ring, large as a barrel stave, dangled from his good ear. He wore a tattered pink silk frock coat, tied with a broad yellow sash, into which were thrust two cutlasses, a knife, fork and spoon. His outfit was completed by an enormous pair of folded-down seaboots, which beggared description.
The hare winked dramatically at them with his uncovered eye. “Stap me stays’ls! Vittles, an’ prime ones, too! Come an’ fill yore beak, matey!”
Pandion, who had been trundling along in his wake, settled down by the fire. The hare launched into the food as if he had not eaten in days, tossing choice morsels to the osprey. Salad and crumbs sprayed the company as he addressed them.
“Vittles, where’d we be without ’em, eh, I ask ye? So then, young Tillie, me otter, are ye the one I’ll be battlin’ alongside when we gets to this Green Isle place? Speak up, me liddle periwinkle!”
Tiria tried hard to keep a straight face as she replied, “Aye, Cap’n, providing we make it to Green Isle.”
The hare sprang up. Grabbing for but missing his cutlass, he brandished a spoon instead while roaring out, “Make it? Haharr, o’ course we’ll make it, Tillie me darlin’, or my name ain’t Cap’n Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw, Terror o’ the ’Igh Seas. We’ll set sail at first light tomorrer, ’ere’s me paw an’’ere’s me ’eart on it. A sea otter pirate can’t say fairer’n that now, can he?”
Tiria realised that Cuthbert was now in the role of a sea otter pirate captain. Life was certainly going to be complicated, sailing with a hare whom she had met as a shrew but was now transformed into an otter! How many other identities did he
possess, she wondered. The one cheering fact was that she was now guaranteed a passage to her destination.
That night, Tiria went to sleep with the Rhulain’s words echoing through her mind: “Trust in the fool of the sea.”
17
Holt Summerdell was still some distance off as the otterclans and their families made it into the start of the high country. It was early evening, not quite dusk, as they skirted the rim of a vast crater. The otterbabe riding on Leatho’s shoulders gazed, sleepy-eyed, down the steep shalestrewn sides at a big lake. Flat and dark, it covered the bottom of the crater, its water dull and lustreless, its slate-hued surface without a ripple.
“H’is dat Suddermell down dere?”
The outlaw smiled up at the little one. “No, me beauty, that’s the place they call Deeplough. Summerdell’s much nicer, just the right place for otterbabes.”
Deedero looked away, shuddering. “I should hope it is. Zillo, how much farther to Summerdell?”
The bard pointed inland. “See the rim beyond this ’un? Well, there’s a valley covered in woodland with a waterfall runnin’ through it. Holt Summerdell’s right there, marm, hidden amongst the trees. A grand secret place ’tis.”
Big Kolun picked up a chunk of rock from the crater rim. “Loose stones round the edges, mates, so don’t walk too close t’the edge now. One slip an ye’d go straight down that slope into the lough, with nought to save ye. Zillo, how deep would ye reckon that water is?”
Ould Zillo stared at the still waters, far below. “Well now, they say ’tis bottomless. Nobeast has ever plumbed the depths o’ Deeplough. Sure, an’ who’d be fool enough to try such a thing? Will ye look at it, ’tis smooth as dark glass! Ah, ’tis an evil lough, the home of Slothunog the monster!”
Deedero glared at the bard. “Will ye stop that sort o’ talk in front o’ the little ’uns? ’Twill frighten the life out of ’em!”
Big Kolun hefted the rock he had picked up. “Take no notice of that ould ballad warbler, me ’eart’s delight. Nobeast I ever knowed has seen Slothunog. He’s prob’ly just a tale somebeast made up ages ago.”