“My father showed open dislike of Corriam. This brought us close together, setting my father and me further apart. So it was that I fell deeply in love with my injured warrior. When Corriam was fit enough to travel, we left the holt of my father and sought a new life together elsewhere.
“We found peace and a happy existence at Redwall, this beautiful Abbey, whose doors are always open to good creatures everywhere. There it was that I took Corriam’s name: I became Runa Wildlough, his wife. So we lived together, rearing a family throughout many joyous seasons, without fear or regret. Corriam took long, painstaking days repairing his lance. When he finished, it was a weapon of perfect balance, the envy of all who beheld it. I tested it myself—it was light and a joy to handle. The lance was also slightly longer, owing to Corriam joining it at the centre by fashioning a sleeve of solid silver into which he fitted both ends. It was perfectly symmetrical and truly straight from tip to tip.
“When the time comes for me to follow my beloved Corriam, I leave both the lance and coronet to the care of my dearest friend and companion, Sister Geminya. She assures me that the two treasures will stay together for some future generation of the Wildlough clan, who will be noble enough to need them for the good and well-being of her kinbeasts.
“Runa Wildlough.”
As Old Quelt finished reading, a sigh of dismay came from Sister Snowdrop. The ancient Recorder peered over his glasses at her.
“What seems to be the trouble, Sister?”
Snowdrop shook her head ruefully. “I thought Runa’s tale was going to tell us where the lance and the coronet could be found.”
Girry stuck out his lip sulkily. “Huh, that would’ve been too simple. That old otter granmum had to go and give them to the confounded Sister Geminya. Aye, and you know what that means?”
Brinty buried his face in both paws. “More blinking riddles and puzzles to solve!”
Tribsy put on a pitiful face. “Boohurr, wot’s ee pore choild t’do? Moi brains’ll be furr wored out boi all ee rigglin’n’ puzzerlen!”
Abbess Lycian looked over Quelt’s shoulder at the page he had been reading. She peered closely at it before exclaiming brightly, “Oh, cheer up friends. There’s some tiny scribbles at the bottom of this page. They may be our first clues from Sister Geminya.”
Old Quelt took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I can’t see anything, Mother Abbess, my old eyes aren’t much good now. See if you can decipher them.”
He passed the book to Lycian, who read it easily. “ ‘C. the G.T. Chap. Seasons by seasons times seasons.’ That seems to be all it says.”
Molemum Burbee wrinkled her snout. “Boi okey, wot’n ee names o’ gudness bee’s that aposed t’mean?”
Quelt replied, “It’s obviously a clue, marm.”
Foremole Grudd gave his opinion. “Bain’t nothen obvious’bout et, zurr. If’n ee’ll excuse oi sayen, lukks gurtly ’ard to oi!”
Girry was staring at the page intently, as if he were beginning to understand. He traced a paw along the scribbled letters. “Maybe not, sir. I’m thinking of what we’ve learned so far from studying Sister Geminya’s puzzles. Now, the first letter is a C. That’s a letter like Y, and I and U, it says a sound. So C becomes the word ‘see.’ ”
Sister Snowdrop nodded eagerly. “Well done, Girry! See, then it says ‘G.T.’ Remember we were searching not long ago for ‘T.O.A.L.’ This book, Tales of Ancient Life. ‘G.T.’ could be the name of a book!”
“Ho aye, loike ee Geminya Tome.”
Quelt stared at Tribsy. “How did you know that?”
The young mole wriggled his snout. “Oi aspeck oi guessed it, zurr!”
Brinty was already dashing down the wallsteps. “The Geminya Tome, we left it by the pond!”
Abbess Lycian, by far the best runner, reached the pond ahead of Brinty. Groop the molebabe and her accomplice, Grumby the hogbabe, were about to launch the tome into the water. Lycian snatched it from the two indignant Dibbuns.
“Give me that book this very instant!”
The infant molemaid protested. “We’m only a goin’ for ee sail onna pond h’Abbess.”
Lycian stamped her footpaw down forcefully. “Not today or any other day, missy. The very idea of it, sailing a precious tome on the water. Really!”
Hogbabe Grumby was the picture of dejection. “It bee’d a gudd h’idea, us was makin’ a boat.”
The tome was carried to the orchard, where it would be much safer. Old Quelt took charge of the proceedings once more.
“Right, what have we got so far? ‘See the Geminya Tome.’ What comes next, Sister?”
Snowdrop uttered a single word. “Chap.”
Girry scoffed. “Huh, ‘Chap.’ is for ‘chapter,’ even I know that!”
The Abbess patted his paw fondly. “Which shows that you’re making progress as a scholar. Bet you can’t solve the last bit, though. It says ‘Seasons by seasons times seasons.’ ”
Girry scuffed the grass with his footpaws. “No, Mother Abbess, I haven’t a clue what it means.”
The kindly Abbess smiled at his embarrassment. “Not to worry, young ’un, neither have I. Does anybeast know?” She scanned the circle of blank faces.
Molemum Burbee raised a paw. “May’ aps usn’s be thinken better arter dinner.”
Lycian hugged her old friend. “Where would we be without mole logic? What a good idea, Burbee! Brinty, Girry, bring those two books along. We don’t want them ending up as boats for the Dibbuns.”
Skipper Banjon and Brink Greyspoke arrived back from their journey to the coast neatly in time for dinner. They were inundated with questions about their trip and Tiria’s departure. Brink was thankful when Brother Perant called silence for the Abbess’s grace. Lycian’s gentle tones echoed clearly through Great Hall. Skipper gazed around at the faces of his friends, tinged by soft pastel lights flooding down through the tall stained-glass windows. It was good to be home again. He hoped someday his daughter would return to the beloved Abbey, where she could sit with him and listen to the evening grace which the Mother Abbess intoned calmly.
“Mother Nature bountiful, we thank thee one and all, for good food the summer yields, to creatures at Redwall.
May our Abbey prosper, through seasons yet to be, helped by those who tended the earth, in harmony with thee.”
The Redwallers fell to with a will. Bowls and plates clattered as the various delicacies were shared among young and old—summer salads, new-baked breads, cordials, teas and October Ale.
The Skipper smiled gratefully as Friar Bibble lifted the lid from a steaming tureen. “Aharr, good ole freshwater shrimp’n’hotroot soup. How did ye guess I’d arrive in time for it, mate?”
Bibble chuckled. “Indeed to goodness, I only had to open one o’ my kitchen windows wide an’ let the aroma waft out. There, I said to myself, anybeast within a league of that ain’t worthy of the name otter if’n he don’t come runnin’, an’ here ye are, Banjon Wildlough!”
Skipper winked cheerfully at Lycian. “Our Bibble’s a wonder, ain’t he, Mother Abbess?”
Lycian commented wryly, as she sliced into a sweet chestnut flan. “Oh, he has his uses, even though he doesn’t know what seasons by seasons times seasons is. Eh, Bibble?”
The good Friar pulled a long face. “Look you, marm, neither does any other creature, yourself included. Seasons times silly seasons, huh!”
Brink looked up from a deeper’n’ever turnip’n’ tater’n’beetroot pie that he was sharing with Foremole Grudd. “Dearie me, an’ I thought you was all cleverbeasts. Hah, ye don’t know wot seasons by seasons times seasons is?”
Lycian paused with her slice of flan halfway to her mouth. “Oh, and I suppose that you do, Mr. Brink Greyspoke?”
The stout Cellarhog could not resist grinning smugly. “Oh, indeed I do, Miz Mother Abbess Lycian. I’ve knowed that ’un since I was only a liddle pincushion of a Dibbun!”
Silence fell over the diners at this revelation.
 
; Old Quelt treated Brink to a jaundiced glare. “So you know? Well, are you going to sit there, grinning like a duck with two tails, or are you going to tell us?”
Brink dug into his plate of deeper’n’ever pie decisively. “No, sir, I ain’t goin’ to tell ye, not when you asks in that manner I ain’t!”
Sister Snowdrop tried a more friendly approach. “Pray tell us, O Wise Keeper of our fine Abbey Cellars, how would you like us to ask you?”
Brink munched away as he considered the question. “Hmm, in a polite an’ helpful manner, Sister. I can be coaxed, y’know.”
Skipper poured a foaming tankard of ale for his friend. “May’ ap a nice drop o’ prime October brew’d move ye, sir?”
He winked at the others, who soon caught on. They began bribing Brink with all manner of tidbits.
“Give that good hog a bowlful o’ woodland trifle.”
“Aye, an’ pour lots o’ meadowcream on it!”
“Here, Mr. Greyspoke, take my mushroom an’ gravy pastie.”
“Maybe ye’d like a warm scone with some comb honey?”
The Cellarhog was graciously accepting all blandishments, when squirrelbabe Taggle rapped his paw with a spoon. “Gurr! You tellum, or I choppa tail off wiv a big knife!”
Brink threw up his paws in mock terror. “Sixty-four, the answer’s sixty-four!”
Tribsy scratched his tail. “How did you work that out, sir?”
Brink shrugged. “Well, there’s four seasons, ain’t there? So, four seasons by four seasons is sixteen. Times that by another four, an’ it adds up to sixty-four. I was always good at figurin’ when I was a liddle ’un, still am.”
As soon as dinner was finished, the Geminya Tome was sent for. Amid great excitement, Old Quelt opened it to chapter sixty-four and started reading.
“Twixt supper and breakfast find me,
In a place I was weary to be,
Up in that top tactic (one see)
Lies what was the limb of a tree.
It holds up what blocks out the night,
And can open to let in the light.
For a third of a lifetime one says,
Looking up I could see it sideways.
Tell me what we call coward (in at)
Then when you have worked out that,
You’ll find your heart’s desire,
By adding a backward liar.
Ever together the two have been set,
Since Corriam’s lance ate the coronet.”
An awed silence followed the reading of the riddle. Then Skipper asked airily, “Is that all there is to it?”
The glasses dropped off Quelt’s nose as he spluttered, “Is that all! Don’t you think that’s quite enough, sir?”
Banjon held up a placatory paw. “Now don’t go gettin’ yoreself in a tizzy, old ’un, I was only jestin’. Though I’ll tell ye this, on me affydavit. I never, in all me seasons, heard a puzzle or a riddle that even comes close to bein’ as hard as that ’un!”
Little Sister Snowdrop’s voice rose into a tirade. “That Sister Geminya! Oooohh, the bottle-nosed, twidgetty-tailed, prinky-pawed, mumbledy-toothed old busybody! What right did she have, thinking up brain-bending puzzles like that? It’s a confounded . . . oooh, it’s a . . .”
“Why, it’s an enigma, just like her name, and it will do no good getting upset like that, Sister.” Abbess Lycian patted Snowdrop’s paw soothingly. “I for one am not going to be defeated by Geminya’s riddle. You were right, Snowdrop, she’s all you said she was, and more. The barrel-bottomed, flinkyeyed, twoggly-eared old nuisance! There, that feels a lot better. What d’you say, friends, are we going to solve the riddle of Corriam’s lance and Rhulain’s coronet? Who’s with me?”
Skipper grasped Lycian’s paw. “I am, marm, if the solvin’ will help that lovely gel o’ mine. Wot d’ye say, mates?”
The roar of approval that followed bounced off the hallowed walls of Great Hall several times. Molemum Burbee removed both paws from her ears when the din had passed.
“Oi’ll make ee tea furst, then us’ll get a-started.”
Mother Abbess Lycian shook her head in admiration. “Who could say better than that?”
19
Tiria’s first dawn aboard the Purloined Petunia was heralded by a rude awakening. The ottermaid was sound asleep in the little galley by the bows when the stentorian bellowing of Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw cut through her slumbers like a bucket of cold water being thrown into her face.
“Hahaarr! Belay yore bows’ls an’ begin burnin’ brekkist! Fire up yore galleystove an’ get some vittles underway!”
Pandion stayed at his perch on the masthead, regally ignoring the hare’s nautical tirade, which was directed at Tiria. Cuthbert watched as she staggered out of the galley onto the swaying deck. Then he continued.
“Top o’ the mornin’, shipmate Tillie! The sun’s in the sky, the waves ’neath our keel, an’ a fair wind at our stern. So let me read ye the articles o’ this vessel. Bein’ as I’m cap’n, the navigatin’ an’ steerin’ are my task, an’ there ain’t a bully afloat does it better’n me! Ole Pandion up yon is the lookout an’ fish catcher. Now, cock yore lugs an’ lissen, me briny beauty. Yore the first mate, head cook, bottlewasher, deckscrubber an’ scoffburner!” ’
Tiria felt it appropriate to throw a salute. “Aye aye, Cap’n, what’s your orders?”
Cuthbert scowled. “Orders! Are ye still asleep, Tillie? Yore cap’n craves vittles, so let’s see wot sort o’ grub ye can dish up. Jump to it, me ’earty!”
The ottermaid decided to play along with the eccentric hare and adopted her best seagoing manner. “Aye aye, Cap’n, I’ll whomp you up a prime scoff, sir! But you’ll excuse my asking, Cap’n, I thought we were bound westward, but we’re sailing south. I can still see the coast. Why is that, Cap’n?”
Cuthbert kept the vessel on its southward tack, replying, “Haharr, that’s ’cos we’re hard on course for the mount o’ Salamandastron, Tillie gel. Got t’call in an’ pay me respects to ole Lord Mandoral afore we turn west into the main. Now get those vittles scorchin’ afore I throws ye to the jellyfish!”
The small galley was equipped with a water barrel and a slate oven. Tiria was not familiar with cooking, having been served superbly prepared meals by Abbeycooks all her life. So she set about experimenting, using the heap of stores that the Guosim had loaded aboard. Tiria soon had a fire going with seacoal, wood and charcoal, which she added to the stove embers. First she took carrots, barley, white turnips, lentils, cabbage leaves and dandelion roots and chopped them finely. Then she added sea salt and crushed peppercorns. Finally she tossed the lot into a pan of boiling water and allowed it to simmer. After a while the concoction began to thicken, as Tiria continued stirring away, trying to ignore her ravenous captain’s shouts.
“Tillie, ye plank-ruddered swab, ain’t me vittles ready yet?”
Tiria shouted back, exchanging insults with Cuthbert. “No, they aren’t, you lollop-lugged old tyrant, and they won’t be ready until I say they are, so there!”
She expected the hare to come back at her with some salty threat about being thrown to the sharks, but instead he merely chortled and broke out into a comical ditty.
“Don’t steal your grandpa’s wooden leg an’ run away
to sea,
an’ leave yore family sheddin’ salty tears.
That cap’n only needs ye ’cos his ship ain’t got a sail,
an’ you was born with two big floppy ears.
Yore innocent an’ stupid, so stay home with me, o
child,
’cos if ye takes a voyage with sailors rough,
ye’d soon be usin’ language that’d rot yore grandma’s
frock,
an’ roarin’ out for skilly an’ plum duff!
For a life at sea is hard an’ rather lonely,
especially if you’ve got no hankychief.
With no mother hov’rin’ near to scrub out yore
scruffy ear, br />
you’ll catch the lurgy an’ you’ll come to grief!
Stay home, stay home, don’t buzz off o’er the foam,
stay home, don’t break yore aged mother’s heart.
You can use yore grandpa’s wooden leg to stir the por-
ridge with,
an’ Grandma’s teeth to crimp the apple tart!”
Tiria could hardly stop giggling long enough to call out that the meal was ready. Cuthbert lashed the tiller on a straight course and dashed down to the galley.
Pandion took a brief leave from his lookout post to flap down and give the food a scornful glance. “Kwaaaark! No fish stew!” He soared out over the waves to catch his own meal.
Tiria filled a bowl for herself, leaving the gluttonous hare with the ladle and the pan. She watched him apprehensively as he guzzled down a great mouthful, then smacked his lips approvingly.
“Haharr, prime scoff, Tillie me darlin’, wot d’ye call this burrgoo?”
Tiria sampled her own bowl. Surprisingly, it was very tasty. “Oh, er, it’s called Nofish stew, sir. And my name is Tiria, so would you kindly stop calling me Tillie?”
Lifting the musselshell patch from his eye, Cuthbert peered closely at her. “Tiria, eh? I don’t know no Tiria. My ole mate Urfa said I was takin’ a gel called Tillie to the Green Isle. I reckon we’d best turn round and head back t’the dunes, so we can look for Tillie. Wot d’ye think?”
The ottermaid sighed resignedly. “I was only joking, Cap’n. My name’s not Tiria, it’s Tillie.”
The hare treated her to a glare of disapproval. “One name should be good enough for anybeast, Tillie. T’ aint a matter to joke about, you mark my words.”
Tiria almost choked on her stew at this observation. The hare had already changed his name twice since they had met and would doubtless adopt other titles before long. She swallowed hard and saluted.
“Aye aye, Cap’n. Tillie’s my name, no more jokes.” Cuthbert licked the ladle clean. “Well said, Tillie. Right, I’m off back to me steerin’. If’n I was you, I’d get down t’makin’ some skilly’n’duff for supper. Us seadogs is very partial to skilly’n’duff.”