She shrugged. “I don’t really know, sir.”
Taking a wooden paddle, Bibble opened one of the long oven doors. “Indeed to goodness, there’s a thing, a young ’un who can’t make up her own mind. Come and lend a paw here, missy, maybe I’ll treat you to a Friar’s Special.”
Using the long beechwood paddle, Tiria helped Friar Bibble to pull out loaves, cobs, farls and rolls, all for next morning’s breakfast table. “What’s a Friar’s Special, sir?”
Bibble selected two crispy little golden batch loaves. “It’s what I like to treat myself to after a long day’s bakin’. You’ll like it. Pass me that small pot off the oventop. Wrap a towel around it now, don’t want to burn your paws.”
Tiria did as he bade, placing the pot in front of him. “Mmm, it smells delicious! What is it?”
Bibble sliced both batch loaves through with his knife. “Damsons an’ crushed almonds cooked in honey an’ aged cider.”
He ladled the mixture onto the cut loaves, then produced a flagon and two beakers. “Elderberry an’ burdock cordial, just the thing. Come now, we’ll sit on those sacks o’ flour whilst we have our snack.”
Tiria began praising the wonderful treat. “It tastes really nice, sir.”
Bibble held up a flour-dusted paw. “Quiet now, don’t go tellin’ anybeast about my Special, or I’ll have a full kitchen every night, so I will.”
The ottermaid promised him that she would keep silent, but only on condition that he would allow her to visit again for more.
The shrewcook shook his head in mock surprise. “Indeed to goodness, Tiria Wildlough, you’re a beauty an’ a rogue all in one. Be off to your bed, you young scallywag!”
Playfully he pursued her from the kitchens, waving a paddle.
Leaving the kitchens, Tiria wandered through Great Hall, stopping for a while at the beautiful Redwall tapestry. This was an intricately woven work, depicting as its main theme the legendary mouse, Martin the Warrior. He had been one of the Abbey’s founders and the famed Champion of Redwall. Lanterns illuminated his heroic figure, whilst all around him vermin could be seen fleeing for their lives. Tiria often visited the tapestry. She loved to look at the Warrior, he was a valiant fighter, standing courageously against all odds. Formidable, yet with the light of kindness radiating from his eyes. Martin stood holding his great sword, which had been forged from a piece of a fallen star in the mountain fortress of Salamandastron, home of the mighty Badger Lords. Above the tapestry, lying on two wallspikes, the actual sword was displayed. It was nothing elaborate—a real warrior’s blade, perfectly balanced, as deadly as chain lightning in a winterstorm, its point as keen as an ice needle. Tiria instinctively touched the only weapon she had ever known, the sling she had named Wuppit, belted about her waist, with its stone pouch attached.
She stared at Martin and his sword, softly reciting a phrase her father had often repeated. “ ‘Any weapon is the best weapon, as long as ye can use it skilfully and with honour.’ ”
Tiria blinked, peering at the likeness of Martin. Had he nodded at her, as if in agreement with her father’s words? She yawned, unaccountably overcome by tiredness. Perhaps it was just a draught stirring the tapestry. Her yawns echoed around the time-mellowed hall as she stole off to her bed.
The land of dreams is an odd realm, sometimes nightmarish, other times peaceful. Tiria found herself wandering along the still shores of a vast sunlit lake; she felt happy in its silent tranquillity.
From afar, two creatures floated toward her in a nimbus of golden light. As they drew close, Tiria recognised one as Martin the Warrior. Smiling at her, he indicated his companion. Tiria felt her heart jump. The other creature was a tall, stately otter lady, obviously older than she but a mirror image of herself in features, build and height. On her brow rested a slim gold circlet, with a large, round emerald at its centre. The otter lady wore a short, dark-green cloak, richly embroidered about the hem. From neck to waist she was covered by a metal breastplate, silver with a gold star radiating from its centre. What really intrigued Tiria was that the otter lady carried a sling and a stone pouch, belted about her middle, the same way in which Tiria carried hers.
The ottermaid felt an immediate trust of and kinship to the lithe, regal apparition. She stood staring at her in the sunny dream landscape, not knowing what to say but yearning to talk to the otter lady. Turning to Martin, she found herself equally dumbfounded. Though Martin the Warrior had no need of speech, his kind eyes widened expressively. He merely smiled at Tiria, pointing to the otter as an indication that she should listen to what the strange vision had to say. Then, in clear, measured tones, the otter lady spoke:“Like the sun, High Rhulain will rise anew,
to set the downtrodden free.
A warriormaid with Wildlough blood
must cross the Western Sea.
She who looks ever through windows
at the signs which feathers make,
seek the Green Isle through her knowledge,
for all thy kinbeasts’ sake.”
Then both Martin and his companion glided on past Tiria. She yearned to follow them but felt rooted to the spot. As the bright noon of her dreams darkened, desolation overcame the ottermaid. She felt them fade into the mists, and she was left alone, standing on the deserted lakeshore amid the sighing breeze, with the otter’s words echoing throughout the corridors of her mind. Tiria did not sleep peacefully for the remainder of that night. She tossed and turned fitfully, imbued with a restless energy.
5
Tiria was up with the dawn the next morning with a sense of unfulfilled purpose that she could not name. Dressing hastily, she hurried downstairs. Her normally healthy appetite usually took her to the kitchens; instead, she avoided them and went straight outdoors. It was a fresh summer morn, the grass underpaw heavy with dew. Lawn borders were patches of pastel colours, with daisy, milkwort, rockrose and pasque flower in profusion. She paused at the northwest Abbey gable, catching the sweet chirrup of ascending larksong from the flatlands beyond the west ramparts. The sound blended melodiously with the cooing of woodpigeon from the woodland on the far side of the east wall.
The poignant moment was broken by the interruption of two gruff voices singing raucously. Tiria knew it was her father and Brink, coming up from the Abbey pond after their night fishing. She also realized that a meeting with the jolly pair would result in being questioned. What was she doing outdoors so early, couldn’t she sleep, had she eaten a good breakfast yet? Avoiding the tiresome interview, the ottermaid stepped behind a protruding buttress and waited for them to go indoors. However, the happy pair were in no hurry.
Carrying a splendid grayling between them in a net, Brink and Banjon sang away lustily.
“O I knew a worm who turned to his tail,
an’ this is wot he said,
I wish that you’d stop followin’ me,
as though we both were wed.
Said the tail to the head stop pullin’ me,
’cos I’ve no wish to go,
besides, I think yore really a tail,
an’ I’m the head you know!
This caused the worm some great concern,
he said, I’m sure yore wrong,
an’ they both began to bicker about,
to whom did the stomach belong?
Both tempers did boil, while disputin’ a coil,
they fell into an awful fight,
they wriggled an’ squirmed an’ waggled an’ turned,
for worms as ye know can’t bite.
Then a big blackbird, who’d heard every word,
came flutterin’ out of a tree,
I’ll oblige ye both, the blackbird quoth,
an’ he ate them both for tea.
So that was that, he settled their spat,
an’ I’ll bid ye all good day,
for it’s head to tails when reasonin’ fails,
a worm should crawl away!”
They finished the song, but Tiria had to wait whilst they p
erformed a little jig on the Abbey steps, shaking paws and patting each other’s backs triumphantly. The slam of the Abbey door told the ottermaid that they had gone inside. She came out of hiding and continued her rambling walk.
With no real purpose, Tiria made her way up the wallsteps to the northwest corner of the ramparts, where she stood staring out over the flatlands. Across these plains, she had been told, were hills, mountains and the shores which bordered the Western Sea. Like many Redwallers, she had never traversed that far, but being an otter, Tiria knew that someday she would. Oblivious to the sounds of Abbeydwellers commencing their day’s activities behind her, she remained, caught in a reverie of unknown problems.
At first, she did not notice that the dark shape was coming toward her. Only when it got closer did Tiria see that it was a bird—a large barnacle goose, much bulkier than an osprey. She wondered why it was flying so low, and alone, too. Geese usually flew very high in a V-shaped gaggle known as a skein. It soared straight in over the battlements, landing on Tiria in an ungainly heap.
Fortunately, the ottermaid was no weakling. Holding on to the bird, Tiria was able to stop them both from toppling off the walkway to the lawns below. Once its progress was arrested, the goose scrambled free of her and crouched back into the lee of the wall. It was a striking creature. Greyish black with white underfeathers, it had a quaintly comical face which looked rather friendly.
Tiria straightened up, but all she could think of to say was “Er, good morning!”
The barnacle goose nodded affably. “I am bidding you a good morning also. I am thinking that this is the place of Red Walls. I am of the Skyfurrows. Some of them have been here before, though not for many seasons. Here is where you have healers, I am told?”
Tiria noticed a tattered mass of mud and leaves sticking to the newcomer’s neck. “Healers? Oh yes, we have a healer at our Abbey. Has your neck been injured?”
The goose bent his beak toward the remnants of the makeshift dressing. “It is injured by an arrow I am. The Shellhound said that help I must seek. Arrow wounds can go bad, trouble that would mean for Brantalis.”
Tiria suddenly forgot her own vague problems. “Brantalis, is that your name? Mine’s Tiria, I’m a Redwaller. You stay right there, Brantalis, we’ll get you to a healer quickly.”
Brantalis clacked his beak. “Wait here I will!”
Hillyah and Oreal, the harvest mice, were emerging from the gatehouse with their twin babes. Tiria called to them from the walltop. “There’s an injured goose up here that needs help. You’d best get a stretcher and some bearers, it’s quite a large bird. Would you hurry, please?”
Oreal was a creature who could become easily flustered. Hopping from one paw to the other, he called out to his wife, “My dear, it’s an injured goose, whatever shall we do?”
His wife, a sensible type, took charge promptly. “Don’t get upset, dear. Stay here with Irgle and Ralg, I’ll soon get help!”
The harvest mousewife sped off toward the Abbey, with her pinafore hitched high. Irgle and Ralg slipped by their father. The mousebabes scuttled up the wallsteps. Eager to see the visitor, they both squealed excitedly, “A hinjagoose! A hinjagoose!”
Oreal stood undecided for a moment, then chased after them. “Come back, sugarplums, come back! Be careful, it might be dangerous!”
Tiria fended the little twins off, blocking their path as they leaped up and down, shouting, “Us wanna see the hinjagoose!”
Oreal caught them by their tails. “It’s not a hinjagoose, it’s an injured goose. Come away now, you naughty sugarplums!”
Irgle struggled in his father’s grasp. “I norra shuggaplump, I a h’infant Dibbun. Lemme see the hinjagoose!”
Tiria soon diverted their attention with the mention of food. “You can see the injured goose later on. There’s raspberry jelly and strawberry fizz for breakfast. If I were you, I’d go and get some before the others eat it all up!”
Within a moment, Oreal was being towed across the lawn by his whooping babes. “Rabbsee jelly anna straw’bee fizz, quick quick, ’urry up Daddy afore it be gone!”
Brantalis gave a honking laugh. “Small ones are always hungry for the good food I am thinking.”
Tiria nodded. “Aye, though they’ll be disappointed when they find I lied to them. It’ll be the same breakfast as usual. Got them out of the way though, didn’t it?”
Foremole came trundling up with a crew of six moles, carrying a stretcher between them. He tugged his snout politely to Tiria. “Beggen ee pardun, miz, bee’s this yurr ee gurt burd us’n’s must carry to ee h’Abbey?”
Brantalis rose hastily and began descending the wallsteps in a series of wobbling hops. “I will not be carried by these strange mice, dropping me they would be. By myself I will walk!”
Tiria restrained herself from laughing at the comical aspect of Brantalis and the indignant look on Foremole Grudd’s face. She apologised to the mole leader. “I’m sorry, sir, but it seems Brantalis appears able to get himself across to the Abbey.”
Signalling dismissal to his crew, Grudd marched off with his snout in the air. “Boi okey, oi’m not a botherin’ abowt ee h’ungrateful gurt bag o’ feathers. Gudd day to ee, marm!”
Still stifling her mirth, Tiria bowed deeply to Grudd. “Good day to you, sir, and my thanks for your kind offer of help.”
Clack!
Had she not bowed, the ottermaid would have surely been slain by the crude spear which flew in over the battlements. The weapon’s chipped-flint head shattered as it struck the parapet.
Whipping off the sling Wuppit and loading it in the same movement, Tiria leaped to the walltop. Below, in the ditch that ran alongside the path stretching from north to south, she glimpsed the water rats. It was Groffgut’s gang, racing away north up the dried-out ditchbed. Tiria identified the gangleader’s voice as he shouted, “Dat wuz the waterdog! I missed’er, but ’twas dat mouse wot beated me up dat I wanna kill!”
It was a difficult throw, but Tiria whirled Wuppit wildly and let fly hard. She hit the back of the last runner’s head, downing him. Dashing to the main gate, she began swiftly unbarring it.
Skipper Banjon and Brink, together with Tiria’s three friends, were walking down the Abbey steps when they spied her flinging the gate open and racing out onto the path. Banjon was off like an arrow. “Wot’n the name o’ rudders is that gel up to? C’mon, mates!”
Some distance up the ditchbed, they came across the ottermaid, standing over a sprawled-out water rat. She was shaking her head as her eyes roved north up the dried-out watercourse. “It was those vermin we met yesterday. I was on the walltop when one of them threw a spear at me and missed. I heard him shouting that it was the mouse he wanted to slay, the one who had beaten him. Anyhow, they’re well gone now, probably cut off east into the woodlands farther up. I managed to hit this one from the walltop.”
Girry looked back to the Abbey ramparts. “Good grief, you mean to say you slung a stone that far, from up there, and you hit your target? Is he dead?”
Brink knelt and checked the rat briefly. “Oh aye, this ’un’s dead, sure enough!”
Shocked, Tiria dropped her sling as though it were a poison snake. Her voice shook as she explained, “I didn’t mean to kill anybeast, honestly. I only wanted to drive them away from Redwall. It was just a wild shot. I wish I’d never slung that stone!”
Skipper pressed the sling Wuppit back into his daughter’s paw. “You said there was eight of the vermin. So, one of ’em wants to kill hisself a mouse, eh?”
A tremor of fear ran through Brinty, but he put on a show of bravado. “Huh, I’m not frightened of scummy water rats!”
Banjon eyed Tiria levelly. “An’ ye didn’t mean to kill the rat. Why?”
She shrugged. “Can’t say, really. I’ve never slain anything before. It’s just not a very nice feeling I suppose.”
Her father’s gaze hardened. Raising his voice sternly, he addressed his daughter. “Not a very nice feelin’, ye su
ppose? You lissen t’me, gel. Those rats are thieves, murderers an’ torturers, all of ’em! ’Tis about time ye grew up an’ learned about vermin. If’n I’d been with ye when y’found ’em tormentin’ that bird yesterday, I would’ve finished ’em all, instead o’ lettin’ the villians go free to roam Mossflower. There’s seven of the scum out there now, all ready to rob an’ kill any decent, innocent creature they come across!”
Banjon nudged the carcass of the fallen one. “Ye can’t reason with vermin, Tiria. This rat won’t be doin’ any more evil,’cos you stopped him. You did the right thing, protectin’ our Abbey an’ yore friends. Remember, gel, yore a warriormaid with Wildlough blood!”
The force of her father’s final phrase hit Tiria like a thunderbolt. It was the exact line spoken to her by the otter in her dream, which came instantly back to her in vivid detail. She swayed and had to support herself by leaning against the side of the ditch.
The skipper leaped forward and steadied her. “Tiria, are ye alright? What ails ye?”
Brink took his friend to one side, whispering, “Leave ’er be, mate. Pore missy, ’tis prob’ly the shock of it all. I think ye were a mite harsh with ’er, yellin’ like that. May’aps she ain’t old enough to grasp it all yet.”
Banjon turned to his daughter apologetically. “I didn’t mean to shout at ye like that, beauty. I’m sorry.”
Brink threw a paw around Skipper’s shoulder. “Don’t fret, mate. She knows ye meant no ’arm. Come on, me’n’ you’ll see if’n we can’t pick up the trail o’ those vermin. Brinty, why don’t you an’ yore mates take Tiria back to the Abbey? Aye, go an’ see how yore goose is farin’, pretty one. Great seasons, bringin’ two big birds back to the Abbey in two days. Wotever next, eh?”
Once they were alone, Tiria could not wait to confide in her friends. She told them everything about her previous night’s dream.
Girry’s eyes were wide with awe at her narrative. “You actually saw Martin the Warrior?”
Now that she could recall it all, Tiria began feeling more positive and cheerful. “Aye, I saw him, true enough, but it was the strange otter lady and what she said to me.”