The Warrior winked at his friend. ‘That’s the truth, mate, nobeast messes with Folgrim twice!’
Dunespike was still watching Folgrim as he answered, ‘Beasts without fear are far’n’few. I knew soon as I clapped eyes on you’n’Folgrim that you were two of that rare ould stock. Only other two I ever heard of was a mouse like yerself an’ a black squirrel. ’Twas said that they were a grand ould pair of battlers who didn’t know the meanin’ o’ the word fear, no sir!’
Martin came alert. ‘What were their names? Where did they come from, Chief, do you know?’
Dunespike had eaten and drunk copiously, and he was tired. ‘D’ye know, I’m not certain. The mouse had a short kind o’ name, the squirrel now, was her name Rangfarl or somethin’? I can’t think properly some days, me ould head must be turrible muddled from all that Spinetusslin’. Wait now! I heard it said that the mouse came from north of here, up the coast a ways, though ’tis meself’d be lyin’ if I told ye any more. Sometimes I wonder if there are more butterflies flyin’ round in me head than there are out on the dune flowers.’
Martin patted the old Chieftain’s paw. ‘Never mind, matey. Though I’d be obliged if you could tell me how far the north shore is?’
Dunespike lay back on the rush mats and yawned cavernously. ‘Oh, four days about. You’ll easily know, ’cos the weather gets much colder an’ you’ll see a great ould rocky point stickin’ out into the sea. Martin, I can’t keep me eyes open, so I’ll bid ye goodnight an’ peaceful dreams.’
When the festivities had ceased and the lanterns had been doused, Martin sat awake in the firelight’s glow. All around the Dunehogs’ shelter creatures sprawled, snoring, murmuring, some even chuckling or singing broken snatches of song in their sleep. For some reason unknown to himself, a great weight lay on him, and tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. Then the Warrior realised what the cause of his distress was. He had been laughing, singing, drinking, eating and dancing, with hardly a thought for them.
‘Them’ being the father and mother he could hardly remember, who had lived only four days away from the place where he now sat. A vision of a ship, sailing off into a snowswept day, sprang into his mind, a memory of overwhelming sadness and pain. He gripped his sword tightly, knowing it was the only link between himself and the small young mouse who stood on the shore, watching the ship vanish into swirling snow and heaving waves. Weariness overtook Martin of Redwall. He lay down and let his eyes close. The small mouse, the ship and that long ago day grew dimmer and dimmer, then vanished into the realms of merciful dreamless sleep.
* * *
15
OVER THE FOLLOWING days and nights Martin hardly rested or ate. He was unusually silent, and spoke only when he had to. Draped in a blanket and sailcloth, he sat at the prow of the Honeysuckle, regardless of the hostile weather, which grew colder by the day. Dunespike and his tribe had given them a marvellous send-off, plying the crew with stores of food and delicacies. Trimp and the others had been sorry to sail off, the hedgehogs were so hospitable and funny. Martin’s sombre mood affected the crew of the Honeysuckle deeply, and they were not the jolly bunch of companions who had travelled downstream together.
Log a Log Furmo cooked a special damson crumble, with Trimp assisting two of his Guosim shrews to make tempting arrowroot and redcurrant sauce for it. They sat beneath the stern shelter whilst Gonff dished it up to the crew, filling each bowl brimful and remarking, ‘Dig in, mateys, this’ll put the roses in yore cheeks an’ a smile on yore faces. Best skilly’n’duff I ever saw!’
Furmo raised his ladle warningly. ‘Ahoy, Gonffo, I’ll raise a good lump ’twixt yore ears if’n I hear ye callin’ my best damson crumble an’ miz Trimp’s sauce skilly’n’duff. Hmph! Skilly’n’duff indeed! What does he think we are, missie, a pack o’ sea vermin?’
Trimp held out a bowl to Gonff. ‘Fill it up, friend. I’d better take some to Martin. He only had a beaker of mint tea for breakfast, and ’tis late noon now and he hasn’t had a thing since.’
Gonff heaped a good portion into the bowl. ‘Best let me take it, pretty ’un. I know him better’n anybeast, ’cept my Columbine. Wish she was here now – liddle Gonflet too. They’d cheer him up.’
Dinny’s homely face creased in a smile. ‘Hurr, oi’m thinken ee h’infant an’ yore pretty woif wudd cheer you’m up gurter’n anybeast, zurr Gonffen.’
Gonff sat down. Putting the bowl to one side he wiped at his eyes with a piece of rag. ‘That’s the truth, Din. I miss Columbine an’ the liddle feller a lot. I ain’t the cheerful rovin’ type I used t’be.’
Chugger leaped on to the Mousethief’s lap and hugged him. ‘Shush now, mista Gonff, I be yore likkle one, eh?’
The Mousethief could not help smiling through his tears. ‘Bless yore ’eart, Chugg, course you will, though I ’ope you ain’t a Dune’og no more – they’re too prickly to hug. Beggin’ yore pardon, miz Trimp. No reflection on you.’
Martin came striding astern. He threw off the blanket and sailcloth, nodding to Furmo. ‘Tell your shrews to trim the sail and take up oars. I can see the rockpoint standing out in the distance!’
Furmo went up the mast like a squirrel. He peered ahead at the dark jutting line far off, then came back down. ‘Aye, that’ll be the start o’ the northlands right enough. Folgrim, will ye take the tiller an’ keep ’er dead ahead? Gonff, ’elp tie off the lines. We’ll make landfall tonight if’n she holds a tight sail. Stir yore stumps, Guosim, show our friends wot a shrew rower looks like!’
The Honeysuckle sprang forward, only having to tack the slightest bit, running before a wind out of the south-east. Martin took the for’ard port oar, with Gonff plying the opposite one. The Warrior set a vigorous pace, though Trimp cautioned him. ‘Easy now, Martin, not so fast, think of the others.’
Gonff blew off spray that was tickling his nose. ‘That’s the stuff, Trimp, you tell ’im, otherwise we’ll all be flat on the deck afore we’re halfway there. Don’t forget, it’s not safe to row like a madbeast on a full stomach of skilly’n’duff. Yowch!’
The Guosim rowers chortled gruffly as Furmo stood over Gonff armed with his stout wooden ladle. ‘I told ye wot I’d do, you insultin’ rascal. Now, say after me. Damson crumble with good hot sauce!’
Gonff repeated it dutifully, and Furmo made him say it again. The phrase made such a good rowing chant that the Guosim shrews took it up, bending and straightening their backs in time to the cadence.
‘Damson crumble an’ good hot sauce! Damson crumble an’ good hot sauce!’
Chugger was acting captain again. He strode officiously up to Gonff and nodded approvingly. ‘Mista Gonff, you like a damser crum an’ good ’ot sauces?’
The Mousethief licked his lips appreciatively. ‘I certainly do, me liddle mate!’
Patting his tiny stomach Chugger growled fiercely, ‘Well you can’t avva no more, I eated it all up, an’ I not yore likkle mate now. I cap’n Chugg, see!’
Not stopping for anything they rowed doggedly on, trying to keep up the pace, which Martin had unconsciously increased again. Midnight had gone by an hour when they rounded the point. Everybeast lay back, panting with exhaustion, as Furmo gave orders to ship oars. Everybeast except Martin. As the Honeysuckle’s hull scraped to a halt in the shallows, he was upright, staring at the deserted shore, which was bathed in pale moonlight. Like lonely sentinels, the cliffs stood high in the background, topped by sparse vegetation. Darkened caves, partially covered by weather-warped driftwood and rubble, which had once disguised them from hostile eyes, lay forlorn and abandoned. A floodtide of memories poured in on Martin’s senses. Every rock, even the wind-driven sand drifts, looked familiar to him. Turning to his tired companions, the Warrior spoke in a hoarse whisper.
‘I was born here, I know this place!’
Slipping overboard he waded through the shallows.
Drawing his rapier, Log a Log Furmo signalled to his Guosim. Folgrim picked up his axe, determined to go ashore with them. Gonff
backed to the rail and stood in their path, holding up both paws.
‘No, mates. Let our friend go alone. ’Twould not be right to intrude on him this night!’
The crew of the Honeysuckle laid aside their weapons and sat down to await Martin’s return.
Striding slowly up the beach, Martin turned to his right, the cave which had once been his home drawing him to it like a magnet. At first he thought his eyes were deceiving him. Halting, he stared hard at the feeble glow emanating from the cave. It was a light. Somebeast had lit a fire there recently, which had died to glowing embers. Drawing his sword, the Warrior of Redwall crouched, moving forward silent as moonshadow. Entering the cave he flattened himself against the rock wall, waiting until his eyes were accustomed to the dim light.
Covered by a long travelling cloak, an old mouse sat dozing by what was left of the fire. Martin crept close, extended his blade and tapped the mouse’s paw lightly with its point. He did this once again, then the creature stirred, turning its face to him. The old mouse spoke in an awestruck voice. ‘Luke, is that you?’
Wordlessly Martin placed some broken twigs on the fire. Laying aside his sword he sat down opposite the ancient creature, staring at it through the rising flames. A slow smile of pure joy stole across the old one’s lined face.
‘Oh, Luke, Luke, it is you! But how . . .?’
The Warrior spoke softly, so as not to frighten the old fellow. ‘I’m Martin of Redwall, son of Luke the Warrior. Pray, what is your name, sir?’
Rising slowly, the old mouse shuffled round the fire. Sitting next to Martin he reached out and touched the Warrior’s face. Martin watched in silence as tears rolled down the mouse’s cheeks and his head began to shake.
‘Ahhhh, so many seasons, so long ago. I’ve returned here through snow, rain and sun, many many times, and sat waiting alone, always alone.’
Tears overcame further speech. Martin drew the old mouse to him, placing a paw about his scrawny back and wiping away the tears with the cloak hem. He rocked him gently. ‘There, there, no need to weep further, friend. I am Luke’s son and I have come. You are not alone.’
The old mouse’s eyes searched Martin’s face. ‘Aye, you are Martin, so like your father, so like him. D’you not remember me? I’m Vurg, I was Luke’s best friend.’
Martin could not remember him, but he nodded. ‘Of course. I didn’t recognise you in the dark. Vurg, my father’s strong right paw. I recall you now. How are you, Vurg?’
Holding forth his withered paws, Vurg chuckled. ‘How am I? I’m old, Martin, old, old, old! Heeheehee, I’ve got more seasons on me than a hedgehog has spikes!’
Martin hugged the scrawny form to him fondly. ‘Nonsense, I think you look just the same as you always did. I’ll wager your appetite’s still as good. Are you hungry, Vurg?’
‘Heehee, anybeast tough enough t’be livin’ on the northlands coast is always in need o’ good vittles!’
Martin sheathed the sword across his shoulder. ‘Right, come on back to the boat with me. I’ve got a crew of Guosim shrews there who’ll feed you ’til you burst!’
Vurg rose creakily, retrieving a beaded linen bag from the sand. This he stowed beneath his cloak. ‘Well, young Martin, what’re we standin’ round here waitin’ for? Lead me t’the grub!’
Together they crossed the shore, Vurg leaning heavily on Martin’s paw for support, chattering away.
‘Guosim shrew cooks, eh? Bet they know ’ow to serve up proper-made vittles. Not like ole Cardo, now there was a mouse who’d burn a salad. Cook? Cardo couldn’t boil water to save his life. You remember Cardo, don’t you?’
Martin lied as he kept the oldster on a steady course. ‘Oh, Cardo! How could anybeast forget that buffoon!’
Gonff was on watch, sitting in the prow. He saw the two mice approaching the Honeysuckle and roused the crew from their slumbers.
‘Ahoy, mates, Martin’s comin’ back. Looks like he’s brought company, too. Stand by – he might need help.’
Furmo and Folgrim assisted in getting Vurg aboard. The old mouse winked at the scarred otter. ‘Heehee, bet you could take care o’ yerself in a scrap?’
Folgrim’s pointed teeth bared in a savage grin. ‘I’ve taken care of a few in me time, sir!’
Vurg mused absently as they seated him comfortably under the stern awning. ‘Aye, so did Luke an’ Ranguvar, they took care o’ more’n a few. Heeheehee!’
Furmo patted the old one’s paw fondly. ‘How’s yore sweet tooth, grandad?’
‘I tell ye, young whipsnout, a sweet tooth’s about the only one I got left in me mouth. Heehee!’
The shrew stoked up his stove with seacoal and driftwood. ‘Then how does a baked river roll with hot maple syrup sound t’ye? I makes it with sweetflour an’ all manner o’ candied fruit, folds it careful-like into a big roll, bakes it to a turn an’ pours ’ot maple syrup over it. Got a beaker or two of Dunehog Seafoam ale t’go with it. Sound good?’
Vurg wiped a paw across his lips. ‘I’ll tell ye when me mouth quits waterin’, young ’un!’
Morning came, with overcast skies and a bitter wind. Martin sat beneath the stem shelter with his friends, sipping barley and carrot broth. Vurg lay behind them, close to the oven, wrapped snugly in his cloak, sleeping off the feast he had consumed.
Gonff sat Chugger on his lap, allowing him to steal his beaker of broth. ‘You finish that all up, matey, an’ don’t be dashin’ about kickin’ up a rumpus. Old Vurg needs lots o’ sleep. Well, Martin, did y’ find out what you needed to know from the ole feller, about yore dad an’ so on?’
Martin shook his head as he watched Vurg sleeping. ‘Didn’t want to rush him. Vurg will tell me when he’s ready. Though I did hint that I needed information.’
Dinny looked over the top of his beaker. ‘Wot did ee’m owd feller say ’bout that, zurr?’
Martin shrugged. ‘Not much, though he did say I’d find out all I needed to know when we took him back home to someplace called Tall Rocks.’
Chugger was beginning to wriggle out of Gonff’s grasp. Trimp took charge of him, stroking the tiny squirrel’s head soothingly. She looked enquiringly at Martin. ‘Tall Rocks? Where’s that?’
The Warrior stared out at the grey wintry seas. ‘Somewhere up north of here. Vurg said he’d show us the way.’
Furmo picked up the linen bag from where it had fallen out of Vurg’s cloak, and passed it to Martin. ‘What d’you suppose is in this?’
Martin sighed deeply, and placed the bag carefully back in the folds of Vurg’s cloak without disturbing him. ‘He’ll tell us when he’s ready, I suppose. Though I’m not certain I want to know now. I have a feeling inside that ’tis going to be a long and tragic tale.’
Vurg woke before noon feeling much refreshed, and to prove it he ate a huge breakfast. Under his directions they pushed off and continued north. Martin watched, silent and pensive once more, as his birthplace faded into the distance.
* * *
16
IT WAS A late noon, two days out from Martin’s former home, when Tall Rocks hove into view. Rain was falling heavily and the wind had died completely. The sea surface, though pitted constantly by rainfall, was relatively calm, with a notable absence of the huge foam-crested rollers usual in the area. Vurg stood in the bows, Martin at his side, and relayed directions. Furmo and Dinny held the tiller between them, listening out for instructions.
‘Keep her head out to sea a bit. Stick to that course!’
Furmo obeyed, but voiced his doubts. ‘Wouldn’t we be better tackin’ in closer to the land side?’
Martin swiftly gave him his answer. ‘No, no! Stay seaward. Vurg says the underwater reefs are close to the surface inshore. Out here the sea runs very deep, so the reefs are far below us. Keep her head out!’
‘Right enough. Just as well the tide’s runnin’ smooth t’day.’
Martin agreed. ‘Aye, Vurg says that if any waves start up you must steer right out to sea, away from Tall Rocks, and forget
the whole thing until ebb tides arrive. Otherwise the Honeysuckle’d be smashed against the rocks!’
Dinny glanced fearfully to the horizon. ‘O seas, keep ee gurt waves clear of us’n’s. Thurr be nuthin’ wurser’n a drownded molebeast, no zurr!’
Trimp and the remainder of the crew stood aghast at the size of Tall Rocks. Monumental pillars of stone, they reared out of the sea like monsters from the dawn of time, huge and forbidding. For leagues of the coastline the seas were dotted with them, colossal and weirdly shaped, some cylindrical, others triangular or square-sided, their bases festooned with seaweed, kelp and dark moss above the columns of dark basalt stone. The Honeysuckle’s sail was taken in, and the most expert Guosim oarbeasts sat at the rowlocks, knowing their lives depended on the accuracy and sureness of their strokes. The order came when they were almost abreast of a cluster of columns, fronted by one half as big again in girth and height as the rest.
‘Take ’er in steady. Keep the big ’un on yore portside!’
Trimp held tight to Folgrim’s paw. ‘Good grief! Look at the size of those rocks, Folgrim!’
Chugger, who had climbed on to the otter’s shoulders, clung there like a leech, whimpering. ‘I frykened, mista Fol, Chugg no like this!’
Folgrim tickled the little squirrel’s footpaw. ‘Aye, I’m frightened too, matey. So is the whole crew, an’ even Martin, so we’re in good company, I reckons!’
All else was forgotten as the monstrous pinnacles loomed close. Fear echoed in Furmo’s high-pitched yell. ‘Bring ’er round! Round the big rock! Push ’er off’n’take ’er round, mates! Now!’
Rising in a smooth high swell, the sea swept the skiff, like a cork, straight for the big rock. Paddlers on one side banked her, rowing furiously, whilst Martin and Gonff joined the others, fending the rock off by pushing against it with oars and long poles. With an audible sucking and gurgling the swell receded. Down they shot into a deep trough, with the Honeysuckle swerving bravely in a swift arc round the basalt monolith. No sooner were they on the lee side of the rock than the peril of their position increased. Now they were in a narrow channel betwixt the main column and the others grouped behind it. Obeying Vurg’s orders, the Guosim Chieftain sang out, ‘I’m steerin’ for that pack o’ rocks! Make ready to tie up, for’ard, aft an’ amidships! But don’t tie ’er fast, mates, leave slack so she can ride the swells!’