[Redwall 18] - High Rhulain (20 page)

It was shortly after sunrise at the Abbey. Sister Snowdrop watched Friar Bibble filling a tray with breakfast foods for herself and Old Quelt. “A touch more honey on the Recorder's oatmeal, if you please, Friar. He likes a lot of honey—oh, and some of those whortleberries, too, thank you.”

Bibble obliged her. “There y'are, Sister. Oh, did ye hear? Tiria's gone. An' that Pandion bird, thanks be to goodness!”

The aged Sister looked over her glasses. “Gone, Friar? Where to, what do you mean?”

Bibble filled two beakers with coltsfoot and dandelion cordial. “Indeed to goodness, I thought you knew. She's off on that journey of hers. I filled haversacks for them—her da, Brink and Tiria. They left before sunup.”

Snowdrop appeared bemused by the news. “But she can't do that! We haven't gathered all the information she needs yet.”

Friar Bibble wiped his paws and took a parchment from his apron pocket. “Well, I don't know about that, Sister, but gone she has. Said I was to give this to you.”

The little Sister tucked the parchment into her habit sleeve. “Thank you, Friar. Oh, when you see Brinty, Tribsy and Girry, will you please send them straight up to the library?”

Bibble watched her skittering off with the laden tray. “Indeed to goodness, I'm more of a messenger than a cook this morning. Now then, baby Groop, what can I do for you?”

The molebabe held her dish out solemnly. “No messinjers furr oi, jus' vikkles, zurr. Lots of 'em!”

 

Sister Snowdrop and Old Quelt shared the Recorder's desk as they pored over Tiria's letter. They looked up as the library door slammed open. Girry and Brinty dashed in, followed at a more sedate pace by Tribsy.

The young mole was balancing a tray loaded high with food. “Hurr, Miz Tirry bein' goned bain't a-stoppen this choild gettin' ee vikkles. G'mawnin', zurr'n'marm!”

Brantalis appeared in the doorway and honked. “I am thinking Tiria is gone from here!”

Quelt peered at him over the rim of his oatmeal bowl. “Yes, she has. Why are you looking so pleased?”

The barnacle goose did a waddling turn and started off downstairs, calling back to the Recorder, “I will look as pleased as I please, old one. No more hook-beaked fish eater to bother me. He went, too. I am thinking I will ask the Bibbler for two breakfasts now.”

Snowdrop went back to studying the parchment, murmuring, “I'm sure that will please the Friar no end.”

Brinty helped himself to a baked apple from Tribsy's tray. “Huh, scooting off like that without so much as a thank-you or farewell. The Friar said Tiria left a letter. Is that it? Can I have a look, please?”

Old Quelt straightened the creases from the parchment. “No, you can't! Your paws are all full of cooked apple.”

Girry stood on tip-paw, trying to see the letter. “My paws are clean.”

The ancient squirrel's eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “Good, well, let's see if you can't keep them that way, young sir. I'll read the letter out to you. Listen.”

He held the missive at paw's length, commenting before he read it, “Dearie me, spelling is not that ottermaid's strong point, though she does write with a neat paw. Er, right.

Tribsy dropped his tray and broke out sobbing. “Boohurrrrrr! Us'll never see Tirry no more, she'm goned. Boohurhurhurrr! Oi wurr gurtly fond of 'er, she'm wurr allus koind an' noice, an' she'm wurr moi friend. Boohurrr!”

Girry and Brinty were affected by their molefriend's tears. They, too, turned aside and wept quietly. Old Quelt reached out a bony paw to lift up Sister Snowdrop's chin. She was sniffling also, a tear rolling from beneath her small, square glasses.

“Such a pleasant young ottermaid. Oh dear, I hadn't realised how fond of Tiria I'd become!”

Old Quelt shook his head in gentle reproof. “My my, just look at you all, blubbering away like Dibbuns at bathtime. Well, what's it to be, eh? Are you going to waste time crying the day away, or are you going to do something to help your friend by solving the clues which she left for us?”

There followed much wiping of paws and habit sleeves across eyes. Tribsy sat down by his fallen tray and sighed deeply. “Oi'll be with ee direckly, zurr, soon as oi've 'ad moi brekkist!”

A moment later, they were all hard at work.

Tiria bounded along through Mossflower's summer woodlands as though there were springs on her paws. Her regrets at leaving her home and friends soon vanished with the excitement of embarking on the quest. Pandion circled overhead, whilst Skipper and Brink trudged along behind, burdened by two large haversacks of supplies.

Though she had pleaded with them to let her help with the packs, her father and the good Cellarhog would not hear of it.

“Nay, missy, we'll 'elp ye for as longs as needs be!”

“Aye, me gel, ye might have to carry both of 'em alone afore yore journey's done. Don't get too far ahead of us now. Take a right turn at the bend o' the next stream and stay away from the water's edge. 'Tis deep an' swampy there.”

As she forged ahead, Banjon called after her, “Oh, an' tell yore fish 'awk to walk from here. We don't want no great bird frightenin' the Guosim shrews.”

Tiria guessed that they were not far from the watermeadow from the sounds of revelry which began echoing through the normally silent woodlands. It was a blend of singing, shouting and merriment.

Pandion did not seem to like it. Spreading his wings, he addressed Tiria. “Kraaaaah! They will frighten off the fish with that din. I will hunt among the streams. When I have eaten, I will come and find you.”

He winged off, and the ottermaid waited for her father and Brink to catch up. As they pressed forward through the trees, Brink chuckled at the growing sounds of raucous singing.

“Those Guosim certainly know how to enjoy theirselves, Skip.”

Banjon agreed. “Aye, that they do, mate, especially at their summer watermeadow festival.”

There was a swift rustle of undergrowth, and a gruff voice called out, “Halt right there!”

Tiria was surprised by her first meeting with the Guosim. The travelers were suddenly surrounded by twelve or more shrews, tough-looking little beasts with spiky fur. Each one wore a coloured headband, a short kilt with a broad-buckled belt and a ferocious scowl. They were all armed with short rapiers.

A youngish shrew flourished his blade aggressively at them. “Stand still, or ye'll be deadbeasts!”

Skipper murmured to Brink and his daughter, “Don't say anythin', leave this t'me.”

Banjon looked the young shrew up and down fearlessly. “Well, Dobra Westbrook, ye've sprouted up a touch since I last clapped eyes on ye. Where's yore dad? Still swiggin' grog an' wrestlin' with the best of 'em, is he?”

Dobra stared hard at Skipper for a moment. Then he put up his blade and hugged him fondly. “Nuncle Banjon, ye ole gullywhumper! Where've ye been all these seasons? What brings ye t'the watermeadow?”

Skipper pulled himself loose and held Dobra at paw's length. “I've come t'see yore dad. I thought you was him at first. By the rudder, ye look just like him!”

Tiria cast a sidelong glance at her father. “Nuncle?”

Skipper explained, “Dobra's always called me that, since I made him his first liddle sling. That was about four seasons afore you were born.”

 

The watermeadow was practically a carpet of gypsywort, sundew, water plantain, bulrush, reed and wide-padded water lilies. The three visitors were escorted to a logboat which transported them out to a big island at the centre of the meadow. Dobra leaped ashore as the prow nosed into land. The place seemed to be packed with Guosim shrews—families picnicking, maids dancing, elders arguing, groups singing and various contests of skill taking place. They followed Dobra through the carnival atmosphere to the middle of the island, where it seemed the main event was being held. A number of veteran Guosim warriors were seated in the treeshade, eating and drinking as they watched a slinging competition.

Dobra called out to a sturdy, tough-faced shrew, “Ahoy, Dad! Lookit wot the frogs just dragged in!”

Log a Log Urfa, Chieftain of the Western Guosim tribe, stood up. He swaggered over, growling savagely, “Haharr, 'tis a mad ole plank-tailed waterwalloper who thinks he kin wrestle. Let's see wot ye can do, cully!”

They leapt upon each other, crashing to the ground and setting the dust flying as they grappled and grunted like madbeasts. Tiria became alarmed. Just as she was reaching for her sling, they both sprang up and began hugging and laughing.

“Urfa Westbrook, ye great grog tub, how are ye, buckoe?”

“Banjon Wildlough, me ole matey, if'n I feel half as good as yore lookin', then I'm fine!”

Introductions were made all around. The guests were seated and given tankards of Guosim Grog, accompanied by huge thick wedges of pie, which turned out to be leek and turnip with savoury herbs.

Skipper started right in telling Urfa about Tiria and her need for a boat, but the Guosim chieftain touched a paw to his lips. He pointed to the slinging competition.

“Hush now, matey, I'll talk to ye in a moment. The Dipper's about to throw. I don't want to miss this!”

Brink whispered, “Which one's the Dipper?”

Urfa pointed out a tall, sinewy shrew who was stepping up to the mark and selecting stones from his pouch. “That 'un there, Brink. Ole Dipper's got an eye like a huntin' eagle. Ain't nobeast in all the land kin sling a stone like the Dipper can! You just watch an' see.”

Banjon sized the shrew up keenly. “Yore Dipper must be a good 'un if ye say so, mate. Wot's the target he's slingin' for?”

Urfa nodded to a figure suspended from a beech limb some distance off. It was a crude likeness of a weasel, with torso and limbs made from stuffed sacking. The head was carved from a turnip, with two hazelnuts for eyes.

Dobra explained the rules as Dipper began twirling his sling experimentally. “If ye hit the body, that's two points. The paws are five points apiece, an' the head scores a full ten. Each slinger gets three throws. There's a rare barrel o' best grog as a prize for the winner. But afore ye sling, y'must nominate wot ye plan on hittin'.”

Tiria made a polite enquiry. “What do the eyes score?”

Urfa shook his head, chuckling. “Nobeast ever nominated an eye an' hit it, missy. Quiet now—the Dipper's goin' to sling.”

The tall, lean shrew twirled his loaded sling, calling out, “One head an' two footpaws!”

A gasp of admiration arose from the spectators. Evidently it was something of a feat which the slinger had chosen. Dipper hurled off his first stone. It grazed the turnip on the left side of the face. There was a deathly silence as he loaded his sling again and tested the breeze with a licked paw. Dipper slung his second stone. It hit the right footpaw fair and square, causing the leg to flop about. The hush was intense now, as other Guosim crowded in to watch. Dipper loaded his final stone, crouching low as he whirled the sling. It thrummed in the hot noontide air, snapping back as he whipped off the missile. It barely skimmed the underside of the left paw, hardly causing the leg to stir.

A small fat shrew, acting as scorer, scurried out to inspect the target. After studying it a while, he called out officiously, “Theree 'its, thee Dippah scoharrs terwenty points!”

The Guosim cheered Dipper to the echo, clapping his back and shaking his paws as they roared, “Dipper's scored a score!”

Urfa turned proudly to his guests. “Wot did I tell ye? The Dipper's a champeen slinger alright!”

Banjon nodded. “Oh, he ain't a bad 'un, mate. Did I tell ye my gel Tiria slings stones? D'ye think she could have a go?”

Urfa had a slightly condescending note to his tone. “A maid wot thinks she can sling, eh? Wot next! Aye, go on then, Tiria, give it a try.”