Brian Jacques - Redwall #22 - The Sable Quean

As predicted, they made the woodlands by midevening, sailing on in search of a likely place to spend the night. The trees were tall, ancient and sombre, blocking out daylight

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completely--a far different atmosphere from the sunny, open expanse of heathland. Silence shrouded everything, making the surroundings rather eerie. The Guosim lit lanterns, which reflected the gloomy green light of the overhead leaf canopy. Oakheart drove a spiked timber into the shallows, mooring Streatnlass so she would not run foul of underwater obstacles and get stuck again.

Once everybeast was ashore, things began to jolly up a bit. A long-dead fallen pine upon the bank soon provided a big, cheerful fire. Guosim cooks took over, and from the pooled provisions of themselves, the two hares and the Witherspyk troupe, they provided the travellers with a supper which would have passed muster in most places.

Buckler was concerned about the size of the fire. "Jango, d'you think this blaze could spread?"

The Guosim Log a Log waved a paw at the massive trees surrounding them. Some of their trunks were of great girth and coated in moss.

"These things are so big'n'old an' damp that ye could light a fire at their bases, an' it wouldn't harm 'em. C'mon, sit ye down, Buck. No need to worry over things like that. The beer's brewed an' the bread's baked."

Guosim vittles were good; shrewbread had various fillings baked into it, some sweet, others savoury. The nettle beer had been towed along behind the logboats all day. It was cold and bitter, but very refreshing.

Everybeast was enjoying supper when Sniffy, the Guosim scout, began twitching his snout. He sidled over to sit beside Jango and Buckler.

The young hare watched as the scout whispered something to his Log a Log. They held a brief conversation together, then Sniffy beckoned some other shrews. Slowly, casually, they retreated from the camp, vanishing into the surrounding woodland.

Realising something of importance had taken place, Buckler kept his voice low. "Jango, what's going on? Anything wrong?"

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The Shrew Chieftain's lips barely moved as he murmured, "Keep yore wits about ye, mate. We might 'ave a chance t'see how good ye are wid that long blade o' yores. Now, don't make any sudden moves, Buck, but sniff the air--not too deep, though."

Buckler did as he was bade. "Hmm, strange smell, sort of musty an' sweet. Smoky, too, but I don't think it's coming from our fire. What is it?"

Jango stirred the ashes at the fire's edge with his rapier as he explained. "It's a vermin tribe called the Flitcheye. They're split into two bunches, one lot out o'sight in the trees. The rest are right here inside our camp."

Buckler knew enough not to make a move. He kept his tone low and level. "I don't doubt your word, friend, but I can't see any Flitcheye loiterin' about here."

Jango replied with a quick flick of his rapier point. "Over there, in the loam, t'the left o' those ferns, I saw the dead leaves stir a bit. Flitcheye are experts at camouflage an' hidin' theirselves. That smoke ye can smell--sooner or later, it'll send ye fast asleep. Oh, they ain't in a hurry. They'll just wait 'til we're all settled down for the night afore they comes out o' cover to murder us."

Buckler touched the long blade at his side, where he had laid it. "So, I want to wake up in the mornin'. What's your plan?"

Jango stroked his grey whiskers, smiling thinly. " 'Tis already in operation, Buck. Just wait for my shout."

Buckler noticed that the Guosim seated around the fire had pulled their headbands down about their mouths to avoid breathing in the knockout smoke. Feeling about, he gathered a pawful of damp moss to protect himself. Already, Oakheart and several members of the Witherspyk troupe were yawning and settling down, ignorant of the danger.

Buckler nudged Diggs, whose eyes were drooping. He muttered to his companion, "Hush, Diggs, don't say a word, just listen to me--"

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The tubby young hare blurted out, "I haven't said a blinkin' word yet, an' what do I get for it? A bloomin' sharp nudge in the ribs, that's what, wot!"

He got no further, because at that moment Jango bellowed, "Logalogalogalooooooggg! Guosim chaaaaaarge!"

Then pandemonium reigned. Roars from Sniffy's party, mingled with enraged screeches, rang out from beyond the camp. The shrews around the fire sprang up, wielding their short rapiers as the very ground around them seemed to erupt. Ragged, tattered figures burst forth from hiding.

They made a hideous sight in the dancing shadows and firelight, waving primitive weapons as they chanted eerily, "We d'Flitcheye Flitcheye! Haaaayeeee!"

To further confuse the situation, the Witherspyks stumbled to their paws, with Oakheart declaiming, " 'Tis a foul ambush--save the ladies an' babes!"

A ragged, shadowy figure seized Trajidia, who warbled dramatically, even in that grave situation, "Murder and abduction has befallen us! Help, oh, help!"

Buckler felled the creature with a swift blow from his sword hilt, echoing Diggs's war cry as he threw himself into the fray. "Eulaliiiiiaaaa! Give 'em blood'n'vinegar!"

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9

Abbess Marjoram stood close to the big tapestry in Great Hall, staring up at the image of Martin the Warrior, the long-dead founder of Redwall Abbey. The figure woven into the fabric of the wTonderful picture was that of a heroic mouse, armoured and resting upon his fabulous sword. Above the tapestry the actual sword was mounted on two silver wallpins. It had been forged from a fragment of meteor in the long-distant past by a Badger Lord at Salamandastron. Marjoram gazed into Martin's eyes--they were strong, the eyes of a true warrior, but with humour and compassion dwelling in them. The Abbess spoke.

"I know it seems trivial, after all the wars and tribulations Redwall has undergone, but I can't help worrying about our two Dibbuns, poor little things. Martin, who knows, maybe they'll turn up and my fears will have been for nothing. But suppose something bad has befallen them, what shall I do?"

No answer seemed forthcoming. However, Marjoram sat on the worn stone floor, still staring up at the face of Martin the Warrior. Sometimes it seemed to move slightly in the flickering candle and lantern light which surrounded the tapestry, but that could have been a stray draught moving

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the material. She continued her vigil, hoping against hope for a response.

Then somebeast was shaking her gently. "Mother Abbess, are you alright?"

Marjoram found herself looking up into the kindly face of her friend Sister Fumbril. The Infirmary Keeper helped her to stand upright, explaining, "I saw you lying there and thought you had fainted away."

Marjoram could tell by the evening light from the stained-glass windows that some time had elapsed since she came down to the tapestry. She blinked.

"Er, I'm fine, Sister--don't know what happened to me, really. I must've dozed off. Huh, I must be getting old."

The jolly otter smiled as she led her to the kitchen. "We all have t'get old at some time, Marj, though I don't think you've quite reached those seasons yet. I thought you'd be someplace searchin' for Guffy an' Tassy. What were you doin', takin' an evenin' nap?"

They sat down at Friar Soogum's kitchen table, helping themselves to beakers of hot mint tea, which was often left steaming on the oven plate.

Marjoram sipped gratefully. "Oh, that tastes good, Fumbril. Actually, I went to the tapestry to see Martin the Warrior. I hoped I might get some hint about our missing Dibbuns."

Sister Fumbril topped up her beaker. "And did you?"

The mouse Abbess shook her head. "I'm afraid not. Maybe we've neglected our Abbey's guiding spirit. Perhaps he doesn't speak anymore."

Fumbril patted her friend's paw. "Surely not. Martin's being is in these very stones that surround us--he's part o' Redwall. Think now, is there anything in your mind, anything?"