Brian Jacques - [Redwall 18] - High Rhulain

Girry munched on a slice of hazelnut crumble. “What’s a Chap two supposed to mean, I wonder?”

Quelt answered promptly. “It’s merely short for chapter two. Most scholars know that. T.O.A.L. and F.W.—they’re the letters that are baffling me.”

Hillyah startled them all with a whoop. “I’ve got it! T.O.A.L., Tales of Ancient Life! That’s what I was trying to remember. I’ve seen it somewhere before, I know I have. It’s a book!”

Oreal smiled helpfully. “Where did you see it, dear?”

Hillyah tugged at her apron strings in frustration. “That’s the trouble. I can’t remember!”

Oreal hauled little Ralg from the pond shallows. “Well, don’t get upset about it, my love. You’ll recall everything sooner or later, you usually do. Listen, I’ll see to our babes. Why don’t you go and have a lie-down on the bed in the gatehouse? That always helps.”

Hillyah’s eyes widened in realisation. “Of course, the bed! Come on, you scholars, I’ve got something to show you!”

She bustled off with a crowd in tow, relating to the Abbess, who was keeping pace with her, “When Oreal and I first moved into the gatehouse, long before the twins were born, you understand.... Well, my goodness, that place was in a dreadful mess, after lying empty half a season after Old Gruggle passed on. He was never the tidiest of mole Gatekeepers, but you couldn’t imagine the dust and disorder! So I rolled my sleeves up and went straight to work on it. The first thing I tackled was that big bed in the corner. I think it was put there when the gatehouse was first built, a great, solid old thing. There must’ve been a hundred seasons of dust and fluff underneath it. Anyhow, there I was, flat out underneath the bed with my broom, sweeping and cleaning. Sneezing, too. That was when I saw it.”

Girry leaped over a flower bed as they hurried across the lawns. “What was it, marm?”

Hillyah explained eagerly. “The bed fitted square to the walls in one corner. I noticed that the leg that fitted into that angle was broken off short. It was propped up by two thick books. One was called Gatewatcher’s Poems, written by somebeast named Porgil Longspike, and the other was Tales of Ancient Life, by Minegay. They’re still in the same place, I never got round to asking Brink Cellarhog if he’d make a new bedleg for me.”

Little Sister Snowdrop, walking slightly behind Hillyah, cried out. “Huh, Minegay, I’ll wager that’s one of the names Sister Geminya made up for herself. Same letters!”

Old Quelt was last to arrive inside the gatehouse. He saw three pairs of footpaws sticking out from beneath the big, old four-poster bed. “What have you found, is there anything there?”

Girry’s voice sounded rather hollow and stifled. “Oh, the book’s here alright, sir, but it’s jammed tight, and this bed’s far too heavy to lift!”

Grudd Foremole moved Quelt gently to one side. “You’m cummen out’n thurr, youngbeasts. This yurr bee’s a tarsk furr moi crew. Rorbul, fetch oi summ proppen an’ foive gudd liften beasts!”

Foremole’s sturdy assistant, Rorbul, ambled out of the gatehouse. He returned in a short while with five able-looking moles and two blocks of beechwood from the kindling pile by the north wall. Headed by Grudd Foremole, the crew scrambled under the bed. The watchers saw the big bed slowly begin to rise under Grudd’s directions.

“Yurr naow molers, put ee backs oop agin et an’ lift. Wun, two, h’up she cumms. Hurr, roight crew, ’old et thurr!”

Following some knocking and bumping, Grudd called out, “Hurr, take et daown noice’n’easy, moi ’earties.”

Effortlessly, the bed fell down into its former position. The molecrew emerged, dusting their digging claws off, satisfied with a chore well done.

Grudd passed the books over to Quelt. “Yurr, zurr, they’m cummed to no gurt ’arm.” He tugged his snout politely to Hillyah. “Thoi bed bee’s as furm an’ cumfy as ever ’twas, marm.”

The onlookers crowded out onto the sun-warmed wallsteps alongside the gatehouse. Old Quelt sat in their midst. He opened the book in question and sought the appropriate page, from which he read aloud, “ ‘Chapter two. Fabled Weapons. Concerning the lance of Corriam Wildlough, brother of the High Queen Rhulain.’ ”

Two logboats sailed downstream. Tiria sat in the stern of the leading craft, listening as both Guosim crews plied their vessels skillfully, singing a shrew waterchant in their gruff bass tones.

“Pass to me my good ole paddle, steady as ye go,

bend y’backs ye sons o’ Guosim, row mates row!

First a spring comes from the mountains,

fed by rainfall from the sky,

’til it joins up with another,

bubblin’ from the rocks on high,

spring to rill an’ rill to brook,

growin’ stronger constantly,

blendin’ flowin’ always goin’,

on its journey to the sea.

Pass to me good ole paddle, steady as ye go,

bend y’backs ye sons o’ Guosim, row mates row!

As the day runs into night,

brooks do meet t’form a stream,

travellin’ through dark an’ light,

where the silver fishes gleam,

here’s a river deep an’ han’some,

windin’ o’er the grassy plain,

speedin’ with the current onward,

soon we’ll taste the salty main.

Pass to me my good ole paddle, steady as ye go,

bend y’backs ye sons o’ Guosim, row mates row!”

Morning sun twinkled through the tree foliage which formed a leafy canopy over the water. The current was fairly fast, running through a high-banked slope, chuckling as though it were enjoying a secret joke of its own. Dobra was in the prow of the second logboat, which had a crew of four Guosim paddlers and was carrying a cargo of food. Log a Log Urfa commanded the leading craft. Tiria could see his back, forward of their four shrew crew. Skipper sat amidships with Brink alongside him. The Cellarhog’s face looked drawn and wan. Not the best of sailors, he clung to the slim logboat’s side miserably.

Feeling sorry for the poor hedgehog, Tiria called out to Urfa, “How long will we be on this River Moss, sir?”

There was a hint of laughter in the Guosim chieftain’s voice as he shouted back to her. “This ain’t the Moss, beauty.’Tis only a sidestream that leads to it. See the bend up yonder? Well, the river lies beyond it. Hold tight now, miss, it gets a bit bumpy soon. We’ll be headin’ downhill, y’see, over a few rapids, but nothin’ t’worry about. Ye’ll know yore on the River Moss when we jump the ripflow that joins it with this stream. If’n ye likes sailin’, then ye’ll enjoy that part.”

Though Tiria sympathised with Brink’s discomfort, she had to admit to herself that she was enjoying the experience immensely. As the crew slewed the logboat deftly around the bend, spray cascaded high, and the stream really began to race along downhill. The ottermaid felt like yelling aloud with joy at the wildness of it all.

Log a Log Urfa stood balanced expertly in the prow, bellowing out orders as they weaved and tacked down the wild, watery slope. “Keep ’er down at the stern an’ up by the head, buckoes! Back water to port, take ’er round those rocks! Don’t reef the banks now, keep ridin’ ’er to midstream!”

Bankside trees shot by in a green blur as water sprayed everywhere, with Urfa still roaring over the melee. “Luff yore starb’d oars now, luff I say! Steady to port! Steady . . . steady! Now give ’er full oars, me buckoes! Get yore backs into it! Heave! Pull! Heave! Pull! Up oars an’ ship ’em, Guosim!”

Tiria felt the logboat leave the water, leaping like a fighting fish. Then it slammed down hard, catching the boiling rift of breakwater. Both boats skimmed out like arrows onto the broad swirling surface of the River Moss.