Brian Jacques - [Redwall 18] - High Rhulain

The ottermum wagged a ladle at him. “I might think about it after I’ve made vittles for the little ’uns, but ye’ll have to wait.”

Birl Gully shoved Lorgo toward the water curtain. “Come on, mate, I’ll help ye gather the hotroot. Kolun, Leatho, are ye comin’ with us?”

The outlaw declined Birl’s offer. “No, we’ve got other business today. But while yore out there gatherin’ hotroot, see if there’s any ingredients that’ll help ye to brew up some o’ yore Gullyplug Punch.”

The jolly old otter slapped his rudder down heartily. “Stan’ on me whiskers, Shellhound. That’s a great idea! I’ll brew a big barrel o’ Gullyplug to celebrate our new home. C’mon Whulky, Chab, lend a paw. You, too, Zillo, an’ you, young Banya.”

They splashed through the water curtain, laughing and shouting, all except Banya. Kolun waved his oar at her.

“Ain’t you goin’ with ’em, young ’un?”

The tough ottermaid winked knowingly at him. “No, I’m goin’ with you an’ Leatho. You two are up to somethin’, so I’m comin’ along with ye.”

Leatho whispered in her ear, “Then ye’d best tread wary, an’ come armed, Banya Streamdog, ’cos we ain’t goin’ pickin’ hotroots.”

Smiling grimly, Banya patted her sling and stone pouch. “Somehow I didn’t think ye were!”

The day was fine and the going was easy. By midmorning they were skirting the rim of Deeplough, with the dark, still waters far beneath them. Striding along either side of Leatho, his two friends listened as he outlined their mission.

“We’re bound for the slave compound behind the fortress. We’ve got to find a way to free the slaves. Once we’ve got ’em away from Felis, we’ll be able to take the offensive against him without worryin’ what that villain would do by takin’ reprisals an’ punishin’ our friends.”

They marched onward, discussing their plans, unaware that they were being closely watched.

It was Scorecat Fleng and eight surviving catguards of his command. After being vanquished by the otterclans, they had dashed off willy-nilly into the night, expecting to be pursued and slain. Fleng had pushed his guards hard, not stopping until after dawn. They hid amid some rocks, exhausted, defeated and totally lost. Even when his guards were fit to travel again, Fleng feared returning to the fortress to face Riggu Felis. Despite the fact that the wildcat had deserted him and his patrol, Fleng knew that the warlord would punish him for his failure to stay and do battle with the enemy. So they wandered hither and thither, scavenging for food, uncertain what to do next. They were camped by a stream which ran through a small copse when Fleng suddenly realised where he was. Glancing upward, he recognised the high slopes of the hillside which led up to Deeplough. He was about to remark to his guards about this when he spied the three otters leaving the rim and descending the slope toward them.

Immediately he hissed out an urgent command. “Quickly, hide! Get down an’ lay low, all of ye!”

Fleng’s thoughts were racing furiously as he whispered further orders. “Don’t let the otters see ye, let them pass by us!”

Following their leader’s command, the catguards secreted themselves amid the bankside bushes, scarcely daring to draw breath, as Leatho and his friends forded the stream and pressed on through the copse.

When it was safe to speak, Fleng heaved a sigh of relief. He turned to the eight guards, smiling craftily. “Well, mates, there goes our ticket back home. I’ll wager those three are headed for the fortress, so here’s what we do. Keep silently on their trail until they’re close to the fortress. Then when I give the word, we cut loose an’ raise the alarm. Mark my words, we can come out o’ this as heroes. It’s our lucky day, did ye see who one of those otters was? The outlaw Shellhound! Hah, Lord Felis an’ Weilmark Scaut’ll be pleased to get their claws on that ’un. An’ I’ll tell ’em we was the ones who chased the otters into the trap. Right, up on your paws an’ follow me!”

18

Noontide sun warmed the worn wallsteps of Redwall Abbey. Old Quelt’s audience sat entranced, listening to him reading from the book which had lain hidden under the gatehouse bed for countless seasons: Tales of Ancient Life, by Minegay (yet another alias of the devious Sister Geminya). The Recorder read aloud to his attentive friends. The archive took the form of a story related to Geminya by a very old otter granmum:

“I am Runa Wildlough, daughter of Alem Mossguard, Skipper and Chieftain of the Norwest otters, and wife of Corriam Wildlough. This is my tale. The weight of age upon my grey head tells me that I will not see many more seasons, but that is the way of all living things. My time at Redwall has been long and happy. I have sons and daughters whose offspring now care for families of their own. In short, I am surrounded by kinbeasts who wish to care for me. However, since last winter, when I lost my husband, Corriam, the light has faded from my life. My only wish now is to join him by the still waters which flow through the quiet places of eternal summer.

“I was nought but a young ottermaid when I first met Corriam Wildlough, many long seasons ago. My friends and I were gathering shells and driftwood on the shores south of the River Moss when we came across him. He was lying amid the debris of the tideline, covered in sand and long kelp. We all took him to be dead. The others ran off, fearful to go near him, but I was not afraid. I went to him and began cleaning him off. He was a tall, handsome otter, older than me by some six seasons. Clutched tightly in his paws was a magnificent lance, which was snapped at its centre, and a coronet. This was a narrow band of beaten gold set with a wonderful green stone, an object of rare beauty. I tried to release his grip on the lance and coronet. Imagine my feelings when he grasped them tighter and then let out a groan—he was still alive! My friends had all fled, so I took it on myself to care for him and to get him back to my father’s holt, though this was no easy journey. As best as I could, I half carried, half dragged his sorely wounded body back to where our tribe dwelt, where the River Moss joined the woodlands.

“Alem, my father, was not too pleased. He said that the daughter of a Mossguard chieftain had better things to do in life than nurse some half-dead beast washed up by the tide. This made me only more determined to care for my mysterious otter (I was rather headstrong, as most young ones are at that certain age). Looking back, I think my disobedience drove a wedge between me and my father, but I continued to care for my patient. I fed and cleaned him for many days, during which he never uttered a single word. Then one evening he suddenly began to talk. He told me that his name was Corriam Wildlough, younger brother to the High Queen Rhulain, ruler of a place far across the Great Sea called Green Isle.

“I asked him how he came to be lying on the shore, wounded and close to death. He had been sailing the seas in a great ship, he told me, together with his sister, the Rhulain, and a crew of Wildlough clan warriors. They were pursuing a vessel full of wildcat raiders who had been attacking the coasts of Green Isle. The wildcats were believed to have come from beyond the great seas to the south. They were ruthless beasts who hungered for the conquest of other lands. But the High Queen Rhulain was a great warrior in her own right and the equal of any wildcat conquerors.

“ ‘Our ship chased after the wildcat vessel,’ he said, ‘ranging far across the Great Sea. Unfortunately, she gave us the slip one foggy night. Next day we saw land, a great mountain called Salamandastron, where a Badger Lord named Urthwyte—a huge, silver-furred beast—made us welcome and provisioned our ship with food and fresh water. We stopped at the mountain for three days. On the fourth dawn, we sighted the wildcat ship out to the west. Despite a fierce storm arising we set sail after the enemy. Heedless of the weather, we rushed headlong into the rising storm, which soon had us fighting for our very lives. The waves came at us like mountains, battering our ship about like a cork in the offshore waters. Out on the high seas, the wildcat vessel stood off, riding the gale and watching like a bird of prey. Our captain did not see the reef until we were right on it. A great jagged rock rose from between the waves before we had chance to steer clear of it. The side of our ship was stoved in, and we felt the keel crack beneath us. Waves as tall as big trees swamped our craft, trapping it fast on the reef like a wounded beast. Many a warrior was lost in the relentless avalanche of water.