Brian Jacques - [Redwall 18] - High Rhulain

In the grey half-light preceding dawn, Tiria was awakened by the high piercing call of the osprey. She looked up to the masthead to find that Pandion had gone. Making her way astern, the ottermaid found Cuthbert still seated at the tiller with one eye open. She questioned him briefly.

“It’s not light yet. Where’s Pandion gone?”

Cuthbert scratched his ear lazily. “That ole rascal comes an’ goes as he pleases, Tillie me gel. May’aps he’s spotted land, I don’t know.”

Racing forward, Tiria scrambled out onto the bowsprit and scanned the sea around her. The waters were smooth, with hardly a wave of any size, blanketed by a mist that had taken on a soft golden haze as the sun began to rise. Visibility was virtually nonexistent, but from somewhere far off she could distinguish the muted cry of gulls. Hanging on to the bowline, Tiria leaned out, peering keenly into the waking day. Behind her the sail flapped idly and began to fill. The same breeze which was stirring it began to shift the mist rapidly.

Tiria stood stock-still, her eyes following the receding mists. Suddenly her fur rose from rudder to eartip as she picked out the dark blotch on the western horizon. There it was! Raising a paw to her mouth, Tiria bellowed, “Land dead ahead! Land hoooooooooo!”

The ship came alive to her cries. A babble of excited chatter broke out.

“I say, you chaps, did somebeast say land a bally head?”

“Eulalia! There ’tis, jolly old land, we made it, wot!”

“Get some blinkin’ breakfast served, I ain’t goin’ ashore on an empty tum. I get vexatious without vittles, y’know!”

“Oh, my giddy aunt, just look, terra flippin’ firma. I can’t wait t’get me confounded paws on it!”

Cuthbert’s shouts rang out above the clamour. “Getcher idle bottoms back on those oar benches, ye shower o’ bobbin’ beetles! Who gave the order for ye to stand round chattin’ an’ gawpin’ like a gang of ole mousewives on a trip round the bay? Shape up, an’ let’s see a few rosy blisters on those lily white paws from rowin’ ! Heave an’ row an’ row an’ pull an’ push an’ pull! Row! Row!”

Passing over the tiller to Rafe Granden, Cuthbert wasted no time in retrieving his barrelhead drum. Soon it was booming as he battered away with his two ladles, still harassing the crew to action.

“Row, ye bilge-bottomed blaggards! Brekkist! Wot swab mentioned brekkist, eh? Ye don’t get a single sniff o’ the cook’s apron until the keel hits the shallows! Row! Let’s hear those backbones a-creakin’, git those sweeps movin’, ye misbegotten maggots, ye far-flung flotsam, ye jumped-up jetsam!”

Quartle sniggered to Portan as they pulled furiously, “Ole Blood’n’guts says the nicest things, don’t he? I always wanted to be a jumped-up jetsam!”

He missed the stroke and tumbled backward. “Whoops, sorry, must’ve caught a crab!”

Portan whispered as he pulled his comrade upright, “Well, don’t tell anybeast, old lad. They’ll all want some!”

The wind stiffened, sending the vessel riding full tilt and landward. Once again, Cuthbert started berating his hapless crew. “Lay to wid those oars! D’ye want to run us onto a reef? There’s rocks ahead! Ship yore sweeps, finish with those oars afore ye wreck me valuable vessel, ye cloth-eared clods! I told ye to row, not t’go bloomin’ mad!”

Quite a bit of muffled laughter broke out among the oarcrew, but they gratefully shipped oars whilst Cuthbert, aided by the fat Corporal Drubblewick, frantically shortened the mainsail to decrease the vessel’s speed. With Tiria at the bowsprit calling directions and Cuthbert manning the tiller skillfully, they charted a course between rocks and reefs. The Purloined Petunia made a stately landfall, her keel crunching into the pebbled shallows.

Even before they had dropped anchor, the main body of the crew made an eager stampede for the side, everybeast wanting to be first ashore. Cuthbert suddenly cast off his maritime coat and reverted to his role of Major Blanedale Frunk. However, it was only with the timely assistance of Captain Rafe Granden and Colour Sergeant O’Cragg that the Long Patrol were stopped from disembarking and wading ashore. The roars of the three officers froze the crew in their tracks.

“Stand fast there, ye mutinous mob. Come to attention all of ye!”

“Yew ’eard the h’offisah, stan’ fast! Just twitch h’an ear, laddie buck, h’an yore h’on a bloomin’ fizzer!”

“Steady in the ranks, pay ’tenshun to the Major now!”

Cuthbert strode the deck, glaring through his monocle. “Lady Tiria, Cap’n Granden, Sarn’t O’Cragg an’ my goodself are goin’ ashore. We’ll form the advance guard in case of attack. Subalterns Quartle an’ Portan will drop anchor an’ furl sails. Corporal Drubblewick an’ the cookin’ detail will follow us ashore to light a fire an’ ready up some vittles. The rest of ye, form a chain from ship to shore, an’ bring all supplies’n’arms to land safe’n’dry, an’ in good order. Whilst you are on yonder island, you’ll conduct yourselves like Long Patrol hares. Right, stan’ easy, dismiss, an’ attend to your duties!”

As the hares went about their tasks with military efficiency, Tiria wandered a little way up the beach. She climbed upon a rock and stared around. So this was the fabled Green Isle, she thought, the home of her distant ancestors. This was actually where the High Queen Rhulain had once ruled.

Colour Sergeant O’Cragg marched up and came smartly to attention. “Major Frunk’s compliments, miss. Will ye be dinin’ with the Patrol?”

Savoury odours drifting from cauldrons over the cooking fire reminded Tiria that she was hungry. “Oh yes, please, Sergeant. That would be nice!”

The burly hare saluted. “Right y’are, miss, but the major says ye don’t get h’a bite ’til yore dressed properlike h’in yore regalia!”

The ottermaid looked indignantly at the tunic and kilt she had worn for the voyage. “Why, what’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

A smile creased the sergeant’s rough-hewn face. “Major Frunk says ye look like h’a ’edgehog wot’s been dragged back’ards through h’a bush, beggin’ yore pardon, miss. H’accordin’ to ’im, you gotta be h’attired h’as befits h’a future queen. H’either that or ye starve. Those h’are ’is words, not mine, miss!”

Fuming with the injustice of it all, Tiria was forced to go back aboard the ship and change into her regalia. She marched stiffly into camp, where she sat stone-faced amid the garrulous hare crew. Corporal Drubblewick served her with a bowl of mushroom and barley soup, some freshly baked griddle scones and a beaker of raspberry cordial.

The fat hare wiggled his ears at her. “I say, M’lady, jolly spiffy outfit, wot!”

Cuthbert strolled over, nodding his approval. “Top marks, a very smart turnout indeed! Ye really look the part now, Milady. Well done!”

Tiria treated him to a withering stare. “I’m so pleased you think so, Major.”

He indicated the other hares with his swagger stick. “Oh,’tis not just me, it’s the rest o’ the Patrol, doncha see? They’ll be goin’ into battle to regain this isle for ye. That bein’ the case, some o’ these buckoes may be slain defendin’ your title, miss. War’s war y’know, an’ they’d feel much better knowin’ they’re riskin’ life’n’limb for a queen who looks like a queen, an’ not some raggedy otter gel, eh wot?”

Tiria, completely humbled by this statement, put aside her food. “Please accept my apologies, Major Frunk. I never thought of it that way. From now on I’ll do my best to look and act like a queen. Forgive my foolishness.”

Cuthbert tapped her paw with his swagger stick, answering kindly, “Come on now, don’t get so jolly well upset. Eat up your vittles, Majesty, an’ remember: Handsome is as handsome does, wot!”