Brian Jacques - Redwall #06 - The Outcast of Redwall

Sunflash straightened up. He stared hard at the hares. “Written, you say. By whom?

Breeze shrugged. “By whoever wrote that other hares will follow after us. That is the way it has always been and always will be.

Both hares stood in the cave entrance. They bowed to the badger.

“Welcome to your mountain, Sunflash the Mace, Lord of Salamandasiron.

The high sun above watched as the badger and the hares went together into the mountain on the shores below.

Skarlath the kestrel had watched all from the crater peak of the mountain fortress. Fierce pride welled in his breast for the badger who had given him back his life all those long seasons ago in a winter forest. Then, without a backward glance, he soared off into the blue, winging northeast to seek out Swartt Sixclaw.

Book Two: A Broken Trust

18

Nobeast in living memory could recall a winter as long and harsh as the one that followed the brief, hot autumn, though some had predicted it earlier, judging by the great number of berries that were seen on tree and bush at harvest time. Shrieking northeast winds drove the snow into deep drifts, and great, ancient trees were riven, split from root to tip, felled by ice that sought out any weakness in their trunks. Overnight, the west-flowing river stood still, frozen solid. Bushes lining both banks poked bare skeletal twigs at the hostile sky, as if pleading for the release of spring. Bitter and intense, the cruel season took savage toll of anybeast weakened by its ravages. It was a winter of death, hunger, and despair.

The great horde of the Warlord was held prisoner, trapped amid a freezing world of whiteness. They erected crude shelters in the woodland surrounding the riverbank. Sustenance and morale were at their lowest, stifling any ideas of desertion or mutiny as effectively as the snows that shrouded the earth.

Bluefen, daughter of Bowfleg and wife of Swartt, gave birth to a ferretbabe, after which she faded and died, like a delicate spring flower suddenly embraced by severe frost, though it was said that she had never been a strong creature. Unlike the babe, a young male, tough as a deep-rooted weed and marked with the legacy of his father Swartt, six tiny claws showing on the left forepaw. The Warlord lived up to his title the Pitiless One, neither grieving after his wife nor caring for his son. Bluefen was buried with scant ceremony in a shallow hole hacked into the stone-hard earth, while the babe was given to an old female rat to nurse and guard. Swartt acted as though the whole thing was no concern of his.

Nightshade, the vixen seer and healer, had erected a separate shelter as far from the vicious-tempered Warlord as she dared, though she was constantly on call, applying heated poultices and nostrums to her masters damaged six-clawed paw, which pained him agonizingly in cold weather. Hordebeasts crouched and trembled in their own meager dwellings, listening at night to Swartts anguished cries as winter tortured his withered paw. Any horde soldier with a grain of sense kept clear of the Warlord when he was like this, for the ferrets temper was unpredictable. Once the pains had subsided, Swartt would sit in his fir-bough lean-to, staring into the fire, sleepless, cursing the name of Sunflash the Mace. Revenge was what kept Swartt Sixclaw alive through that winter. The thought of vengeance upon his foe was like food, drink, and sleep to him, as he planned what he would do on the day he had the badger at his mercy. And so the horde existed through that long winter, starving, freezing, and waiting for spring.

Skarlath spent his winter among friends. Snug in the warmth and good cheer of the Lingl-Dubbo cave, the kestrel enjoyed himself hugely. Knowing Sunflash was safe inside the mountain of his hearts desire and that no horde could march in such a terrible season, the faithful bird had no worries. His time was spent making cheese with the help of the molewife Lully, playing with the young ones, brewing ale with Uncle Blunn, helping Tirry and his wife, Dearie, cook wonderful meals with the food they had stored in their supply chamber, and eating, always eating. The fierce bird even learned to sing a few songs and dance to the gurdelstick, though as one of the little molemaids remarked, “Hurr, youm a gettin so gurtly fattinged twill be a wunner if ee be able to fly cumms ee spring toime, hurr hurr hurr!

Skarlath chased her twice round the cave. “Kreeh! Impudent little rip, if I am too fat to fly then Ill fall right out of the sky on top of you!

The old squirrel Elmjak bustled in, carrying two pails of snow to be melted down on the fire. He stamped his paws as Aunt Ummer unwound a long heavy scarf from his neck. “Yurr, zurr Ellumjakky, ow be et owt thurr today? she enquired.

Elmjak seated himself by the fire, allowing the molemaids Nilly and Podd to towel the snowdamp from his bush and back. “Well, let me tell thee, good friends, I think winter has now done its worst, and spring will soon be here.

Tirry Lingl looked up from a bowl of barley broth. “What makes you say that? Have you seen a sign, Elmjak?

Opening his paw, the squirrel presented two tiny flowers to the delighted molemaids. “See, little missies, the best sign of alltwo new snowdrops. I found them right outside the cave in a bare patch sheltered by the rock, mayhap the caves warmth must have helped em a bit, but there they are, two tiny beauties, just like you pair.

Dearie Lingl poured water into a small jug. “Ooh, aint they just about the prettiest, most welcome sight after a long winter, snowdrops! Put em in the jug ere, itll please our eyes twatch em open. Come on, Auntie Ummer, out wi yore gurdelstick an sing of spring to the liddle flowers!

Skarlath preened his wing feathers, a bit self-consciously.

“Er, er, Ive thought up a springsong. If I sing it could you manage to pick up the tune, Auntie Ummer? The fat old mole winked as she twanged her gurdelsticks string. “Youm sing et, zurr awkburd, oill catch ee up! The kestrel had often joined in choruses, but this was his first solo attempt, and he clacked his curved beak nervously.

“I went off to my bed on one dark winters night, When the ground was all snowy and covered up white, And snug in my blanket I started to dream That the ice had all melted away from the stream.

Ooooh! Flip plop, hear the water drop,

And larks take wing as the buds go pop!

And the sun do shine as the birds do sing,

Throw open wide the gates of Spring!

Then I dreamt that I felt all the earth come awake, And the sky was as blue as a clear mountain lake, And through that old dream a good sound ringing true, Twas the heralding song of a happy cuckoo!

Ooooh! Flip plop, hear the water drop,

And larks take wing as the buds go pop!

And the sun do shine as the birds do sing,

Throw open wide the gates of Spring!

Fol de rol de lair oh lair oh,

Hail the newborn day,

Spring has made the weather fair oh,

Winters gone away!

Skarlath buried his head modestly in his wing feathers as he bowed, and they cheered him to the echo, encouraging him to sing his song twice over. The small hoglets and molemaids danced as the gurdelstick kept rhythm with the singing kestrel. In the days that followed, Elmjaks prediction proved true. The sun showed itself, weakly at first, then the cheeping of the hardy birds, who had borne winters brunt, began. Warmth started to pervade the land, unlocking the streams to chuckle over the stones with gladness, causing the icicles to weep tears and shorten their lives, melting the crusted white from limb and bough, lengthening the happy hours of daylight.

For the first time in many moons, Swartt felt the lancing pains recede from his paw. He repainted his face and teeth, put a new edge on his sword, and emerged from the crude pine-bough shelter roaring, “Up on yer stumps, you lousy layabouts! Nightshade, take six scouts an see what its like up ahead! Aggal, Scraw, Muggra, kick some life into this skinny slobjawed mess! We break camp now! Westward with the river! Keep up or be slain!