Brian Jacques - Redwall #05 - The Legend of Luke

"Strike me rudder, will y'look at that thing. I ain't never seen nothin' like it in these waters. Wait! I'd know that beast standin' in the bows if'n he was the last otter on earth. C'mon, Jid, let's get the bad news back to Tungro!"

They hurried off southward along the bank, toting the loaded net between them, with Jiddy, like most youngsters, besieging his mother with questions.

"It was an otter on that boat, I saw 'im, too. But why's it bad news for Tungro? Does he know the otter?"

"Hah, know 'im? I'll say he does. That's Folgrim, his mad brother. I thought we'd seen the last o' that 'un."

"Mad? Why's he mad? What did he do?"

"Well, he used t'go huntin' vermin, an' when he caught up with 'em he'd, er, he'd . . . Never you mind what he did. Now keep up, an' don't drop that net or 'twill burst!"

The day was rather overcast, though the sun showed at intervals, between masses of gray-white cloud, which the playful wind chased to the southeast. The Honeysucklerode at half sail, Furmo steering her into the bank, which was crowded with otters. Trimp stood alongside Folgrim, watching him closely.

"My goodness, Fol, they've all turned out to welcome you home. See, there's your brother Tungro!"

Chugger launched himself from the mast onto his friend Folgrim's shoulders. "Tchah! Otters not welcome you, mista Fol. Nobeast laugh or shout 'ello t'you, big long faces on 'em."

Folgrim settled the little squirrel on his strong shoulders. "They got good cause not t'be cheery, mate. My tribe fears me. I was nought but a load o' trouble to 'em."

Chugger growled. "Gurrr! You not t'ubble, mista Fol, you my matey. I choppa they tails off for ya!"

Folgrim slid over the side, still carrying Chugger. "You sit up there an' be'ave yoreself now. Leave this t'me."

Otters parted ranks, fearing to be near the returning warrior. But Tungro waded swiftly forward. Clasping Folgrim's paws tightly, he smiled into the heavily scarred face with great fondness.

"My brother, welcome back to the holt! Come on, matey, bring y'liddle friend, bring all yore friends. Rest and eat!"

The holt was an enlarged bank cave: old and very comfortable, filled with beautifully carved furniture, the speciality of Tungro's tribe, who were master crafts-beasts, and proud of their carpentry skills. Most of the tribe were still wary of Folgrim, so he kept to the company of the Honeysuckle'screw. They sat on elaborately carved benches by the fire, dining on fresh hotroot and watershrimp soup, oatfarls and a riverbank salad.

Martin and Gonff sat at a highly polished table with Tungro, who poured steaming blackberry and sage cordial for them while the cooks served their food.

"You and your friends have worked wonders with my brother. He is not the same savage beast, thanks to you, Martin."

The Warrior sipped his cordial gratefully. "Don't give me the credit, friend. It was young Trimp and little Chugger who wrought the change in Folgrim."

Turning to Gonff, the otter inquired, "Why do you keep staring at me, Mousethief?"

The irrepressible Gonff shrugged. "The more I look at you, the stronger you remind me of somebeast. Martin, would you say Tungro resembles Skipper?"

"Aye, mate, now you come to mention it, he does, very much!"

Tungro sat up at the mention of the name. "Skipper? Is he an otter about old enough to be my father?"

Gonff slapped the table. "I knew it, yore related to him!"

A faraway look entered Tungro's eyes as he unfolded the tale.

"My grandmother gave birth to three sons on the same dayBargud, my father, and his two brothers, Riverwyte and Warthorn. Riverwyte was much like my brother Folgrim, a great fighter and slayer of vermin. Everybeast thought him sick i n t he head because of his love for battle. He left our holt to go roving, and they say his tail was severed by foebeasts. An otter without a rudder, as you know, is like a fish without water. Riverwyte became a woodland dweller, a master of disguises, and he called himself Mask because of this. Travelers told my father that he had been slain, though where, when an' how it all happened we never got t'know. The other brother, Warthorn, was the biggest an' strongest of all three. He left the holt when he was scarce half grown, because he couldn't ever buckle down to my grandfather's strict rule. Warthorn was such a natural leader that nobeast used his given name, they nicknamed him Skipper, which is a title we give to otter Chieftains. Anyhow, he went off to found his own tribe an' hasn't been heard of since. When Bargud, my father, was alive, he'd looV. at me an' say that I was the image of his lost brother Skipper. Then he'd turn to Folgrim an' say that he was the double of Riverwyte, his other brother."

Martin leaned across the table and held Tungro's paw. "Would you like to meet your uncle Warthorn?"

Tungro nodded wistfully. "I'd love to, I've heard so many tales about him, but he'd left this holt long afore 1 was born. Do y'think I ever could meet Warthorn?"

"Certainly, my friend. Journey to Redwall with us, and you will."

A few days later, Log a Log Furmo's large fierce wife, Honeysuckle, was coping with her brood on the stream-bank of their summer camp. Energetically she scrubbed at the wriggling body of her eldest.

"Be still, you liddle worm. I'll teach ye to roll about in that midden of a water margin, filthy shrew!" Flicking out with a wet rag, she caught another young one a stinging slap across the tail. "Git yore paws away from those scones, or I'll chop y'tail off an' bake ye in a pie. Go on, be off with you!"

Four tiny shrewmaids came dashing along the bank, squeaking, "Mamma mamma, daddy's comin' in a big boat wiv a sail!"

Honeysuckle grabbed the nearest one. "Just lookit the bankmud on that smock, an' it was clean on this very morn. Go an' git a fresh one off'n yore granma, not one of those off the rock ledge, they ain't dry yet. So, the great rovin' Log a Log's decided to come home again, has he?"

Furmo's deep rich voice hailed her from upriver. "Honeysuckle, me precious! I'm back, O dew of me life!"

She scowled at Furmo, standing heroically in the prow of the skiff as it sailed inshore. Twirling the corner of a face cloth, she wiggled it down the ear of the little shrew she was attempting to clean up. "Back at the end o' summer, my darlin'; I'll return on the first autumn mist, O jewel o' the woodlands. What time d'ye call this t'be gettin' back, you great useless lump o' Guosimfur, eh?"

Gonff sprinted ashore, with two shrews in his wake, carrying a carved otter footstool and several strings of Dunehog quills and beads in various gaudy colors. He pointed to the name plate on the skiff's bow, planting a genteel kiss on the shrew wife's sud-covered paw.

"O beauteous beast, yore spouse brings ye gifts from afar, an' all borne on a fine vessel that carries yore own fair name. He has done nought but pine f'you night'n'day!"

Honeysuckle melted immediately in the face of Gonff's gallantry. Fluttering her eyelids, she gave him a playful shove, which sent him sprawling in the shallows.

"Oh, mister Gonff, you ole flatterer, fancy callin' that luvly ship after me. Wotever gave you the idea?"

The Prince of Mousethieves stood up, shaking water from his rear end, still spouting eloquently. " 'Twas all your good Furmo's idea, m'lady. We wanted to call the boat Gullyivacker,but he wouldn't hear of it. No no, sez he, we must call it Honeysuckleafter my beloved!"

Furmo gasped as Honeysuckle grabbed him from the prow and squeezed the air from his lungs in a mighty embrace.

"Ow ow, I wronged you, me dear one, forgive me. All these wunnerful things you brought back for yore wife. Ow ow, I could cut out me tongue for wot I said about you!"

Furmo managed to gasp out in a stifled mutter, "Cut yore tongue out? No such luck, more's the pity!"