Brian Jacques - Redwall 04 - Mariel Of Redwall

Old stories told by travelers, Great songs that bards have sung, Of Mossflower

summers, faded, gone, When Redwall's stones were young. Great Hall fires on

winter nights, The legends, who remembers, Battles, banquets, comrades,

quests, Recalled midst glowing embers. Draw close now, little woodlander, Take

this to sleep with you, My tale of dusty far-off times, When warrior hearts

were true. Then store it in your memory, And be the sage who says To young

ones in the years to come: "Ah yes, those were the days."

BOOK ONE

The Maid from the Sea

Abbot Bernard folded his paws deep into the wide sleeves of his garb.

From a viewpoint on the threshold of Redwall Abbey's west ramparts he watched

the hot midsummer day drawing to a glorious close. Late evening light mellowed

the red sandstone Abbey walls, turning them to dusty scarlet; across the

flatlands, cloud layers striped the horizon in long billows of purple, amber,

rose and cerise. Bernard turned to his friend Simeon, the blind herbalist.

"The sun is sinking, like the tip of a sugar plum dipping into honey. A

perfect summer evening, eh, Simeon?"

The two mice stood silent awhile before Simeon turned his sightless face

toward the Abbot.

"Father Abbot, how is it that you see so much yet feel so little? Do you not

know there is a mighty storm coming tonight?"

The Abbot shook his head, disbelieving, yet unwilling to deny Simeon's

unerring instinct. "A storm? Surely not!"

Simeon chided Abbot Bernard gently. "Perhaps you have other things on your

mind, my friend. Maybe you have not felt the cooling breezes die away. The air

has

3

become still and hot, the birds stopped their evensong much earlier than

usual, even the grasshoppers and the buzzing bees have ceased what little

noise they make. Listen!"

The Abbot cocked his head on one side, perplexed. "I hear nothing."

Simeon chuckled dryly. "That is because you are hearing the sound of silence,

Bernard. One thing I have learned in my life is to listen to the sounds of

Mossflower country. Every sound carries information; so does every silence.

This is going to be a mighty storm, one that we have not seen the like of in

many a long season."

Taking Simeon by the paw, Abbot Bernard led his blind companion down the

rampart steps and across the lawn toward the main Abbey building.

Simeon sniffed the air. "Mmmm! I smell hot apple pie and raspberry cream

pudding, and scones, fresh from the oven too, with damson preserve spread on

them. We'd best hurry before the moles get here or there'll be none left."

The Abbot quickened his pace. "How d'you know the moles are coming?"

"Bernard, Bernard, did you ever know Sister Sage to serve raspberry cream

pudding and no moles to arrive?"

"Right again, Simeon. Your powers of observation leave me in the shade. Oh, I

must tell young Dandin to beat the log alarm. It'll warn anybeast still

outdoors to come in."

Simeon grimaced. "Oh dear, do we have to suffer that noise again? Young Dandin

is a bit overenthusiastic at beating a hollow log with two clubs."

Abbot Bernard smiled reflectively. "Yes, he does rather put his heart into it,

doesn't he. Still, I wish everyone were as willing in their duties as our

Dandin. If ever Redwall Abbey gets a bell, I'll be the first to vote him as

bellringer."

The two mice made their way between the flowerbeds which dotted the dark

greensward. An ominous grumble of thunder muffled its way over the far horizon

to the northwest. Abbot Bernard turned in the doorway of the Abbey, attempting

to conjure up his powers of smell.

"Hmmm, cider poured cold from the cask, eh, Simeon?"

The blind herbalist wrinkled his nose. "Wrong, it's pear cordial."

The Father Abbot of all Redwall tried not to look amazed. Even though Simeon

could not see him, he might sense his Abbot's expression.

oo

Far, far over the horizon, far to the northwest, far across the oily blue

green billows which were rising, lashing their tops into rippling white peaks

of foam, far over the abysses and deeps of the heaving seas, far from the

peace and calm of Redwall Abbey, stood Gabool the Wild.

Clouds of jet black and slate gray boiled down out of the sky to meet the

lashing waves. A blast of hot wind like the gust from hell-furnace doors set

Gabool's scarlet cape fluttering as he stood on the high cliffs of his island,

defying the elements. Thunder boomed out, forked lightning ripped through the

lowering vault of the sky. Gabool drew his jewel-hilted sword and waved it at

the storm as he roared and laughed in exultation. The deadly curved blade with

its sharp double edges hummed and sang against the wind.

Gabool the Wild ruled the seas, he was the dread Lord of Terramort Island,

King of the Searats, Warlord of all Rodent Corsairs, Captain of Captains. No

creature alive was a fiercer fighter than Gabool. From the lowly position of a

young scullyrat he had fought his way up to be the biggest, the most savage,

the cruelest and the most ruthless. In all the seas and oceans there had never

been a rat like Gabool the Wild. Huge gold hoops

dangled from his ears, his fangs (which he had lost long ago in hard-fought

combat) were replaced by sharp jutting gold canines, each one set with a

glinting green emerald. Below his weird yellow blood-flecked eyes, an enormous

dark beard sprouted and curled, spilling down to his broad chest, silk ribbons

of blue and red woven through it. Whenever Gabool moved, his rings, bracelets,

medals and buckles jangled. Gold, turquoise, silver, ivory—plunder from the

far places of the high seas. Strange weapons with shimmering twisted blades

were thrust into the purple sash about his waist. Dangerous to serve and

deadly to trust, he stood laughing in the teeth of the gale, satisfied that

the creature who had dared go against him was now fish bait on the seabed,

Thunder crashed overhead as the skies released a deluge of whipping, lashing

rain. Lightning crackled around the rocky tor, illuminating the barbaric

figure as if even the high heavens were challenging him.

The Warlord of all Waters threw back his huge head and shrieked out his battle

cry to the storm.

"Gaaaabooooool!"

oo

The pitifully tiny figure of a mousemaid was hurled about like a chip of bark

in the eastward rush of high roaring seas. Tormented rolling waves, whipped to

a frenzy by the screeching wind, billowed and swelled, long combing chariots

pulled fiercely along by tossing white stallions of foam and spray.

The mousemaid, partially stunned, dared not even let one paw free to undo the

rope about her neck. Her numbed paws clung grimly to a jagged spar of

driftwood as she plunged wildly about in the maddened waters, now on top of a

wave high as a castle, hurtling down blue green valleys into a trough that

yawned like a deep, dark monster mouth, now being spun sideways with the

spume, now being flung backwards from greater heights to vaster depths.

The rope became tangled around the wooden spar; painfully the little maid

tried to bite at the hemp. Seawater gushed into her mouth, and she retched as

the water threatened to choke her. A flailing end of rope struck her across

the eyes. Unthinkingly she let go of the spar; it whipped off in a different

direction from her. With both paws tearing feebly at the rope circling her

neck, she was shaken about like a small fish upon rod and line.

All consciousness was finally beaten from her body when the spar struck her

across the head, and the helpless figure was lost amid the pounding crashing

seas. Obscured by the boiling cloud curtains above the maelstrom, not even the

stars or moon were witness to the fate of the little mousemaid, victim of

Gabool's cruel whim.

Close to the north side of the Abbey building, a new construction was under

way.

Astride the wooden scaffolding of a half-finished bell tower, young Dandin

pounded doggedly away at the hollow beech log.

Thonkthonkthonkthonk!

Though he was a sturdily built little mouse, he felt himself driven aback by

the blasting wind. Shaking rainwater from his eyes, he bent his head against

the onslaught of the storm and continued stubbornly thwacking the log with two

hefty yew clubs. Whenever Dandin raised his gaze slightly he could see the

fringe of surrounding Mossflower Woods swaying and hissing, rustling and

sighing, like a restless ocean.

"Dandin, come down, you'll catch your death up there!"

The young mouse peered over the scaffold, shielding his eyes against the

deluge. Draped about with a clean worn-out floursack, Mother Mellus, the

Redwall badger, stamped a huge paw upon the wet sward.

"D'you hear me, young mouse? I said down, this instant!"

Dandin blew rainwater from his whiskers, smiling

roguishly he called back, "Right this instant, marm, just like you say."

Without a backward glance Dandin threw himself from the tower and came

plunging earthward to the accompaniment of the badger's startled growls. Not

more than a fraction from the ground, he stopped falling and swung there,

dangling by a strong vinerope harnessed about his waist. Dandin touched his

nose with a wet paw.

"Came as quick as I could, marm ..."

A huge paw cuffed him roughly about the ears as Mother Mellus freed him from

the encircling vinerope. Tucking him firmly in her elbow crook like a baby,

she hurried in out of the rain, scolding Dandin as he complained loud and

long.

"Put me down. I'm not a baby, I can walk ..."

"No, you're not a baby, you're a young pickle, d'you hear, and you should know

better. Throwing yourself from a high tower like that! By the weasel's

whiskers, you scared me out of ten seasons' growth!"

"I know what I'm doing; it was completely safe. Now will you put me down? I

can stand on my own paws, you know ..."

"I'll put you down, you young rip. Next time I'll tan your hide so hard you

won't be able to sit down until berrypicking. Just let me catch you jumping

from high places like that again! What'd you do if the vines snapped, eh? Then

we wouldn't have to dig a grave. You'd go so far into the earth when you hit

the ground you'd be able to shake paws with the taproots of an oak. Be still,

you little blaggard, or you'll feel the back of my paw. Young Abbey beasts

these days, I don't know ..."

Scolding and arguing by turns, the young mouse and the old badger went inside

the Abbey. Mother Mellus kicked the huge door shut behind her, leaving the

storm to rage on outside.

Across Great Hall in the cozy surroundings of Cavern Hole, Abbot Bernard sat

at head of table with Brother Simeon on his left paw and Foremole, the mole

leader, on his right. Lanterns twinkled around the homely festive board, moles

jostled shoulders with mice, hedgehogs sat next to otters and squirrels. The

Abbey infants were allowed to sit at table with their elders; they were mainly

woodland orphans gathered in by Mother Mellus—baby mice, small hedgehogs, a

young squirrel and twin otters who had been brought by their parents. Little

ones who were known as Dibbuns, they were sat on the table edges, facing the

Brothers and Sisters of Redwall, the good mice who tended and cared for them.

Redwall fare was famous throughout the length and breadth of Mossflower. The

Abbey grew all its own produce, and Redwall cooks were experts.

Foremole had his nose buried in a raspberry cream pudding, speaking in the

rustic mole language through mouthfuls of his favorite sweet.

"Hohurr, baint nuthen loik rabserry pudden, no zurr. Oi could eat this yurr

pudden till next moleday an' still ax furr more."

Gabe Quill, the hedgehog cellar-keeper, held a noggin of pear cordial up to a

lantern, swishing it about as he inspected its bright amber color critically.

"Hmm, what d'you think of that for a touch of good cellar-keepin'?"

A big male otter named Flagg relieved Gabe of the drink and slurped it down in

one gulp.

"Very nice, sir. Too good to swill cellars down with."

Gabe's face was a picture of indignation. "Why you 'orrible otter!"

Grubb, a baby mole, looked up at the general laughter. Wiping damson jam from

his snout, he shook a small digging paw at Gabe Quill.

"You'm can 'ave an 'orrible owl, but otters is orful, buhurr aye."

10

Sister Serena, a rotund mouse who ran the Abbey infirmary and sickbay, wiped

the jam from Grubb's whiskers and passed him a bowl of honeyed milk as she

reprimanded him.

"Hush now, Grubb. Don't correct your elders."

Grubb sucked noisily at the milk, coming up with a cream-coated chin.

"Burr elders, Dandin says oi'm a liddle owd feller, that be maken oi an elder

too. Betcher oi'm elder'n they, an' woiser may'ap."

At the head of the table the Abbot paused with a hot scone between paw and

mouth. "The log pounding's stopped. Where is Dandin?"

Simeon took a sip from a foaming tankard of October ale. "In the kitchen.

Can't you hear him? He's getting a drying-down, dry clothes and a good

telling-off from Mellus."

The reprimands of Mellus and the protests of Dandin echoed loudly down the

corridor between the kitchen and Cavern Hole.

"Keep still, your ears are saturated!"

"Owow! I won't have any ears left, the way you're going. Ouch! And I'm not

wearing that great big habit, it belongs to fatty Brother John."

"Ooh, you ungrateful little scamp! How dare you call Brother John a fatty when

he was good enough to lend you his spare robe! Hey, come here, come back, I

say ... "

The smack of wet paws on the floor of the passage to Cavern Hole announced the

culprit's escape. Dandin scampered in. He sat between Foremole and a squirrel

named Rufe Brush. Grabbing a wedge of speckled nut-cheese, he jammed it

between two slices of oat farl and began munching, pouring himself a beaker of

cold strawberry cordial as he did. Flagg, the big otter, winked at Dandin and

passed him a bowl of otters' hotroot sauce to dip his farl into.

11

"Aye aye, matey, run a-foul of Ma Mellus again, have 'ee? Quick an' dip yer

bows now—yonder she comes."

Dandin ducked beneath the table just in time. Mother Mellus came bustling by,

a clean linen bonnet tied about her great striped head. She nodded to the

Abbot and took her place at the far end of table in a large armchair. Sitting

two young mice on her lap and a baby mole on the arm of the chair, she soon

forgot Dandin as she occupied herself feeding the Dibbuns, wiping chins and

generally taking charge.

"Come on now, little one, eat up your woodland salad. Pudding later."

"No, don't lika sala', wanna pudden."

"Salad first, pudding later. You want to grow up big and strong like me, don't

you?"

"No, wanna stay lickle an' eat pudden alia time!"

Abbot Bernard reached beneath the table and nudged Dandin.

"You can come out now, young mouse. Mother Mellus has her paws full with those

Dibbuns. You did a fine job as log banger, Dandin, though there was no need to

stay out in the storm so long."

Dandin sat up proudly and reached for a raspberry cream pudding.

"Thank you, Father Abbot. I stayed out until I knew all our Abbey creatures

were inside, safe and dry. It's my job."

Blind Simeon smiled. "Well done, young Dandin. You're just the type of mouse

Redwall Abbey needs. One day when the Abbey is fully built and completed, who

knows, you could be our next Abbot."

Dandin wrinkled his nose, not too pleased with the idea. Abbot Bernard laughed

heartily.

"No Abbotship for you, eh, young rip? It's easy to see that you come from the

line of Gonff the Mousethief. I wish that Martin the Warrior had left

ancestors behind."

Simeon held up a paw. "Maybe he did, my friend—

12

not direct descendants, but spiritual ones. Martin was a Warrior and the

founder of Redwall; his presence is all around us in these very stones. I have

never talked with a creature whom I felt was actually touched by Martin's

spirit, but then we have never needed such a one in this time of peace.

However, I feel that one day before my seasons have run, I will meet some

creature whose life has been touched by the shadow of our Warrior."

Rufe Brush looked up from a plate of hazelnut cream and apple pie.

"Not on a night like this you won't, Simeon. Listen to that rainstorm. Any

creature out on a night like this must be drowned by now."

Simeon was about to answer when he suddenly turned his face aside and clasped

a table napkin to his nose.

"Whaaaw! Somebeast's eating wild garlic!"

A fat mole named Burgo several places down with a clothespin fitted snugly

upon his nose was tucking into a big basin with a spoon. He waved a paw at

Simeon.

"Burr, nor c'n oi stan' the smell o' garleck. Oi do dearly luvs the taste of

it tho'. 'At's whoi oi keeps moi snowt pegged! Garleck woild soup! Nuthin'

loik et, zurr."

Amid the laughter that followed, Dandin turned to Rufe Brush.

"By the fur, Rufe, that rain sounds as if it were trying to knock our Abbey

down. You were right, anybeast out in this must be well drowned by now!"

13

3

Fort Bladegirt stood at the edge of the high rocks which towered above

Terramort cove, the big window of its banqueting hall facing out to sea. It

had a courtyard and a high wall which ran around its perimeter where the

ground was open, though part of the actual fort building integrated with the

outer wall where it overhung the cove. The entire structure was built from

solid rock with heavy wooden doors at the entrances both to the fort and

courtyard. On three sides it was overlooked by hills. Gabool the Wild had

taken it as his by right; indeed whoever owned Bladegirt was absolute King of

Searats, as long as he could hold it. Inside the fort chaos and misrule were

the order of the day. Corsair rats left their ships to come ashore after long

plundering voyages. They made their way to Bladegirt in droves, leaving their

ships at anchor in the cove. Roistering, fighting, gambling and drinking, the

searats enjoyed their shore leave after the hardships of a life at sea.

In the high banqueting chamber Gabool sprawled on a carved rock throne, which

he had made more comfortable by covering it with the skins of his slain

enemies. He stared with loving fascination at a great bell dominating the

center of the floor; monumental in its size the prize stood, reflecting the

torchlights and

revelry through its burnished sheen. Copper, silver, brass and gold had been

used in its casting. Heaving himself up, Gabool strode forward, sword in one

claw, a chalice of wine in the other as he traversed the perimeter of his

greatest prize. Grinning like a child with a new toy, he tapped his swordblade

against the marvel-ous bell; the soft musical note vibrated gently like a

giant harp strummed by the wind. As he walked, Gabool's restless eyes roved up

and down, from the strange figures embossed around the top to the intricate

words ranging around the wide base of the great bell.

Gabool was puzzled as to their meaning, but they were pretty decorations which

made his prize all the more fascinating to look upon.

"Blood 'n' thunder, Cap'n. Give it a good belt an' let's hear it ring out!" A

burly drunken searat named Halfnose pulled a wooden cudgel from his belt and

thrust it toward Gabool. With lightning speed the Warlord grabbed the club and

crashed it down on Half-nose's skull, at the same time landing a thrusting

kick into the drunkard's belly, which sent him reeling into an open cask of

wine. Halfnose slumped across the wine, his head submerged. Gabool roared with

laughter.

"Drink or drown, seascum. Nobeast comes near Gabool's bell!"

The carousing searats shrieked their appreciation at his joke. Gabool pointed

at Halfnose with his sword.

"If he ever gets out o' there, give him a cup of wine t' revive him."

This caused further merriment, except from the table where Bludrigg, Captain

of the ship Greenfang, sat with his mates. Though Gabool laughed as heartily

as the others, Bludrigg had not escaped his notice. Everyone was laughing, but

not Bludrigg—Bludrigg the surly, Bludrigg the argumentative, Bludrigg the

trouble-causer, the seadeck lawyer. Gabool watched him

closely. Bludrigg, who could sense the scheming mind behind his King's false

merriment.

Things between the King of Searats and his Captain had been building to a head

for a long time; Gabool decided to settle accounts with Bludrigg now. Gulping

wine from the chalice and allowing it to spill freely into his beard, Gabool

pretended to stagger drunkenly. He winked in a friendly manner and thrust his.

sword point down into a chest of booty. Tottering over to the table, Gabool

banged the half-empty chalice down in front of the Greenfang's Captain.

"Bludrigg, me old matey, c'mon, drink up!"

Bludrigg' s face was sullen as he thrust the chalice aside.

"Don't want no wine. I can drink all I want aboard me ship."

All around the hall they stopped drinking, singing and gambling; an air of

expectancy settled over the searats. Gabool blinked, as if trying to shake off

the effects of the wine, and swayed slightly.

"Food then. Can't have my Captain starvin'. Roast meat, fruit, fish, sugared

preserves? Here, bring m' friend Bludrigg some vittles."

Bludrigg's swordclaw fondled the hilt of his sheathed scimitar.

"Leave the food, Gabool. I eat well enough."

Gabool sighed, shaking his head as if in puzzlement. He sat next to Bludrigg

and threw a comradely claw about his shoulders.

"Hmmm, no wine, no food, no smile on me old shipmate's face. What d'you want

then, bucko?"

Bludrigg shook Gabool's claw off. He stood upright, knocking the chair over

behind him, his eyes blazing with suppressed rage at the drunken Warlord.

"I want my share of the plunder. There's been none from the last three

sailings. I'm tellin' you, Gabool, I want my portion of the booty— an' I'll

have it tonight, come hell or high water!"

16

From around the packed hall there were murmurs of agreement. Gabool spread his

arms wide and smiled.

"Blow me down! Is that all? Why didn't you say so sooner?"

Bludrigg was lost for words; the expected clash had not come. Now he felt

slightly foolish in front of his crew. He shrugged, mumbling halfheartedly; he

tried excusing himself as if he were complaining on behalf of his searats.

"Well, I never thought. . . . It's just that my crew were startin' to

complain, they thought you'd forgotten us ..."

Gabool looked injured. He went over to the chest of booty, where his sword

stood upright amid a heap of armlets, goblets, baubles and shiny stones.

Drawing forth the sword, he turned one or two items over with its point until

he found what he sought. Gabool flicked the sword up as a shiny gold coronet

studded with gems slid along its blade.

"Aharr, friend Bludrigg, the best for you. A crown fit for a King!"

Bludrigg felt a sudden rush of confidence; he had done it! Gabool was

notoriously mean with plunder, but he, Bludrigg, Captain of the Greenfang, had

actually got the better of Gabool. The King of Searats had backed down before

him. Bludrigg's chest swelled as he accepted the beautiful coronet from

Gabool's sword-blade and placed it on his head. A cheer rose from the company

as Gabool spread his arms wide. Extending the sword away from Bludrigg, he

addressed them.

"See, yer scurvy wave-riders. Pay attention, you jetsam of the oceans, I am

Gabool the Wild, this is how I repay me friends. ..." Without warning Gabool

swung a powerfully savage blow with his sword. "And reward my enemies!"

Even the hardened searats moaned in horror as the head of Bludrigg thudded to

the floor. The coronet

17

rolled in front of Gabool. He picked it up on the dripping sword blade and

held it forth to the assembly. "Would anyone else like to wear the crown,

mateys?"

oo

Heralded by the call of seabirds, eastern sunrays flooded warm and golden into

a sky of calm blue reflected in the millpond sea below. The angry storm had

passed, leaving summer serenity in its wake. The sun warmed the wet bundle on

the flotsam-strewn tide-line until it stirred. Seawater and bile flooded from

the mousemaid's mouth as she coughed feebly. The damp paw set tiny flies

buzzing as it reached for her throat and began weakly grappling with the

knotted rope. The wooden spar lay across her back. A seabird landed upon it;

the added weight caused the mousemaid to vomit more salt water forth with a

gurgling groan. Startled, the bird rose noisily into the air, cheated of the

carcass it had taken for dead. Other seabirds began to wheel and circle

overhead. A tiny crab tried nibbling at the maid's rough wet burlap dress,

gave up and scuttled away.

Finally undone, the rope fell away from her bruised neck. Painfully she

shifted the spar and rolled over onto her back. The mousemaid lay still

awhile; some of the more venturesome seabirds spiraled lower. Rubbing sand and

grit from her face with the back of a paw, she opened both eyes, immediately

shutting them again against the glare of sunlight. Small wavelets trickled and

lapped gently away from the shore; the tide was ebbing. The mousemaid ventured

to explore the wound that the spar had inflicted upon her head. She winced and

left it alone. Turning over again, she shielded her eyes with her paws and

rested on the firm damp sand, soaking up the life-giving rays of the

comforting sun. A large speckled gull landed close to her. Readying its

dangerous beak, it stalked slowly forward; the mouse-maid watched it from

between her paws. Within a neck-length of her prostrate body the sea gull

stood upon

18

one webbed foot and began bringing its beak down in an exploratory peck.

Thwack\

She swung the wet-sand-weighted end of the rope. It was knotted and her aim

was good. The rope's end thudded solidly into the bird's right eye. With a

squawk of pain and distress the sea gull did an awkward running takeoff,

flopping into the air and dispersing its alarmed companions.

The little mousemaid began dragging herself laboriously up the beach, her

throat parched, mouth dry, head aching, limbs battered almost numb by the

pounding seas. She reached a tussock of reedgrass in the dry sand above the

tideline. Pulling the grass about her, she lay down in the safety of its

shelter. As sleep descended upon her weary body, strange thoughts flooded her

mind. She could not remember who she was, she had no name she could recall;

apart from the stormy seas that had tossed her up, there was no memory of

anything—it was all a cloudy gray void. Where had she come from? Where was she

now? What was she doing here? Where was she going? Her last thought before

sleep enveloped her brain was that she was a fighter. She could beat off a

large sea gull with a rope's end, even lying stranded and half-dead from

exhaustion, and she had survived the sea.

She was alive!

19

Dawn arrived clad in hushed rosiness upon the wake of storm-torn night. Abbot

Bernard had not lain abed, he was up and about. Concern for his beloved

Redwall had driven sleep from his mind; the ravages of gale-force winds and

rain would need repairing. He made a swift tour of inspection, finishing up on

the east battlements. Leaning back upon the strongly hewn stones, Bernard

allowed himself a sigh of relief. There was not much that any weather

conditions, no matter how severe, could do to the Abbey. However, there were

broken branches and wrecked tree limbs overhanging the ramparts to the east

and north, with here and there some ill-fated sapling or hollow woodland

monarch toppled against the walls. Inside, the grounds had largely been

protected by the outer structure—a few crops flattened, fruit bushes in

disarray and a loose window shutter on the gatehouse blown awry. The Father

Abbot descended the wallsteps thankfully and went to summon Foremole to head a

repair crew. They could attend to the damage after breakfast.

The calm after the storm also had its effect upon the inmates of Redwall

Abbey. Young creatures tumbled out of the Abbey building into the sunlit

morning. Whooping and shouting, they teemed into the orchard

20

to gather fruit brought down by the winds of the gale. The otter twins Bagg

and Runn frisked and bounded around the apple and pear trees to the strawberry

patch, then lay on their backs, squeaking with laughter as they gobbled up the

juicy fruit, inventing fictitious reasons as to why the berries were lying

there.

"Heehee, look what was blown down from the strawberry trees by the wind last

night. Heeheehee!"

Durry Quill, Gabe Quill's little nephew, joined them. He sat in the strawberry

patch, trying to decide which was the biggest berry, eating all the possible

candidates as he listened to the otters. Durry was not at all sure whether he

should believe they had come from a strawberry tree.

"Strawb'rry trees, 1 don't see no strawb'rry trees. Where be they?"

Brian Jacques - Redwall 04 - Mariel Of Redwall

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