High Rhulain

7

Old Quelt smiled at the embarrassment on the faces of Sister Snowdrop and her four companions. “Don’t stand staring at the floor and shuffling your paws like naughty Dibbuns. Come in, all of you, and welcome. Redwallers have been making jokes about Old Quelt since long before you were born, Sister Snowdrop. Please run along and find these young ’uns something to drink.”

Snowdrop brought a flagon of pennycloud-and-rosehip tonic and some beakers from a window ledge, and poured the drinks. Tiria and her friends sat at a long, well-polished beechwood table, gazing about them at Quelt’s pride and joy: Redwall Abbey’s first library.

All four walls were shelved out from floor to ceiling with good oaken planking. Every possible area was full of books and scrolls. Thin pamphlets stood spine to spine with tall tomes, thick volumes and beribbonned rolls of parchment, all in neat order. To one side of the fireplace was a nook, which held a writing desk with two padded stools. Quill pens and charcoal sticks, together with hardwood rulers, sealing wax and sheafs of parchment, lay stacked, ready for use.

The ancient squirrel peered over the top of his glasses at his gaping guests. “Almost a lifetime’s work. I did it, you know. Helped, of course, by the good Sister Snowdrop, our trusty Cellarhog Carpenter and many obliging moles. So, what do ye think?”

Tiria acted as spokesbeast. “It’s wonderful, sir, most impressive. I hadn’t realised there were so many books and scrolls in our Abbey.”

Snowdrop refilled their beakers. “This is now the repository for all the written works of Redwall. Quelt gathered them in this former attic room. It took us long seasons to clear out the gatehouse records, and even longer to empty out the Abbess’s chambers, and the kitchens, cellars and dormitories.”

The Librarian-cum-Recorder sighed wearily. “Aye, and we’re still searching, discovering, dusting, repairing and cataloguing old writings. Huh, and that’s beside my work as Redwall Recorder.”

Brinty complimented Quelt. “You’ve worked wonders, sir. I expect you’re very proud of your library!”

The oldster wiped a drop of tonic from the tabletop with his sleeve. “ ‘Proud’ is not the word I’d use, ‘fulfilled’ sums it up better. Yes, I feel fulfilled by my achievement. But you haven’t come here to listen to some doddering old fogey rattling on about his library. What exactly are you looking for? Is there any way I can be of assistance?”

Sister Snowdrop glanced at Tiria. “Tell him about your dream riddle.”

Quelt began rolling up his wide habit sleeves. “Oh do, miss, I pray you. Riddles, puzzles or conundrums, I’ve always been pretty fair at that type of thing. Now, you may start at the beginning, and please leave nothing out!”

The ottermaid related her dream in detail—the big lake and its shore, and her encounter with Martin the Warrior and the otter lady. Word for word she recited the poem, then explained about her dream’s aftermath.

“It was very odd. After I woke up, I couldn’t even recall that I’d had a dream. Then my father unknowingly repeated the line about Wildlough blood, and it all came back as clear as day to me.”

Old Quelt picked up quill, parchment and ink. He stroked at his scraggy, silver whiskers reflectively before replying. “Hmm, very interesting. What do you young ’uns make of it all?”

Tribsy wrinkled his velvety snout. “We’m wuz ‘opin’ you’m or ee Sister cudd make sumthin’ of it all, zurr. Arter all, we’m bain’t gurt scholarbeasts like you’m bee’s.”

Girry agreed. “Huh, I wasn’t very bright at Abbeyschool.”

Brinty shook his head. “Neither was I. What about you, Tiria?”

The ottermaid smiled ruefully. “Afraid not, mate. When I should’ve been studying, I was always fooling about with slings and stones. Wish I’d paid more attention now.”

Sister Snowdrop stared at them through her small square glasses. “Oh, I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourselves, you four never struck me as dullards. Most riddles can be solved with some serious concentration. Let’s put our heads together and make a joint effort at finding the solution.”

Quelt pointed his quill pen at his assistant. “A sensible idea, Snowdrop. Come on, you can be the Recorder for a change. I want you to write down what Tiria has to say. Miss, would ye kindly repeat the poem again for us? Slowly, please.”

Tiria spoke the rhyme methodically, allowing the little Sister to keep pace with her words.

“Like the sun, High Rhulain will rise anew,

to set the downtrodden free.

A warriormaid with Wildlough blood

must cross the Western Sea.

She who looks ever through windows

at the signs that feathers make,

seek the Green Isle through her knowledge,

for all thy kinbeasts’ sake.”

Brinty came up with an immediate idea. “Why don’t we go down to the front lawns, stand back and watch all the Abbey windows? We may catch sight of the one who is always looking through them.”

Snowdrop put aside her pen. “Really, young mouse, you’ve lived at Redwall how long, fifteen or sixteen seasons? Tell me, in all that time did you ever see any creature who had little else to do than stand about gazing through windows night and day, eh?”

Brinty saw how foolish his idea must have sounded. “Sorry, Sister, I see what you mean. I was only trying to help.”

Tribsy rapped a huge digging claw upon the table. “Oi says ee bestest way to solve ee riggle bee’s to start at ee beginnin’ of et, hurr!”

Snowdrop complimented him. “An excellent suggestion! I always said that nobeast could beat sound mole logic. Now, we know that the sun rises anew each day, but we don’t know what a Rhulain is. However, this mention of a warriormaid with Wildlough blood fits your description, Tiria.”

The ottermaid pointed at herself. “Me? I’m not a warrior!”

A wry look crossed the old Sister’s face. “Excuse my asking, but are you not the one who led the charge against a gang of water rats and saved the osprey? And do you not carry around a sling named Wuppit, a weapon with which you slew a vermin with a single throw from an incredible distance? Please correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t the blood of Wildlough otters run through your veins, hence the very name you go by, Wildlough?”

Tiria attempted to equal her interrogator’s irony. “Huh, we know all that! Kindly stop quibbling and get on with your explanation of the poem, my good mouse.”

Snowdrop resumed without comment. “It states that you must cross the Western Sea, but let’s skip ahead a few lines. The object of your journey is to aid your kinbeasts, doubtless that means other otters. We know that they dwell on this place called Green Isle and are in some kind of difficulty. So that’s a start.”

Girry interrupted by referring to the lines Snowdrop had skipped over. “Right then, but we’re not on Green Isle, neither is Tiria. So our first task is exactly what Brinty meant: We must first find the window watcher who is always looking at the signs feathers make. That seems to be the key to this puzzle. I wonder who it can be.”

Tribsy blinked a few times, allowing the information to sink in. “Oi doan’t know who et bee’s, do ee?”

Brinty looked to the Recorder. “Have you any ideas, sir?”

Snowdrop whispered, “No use asking him, I’m afraid the poor fellow’s fallen asleep again.”

With both paws folded across his gently heaving chest and both eyes closed, Quelt surprised them by speaking. “On the contrary, Sister, the poor fellow’s wide awake and drinking in every word you’ve spoken. Dearie me, it’s you lot whose eyes are really closed. The answer’s staring you right in the face!”

Tiria began to feel impatient with Quelt’s manner. “If you have the answer, sir, I’d be grateful if you’d give it to us, instead of pretending to be asleep!”

Quelt continued with his eyes still closed. “You were doing quite well for the main part, at least Snowdrop was, though it was young Girry who asked the most pertinent question. Who is the one who looks through windows at the signs made by feathers?”

Opening his eyes, the Librarian pointed directly at Snowdrop. “It’s you, my aged assistant!”

The little Sister’s voice rose squeakily. “Me? What makes you say that?”

Quelt took an unhurried sip of his tonic drink. “Ask yourself, what do we use to write with? Quills! And what are quills but the feathers of birds? So we dip them in ink and make marks, we write with them. Are you following me?”

Tribsy chortled. “Hurrhurrhurr, loik maggypies follerin’ ee frog, zurr. You’m carry roight on!”

The ancient squirrel obliged. “The riddle points to a ‘she,’ a knowledgeable creature. Observe!” Quelt removed his rock crystal spectacles and held them up.

“Constant seasons of study do not help one’s eyesight. Sooner or later, we elders need these windows to see properly through. My spectacles are round, and I am a he, not a she. Now look at Sister Snowdrop.”

Instantly the problem was solved for Tiria and her friends. “She wears little square glasses shaped like windows. I’ve never seen her without them. It is you, Sister!”

The dawn of a happy smile soon faded from Snowdrop’s face. She waved her paws in agitation. “No, no, I don’t know what a Rhulain is, or how to cross the Western Sea, and I’m woefully ignorant about Green Isle.”

Rising stiffly from his chair, Quelt left the table. “Tut tut, my dear friend, what a disappointment you’ve turned out to be after serving as my assistant for so many long seasons. A trained scholar and Librarian, surrounded by all the knowledge our Abbey has to offer—literature, records and histories. Why, it’s like a Dibbun being locked in Brink Greyspoke’s cellars complaining that he has nought to drink. Was all the training I gave you for nothing?”

Little Sister Snowdrop smote the tabletop so hard that the beakers rattled and her paw went numb. “Yowch! No sir, it certainly was not! I’ll help you, Tiria. In fact I’ll start right away, going through the early archives. Thank you, Quelt, my brain’s working properly now. Tiria, take Brinty and Tribsy with you. Go and question that goose again. Brantalis knows the way to Green Isle, he said so. And the fish hawk, Pandion, he lives on Green Isle. I’ll wager a berry to a chestnut he knows what’s going on there with otters and so on. See what information you can glean from him. Right, on your way, friends!”

As Girry watched them hurrying away, his face fell. “But, Sister, what about me?”

Snowdrop pushed him ahead of her as she bustled toward the bookshelves. “You’ve just been appointed Second Assistant Librarian. A younger pair of eyes, somebeast who can carry stacks of books and reach high shelves, that’s what I need. Come on, young squirrel, quick’s the word and sharp’s the action. Now, shall we start at A for anything, G for Green Isle, R for Rhulain or D for dreams?”

Old Quelt looked up from the desk, where he had installed himself to catch up on recording events of Abbeylife. “I’d start with U, for upstairs attic. There are still lots of books and scrolls up there, waiting to be identified. Prepare to get your tail dusty, young Girry! Now, where was I? Oh yes! This fine day began eventfully with the visit of an injured barnacle goose, and the slaying of a vermin creature by a warrior ottermaid. . . .”

Sunlight lanced through the foliage of East Mossflower Woodlands, creating a bright kaleidoscope of green, gold and tan. Brimstone, clouded yellow, and small white butterflies fluttered and perched on the marshy banks of a gurgling stream, which flowed out of a watermeadow. Skipper Banjon crouched on the edge, casting about amid the rank black ooze.

Brink Greyspoke tested the soggy mess with a cautious footpaw. “Careful, Skip, ye could go down in that stuff!”

The Skipper retreated, wiping his paws on the grass. “Aye, this is the furthest I’m trackin’ any vermin. They’ve either sunk under that lot or they’ve made it to the watermeadows. There’s more’n ten exits from those meadows. We’d be half a season tryin’ to pick up their trail again. Brink, what d’ye think?”

The Cellarhog held his snout to help block out the odours of rotted vegetation and soggy, water-logged wood. “I don’t reckon they’ll be botherin’ Redwall again. Let’s go back to the Abbey. That little walk has whetted my appetite for lunch.”

The pair strode off, back the way they had come, chatting amicably.

“I didn’t know yore appetite had t’be whetted, mate. I’ve never knowed it t’be blunted!”

“Hoho, lissen who’s talkin’, ole Banjon barrelbelly!”

“Nonsense! I’m only a slip of a beast compared to you. That apron o’ yores would go round me three times!”

As their sounds receded into the woodlands, not a stone’s throw from the bank where Banjon and Brink had been standing the sticky morass beneath an overhanging grey willow burst asunder, spewing forth Groffgut and his gang of water rats. Spitting and vomiting the nauseous slime, they staggered up onto firm ground. Every one of the rats was plastered from head to foot with marsh debris and reeked with its stench.

Frogeye dug something from his ear with a piece of twig. “Wot did we hafta jump in der for? I nearly drownded!”

Groffgut clouted him over the head. “ ’Cos we woulda got caught. We hadter ’ide, softbrain!”

Rashback spat out a woodlouse, then picked it up and ate it. “Cudden’t we ’ave fought ’em off, Chief? Der’s eight of us, an’ only two of dem.”

Plugtail wiped ooze from his eyes as he corrected him. “Seven, ye mean, der’s only seven of us now. Pore ole Hangpaw was slayed when we was runnin’ away.”

Threetooth sat down and started scraping off body mud with his stone spearblade. “Mebbe Hangpaw wasn’t kil’t. He might be still alive back der.”

Groffgut kicked out at Threetooth but missed, slipped and fell flat on his tail. Obbler and Fleddy, the youngest two gang members, burst out into cackling laughs at Groffgut’s mishap.

The gang leader jumped upright, fuming. “Wot’s so funny, eh, eh? Youse lot makes me sick ter the neck. Ye think we cudda fought dem off—a great big ‘edgepig anna giganantic waterdog? Yer think Hangpaw’s still alive back in dat ditch, eh, eh?”

Ranting and spitting mud, he vented his temper on them. “Well goo on den, chase after de ’edgepig an’ de riverdog. An’ when youse’ve kil’t ’em, den go back ter d’ditch an’ see if Hangpaw’s still alive. Well, who’s gunna go?”

None of the gang felt like pursuing the issue further, knowing Groffgut’s violent temper. They sat silent, cleaning themselves up and avoiding their leader’s angry stares.

Frogeye finally made an attempt to calm the situation. “Yah, who cares about all dose daftbeasts an’ their h’abbey? Hangpaw’s dead, an’ dat’s dat! Dis is a big forest, wid plenny o’ vikkles about. Let’s jus’ move on an’ find somewheres else.”

It was the wrong thing to say, as Frogeye soon learned when Groffgut bit him on the nose and kicked him in the stomach. The gang leader waved his rusty scythe blade sword at the rest.

“Youse lot ain’t goin’ nowhere ’less I tells yer so, see! Are we a vermin gang or wot? Dose h’abbeybeasts stoled our h’eagle, ambushed an’ battered us, kil’t one of our gang an’ chased us ’til we ’ad ter jump inter a bog an’ ’ide from dem! Nobeast does that ter my gang an’ gets away wid it, ’specially not dat mouse who kept wallopin’ me wid a big pole. I’ve got dat ’uns name writ in me brain!”

Threetooth made certain he was out of Groffgut’s range before he popped the question, “So, worra we gunner do about it?”

The gang leader actually jumped in the air twice to emphasise his first two words. “Do? Do? . . . I’ll tell yer wot we’re gunner do! We’re gunner get revenge on dem, dat’s wot we’re gunner do! Cummon, we’re goin’ back ter that Wallred h’abbey. I’ll make ’em sorry dey ever messed wid our gang!”