Closing the book, Quelt favoured Tiria with a rare smile. “So then, do ye not think your bird fits the description?”
The ottermaid agreed readily. “Indeed I do, sir, perfectly!”
The ancient Librarian pointed a bony paw at the bird. “These were known as pandions in olden times. What you have brought to our Abbey is an osprey, the great fish hawk!”
Brink Greyspoke stared admiringly at the osprey. “A fish’awk, eh? That ’un must need vittles wot he’s used to. What d’ye think, Skip? Shall we go an’ catch our osprey a fish? There’s grayling aplenty in the Abbey pond.”
Skipper, who loved to go fishing but seldom got the chance, was all for the idea. “Aye, let’s do that, Brink. Can’t see that big ole feller starve now, can we? Er, with yore permission, Mother Abbess, me’n Mister Greyspoke would like to go night fishin’.”
Lycian could not help smiling at the eager pair. “Just for the benefit of the osprey, of course? Nothing to do with taking the little boat out on the pond, together with some refreshment for a quiet summer’s night.”
Brink’s eyes went dreamy at the thought. “Just me’n ole Skip, out on the pond in our liddle boat with the moon above, a flagon o’ my best pale cider, some cheese’n’mushroom pasties an’ a calm, warm night. Aaaah!”
Banjon kicked the Cellarhog’s footpaw to silence him. “Er, no, Abbess, nothin’ like that, but just like you said, for the benefit o’ the osprey. By me rudder, it can be hard work, fishin’ all night long for a fish big enough t’feed that feller’s beak. That it will, marm!”
Neither could see Lycian’s eyes twinkling as she bowed her head gravely. “A charitable and worthy act, my good friends. You have my permission.”
Tiria piped up excitedly. “Can I come too, please?”
Her father shook his head. “You’ve had quite enough for one day, me gel. I reckon a good night’s rest is the best thing for ye.”
Seeing her crestfallen face, the Abbess suggested an alternative. “Obey your father, Tiria. Who knows? Tomorrow we may have more responsible tasks, now that you’re growing up. But first you may go to the kitchens. Tell Friar Bibble I sent you for a treat, after all your good work today. I’m sure he’ll have something special for you.”
Flashing the Abbess a brief smile of thanks, the ottermaid hurried off downstairs.
Friar Bibble looked up from his ovens. “Indeed to goodness,’tis the heroine of the woodcutters. What can I do for you, lovely miss?”
Tiria explained that the Abbess had sent her for a treat.
The tubby little shrewcook waved a paw around his domain. “Well now, what would ye like to eat, beauty?”
She shrugged. “I don’t really know, sir.”
Taking a wooden paddle, Bibble opened one of the long oven doors. “Indeed to goodness, there’s a thing, a young ’un who can’t make up her own mind. Come and lend a paw here, missy, maybe I’ll treat you to a Friar’s Special.”
Using the long beechwood paddle, Tiria helped Friar Bibble to pull out loaves, cobs, farls and rolls, all for next morning’s breakfast table. “What’s a Friar’s Special, sir?”
Bibble selected two crispy little golden batch loaves. “It’s what I like to treat myself to after a long day’s bakin’. You’ll like it. Pass me that small pot off the oventop. Wrap a towel around it now, don’t want to burn your paws.”
Tiria did as he bade, placing the pot in front of him. “Mmm, it smells delicious! What is it?”
Bibble sliced both batch loaves through with his knife. “Damsons an’ crushed almonds cooked in honey an’ aged cider.”
He ladled the mixture onto the cut loaves, then produced a flagon and two beakers. “Elderberry an’ burdock cordial, just the thing. Come now, we’ll sit on those sacks o’ flour whilst we have our snack.”
Tiria began praising the wonderful treat. “It tastes really nice, sir.”
Bibble held up a flour-dusted paw. “Quiet now, don’t go tellin’ anybeast about my Special, or I’ll have a full kitchen every night, so I will.”
The ottermaid promised him that she would keep silent, but only on condition that he would allow her to visit again for more.
The shrewcook shook his head in mock surprise. “Indeed to goodness, Tiria Wildlough, you’re a beauty an’ a rogue all in one. Be off to your bed, you young scallywag!”
Playfully he pursued her from the kitchens, waving a paddle.
Leaving the kitchens, Tiria wandered through Great Hall, stopping for a while at the beautiful Redwall tapestry. This was an intricately woven work, depicting as its main theme the legendary mouse, Martin the Warrior. He had been one of the Abbey’s founders and the famed Champion of Redwall. Lanterns illuminated his heroic figure, whilst all around him vermin could be seen fleeing for their lives. Tiria often visited the tapestry. She loved to look at the Warrior, he was a valiant fighter, standing courageously against all odds. Formidable, yet with the light of kindness radiating from his eyes. Martin stood holding his great sword, which had been forged from a piece of a fallen star in the mountain fortress of Salamandastron, home of the mighty Badger Lords. Above the tapestry, lying on two wallspikes, the actual sword was displayed. It was nothing elaborate—a real warrior’s blade, perfectly balanced, as deadly as chain lightning in a winterstorm, its point as keen as an ice needle. Tiria instinctively touched the only weapon she had ever known, the sling she had named Wuppit, belted about her waist, with its stone pouch attached.
She stared at Martin and his sword, softly reciting a phrase her father had often repeated. “ ‘Any weapon is the best weapon, as long as ye can use it skilfully and with honour.’ ”
Tiria blinked, peering at the likeness of Martin. Had he nodded at her, as if in agreement with her father’s words? She yawned, unaccountably overcome by tiredness. Perhaps it was just a draught stirring the tapestry. Her yawns echoed around the time-mellowed hall as she stole off to her bed.
The land of dreams is an odd realm, sometimes nightmarish, other times peaceful. Tiria found herself wandering along the still shores of a vast sunlit lake; she felt happy in its silent tranquillity.
From afar, two creatures floated toward her in a nimbus of golden light. As they drew close, Tiria recognised one as Martin the Warrior. Smiling at her, he indicated his companion. Tiria felt her heart jump. The other creature was a tall, stately otter lady, obviously older than she but a mirror image of herself in features, build and height. On her brow rested a slim gold circlet, with a large, round emerald at its centre. The otter lady wore a short, dark-green cloak, richly embroidered about the hem. From neck to waist she was covered by a metal breastplate, silver with a gold star radiating from its centre. What really intrigued Tiria was that the otter lady carried a sling and a stone pouch, belted about her middle, the same way in which Tiria carried hers.
The ottermaid felt an immediate trust of and kinship to the lithe, regal apparition. She stood staring at her in the sunny dream landscape, not knowing what to say but yearning to talk to the otter lady. Turning to Martin, she found herself equally dumbfounded. Though Martin the Warrior had no need of speech, his kind eyes widened expressively. He merely smiled at Tiria, pointing to the otter as an indication that she should listen to what the strange vision had to say. Then, in clear, measured tones, the otter lady spoke:
“Like the sun, High Rhulain will rise anew,
to set the downtrodden free.
A warriormaid with Wildlough blood
must cross the Western Sea.