4
That evening at supper, the Great Hall of Redwall was abuzz with the exploits of Tiria and her friends. The ottermaid sat with her father, Abbess Lycian, molemum Burbee, Brink Greyspoke and Foremole Grudd. She had already related her story of the incident, though quite modestly.
The Abbess clasped Tiria’s paw warmly. “You were very brave to save the bird’s life, my dear, particularly when you were outnumbered two to one by the vermin. You have a courageous daughter, Skipper.”
Almost at a loss for words, Banjon swelled with pride as he patted Tiria’s back. “I wish yore mamma had lived to see ye now, gel. She always said us Wildloughs were a warrior clan from somewhere. Yore a credit to us, Tiria.”
The ottermaid asked a question she had often mulled over. “Do you think I’ll become a Skipper someday?”
Her father put aside his tankard of October Ale, explaining almost apologetically to her, “Ye’d make a finer Skipper than any otter I’ve ever met, myself included. But the Law of Otters says that maids can’t become Skippers. I know it’s not fair, Tiria, but the law’s the law, an’ we’ve always lived by it.”
Tiria persisted. “But I’ve heard tales saying that there were maids who became Skippers in other parts of the land.”
Banjon took a draught of his October Ale and then slammed the tankard down decisively. “This ain’t the time or place t’be talkin’ of these matters, me gel. May’ap there are places where it happens, but not in Mossflower territory, an’ I ain’t responsible for wot sea otters do. We abide by our Otter Law, an’ that’s that!”
There was a moment’s awkward silence, which was broken by the arrival of Friar Bibble. The shrewcook was pushing a trolley, upon which rested a steaming cauldron. He wiped perspiration beads from his snout with a spotted kerchief before he proclaimed proudly, “Look you, Tiria. I’ve made a pot of special shrimp’n’hotroot soup, just for you, my brave young ’un!”
Freshwater shrimp’n’hotroot soup was a dish dear to the heart of all otters. Tiria sniffed its fragrant aroma, complimenting the kindly friar. “Marvellous! Nobeast can make shrimp’n’hotroot like you do, sir!”
As he began ladling the soup out, Bibble winked at Skipper. “Indeed to goodness, missy, don’t be sayin’ things like that. You’ll be causin’ trouble twixt me an’ your da!”
Banjon accepted a bowlful eagerly. “Oh no, mate, ’tis a fact. Even I can’t make it taste like you do. Ye can make ’otroot better’n an otter, Bibble!”
Tiria chuckled. “Exactly what do you put in it, sir?”
The friar began explaining. “Well, I uses more watercress an’ scallions than some does, an’ a touch of wild ransom . . . ” He halted and glared at her with mock censure. “Indeed to goodness, missy, I can’t be tellin’ everybeast about those secret herbs an’ spices I uses in my recipes!”
Foremole Grudd had been watching Brinty, Tribsy and Girry. They were seated at the other end of the table, telling of the day’s adventures . . . with many embellishments to the facts.
Grudd laughed aloud. “Hurr hurr hurr! Do ee lissen to they’m young ’uns? Oi never hurd such fibbin’ in all moi borned days!”
Brinty was positioning various items on the table as he told of his role. “See these candied chestnuts? Well, they were the water rats. Wicked villains, all twelve of ’em!”
The molebabe Groop interrupted. “Oi hurd Miz Tirree sayen’ et wurr h’eight ratters!”
Girry cleared his mouth of plum pudden. “She was too busy whackin’ about with her sling to be counting vermin. Actually, there were thirteen rats. I battled with two of ’em, big rascals who’d climbed up onto the branch of the tree while I was cuttin’ the big bird’s rope.”
Tribsy left off demolishing some rhubarb crumble to make his contribution to the fictional action. He took two loaves and stuck a fork in each one, placing them amid the candied chestnuts. “Yon loafers wurr ole Brinty an’ moiself. Hurr, wot ee purr o’ wurriers we’m was! These yurr forks bee’s ee yew staves us wurr a-carryen’. Bain’t that roight, Brin?”
Brinty got carried away as he invented further heroics. Using the loaves and forks, he sent chestnuts bouncing and flying widespread as he yelled, “That’s right, we fought ’em! Bangbashwallopsplat! We sent all fourteen of those giant rats scurryin’. Wailin’ for their mammas they were, the fatty-bottomed cowards!”
After wiping a splash of soup from his cheek, Skipper Banjon peered at the candied chestnut floating in his bowl. “Look, a rat’s just landed in my soup. We’d best eat up, daughter, afore they tell the tale again an’ increase the number of vermin they defeated!”
After supper, most Redwallers went to sit out on the Abbey steps to enjoy the summer evening’s warmth. Tiria and her father joined Abbess Lycian and Brink Greyspoke on a visit to the Infirmary to check on the hawk’s progress. Brother Perant and Old Quelt, the Recorder-cum-Librarian, were studying the bird. It had flown up onto a window ledge and was inspecting its new surroundings.
Perant reported his findings avidly. “Well, friends, what can I say? That bird is a most remarkable creature, just look at it! Earlier today you wouldn’t have given a split acorn on its chances of survival. However, no sooner had I removed the barb from its mouth and cleaned up its bumps and bruises when it began drinking water. Hah, and not just wetting its beak, it consumed nearly a full basin. Almost a magical recovery you’ll agree!”
The learned Brother pointed at his patient. “See how those golden eyes glitter. Notice how it has preened its plumage back into shape, truly remarkable! Admittedly its mouth and beak must be rather stiff and quite sore, but what a grip on life our feathered friend has, eh? A real survivor I’d say, yes indeed!”
The big bird swept its savage golden eyes over the assembly, then went back to grooming its wing feathers. Tiria felt happy for the bird, clearly a brave and solitary creature. “Do you think its thick plumage saved it from severe injury, Brother? Those rats were brutal vermin.”
Perant nodded. “I don’t think we fully realise just how strong the bird is, Tiria. It’s a formidable creature.”
Much to everybeast’s surprise, Abbess Lycian strode calmly over to the big bird and began gently stroking its head. It stayed quite still, perhaps sensing that she meant it no harm. Lycian spoke softly to it.
“My goodness, you certainly are a big, strong fellow. I wonder what sort of bird you really are?”
Old Quelt had the answer. He was a silver-furred squirrel, an ancient dry stick of a beast, bent by many long seasons. Besides being the Redwall Recorder, Quelt had appointed himself the first Abbey Librarian. He had commandeered the lowest of the attic rooms and made it his own. There he had gathered every piece of written material Redwall possessed. Brink and Foremole Grudd had shelved the room out at his request. Parchments, scrolls, pamphlets, tomes and volumes covered the library from ceiling to floor. The old squirrel held in his paw a slim, bark-bound book. All of the Abbey members who had assembled listened carefully to what he had to say.
“This is a record of birds, written by one Abbess Bryony in the far bygone seasons. She had a particular interest in hunting birds. Let me read you what she wrote about this specimen.”
Peering through his rock crystal spectacles, Quelt leafed the yellowed parchment pages. “Hmm, here it is. A bird that is rarely seen in the Mossflower territories. They have been reported by geese who have visited Redwall as mainly inhabiting a place called Green Isle, where they hunt the rivers, loughs and streams. They are said to be large, powerful birds; their description runs thus. Dark-brown upper plumage, with white feathers underneath the body. Long wings, with brownand-white-patterned undersides, angled two-thirds of the way along. The head is white-crowned, with two dark stripes. These are barred across the eyes, giving a masklike aspect. The eyes are broadly gold-ringed, with jet-black centres. These birds have lethally curved beaks. They also possess four black talons of savage aspect on each blue-grey scaled leg.”