Putting aside his tankard, the mole blinked dozily in the warm firelight glow. “Burr aye, et wurr strange an’ h’odd, vurry h’odd!”
Sister Screeve dipped her quill into some ink swiftly. “Strange and odd—in what way, pray tell?”
Jem gazed into the fire, as if reliving the incident. “It were a sunny morn, but misty. We was rovin’ along the tideline, southwest, a couple o’ leagues from the mountain strong’old of Salamandastron. There on the shore we espied a small vessel, wrecked it were, an’ washed up on the rocks. So, me’n Walt, we went to see wot we could do. Right, Walt?”
But the old mole had slipped off into a slumber, wooed by the fire and the comfortable armchair. Jem smiled, then continued with his narrative.
“Looks like I’m bound to tell this tale alone. Aye, ’twere a small craft, with a simple square-rigged sail, smashed to bits an’ stoved in by the rocks. All that was in it was a few empty food sacks, a broken water cask an’ some fish bones. But there were tracks aplenty, runnin’ up the beach an’ headed nor’east. We took a good look at them marks, made by a single beast they were. I tell ye, it made pawprints like we’d never seen, great wide blurry ones with deep curvin’ clawmarks—bigger’n those of a badger. The claws were broader, more pointed, not blunt like a badger’s but very sharp an’ long. By the blurrin’ o’ the tracks, I figgered this must be a beast with long hair comin’ from its paws. By the length o’ the pawmarks, an’ their depth, Walt reckoned that the thing’d be about the same size as a big male badger. Anyhow, we was thinkin’ of makin’ our way over to visit ye at Redwall afore winter set in. So seein’ as the tracks went in the same direction, we decided to follow ’em, just to get a look o’ this oddbeast.”
Jem paused to refill his tankard, giving the Abbot the chance to enquire, “Did you not visit the mountain of Salamandastron at all?”
The wanderer nodded. “Aye, we stopped there at the end o’ spring season—that ole mountain fortress ain’t changed a whit. Lady Melesme is still the Badger Ruler o’ the western shores, she an’ those hares send ye all their fond best wishes. Oh, I forgot to mention, Melesme’s sendin’ ye a gift.”
Brother Gordale leaned forward. “A gift, for us?”
Jem took a draught of his ale. “Do ye remember about four summers back, when she visited here with that troop of Long Patrol hares? Both yore bells were down for cleanin’ whilst ye repaired the bellropes. D’ye recall that?”
Foremole Bruffy wrinkled his velvety brow. “Ho aye, oi amembers et. Ee gurt badger lady sayed she’m missed ee sounds uv our bells. Hurr, she’m wurr gurtly fond of ee bellnoises.”
Skipper nodded. “That’s right, so she was. Lady Melesme said to me that if’n our bells were down, we should ’ave somethin’ to mark the times o’ day an’ night.”
Jem winked at the otter. “Well, she’s sendin’ ye a drum.”
Sister Screeve paused from her recording. “A drum?”
The traveller explained. “Hoho, but what a drum, marm! When I saw it, ’twas only half made. The drumskin was taken from a big dead shark. The hares found it washed up on the beach one mornin’. Melesme an’ the hares were makin’ the casin’ from two great circles of elmwood, an’ the ribbin’ from sharkbone. I saw the hares at the forge, beatin’ out gold an’ silver to decorate the rim an’ edges o’ the drum. ’Tis goin’ to be a drum the like o’ which ye’ve never seen!”
Abbot Humble folded both paws into his wide sleeves. “How kind and thoughtful of our friend Melesme. We must think of something to send her in return—perhaps a beautifully woven robe and a keg of sweet damson and elderberry wine. She was very fond of my wine when she visited us.”
Sister Screeve turned to Jem impatiently. “Yes, yes, but on with the tale, my friend. Did you and Walt follow the tracks which ran up the shore?”
Jem took up the threads of his tale again. “Oh aye, marm. We followed right enough. It looked like the beast were travellin’ fast, though, as if ’twere in haste to get clear o’ the coast. Walt’n me thought mayhaps the creature was bein’ pursued, but we weren’t in no rush, just followed at our own pace, slow’n’steady. Ole Walt an’ meself, we’ve never hurried for nobeast. Those tracks was as clear as the snout on yore face, so we plodded on after ’em. The trail took us off’n the shore, up into the hills, o’er the clifftops. From there it were all trekkin’ across heaths an’ moorlands, fordin’ rivers an’ brooks’n’streams. It took quite a few days, I can tell ye. We made it into the southwest marches o’ Mossflower Woodlands.”
Jem savoured the taste of his October Ale. “Aye, ’twas of a nightfall when we reached the trees. Lucky we did, marm, ’cos it came on to storm somethin’ fearful. So me’n ole Walt dug in under a rocky ledge for shelter. Huh, I wouldn’t be out in a storm like that’n for anythin’!”
Sister Armel interrupted Jem. “That big thunderstorm . . . but that was only five nights ago?”
The hedgehog nodded, holding out his tankard for a refill. “Right ye are, pretty miss. Otherwise we’d have arrived at yore Abbey two days afore the snow. Findin’ that beast cost us time.”
“So you did find the creature?” Abbot Humble enquired.
The traveller held his footpaws up to the fireglow. “That we did, cousin. ’Twas the followin’ morn when it ’appened. Neither of us was sure o’ the trail, y’see—that storm’d washed out the tracks. Well, we was wanderin’ along as best as we could, when ole Walt ’ears noises. A sort of gruntin’ an’ groanin’ an’ yowlin’, like as if somebeast was in pain. So we goes toward the din, an’ there ’twas, trapped under a big ole rotted sycamore that the storm musta blowed down. Got it right across its back, snapped the thing’s spine, I reckon. ’Twas clear the beast was dyin’. It was built like a big male badger, though its limbs was thicker an’ shorter. Strange-lookin’ thing—pointed, weaselly snout, with a thick, bushy-furred body, blackish brown, with lighter stripes runnin’ down both sides to a tail thicker’n a squirrel’s. But you should’ve seen its claws an’ teeth! I never seen such dangerous claws, or so many sharp fangs in one mouth. Made yore blood run cold t’see that animal, snarlin’, growlin’, screechin’, an’ tryin’ to bite its way through a tree trunk ten times its size!”
Foremole Bruffy twitched his snout curiously. “Boi ’okey! Wot did ee do, zurr?”
Hitheryon Jem shrugged. “Wasn’t alot we could do, really. As soon as it saw us, the beast roared an’ yowled even louder. That fallen sycamore was a great ole woodland giant of a thing—a score o’ creatures couldn’t ’ave budged it. So me’n Walt tried talkin’ to the beast. We told it we was friends an’ didn’t mean it no harm. Hah, it just bared its fangs at us an’ said, ‘Nobeast is friend of Askor. Ye come near, I tear ye to pieces. Askor slays all enemy, everybeast is enemy!’ ”
Jem paused and looked around at his audience. “Well, friends, I ask ye, wot were we t’do? Ole Walt threw Askor his canteen in case he was thirsty, but he flung it back at us. When I tossed him some food, he did the same thing. Can ye imagine it? Layin’ there under a big fallen tree, dyin’ of a broken back an’ refusin’ food, drink an’ friendship. I lost patience with Askor an’ told him he was a thick’eaded fool. He just gave a nasty laugh an’ said, ‘Gulo will come. Tell him I say he will never find Walking Stone. Askor soon will die, then you can eat me’!”
A horrified gasp came from Sister Armel. “Eat him?”
Jem clenched his jaw grimly. “Aye, those were his very words, miss. Huh, I told him we ’ad no intention of eatin’ him. Then he laughed, showed us those fangs of his an’ said, ‘You are fool, not eat Askor? Weak fool. I am wolverine, all beasts are my enemy. Wolverine eat enemy, grow strong on their blood! When Gulo find me, I will be long dead, not good to eat. You tell him, Askor wins, Walking Stone is mine forever. Gulo will never find Walking Stone.’ ”