Pearls of Lutra by Brian Jacques
I swore then an oath that the seasons would show,
My green arrows flying,
And sea vermin dying,
Cursing with their last breath the swift song of my bow.
So vengeance will drive me,
As long as my paw’s strong,
To sharpen a shaft and my bowstring to stretch.
The price vermin paid,
For six pearls from a raid,
Is that death bears the same name as I, Grath Longfletch.’
Inbar Trueflight turned slowly to look at his companion. ‘That is a tragic an’ terrible tale, Grath. I see now how close to death that searat came when you spoke to him.’
Grath plucked an arrow from her quiver and sighted down its shaft, testing it for straightness. ‘Since I laid my family to rest an’ went rovin’, many corsairs an’ searats have fallen to these arrows o’ mine.’
Her friend shook his huge head in wonderment. ‘I’ve never known killin’ or war. Ruddaring Isle is a place touched only by good order an’ peace. You’ve seen my archery skills, I’m a deadshot with bow an’ arrow, but never did I aim at a livin’ thing.’
Ramming the arrow back into its quiver, Grath stood upright. ‘I was the same till the wavescum came to our holt on the far north shore, but I’ve learned different, mate. Any creature holdin’ out the paw of peace to searats or corsairs will get it chopped off by a sword. That’s the lesson I’ve been taught, an’ you’ll learn the same soon, so get used to it. I’m goin’ t’sleep now.’
Turning on her footpaw she stalked off to her place by the fire. Inbar remained seated, staring at his wide, powerful paws. His father had told him that the outside world was a different place; he was not sure he was going to like the difference.
Clecky opened one eye. In the soft dawn light he found himself staring at a brightly hued beetle perched upon his nose. With a twitch and a puff of breath from the side of his mouth, he dislodged the insect, blinking disdainfully at it as it trundled off through the sand and grass.
‘Cheeky-faced object, go an’ perch on some otherbeast’s hooter! No blinkin’ respect, that’s the trouble with beetles . . . I say, do I smell brekkers? Jolly good show, you chaps!’
Plogg, Welko and Viola had been up and about since the crack of dawn. They had rekindled the fire and made a meal. Clecky sat up, waggling his ears in anticipation as Viola served him.
‘Hot shrewcakes, honey, fruit salad and melon juice,’ she said. ‘We thought you deserved a break from cooking. Anyhow, you always cook too much so that you can have three helpings.’
Grath was sitting between Martin and Inbar having breakfast. Suddenly she jumped up, looking left and right, reaching for her bow.
‘Where’s the searat? He must’ve escaped.’
Welko allayed her fears quickly. ‘Ole Gowja’s safe, marm, don’t you fret. Me’n Plogg couldn’t stand lookin’ at ’is ugly mis’rable mug, so we took ’im down aboard the ship an’ secured ’im all snug’n’tight with a fetter an’ chain stapled to the mainmast, even gave ’im vittles too.’
Martin smiled and winked at the shrew. ‘Well done, ’tis poetic justice really. I’ll wager that was the same chain they used to keep the Abbot prisoner on the voyage.’
After breakfast Martin called them all to a council of war. Drawing on the sandy ground with his swordpoint, he illustrated a plan he had formed.
‘Right, here we are, and here’s the palace which is under attack. Now, I’m certain Abbot Durral is somewhere in that building and it’s our job to free him and get away from this island, so here’s what I propose. If we’re to get into the palace we must create a diversion so we’re not overrun by lizards or whatever beasts are up there. Listen carefully, you all have a vital part to play in this scheme, and it’s highly dangerous and we run a great risk of losing our lives. Anybeast who feels they cannot take part in my plan speak now, I’ll understand.’
Viola answered for them all.
‘We came here to free our Father Abbot and take him home to Redwall. If our enemies were ten times the number they are now we would never back down, never! Tell us your plan, Martin sir, everybeast here is with you to the death!’
Tropical morning sunlight beat down on the cove where Waveworm lay, east of Sampetra. Martin’s great sword slashed paths and patterns in the earth as his crew sat listening to the daring idea unfold. Stirred by the excitement of it all, Plogg drew his short rapier, glaring resolutely towards the west coast of the island.
‘Aye, ’tis perilous, that’s sure. But if I live through this ’un, it’ll make a great tale to tell around the fire on a winter’s night to me grandshrews in the seasons t’come, matey!’
49
ROLLO EMPTIED THE contents of the little yew box out onto the seat of the angler’s stool; Craklyn held the lantern close so they could see clearly in the darkened chamber. Dry and crisp, light as thistledown after its long sojourn in the box, the dried carcass of a bee lay on the stool.
Tansy stared at it, her voice shrill with disappointment. ‘A dead bee, is that all?’
The old Recorder peered into the box, blew into it and poked a claw about inside. ‘Well, there’s nothing else in here, but I expected something like this. Tell me the end of the poem again, Craklyn.’
The squirrelmaid thought for a moment then recalled the lines. ‘“See if you can find the right hip, turn west and you’re halfway there.”’
Picking up the dead bee, Rollo seated himself on the stool. ‘Halfway there! I knew it. Fermald the Ancient isn’t giving up the last pearl so lightly to us. This pitiful dead thing is only half the clue. We’ve solved the first part by getting this far, and an old dead bee is the second part. When we’ve found what it means the last pearl will be ours.’
Tansy almost danced with irritation. ‘But there’s nothing with it, no parchment or poem, nothing except a silly old thing that was once a bee, though goodness knows how many seasons ago!’
As they walked back into Great Hall, Craklyn had an idea. ‘Maybe it’s something beginning with the letter B?’
Rollo gazed around the moonshadowed hall and yawned. ‘How about bed, that begins with B. I’m tired.’
Tansy took the dead insect from him. ‘Oh, that’s brilliant, sir,’ she said, her voice echoing angrily. ‘Brilliant begins with B too, and breakfast and bath and badger and . . . and . . .’
Craklyn took hold of Tansy’s paw gently. ‘And bad-tempered beast. Rollo’s right, it’s late and we’re all tired. Come on, pal, time you were in bed. We’ll see if we can sort this thing out tomorrow.’
Shamefacedly, Tansy passed the dead bee back to Rollo. ‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s not your fault we only found a bee. Forgive me!’
The old Recorder leaned heavily against her, chuckling. ‘I’m not bothered by bees, but ready to do battle with blankets, my friend. Carry me upstairs!’
Tansy shook him off playfully. ‘You’re getting far too old to go upstairs, we’ll have to get Furlo Stump to make you a little barrel bed down here!’
With surprising agility for one of his seasons, Rollo hitched up his robe and scampered off up the stairs, cackling, ‘Too old, am I? Well, last one up is a frazzled frog, heeheehee!’
Three hours after dawn the next morning birdsong echoed from the Abbey’s inner walls, white clouds flecked a cheery blue sky and the treetops of Mossflower Wood rippled in a light fragrant breeze. Tansy was still asleep in her bed when she was set upon and attacked by Dibbuns.
‘Cummon, missie, waykee h’up, gurt pudden’ead, still asleepen, hurr!’
Struggling awake, she tried to fight back, but Arven buffeted her soundly with a pillow.
‘Tansy pansy toogle doo! Sleep alla day an’ y’get no brekfiss!’
Kicking off two molebabes who were tickling her footpaws, the hedgehog maid succeeded in capturing Arven and rolling him in a blanket. ‘Leave me alone, you little maggot, I was up very late last night and I need my sleep, now go on, be off with you!’
&nb
Tansy leapt out, dashing water from a basin onto her face and wiping it with a towel. ‘No breakfast of mine is going to be scoffed by Gerul the Glutton! Out of my way, I need food!’
Chuckling and giggling uproariously, the Dibbuns pursued her downstairs, to where Rollo and Craklyn sat, halfway through their morning meal. Craklyn indicated a seat. ‘Over here, Tansy, there’s oatbread, raspberry preserve, strawberry cordial too, I know that’s your favourite breakfast.’
Tansy sat down between her friends, panting. ‘The Dibbuns said Friar Higgle was going to give my breakfast to Gerul, so I got down as fast as I could.’
Arven vaulted onto the tabletop, pointing at Craklyn. ‘She tol’ us t’say dat, Friar never said noffink!’
Craklyn ducked as Tansy’s wooden spoon narrowly missed her. ‘Well, we had to get you out of bed somehow, or you’d have snored until supper!’
Tansy spread raspberry preserve on a warm oatcake. ‘Well, Rollo, any more news of our dead bee? It didn’t get up and fly off during the night, did it?’
The bankvole polished his glasses on the tablecloth. ‘Very droll indeed, young maid. We were about to take it to one who might help us, Brother Dormal. Nobeast in Redwall has a knowledge of plants and insects like the good Brother.’
Gulping down her drink and spreading another oatcake with preserve, Tansy quitted the table. ‘Good idea! Come on – what’re we waiting for?’
Dormal was out in the orchard with Gerul, explaining the finer points of a redcurrant hedge to the owl as the three friends walked up.
Rollo held out the dead bee on the flat of his paw. ‘Dormal, old friend, what do you make of this . . . Oh dear!’
A vagrant breeze caught the featherlike beehusk and swept it up into the air. Craklyn cried out, ‘Stop that bee, it shouldn’t be flying, it’s dead!’
They watched it being swept up almost above the height of a well-grown apple tree. Tansy dashed about on the ground, with her paws outstretched, ready to catch the bee if the wind dropped. ‘If it gets lost we’ll never find the sixth pearl,’ she cried. ‘Oh please, somebeast, do something!’
Gerul flapped his wings experimentally, did an awkward hopskipping run and leapt into the air, flapping. He hovered for seconds, swaying on the breeze, then spread his awesome wings and soared upwards, flapping them slowly. Below, they watched open-mouthed as the owl swept round in a great wheeling arc and expertly picked the bee out of mid-air with his beak. In a trice he was back on the grass, depositing the bee in Tansy’s outstretched paw.
She smiled and shook her head. ‘You feathery old fraud, your wings were supposed to be far too badly injured for you ever to fly again!’
Plucking a redcurrant from the hedge, Gerul chewed thoughtfully. ‘Yore right, missie, you ain’t wrong, sure an’ I thought the same thing meself till just a moment ago. I didn’t know I could still fly, then I saw you all so upset over losin’ yer bee, and I was in the air flyin’ before I could stop meself, so I was!’
Brother Dormal scratched his nose to hide a smile. ‘No doubt your old mother would have had something to say about it all, had she been here, of course.’
Gerul crammed several more redcurrants into his beak. ‘Yer right, sir Brother, so she would. I remember when I was a chick fresh out o’ the egg, my ould mother used t’say, you’ll never fly till yer try, an if yer never try you’ll never fly, so try’n’fly an’ y’ll find out why, it’s good to try an’ nice t’fly!’
Tansy shook Gerul’s taloned claw energetically. ‘And never a truer word was spoken! Well done, sir!’
Brother Dormal listened as they told him how they had come to find the bee. He inspected the body closely, and said, ‘Hmm, ’tis just a long-dead bee, friends. How am I supposed to help you?’
Craklyn curtsied prettily, playing up to the good Brother by flattering him. ‘It was me, Brother. I said, let’s go and ask Brother Dormal, of all Redwallers his knowledge of plants and insects is the greatest by far. Brother Dormal is a clever and educated creature, I said.’
Dormal smiled, pleased but slightly embarrassed by the compliment. ‘Ahem, thank you, young maid. Hmmm, let me think, perhaps while I’m mulling the problem over, you could stop that owl bolting all my redcurrants, or he’ll make himself too heavy to fly again.’
Gerul was shooed from the orchard complaining loudly. ‘Ah, faith’n’seasons, ’tis a bitter day when a pore bird tries to help friends an’ they reward him by starvin’ the wretched creature. An’ after me wearin’ me ould wings t’the bone catchin’ dead bees for ye, shame on y’all. Sure I’ll take meself off to the kitchens an’ tell me good mate ma Teasel about it, no doubt she’ll toss me a few ould candied chestnuts t’keep beak an’ feathers together. Oh, ’tis a hard cruel Abbey I’m livin’ in!’ He ambled off doing small practice flights, followed by the three friends’ laughter.
Dormal took a piece of blackberry creeper vine, wound the dead bee in it so that it would not blow away again, and gave it to Craklyn.
‘My thoughts on this are very simple. Everything in its place, and a place for everything. For instance, if I had a dead fish I would immediately think of the pond; a cracked egg, the nest; an empty acorn cup, the oak tree. Any object originates from somewhere, so if you present me with a dead bee, straight away one word springs to mind. Hive!’
Rollo slapped a paw hard against his own forehead. ‘Of course, the hive! You make things seem so simple with your straightforward logic, Dormal. How can we ever thank you?’
The good Brother smiled shyly. ‘Oh, I have a feeling you won’t be thanking me yet, at least not until I have discovered which beehive your pearl is hidden in. After all, I am the Abbey beekeeper, an unofficial title which I share with our cellarhog Furlo Stump. Actually I think our friends the beefolk like Furlo the best, he has a way with them. Let’s go and ask him.’
50
FURLO STUMP AND Foremole were in the winecellars, their tabletop a barrelhead and their seats small kegs. The sturdy cellar-keeper was always glad of company.
‘Come ye in, friends, we’d be be’olden fer yore advice!’
Tansy glanced at the array of food on the barrelhead table. ‘They say fair exchange is no robbery, sir, and we’ve come for your advice on a matter of importance.’
Foremole moved the kegs apart and placed a plank between them, making a seat for all to sit upon. ‘Yurr, mates, bain’t nuthin’ so apportant as vittles, you ’uns ’elp us’ns furst.’
Dormal sat willingly, eyeing the food. ‘Certainly, what do you want us to do?’
Furlo brought out extra plates, beakers and knives. ‘We’re a tastin’ cheeses against drinks to go with ’em. Now, ’ere’s dandelion an’ burdock cordial, October Ale, strawberry fizz, elderberry wine, mint tea an’ plum’n’damson cup. The cheeses are t’be matched with ’em, there’s the big yellow with chestnut an’ celery, a white wi’ hazelnuts in it, that pale gold with chives’n’apple an’ the soft cream with almonds. Any’ow there’s a few others that y’know, so take a nibble an’ a sip o’ anythin’ suits yore fancy an’ give us an opinion.’
They all set about the delightful task with a will.
‘Ooh! The soft cream and almond tastes lovely with strawberry fizz!’
‘Hurr, thurr bain’t nuthin’ loik ’tober Ale an’ ee gurt yeller ’un wi’ chessnutters’n’cel’ry, boi ’okey thurr bain’t!’
‘Yes, I’m inclined to agree with you, Foremole, but this one over here, the fawn-coloured one with carrot and acorn in it, now that really goes well with mint tea. Try it.’
‘I like the plum’n’damson cup with chive and apple cheese. What’s that one you’ve got, Tansy?’
‘It’s a sort of solid reddy one with radish and onion in it; it tastes marvellous with a sip of dandelion and burdock cordial.’
The tasting
When they were finished, Rollo gave the parchment to Furlo. ‘I’ve written it all down here, friend, which cheeses are matched with each drink by popular agreement.’
Furlo Stump accepted the list gratefully. ‘Thankee all, now when there’s a feast I only ’ave to glance at Teasel an’ my brother ’iggle’s menu, an’ I knows which drinks to serve. You don’t know ’ow much of an ’elp this’ll be to us.’
Foremole nodded his velvety head in agreement. ‘Burr aye, zurrs’n’missies, ’twill save a lot o’ rushen abowt oop an’ daown ee stairs on our ole paws, hurr hurr!’
Furlo cleared his barreltop table. ‘Now, wot service can I render you goodbeasts in return?’
Sitting in respectful silence they watched the stout hedgehog move the dead bee this way and that, peering closely at it. He made small tutting noises as he turned the object back and forth on the tabletop, shaking his head.
‘This ain’t one of our bees,’ he said, ‘we ’ave good ole honeybees at Redwall, they don’t carry as much fuzz on ’em as this feller.’
Brother Dormal nodded in agreement. ‘Aye, that’s what I thought, Furlo. Perhaps it’s a redtailed bumblebee, what d’you think?’
Furlo picked the bee up and brought it close to his eyes. ‘Redtailed bumblebee, eh? Well, you could be fergiven for thinkin’ that, Brother, but this’n ain’t no redtail, though it looks like one. I only ever seen a few o’ these in my seasons. This is a mason bee, quite a rare insect in these parts.’
Craklyn looked at the carcass questioningly. ‘A mason bee, what sort of hive does that live in?’
Furlo warmed to his subject. ‘Mason bees don’t ’ave a hive, missie, they’re solitary creatures. They’ll burrow into the side of a wall, ’twixt the gaps in stones where the mortar’s gone soft. Sometimes they’ll do it in solid sand, like the dry side of a riverbank, though walls is mainly their favourite place. The male an’ female roots out a single space, and there they leave one egg with honey an’ nectar t’feed the young when it ’atches. They seal the nest with mud an’ go off to build the next one.’