High Rhulain

Fortunately, the ottermaid was no weakling. Holding on to the bird, Tiria was able to stop them both from toppling off the walkway to the lawns below. Once its progress was arrested, the goose scrambled free of her and crouched back into the lee of the wall. It was a striking creature. Greyish black with white underfeathers, it had a quaintly comical face which looked rather friendly.

Tiria straightened up, but all she could think of to say was “Er, good morning!”

The barnacle goose nodded affably. “I am bidding you a good morning also. I am thinking that this is the place of Red Walls. I am of the Skyfurrows. Some of them have been here before, though not for many seasons. Here is where you have healers, I am told?”

Tiria noticed a tattered mass of mud and leaves sticking to the newcomer’s neck. “Healers? Oh yes, we have a healer at our Abbey. Has your neck been injured?”

The goose bent his beak toward the remnants of the makeshift dressing. “It is injured by an arrow I am. The Shellhound said that help I must seek. Arrow wounds can go bad, trouble that would mean for Brantalis.”

Tiria suddenly forgot her own vague problems. “Brantalis, is that your name? Mine’s Tiria, I’m a Redwaller. You stay right there, Brantalis, we’ll get you to a healer quickly.”

Brantalis clacked his beak. “Wait here I will!”

Hillyah and Oreal, the harvest mice, were emerging from the gatehouse with their twin babes. Tiria called to them from the walltop. “There’s an injured goose up here that needs help. You’d best get a stretcher and some bearers, it’s quite a large bird. Would you hurry, please?”

Oreal was a creature who could become easily flustered. Hopping from one paw to the other, he called out to his wife, “My dear, it’s an injured goose, whatever shall we do?”

His wife, a sensible type, took charge promptly. “Don’t get upset, dear. Stay here with Irgle and Ralg, I’ll soon get help!”

The harvest mousewife sped off toward the Abbey, with her pinafore hitched high. Irgle and Ralg slipped by their father. The mousebabes scuttled up the wallsteps. Eager to see the visitor, they both squealed excitedly, “A hinjagoose! A hinjagoose!”

Oreal stood undecided for a moment, then chased after them. “Come back, sugarplums, come back! Be careful, it might be dangerous!”

Tiria fended the little twins off, blocking their path as they leaped up and down, shouting, “Us wanna see the hinjagoose!”

Oreal caught them by their tails. “It’s not a hinjagoose, it’s an injured goose. Come away now, you naughty sugarplums!”

Irgle struggled in his father’s grasp. “I norra shuggaplump, I a h’infant Dibbun. Lemme see the hinjagoose!”

Tiria soon diverted their attention with the mention of food. “You can see the injured goose later on. There’s raspberry jelly and strawberry fizz for breakfast. If I were you, I’d go and get some before the others eat it all up!”

Within a moment, Oreal was being towed across the lawn by his whooping babes. “Rabbsee jelly anna straw’bee fizz, quick quick, ’urry up Daddy afore it be gone!”

Brantalis gave a honking laugh. “Small ones are always hungry for the good food I am thinking.”

Tiria nodded. “Aye, though they’ll be disappointed when they find I lied to them. It’ll be the same breakfast as usual. Got them out of the way though, didn’t it?”

Foremole came trundling up with a crew of six moles, carrying a stretcher between them. He tugged his snout politely to Tiria. “Beggen ee pardun, miz, bee’s this yurr ee gurt burd us’n’s must carry to ee h’Abbey?”

Brantalis rose hastily and began descending the wallsteps in a series of wobbling hops. “I will not be carried by these strange mice, dropping me they would be. By myself I will walk!”

Tiria restrained herself from laughing at the comical aspect of Brantalis and the indignant look on Foremole Grudd’s face. She apologised to the mole leader. “I’m sorry, sir, but it seems Brantalis appears able to get himself across to the Abbey.”

Signalling dismissal to his crew, Grudd marched off with his snout in the air. “Boi okey, oi’m not a botherin’ abowt ee h’ungrateful gurt bag o’ feathers. Gudd day to ee, marm!”

Still stifling her mirth, Tiria bowed deeply to Grudd. “Good day to you, sir, and my thanks for your kind offer of help.”

Clack!

Had she not bowed, the ottermaid would have surely been slain by the crude spear which flew in over the battlements. The weapon’s chipped-flint head shattered as it struck the parapet.

Whipping off the sling Wuppit and loading it in the same movement, Tiria leaped to the walltop. Below, in the ditch that ran alongside the path stretching from north to south, she glimpsed the water rats. It was Groffgut’s gang, racing away north up the dried-out ditchbed. Tiria identified the gangleader’s voice as he shouted, “Dat wuz the waterdog! I missed’er, but ’twas dat mouse wot beated me up dat I wanna kill!”