High Rhulain

Brinty threw up his paws irritably. “Then what’s the point of solving dream riddles if you can’t get to this confounded Green Isle place, eh?”

Sister Snowdrop looked over the rims of her tiny square spectacles. “Will somebeast please tell me, what is all this business of dreams and riddles?”

The osprey fluttered down from his perch. “Kreeaah! I know nought of dreams or riddles!”

Brantalis edged away from the fierce fish hawk, murmuring, “I am thinking the Piketalon knows nought but catching fish.”

Pandion’s golden eyes stared unblinkingly at the goose. “Better than dabbling in mud and honking to frighten clouds!”

Brother Perant stamped his paw and raised his voice. “Enough, do ye hear me? I will not have squabbling in my Infirmary. You, Pandion, back up on that sill! Brantalis, under the table and hold your beak!”

Girry winked at the normally mild-mannered healer. “That’ll teach ’em, eh Brother?”

Perant pointed to the door in a frosty manner. “Out, the lot of you! Go and solve your problems elsewhere, and leave me in peace. Come on, begone with you, and you, too, Sister Snowdrop!”

They shuffled silently out onto the landing. As the door slammed behind them, the little old Sister pulled a comical face, even though Perant could not see her. “Yah, stuffy old bandage bonce, go and physick yourself!”

Tiria shook her head wearily. “We’re not getting very far with this, are we?”

Snowdrop took her by the paw. “Don’t be so easily defeated, young ’un. Follow me, I’ll help you with your riddles and puzzles. I’m rather good at that sort of thing.”

Sister Snowdrop took them upstairs to the lower attics, where she worked as Old Quelt’s assistant. “Let’s go into the library. I can think better in there.”

The friends were reluctant to invade Quelt’s inner sanctum, since it was the ancient squirrel’s retreat from everyday life. Tiria whispered to the little Sister, “But won’t Old Quelt object to us disturbing him?”

For all her long seasons, Snowdrop was quite young at heart. Placing her paw on the library doorlatch, she giggled. “Heehee, not to worry, the old buffer’s probably taking his morning nap!”

Without warning, the door opened inward and the Sister fell flat as she went with it. Snowdrop found herself sprawled on the floor, staring up into the face of Redwall Abbey’s revered Librarian-cum-Recorder.

Quelt bowed politely. “Come in, friends. As you can see, the old buffer’s had his morning nap. Eh, Sister Snowdrop?”

6

It was late night over Green Isle. The river flowed smoothly along toward the sea, reflecting a half-moon and the brief flash of a comet blazing its track across the dark sky vaults. Two figures stole silently through the undergrowth which fringed the bank. They halted as a nightjar called from the darkened shallows. One of the two otters, Whulky, cupped both paws around his mouth and croaked like a frog.

A floating log materialised out of the shadows. Leatho Shellhound, who was poling it, jumped ashore and joined paws with the pair. “Sure I knew ye’d come. Y’weren’t followed, I trust?”

Chab, Whulky’s companion, reassured him. “The guards are so stuffed with roasted birdflesh that they’re snorin’ at their posts!”

The outlaw otter’s teeth gleamed in the moonlight as he drew in a short, angry breath. “A murderous an’ brutal affair, buckoes. All those pore birds killed to suit the whim of Riggu Felis. Ah well, hop on, an’ I’ll take ye to the gatherin’.”

As they poled the log downriver, Whulky whispered, “Is it true Zillo the Bard will be there?”

Keeping his eyes on the watercourse, the sea otter replied, “For sure ’tis. He’s been takin’ the enchanted slumber agin.’Twill be interestin’ to hear his ballad.”

Tall stones protruded up from the scrubland behind the shore dunes. Berthing the log, the three otters headed for them. In the past, sea and stream otters had gathered at this time-honoured venue in the hundreds. However, owing to the regime of Riggu Felis, that night’s attendance was no more than twoscore in number.

The site was screened by a ring of scrub bushes, with six sentries posted on watch. Leatho and his two friends waved to them and made their way to the fire at the centre of the tall stones. They were greeted by the others, who sat them down and served out bowls of burgoolla. This was a thick stew of seaweed and shellfish, seasoned with the most fiery of herbs and spices. A mere whiff of the burgoolla aroma, though delicious, could wring tears from a creature’s eyes with its sheer heat. Customarily, no words were spoken during the eating of this otter delicacy—except to either compliment or criticise its quality.

Whulky fanned a paw across his mouth after the first taste. “Ah sure, an’ isn’t this a true drop of the grand stuff?”

Many agreed with him. “Hoho, ’tis grand sure enough!”

But there were always those who liked to disagree.

“Arraway with ye. I’ve scraped better burgoolla off’n me ould granma’s pinny, so I have!”

“Aye, the stuff tastes like a duck in a muddle.”

There were many indignant defenders.