High Rhulain

Old Quelt smiled at the embarrassment on the faces of Sister Snowdrop and her four companions. “Don’t stand staring at the floor and shuffling your paws like naughty Dibbuns. Come in, all of you, and welcome. Redwallers have been making jokes about Old Quelt since long before you were born, Sister Snowdrop. Please run along and find these young ’uns something to drink.”

Snowdrop brought a flagon of pennycloud-and-rosehip tonic and some beakers from a window ledge, and poured the drinks. Tiria and her friends sat at a long, well-polished beechwood table, gazing about them at Quelt’s pride and joy: Redwall Abbey’s first library.

All four walls were shelved out from floor to ceiling with good oaken planking. Every possible area was full of books and scrolls. Thin pamphlets stood spine to spine with tall tomes, thick volumes and beribbonned rolls of parchment, all in neat order. To one side of the fireplace was a nook, which held a writing desk with two padded stools. Quill pens and charcoal sticks, together with hardwood rulers, sealing wax and sheafs of parchment, lay stacked, ready for use.

The ancient squirrel peered over the top of his glasses at his gaping guests. “Almost a lifetime’s work. I did it, you know. Helped, of course, by the good Sister Snowdrop, our trusty Cellarhog Carpenter and many obliging moles. So, what do ye think?”

Tiria acted as spokesbeast. “It’s wonderful, sir, most impressive. I hadn’t realised there were so many books and scrolls in our Abbey.”

Snowdrop refilled their beakers. “This is now the repository for all the written works of Redwall. Quelt gathered them in this former attic room. It took us long seasons to clear out the gatehouse records, and even longer to empty out the Abbess’s chambers, and the kitchens, cellars and dormitories.”

The Librarian-cum-Recorder sighed wearily. “Aye, and we’re still searching, discovering, dusting, repairing and cataloguing old writings. Huh, and that’s beside my work as Redwall Recorder.”

Brinty complimented Quelt. “You’ve worked wonders, sir. I expect you’re very proud of your library!”

The oldster wiped a drop of tonic from the tabletop with his sleeve. “ ‘Proud’ is not the word I’d use, ‘fulfilled’ sums it up better. Yes, I feel fulfilled by my achievement. But you haven’t come here to listen to some doddering old fogey rattling on about his library. What exactly are you looking for? Is there any way I can be of assistance?”

Sister Snowdrop glanced at Tiria. “Tell him about your dream riddle.”

Quelt began rolling up his wide habit sleeves. “Oh do, miss, I pray you. Riddles, puzzles or conundrums, I’ve always been pretty fair at that type of thing. Now, you may start at the beginning, and please leave nothing out!”

The ottermaid related her dream in detail—the big lake and its shore, and her encounter with Martin the Warrior and the otter lady. Word for word she recited the poem, then explained about her dream’s aftermath.

“It was very odd. After I woke up, I couldn’t even recall that I’d had a dream. Then my father unknowingly repeated the line about Wildlough blood, and it all came back as clear as day to me.”

Old Quelt picked up quill, parchment and ink. He stroked at his scraggy, silver whiskers reflectively before replying. “Hmm, very interesting. What do you young ’uns make of it all?”

Tribsy wrinkled his velvety snout. “We’m wuz ‘opin’ you’m or ee Sister cudd make sumthin’ of it all, zurr. Arter all, we’m bain’t gurt scholarbeasts like you’m bee’s.”

Girry agreed. “Huh, I wasn’t very bright at Abbeyschool.”

Brinty shook his head. “Neither was I. What about you, Tiria?”

The ottermaid smiled ruefully. “Afraid not, mate. When I should’ve been studying, I was always fooling about with slings and stones. Wish I’d paid more attention now.”

Sister Snowdrop stared at them through her small square glasses. “Oh, I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourselves, you four never struck me as dullards. Most riddles can be solved with some serious concentration. Let’s put our heads together and make a joint effort at finding the solution.”

Quelt pointed his quill pen at his assistant. “A sensible idea, Snowdrop. Come on, you can be the Recorder for a change. I want you to write down what Tiria has to say. Miss, would ye kindly repeat the poem again for us? Slowly, please.”

Tiria spoke the rhyme methodically, allowing the little Sister to keep pace with her words.

“Like the sun, High Rhulain will rise anew,

to set the downtrodden free.

A warriormaid with Wildlough blood

must cross the Western Sea.

She who looks ever through windows

at the signs that feathers make,

seek the Green Isle through her knowledge,

for all thy kinbeasts’ sake.”

Brinty came up with an immediate idea. “Why don’t we go down to the front lawns, stand back and watch all the Abbey windows? We may catch sight of the one who is always looking through them.”