High Rhulain

Snowdrop put aside her pen. “Really, young mouse, you’ve lived at Redwall how long, fifteen or sixteen seasons? Tell me, in all that time did you ever see any creature who had little else to do than stand about gazing through windows night and day, eh?”

Brinty saw how foolish his idea must have sounded. “Sorry, Sister, I see what you mean. I was only trying to help.”

Tribsy rapped a huge digging claw upon the table. “Oi says ee bestest way to solve ee riggle bee’s to start at ee beginnin’ of et, hurr!”

Snowdrop complimented him. “An excellent suggestion! I always said that nobeast could beat sound mole logic. Now, we know that the sun rises anew each day, but we don’t know what a Rhulain is. However, this mention of a warriormaid with Wildlough blood fits your description, Tiria.”

The ottermaid pointed at herself. “Me? I’m not a warrior!”

A wry look crossed the old Sister’s face. “Excuse my asking, but are you not the one who led the charge against a gang of water rats and saved the osprey? And do you not carry around a sling named Wuppit, a weapon with which you slew a vermin with a single throw from an incredible distance? Please correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t the blood of Wildlough otters run through your veins, hence the very name you go by, Wildlough?”

Tiria attempted to equal her interrogator’s irony. “Huh, we know all that! Kindly stop quibbling and get on with your explanation of the poem, my good mouse.”

Snowdrop resumed without comment. “It states that you must cross the Western Sea, but let’s skip ahead a few lines. The object of your journey is to aid your kinbeasts, doubtless that means other otters. We know that they dwell on this place called Green Isle and are in some kind of difficulty. So that’s a start.”

Girry interrupted by referring to the lines Snowdrop had skipped over. “Right then, but we’re not on Green Isle, neither is Tiria. So our first task is exactly what Brinty meant: We must first find the window watcher who is always looking at the signs feathers make. That seems to be the key to this puzzle. I wonder who it can be.”

Tribsy blinked a few times, allowing the information to sink in. “Oi doan’t know who et bee’s, do ee?”

Brinty looked to the Recorder. “Have you any ideas, sir?”

Snowdrop whispered, “No use asking him, I’m afraid the poor fellow’s fallen asleep again.”

With both paws folded across his gently heaving chest and both eyes closed, Quelt surprised them by speaking. “On the contrary, Sister, the poor fellow’s wide awake and drinking in every word you’ve spoken. Dearie me, it’s you lot whose eyes are really closed. The answer’s staring you right in the face!”

Tiria began to feel impatient with Quelt’s manner. “If you have the answer, sir, I’d be grateful if you’d give it to us, instead of pretending to be asleep!”

Quelt continued with his eyes still closed. “You were doing quite well for the main part, at least Snowdrop was, though it was young Girry who asked the most pertinent question. Who is the one who looks through windows at the signs made by feathers?”

Opening his eyes, the Librarian pointed directly at Snowdrop. “It’s you, my aged assistant!”

The little Sister’s voice rose squeakily. “Me? What makes you say that?”

Quelt took an unhurried sip of his tonic drink. “Ask yourself, what do we use to write with? Quills! And what are quills but the feathers of birds? So we dip them in ink and make marks, we write with them. Are you following me?”

Tribsy chortled. “Hurrhurrhurr, loik maggypies follerin’ ee frog, zurr. You’m carry roight on!”

The ancient squirrel obliged. “The riddle points to a ‘she,’ a knowledgeable creature. Observe!” Quelt removed his rock crystal spectacles and held them up.

“Constant seasons of study do not help one’s eyesight. Sooner or later, we elders need these windows to see properly through. My spectacles are round, and I am a he, not a she. Now look at Sister Snowdrop.”

Instantly the problem was solved for Tiria and her friends. “She wears little square glasses shaped like windows. I’ve never seen her without them. It is you, Sister!”

The dawn of a happy smile soon faded from Snowdrop’s face. She waved her paws in agitation. “No, no, I don’t know what a Rhulain is, or how to cross the Western Sea, and I’m woefully ignorant about Green Isle.”

Rising stiffly from his chair, Quelt left the table. “Tut tut, my dear friend, what a disappointment you’ve turned out to be after serving as my assistant for so many long seasons. A trained scholar and Librarian, surrounded by all the knowledge our Abbey has to offer—literature, records and histories. Why, it’s like a Dibbun being locked in Brink Greyspoke’s cellars complaining that he has nought to drink. Was all the training I gave you for nothing?”