High Rhulain

Little Sister Snowdrop smote the tabletop so hard that the beakers rattled and her paw went numb. “Yowch! No sir, it certainly was not! I’ll help you, Tiria. In fact I’ll start right away, going through the early archives. Thank you, Quelt, my brain’s working properly now. Tiria, take Brinty and Tribsy with you. Go and question that goose again. Brantalis knows the way to Green Isle, he said so. And the fish hawk, Pandion, he lives on Green Isle. I’ll wager a berry to a chestnut he knows what’s going on there with otters and so on. See what information you can glean from him. Right, on your way, friends!”

As Girry watched them hurrying away, his face fell. “But, Sister, what about me?”

Snowdrop pushed him ahead of her as she bustled toward the bookshelves. “You’ve just been appointed Second Assistant Librarian. A younger pair of eyes, somebeast who can carry stacks of books and reach high shelves, that’s what I need. Come on, young squirrel, quick’s the word and sharp’s the action. Now, shall we start at A for anything, G for Green Isle, R for Rhulain or D for dreams?”

Old Quelt looked up from the desk, where he had installed himself to catch up on recording events of Abbeylife. “I’d start with U, for upstairs attic. There are still lots of books and scrolls up there, waiting to be identified. Prepare to get your tail dusty, young Girry! Now, where was I? Oh yes! This fine day began eventfully with the visit of an injured barnacle goose, and the slaying of a vermin creature by a warrior ottermaid. . . .”

Sunlight lanced through the foliage of East Mossflower Woodlands, creating a bright kaleidoscope of green, gold and tan. Brimstone, clouded yellow, and small white butterflies fluttered and perched on the marshy banks of a gurgling stream, which flowed out of a watermeadow. Skipper Banjon crouched on the edge, casting about amid the rank black ooze.

Brink Greyspoke tested the soggy mess with a cautious footpaw. “Careful, Skip, ye could go down in that stuff!”

The Skipper retreated, wiping his paws on the grass. “Aye, this is the furthest I’m trackin’ any vermin. They’ve either sunk under that lot or they’ve made it to the watermeadows. There’s more’n ten exits from those meadows. We’d be half a season tryin’ to pick up their trail again. Brink, what d’ye think?”

The Cellarhog held his snout to help block out the odours of rotted vegetation and soggy, water-logged wood. “I don’t reckon they’ll be botherin’ Redwall again. Let’s go back to the Abbey. That little walk has whetted my appetite for lunch.”

The pair strode off, back the way they had come, chatting amicably.

“I didn’t know yore appetite had t’be whetted, mate. I’ve never knowed it t’be blunted!”

“Hoho, lissen who’s talkin’, ole Banjon barrelbelly!”

“Nonsense! I’m only a slip of a beast compared to you. That apron o’ yores would go round me three times!”

As their sounds receded into the woodlands, not a stone’s throw from the bank where Banjon and Brink had been standing the sticky morass beneath an overhanging grey willow burst asunder, spewing forth Groffgut and his gang of water rats. Spitting and vomiting the nauseous slime, they staggered up onto firm ground. Every one of the rats was plastered from head to foot with marsh debris and reeked with its stench.

Frogeye dug something from his ear with a piece of twig. “Wot did we hafta jump in der for? I nearly drownded!”

Groffgut clouted him over the head. “ ’Cos we woulda got caught. We hadter ’ide, softbrain!”

Rashback spat out a woodlouse, then picked it up and ate it. “Cudden’t we ’ave fought ’em off, Chief? Der’s eight of us, an’ only two of dem.”

Plugtail wiped ooze from his eyes as he corrected him. “Seven, ye mean, der’s only seven of us now. Pore ole Hangpaw was slayed when we was runnin’ away.”

Threetooth sat down and started scraping off body mud with his stone spearblade. “Mebbe Hangpaw wasn’t kil’t. He might be still alive back der.”

Groffgut kicked out at Threetooth but missed, slipped and fell flat on his tail. Obbler and Fleddy, the youngest two gang members, burst out into cackling laughs at Groffgut’s mishap.

The gang leader jumped upright, fuming. “Wot’s so funny, eh, eh? Youse lot makes me sick ter the neck. Ye think we cudda fought dem off—a great big ‘edgepig anna giganantic waterdog? Yer think Hangpaw’s still alive back in dat ditch, eh, eh?”

Ranting and spitting mud, he vented his temper on them. “Well goo on den, chase after de ’edgepig an’ de riverdog. An’ when youse’ve kil’t ’em, den go back ter d’ditch an’ see if Hangpaw’s still alive. Well, who’s gunna go?”

None of the gang felt like pursuing the issue further, knowing Groffgut’s violent temper. They sat silent, cleaning themselves up and avoiding their leader’s angry stares.

Frogeye finally made an attempt to calm the situation. “Yah, who cares about all dose daftbeasts an’ their h’abbey? Hangpaw’s dead, an’ dat’s dat! Dis is a big forest, wid plenny o’ vikkles about. Let’s jus’ move on an’ find somewheres else.”