The Rogue Crew

Fottlink held up the parchment for all to see. “So said Twoggs Wiltud, a wretched old hogwife who had neither skill to read nor write. Those words could only have been put in her mind by our Abbey’s guiding spirit, Martin the Warrior. To me, this can mean only one thing—we are in danger of being attacked by a Wearat. I know it sounds unlikely, but this beast is coming to Redwall in a green-sailed ship! Who amongst us would doubt the word of Martin?”

An uneasy silence fell over the assembly. It was soon broken by Foremole Roogo with practical mole sense. “Hurr, nobeast be doubten et, zurr. Point bee’s, wot’n be us’ns a-goen to do abowt et?”

Abbot Thibb shook the Foremole’s paw. “Thank you, Roogo. There’s nought to beat mole logic. So, what are we going to do, friends?”

Ding Toller, the Abbey’s squirrel Bellringer, spoke. “Say nought to the young uns. No point in scarin’ ’em. I say let’s not go jumpin’ to rash decisions. We need to go away an’ think deeply about this problem. Abbot?”

Thibb settled both paws in his wide habit sleeves. “What Ding says is right. Hard, sensible thinking may well provide a solution. However, I have an immediate proposal. We need to have lookouts on all four walltops, night and day. Foremole, will you see to it? Two guards to each wall, with volunteers to relieve them four times a day. Bring any news of sightings straight to me. In the meantime, friends, let’s go about our duties calmly.”

The meeting broke up then as Redwallers set about their everyday chores. The remainder of the day passed without incident. Things grew quiet, even at supper that night, when conversation usually flowed back and forth, spiced with banter and good humour.

Abbot Thibb noticed this. Sitting next to Fottlink at the head of the main table, he mentioned it. “Our friends seem taken up with their thoughts tonight.”

The Recorder nibbled at a mushroom and carrot pasty. “Hmm, but they’re only doing what Ding Toller suggested. What about you, Thibb, have you had any thoughts?”

The Abbot sipped at his blackberry cordial. “Yes, I have. What about if you and I go to Martin’s tapestry? After they’ve all gone to their dormitories, of course. In the silence of the small hours, maybe our Warrior’s spirit will send us a message, some words of wisdom perhaps.”

Fottlink brushed pasty crumbs from his habit front. “A splendid idea. I’ll bring charcoal sticks and parchment, to record anything which may occur.”

Thibb dropped his voice to a secretive whisper. “Give it a while after they’ve all gone up, then knock on my chamber door.”

It was sometime after midnight. Thibb had not gone to bed; he stood at his small window. From there, he could see the west walltop. Two moles were patrolling up and down, alert but unhurried. The Father Abbot of Redwall felt a surge of pride in his faithful friends. Redwallers could always be relied upon for whatever he wished. He was distracted by a faint tap on the door. It was Fottlink, carrying a satchel containing his recording materials. He grinned furtively.

“Are you ready, Thibb?”

Silently the pair tippawed downstairs and started to cross Great Hall, in which areas of dark shadow alternated with soft golden lantern light. A cold draught of air caused them to halt—they heard the creak of the main door opening.

Thibb pulled Fottlink behind one of the huge sandstone columns, whispering, “I thought there’d be nobeast about at this hour, but someone’s just come in the Abbey. Hush, now, let’s find out who could be wandering about.”

A moment later, Dorka Gurdy drifted past them. Looking neither left nor right, the otter Gatekeeper moved slowly and smoothly through the hall.

Fottlink watched her intently. “Hmm, sleepwalking, would you say, Thibb?”

The Abbot noted her trancelike stare as she passed them. “Sleepwalking definitely, I’d say. Best not wake her, though. Come on, let’s follow her quietly.”

Dorka went to the alcove by the hall’s west wall. She halted in front of the legendary tapestry depicting the Redwall hero. Soft candlelight and ruby-tinted lanterns illuminated the noble figure of Martin the Warrior. Fully armoured and leaning on his great sword, he stood at the centre of the depiction as embroidered vermin foebeasts fled from all about him. In the lantern light, his eyes seemed to twinkle as he faced out into the Abbey. To one side, held by two iron brackets, the sword itself hung beside the tapestry. Thibb and Fottlink stood back in the shadows, curious to see what would happen next.

Dorka reached up, taking the sword from its mounts. She laid the weapon flat on the worn stone floor and spun it. Fottlink already had his writing equipment out, recording her every move. The mighty blade was still spinning as Dorka spoke in a clear, unhurried tone.

“Look to the blade, my point ye must take,

to whence winds will bring evil in their wake,

for goodbeasts arriving, I bid ye wait,

they bring aid on the day thy need is great.

Two warriors that day will answer the call.

The most unlikely creatures of all!”