She who looks ever through windows
at the signs which feathers make,
seek the Green Isle through her knowledge,
for all thy kinbeasts’ sake.”
Then both Martin and his companion glided on past Tiria. She yearned to follow them but felt rooted to the spot. As the bright noon of her dreams darkened, desolation overcame the ottermaid. She felt them fade into the mists, and she was left alone, standing on the deserted lakeshore amid the sighing breeze, with the otter’s words echoing throughout the corridors of her mind. Tiria did not sleep peacefully for the remainder of that night. She tossed and turned fitfully, imbued with a restless energy.
5
Tiria was up with the dawn the next morning with a sense of unfulfilled purpose that she could not name. Dressing hastily, she hurried downstairs. Her normally healthy appetite usually took her to the kitchens; instead, she avoided them and went straight outdoors. It was a fresh summer morn, the grass underpaw heavy with dew. Lawn borders were patches of pastel colours, with daisy, milkwort, rockrose and pasque flower in profusion. She paused at the northwest Abbey gable, catching the sweet chirrup of ascending larksong from the flatlands beyond the west ramparts. The sound blended melodiously with the cooing of woodpigeon from the woodland on the far side of the east wall.
The poignant moment was broken by the interruption of two gruff voices singing raucously. Tiria knew it was her father and Brink, coming up from the Abbey pond after their night fishing. She also realized that a meeting with the jolly pair would result in being questioned. What was she doing outdoors so early, couldn’t she sleep, had she eaten a good breakfast yet? Avoiding the tiresome interview, the ottermaid stepped behind a protruding buttress and waited for them to go indoors. However, the happy pair were in no hurry.
Carrying a splendid grayling between them in a net, Brink and Banjon sang away lustily.
“O I knew a worm who turned to his tail,
an’ this is wot he said,
I wish that you’d stop followin’ me,
as though we both were wed.
Said the tail to the head stop pullin’ me,
’cos I’ve no wish to go,
besides, I think yore really a tail,
an’ I’m the head you know!
This caused the worm some great concern,
he said, I’m sure yore wrong,
an’ they both began to bicker about,
to whom did the stomach belong?
Both tempers did boil, while disputin’ a coil,
they fell into an awful fight,
they wriggled an’ squirmed an’ waggled an’ turned,
for worms as ye know can’t bite.
Then a big blackbird, who’d heard every word,
came flutterin’ out of a tree,
I’ll oblige ye both, the blackbird quoth,
an’ he ate them both for tea.
So that was that, he settled their spat,
an’ I’ll bid ye all good day,
for it’s head to tails when reasonin’ fails,
a worm should crawl away!”
They finished the song, but Tiria had to wait whilst they performed a little jig on the Abbey steps, shaking paws and patting each other’s backs triumphantly. The slam of the Abbey door told the ottermaid that they had gone inside. She came out of hiding and continued her rambling walk.
With no real purpose, Tiria made her way up the wallsteps to the northwest corner of the ramparts, where she stood staring out over the flatlands. Across these plains, she had been told, were hills, mountains and the shores which bordered the Western Sea. Like many Redwallers, she had never traversed that far, but being an otter, Tiria knew that someday she would. Oblivious to the sounds of Abbeydwellers commencing their day’s activities behind her, she remained, caught in a reverie of unknown problems.
At first, she did not notice that the dark shape was coming toward her. Only when it got closer did Tiria see that it was a bird—a large barnacle goose, much bulkier than an osprey. She wondered why it was flying so low, and alone, too. Geese usually flew very high in a V-shaped gaggle known as a skein. It soared straight in over the battlements, landing on Tiria in an ungainly heap.
Fortunately, the ottermaid was no weakling. Holding on to the bird, Tiria was able to stop them both from toppling off the walkway to the lawns below. Once its progress was arrested, the goose scrambled free of her and crouched back into the lee of the wall. It was a striking creature. Greyish black with white underfeathers, it had a quaintly comical face which looked rather friendly.
Tiria straightened up, but all she could think of to say was “Er, good morning!”
The barnacle goose nodded affably. “I am bidding you a good morning also. I am thinking that this is the place of Red Walls. I am of the Skyfurrows. Some of them have been here before, though not for many seasons. Here is where you have healers, I am told?”
Tiria noticed a tattered mass of mud and leaves sticking to the newcomer’s neck. “Healers? Oh yes, we have a healer at our Abbey. Has your neck been injured?”
The goose bent his beak toward the remnants of the makeshift dressing. “It is injured by an arrow I am. The Shellhound said that help I must seek. Arrow wounds can go bad, trouble that would mean for Brantalis.”
Tiria suddenly forgot her own vague problems. “Brantalis, is that your name? Mine’s Tiria, I’m a Redwaller. You stay right there, Brantalis, we’ll get you to a healer quickly.”
Brantalis clacked his beak. “Wait here I will!”
Hillyah and Oreal, the harvest mice, were emerging from the gatehouse with their twin babes. Tiria called to them from the walltop. “There’s an injured goose up here that needs help. You’d best get a stretcher and some bearers, it’s quite a large bird. Would you hurry, please?”
Oreal was a creature who could become easily flustered. Hopping from one paw to the other, he called out to his wife, “My dear, it’s an injured goose, whatever shall we do?”
His wife, a sensible type, took charge promptly. “Don’t get upset, dear. Stay here with Irgle and Ralg, I’ll soon get help!”
The harvest mousewife sped off toward the Abbey, with her pinafore hitched high. Irgle and Ralg slipped by their father. The mousebabes scuttled up the wallsteps. Eager to see the visitor, they both squealed excitedly, “A hinjagoose! A hinjagoose!”
Oreal stood undecided for a moment, then chased after them. “Come back, sugarplums, come back! Be careful, it might be dangerous!”
Tiria fended the little twins off, blocking their path as they leaped up and down, shouting, “Us wanna see the hinjagoose!”
Oreal caught them by their tails. “It’s not a hinjagoose, it’s an injured goose. Come away now, you naughty sugarplums!”
Irgle struggled in his father’s grasp. “I norra shuggaplump, I a h’infant Dibbun. Lemme see the hinjagoose!”
Tiria soon diverted their attention with the mention of food. “You can see the injured goose later on. There’s raspberry jelly and strawberry fizz for breakfast. If I were you, I’d go and get some before the others eat it all up!”
Within a moment, Oreal was being towed across the lawn by his whooping babes. “Rabbsee jelly anna straw’bee fizz, quick quick, ’urry up Daddy afore it be gone!”
Brantalis gave a honking laugh. “Small ones are always hungry for the good food I am thinking.”
Tiria nodded. “Aye, though they’ll be disappointed when they find I lied to them. It’ll be the same breakfast as usual. Got them out of the way though, didn’t it?”
Foremole came trundling up with a crew of six moles, carrying a stretcher between them. He tugged his snout politely to Tiria. “Beggen ee pardun, miz, bee’s this yurr ee gurt burd us’n’s must carry to ee h’Abbey?”