They looked so sorry for themselves that Martha relented. “Alright, I won’t say anything—provided you go away immediately and leave me in peace.”
Without a word the trio began to scramble away and were almost at the door when Martha suddenly recalled her dream.
“Wait, come back here, there’s something I need you to do!”
Horty dashed back so hastily that he almost tripped and fell onto his sister’s lap. “Anything, dear old skin’n’blister, we’re yours to flippin’ well command!”
Martha issued her modest requests, but she spoke firmly. “Fenna, I want you to go and seek out Abbot Carrul. Horty, you go and find Sister Portula, and mind how you address her. The message for both of them is this: Ask politely that if neither is too busy, would they please come to the gatehouse. There is an important matter I would like to discuss with them. Springald, push my chair to the gatehouse—at a reasonable pace, please.”
Brother Phredd poked his head around the gatehouse doorway, blinking and yawning. “Ah yes, young wotsername, come in please, and your friend, too. Always nice to have afternoon visitors, eh!”
As Springald pushed Martha over the threshold, the haremaid heard the mousemaid muttering. “Huh, I’m not stopping in some dusty old gatehouse on an afternoon like this!”
Martha fixed her with an icy smile. “Oh, you don’t have to stay, you run off to the kitchens now. Have a word with Gurvel or Toran—tell them I’d like afternoon tea for four.”
Springald looked puzzled. “Afternoon tea for four?”
Martha wheeled round to face her. “Yes, afternoon tea, you know, scones and slices of cake, and a large pot of mint tea with honey. Hop along now, bring them straight back here, and don’t spill the tea. Off you go, miss!”
To ensure Martha’s silence, Springald had no option but to obey. With a sweep of her skirt she flounced off.
Old Phredd addressed the chair he was about to sit on. “Afternoon tea, how does that sound to you, quite nice, eh?”
In due course, Abbot Carrul and Sister Portula arrived. Both knew that Martha was a sensible creature and would not summon them on some foolish errand. Brother Phredd had just seated them both, when another knock came on the door. He scratched his drooping spikes and muttered. “More visitors, quite an eventful afternoon, eh?”
Springald pushed the laden trolley in. She curtsied impudently at the Abbot. “Afternoon tea for four, Father!”
Martha forestalled any further smartness by nodding graciously at the mousemaid. “Thank you, miss, you may go now!”
Sister Portula watched the back of Springald’s head shaking with rage as she exited the gatehouse and slammed the door. “Gracious me, you certainly put that young mouse in her place!”
Martha smiled demurely. “Yes, Sister, but she does need it now and again, doesn’t she?”
Abbot Carrul took the haremaid’s paw. “What was it you wanted to see us about, Martha?”
Over afternoon tea, Martha explained to her friends how she had fallen asleep. She told them of Martin’s visitation, and of the young mouse who had accompanied him, ending with the short poem, which she recalled precisely.
“Where once I dwelt in Loamhedge,
my secret lies hid from view,
the tale of how I learned to walk,
when once I was as you.
Though you cannot go there,
look out for two who may,
travellers from out of the past,
returning home someday.”
Abbot Carrul sat forward in his armchair. “Strange. What do you think, Sister?”
Portula put aside her tea. “Not many Redwallers are honoured by a visit from Martin the Warrior. We must heed all he says. His spirit is not just the essence of valour and honour, he is also the voice of knowledge and wisdom. Now, what is your own opinion of this incident, Martha?”
The haremaid tapped the cover of the book. “This is the history of Loamhedge that you loaned me, Sister. I think the answer lies inside it. That’s why I called you here. I am still young, but you three have the knowledge of seasons on your side. I was hoping that you could help me. I never dreamed that there might be an answer to why I can’t walk. Do you think there is?”
Old Phredd picked up the big tome and laid it on the table. He spoke to it, as it if were a living thing. “Well now, you dusty old relic, are you going to assist us with this little one’s problem, eh, eh?”
He turned and gave Martha a toothless grin. “Heeheehee, I think he will. Though one can never really tell what a book says until one reads it, eh?”
Abbot Carrul opened the book. “This may take some time, but we’re on your side, Martha. If there is a way to make you walk, rest assured, we’ll find it.”
Martha could feel tears beginning to brim in her eyes. She blinked them away swiftly. “Thank you all, my good friends. But there is something that I don’t think the book can tell us. Who are the ones we must look out for? The two travellers from out of the past, returning home someday?”
Sister Portula gazed out the window into the sunlit noon. “You’re right, Martha. I wonder who they could be.”
5
North of Redwall, spring eventide filtered soft light through the leafy canopy of Mossflower Wood. Amid aisles of oak, beech, elm, sycamore and other forest giants, slender rowan, birch and willow stood like young attendants, waiting on their stately lords. Blue smoke drifted lazily upward through the foliage which fringed a shallow stream. Somewhere nearby, a pair of nightingales warbled harmoniously.
The tremulous beauty was lost upon a small vermin band who had trekked down from the far Northlands. They had camped on the bank to fish. A fat, brutish weasel called Burrad was their leader. Beneath his ragged cloak he carried a cutlass, its bone handle notched with the lives he had taken. Burrad’s sly eyes watched his band closely. They were spitting four shiny scaled roach on green willow withes to grill over the fire.
Drawing the cutlass, Burrad pointed it at the biggest fish. “Dat’n der is mine, yew cook it good fer me, Flinky!”
The stoat called Flinky let out a pitifully indignant whine. “Arr ’ey, Chief, I caught dis wun meself, ’tis me own fish!”
Despite his bulk, Burrad was quick. Bulling the stoat over, he whipped Flinky mercilessly with the flat of his blade.
Covering his head, the victim screeched for mercy. “Yaaaaaargh, stop ’im mates, afore he kills me pore ould body! Yeeegh, spare me, yer mightiness, spare me. Aaaaagh!”
Cruel by nature, Burrad thrashed Flinky even harder. Throwing himself upon the hapless stoat, he pressed the blade against Flinky’s scrawny neck, snarling viciously.
“Wot d’yer want, the fist or yore ’ead? ’Urry up an’ speak.”
The cutlass blade pressed savagely down. Flinky wailed. “Yeeeeh, take de fish, I’ve only got one ’ead. Take de fish!”
Burrad rose, grinning wolfishly as he kicked Flinky’s bottom. “Cook dat fish good, or yore a dead ’un!”
He turned on the other eleven vermin gang members. “Wot are youse lot gawpin’ at, eh? Gimme some grog!”
A female stoat called Crinktail, whose tail was shaped almost like a letter Z, passed Burrad the jug of nettle grog. Snatching it roughly, the bully sat down, taking long gulps of the fiery liquid.
He watched Flinky like a hawk. “Crispy outside an’ soft inside, dat’s de way I likes fish.”
The others averted their eyes; there was no doubt about who the leader of their gang was.
Crouched low in the reeds on the far bank, two creatures viewed the scene. One was an otter, the other a squirrel, both in their late middle seasons.
The otter squinched his eyes, letting them rove over the gang. “Hmm, about twelve o’ them over there, I’d say.”
The squirrel nibbled on a young reed. “There’s thirteen.”
Her companion shrugged. “I won’t argue with ye, ’cos my eyes ain’t as good as they used t’be. I tell ye though, mate, that’s one sorry gang o’ vermin. Looks as if they got rocks in their skulls instead o’ brains.”