“Go up to breakfast perhaps?” Burlop suggested helpfully.
The Abbot scratched his chinspikes reflectively. “Hmm, yes, but there was some other business also. Ah, I remember now! I’ve got to get Brother Gordale, my cousin Jem and old Walt together. Today we begin trying to solve the rhyme puzzle. If anybeast comes looking for me, please tell them I’ll either be in the kitchens or the orchard.”
Burlop helped Humble with his overcloak. “Certainly, Father.”
Humble stared around the kitchen passage at those being served with breakfast. None of the three he wanted was there.
Sister Armel, the pretty young Infirmary Keeper, approached him cheerfully. “Good morning, Father Abbot. Are you looking for somebeast?”
Humble accepted a plate of hazelnut and honey turnovers from Friar Glisum absently. “Er, good morning, Sister. Have you seen Gordale or Jem or Walt about?”
Armel put aside her tray. “No, but I’ll soon find them for you. There’s quite a few still abed after last evening’s festivities. I’ll give them a call.”
Humble began loading up his tray. “Oh, thank you, that would be a help. Tell them I’ll have breakfast set up in the orchard. We’re supposed to be solving that rhyme puzzle today, you know.”
Sister Armel’s big brown eyes lit up. “May I help you, Father? I’m very good at puzzles.”
Humble chuckled. “Of course you can, pretty one. A young head might prove a welcome addition to us elders.”
The orchard was carpeted with pink and white petal blossoms, shed by the many apple, pear, plum, cherry, damson and almond trees.
Brother Demple, the mouse who was Abbey Gardener, put aside his trowel as he saw Humble approaching with a heavily laden tray.
“Good morning, Abbot. Doesn’t our orchard look pretty today? Here, let me help you with that tray.”
Humble willingly allowed the sturdy mouse to assist him. “Thank you, Brother Demple. My word, I didn’t realise one tray could be so heavy. There’s breakfast for three there.”
Demple took up the tray. “Thank goodness for that. At first I thought it was all for you, Father!”
He guided Humble to a sunny corner where he had set up a potting bench. “Friends for breakfast, eh? What’s the occasion?”
Humble sat on the bench alongside the tray. “We’ve arranged to try and solve a puzzle.”
Demple rubbed his paws together eagerly. “I love a good puzzle. D’you need any help?”
The Abbot smiled, eager to accept such a ready offer. “By all means, be my guest—the more the merrier. Ah, here they come now.”
Gordale arrived with Walt and Jem. Slightly behind them came Armel, with Skipper’s niece Brookflow. The fine, strong ottermaid had brought along an extra tray piled high with more food. Brookflow, or Brooky as she was known to all, was a jolly creature, possessed of an infectious laugh. Carrying the heavy tray on one paw, she waved with the other.
“Yoohooeeee! I heard there was a riddle t’be worked out, so I worked myself in. Is it alright if I join these other duffers, Father? Hahahaha!”
Humble raised his paws in mock despair. “Come on, you beauty, come one come all! Soon we’ll have everybeast in the Abbey here!”
Breakfast was shared out, as there was plenty for everyone. In the middle of it, Humble smote his forehead and groaned. “Sister Screeve has the written copy, and I forgot to invite her along. What was I thinking of?”
Yet even as he spoke, Screeve entered the orchard waving a parchment, the one she had recorded the rhyme on. “Friar Glisum told me you’d be here, Father. Hope you’ve not started without me!”
Brooky giggled into a scone she was demolishing. “Teeheehee! How would we manage that? I think old Screeve’s gone off her rocker. Teeheeheehee!”
Jem looked over the rim of an oatmeal bowl at Brooky. “You could do yoreself a nastiness, gigglin’ an’ vittlin’ like that, marm!”
Breakfast was taken in leisurely fashion, chatting, laughing and gossiping. Wandering Walt tapped his digging claws on the bench impatiently. “Yurr, b’aint us’n’s apposed t’be solven ee riggle t’day?”
Sister Screeve spread her parchment upon the ground. “Thank you kindly, sir. If Miss Brookflow can stop her merriment for just a moment, I’ll read the rhyme. Are you finished, miss?”
The jolly ottermaid stifled her mouth with both paws. “Whoohoohoo . . . Oops! Sorry, Sister, just once more. Whoohoohaha! There, that’s better. Right, let’s get on with unpuzzling the riddle, or unrizzling the puddle. Whoohaha. . . .”
Brooky looked about at the stern faces. “Sorry.”
Screeve took up where she had left off. “As I said, I’ll read the poem, er rhyme. Right!
Where the sun falls from the sky,
and dances at a pebble’s drop,
where little leaves slay big leaves,
where wood meets earth I stop.
Safe from the savage son of Dramz,
here the secret lies alone,
the symbol of all power, the mighty Walking Stone!”
Brother Gordale scratched behind his ear. “Well, where do we start with all that jumble?”
“At the beginning, I suppose. Hahahaha. . . .” Humble silenced Brooky with a stern glance over his glasses.
Then, suddenly, he mellowed. “An excellent idea. Very logical, too, miss. Where the sun falls from the sky. Anybeast got an idea where that may be?”
Walt answered. “Hurr that bee’s in ee west, whurr ee sun be a-setten every h’evenin’, zurr.”
Demple swept the horizon westward. “That’s a massive area. Any way we could narrow it down?”
Whilst they sat thinking about this, Gordale quoted the second line. “And dances at a pebble’s drop.”
Armel fidgeted with her apron strings. “Maybe it carries on to link up. What’s the next line?”
Sister Screeve supplied it in her precise tones. “Where little leaves slay big leaves. Dearie me, I’m really puzzled now!”
Brooky interrupted her. “Well, if the entire thing is a puzzle, yore supposed to be puzzled—that’s why puzzlers write ’em. Haha, we’re looking for a Walking Stone, and nobeast’s ever seen one. I wouldn’t recognise a Walking Stone if it fell out of a tree and hit me over the head. Oh, hahahahoohoo!”
Screeve wagged her paw severely. “Really, Brookflow, you aren’t helping the situation by sitting there laughing!”
Armel, very fond of her ottermaid friend, spoke up in her defence. “Don’t be too hard on Brooky, Sister. She has a point, you know.”
Gordale shrugged. “Right then, Sister Armel. Perhaps you’d like to tell us—just what is her point, eh?”
Armel’s pretty face creased in a frown of concentration. “Er, we, hmm, er . . . Maybe if Walt and Jem described the area where they found the dying beast, we might gain a clue from it.”
Humble agreed. “Sounds reasonable to me. This Askor, the beast who died, it’s likely he may have concealed the Walking Stone not far from where the tree fell on him. Jem, Walt, could you recall anything special about the place?”
Wandering Walt wrinkled his nose. “Nay, zurr, it bee’d loike many bits o’ furrest we’m parssed throo t’gether. B’aint that so, Jem?”
The old hedgehog shook his grizzled spikes. “Gettin’ old ain’t no fun. I fergits a lot o’ things now’days. It were someplace in sou’west Mossflower Woodlands, I’m sure o’ that. Aye, an’ there was a big ole rotten sycamore a-layin’ there, that was the one wot fell on Askor. More’n that I’m a-feared I can’t say, friends.”
Sister Screeve pushed the written rhyme under Jem’s snout. “Mayhap this’ll jog your mind. Try to recall if you noticed any of these things—a place where the sun falls from the sky, where it dances at a pebble’s drop, where little leaves slay big leaves. . . .”
Brother Demple suddenly exclaimed, “That’s it . . . ivy!”
Jem stared at him curiously. “What’s that supposed t’mean, ivy?”
Demple’s explanation
shed the first tiny ray of hope on the riddle. “Plants and growing things are both my hobby and my life as a gardener. So I ignored the rest of the puzzle and concentrated on the one line, ‘Where little leaves slay big leaves.’ Father, do you remember that old willow tree, down by our Abbey pond, on the south side? The tree I had to chop down about ten seasons back? It was an ancient, weak old thing, with ivy growing all over it—right from the ground, around the trunk, through the branches, until the whole willow tree was covered thickly in ivy vines and creepers. Not a single leaf could grow there as a result of that ivy. It had been strangled.”
Humble remembered. “Ah yes, poor thing. Nobeast likes to see a tree felled, but it was becoming a danger, especially to our Dibbuns. I recall I took some of the branches to use as caulking for small casks. There was a lot of ivy, though.”
Demple smiled triumphantly. “You see, a clear case of little leaves slaying big leaves. Jem, can you or Walt recall seeing such a tree near the scene, one all choked by ivy?”
Hitheryon Jem pondered a moment, then laughed aloud. “Hohoho! The wasp, Walt, remember the wasp?”
The old mole rubbed his stubby tail ruefully. “Bo urr, oi b’aint likely to furget ee likkle villyun!”
Jem warmed to an account of the incident. “ ’Twas the day we found Askor, but earlier on. We’d just sat down to take a bite o’ brekkist. I sat on the cart shaft, but ole Walt, he sat down with his back agin a tree. Aye, ’twas a big sycamore, there’s quite a few in that neck o’ the woods. But this’n ’ad been gripped by the ivy, just as you described, Brother Demple. From root to crown that tree was wrapped thick in the stuff. Walt should’ve knowed better, ’cos ’tis a common fact that wasps are very partial to ivy, somethin’ in the scent of the leaves I’ve been told. Well, he’d no sooner sat down when out buzzes a wasp an’ stings pore ole Walt right on the tail!”
Brooky could not resist breaking in. “That’s a story with a sting in the tail! Oh heeheehee!”
Walt glared at the jovial ottermaid. “Et wurn’t funny, marm. Waspers are vurry ’urtful beasts. Oi ’ad to bathe moi tail in ee pond an’ rub et wi’ dockleaves!”
Gordale spoke. “You mean there was a pond close by?”
Jem’s memory began coming back. “Not a pond—it were more of a lake, bigger’n yore Abbey pond, a peaceful stretch o’ water. We filled our canteens there.”
Sister Armel had enjoyed her breakfast in the orchard. She sat back in a sun-dappled corner, surrounded by friends, listening to Jem and the others discussing the problem. Though she had risen bright and alert that morning, her eyelids began to droop. A feeling of warm tranquility enveloped her, the voices receding into a soothing hum. A different voice was calling to her, echoing along the corridors of her mind, gentle but firm.
“Armel, listen to me. Do you know who I am?”
A golden haze stole into her imagination. Through it drifted a figure she recognised immediately. “I know you, sir. You are Martin the Warrior!”
The warrior’s face was strong and kind as he smiled. “And I know you, Sister Armel. That is why I choose you. Hear me now.
My sword must be carried by maidens two:
one who sees laughter in all, and you.
Bear it southwest through Mossflower Wood,
to he who pursues the vermin Lord.
The Borderer who is a force for good,
that warrior who sold and lost his sword.”
The image of Martin began to fade, but Armel heard his parting words quite clearly.
“Wake now, Armel. Tell them of the Abbey pond.”
Though she was not aware of it, her meeting with the warrior had lasted a mere moment. Jem was still speaking of the lake he had recalled.
Armel came wide awake at the sound of her own voice speaking. “ ‘Where the sun falls from the sky, and dances at a pebble’s drop.’ That’s your lake, Jem.”
The wandering hedgehog stared at her curiously. “How d’ye know that, Sister?”
Armel had forgotten Martin’s visit, but she replied to Jem’s question instantly. “Oh, that’s simple, really. When I was only a Dibbun, I often sat by the Abbey pond on summer afternoons. I could see the image of the sun on the water—it looked like gold. Many’s the time Brooky and I threw pebbles at the reflection to see if we could hit it. The ripples caused by our pebbles made the sun on the water dance.”
Brooky broke out into laughter again. “That’s right! Oh, you are an old cleverclogs, Armel. No wonder they made you Infirmary Sister. But I was the best pebble chucker—I hit the sun more times than you did. They should’ve made me Abbey Pebble Chucker. Hahahahaha!”
She looked around at the stern faces, and the laughter faded on her lips. “Oh, you lot are about as funny as a boiled frog!”
The Abbot polished his spectacles studiously to avoid smiling at the irrepressible ottermaid. “Well, friends, the pieces of our puzzle are beginning to fall into place. In fact, I’ve just solved a line myself!”
Sister Screeve glanced up from her writing. “Pray tell, Father.”
Humble repeated the lines. “ ‘Where wood meets earth I stop, safe from the savage son of Dramz.’ Where does wood meet earth naturally? At the base of a tree, where else!”
Sister Screeve scanned her notes. “Right! So what have we got so far? We’re looking for a sycamore tree overgrown by ivy, not far from a lake. This Walking Stone, whatever it is, has been buried at its base, safe from the savage son of Dramz, whoever he may be!”
Jem rose stiffly. “If I remember rightly, Dramz is the father of Askor, the one who was slain by his brother, Gulo the Savage. Dramz was the owner o’ the Stone, but when he died, Askor took it an’ ran. When we found Askor, he said that Gulo was chasin”im t’get ’old of the Stone. But that was last winter, an’ we ain’t heard o’ Gulo ever since. I wonder why? Ooh, my ole back’s playin’ me up. If’n you’ll excuse me, Cousin, I think I’ll take a warm bath an’ have a nice liddle liedown on a soft Abbey bed. Too many seasons sleepin’ on rocks out in the weather, that’s my trouble.”
Abbot Humble stood up and took Jem’s paw. “I’ll walk with you as far as the Abbey. Mayhaps the rest of us might meet after supper this evening. We can talk further then. Come on, Jem, we’re growing old together.”
The meeting broke up. Everybeast went off about their chores, which were many and varied in a place the size of Redwall Abbey. Old Walt had a split in his footpaw, which he, like Jem, attributed to long seasons of outdoor wandering. Armel asked him up to her Infirmary, where she kept some herbal salve to treat minor injuries. Brooky strolled up to the Infirmary with Armel, whilst Walt, who did not hold with sickbays and treatments, sat in the orchard, screwing up his courage to pay a visit.
As the young squirrel and her ottermaid friend walked through Great Hall toward the stairs, Sister Armel had the strangest feeling. She turned in the direction of the tapestry, and there, gazing straight at her, was Martin the Warrior’s likeness. Then the mission he had entrusted to her suddenly dawned upon Armel. She gripped her friend’s paw.
“Brooky, come with me. We’ve got to talk with Abbot Humble, straightaway!”
13
Yoofus Lightpaw was a water vole. Chubby-faced and snub-nosed, with long, glossy, chocolate brown fur, he was also a dyed-in-the-wool, incorrigible thief. Stealing was a compulsion with Yoofus, and he was very good at it. Although by nature he was an excellent little fellow—unfailingly kind, thoughtful and so generous that he would share his last crust with any creature in need—this did not alter the fact that Yoofus Lightpaw was the most expert thief in all Mossflower Woodlands. His wife—a dear, plump, homely creature named Didjety—was forever upbraiding him for his thieving ways, though secretly she was rather proud of her husband’s extraordinary skills.
“Yoofus Lightpaw, ye dreadful ould beast,” she would say, “sure you’d rob the very stars from out the sky if they weren’t nailed up there an’ ye could reach them!”
Yoofus always took this as a co
mpliment. Hugging and kissing her fondly for making such remarks, he’d often reply, “Arrah, Didjety me darlin’, us Lightpaws was ever the same. As me ould granny used t’say while she robbed the supper off of the table, ‘Don’t fuss yoreself, me pretty sugarplum pie, an’ I’ll go out an’ borrow somethin’ grand for ye!’ ”
Yoofus and Didjety lived in a neat bank burrow by a lake, the very one where Wandering Walt had cooled his wasp-stung tail. Their home boasted an exceedingly well-disguised entrance, which would hardly merit a second glance from the outside. Inside, however, was a veritable treasure cave. From wall to wall, across the ceiling and over the floors, it was draped, hung and adorned with the trophies of the water vole’s highly questionable enterprises. There were pictures, musical instruments, plates, bowls, jugs and jewellery. Everything—from carved tailrings to woven paw bracelets, necklets, brooches and headbands—shone and glimmered in the rainbow hue of many patterned lanterns. All in all it was a wondrous dwelling to behold.
Yoofus roamed far and wide in search of plunder. He was well versed in woodland lore and knew the movements of most creatures throughout the green fastness of copses, glades and ancient tree groves of Mossflower.
It was a still, sunny noontide when the water vole, scouting the southwest woods, spotted a magpie nest. Yoofus liked nothing better than thieving from a thief; magpies were known to steal bright objects to decorate their nests. He hid behind the trunk of an elm and settled down to scrutinise the bird’s abode.
After a short while, Yoofus was rewarded by the flash of black and white plumage as a large, handsome magpie flew out from the nest. He watched it winging its way between the trees gracefully, its wedge-shaped tail and fanlike wings weaving amid the foliage as it headed toward the southwest fringes.
Unlooping a coil of tough climbing rope from his middle, Yoofus murmured, “An’ a fond good-bye to ye, sir. Don’t hurry back now!”
Robbing a magpie nest could be a dangerous task. Big and strong, these birds were fierce predators and totally ruthless with anybeast trespassing in their nests.