Contents
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Epigraph
Prologue
Book One: The Dream
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Book Two: The Pearl Queen
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Book Three: Southsward
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Brian Jacques
Copyright
About the Book
When Joseph the Bellmaker is warned in a dream that his daughter Mariel is in danger, his hopes of saving her are slim. For the evil Foxwolf and his horde of rats are coming to Southsward and Mariel is his prisoner. But can the legendary Martin the Warrior return from the past to save them? Or is it too late …?
BRIAN
JACQUES
A TALE OF REDWALL
THE BELLMAKER
Illustrated by Allan Curless
To the memory of Alan Durband,
gentleman and teacher
Many warriors own the glory
But the saying in Redwall is
‘This is the Bellmaker’s story
Because the dream was his.’
Storm-bruised clouds, heavy and lowering, dropped teeming rain into the howling March wind, slanting in from the northwest to batter the last of winter’s snow that clung to the stones of Redwall Abbey. Inside the gatehouse it was snug and warm, though there was not much room. All the available chairs and floor space had been taken up by little creatures – moles, mice, squirrels and hedgehogs. They watched in silence as an ancient squirrel, silver haired and bent with age from long seasons, banked up the fire with two beech logs. He turned slowly and, shooing two very young mice from his armchair, the aged squirrel sat, a twinkle in his eye as he watched his audience.
‘Sit still, be good my Dibbuns, the special breakfast will soon be here. Listen for the knock now, my ears don’t work very well these days.’
The little ones, who were collectively known as Dibbuns, cupped paws about their ears, listening intently. All that could be heard was the spattering rain on the windows and the wind mourning its dirge around the outside walls. The knock came upon the door like a spell being broken. A bass-voiced molebabe stood up, shouting, ‘Hurr et be, brekkist!’
Several of the young ones had to force the door open against the gale. A fat old hedgehog backed himself inside, pulling a trolley loaded with a cauldron, wooden bowls and spoons. No sooner was he inside than the wind whipped the door shut with a loud slam. Shaking rainwater from his venerable grey spikes, the hedgehog lifted the cauldron lid. A delicious aroma from the steaming vessel caused cries of delight. He wiped the corners of his eyes on a spotted kerchief and winked at his companion in the armchair.
‘Pearl Queen Pudden, messmate, nothin’ like it on a cold wet day. Come on, me little mateys, pass these bowls ’n’ spoons around while it’s still nice an’ hot.’
All that could be heard was the scrape of spoon upon bowl as they sat eating breakfast. The ancient squirrel finished his portion and ruffled the ears of a mouse sitting on the chair arm. ‘You enjoying that, Jerril?’
The little mouse licked his spoon. ‘Pearl Queen Pudden’s nice. What’s in it?’
‘Ask my mate. He made it.’
The old hedgehog cleared the Dibbuns from his armchair on the other side of the hearth and sat down chuckling, his huge stomach shaking like a jelly. ‘Hohohoh! I’ll tell ye what’s in Pearl Queen Pudden, young Jerril. Anythin’ a beast can lay his paws on. Apples, nuts, berries, plums, an’ memories, lots o’ memories. Ain’t that right, messmate?’
The squirrel’s eyes shone as he gazed into the fire. ‘Aye, that’s right. Memories. Long seasons gone an’ high old summers that never fade from our minds.’
The bass-voiced molebabe looked up from his second helping. ‘Do that mean ee goin to tell us’n’s a tale, zurr?’ he asked.
‘Well there’s nothing else t’do in weather like this,’ said the ancient squirrel, as he put aside his bowl and spoon. ‘Aye, I’ll tell you a story, but my mate will have to help me out in parts, because it’s a very long tale.’
Jerril was licking his bowl, but he popped his head out to say, ‘Did yer make it up, sir?’
The squirrel shook his grizzled head vigorously. ‘Make it up? Indeed not. No, young feller, this story is true. ’Tis not just my story, it belongs to many creatures. I gathered their own bits from each one of ’em.’
The hedgehog in the armchair opposite nodded. ‘Aye, though it would’ve never happened but for one, a mouse called Joseph the Bellmaker, for the dream was his.’
Outside, the rain flattened young grass and the wind rattled leafless branches that were trying hard to put out small buds. A delicately thin icicle tinkled from the gatehouse roof, like the last tear of winter. Inside, the ruddy firelight gleamed on the young faces, each one watching the ancient squirrel as he leaned forward and began the story.
BOOK ONE
The Dream
1
IT IS SAID that in the hungry land of ice and snow from whence he came the beast was known and feared by the names he had taken. Foxwolf! The Urgan Nagru!
He and his mate Silvamord commanded a vast horde of savage grey rats. They ravaged the northlands unopposed – tundra, forest and mountain lay under the claws of Nagru and his vixen. But the Foxwolf knew there was one enemy he could never defeat, one foe more ruthless than any living thing. Winter!
Snow, ice, howling blizzards and famine were the real rulers of the country he had despoiled, a bone-chilling starkness that conquered all. Nagru and Silvamord were forced to yield, realizing that starvation and death stalked the country they had stripped bare. So it was that Nagru took Silvamord and all the horde in three great ships to search for the sun.
Those were the dangerous seasons. Battered across dark, roaring seas they went, narrowly dodging huge floating ice mountains, the ships’ sails and riggings frozen stiff with rimy spray. Sometimes they lay becalmed in ghostly latitudes, wreathed in spectral mists with the waters beneath them still and fathomless. Completely lost, the Foxwolf ploughed onwards, driven across trackless wastes where no vessel’s bow had ever cut spray, avoiding leviathans of the deep and shoals of unnamed seabeasts. Strange hostile waters closed over their wake as the weary convoy sailed deeper into the unknown.
Then one morning the lookouts saw that the seas were gentler. Small fish swam playfully alongside the wave-scoured hulls and the weather turned fair. Gazing upward, the eyes of Foxwolf beheld fleecy white clouds with sun peeping between them. Looking out to the horizon he saw the thin green-brown line of land. The Foxwolf threw back his head and howled triumphantly.
He had defeated the wide, wintry seas. Silvamord joined him on deck and together they bayed their defiance at
the blue spring sky. Roaring and screeching, the grey rat horde thronged decks and rigging to cheer their leaders. It was a curious sight: three big, battered ships, swarming with thin, wild-eyed creatures, tattered sails flapping above creaking decks as they rode the ingoing swell towards shore. And so it was that Urgan Nagru came to the far south!
The land lay like a dream out of time under the spell of early spring. Southsward! A soft, peaceful region of plenty which had never felt the cruel breath of war. Stowing the three ships up a heavily wooded creek, Nagru waded ashore with Silvamord and their ragged, murderous followers. Lean from hunger and privation, eager for loot and conquest, they pressed hurriedly inland. The time of the Foxwolf had come to Southsward!
From his vantage point on a wooded hilltop, Rab Streambattle gazed across the valley to Castle Floret. The otter had watched and planned almost every day as spring passed into summer. Castle Floret stood atop a high flat plateau, its north side abutting the sheer cliff face. The castle’s other three sides were surrounded by a crescent-shaped moat. A mighty drawbridge commanded almost a third of the front south side, and at this edge the plateau had a long flight of broad steps carved into the living rock from top to valley floor.
Rab stared sadly at his old home. It resembled a beautiful forgotten cake left standing on the green-clothed tableland. Against a sky of dusty blue, cream-coloured towers shimmered beneath quaint, circular red-tiled roofcaps. Dark green ivy and golden saxifrage flourished amid the crenellations. Campion and climbing roses burgeoned carelessly over windowsills and framed doors. The hot afternoon did not contribute the slightest breeze to ruffle the variegated pennants draped idly round tall flagpoles.
Rab dismissed the dreamlike qualities of his old home, riveting his worried brown eyes on the window alongside the drawbridge top. Had something gone wrong? Did Nagru know of the escape that had been planned? His friends, Gael Squirrelking, Queen Serena and little Truffen, had they received the message from Relph the blackbird? The otter clutched his bow tightly, staring at the window, awaiting the signal as thoughts raced through his troubled mind.
Why, oh why, had Gael not listened to him? Rab recalled the day he had first argued with his friend. The quarrel had become furious and bitter and had ended with Gael ordering his old friend either to curb his tongue or leave the castle. Stone-faced, Rab stalked angrily out of Floret, taking the entire otter castle guard with him. Not because he feared Nagru, but because he could see the evil that Gael was blind to.
Rab hated and loathed the cunning Foxwolf with an intensity that banished all fear. Now his friend the Squirrelking and his family were prisoners in their own home. The wickedness of Nagru was a spectre that would soon blight the whole of Southsward. Gael should have heeded the warnings Rab had issued, but instead he chose to play the king and offer the Foxwolf hospitality.
Suddenly, Rab’s eye caught a flutter of iridescent blue-black wings carrying a scrap of red cloth to the window by the drawbridge.
Rab Streambattle notched an arrow to his bowstring.
The escape was on!
The sun hung like a hot merciless eye, watching two small creatures huddled in the shade of a shale outcrop on the wasteland floor. The mousemaid Mariel of Redwall shook an empty flask over the outstretched tongue of her friend Dandin. Two single drops fell slowly, then no more.
‘Put your tongue away,’ she said, sadly. ‘The sun will think we’re mocking him.’
The young mouse nodded skyward as he withdrew his parched tongue. ‘Huh, he’s been mocking us for the last week.’
They both sat staring at the empty flask. Mariel gently kicked her slack haversack. ‘Two stale oatcakes in there, d’you fancy one?’
Dandin smiled ruefully. ‘No thanks, they’re the two you said you’d keep as a memento of Redwall Abbey. It’s four seasons since we left there – I’d break every tooth in my head trying to chomp on them, besides I’m too dry to eat. Whew, It’s too hot even to talk!’
Mariel closed her eyes, settling back into the shade. ‘Sleep then, we’ll carry on tonight when it gets cooler.’
Dandin lay down clasping his paws behind his head, and called out to the sun, ‘Did you hear that? We’re going to sleep, turn the heat down a bit, will you!’
Mariel opened one eye. ‘Get to sleep, thirstygut,’ she said.
Dandin closed his eyes. There was a moment’s silence, then he began talking aloud to himself. ‘It’ll be teatime back at the Abbey now, I bet I know what they’ll be having, too. Cold strawberry cordial from deep in the cellars, October Ale, dark and cool in foaming tankards. Prob’ly mint tea as well, icy cold, brewed since dawn, dear and fragrant, just right for sipping on a hot day like . . . Yowch!’
Mariel brandished the haversack over her friend. ‘One more word and I’ll let you have it again!’
‘Can’t hear, you old mouseypaws,’ Dandin said as he flopped against her, rolling his eyes comically. ‘You’ve knocked me senseless with those two oatcakes in there.’
‘Good, perhaps you’ll be quiet now.’
‘Quiet? I haven’t said a single word!’
‘Right, then I’ll say a single word. Goodnight!’
‘Don’t you mean good afternoon?’
‘I mean goodnight or I’ll brain you with this haversack!’
‘Oh, righto. Goodnight!’
Mariel woke in darkness. Warned by her warrior instinct, she lay motionless. Somebeast was trying gradually to sneak the haversack out from under her head. It was not Dandin – she could hear his snores drifting gently up to the canopy of the starstrewn night. As the final corner of their supply bag eased slowly away, she sprang into action. Slamming a footpaw hard on the haversack, she prevented the thief making off with it. In the dim light, Mariel could make out a small fat figure scurrying off into the wasteland. Snatching one of the two ancient oatcakes from the bag, the mousemaid hefted it like a discus, yelling as she flung it.
‘Redwaaaaallll!’
Thonk!
It struck edge on, right between the robber’s ears. He dropped in a heap. Dandin leapt up, still half asleep, his paws waving.
‘More October Ale there! Wha . . . Who . . . Mariel!’
As she ran towards the felon, the mousemaid was yelling, ‘I knew those oatcakes’d come in useful, got the blaggard!’
Dandin followed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. When he arrived upon the scene Mariel was kneeling crestfallen over her quarry. ‘Oh dear, what’ve I done?’ she wailed. ‘He’s only a little un!’
It was a small hedgehog. Dandin stooped to feel the big bump in the centre of its head.
‘Middle of the night, running target, great shot I’d say.’
Mariel turned on him, her eyes brimming tears. ‘Oh Dandin, how could you say that, I’d never have thrown at such a little feller intentionally. But it all happened so quickly, I couldn’t see who it was.’
Dandin picked up the oatcake and chuckled. ‘Not to worry, look, the little rogue’s coming around fine. Haha, this is a true Redwall missile. See, there’s not even a mark on it!’
The small hedgehog sat up slowly, gingerly pawing his head. He blinked at them and said, ‘Ooh! Where be I, wot ’appened?’
Before Mariel could answer, Dandin chipped in, ‘You tripped and bumped your head, old lad.’
Glaring at Dandin, the little beast bristled. ‘Me name don’t be ol’ lad, I be Bowly Pintips an’ I’ll thank ee to address I proper!’
Dandin adopted a look of mock fear and bowed respectfully. ‘Accept my humble apologies, your Royal Bowlyness!’
Bowly snatched the oatcake and brandished it. ‘See this ’ere rock as I tripped over, well you make sport o’ me an’ I’ll biff ye with it! Wot’s yore names? Speak up now afore I loses me temper with ye both!’
The hedgehog’s impudence caused Mariel’s mood of pity to vanish instantly. She grabbed Bowly firmly by his nose, pulling him up on tip paw, and said, ‘Listen to me, you cheeky little robber. I’m Mariel of Redwall and this is Dandin.
We’re both warriors. So keep a civil tongue in your head or we’ll give you two more lumps to go on top of the one you’ve aleady got!’
Tears streamed from Bowly’s eyes as his nose was squeezed. ‘Yowow! Leggo ob be doze, yore hurtig bee!’
Mariel released him and he grovelled in the sand, rubbing at both bump and snout. The mousemaid nodded as she sat by him.
‘That’s better. Now, what’s a little snippet like you doing out in the wastelands all alone? Where’s your mum’n’dad?’
Bowly shrugged glumly. ‘Never ’ad none as I c’d remember. Two weasels ’ad me catchered south of ’ere, made me slave for ’em, tied me to a post at nights, but I ’scaped an’ runned away.’
Dandin’s friendly face grew grim. ‘How far south are these two weasels, Bowly?’ he asked.
‘About arf a night’s march from ’ere, I only ’scaped just afore dark, mister Dandy.’
‘My name’s Dandin, not mister Dandy,’ said Dandin, pawing the long dagger at his belt. ‘These two weasels, have they got food and drink?’
‘O aye, they got vittles aplenty, robs travellers they do.’
Mariel had retrieved the haversack. She knotted the carrying ropes together, exchanging a slow smile with Dandin. ‘Let’s go and pay these two weasels a visit,’ she said.
The sand and shale were still warm from the day’s heat, but the night air was cool as the three creatures strode south. Bowly Pintips giggled aloud when Dandin explained their plan to him.
2
SPURGE AND AGRIC the weasel slavers sat by their fire as dawn’s rosy paws probed the eastern horizon. They were trying to brew a pan of mint tea, and making a total mess of it. At the side of the fire lay a stack of raw apple pancakes. Spurge burned his paw on the pan handle and danced about waving it. ‘Rot me ears, ’ow does that liddle spikedog brew this stuff?’
Agric prodded the pancakes with a wicked-looking willow cane. ‘Search me,’ he said. ‘Huh! I ain’t sure ’ow t’cook these pancakes the rascal made las’ night. Rotten liddle pincushion, we’ll track ’im down, he can’t go far without water in the wastelands. Wait’ll I lay claws on ’im, I’ll make that runaway weep fer a season or more!’ He swished the cane through the air, grinning crookedly in anticipation of giving Bowly a severe whipping.