The moment they were in reach of the grouped pinnacles, Martin whirled a weighted line, as did Folgrim in the midships and Gonff at the prow. Again the swell lifted them and Furmo shouted, ‘Heave those lines out, mates!’
The strong slender ropes snaked out and up. Three iron grapnels clanked simultaneously into the stone crevices. The Honeysuckle was secured safely, and bobbed up and down alongside the rocks, with the slack lines allowing her to ride easily on the swells.
Log a Log Furmo could not stop his paws shaking. He wobbled along the deck and leaned against Martin, pale, breathless and shaken. ‘By the fur’n’blood o’ the great Guosim, at least ten times there I thought we was a goner, matey!’
Martin grasped his friend’s paws, steadying them. ‘You did it superbly, Furmo. Nobeast could keep her on course like you did – ’twas nothing short of a miracle!’
Stamping his footpaw against the deck, Furmo smiled proudly. ‘Aye, an’ no other craft in all the rivers’n’seas could’ve done it like our Honeysuckle. Wot a ship! I’ll tell some stories about ’er t’my tribe when we gets back!’
Vurg took a deep breath. Cupping paws around his mouth, he called out in a quavery voice, ‘Ahoy the Arfship! Ahoy there, can you ’ear me?’
There was no answer. Furmo felt recovered enough to roar out in a thunderous baritone, ‘Ahoy Arfship, ’tis Vurg an’ some company. Ahoooooy!’
Martin pulled the shrew to one side just in time to avoid a hefty rope ladder with timber rungs which came down out of the rocks and clattered to the deck.
Gonff stared in puzzlement at Vurg. ‘Who are we shoutin’ to, an’ wot’s an arfship, mate?’
On the ledge above them a hare appeared. He looked as ancient as Vurg – older, in fact. Shaking a tremulous paw at Vurg he called down, ‘Where in the name of my auntie’s apron have you been, wot? I’ve been sittin’ up here like a blinkin’ sickly seagull, worryin’ about you, sah! Now y’come sailin’ up here, pretty as y’please, in charge of this jolly old rats’ regatta. Wot!’
Vurg mounted the rope ladder with Trimp’s assistance, followed swiftly by her friends. The old mouse argued with the hare as he climbed up to the ledge.
‘Oh, give yore flappin’ jaws a rest, Beau, these creatures are friends, they brought me back from the north shore. Which is more’n I can say for you. I’d grow whiskers t’me footpaws waitin’ on you t’come an’ fetch me, y’great flop-eared bag-bellied droopy-pawed rockrabbit!’
The old hare’s ears stood up indignantly as he helped Vurg on to the ledge. ‘Hah, rockrabbit is it, you blather-bottomed old dodderer, wot wot. I’ve had a barnacle casserole bubblin’ here for two confounded days waitin’ for you. Bad form, sah! I was goin’ t’make a plum pudden too, but I flippin’ well ain’t now. So you can go an’ jolly well whistle f’your blinkin’ dessert for all I care. An’ I hope the casserole keeps you awake all night. Ungrateful bounder!’
Martin popped his head over the ledge. ‘When you two creatures have stopped arguing, would you mind moving aside? We’ve got a ship’s crew to get up this ladder.’
The hare fitted a rock crystal monocle into one eye and glared down at Martin. ‘Oh, have you now? Well my compliments t’you, sah, an’ your crew, wot! I s’pose you’ve come to eat us out of house an’ home without a by your leave or jolly old toodle pip!’
Vurg interrupted the hare’s tirade. ‘Ahoy, Beau, mind yore manners. Take a close look at yon mouse an’ tell me who ye think he is?’
Beau crouched down, holding his back and grimacing. He brought his face level with Martin’s. The eyeglass popped out with surprise as he stared at the Warrior mouse.
‘Luke! Well bum my auntie’s taters, wot! You’re a bounder, a rotter an’ a curmudgeon, sah! How is it that you’ve stayed so jolly young whilst we’ve grown old? Not the done sort o’ thing, I’d say. Bally cad!’
Martin sprang up on to the ledge. Smiling, he grasped Beau’s paw and pumped it up and down.
‘I’m Martin of Redwall, son of Luke the Warrior. Whom have I the pleasure of addressing, sir?’
The hare shook his hoary silver head, returning the smile. ‘Knew y’father well, sah. Excellent chap! I’m Beauhair Fethringham Cosfortingsol. No I ain’t, I’m Beausol Fethringhair Cosfortingclair. No I ain’t, wait a tick. I’m Beauham Fethringclair Cosfounditall. Tchah! I’m so old I’ve forgotten me own name. What a disgrace, wot!’
Vurg sniggered. ‘Heehee, try Beauclair Fethringsol Cosfortingham. That’s yore silly long name.’
The hare scratched his scraggy whiskers. ‘Ah! Of course it is. Thank you, old chap.’ Then, scratching his whiskers again, he turned on Vurg. ‘On the other paw, who asked you, sah, you battered old mouserelic? When I need somebeast to tell me m’name I’ll jolly well ask m’self. Pish tush! The very idea, tellin’ a chap his own moniker!’
Vurg approached him until they stood nose to nose. ‘Battered ole mouserelic? Well of course I am, an’ who wouldn’t be, lookin’ after you all these seasons. Should’ve left you on Twin Islands, that’s wot I should’ve done!’
Martin clapped a paw to his brow, looking beseechingly to Gonff. The Mousethief pushed Beau and Vurg apart. ‘Quiet now, you two, an’ lissen t’me. Aboard our ship we got a way of settlin’ arguments. We let any quarrelsome beasts settle things by challengin’ our argument counsellor. Folgrim, come over ’ere!’
Testing his axe edge by licking it, Folgrim strode over. Baring pointed teeth he turned his scarred face from Vurg to Beau. The otter’s voice sounded like a blade hacking ice.
‘Well now, anybeast got an argument t’settle wid me, choose yore weapons. Axes or teeth, it don’t make no odds t’me!’
Vurg immediately hid behind Beau, whose throat bobbed like an apple on a string as he gulped. ‘Arguin’? Who’s arguin’, old chap? Merely a bit o’ humorous banter ’twixt my erstwhile companion and m’goodself, wot? I say, Vurg, hadn’t we better get these seagoin’ types aboard the good vessel Arfship? They look jolly hungry an’ tired t’me. We could fricassee a shark or two for friend Folgrim, or maybe he’d prefer just to gnaw on the messdeck table. Er, ahaha, follow me, chaps. No offence, mister Folgrim sir, merely a jocular jest, wot wot!’
Vurg and Beau led them through a perfectly round tunnel in the rock. They emerged on the other side amid the massed pinnacles and stood gazing up in open-mouthed awe at the sight that greeted them. Beau managed to make an elegant leg and bowed slightly. ‘Welcome to the vessel Arfship!’
Jammed between the column they stood upon and the one immediately next to it was half a ship. High overhead it stood, lodged between both pinnacles, more than two-thirds of the way up. From midships to for’ard end it was wedged firmly, a huge rusting iron spike at its forepeak driven into the rock by some tremendous force. The thing had once been red, but now through seasons of harsh weather, seaspray, sun and rain, it was faded to a rose-pink hue.
Dinny’s voice cut the silence. ‘Well fill moi tunnel! Arf a ship oop in ee air!’
Ascending another rope ladder, they climbed up to the old habitation. Trimp stared about in astonishment at the immensity of it all. It was like being in some great chamber. Timbered bulkheads with holes for oarports let in the light, as did the opened hatch covers high above them. Furmo’s voice echoed spectrally in the vast space as the crew of the Honeysuckle walked through it wide-eyed.
‘An’ this is supposed t’be only arf a ship! I tell ye, mates, could you imagine it afore it was broken, with the other arf attached? It must’ve been like a floatin’ village! I wager there wasn’t anythin’ that size ever sailed the seas!’
Vurg nodded his old head. ‘Oh but there was, an’ this is what’s left of it. See through those open hatch covers? There’s another deck above this an’ another one above that again. Yore lookin’ through three decks up t’the main one, which if y’count it makes four altogether. We keeps the ’atches open to give light, battens ’em down in bad weather. Up these stairs is the for’ard cabins. Come on, I’ll show ye!’
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Martin shook his head as he passed rows of benches, with chains dangling from them and long broken oars hanging through the ports. They looked well worn from constant use. ‘Beau, was this a slave ship?’
‘Indeed it was, old lad, the foulest, most evil vessel that ever plied the ocean. Now ’tis our home, our beloved Arfship. Actually, ’twould have been Half Ship if I’d had me way, but the others called it Arfship, so Arfship it is, wot. Come an’ eat now, questions later, that’s the drill!’
Following him up the ornately carved staircase, they entered a roomy cabin with its skylights thrown open. It was a complete living area. Tables, chairs, bunks and cupboards were all about, clean and neat. Two mice, old and grey, were working at a table next to a big glowing stove with its smokepipe thrusting through the edge of the skylight. Vurg introduced them.
‘This is all of us left from those who sailed off long ago from the north shores. Myself, Dulam and Denno.’
The mouse called Denno went straight to Martin and took the Warrior’s face gently in both his flour-dusted paws. ‘No need to tell ole Denno who you are – I know. Luke’s son Martin. Couldn’t be no otherbeast. Yore the spittin’ image o’ the great Luke, though you got yore mother Sayna’s eyes.’
Martin shook visibly, blinking hard. ‘You knew my mother?’
Denno nodded. ‘Course I did, an’ a prettier, more gentle creature there never was. I knew ’em all, Martin, everybeast. But we’ve got all night to talk of that. Sit and rest now, the food will be ready soon.’
Barnacle casserole was a delicious concoction of sea vegetables and shellfish. Guosim cooks hurried back to the Honeysuckle and brought up more supplies. Beau relented, and aided by Folgrim and Trimp he began mixing a big plum pudding. Gonff helped the Guosim cooks to bake scones and bread. Martin and Chugger cut up an excellent cheese, studded with beech mast and hazelnuts. Dinny put together a salad with any spare vegetables he rooted out. Mint tea was put on to boil and dandelion and burdock cordial poured from a keg into serving jugs.
After the tables were pushed together and set, they sat down. Gonff proposed a toast.
‘To the end of a journey, to my best friend Martin the Warrior an’ to the wonderful vittles an’ good hospitality showed to us by the crew of the Arfship!’
Everybeast raised their beakers and drank cheerfully. As they ate, Furmo could not resist asking the question which was puzzling him greatly.
‘Tell me, Vurg, ’ow did the for’ard half of a great ship land up ’ere? It just don’t seem possible.’
Vurg munched shrewbread and cheese as he explained. ‘Yore right, mate, I wouldn’t ’ave believed it meself if’n I hadn’t been aboard at the time, but ’ere’s how it came about. Durin’ the biggest storm anybeast’d ever seen, the Goreleech – for that was once wot this ship was called – struck that big rock pillar out in front. I tell ye, waves twice as high as this vessel were runnin’ on a sea driven by wind an’ rain. ’Twas more like a hurricane than a gale. Well, she whacked that big rock side on, with a force you couldn’t imagine. Smashed the Goreleech clean in two, like an ’ot knife goin’ through butter. On board the for’ard part were oarslaves an’ Sea Rogues doin’ battle. We were flung to the decks like wet leaves in a wind. There was screamin’, shoutin’ an’ weepin’ – everybeast was sure they’d met their deaths. The stem half fell backward into the sea, and sank in the blink of an eye. Now, the same great wave that sank it carried us, an’ the other half, swirlin’ round to the back of the big rock. Down, down we went as the wave ebbed away in a torrent of suckin’ an’ whirlin’, an’ we thought we was surely done for. Then another giant wave rounded the rock an’ lifted us, easy as a paw lifts a grain o’ sand. Up we rose, up, up, high in the air. From where I lay on the deck, I saw the two pinnacles as the wavecrest flung us forward. Suddenly a shudderin’ shock ran through me from tail to eartips. Then everythin’ went still.
‘I opened me eyes and stood up. We were wedged fast, right up ’ere, the broken midships restin’ flat on a ledge of one column, the prow on another, with the big iron spike that stuck out front, driven like a nail, deep into the rock!’
Gonff forgot the beaker which was halfway to his lips, and sat shaking his head. ‘An’ what happened next, Vurg?’
The old mouse chuckled as he speared a scone with his knife. ‘Me’n’Beau rallied our fighters fast an’ finished off those scummy Sea Rogues afore they ’ad a chance t’get us. We’ve lived ’ere ever since. Nothin’ll shift the ole Arfship, she’s weathered time’n’tides, storm an’ seasons, aye, an’ never budged a splinter. After a while we made a rope cradle an’ rigged a line over t’the cliffs on shore. Many creatures left an’ went off t’find their ole homes. A score of us stayed ’ere. But that was long ago. Now there’s only Dulam, Denno, me’n’Beau left out o’ them all. Most o’ our mates died. They’re wrapped in sailcloth, weighted down with stones, sleepin’ on the seabed far below us. Fates be kind t’their memories!’
Martin decided that the time had come. ‘Tell me, Vurg, what became of my father, Luke the Warrior?’
Beau rose stiffly and went to a cupboard. He returned to the table with a large, dusty volume. ‘’Tis all within these pages, Martin, everything, as best as the four of us can recall. We spent many a winter an’ autumn night recordin’ the entire tale. ’Twas a joint work. D’y’know, I thought it might be found by somebeast, long after we were gone. But fate an’ fortunes’ve smiled on us, laddie buck. There’s food’n’drink on the table an’ a long night ahead of us, wot! Here, Denno, you young whipper-snapper, you can understand your own writing best. Read the journal to our friends, there’s a good chap!’
Denno polished a tiny pair of glasses. Perching them on his nose, he looked over at Martin. ‘I was the scribe, y’see. Right, let’s start at the beginning. I ’ope you like the title. ’Tis called “In the Wake of the Red Ship”, this being an account of Luke the Warrior, written by his friends.’
Outside, the eternal seas washed against Tall Rocks, and breezes sighed a wistful dirge about the basalt columns where seabirds wheeled and called. In the cabin, high among the pinnacles, Martin of Redwall listened as the saga of his father, Luke the Warrior, unfolded.
BOOK TWO
* * *
Luke
* * *
17
THERE WERE OTHER mice in the tribe, older and more experienced, younger mice also, bigger and stronger. But everybeast regarded Luke as their natural leader. As mice go, he was nothing special to look upon, of average height and stocky build. However, on closer observation it became obvious that Luke was a warrior born. Behind his calm dark eyes there lurked a flame, his stance bespoke fearlessness, some indefinable quality in his whole attitude marked him as one in whom others could put their unquestioning trust. A mouse tribe could look to him for guidance, and he could always be counted on for fairness and wisdom in his decisions. Such a creature was Luke the Warrior.
Over many seasons the tribe had wandered under his leadership. Long ago they had left the warm areas of abundance, those places where verminous villains preyed upon any who sought the peaceful life. Constant warfare against outnumbering odds had forced Luke’s tribe into the nomadic way, always seeking and searching for some place where they would not have to sleep paw on sword, with one eye open. From the fertile middle lands they roamed north, where the weather was cold and the land bleak and sparse. On the day they reached the northland coast, Luke thrust his sword into the earth. This would be his tribe’s new home. It was a lonely place, quiet and undisturbed.
The tribe approved Luke’s decision. Hardworking beasts could wrest a living from the ground here, providing they were left in peace to do so. There were caves in the base of the cliffs which backed the shore, a high rocky cape thrusting out into the sea at the southern point. It felt safe, with cliffs at the back and the seas in front of them. There was good soil on the clifftops, which could be planted and farmed in spring, summer and autumn.
For the fir
st few days they kept a low profile, living off what supplies they had stored, making the caves habitable. During this time, Luke and his friends patrolled the area, watching out for enemies, robber bands and vermin raiders. Luke knew that his tribe was only a small one, wearied by constant travel, and would not be able to resist any major attack from a large force. But happily there was neither sight nor trace of foebeast.
Then, on the fourth day, Luke strode ahead of the rest as they made their way back to the caves. His step was light, and a shudder of joy ran through him. He felt that this forsaken northland coast was already bringing him happiness. Only two days before, his wife Sayna had given birth to their first little one, a son. They would call the new baby mouse by the name of Martin. Luke’s grandsire had been named Martin, and when he was young Luke had often listened to tales that were told of the formidable Warrior mouse. It was his sword that Luke carried in the sheath on his back, given to him by his own father. Luke was the third of his family to carry the old battleblade, and one day, when the time was right, little Martin would be the next.
The tribe were busy preparing a feast for Luke and Sayna’s son, the first little one to be born on the northland coast. There was to be a great bonfire, too. As Luke came within sight of the caves, he could see the ever growing mound of driftwood and dead timber being piled above the tideline. Two young mice were struggling to drag a big chunk of driftwood along the shore. Luke approached them, a smile hovering on his face at their efforts.