CHAPTER 5

More than any other creature, the shrews were the ones most partial to debate, some of which could get extremely fiery. It was the reason why the shrew unions had, over time, implemented more and more sophisticated ways of keeping these heated arguments from becoming unconstructive. Their debating and general disagreeableness was isolated to their own tribes usually, but there was one debate which they always loved engaging in whenever they had visitors.

That was on the origins of the naming of the River Moss. Whilst most creatures in the country agreed that the name of the river had come as a result of the naming of the land, Mossflower, the shrews firmly held the belief that the river had been named first, and then from that sprung the name of the surrounding countryside.

After all, the woodland was fed mainly by the waters of the wide River Moss and was a major waterway. The beaches of Salamandastron were bordered to the north by the River Moss and to the south by the Great South Stream, but the latter boasted a gentle waterfall near its mouth which prevented navigation between it and the sea.

The former, on the other hand, was an entirely tidal river, so its depth rose and fell with the level of the sea. One could hop on a boat at Salamandastron, travel north to the mouth of the River Moss, and sail up the river quite easily.

As you sailed east, you would pass the shadow of the Western Mountain Range on your right, whilst on the left you would see the tumble of waters from the Northfork Stream bubble across its rocky junction into the Moss.

In this stretch of water you might see the various moorings, tribal huts and burrow entrances of the Guosim, the Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower. This entire area was their land, and although they stayed mostly mobile, were fiercely protective of the places they had built and settled.

A few miles on, you would then come to Furmo's Bridge, a great wooden arch bridge made of oak from the surrounding woodland. It was named after the otter who built it, hoping to make life a bit easier for any travellers on the Cross-Woodland Path who needed passage across the River Moss. A long time ago the river had been quite easy to ford, but shrews and otters frustrated with the obstacle to their boats had cleared it away.

Furmo's Bridge connected to another asset of the shrews. The small dock which ran alongside it on the southern bank was managed by the Guosim, but really for the benefit of Redwall Abbey, whose kitchen staff used it to collect goods sent to them by various sources.

Soon after passing under the bridge and seeing the point where the Moss received water from another tributary, the Pine Stream, the river veered hard south, almost doubling back on itself, as it entered into a wide, long meander. From the confluence of the Pine Stream with the Moss, to when the river had veered north and then east again into a steady path, was called the Moss Sling.

After exiting the Moss Sling, the river would start to lose the treeline on either side and instead be flanked by two artificial features. On its northern bank was a sandstone quarry which cut into the ground like a chunk of the earth had been scooped out of it, and from which the founders of Redwall had sourced their building materials. The southern bank however was rather different, instead boasting a series of well-kept orchards, meadows and vegetable patches, which were all maintained by the residents of the farmhouse which backed onto the water, and still upheld the name attached to the place for centuries, Gingivere Farm. More ancient even than Redwall Abbey, the old farmhouse had been renovated many times, but was still decorated with stones which made reference to places lost and forgotten to unrecorded history – names such as Dommoc, Canwaer Castle, Aldburgh and Goodwich.

Just a few miles on, and the treeline would return… though still considered part of Mossflower Country, this pine forest with its high roof was called Tallwoods.

One had to navigate a couple of gentle bends, but after the last, you would be in sight of the remarkable river dwelling of the otter clans, Parley Colony.

Once upon a time the clans had been strewn across Mossflower Country, but many seasons ago the chiefs decided to unite and reinstate the old position of Skipper of Otters. The first, Skipper Vinno, led the otters out of Mossflower Woods to the largely peaceable and untouched Tallwoods, where they established Parley on a distributary.

This was where the River Moss started. The otters of Parley Colony had built a stone weir to regulate the flow into it, as they had also done with the second river which curled away north, the River Lonna. Both of these waterways were ultimately fed by a waterfall which tumbled down from the River Dace, a great streaming torrent whose source originated somewhere far to the east, high in the Black Mountains.

Right in the middle of the plunge pool, from which the two new rivers diverged, a stilt island had been built, atop which a round table and chairs had been placed to allow the twelve clan chieftains and their Skipper to meet and discuss the business of their tribe. Three bridges connected the island to the three banks around it, and here the otters had built their estates. Whilst some of the dens and holts had been built on the ground, burrowing between the roots of the trees, other clans had been more adventurous and created platforms encircling the trees, connected by rope bridges. Access to them was provided by spiral staircases – but the waterfall had been cleverly utilised to power large wheels which turned cogs, pulling ropes which then lifted elevators up the trunks.

The otters were fine craftbeasts, and Parley was a true demonstration of their skill. Whilst the shrews were quite nomadic and relied heavily on their light logboats to travel, the otters loved adventuring in their sturdy river boats but also enjoyed having a place they could always call home and were much keener to help their fellow woodlanders.

On this day, Parley Colony was abuzz with news of visitors. The hares were coming.

Chief Tagan, the head of the Windcatch Clan, had been up since the break of dawn hauling the previous day's catch of shrimp to the caves hidden in the cliffs from which the waterfall toppled. Excavated with the help of moles, this large space usually served as both kitchen and dining area, but with the amount of food to prepare, it had been taken over only by the most skilled chefs in the colony.

It was still a sight, even if one could not see the floor. The madness of the hall was accompanied by great firing stoves in the background, steam and smoke blocking the sightline from the door from almost every angle, and on the right, which was completely open, a pool of water foaming with the crash of the falls served as a fourth wall, from which natural light also streamed.

Tagan and his crew marched proudly through the open doorway into the cavern, and the chief held aloft two nets of his catch, announcing, ''oo wants shrimp!?'

Only the heads in his immediate vicinity turned, albeit briefly, and then resumed their work. The space was in complete chaos, with otters milling about desperately trying to find ingredients and put together their dishes. It was clear that nobeast was in the mood to be distracted.

Tagan and his four-otter crew instead marched down the steps which led into the main space of the hall and carefully navigated the crowd of cooks with their nets.

The smell was intoxicating. Around them, they could see heated stones sizzling strips of seaweed, the powerful saltiness being pounded out ready to be added to the Mighty Mess, a concoction of seafood dressed with mashed potatoes – and not too far away, an elderly otter matriarch was mashing the aforementioned vegetables into a pulp with an aggression which somewhat scared Tagan.

Then he smelt the chili, and his eyes watered as he watched a team of cutters laughing hysterically as they wiped away each other's tears, seeping out in a violent reaction to the tangy scent released as they pounded them into powder. They were near to the onion slicers, who were also having a hard time keeping themselves from crying.

'I smell chili 'n' peppers!' Tagan shouted back to his crew. 'We must be near the soup area!'

Although not typically a spring food, the otters were well aware of the hare's affection of otters and their zesty food, hence the preparation of hotroot'n'shrimp soup. Even their Applecrumb Bake was infused with the citric juices of oranges and lemons, which gave it a tang that a Redwall chef would never dream of adding.

Between the milling crowds, Tagan finally spied the huge vats in which the shrimp would be prepared, the simmering water still on its way to the boil, steam rising out of the great metal pots and flowing towards the holes in the ceiling, drilled out to serve as vents.

'Shrimp!' shouted Tagan triumphantly as he arrived at the cooking area.

'Finally!' cried the cook. 'D'yer know 'ow long I've been waitin'?'

'Ah, get on, you ole fogey,' joked the chief, and then dumped the nets in a ceramic sink next to the vats.

'Chief!'

Tagan just about heard the young male voice over the sound of frying, steaming and boiling – not forgetting the crashing waterfall.

'Chief!' the voice emerged into a young otter, who squeezed through the crowd awkwardly to stand in front of Tagan. 'Council's in session!' he managed to say, before somebeast – paying too much attention to the board of chopped carrots and not enough to where he was walking – crashed into the messenger.

Tagan laughed as vegetables went flying, hitting a few in the back of the head and – most egregiously – landing in a saucepan filled to the brim with greensap milk. The otter working on that particular dish noticed it plop in and turned to berate the pair now lying on the ground.

'Righ'! If an 'are finds a carrot in its 'elping of wild cheese, youse can be the ones to explain it!'

Tagan continued to chuckle as he excused himself. 'Ya know, I'd love to 'elp out, but ya know, I've got a meetin' to attend. See ya!'

With that, he scarpered before he could be collared into assisting with the clean-up.

Again, he was forced to snake limberly through the crowd, but found himself truly blocked in about halfway through. Getting a little tired of the time it was taking to exit the cave, he instead made for the pool, and upon reaching the edge dived seamlessly into the cool water.

He kicked violently with his webbed paws as he battled through the currents generated in the plunge pool by the waterfall above, but once he was through, he let the same current nudge him forwards. Tagan surfaced, and then swam to the stilt island in the middle of the pool, reaching up and grabbing the ledge to pull himself up.

'Tagan, you finally joined us,' said Chief Clammer, the head of the Keelkin Clan.

'Shrimp delivery,' Tagan explained. He removed his tunic and twisted the cloth to rinse out the water-drenched garment, which caused the muscles in his arm to bulge. He took the chance to look around and see how many admired the flex. Clammer was unimpressed, as were most of the other male chieftains.

'Working out, Tagan?' asked the elderly matriarch of the Cedarholt Clan.

'Only so you'd notice, Gattia,' Tagan grinned playfully, putting the tunic back on and sitting down in the chair reserved for him.

'Anyway, back to business,' said Clammer. 'Skipper?'

Everybody's head turned toward the Skipper of Otters, who was clearly in her own headspace, still staring across the table at Chief Tagan's now-covered bicep.

'Skipper Yeola?'

'Oh!' she finally snapped out of it.

Skipper Yeola was one of the youngest ever to take the position. She had never known her mother and father but had been discovered on the banks of the River Dace by the Dashprow Clan, who often trekked the banks of that river. However, at the time of her adoption, the clan leader Thaddaeus was already quite advanced in his years and when he died, she was elected as chief. She had only served as Chief of the Dashprow Clan for a season when the previous Skipper of Otters retired, and once again she found herself the victor of another election.

'Er… oh yeah,' she suddenly remembered what they had been talking about. 'The hares are expected to arrive at five o'clock according to the runner who arrived this mornin'…'

'We already did this bit,' said Chief Rowe of the Stopstream Clan, waving his paw in a circle, motioning for her to hurry up.

'Righ',' said Yeola, 'but there's more. They migh' be stayin' longer than expected. Y'see, it turns out Brockhall migh' not be able to accommodate the regiment quite yet due to renovations, so they've asked if they can camp 'ere another day.'

'And they can't stay at Gingivere Farm?' asked Clammer.

'Well, they could,' said Yeola, 'but frankly, I wouldn't wanna do that to Jacob and his family.' She referred to the fieldmouse who ran the farm, who whilst was equipped to handle the hares for maybe one day, was most certainly not prepared to host them any longer than that.

'Fair 'nough,' said Tagan, shrugging acceptably.

'Fine, let's vote,' said Clammer, who was not just the Keelkin Chief but also the appointed Chairbeast of the Council. 'All those in favour, say aye.'

A chorus of ayes came from all around the table.

'Carried,' Clammer concluded. 'Any other business?'

'Aye,' said Yeola, repeating herself. 'The Separations Proposal. I wanna…'

She was cut off by the loud, disruptive groan which came from almost all twelve of the otters around the table.

'You have all been avoiding this since I presented it,' Skipper Yeola persisted. 'We need to discuss it.'

'Yeola, if I can be blun', this law is stoopid,' said Chief Rowe. 'It's over the top, unnecessary, and just unreasonable.'

'I disagree,' said Yeola firmly. 'I think it's exac'ly what we need.'

'Magla is well-respected in the colony as a spiritual advisor,' stated Rowe, to which he got several of the others around the table trying too late to stop him.

'Magla isn't the only problem!' cried Yeola for what felt like the thousandth time. 'You keep coming back to this like she's the only reason I wrote the proposal.'

'Isn't she?' asked Clammer. 'Yes, she attends meetings sometimes and we have all sought counsel from her. Is that so bad?'

'Well, it wasn', until the Brown Rock Incident,' said Yeola, which drew another groan from the council.

'The Brown Rock Incident?' asked the newly-appointed chief of the Strakeway Clan, Padthorn.

'A coupla seasons ago the Dashprow Clan found an abundance of truffles near Culliver's Ridge,' said Yeola, referring to a dark, slightly gloomy part of the forest. 'For some reason, they decided to take Magla out to look at the place, who immediately decided that the area was haunted and shouldn't be disturbed.'

'Righ',' said Padthorn, confused.

'A little while later, completely separately, a kitt from the Silva Clan finds the truffles and thinks they're just brown rocks, so he picks a few up and brings 'em back. When Magla found out, she punished the poor babe by ordering him sit in the middle of the woods apologising to the ghost! It wasn' until his parents, who were worried sick, foun' him and brought him back to the colony.'

'So, she was a little overzealous,' Clammer defended the old otter.

'Then there's the Fraught Tree Incident,' Yeola continued.

'I didn' think we'd formally called that one an incident?' enquired Tagan.

'I formally called it an incident!' Yeola emphasised, pointing to herself.

'The tree missed everything, didn't it?' said Clammer.

'Yeah, but it almos' destroyed an entire cabin! It would've been much safer to cut it down in a way we could control. And you all agreed with me, until she changed yer minds!'

'Ahem,' piped up Chief Rapador of the Tillerstripe Clan. 'I think yer'll find I was wiv ya.'

'An' me,' said Tagan.

'I know, and thank you,' said Yeola, reminded of their votes in her favour. 'But it still amounted to three against nine.'

'Yeola, it's not going to happen,' Clammer finally tried to end the debate. 'You want to change far too much. You want to end the spiritualist's contribution to council,' he started, counting them off on his paw, 'relinquish the Skipper's funerary responsibilities; fundamentally reshape the way in which we school our young; and most egregiously, change the marriage laws. Drop it.'

Yeola stared at Clammer resolutely, and the pair were locked in this staring contest for a while. Once it was clear no other chieftain was brave enough to do so, Tagan decided to step in.

'Let's… move on,' he said slowly. 'We're never gonna be agreed on this, so let's avoid gettin' ourselves into a tizzy on a day when we're gonna have guests.'

Yeola broke her gaze first, cowed by the advanced age and stern frown of Chief Clammer. 'Agreed.'

'Motion dismissed,' said Clammer to summarise, but which just sounded obnoxiously taunting to Yeola.

His peripheral vision then caught the sight of an otter headed over the bridge from the south bank, who paused once he was at the very edge of the council island and awaited the permission to address the leaders of the colony.

'Devon,' Skipper Yeola called out. 'You may approach.'

The otter seemed a little nervous, but still enthused with energy from his quick scarper to the island. 'It's Magla.'

Clammer stood straight out of his chair. 'What about her?'

'She's dyin'.'

'Council is dismissed,' the chairbeast quickly announced, and then without wasting any time marched around to where Devon was stood and beckoned for him to follow. The rest of the council also stood but seemed unsure what to do – except Tagan and Yeola, who followed the two who had just departed.

The healer's hut was located above the cliffs, accessed by a rope pulley elevator which scaled the rockface. At the top, Clammer, Yeola and Tagan followed Devon as he showed them into the small hut, decorated with potted plants and herbs, and occupied by four beds, one of which was occupied by a frail, elderly female otter.

She was being cared for by the colony's healer, who explained that Magla had suddenly collapsed and was succumbing to internal injuries. The healer then beckoned them towards the bed and left the hut so the group could be alone with her. Clammer instinctively took the single seat next to the bed – after all, Magla was in his clan, the Keelkin.

'Magla?' he said softly.

'Str… Strawn?' she stuttered, through laboured breathing.

'No, it's Clammer,' he said, frowning, and looked around the room to see if anybody recognised the name she had just spoken. They all shook their heads and shrugged.

'Clammer,' she breathed heavily, each breath accompanied with a discernible rasp. 'Dark… forest… app… roaches.'

'I know.' Clammer's heart dropped.

'Str... awn,' said Magla again.

'There is no… Strawn… here, Magla,' said Clammer.

Yeola pulled up a stool and sat down on the opposite side to the old otter. 'She's not from these parts,' she said, staring into Magla's drooping eyes but talking to Clammer. 'She came from the east, beyond the Black Mountains. Like me,' she added thoughtfully.

Clammer thought about this. 'Is Strawn someone you knew, Magla? From where you came?'

Magla didn't answer Clammer. Instead, she slowly rotated her head so that she could see Yeola and looked up at the colonial leader, with whom she had so often had disagreements.

'You…,' she started, and Yeola braced for the final arguments of the dying spiritualist, 'were… a sign.'

This surprised everyone in the room. Yeola narrowed her brow, and leaned in closer to try and catch what final message Magla had to impart.

'The tree…,' Magla croaked, 'when they are… needed. They… walk.'

Yeola couldn't comprehend it. 'Magla? The trees, when they are needed, they walk?'

'The oak…,' Magla just seemed desperate to say what was on her mind and was uninterested in listening. 'It walks. You…,' she pointed at Yeola, and then herself. 'Sent… me.'

Yeola couldn't make heads nor tails of it.

'I knew her,' Magla continued. 'Your mother.'

As Clammer's heart had dropped before, Yeola's leapt into her throat, and found it had made her dumb.

'She… was…,' then Magla appeared to change tack. 'Oak. The badger… and the fox.'

That was it. Magla exhaled one final breath which flew from her lungs with relief, and then no more.

Yeola's eyes filled with tears, but otherwise did not weep. Instead, she was rocked with confusion, and fixated on the vacant pupils before her, which were eventually covered when Clammer carefully closed Magla's eyelids.

And only then did the Keelkin Chief openly grieve for the lost life.