Loamhedge (9 page)

Dawn was only moments old, but Redwall Abbey was awake and buzzing. Today was the special day Abbot Carrul had promised. Breakfast was already being served from a large buffet table, set up in the passage outside the kitchens. With laden platters, the Redwallers sat down to eat at anyplace which took their fancy. Horty and his friends looked out from the dormitory window at the scene below. Dibbuns thronged together on the broad front step of the Abbey, spooning down bowls of oatmeal mixed with honey and fruit. Anybeast wanting to dine outside had to step carefully over them to reach the lawns or the orchard. It was a jumble of happy confusion.

Muggum waved his beaker at the passing elders, who tip-pawed around him. “Yurr, moind ee paws, you'm nearly trodded in this choild's brekkist. Whurr's ee manners? Hurr!”

Warm sunlight was rapidly dispersing the mist into a golden haze. Fenna the squirrelmaid leaned out over the dormitory sill and dropped a fragment of scone down into the hood of Sister Setiva's habit, giggling as she drew back inside.

“Did she notice it?”

Horty reassured her. “Not at all. She's toddled off down to the pond with Brother Gelf. Hahaha! I expect old Setiva'll be set upon by the first blinkin' bird that spots it. Should liven her up, wot!”

Springald watched the Infirmary Sister balancing her tray
gingerly as she crossed the lawn. “Huh, pity help the bird who tries to set upon her. She'll bath it in the pond and physick it silly. Look out, here comes Father Abbot!”

The mischievous trio ducked below the windowsill as Abbot Carrul, Toran, Sister Portula and Martha emerged from the Abbey. Toran lifted Martha's chair over the step and assisted Portula with a trolley full of food. They set out for the gatehouse together, with Abbot Carrul stretching his paws and breathing deeply.

“My my, it's a good-to-be-alive day. Let's hope we get a few hours of peace to tackle our studies.”

Toran had to rap loudly on the gatehouse door to gain attention. Old Phredd could be heard inside, arguing with an armchair.

“Come out my way and let me see who 'tis. It's your fault, being so comfy and allowin' me to sleep like that!”

A moment later, his frowzy, prickled head poked around the door. “Oh, er hmm. Good morning, I suppose it's morning, isn't it? Of course, if 'twas noon, the sun would be much higher, eh, eh?” Dabbing his face in a bowl of water, the ancient hedgehog absentmindedly wiped his eyes on Martha's lap rug. “There, that's better. Oh good, I see you brought breakfast with you. Splendid, I'm starving!”

Martha ate very little, trying to hold back her impatience as Phredd slowly munched his way around the food. Toran, however, got to the point right away.

“Well then, sir, how did yore studyin' go? Did ye find out anythin' useful about Loamhedge?”

Phredd nodded toward a dusty book lying on his bed. “Oh, that. Take a look in the old volume there. I read it until I could keep my eyes open no longer. Hmm, quite interesting really, an exciting little story, eh?”

Martha opened the book, its pages yellow with age and so brittle that they were cracking and beginning to flake. She read aloud from the neatly scribed lines of purple, faded ink. “Written by Tim Churchmouse. Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower country . . .”
*

Phredd interrupted her as he dealt with a hazelnut roll. “It
was written in the seasons of Abbot Mordalphus. The account of Mattimeo, son of Matthias the Abbey Champion. All about abduction and slavery, a search, a chase and so on. If you're looking for a route to the old Abbey of Loamhedge, the descriptions are very long and complicated, but there's a map included that should be a help. Actually I only got a third of the way through the account before I dropped off. . . .”

Abbot Carrul shook his head in wonder. “In the seasons of Mordalphus, . . . Dearie me! That book must be nearly as old as time itself!”

Sister Portula put aside her beaker of mint tea. “The land will have changed a lot since then, what with rains and floods altering water courses and storms blowing down trees. There'll be new areas of woodland grown over the ages, and I don't know what. Do you think it will be much help, Toran?”

As she had been speaking, the noise of stamping paws and singing voices had been swelling outside.

Toran went to the door. “Who knows, Sister? Great Seasons, what's all that rackety din about?”

Old Phredd chuckled. “They're singing the Summer Feast song. What a happy sound! Let's go out and watch, eh, eh?”

Martha was less than enthusiastic, since she wanted to continue studying the book. But the Abbot patted her paw encouragingly. “You know, we can study the problem at our leisure, but next summer's first day is a long time away. They sound so joyful and excited! Come on, young 'un, let's go and see.”

Smilingly, the haremaid relented.

Up and down the wallsteps and all over the lawns, Redwallers, led by Horty, were joining paws and skipping about, singing lustily to the jolly tune.

 

“The sun could not shine brighter

upon this summer's day,

my heart could not be lighter.

I've heard our Abbot say

there'll be a feast this evening,

so listen one and all:

This afternoon we'll run a race

around the Abbey wall!

 

Come form up in a line, pals,

and listen for your names,

it's ready steady set and go,

for Redwall Abbey games!

 

There's vittles in the kitchen,

good ale and cordials, too,

fine singers and musicians,

to play the evening through.

But first I'll gird my robe up,

so I don't trip or fall.

I'm going to be the first around

that high old Abbey wall!

 

Come form up in a line, pals,

and listen for your names,

it's ready steady set and go,

for Redwall Abbey games!”

 

Martha could not resist the merry cavalcade. Clapping her paws in time to the lively song, she laughed happily. Sister Portula, whooping like a wildbeast, grabbed Martha's chair and dashed off into the throng.

Abbot Carrul winked at Phredd. “My mistake for starting all this, but who could sit indoors studying on such a wonderful day?”

Toran, in complete agreement, shepherded both of his friends out of the way of the dancers. “You two stay here. I'll go an' bring two armchairs an' the rest o' the food out of the gatehouse. Ye can sit back an' watch the whole thing in comfort. We can always look through dusty ole books tomorrow.”

Old Phredd spoke to a buttercup growing by the wall. “Heehee, now there's a sensible young creature. Beasts like that make a body enjoy his old age, eh, eh?”

 

Bragoon and Saro stood outside the main gate. Memories flooded back as they touched the stout oak timbers.

The aging squirrel looked misty-eyed. “Dear ole Redwall Abbey! Sounds like they're havin' a good time in there, mate. Well, do we knock for the Gatekeeper?”

Bragoon scuffed the gravel path with his rudder as he pondered the question. “Hmm, we've been a long time gone. Suppose nobeast knows us anymore. Or worse, supposin' they do recognise us an' recall wot a pair of scoundrels we were! They might not want us back. Wot d'ye think?”

Saro gnawed at her lip. “Aye, I think yore right, Brag. Tell ye what, let's just slip in unnoticed an' sort of mingle with the crowd. That way we can judge the lay o' the land.”

The otter grinned furtively at his companion. “The way we used to come an' go, through the ole east wall gate. I'll bet ye can still open it.”

Saro clapped his back with her bushy tail. “Great idea! Come on, let's give it a try. We'll disguise ourselves up a bit so as not to cause too much of a stir!”

 

Brother Weld, an old bankvole who was Abbey Beekeeper, perched on the arm of Abbot Carrul's chair to watch the fun. Some of the other games were in progress, and competition among the Dibbuns was fierce.

The Abbot watched them fondly as he reminisced. “I was pretty good at the nut and spoon race in my younger seasons.”

Weld kept his eyes on the games as he observed drily, “Aye, Father, you beat me three seasons on the run. Then they caught you sticking your nut to the spoon with honey.”

Abbot Carrul cautioned him. “Not so loud, Weld, keep your voice down. We can't have the young 'uns discovering that a Dibbun who cheated at nut and spoon is now their Abbot!”

Three of the Dibbuns—Muggum, Shilly and Yooch—were trying madly to win the greasy pole event. A big bag of candied chestnuts hung from the top of the pole. It resisted all their efforts. Each time, they ended up skimming dismally down to earth, caked with a mixture of soap and vegetable oil. After some earnest plotting, they hatched up a joint plan. Muggum stood tippaw, grasping the base of the pole. Yooch scrambled up the molebabe's back and stood on his head. Both clung tightly to the pole, then Shilly climbed up over
them onto Yooch's head. Holding the pole with one paw, the squirrelbabe strove with her free paw to reach the bag. Unfortunately, the combined height of all three Dibbuns was still short of the prize. Muggum could not look up, his tiny face squinched by the weight of his two pals. But that did not stop him yelling out words of encouragement.

“Gurr, goo on Shilly, grab ee chesknutters naow!”

Shilly roared back at him. “I carn't not gerrem, me paw bee's too likkle'n'short!”

Yooch the molebabe grunted his contribution. “Moi pore bee's flattinged, 'urry up!”

Amid the spectators' shouts of support and hoots of laughter at the spectacle, Fenna came bounding out. The squirrelmaid hopped up the backs of all three Dibbuns. Launching herself from the top of Shilly's head, she made a graceful leap. Fenna effortlessly unhooked the bag of candied chestnuts. Performing a spectacular somersault, she landed neatly on the ground, without a speck of grease anywhere on her.

She smiled smugly. “No trouble at all, the prize is mine!”

Martha's voice cut across her jubilant cries. “Not fair! It's the greasy pole you're supposed to climb, not the greasy Dibbuns. You should forefeit the nuts, Fenna!”

Fenna stuck her lip out and pouted. “But I won them!”

The Abbot left his armchair and took possession of the bag. “The object is to get the nuts. There's no hard-and-fast rule about climbing greasy poles. But be fair, Fenna. The little ones tried so hard, and they gave us all such fun. I suggest we split the nuts four ways betwixt you and them.”

Whilst everybeast was applauding the decision, Toran caught Shilly and Yooch as they fell backwards from the pole. Horty was left with the task of unsticking Muggum, who was practically plastered to the pole with grease. He tugged his snout politely to the young hare.

“Thankee, zurr, oi thort oi wuz stucked thurr fer loife!”

Horty gazed down at his clean tunic, now coated with the mess. “Oh, think nothin' of it, old lad. My pleasure, wot!” He slipped and fell flat as he stumbled away from the pole.

 

By the pondside an old female squirrel, her face hooded against the sun by a cowl, was bathing her footpaws in the
reeded shallows. An otter of medium size, his face also hooded, sat next to her. Sister Portula sought a seat in the reedshade alongside them, fanning her face with a dockleaf.

“Whew, this is certainly going to be a memorable summer!”

The otter glanced sideways at her. “Has afternoon tea been served yet, Sister?”

Portula swiped at a flying midge which was tormenting her. “We never serve afternoon tea when there's going to be an evening feast. You knew that, didn't you, Brother?”

The female squirrel sighed. “Oh no, I was lookin' forward to some nice scones with strawberry preserve an' meadowcream.”

Portula had to raise her voice to be heard over the sounds of sporting revellers. “The walltop race will be starting soon. I think first prize for that might be a cream tea with scones.”

The squirrel jumped upright, surprisingly spry for one of her long seasons. “Right, I'll enter an' win first prize!”

The Sister shook her head doubtfully. “You'll have lots of competition from younger and fitter creatures, I'm afraid.”

The otter smiled knowingly. “Oh, don't ye worry about that, Sister. If'n there's a prize of afternoon tea goin', my mate'll win it. Right, Saro?”

The squirrel threw off her cowl. “I'll give it a good try, Brag, an' maybe I'll share it with ye.”

The good Sister stared open-mouthed at the aging squirrel. “Saro, is it really you?”

Saro took the old Recorder's paw and shook it warmly. “Aye, Portula, my ole friend, an' guess who this creakin' ruddered lump is?”

Portula was all aflutter. “Wait, don't tell me now. . . . Oh, seasons o' mercy, it's Bragoon!”