‘Lady Cregga, respected elders, good creatures all, may I present tonight for your delight an’ delectation—’
‘Wot’s a dite of lectation?’ little Floburt piped up, much to everybeast’s amusement. Boorab silenced her with a severe twitch of his nose.
‘Without further ado the Jolly Dibbuns Choir of Redwall will render for you, under my expert direction, a recently composed masterpiece, written by m’goodself, wot wot . . .’
‘Wot wot!’ several Dibbuns chorused together. The hare waggled his ears fiercely at them before continuing.
‘. . . entitled, “Welcome to the Feast”.’
Boorab produced a small reed pitch flute and blew upon it, then attempted to get the key right. ‘Fahfahfah . . . Sooooooodomeelah . . . Lalalalahhhhh. One two . . . !’
The little ones made a ragged start but soon picked up the air.
‘Welcome to the feast, the feast,
Oh welcome one and all.
Good creatures that you are, la la la,
Who dwell within Redwall.
The lark descends unto its nest,
The sun has sunk into the west,
And we are left all evening long,
To bring you light and song.
Sing out sing out each joyous beast,
Oh welcome to the feast, the feast,
We wish you happy seasons long,
And hope you liked our soooooong!’
Applause broke out as the final note drifted clear upon the summer night air. Boorab took a hasty bow and turned back to his Jolly Dibbuns Choir.
‘Well done, chaps an’ chapesses. Dismiss to your seats now. Not you, young Egburt. Come here, sir, this very instant!’
The little hedgehog quailed under his hare conductor’s gaze. ‘Er, heehee, I sorry, sir. I sing d’right words nex’ time.’
Boorab held the quivering baton under Egburt’s snout. ‘Fiend! Lyric wrecker! What were those words y’were singing? C’mon, spit it out. Recite ’em back t’me, sah!’
Egburt remained silent until his Grandpa Drogg growled, ‘You do as Mr Boorab sez, young ’un, or ’tis straight up t’bed for ye. Go on, what were you singin’? Tell the truth!’
Egburt was left with no choice. Raising his spikes he boomed out in a fine baby baritone.
‘Ho welcome to the feast, you beast,
I hopes you trip an’ fall,
I’ve got a fat grandpa, ha ha ha,
Who’ll prob’ly eat it all.
The lark defends his feathery chest,
The sun has sunk into his vest,
If he don’t bathe before too long,
There’ll be an awful pong . . .’
Boorab snapped the baton and covered his eyes. ‘Enough! Enough I say, you small spiked song destroyer!’ The outraged hare turned abruptly to Drogg Spearback. ‘Well, sir, what the deuce d’you think of your grandson, wot?’
Stroking his grey headquills, Drogg eyed Egburt pensively. ‘Hmmm. If’n you ask me I think the liddle ’un shows a rare talent with rhymin’ words together.’
Boorab pondered Drogg’s answer a moment, then he laughed. ‘Hawhawhaw! Well, frizzle m’whiskers, sah, y’could be right there. The rogue does have a certain turn of phrase, wot?’
Drogg patted his ample stomach proudly. ‘I reckon he gets it from me. Us Spearbacks was always good poets, fine singers too. Comes nat’ral to us!’
Brother Hoben, the old Recorder, had a wry sense of humour, despite his serious and learned look. Not averse to a bit of mischievous fun, he tapped Boorab.
‘Excuse me, sir, but if I were you, being the official Abbey poet and musician, I’d say that Drogg was issuing a challenge!’
Cregga and several others caught on to Hoben’s idea. They pounded on the tables, calling out, ‘A contest! Let’s have a contest!’
Drogg shrugged. ‘’Tis fair enough wi’ me. I don’t mind.’
Bells tinkled on Boorab the Fool’s ears as they stood erect. ‘I accept the challenge, sah. A contest it is, an’ may the best creature win, wot wot!’
Hoarg the dormouse piped up. ‘A contest then, but what’s the subject to be?’
Cregga’s keen ears detected the creaking of trolley wheels. ‘They’re bringing the food to serve for our feast. Let’s make that the subject. A musical verse praising our cooks’ efforts!’
Boorab waggled his ears confidently. ‘Ask me t’sing about scoff? Pish tush, sah, a piece of cake. You’re on a loser, me old pincushion. Like to go first?’
Drogg waved a paw airily. ‘Nay, sir, if’n yore so good, don’t let me stop ye!’
Boorab stood to one side, striking a fine dramatic pose, one leg behind the other, ears laid soulfully back, paws bent at chest height in true hare singing fashion. Casting his eyes over the contents of the carts as the servers trundled them up to the tables, he coughed politely and launched into a speedily delivered verse.
‘How can one count the praises of the vittles at Redwall?
Oh pure delight, oh wondrous night, I’ll sing to one and all.
Thaaaaaaat blackberry pudden looks such a good ’un,
All covered in meadowcream.
And the hazelnut cake, well for goodness’ sake,
I hope it’s no jolly old dream.
That huge apple pie, oh me oh my, the crust is pipin’ hot,
Good creatures be nice, an’ save me a slice,
Or I’m sure I’ll die, wot wot!’
Foremole Brull nudged a cart with her footpaw. It rolled gently to rest, right under Boorab’s nose. The hare tried bravely to carry on singing with a hot mushroom pastie, dripping onion gravy, simmering under his nose.
‘What rhymes with pastie, I’ll try to sing fastly,
My nose tells me ’tis wrong,
This soon will grow cold, if I may make so bold,
Pray excuse a chap endin’ his song!’
Unable to stand it any longer and disregarding cutlery, the gluttonous hare hurled himself barepawed upon the pastie. ‘Grmmff, I say, sninch grrmm, rotten ole mole cad, grmmff grrawff, put me off my ditty completely, grrmff snch, bounder!’
Drogg the Cellarhog fell off his chair laughing. ‘Ohohoho! Nobeast could follow that. Mr Boorab, take a tankard o’ my finest October Ale an’ wet yore whistle. You win!’
Sister Alkanet helped herself to a plate of summerfruit salad and a mint wafer spread with soft white cheese. Looking prim and severe, she remarked to Brother Hoben, ‘That hare! What a bad example he’s setting to the young ones!’
On the Dibbuns’ table many Abbeybabes were imitating Boorab. Little Gundil was practically washing his face in a portion of deeper’n ever turnip’n’tater’n’beetroot pie, the moles’ favourite dish. A tiny squirrel and an infant mousemaid were feeding each other pawfuls of summer vegetable soup. It looked as if they were trying to paint one another. Egburt and Floburt were either end of an applecream flan, munching away, eager to see who would get to the centre first. Table manners, spoons, forks and serviettes were completely ignored as each Dibbun went at it paw and snout, enjoying the fun and the food.
Sister Alkanet was about to rise and deal with them, but Brother Hoben pressed her gently back into her seat. ‘Please, Sister, let them be. Dibbuns don’t remain babes for ever. To them ’tis all a game. Let them play it and have a good time.’
Alkanet picked daintily at her salad and fumed. ‘It’s not good manners. Look at the mess they’re making. Look at those smocks, clean on this evening. Who’ll get the job of washing them? Certainly not me!’
A fat kindly mole called Wummple poured a beaker of dandelion cordial and passed it to the Sister, chuckling. ‘Hurrhurrhurr. Doan’t ee fret, marm, oi’ll be ee washerbeast. You’m let they likkle h’infants be. They’m full of ’arpiness. Oi wishes oi cudd join ’em, burr aye!’
Cregga sat back, sipping at a small cup of elderberry wine, letting the festive feeling wash over her. Everybeast tried to press different delicacies upon the Badgermum, and she acknowledged them all pleas
antly.
‘Yurr, marm, oi saved ee summ turnip’n’ tater’n’ beetroot poi. Foremole Brull sez et makes ee grow big’n’ strong!’
‘Thank you, Gundil. I hope it makes me grow big and strong as you.’
‘Try some o’ my best October Ale, marm. It’s a new barrel.’
‘Put it down there, Drogg, I’ll sample it later thank you.’
‘Cregga, I saved you a slice of plumcake, it’s delicious!’
‘I’m sure it is, Friar. I was hoping you’d save some for me.’
The big badger accepted everything graciously, knowing that her friends thought she did not know what was on the tables because of her blindness. Cregga, however, had extra-keen hearing and an amazing sense of smell and touch. Hot scones she could detect by their aroma, even before they were brought to the festive board. Cheese, ale, salads, bread, trifles, cakes and puddings: she could place them all in position uncannily, at their exact location in relation to where she sat.
Somebeast touched her paw, and without thinking she identified who it was. ‘Enjoying yourself, Skipper?’
The otter shook his head in amazement. ‘Aye, marm, ’tis a grand ould party. I brought you some o’ the watershrimp an’ ’otroot soup wot Mhera an’ Filorn made. Stripe me rudder, I never tasted better in all me life, marm!’
Cregga mentally chided herself. She had not heard the voices of the ottermum and her daughter at table for a considerable time. She patted an empty space on the tabletop, indicating where Skipper should place the bowl of soup.
‘Tell me, Skip, have you seen Mhera and Filorn anywhere?’
‘In the kitchens last time I clapped eyes on ’em, marm. Why?’
Cregga rose from her seat carefully. ‘Sit in my chair and keep it warm for me, Skip. I’ll not be gone for too long.’
Cregga merged back into the orchard trees, not wanting anybeast to offer a paw to guide her. Silently, her paws touching familiar objects, she made her way back to the Abbey building. Like a great moonshadow she drifted noiselessly through Great Hall and down to the kitchens. Filorn and Mhera did not hear her enter. They were hugging each other, seeking comfort as their bodies shook with grief. No sooner did Cregga hear them weeping than she was at their side, holding them in her huge embrace.
‘There, there, now, my good friends, what’s brought all this about?’
Mhera turned her tearstained face up to the sightless eyes. ‘Oh, Cregga, I tried my best, I really did . . . but we miss Dad and little Deyna so much . . .’
Sobs overcame the ottermaid’s voice. Filorn continued haltingly where her daughter had left off.
‘I knew that Mhera was trying to cheer me up after our loss, so I tried to be brave and not think about it. We busied ourselves and helped to organise the feast, and it worked for a while. But Skipper was so pleased with our freshwater shrimp and hotroot soup that he reminded us of poor Rillflag. It was my husband’s special favourite, you see. So we couldn’t help . . . oh, dear!’ A fresh burst of tears overflowed from Filorn.
Cregga herded them both into a corner. Sitting them down on a bundle of empty sacks, she whispered, ‘Stay there. I’ll be back in a tick.’ She returned shortly with a flask and three tiny pottery cups, and sat down with the two otters. ‘This is very old strong damson wine, so sip it carefully.’
The Badgermum filled the three cups, then waited until they had taken a couple of sips and dried their eyes.
‘Tastes like sweet fire, doesn’t it? I usually have a drop on winter mornings, just to get me up and about. There, that’s better. I’ve seen lots of winters, you know, far more than anybeast I know. Every grey hair on my black stripes is a winter. Aye, I’ve seen friends too, good companions, die and pass over to the silent streams and sunlit glades. Oh, I’m not the hard old blind warrior everybeast thinks I am. I’ve grieved and shed tears, long and loud, for my departed loved ones. Don’t be ashamed to weep; ’tis right to grieve. Tears are only water, and flowers, trees and fruit cannot grow without water. But there must be sunlight also. A wounded heart will heal in time, and when it does, the memory and love of our lost ones is sealed inside to comfort us.’
Filorn clasped the badger’s paw. ‘Thank you for your kind words, Cregga.’
The Badgermum could not resist pouring them another small tot of the damson wine. ‘Oh, don’t thank me, I’m speaking for all our Redwallers. ’Tis they who want to thank you for arranging and cooking most of this feast. Friar Bobb and young Broggle had almost the entire evening off because of your splendid efforts. As for me, well, I don’t want to see you both hiding in these kitchens, and neither would your dad if he was here, Mhera. Isn’t that right, Filorn?’
Drinking her wine off in one draught, the otter mother lost her breath for a moment, then stood up, nodding. ‘Whooh! Yes, that’s right. Rillflag always used to say that time heals everything and life must go on.’
Skipper was standing on a chair. He spotted the lantern Mhera was carrying and called out in a hoarse whisper, ‘Belay, mates, ’ere they come. Are ye ready?’
Loud cheers resounded as the trio entered the orchard. Redwallers gathered round to thank Filorn and Mhera.
‘Many many thanks for the wonderful spread, ladies!’
‘Hurr aye, missus, et wurr greatly impreciated boi all!’
‘Never had a blinkin’ scoff like it in me jolly old life, wot!’
While a molemaid presented each of the otters with a bouquet of flowers, Drogg tipped the wink to Boorab, who had the Jolly Dibbuns Choir ready with a song. Giving Egburt a swift warning glance, Boorab tapped his baton against the upturned wheelbarrow and started them off on the background harmony.
‘Rum be diddle dee dum, be diddle dee dum, dee diddledy dum . . .’
The hare pointed an ear at his soloist. Broggle stepped to the front and sang out beautifully into the lantern-lit orchard.
‘Ladies dear oh how we thank you,
For this evening’s wondrous feast,
Every Dibbun every elder,
From the greatest to the least.
We can say with paw on heart,
That your efforts did you proud,
So in tribute to your art,
Let us sing with joy aloud.
Ladies dear oh how we thank you,
And in truth we always will,
Knowing that your gracious beauty,
Is in keeping with your skill!’
Amid the applause, Foremole Brull pounded Broggle’s back. ‘Gurtly dunn, young maister. Ee doan’t be a stammeren when ee singen. ’Tis ee marvel!’
The young squirrel flicked his bushy tail triumphantly. ‘No, marm, an’ I don’t stammer when I speak any more, as you can see. Completely cured, thanks to my good friend Mr Boorab. I sang the words in my mind as I spoke them at first, but now I don’t even have to do that any more. I just speak as I like an’ out it comes, without a stammer or a stumble or a trip. Talk? It’s the simplest thing on earth! Would you like to hear me recite the alphabet, forwards, backwards or sideways as you please? ’Tis quite simple, listen . . .’
Broggle was forestalled by Boorab’s thrusting a honeyed hazelnut slice into his mouth. The hare pulled Brull to one side.
‘Confounded young bounder found his voice earlier this evenin’, an’ now I can’t shut him up. Lackaday, he’s babblin’ like a bally brook. There’s no stoppin’ him. Humph. Wonder if I did the right thing, givin’ him my special lessons, wot?’
Brull poured the hare a tankard of strawberry fizz. ‘Nay, zurr, you’m can’t teach ee young Broggler to stammer agin. Us’n’s ull ’ave to put up wi’ et. Hurr hurr hurr!’
Broggle buttonholed Mhera and Filorn. He had decided to practise his newfound speech powers on anybeast who would listen.
‘Ahah, a very pleasant evening to you both. What a magnificent and sumptuous feast, or as my friend Mr Boorab would say, super scoff, wot wot? Sumptuous. Now there’s a word I could never say when I stammered, but now it’s sumptuous, superior, superlative, splendid
! What a splendid word splendid is, just like the food you made for us and this smashing summer evening in our Abbey’s awesome orchard. It’s all too splendiferous for words, ladies!’
Filorn put a paw around Broggle’s shoulder and laughed. ‘It certainly is, young squirrel, and all the better for hearing you speak properly for the first time. Congratulations!’
‘Huh, easy for your mum to say,’ Friar Bobb muttered to Mhera out of the corner of his mouth. ‘She doesn’t have a bedspace near Broggle in the kitchen larder. I’m going to kip down on the Abbey roof if he starts talking in his sleep. What are you laughing at, missie? It’s not funny, y’know!’
Mhera took a drink of strawberry fizz from Boorab’s tankard. ‘Oh, hahaha. Sorry, Friar, I’m not laughing at you. Hahaha. It’s just that I feel happy all of a sudden!’
Boorab cast a jaundiced eye into his near-empty tankard. ‘Er, excuse me, my pretty young gel, but next flippin’ time you start feelin’ happy would you mind standin’ next to some other chap’s drink, wot!’
Little Gundil offered his beaker to Mhera. ‘Yurr, miz, you’m can taken ee drink o’ mine.’
The ottermaid was about to accept the offer when the hare neatly relieved the molebabe of his beaker.
‘My turn to pinch somebeast’s drink, old chap, wot!’
He swigged down a good mouthful, swallowed it and clapped a paw to his throat. A look of horror spread across his face. He charged off towards the Abbey pond, roaring, ‘Yaaaagh! I’m poisoned! I’m on fire! Whoooaah!’
Gundil stuck out a bottom lip as he inspected the empty beaker. ‘Hurr, et wurr only summ ’otroot zoop’n’dannyline wine an’ ’ot minty tea wi’ roasted chesknutters a floaten in et. ’Tis moi fayvert drink. Vurry tasty, hurr aye!’
Mhera, Filorn, Friar Bobb, Cregga and Foremole Brull fell about laughing helplessly. Broggle wandered amongst them waving a paw in the air and declaiming airily, ‘Taken aback was my unfortunate instructor, stricken by a cunning concoction, whilst about him many mingled in mirthful merriment. Truly the Summer of Happiness and Friendship was off to a memorable start, or should that be splendiferous start? I like that word, it’s splendiferous!’
The Taggerung (Redwall) Page 6
