The Dibbuns (a name bestowed on all Redwall babes) set up a rousing cheer, drowning out any objections. Fumbril, a big, jolly otter, Redwall’s Infirmary nurse and Herbalist, was a huge favourite of all littlebeasts. As she tuned her small fiddle, the Dibbuns were already jigging about, shouting to her.
“Sing us a good un, Sis Fum—a dancey song!”
The good Sister happily obliged them. “Righto, me dearies. Here goes . . . one, two . . .”
She launched into the liveliest of ditties.“When you an’ me go out to tea,
oh, dear me, fiddle deedee,
we’ll be the ones who scoff the scones,
an’ slurp the soup with a whoopiddy doop.
We’ll nibble the pies, surprise surprise,
sing pudden an’ plum, rumbledy dum,
pastie an’ pie, oh my, oh my.
We’ll swig the cider an’ chomp the cheese,
oh, give us more, you’ll hear us roar,
such merry beasts are we, you see,
when we go out to tea!”
By popular Dibbun demand, she was obliged to play it again, this time at a quicker pace. The little dancers whooped and twirled joyfully. Even the elders clapped their paws in time with the music. Sister Fumbril did one more encore. She ended up flat on the lawn, mobbed by adoring Abbeybabes.
“Hurr, that’n bee’s moi fayverrut, marm!” “Sing it again, Sista, more, more!”
Fumbril clasped the little ones to her affectionately. “No no, my dearies. ’Tis some other creature’s turn now.”
Granvy read a name out from the list. “It says here that Brother Tollum will sing.”
Tollum, a fat, mournful-faced squirrel who was the official Abbey Bellringer, stepped forward.
Clearing his throat, he announced in sonorous tones, “Ahem, I will now give you a rendition from part two of The Bellringer’s Burial, ‘Oh, Lay Me Gentle and Deep.’ ”
A concerted groan arose from the Redwallers.
Several who had heard the song before were heard to comment, “Oh, no. That dirge can last half a day!”
“Huh, never heard anythin’ so mis’rable in all me days!”
Skipper struck the barrel again. Buboom!
“Order there. Silence, if’n ye please, for Brother Tollum!”
At that moment, Foremole Darbee, having overcome his shyness, interrupted the proceedings. “Hurr hurr, if’n you’m doant moind, oi’ll be a singen moi song naow!”
Brother Tollum looked aggrieved. “But ye didn’t want to sing afore, so ’tis my turn!”
Guffy, a Dibbun molebabe, took umbrage at the Bellringer. “Yurr, zurr, doan’t ee talk loik that to ee Foremole. Ee’m can sing, if’n ee’m ’aven a moind to!”
This sparked a dispute—Redwallers called out their opinions aloud.
“Tollum’s right. Granvy said it was his turn.” “Oh, let Foremole Darbee sing. Where’s the harm?” “But it ain’t right. He’s already refused once!”
Brother Tollum sniffed sulkily. “Let the mole sing. It doesn’t bother me!”
Foremole shook his velvety head. “Nay, zurr, you’m do ee singen. Oi don’t feel loike et naow. Ee mood bee’s gone offen oi some’ow!”
The molecrew set up a deep grumble of protest.
Boom! Boom! Bubooooom!
This time it was Abbess Marjoram who had struck the barrel, with surprising force for one of her slight stature. She shouted at the noisy assembly in a stern voice, “Enough! Enough! I can put up with this no longer. The contest for Bard of Redwall is closed until you all decide to act in a proper manner! Granvy, I’ll take charge of that list, please. You Redwallers, be about your business, now. I’m sure you all have chores and duties to occupy your time. Yes, what is it, Sister Fumbril?”
The jolly otter smiled winningly. “I’m sure you won’t stop us dinin’ in the orchard this evenin’, Mother Abbess?”
Marjoram stowed both paws in her wide sleeves. “No, I suppose I won’t, Sister. Providing, of course, that there are no more arguments.”
There is an old saying in Mossflower Country: “There is no better food than Abbey food, and no better Abbey than Redwall to serve it.” The trestle tables set up in the orchard attested to the truth of this. On the blossom-scented air of soft summer eventide, the tables were laid with clean linen, garlanded by flowers and greenery. Servers stood by, bearing jugs of pale cider, mint tea, fruit cordials and the good October Ale for which the Abbey was famed. From end to end the tables groaned under the array of fresh breads, salads, cheeses and pasties at the outer edges. Further in, there were platters of scones, tarts, cakes and pies, each with a different filling, most topped with whipped honey or meadowcream. The centrepiece was a magnificent flan of strawberries, plums and damsons set in red currant jelly on a shortcake base.
Heeding the warning from earlier that day, everybeast sat quietly. Nothing was touched until after the Abbess recited grace.“All hail to wind, to sun and rain,
for offerings such as these,
and thanks to those who harvest them,
from soil, from bush, and trees.
We praise the skills of those good cooks,
commanded by our Friar,
who labour long in kitchen,
and toil by oven fire.
My final thanks to one and all,
who dwell in peace here at Redwall!”
The meal commenced with gusto, amidst much cheery banter from the diners. Skipper chuckled as he served the Abbess with bread and salad.
“I noticed that you said the last line o’ grace with good, firm voice, marm.”
A smile played around Marjoram’s lips. “I merely reminded them that I’d brook no repeat of the afternoon’s performance—all that ruction!”
Sister Fumbril poured cordial for her friend. “What, d’ye mean that liddle tiff? Why, marm, ’twas only a storm in a nutshell. Though I do confess, I was a bit surprised by Foremole’s behaviour.”
Granvy sliced himself a small wedge of soft white cheese. “Oh, Darbee doesn’t mean any real harm. He’s getting on in seasons now, so he’s entitled to be a little grumpy at times. Age doesn’t improve temper in somebeasts.”
Cellarmole Gurjee gave a rumbling laugh. “Hurr hurr hurr! So oi’ve noticed, zurr, speshully when oi see’d you a-tryen to deal wi’ yon list.”
Granvy paused, the cheese halfway to his mouth. “Aye, and I’ve seen you the same, when somebeast disturbs your afternoon nap down in the wine cellar.”
Gurjee nodded affably. “Burr aye, that bee’s true enuff, zurr. Oi’m madder ’n a toadybeast wot’s been boiled, when moi arternoon slumber bee’s asturbed!”
Skipper Ruark caught Marjoram’s attention. “Marm, I think Friar Soogum would like a word with ye, if’n ye can spare him a moment.”
The Abbess put aside both food and drink. “Why, of course. I’ll spare him as long as he wishes. Push along there, so he can sit next t’me. Bring him here right away, please, Skipper.”
It was not often that Soogum spent much time away from his beloved kitchens. The Friar was a huge, fat water vole, quite a shy beast, but a cook par excellence. Fumbling with his apron strings, he shuffled to the table. Sitting down next to Marjoram, he tugged one bushy eyebrow, the water vole equivalent of a bow. His voice was barely audible.
“Mother Abbess, is everythin’ to yore likin’?”
She patted his paw fondly. “Soogum, my dear old friend, everything is perfect, doubly delicious. I don’t know what our Abbey would do without your cooking skills. Now, how may I help you?”
The Friar avoided looking up. Staring fixedly at the tabletop, he replied, “Er, well, ’tis about the singin’ contest. Will ye be carryin’ on with it tomorrow, marm?”
Marjoram dropped her tone confidentially. “As a matter of fact, I probably will. But don’t let the others know that yet. I’m keeping them stewing whilst they await my decision. Keeps them well behaved, you know. But why do you ask?”
The water vole played with som
e bread crumbs, lining them up in patterns, as he spoke hesitantly. “Well . . . well . . . y’see, it’s just that I’ve got a lot on tomorrow, so I’ll be too busy t’come, marm.”
Skipper interrupted. “Take the day off, matey. Let yore crew do the work—you deserve a bit o’ time off.”
The Friar turned his shocked gaze upon the otter. “Nay, sir, I could never be doin’ that, even though I have the best of assistants. There’s certain things I wouldn’t trust to anybeast. ’Twouldn’t be right nor proper for a Redwall Friar, would it? That’s why I wanted to speak with Mother Abbess.”
Marjoram patted the water vole’s paw again. “Have as many words as you like, Soogum. Don’t be shy. You’re amongst friends.”
The Friar took a deep breath before letting it all out. “Look, I know I never put my name on the list—nobeast expected me to. But here’s the thing, I make up songs, y’see. Oh, yes, I invents ’em in my head an’ sings ’em to meself whilst I’m workin’. Only yesterday I thought of a good song. I’ve been singin’ it to meself ever since. So I’d like t’be considered for the contest.”
Recorder Granvy topped up his mint tea. “Certainly. Every Redwaller’s entitled to sing a song. But how will you sing if you can’t attend, Friar?”
Soogum swept aside the bread crumbs decisively. “I’d like to sing my song here an’ now, if y’please.”
Granvy removed his tiny crystal spectacles and polished them furiously (always a sign that he was agitated). He shook his head several times.
“What, you mean right here and now, in the middle of a meal? Dearie me, I don’t know what the rules state about that. I’ll have to consult them!”
The Abbess dismissed him with a regal sweep of her paw. “Oh, confound the rules. I hereby change them. Friar Soogum, you have permission to sing where and whenever you so desire. Skipper Ruark, be so kind as to announce our Friar’s song immediately.”
The Otter Chieftain pounded the tabletop. “Ahoy, Redwallers! Attention, everybeast. Give good order for Friar Soogum. He’s goin’ to give us a song, which’ll be entered into the contest. Friar!”
Mounting the table and straddling scones and pasties, Soogum beckoned. “Are ye ready, Drull? Don’t make the key too high.”
One of the kitchen staff, a small hogwife, began tuning a Hogalino. This is a stringed instrument, which hedgehogs hold upside down, plucking it with their headspikes by moving it back and forth.
After a short introduction, the Friar launched into his song. He had a good baritone voice and was able to quaver and warble readily.
“Pray hearken to this humble beast,
no warrior am I.
I crave no spear or sword to wield,
no arrow to let fly.
No foebeast have I ever slain,
my friend, I’ll tell you why,
because I’m but a simple cook,
come try my apple pie!
“Let fighters from the battle rest,
victorious but sore,
they throng into my dining hall,
and what do they ask for?
More enemies to charge against,
no no, when war is through,
they’d trade their vict’ry medals,
for a bowl of my hot stew!
So look you on this humble beast,
and, pray, regard me well.
My paw has never swung a blade,
foul vermin for to fell.
My kitchen is no battlefield,
I’ll shout no loud war cry.
Because I’m but a simple cook,
come try my apple pie!”
The Friar’s ditty was so well received that Redwallers pounded the tables, cheering him to the echo. Some of the molecrew (who, it is common knowledge, can become quite emotional over the simplest things) wept openly into large, spotty kerchiefs.
“Boohurrhurr, oi do dearly loike songs about plain ’umble beasts. Will ee singen et agin, zurr?”
Abbess Marjoram addressed the assembly. “That was a fine ballad, and well sung, though there is no need for our friend to sing it again. I think he deserves far more applause for the delicious dishes he produces for us day in and day out. Friar Soogum, please take a bow!”
There was another round of wild cheering, but the good water vole was not there to acknowledge it. Being the timid beast he was, the Friar had fled back to his kitchens.
In the tree line, beyond the open sward at the Abbey’s south wall, vermin lay watching and listening. A ferret named Raddi nudged her mate, eyeing Redwall enviously.
“Wot I wouldn’t give ter be livin’ in there, eh. A nice liddle pond, an orchard full o’ fruit, an’ woodlanders cookin’ up all those good vittles!”
Her mate, Daclaw, nodded agreement. “Aye, they must have a big cookin’ place in there. When the breeze was right, I could smell bread bakin’, pies an’ cakes, too. I ’ad to quit sniffin’, t’stop me guts rumblin’ an’ growlin’. Redwall must be a rare ole place, mates.”
A young stoat named Globby piped up. “Well, why don’t we climb over the wall an’ slay ’em all, exceptin’ the cooks? They’re only woodlanders, aren’t they? We’re Ravagers!”
A voice, low and menacing, silenced further talk. “Don’t turn around. Keep looking straight ahead. I’m right behind you, carrying my sword.”
It could be only one creature, their commander, Zwilt the Shade. How long had he been eavesdropping on them? Anybeast who had spoken swallowed nervously, hoping they had not condemned themselves with loose talk. Zwilt was merciless. There would be no running or hiding from him. Many vermin were of the opinion that it was not wise to even think the wrong thing in his presence.
Daclaw, the ferret who was group leader, ventured a reply. “Sire, we’re just watchin’ the place as ye ordered. Anybeast who steps outside those walls will be trapped an’ captured by us. That was wot ye wanted, eh, Lord?”
Zwilt moved swift and silent. Raddi felt him standing alongside her; the hairs bristled upon her neck. She held her breath, not knowing what to expect.
The dead black eyes of Zwilt swept over the vermin band. He hissed scornfully, “Idiots, ye haven’t the brain of a worm betwixt ye. Listen to me and learn. Redwall Abbey must never be touched. Ye don’t have to understand that—just obey it. Leave the thinking to those with brains. Clear?”
Their heads bobbed in silent unison. Raddi was about to relax when she felt the broadsword at her neck.
Zwilt watched her throat pulsing against the blade’s edge. He leaned close to the terror-stricken ferret, taunting her. “You, what have ye got to say for yourself?”
Raddi’s voice was reduced to a fearful whimper. “Nu nu-nothin’, Lord.”
It was one way of instilling obedience into others. Zwilt persisted with his torment of Raddi.
“Only deadbeasts have nothing to say. You’re not a deadbeast, are ye?”
He uttered a low chuckle as he watched her striving to think of the right reply, but she had lost the power of speech. Keeping the broadsword at her neck, he turned his attention to Daclaw, knowing that he was Raddi’s mate. “You tell me—is she a deadbeast?”
Daclaw knew what to say.
“Aye, she is, Sire, unless she lives only to serve you.”
With eye-blurring speed, Zwilt swept the sword at Daclaw’s head, stopping its point a hairsbreadth from his eyeball. The sable enjoyed seeing the fear of death in others. Daclaw was openmouthed, rigid with naked fright. Zwilt returned the weapon to his belt casually.
“A good answer, my friend, very good!”
He paced quietly backward until he was behind the group. None dared turn to see where he was. Again he spoke to Daclaw.
“If nobeast has left the Abbey by sunset, then split your force into four groups. You watch the front gates from the ditch on the west side. The others can take up positions where they can see the three small wallgates. Until then, stay here and keep your eyes on that building.”
It was nearing sunset; none of the Rava
gers had dared to move. Daclaw was shocked when the young stoat called Globby stood up and stretched himself.
Daclaw whispered hoarsely, “Wot are ye doin’? Get down, ye fool!”
Globby twitched his snout impudently. “Fool yoreself. Zwilt’s long gone—take a look.”
It was Raddi who ventured a peek. “Yore right, but how’d ye know Zwilt was gone?”
Globby shrugged. “He always does that. Whenever Zwilt tells ye to watch somethin’, well, do it. Then count ten an’ take a look behind ye. Hah, that’s why they calls ’im the Shade—he’s always gone.”
Daclaw felt the need to regain his authority, so he pushed Globby roughly in the chest. “Think yore clever, eh? Well, you’ll be dead clever afore long if’n ye carry on like that, smart mouth!”
The young stoat merely laughed. “Cummon, let’s split up an’ watch those liddle gates. Me’n Dinko’ll take the back un. Let’s go, mate.”
Dinko, an equally forward young rat, bounded off after Globby, who was already on his way.
Daclaw called after them, “I never told youse t’go. Wait for my order—come back ’ere!”
Raddi waved a dismissive paw. “Ah, let ’em go. Those two are troublemakers—we’re better off without ’em.”
Daclaw took his mate’s advice and set about picking watchers for the other gates. He winked at Raddi. “Yore right. Cummon, me’n’you’ll watch the front gates together. We can take turns sleepin’.”
Not far from the east wickergate at the back wall, the two young Ravagers had found a blackberry patch. Dinko sat in the loam, his lips dyed purple with juice.
“This is the life, mate—’Ey, wot are ye doin’ there? Git down outta that tree!”
Globby kept his eyes on a high branch as he climbed a sycamore which grew reasonably close to the wall. “I can’t get the smell o’ that cookin’ out me snout. Those scones, that bread, right out the oven, an’ that cake. I’ve never tasted real cake afore!”
Dinko almost choked on a berry. “Git down, ye knot’ead, afore ye fall an’ ’urt yoreself!”
Globby stopped to rest on a sturdy limb. “I’ll be alright—don’t you worry, cully. See that branch up there? If’n I climb along it, I’ll bet I could jump an’ reach the walltop. I’m a good climber.”
The Sable Quean Page 3
