Toran beckoned to his friend Junty. “Now then, ole cellar-spikes, wot about a bit o’ music? Brought yore fiddle?”
Junty Cellarhog took a small, beautifully crafted fiddle out of the hood of his cloak. He tuned it deftly. “Rightyo, any pertickler tune ye’d like?”
Horty volunteered. “Play the Dawnsong. I’m sure Martha will sing for us. The jolly old skin’n’blister has a rather charmin’ voice, y’know.”
Everybeast began calling for Martha to sing. Junty struck a chord or two. The haremaid bowed in deference to the two guests.
“Only if Bragoon and Sarobando would like to hear it.”
The otter chortled. “Like to hear it? I’d love to hear ye sing, Martha. All I ever hear is my mate Saro, an’ she’s got a voice like a frog bein’ strangled!”
The squirrel looked up indignantly from a half-eaten scone. “Hah, lissen who’s talkin’. Let me tell ye, missy, to hear ole Bragoon singin’, ’tis like listenin’ to a nail trapped under a door!”
Fenna giggled. “Then you’d best be singing, Martha. Those two’ll curdle the meadowcream if they start warbling.”
Martha paused until Junty’s fiddle had played the opening bars, then she began to sing.
“I have a friend as old as time,
yet new as every day.
She banishes the night’s dark fears,
and sends bad dreams away.
She’s always there to visit me,
so faithfully each morn,
so peaceful and so beautiful,
my friend whose name is Dawn.
She fills the air with small birds’ song,
and opens all the flowers.
She bids the beaming sun to shine,
to warm the daylight hours.
She comes and goes so silently,
to leave the earth reborn,
serene and true, all clad in dew,
my friend whose name is Dawn.”
There was silence as the last poignant notes hovered on the still air, then wild applause.
Bragoon’s tough face softened as he sniffed. “I never heard anythin’ so pretty in all me days!”
Horty puffed out his chest. “I told you she could sing!”
Saro, having forgotten her afternoon tea, sat transfixed. “Sing, did ye say? Listen, even the birds’ve gone quiet at the sound of the maid’s voice. I’m retirin’ from singin’ as of now. Wot d’ye say, mate?”
Bragoon had borrowed Junty’s fiddle. He plucked the strings as he gazed in admiration at the haremaid. “Our lips are sealed, Miss Martha, ye put us t’shame. Mind ye, I can still knock a tune out on the ole fiddle, an Saro ain’t a bad dancer. Shall I play a jig for ye?”
Muggum had a swift word in Martha’s ear, causing her to smile. “Do you know a Dibbun reel called Dungle Drips?”
The Abbeybabes leaped up and down, shouting eagerly. “Play ee Dungle Drips, zurr!”
Bragoon raised the fiddlebow, winking at Saro. “Haha, Dungle Drips. We danced to that ’un a few times when we was Dibbuns, eh mate?”
The aging squirrel leaped up. “Aye, I’ll say we did! Right, c’mon, me liddle darlins, I’ll show ye a step or two. I once was Redwall’s Champion Dibbun Dancer!”
Even before the first notes rang out, the Dibbuns clasped paws and whooped. Saro was whirled off amid a crowd of molebabes, tiny mice, infant squirrels and small hoglets. All the Dibbuns roared the molespeech lyrics with gusto, hurtling themselves into the wild reel. Martha was convulsed with laughter at their antics and amazed at Saro’s skill. The squirrel was a born dancer, twirling and somersaulting recklessly as she sang out in mole dialect along with the Dibbuns.
“Whooooaaah! Let’s do ee jig o’ Dungle Drips,
woe to ee furst likkle paw wot slips,
chop off ee tail, throw um in bed,
wiv a bandage rownd ee hedd!
Feed ee choild on strawbee pudd,
gurt fat h’infants uz darnce gudd,
Dungle Drips naow clap ee paws,
tug moi snout an’ oi’ll tug yores.
Bow to ee h’Abbot, gudd day zurr,
twurl ee rounden everywhurr,
Dungle Drips bee’s gurt gudd fun,
oop t’bed naow likkle ’un. Whoooooaaah!”
The dance grew more frantic, the singing faster as Bragoon speeded up his fiddling. Muggum and his crew performed some very fancy pawwork—shuffling and high kicking, raising raucous cheers and calling for the fiddler to play even faster. The scene of wild abandon suddenly stretched out into a double line with Saro bringing up the rear as the Abbeybabes cavorted furiously across the lawns and vanished into the Abbey.
Bragoon stopped playing and blew upon his heated paws. “Whew! Wot happened there, Carrul?”
Bewildered, the Abbot shook his head. “I’ve no idea. Sister Setiva, do you know what those babes are up to?”
The shrewnurse shrugged. “Och, the wee beasties must have danced off tae their beds. ’Tis no great surprise, ah’m thinkin’, after all that racin’, eatin’ and jiggin’. Ye ken, they must be rare wearied.”
The Redwallers sat sipping tea for quite some time. There was no sound from within the Abbey. Then Saro emerged. Chuckling to herself, she sat down wearily, accepting a beaker of tea gratefully.
“Whew, I ain’t as young as I used t’be! That was some dance, I tell ye. Those Dibbuns jigged through the Abbey, up the stairs they went, straight into their dormitory. Before you could say boo, they were flat out on their beds an’ snorin’! I felt like joinin’ ’em myself. Huh, looks like the liddle ’uns have called it a day.”
Toran looked perplexed. “But wot about the Summer Feast?”
Abbot Carrul saw the look of disappointment on his friend’s face. “Cheer up, Toran, we’ll have it at midday tomorrow. ’Twill keep until then.”
Horty’s ears drooped mournfully. “I say, you chaps, all I’ve had to eat is a few measly scones an’ a drop o’ tea.”
Martha slapped his paw playfully. “Shame on you, I wouldn’t call three plates of scones measly. Don’t pull such faces, you’ll last until tomorrow.”
The gluttonous young hare went into a sulk. “Jolly easy for you t’say, wot. Skin’n’blisters never scoff much anyway, not like us chaps. So be it then! If none of you lot see me round an’ about tomorrow, you’d best take a blinkin’ good search. You won’t be smilin’ then. Not when you find the skeleton of a gallant young hare in some lonely corner. Oh yes, indeed, that’ll be me, perished t’death from flippin’ hunger, wot! Woe is us, you’ll cry, an’ weep absolute buckets o’ tears, thinkin’ we should’ve let the poor brave lad have a small extra scoff last night.”
Bragoon played along with Horty, shaking his head sadly. “An’ wot’ll yore skeleton reply to us, ole mate?”
Horty sniffed. “It’ll say, too blinkin’ late, but I told you so, an’ yah boo sucks to you, cruel rotten lot! I leave you to your guilty consciences, you heartless bounders. My famished lips are sealed. Wot!” He stalked frostily into a corner whilst stealing the last scone from under Sister Portula’s nose.
11
It was still warm as darkness fell. When the Redwallers stopped by the water, enjoying a faint breeze, talk turned to the life of Redwall Abbey and gradually to Martha’s story. Bragoon and Saro, who had become very fond of the pretty young haremaid, listened intently. Abbot Carrul, Sister Setiva, Toran and Sister Portula all contributed to the narrative, with Martha filling in the details.
When the tale ended, Bragoon sat staring at the haremaid’s unmoving footpaws, peeping from under her lap rug. The aging otter’s voice was extremely sympathetic. “What a terrible thing t’happen to a young ’un! An’ you’ve never been able to walk since ye can first remember?”
Martha shook her head. “No, sir, though ’tis not for the want of trying. I collapse every time I do, as if my footpaws were held there by two pieces of wet string.”
Saro was impressed by the young one’s frankness. “That’s a hard thing for anybeast t’bear. If’n
ye don’t mind me askin’, Martha, wot d’ye do with yourself all day?”
Martha shrugged. “Oh, I get around. There’s always my kind friends to push me, though I can wheel myself around if I need to. I do a lot of reading and studying, too. Oh, that reminds me, Sister Portula, I left your book in the gatehouse. Old Phredd’s still up, I can see the light at his window from here. Let’s pay him a visit.”
They all strolled across to the gatehouse with Bragoon and Saro pushing Martha’s chair. Unusually for Phredd, he was wide awake and answered the door promptly.
“Young Martha, I was hoping you’d come. I see you brought all your friends, eh? Well come in, everybeast. You’ll have to find somewhere to sit, there’s not much room, y’know!”
Phredd spoke to the latch as he closed the door behind them. “Heehee, got something to show this haremaid, haven’t we?”
Martha sat up eagerly. “Have you found anything, sir?”
The old hedgehog sat on the side of his bed, opening Sister Portula’s book at a page he had marked. “Found something? Hah, the moment that race was over and I could rescue my armchairs back in here, I did some serious reading. There’s more important things in life than running oneself silly around walltops, y’know. After all, Martin the Warrior sent you a message that mustn’t be ignored, missy.”
Bragoon suddenly became interested. “Martin the Warrior sent ye a message, Martha? What did he say?”
The haremaid explained. “I fell asleep near the tapestry. Martin and another young mouse named Sister Amyl appeared to me. Martin told me to read, because reading is knowledge, then Sister Amyl spoke this rhyme to me.
“Where once I dwelt in Loamhedge,
my secret lies hid from view,
the tale of how I learned to walk,
when once I was as you.
Though you cannot go there,
look out for two who may,
travellers from out of the past,
returning home someday.”
Saro looked very serious. “I remember Martin the Warrior spoke to me an’ Brag when we were young.”
Abbot Carrul peered over his spectacles in astonishment. “Martin spoke to you two? Did he really?”
Saro kept her face straight. “Oh aye, I’ll tell ye wot he said.
“Seek adventure, liddle mates,
go ye forth from Redwall’s gates.
Both of ye, wild and unchecked,
begone afore my Abbey’s wrecked!”
Bragoon chuckled. “She’s only jokin’, of course.”
Old Phredd glared at them both. “This is no joking matter. As soon as I saw you down by the pond today, I knew you were the two travellers from out of the past. Eh, eh, the two that Sister Amyl’s poem spoke of, right?”
Horty’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Right indeed, wot!”
Phredd tapped the open book he held. “Stop jabbering and listen, please, this is most important. I have found the story of Sister Amyl. It was written by another, Recorder Scrittum. He was the Loamhedge brother who put most of this story together—and very well he did it, too. Listen to this!”
They sat entranced as Phredd’s wavery tones brought the past back to life for them.
“ ‘The plague has come to Loamhedge, a great sickness is upon us. This morning we buried four, three sisters and one brother. Our infirmary is packed with the ill and suffering. I fear this Abbey has become a pest hole. Abbess Germaine and her Council have reached a bitter decision: if we are to survive, we must leave Loamhedge. It is almost unthinkable, is it not? Having to forsake our beautiful old home to wander in the wilderness. Germaine speaks of travelling to Mossflower country, where she has friends who will give us shelter. We are to take very little with us and live off the land as we go. These are hard and sad times, indeed.
“ ‘However, there is no other way for it. Poor Sister Amyl is a young mouse who has never walked. She makes her way about in a wheeled chair. Amyl has decided not to go with us. I pleaded with her, saying that I would care for her and push the chair to wherever we were bound, but she would not hear of it. Amyl said that the journey would be far too arduous and feared that she would hold us back. In a way she is right, since a wheeled chair cannot be hauled over hill and dale. There would be bad weather to contend with—rivers, swollen streams, rocks and swampland. Also, it will soon be wintertide. The Abbess does not know of Amyl’s decision yet. It is my sad duty to tell her of the situation. Young Sister Amyl is such a good creature. It will break my heart to leave her at Loamhedge, amid the dying.’ ”
Toran interrupted the narration by sniffing loudly and grubbing a paw across his moist eyes. “Pore liddle thing, left t’die in a deserted Abbey. I’d never leave ye to a fate like that, Martha, no matter wot it took!”
Bragoon grasped the haremaid’s paw. “Me either, miss!”
Martha forestalled Saro and the rest by holding up a paw. “I know you wouldn’t, none of you. . . .”
She caught sight of Old Phredd, glaring about impatiently. “Oops, sorry sir, we’ll be quiet, I promise!”
The Gatekeeper huffed, then leafed on to another marked page. “Thank you! Now let me read further into this narrative. Here is a section by Recorder Scrittum, concerning setting up camp on the first evening of the journey.
“ ‘Let me tell you of a miracle! Can I believe my eyes, you must take what I tell you as true, I have always been a faithful recorder, and never given to lying. Here was I, trudging along carrying my writing equipment and a sack of provisions. We were heading for a streambank with high sides, where there would be shelter for the brothers and sisters. I was travelling somewhere in the centre of the column, not having seen the Abbess, as she was leading up at the front. I came away from Loamhedge, filled with shame and remorse, being too overcome with grief to bid Sister Amyl farewell. I slunk off like a thief. Then, from the rear of the marchers, a mighty cheer rose up. I trekked back to see what was causing such jubilation. There across the heathland, limping slowly but walking without any shadow of a doubt, came young Sister Amyl!’ ”
Again, Phredd’s recital was interrupted when a hearty cheer came from his listeners. The old hedgehog made as if to slam the book shut.
“Do you want to hear the rest of this, or shall I lay back on my bed and go to sleep, eh, eh?”
Somewhat embarrassed, Abbot Carrul replied, “Forgive us, friend, we’ll stay silent. It was just that we felt so happy for Sister Amyl, we had to cheer.”
Phredd went back to his book, muttering, “Aye, so did I when I first read it. Ahem, allow me to continue. ‘Was it a miracle, or some sort of magic? I had told the Abbess of Amyl’s plight. She was sorrowful, of course, but informed me she would have a word with Amyl. What came of their conversation, I did not know. But here was my young friend, as large as life and up on her footpaws. Later that evening we sat by the fire, exhausted after the day’s long march. Sister Amyl lay wrapped in her cloak sleeping deeply. I sought out Abbess Germaine and spoke to her about the amazing happening. Here is what our great and wise Mother Abbess told me. She said that she had recalled a formula, given to her by an old healer, many seasons ago. Searching through her belongings, she had found the parchment. This she gave to Amyl, telling her that she must decide on her own whether to stay or whether to read the formula, learn from it and undertake the journey. Obviously, Sister Amyl must have read what was written on the parchment. Was it a magic spell, or some remedy of herbal medicine? The Abbess would not tell me.’ ”
Martha stifled a cry of disappointment, nevertheless listening dutifully as Phredd continued reading.
“ ‘Next morning I dropped to the rear of the column and walked with Sister Amyl, whose pace was getting stronger and more sure as the day went on. I told her what I had gleaned from the Abbess and faced her with the question: What was written on the parchment?
“ ‘Amyl gave me one of her rare, secretive smiles and refused to speak of it. All that day I persisted, harassing her to divulge the information. It was
only after a full day’s march through sleeting rain and harsh country that she relented. We were camped beside a rocky tor, huddled in our cloaks around the fire, when she finally spoke. Her words are etched into my memory, and here they are, for what it’s worth. The message on the parchment would be of no use to you. It would only have a meaning for somebeast who is greatly troubled in mind or body. Once I had learned what the old healer’s rhyme was, I left the parchment behind at Loamhedge. I carry its power within me now, but any creature in need of those words must seek it out for themselves.
“ ‘Beneath the flower that never grows,
Sylvaticus lies in repose.
My secret is entombed with her,
look and think what you see there.
A prison with four legs which moved,
yet it could walk nowhere,
whose arms lacked paws, but yet they held,
a wretched captive there.’ ”
Phredd closed the book decisively, addressing its cover. “My bed calls me. I bid you a weary goodnight.”
Bragoon protested. “Is that all there is?”
Abbot Carrul reassured the otter. “If there was more, my old friend would have told you. Right, Phredd?”
The ancient Abbey Gatekeeper reached for his nightshirt. “Right indeed, young Carrul. I have given you all the information that is of interest to you, namely, Sister Amyl’s story. We already have a map of the route to Loamhedge that was used by Matthias in his search for his son Mattimeo.”
Saro yawned and stood up stretching. “We’ll look at that tomorrow. After all that racin’ an’ jiggin’, I’m ready for bed, too. That poem of Sister Amyl’s, ’tis a real tail twister an’ no mistake. Flowers that never grow, prisons with four legs an’ no paws. An’ who in the name o’ fur’n’bush is Sylvaticus lyin’ in repose?”
Old Phredd poked his head through the neck of the nightshirt. “Sylvaticus was the first Abbess of Loamhedge. Don’t know where I learned that, must have been at Dibbun School. Hmmm, that was more seasons ago than I care to remember. Funny how old little facts stick in one’s mind. Don’t slam my door when you leave, it doesn’t like being slammed. Goodnight!”
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