The vermin advanced on them as they retreated. Sorely wounded and drained of strength, the two old friends continued to hack and slash. Vastly outnumbered by their adversaries, and knowing that they would be beaten and captured by Kharanjul, they crawled down from the long bridge, with one last desperate plan in mind.
The Wearet pressed forward, holding his lethal trident ready as he taunted his victims. “The Lord of Life and Death will keep you alive. I will make your dying long and slow. Your companions escaped the Wearet, but you shall pay for them!”
Bragoon and Sarobando were not listening. Between them they had jammed a half-dozen spearbutts under the end of the tree trunk. With a last mighty effort, both beasts put their shoulders to the spears, using them as levers.
Saro gritted her teeth and growled. “One, two, three. Push!”
The long trunk moved askew, with a grating of wood on rock. Panic ensued out on the tree trunk, as vermin tried to run back to the other side. Some threw themselves flat and clung on.
Bragoon yelled above the din of wails and screams. “She’s movin’, mate! Again, one, two, three! Push!”
Kharanjul dropped his trident. Crouching low, he gripped the tree trunk, trying to move forward and reach his enemy. At last the mighty trunk of the tree, once called Lord of Mossflower, groaned like a living thing as it made a half-turn to one side and slid over the brink of the ledge.
With the effort of their final push, the two old warriors had fallen flat. They watched as the log seemed to hang for a split second in space, with Kharanjul’s face looming in front of them. Then the whole trunk fell into the bottomless abyss. Screeches and shrieks rent the night air, swiftly fading to echoes. Down, down, into the dark gorge it all plunged—the Wearet, his vermin army and the only solid bridge that had ever spanned the awesome space.
Bragoon and Saro lay there, staring down into the void, their paws clasped. The aging squirrel closed her eyes. “Nice’n’peaceful ’ere now, mate, ain’t it?”
The otter gave her paw a faint squeeze. “Aye, restful ye might say. Summer’s a good time to lay down an’ rest.”
No longer able to keep them open, Bragoon slowly closed his eyes. “Saro, ye recall wot it said on that gravestone at Loamhedge? Young Fenna read it out to us. I said I liked the sound of it.”
Saro nodded weakly. “I remember, mate. It said ‘Gone to the sunny slopes an’ quiet streams.’ I liked it, too.”
The otter’s voice grew fainter as he repeated the phrase. “The sunny slopes an’ quiet streams . . . I’ll wait for ye there, Sarobando . . . Wouldn’t go anyplace without ye.” His paw went limp in the squirrel’s failing grasp.
She smiled. “Wait for me, Brag ole mate, I’ll be there.”
Two old warriors, who had left Redwall Abbey when they were Dibbuns, paw in paw, lay on the rockledge together. They never saw the sunrise that dawn, but they went on to the land of sunny slopes and quiet streams—still holding paws.
43
Summer’s days were growing short, passing gently into autumn. Redwall Abbey was restored to its former calm and grandeur. Abbot Carrul and Martha met for their early morning stroll, now a regular thing with the two friends before they took breakfast. A light mist—like golden gossamer—lay over the Abbey pond. They saw a grayling leap to catch an unsuspecting fly.
Carrul watched the ripples spread across the water. “I had a dream last night. It was a vision of Martin.”
The haremaid was startled by her Abbot’s revelation. “A dream of Martin the Warrior? Did he say anything, Father?”
The Abbot paused before answering. “He did, indeed, Martha. These were his very words.
“When autumn brings the harvest time,
good food you shall not lack,
when fruit lies heavy on the bough,
and travellers come back.
Look for the one who holds my sword,
these words of mine recall,
someday you will esteem that one,
as ruler of Redwall!”
Martha sat down on a log, puzzled by the rhyme. “Good grief, Father, there’s a lot of information in Martin’s words. Aside from the fact that there will be a fine harvest, our friends—Horty, Bragoon and the others—must be returning. Isn’t that great news! But I never guessed you were thinking of retiring from being Abbot of Redwall.”
Carrul sat down beside her. “The thought never crossed my mind, Martha. But Martin said someday, and someday in the future I would have to give serious thought to appointing my successor. Martin has saved me a lot of pondering, I’m grateful to him for that. However, his words are causing me a little concern. Think. Who did I give the sword to?”
The haremaid replied promptly. “You gave it to Bragoon.”
Carrul nodded his agreement. “Which is why I’m worried, Martha. Bragoon is a good friend, we were Dibbuns together. But he’s a rover, an adventurer. Ask Toran, Bragoon’s his elder brother, he’ll tell you. Bragoon’s too old and too wild to be Abbot.”
Martha held up a paw. “Not so fast, Father. The rhyme said ruler of Redwall, not Abbot. It may be an Abbess!”
Carrul clapped a paw to his cheek. “Fates forbid that it might be Sarobando! It would be woe to my poor Abbey.”
Martha could not help laughing. “Hahaha, oh Father, think for a moment. It could be Springald, or Fenna or . . .” Now it was Martha’s turn to look apprehensive. “Or Horty?”
Carrul placed a comforting paw on the haremaid’s shoulder. “Oh, come on now, miss! Martin the Warrior was renowned for his wisdom. What are we thinking about? He wouldn’t inflict any of those three rascals on our Abbey!”
Martha gave an audible sigh of relief. “You’re right, Father. But it might be nobeast we’ve thought of. What if they bring somebody back with them?”
Carrul pursued this idea enthusiastically. “Of course, there may have been other creatures living at Loamhedge. Say a sturdy young mouse, steeped in wisdom? Or a sagacious squirrel, the very model of common sense?”
Martha giggled. “Or a studious frog with the brain of an ant!”
Abbot Carrul smacked her paw playfully. “Now stop this nonsense, you young rip. Look, here comes breakfast!”
Toran had resumed his role as cook. He and Gurvel headed a procession carrying tables and benches, trolleys, dishes and food. He waved his ladle.
“Set ’em all up at the edge of the pond there, next to those two pore beasts who’ve been waitin’ out here all night!”
Carrul chuckled. “So ends our moment of peace for the day, Martha. Besieged by breakfasters!”
The haremaid went to help the servers. “Let’s join them, I’m starving!”
Setting up the tables, Brother Weld pulled a ferocious face at the Dibbuns, who were buzzing around like playful bees. “I’ll toss the lot of you into the pond if you don’t sit still and wait to be served. So behave yourselves!”
Muggum the molebabe clambered up on a bench, next to Buffle. “Hurr hurr, ee’m a gurt bold crittur t’be assultin’ uz loike that! Wot do ee say, Buff?”
The tiny mousebabe scowled darkly. “Gurrumff um burble fink!”
Old Phredd looked over his glasses at the infant mouse. “What did he just say?”
Sister Setiva tied a bib about Buffle’s neck. “Och, ah be afeared tae repeat it. But if the wee scamp says it again, ah’ll wash his mouth out with soap!”
The Dibbun squirrelbabe Shilly tugged at Martha’s paw. “When izza harviss gonna be, Marth’?”
The haremaid gave the reply she had been repeating to the Abbeybabes for the past few days. “On the first morning after the night of harvest moon. Be patient, it shouldn’t be too long now.”
Granmum Gurvel looked up from a pan of corn and fruit slices she was doling out. “Payshunt? You’m doan’t tell ee Redwallers t’be payshunt when they’m a waitin’ to get ee ’ arvest in, Miz Marth’!”
The Dibbuns cheered Gurvel loudly, glad to have an ally on their side. Most of the babes had never been to a harvest before, so t
hey were eager to take part in one, knowing there would be a Harvest End Feast. The little ones began clamouring for Martha to sing the Harvest Song. Knowing they would not be quiet until she did, Martha obliged by singing the lively air, which included much tapping and paw stamping.
“Open the cupboard the bins and the stores,
go fetch out the trolleys and carts,
then out to the orchard the gardens and fields,
for a harvest to gladden our hearts.
Rappety tap, the Abbot’ll call,
watch out for those Dibbuns ’cos they’ll eat it all!
There’s blackberries blueberries raspberries too
strawberries and redcurrants bright,
wild cherries blueberries and blaeberries ripe,
to be all gathered in by tonight.
Rappety tap, wait for the feast,
just look at that Dibbun, the greedy wee beast!
Bring basket and barrel and bucket and pail,
pick rosehips red apples and pears,
greengages damsons and plums big and fine,
roll your sleeves up and banish your cares.
Rappety tap, that babe’s the worst,
if he eats another I swear that he’ll burst!
There’s almond and hazel and chestnut in bloom,
and a crop of good acorns there’ll be,
if you hold the ladder I’ll climb to the top,
and I’ll knock them all down from the tree.
Rappety tap, flat on the ground,
he’s rubbing his tummy and rolling around!
Let’s gather our harvest and bring it indoors,
then the Abbot’ll cry out ‘Well done!’
We’ve filled up the cupboards the bins and the stores,
in good time for the winter to come.
Rappety tap, quick close the door,
he’s up on his paws and looking for more!”
As usual, Martha had to sing the whole thing again so the Dibbuns could show off their fancy paw tapping. Whilst this was going on, the Abbot took Toran aside. He related what Martin the Warrior had told him in his dream. The ottercook was overjoyed at the news.
“As soon as the ’arvest moon shows, we’ll mount a watch on the walltops to welcome them back ’ome!”
Breakfast was about finished when Foremole Dwurl, who had been gatekeeper in Phredd’s absence, came trundling up with Lonna in tow. He hailed Toran. “Gudday, zurr. Lookit who’m just cummed a knocken on ee gate!”
The ottercook quickly cleared a place for them both. “Sit ye down, mates, an’ break yore fast. Lonna, where’ve ye been since yesterday? Everybeast was wonderin’ where ye’d got to.”
The big badger seated himself, allowing Gurvel to heap food in front of him. His fur was coated in dew, and the blood had matted on his wounds, but he looked happy. “The Searats are all accounted for—down to the last vermin. I was tired, but glad that I had ended my mission, so I lay down on the flatlands, about half a league from your Abbey. I must have slept deeply, because it was the sound of larks rising at dawn that awakened me. I was hoping there’d be a bite of breakfast left for a hungry badger. Thank you, marm!”
Granmum Gurvel piled corn and fruit slices on a platter. “You’m eat ’earty, zurr. Oi’ll cook more furr ee if’n ye be still ’ungered!”
Abbot Carrul beckoned Brother Gelf. “Draw off a pitcher of our best October Ale for Lonna. Nothing’s too good for the beast who saved Redwall from the Searats. Lonna, after you’ve eaten, Sister Portula will find you clean robes, and Sister Setiva will care for your wounds. You must rest now, friend!”
Seating themselves around the badger, the Dibbuns watched in awe as he satisfied his appetite.
Muggum nudged Buffle. “Yurr, ee’m gurtbeast surpintly can shuv ee vikkles away!”
Stifling a smile, Martha chided the molebabe. “Really, Muggum, mind your manners!”
Lonna sat Muggum on his paw and lifted him to face-height. “Listen to me, young sir, never mess with your food. Eat it all up like I do, then someday you’ll be a great warrior!”
Muggum nodded sagely. “Them bee’s woise wurds, zurr!”
It was five nights hence when the harvest moon waxed fully. Most Abbeybeasts were in their beds. Toran stood watch from the ramparts on the southwest corner, where he could view both the path and woodlands. Martha and Abbot Carrul, neither of whom felt like sleeping, joined the ottercook on his vigil. The three stood there, unaware that Lonna had come up behind them. For a beast of his size and weight, the badger could move silent as a shadow. They started slightly as he spoke.
“That nice old molewife in the kitchens asked me to bring some hot vegetable soup up for you.” Lonna poured the soup from a jug into four basins.
Toran sniffed it, exclaiming gratefully, “Good ole Gurvel!”
They sipped at their basins in silence, contemplating the serenity of a late summer’s night.
Nocturnal birdsong drifted from the shadowed trees of Mossflower. The path stood out like a tranquil stream, curling southward. Galaxies of twinkling stars pinpointed the cloudless vaults of sky above. A single comet streaked through space in brief silent glory. The harvest moon ruled over all, surrounded by a soft nimbus, resplendent in its own golden solitude.
None of the others noticed Lonna fitting a shaft to his bowstring. He peered toward the foliage which fringed the pathside. Drawing back his bow, Lonna called down, “Are you friend or foe?”
Three figures stepped out onto the path. One shouted, “Ahoy the walls, we come as friends!”
Martha’s good eyesight allowed her to quickly identify the caller. “It’s a shrew. There’s two more with him.”
Lonna relaxed his bowstring. “What do you want, friends?”
The lead shrew’s rapier blade flashed in the moonlight as he made a salute and offered it hilt first. “I am Jigger, son of Log a Log Briggy, Chieftain of the Guorafs crews! I carry news of your friends. My father sent me ahead to tell you of their approach!”
Toran and Lonna were already down and unbarring the gates as Martha assisted the Abbot to negotiate the wallsteps.
Old Phredd lit extra lanterns as they crowded into the gatehouse. When the introductions were completed, the young shrew made his report. It was not a happy tale that he had to relate. Martha was stunned beyond tears at the news of Bragoon’s and Saro’s death. Abbot Carrul hung his head and wept openly. Lonna stood by in respectful silence. Toran was the only one to speak.
“The young ’uns, are they all safe’n’well?”
Jigger nodded. “Aye, sir. Apart from a few scratches an’ sore footpaws, they’re fine. Miss Fenna told me that Bragoon was yore brother. ’Twas a brave thing him’n Saro did.”
The ottercook drew himself up straight and spoke proudly. “Aye, Bragoon an’ Sarobando was true-born Redwallers! No two like ’em, they was both wild warriors. But they did their duty an’ saved their friends. I wager they took a few o’ those vermin with ’em, eh?”
Jigger’s eyes were shining with admiration as he replied. “From wot our scouts said, they took ’em all, every last vermin, an’ their chief, the Wearet. That must’ve been a powerful battle, I’ll tell ye!”
Toran opened the gatehouse door. He took a deep breath of the fresh night air and smiled. “Funny, ain’t it, some’ow I couldn’t imagin’ Saro an’ Brag growin’ old like peaceful Abbeybeasts. Not those two. They went like they wanted to, the bravest o’ the brave!”
Lonna offered his paw to Toran. “True warriors have no fear of death. I only met your brother and his friend once. They were rare beasts!”
Abbot Carrul wiped at his eyes with damp habit sleeves. “Look at me, I must have forgotten my manners. Come to the Abbey, Jigger. Bring your two friends. You must be hungry after travelling so far. Lonna, will you wait by the gates and show the rest of them to the kitchens when they arrive?”
Jigger hitched up his rapier belt eagerly. “Lead on, Father. If’n the vittles at Redwall are as good as Ho
rty tells me, I can’t wait t’get at ’em!”
It was some time thereafter when Lonna herded the Guoraf shrews into the Abbey kitchens. Martha and Toran forged their way through the crowd to Horty, Fenna and Springald. They fell upon one another, hugging and shaking paws as the Abbot joined them.
“Welcome home, you weary travellers! Springald, what’s up, miss, are you ill?”
The mousemaid was staring at Martha in disbelief. “Look, she’s walking! Martha’s walking!”
Horty held his sister at paw’s length. “But how the . . . what the blinkin’ flip . . . I mean, the bloomin’ skin’n’blister trottin’ about like . . . like? Explain y’bally self, miss. How did y’do it, wot wot?”
The haremaid stared down at her brother’s bandaged right footpaw, having noticed he was sporting a gallant limp. “You’ll get to know all about it later. But what happened to you, Horty, are you hurt?”
Trying to look brave and nonchalant at the same time, Horty waffled. “Oh this, line o’ duty an’ all that, y’know!”
Springald raised her eyebrows scathingly. “Line of duty, my tail! You great fibber, tell the truth. He was messing about with Martin’s sword, showing off to the shrews, when he dropped it, tripped up and cut his footpaw on the blade!”
The Abbot exchanged a glance with Martha before he asked. “Well, who has the sword now?”
From beneath her cloak Fenna produced the sword, neatly wrapped and tied in a piece of sailcloth. “I took it off Horty and bound it up for safekeeping. Don’t worry, it’s in perfect condition and quite undamaged.”
She looked from the Abbot to Martha. “Why, what’s the matter, did I do anything wrong, should I have left the sword for Horty to fool about with?”
Both Martha and the Abbot hugged the squirrelmaid.
“No no, you did the right thing!”
“Yes, you did, Fenna, thank goodness! Please accept the gratitude of an old Abbot!”
The squirrelmaid passed the sword over to the Abbot. “Why, Father, what’s this all about?”
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