Abbot Carrul looked over his glasses at her. “Nothing for you to worry your head about, miss. I’ll tell you everything in a few seasons’ time—that’s, of course, providing you don’t plan on leaving us to go somewhere else.”
Fenna replied promptly. “Why would I go anywhere else? Redwall Abbey’s my home, I’d never leave it for anything!”
Martha clasped her friend’s paw. “Neither would I, Fenna. There’s noplace dearer than our Abbey!”
Whilst the shrews were sampling the delights of the kitchens, the three young ones went down to Cavern Hole with Toran, Martha and the Abbot. There, away from the hubbub, they sat by the embers of a glowing fire, recounting their journey to and from Loamhedge. It was an engrossing story, vividly illustrated by the young creatures’ first real experience of the outside world—enemies they had encountered, friends they had met, hardships they had undergone. Horty, Springald and Fenna each related the parts they had taken in the epic quest. Throughout the narrative it was clear that the entire thing would not have been possible without the heroism, guidance and assistance of Bragoon and Sarobando. By the time the dawn bells were tolling, the trio had reached the end of their tale. Fenna reached into her belt pouch and drew forth the slim package of parchment which Bragoon had entrusted to her. “This is Sister Amyl’s secret. Take it, Martha, it’s meant for you alone. I know you don’t have any need for it now, but I feel you should have it.”
They watched in silence as the haremaid undid the wrapping and began scanning it.
Horty leaned forward eagerly. “Well, are you goin’ to jolly well read it out to us, or are you goin’ to sit there bloomin’ well gazin’ at the blinkin’ thing until next flippin’ summer, wot?”
Martha hesitated. “I’m not supposed to, really. It says on the other side of this parchment that only the one who needs this shall know my secret. But I don’t think it will do any harm now. Here’s what it says:
“The body is ruled by the mind,
I tell you this be true,
by willpower you may find,
nought is denied to you.”
Abbot Carrul took the parchment from her paws. He stared at it, turned it over, studied it a moment longer, then chuckled as he passed it to Toran. “So, that’s Sister Amyl’s secret, eh? Take a look at that, Toran, my friend!”
After a brief glance the ottercook burst into laughter. “Hohoho, Sister Amyl my granma’s rudder! Hohoho, those rascals!”
Martha was astonished at the attitude of her friends. “Excuse me, I fail to see what’s so funny. Those are the words of a young Sister who suffered the same as I did. I can see that it’s written in an old-fashioned style, and the writing isn’t too neat. But what’s that to laugh about?”
Abbot Carrul explained. “This was never written by Sister Amyl. She was a young Sister who was well educated, her spelling was faultless and she had a neat writing paw. Remember the history of Loamhedge you were reading, the one you borrowed from Sister Portula? Amyl had written part of that, but she certainly never wrote this!”
The light of recognition dawned across Fenna’s face. “I’ll wager I know who did write it. I’ve just remembered where I’ve seen that parchment before. It’s a piece torn from the edge of the Loamhedge map we took with us. See, there’s a line on it that was the rim of the high cliffs. Bragoon or Sarobando must have written it. Everything they found in Abbess Sylvaticus’s tomb had mouldered away to dust. So they invented Sister Amyl’s secret themselves rather than return to Redwall empty-pawed. That’s it! Either Saro or Bragoon did the writing.”
Abbot Carrul patted the squirrelmaid’s shoulder. “Well done, miss! Actually, Bragoon or Saro didn’t write this singly, they both did! I recognise the writing on the outside, Sarobando did that. She was better at spelling but worse at writing than Bragoon. He had the neater paw but oh, dear me, that otter’s spelling was dreadful, look at it!”
They examined the short rhyme closely.
“The body is rooled by the mynd,
I tell you this be troo,
by willpower you may fynd,
nort is denyed to you.”
Toran wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “Aye, that was my brother, alright. Old Brag never won any prizes for his spellin’. But he did it so ye wouldn’t be let down, Martha. So I think ye could forgive ’em both for it.”
Martha stared into the fire embers. “Forgive? There’s nothing to forgive. They did it for me, undertook that whole long quest, protected my brother and his friends, then sacrificed their lives for them.”
Toran did not know whether he was smiling or weeping. He scrubbed a paw across his eyes again. “So they did, Martha, so they did!”
Epilogue
Ten seasons have passed since that night of the harvest moon. Fate and fortune have allowed our Abbey to prosper in peace. We had some visitors to Redwall the other day, a column of fighting hares from Salamandastron, sent by Lord Lonna Bowstripe. They were led by Captain Hortwill Longblade Braebuck, who was visiting his sister. What a change the Long Patrol has made to Horty! He went off all that time ago, with Lonna, to enlist at Salamandastron, carrying the scimitar that the badger had taken from Raga Bol. Horty is now twice as big, and twice as hungry, as he once was, a fine figure of a Long Patrol captain with a bristling military moustache. The young hares under his command admire him greatly. Abbess Fenna was delighted to see him, and so was I. We sat up until late last night, chatting about the old days, with Carrul our Gatekeeper and Cellarmole Muggum. Yes, Abbot Carrul became Gatekeeper, by his own choosing, four seasons back. He shared the task with Old Phredd until the ancient hedgehog went to his long rest last winter. Ah well, such is life, and such is its passing; not even Phredd could live forever. Horty and his hares are staying until after the Harvest Feast. (Trust hares never to miss a chance of several days’ good feeding.) Those are Ottercook Toran’s words, not mine, though I share his sentiments.
On the night of the harvest moon, all our Abbeybeasts will gather on the lawn near the front wallgates. We will watch Martha climb the steps to the threshold. First she will sing the beautiful ballad, “The Rose of Redwall.” Then she will carry out the promise she made to Bragoon and Sarobando. They say that, on the day they left to search for Loamhedge, she vowed that when they returned she would dance for both of them, on the walltop, right over the threshold of our Abbey. Martha has kept her promise every season since then. After singing her song, she dances—swaying, bending, curtsying and leaping—graceful as a breeze-blown flower in the golden moonlight, for the memory of her two friends. I remember then that long ago summer when we stole out of the Abbey, rebellious young creatures embarking on a great adventure. We returned at the end of that season—wiser, more obedient and more reasonable. It was the summer of growing up.
If you, too, are travelling, questing or journeying anywhere, remember this. You will always find a welcome here at Redwall Abbey, young or old. As friends come by, they often call in to enjoy Redwall hospitality. Who knows, maybe we will see you here someday. You can sit with us, rest and be refreshed and learn. Young ones have much to learn and old ones, too. Carrul said to me only the other day, we are never too old to learn. He was a wise Abbot; he is an even wiser old Gatekeeper. I hope someday I may grow as wise as him.
Springald. Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower country
*See Mattimeo
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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