Dwink whispered to Samolus, “Well, that wasn’t much help was it, we still don’t know what a Friars Grace is.”
Samolus watched the old mole rolling out pastry. “Don’t be too hard on Skurpul, cookin’ is wot he does best. With an Abbeyful of creatures to cater for, the Friar doesn’t get time for other things.”
Dwink immediately felt sorry for what he had said. “Aye, yore right, sir, let’s look for a Friars Grace.”
Perrit suggested helpfully, “We know what Abbot’s grace is. Abbot Glisam says a different one before every meal. Maybe it’s something similar, what d’you think?”
Umfry smiled brightly. “I know, let’s h’ask the h’Abbot. Wait ’ere, h’I’ll go’n get ’im.”
Sister Violet selected a crystallised strawberry. “Young Umfry ain’t as slow as he looks.”
Abbot Glisam was only too glad to be of service; he put forth on the subject. “It’s odd you should ask me about Friars Grace. We Abbots are constantly composing different graces, for meals throughout the seasons. But Friars Graces are pretty few and far between. However, last night I was looking through the Abbey Records, to see if I could gather more information on Gonff. I did notice something which stuck in my mind. At some point during Gonff’s lifetime, there was a hogwife who acted as Friar, very good she was, too. Her name was Goody Stickle. Not only was she an excellent cook, but Goody was also an expert at crafting earthenware. It was noted in the Records that she would make bowls, flagons, dishes and beakers from clay. Goody would bake them in the ovens until they came out as fashionable and useful earthenware.” Glisam turned to Skurpul, who had just finished putting the final touches to a batch of latticed apple pies. “Friar, have you ever heard of a creature named Goody Stickle? A long time ago she was cook here. She also made earthenware things.”
Placing his pies on beechwood oven paddles, the old mole began sliding them into the ovens. He paused a moment. “Guddy Stickle, ee say, zurr, hurr, you’m bees castin’ yurr eye o’er this.” Skurpul reached down a honeypot from the shelf. It was a fine piece of work, elegantly shaped to look like a small, round beehive, decorated all round with bees and cornflowers. He passed it carefully to Glisam. “That’n bees made boi Goody Stickle, zurr, she’m wurr a gurtly clever-pawed ’edge’og. See yurrr, this bee’d ’er mark!”
It was a tiny, and beautiful, picture of a hedgehog. Probably sculpted on the wet clay with a knifetip, and baked hard as a permanent signature. The friends admired it, and Perrit enquired further, “It really is splendid, Friar, do you have any more of Goody Stickle’s work to show us?”
Skurpul placed the honeypot carefully back upon its shelf. “Oi ’spect thurr’s a few bits, likkle missy. May’ap many got broken o’er ee long seasons. But you’m lukk for ee dishes’n’such bearin’ yon mark. Them’ll be Goody’s, mebbe still ee few abowt.”
The search began in earnest then, Abbot Glisam joined in enthusiastically. Piece by piece, more of Goody Stickle’s work was discovered. Sister Violet turned up a little beaker, half-full of dried sage herbs. “This un’s got a liddle hogmark on its base, my, ain’t it a pretty thing!”
Dwink rolled his wheelchair across to inspect it. “Pretty I’ll grant you, Sister, but it doesn’t look like any Friars Grace. What’s that you’ve got, Umfry?”
“Dunno really, h’it’s a sorta puddin’ basin, h’I think.”
The friends rooted and rummaged through cupboards and drawers, shelves and crannies, to little avail. They found many examples of the long-ago cook’s ware, but not what they were seeking. Outside, daylight was fading to purple evening haze as the Abbey bells tolled for the day’s final meal.
Friar Skurpul finished supervising kitchen helpers, who had loaded up their trollies. Removing his cap and apron, the jovial mole enquired, “You uns be a-goin’ in for ee supper?”
Pushing his tiny crystal glasses up onto his brow, Abbot Glisam massaged his eyelids gently. “You go on, Friar, we’ll join you presently.”
Dwink waved a paw at the assembled earthenware. “Well, we’ve scoured these kitchens from top to bottom. Just look at all these cups, beakers, plates, bowls and jugs. All made by Goody Stickle, and not one of them any use to us, friends.”
Perrit quoted a line from the puzzle. “’Is it there or has it gone?’ Huh, gone I think, and if it’s an item of earthenware, probably broken many seasons ago. We may as well go to supper.”
Brother Torilis entered the kitchens. The Abbot nodded to him. “Not taking supper this evening, Brother?”
The gaunt-faced Herbalist bowed slightly to Glisam. “Far too busy I’m afraid, Father, some of us still have work to do. Sister Ficaria and I are preparing a splint for young Dwink. He can’t sit in that wheelchair for the rest of the season. I’ve decided he should be up and about. A splint will help his footpaw, but he’ll have to go carefully on it.”
Dwink felt that he had to say something. “It’s very good of you, Brother Torilis, missing your supper on my account. Sister Ficaria, too.”
The Infirmary Keeper gave Dwink what passed for one of his rare smiles, a mere twitch of the lips. “Thank you for your concern, however, my assistant and I have no intention of missing supper. We’ll eat upstairs in the sick bay as we work.” He picked up a covered tray, on which Friar Skurpul had already set supper for two.
Sister Violet eyed the tray. “Beggin’ yore pardon, Brother, but wot’s that tray made of, is it earthenware?”
Without looking at the tray, Torilis answered, “Yes, it’s earthenware, with a wooden frame.”
Umfry blocked his way. “H’earthenware y’say, let me ’ave h’a look at it, Brother.”
Torilis backed indignantly away. “I certainly will not, this tray belongs to my Infirmary, it has nothing to do with you!” Umfry grabbed out, snatching the cloth cover away from the tray. Torilis shot him an icy glance. “How dare you…you…beprickled savage, get out of my way, this very instant!”
Umfry ignored him, crowing triumphantly. “See, h’it’s a tray, a h’earthenware one, with writin’ on h’it!”
At this point, the Abbot stepped in. “Brother Torilis, I apologise if we’re causing you any bother, but could you let me see that tray, please? Place it down there and empty the food from it.”
Torilis was loath to take orders from anybeast after being affronted by Umfry in such a manner. He tried blustering his way out of the kitchens. “Really, this is most insulting. Can you not let Sister Ficaria and I carry on with our work, and take our supper in private!”
It was very seldom that Glisam showed temper, but when he did, the dormouse was the equal of anybeast. “I’m not stopping you from eating supper, Brother. In fact, we’ll carry it up to the Infirmary for you. But I must inspect that tray, so stop acting like a sulky Dibbun and empty the food from it!”
The saturnine squirrel was left with no alternative. With bad grace he quickly cleared the tray contents onto the table, slamming the tray down hard on the oven top. “There! Inspect the thing as you please, then will you kindly have the goodness to reload my tray, which is Infirmary property, and allow me to leave here!”
The tray was really a wall hanging, with holes for a hanging cord drilled at either side. The back was a thin board of knotted elm, in an oval shape. On top of the wood, Goody Stickle had fashioned an earthenware faceplate. It was the Friars Grace.
Dwink read out the words, which were inscribed in neat script.
“All that grows in our good earth,
harvested by Redwall beasts,
to test a simple Friar’s worth,
at Abbey board or seasons’ feasts.
Thanks to the sun, the wind and rain,
and those who toiled with loving care,
my Friar’s skills be not in vain,
to cook fine food and honest fare.”
Umfry sounded slightly disappointed. “Huh, h’is that all h’it says?”
Perrit traced her paw around the raised earthenware border. “That’s all. Apart from t
hese artistic decorations. See how they’re raised up from the rest? There’s a pattern of mushrooms, dandelions, damsons, chestnuts, mint leaves. All repeated cleverly, right around the words to form a frame.”
Dwink stared hard at it for a moment. Then he took the slate fragment from the side of his wheelchair cushion. Looking from the Grace to the slate, his lips moved silently. The Abbot watched him intently.
“Dwink, what is it, have you found something?”
Words tumbled from the young squirrel. “Hah, I knew it! I knew that was it!”
Umfry scratched his headspikes. “Was wot?”
Dwink replied with two short words: “An onion!”
Brother Torilis looked on, mystified. “An onion?”
Dwink pointed a paw at the Friars Grace. “Perrit gave me the clue. All those things, mushrooms, dandelions and so on, repeated in a clever pattern. But look there, right at the top, in the middle. An onion, that’s the answer!”
The squirrelmaid touched the embossed vegetable. “But why is it the answer?”
Tapping the slate with his paw, Dwink explained, “Listen. ‘What’s mixed will thicken, there’s the place’! Right, that’s how we came by the word kitchen. Here’s the rest. ‘Is it there or has it gone?’ Well, we searched the kitchen, but it was gone. Until Brother Torilis walked in here and picked it up. You see, it had gone, from the kitchen to the Infirmary. Didn’t you say it was Infirmary property, Brother?”
Torilis nodded. “Sister Ficaria told me the tray had been at the Infirmary for as long as she could recall. Mayhaps it had been taken from here to the Infirmary long ago, and never returned.”
Dwink nodded agreement. “Now, look at the last two lines: ‘Framed above a Friars Grace. On, on I. The middle one.’ Suddenly it jumped out at me. On is the first word, on is the second word. But the word I that’s the middle one, see?”
Brother Torilis repeated the line in the correct order. “On I on…on I on. Of course, it’s onion! Now what happens, are there further clues?”
Taking the slate, Abbot Glisam read out the second verse.
“Where to seek a raven’s eye?
What’s not sad, yet makes one cry,
with what a plum has at its middle.
The Prince of Mousethieves set this riddle.”
Umfry’s face lit up with a broad smile of understanding. “A h’onion’s not sad, but h’it makes you cry when you peel it. I know, ’cos h’I’ve peeled h’onions afore. An’ wot does h’a plum ’ave at h’its middle? A stone!”
The Abbot picked up a big copper ladle. He tapped it on the earthenware onion. “So, friends, d’you think this plum, or should I say onion, has a stone at its middle, a raven’s eye?”
Brother Torilis waved his paws in agitation. “No, Father, please, you wouldn’t, that tray is Infirmary property!”
The Abbot’s old eyes twinkled mischievously. “Correction, Brother, it’s kitchen property. Redwall kitchens, in fact, and I’m the Abbot of Redwall!”
Crack! He hit the onion a sharp tap with the ladle. There amidst the broken shards of earthenware was an object, wrapped in a scrap of linen. The Abbot smiled, bowing to Dwink. “Be my guest, sir!”
The young squirrel needed no second bidding. He unwrapped the linen. It was an awesome ruby, one eye of the Great Doomwyte raven statue. It glowed with deep crimson fires, a thing of awful beauty.
Perrit stood, transfixed by the fabulous stone. “Oh, just look at it, Dwink, look at it!”
But Dwink was scanning the small remnant of linen. “Aye, splendid, ain’t it. I’ll take a proper look once I’ve read the message from this bit o’ cloth. It says here how t’find the serpent’s green eye!”
31
Zaran the black otter kept up her vigil at the side of the huge slab of rock, which had slipped and sunk into the hillside. Spingo was trapped beneath the stone, in total darkness. All the Gonfelin maid could do was to keep very still. She breathed lightly, trying to conserve the small amount of air which filtered in through the thin holes Zaran had bored with the sharpened branch of a beech tree. Every now and then, Spingo felt loose, sandy earth sifting onto her paws. Each time it did, the unwieldy slab settled a minute fraction more. Zaran called down through the narrow, tubelike holes to her.
“Spingo, hold on, moles come soon from Redwall. I make another hole, give you more air, yes?”
The reply came back, faint but urgent. “No…don’t make any more holes, mate, y’might cause a cave-in…. Leave well enough alone!”
The black otter put aside her beech branch, but continued talking, in an attempt to lift the young maid’s spirits. Zaran said anything in the hope of comforting Spingo. “When moles come they have you soon out of there. Bisky said his Abbey has many moles. Best diggers in all the land, whole army of moles. Hah, you will drink cold water from stream, wash dust from yourself, feel good, fresh!”
Spingo licked soil from her lips. “That’ll be nice…. Wish they’d hurry up….”
Speeding downstream in the Guosim logboat, Dubble suddenly backed water, drawing his paddle inboard. The sharp action caused Bisky to topple backward—he hit his head on the vessel’s stern. The young mouse sat up, calling irately to his companion, at what he thought was an unwarranted halt.
“Wot d’ye think yore doin’, mate? We’re supposed to be goin’ full speed for Redwall.”
Pulling into the bank, the young shrew turned to face Bisky. “Aye, an’ so we are, but we’ll get no place fast with you as paddlin’ crew!”
The Redwaller thrust out his chin aggressively. “Wot‘s wrong with my paddlin’?”
Dubble was forced to tell him, in no uncertain fashion, “Yore goin’ to turn this boat over, with the way yore flailin’ that paddle around. Lissen, mate, there’s an art to paddlin’. We’re travellin’ downstream, see, so ye let the current do most o’ the work. You prob’ly heard the sayin’, more haste, less speed. Well it’s true. Now, d’ye want to git to yore Abbey quickly?”
Bisky readied his paddle. “Of course I do, we’ve got t’save Spingo. Go on then, you show me wot t’do an’ I’ll try my best to help.”
They pulled the craft off into midstream, with Dubble working the prow, calling back instructions to Bisky at the stern end. “Easy now, bucko, watch the way I do it. Don’t try t’go fast, steady does it. Lean forward, dig that paddle deep, feel the current an’ go with it. Feather the paddle blade a bit to one side on the upstroke, see, just like I’m doin’.”
Bisky obeyed, surprised at how the logboat glided swiftly along, picking up speed. Every once in a while he missed the stroke, calling out, “Sorry!”
Dubble replied, “Y’know, when you go marchin’ with otherbeasts, sometimes they sing a song, just t’keep in step. Right, I’ll sing ye a simple shanty, the chorus is easy. It’ll help ye to keep yore stroke.” For a young Guosim, Dubble had a rich baritone voice. He sang out lustily.
“I cut me teeth on a Guosim paddle.
Hey hi ho! Hey hi ho!
Took to it like an ole duck waddle.
Hey hi ho! Hey hi ho!
Now run that river down the flow,
where we’ll anchor I don’t know.
Sing hey hi ho my matey oh,
that’s the Guosim way to go!
Our logboat sails just like a dream.
Hey hi ho! Hey hi ho!
On sea or river, creek or stream.
Hey hi ho! Hey hi ho!
No room for idle paws on board,
don’t scrape yore keel now, mind that ford.
Sing hey hi ho my matey oh,
Ye’ll feel me boot if you go slow!”
Had it not been for the urgency of the situation, Bisky would have enjoyed the experience greatly. But he kept his eyes on Dubble’s every movement, concentrating his efforts on keeping a steady paddle, and a smooth course.
In the caves beneath the forested hillslope, Korvus Skurr had begun to realise he was not the tyrant anymore. With no Raven Wytes to command, he was facing
open mutiny. Several times he had ordered that all his subjects, both birds and reptiles, move to the large, sulphured cavern. Not a single creature obeyed. He had hoped that they would, to provide him with a buffer in case Baliss moved out of the tunnel. The carrion birds crowded the rocky walls of the inner sanctum. They ignored him, scrabbling, squawking and fighting amongst themselves. Crows, choughs, jackdaws, rooks and magpies were seized by a feeding frenzy. No reptile was safe from their voracious beaks, they hunted the cave relentlessly. Frogs, toads, lizards and snakes—the grass snake, slow worm and smoothsnake—were being rooted out from their hiding places in rocky niches. Beaks stabbed, and talons raked, as the dark birds fought amongst themselves every time a reptile was caught. They battled savagely for the squirming creatures, often tearing them to pieces.
Sicariss cowered beneath the big raven, fearful of the carrion packs, who eyed her wickedly. A crow called Fagry, who seemed to have taken over from the slain Veeku, called harshly, “Raahakkah! What does your Welzz tell you now, slimecoil, more lies for Skurr to hear?” Without waiting for an answer, the birds flocked off, in chase of some reptiles. These had scuttled off, hoping to find better hiding places in the main cavern. The insect-riddled heaps of filth which mounded against the walls in there provided odious cover from the rapacious birds.
Doomwyte (Redwall) Page 28