Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

Seeing Sister Fisk coming up the south wallsteps, Wopple waved, hailing her friend. “Cooee, Sister!”

Redwall’s Infirmary mouse came bearing a steaming kettle. The Friar rubbed her paws in anticipation as Fisk sat down beside her. “I’ve set all our food out. What sort of tea are we drinking today?”

Fisk poured out two dainty beakers of the hot amber liquid, passing one to her companion. “Taste and guess, then tell me if you like it.”

Blowing fragrant steam from the drink, Wopple sipped. “Ooh, it’s absolutely delicious, Sister. I’d never guess, so you’d best tell me.”

Fisk looked both ways, as if guarding a secret, before whispering, “Rosehip and dandelion bud, with just a squeeze of crushed almond blossom!”

The female Friar sipped further, closing her eyes with ecstasy. “It’s the best you’ve ever invented, my friend!”

Fisk took a hearty bite from her salad farl. “Not half as good as your cooking, though. I had a bit of a rush getting up here this noon. Had to put some salve on a bruised footpaw. Little Alfio again!”

The Friar chuckled. “Dearie me. Sometimes I think that poor Dibbun was born with four left paws. How many times is it that he’s fallen and hurt himself, clumsy little shrew!”

The Sister shook her head in mock despair. “I’ve lost count of Alfio’s tumbles.”

She settled her back up against the sun-warmed battlements. “Ahhh, this is the life. A quiet moment of tranquillity on a peaceful noontide, away from it all!”

Wopple set a slice of tart in front of her. “Aye, until somebeast injures themselves again, or a whole Abbeyful of Redwallers wants feeding!”

A thin, reedy quaver interrupted them.

“Could you feed me, please? I don’t eat much!”

Fisk turned to Wopple. “Did you say something?”

The Friar was already pulling herself upright. “’Twasn’t me—sounds like somebeast outside.”

Fisk joined her as they peered over the walltop.

Below, amidst the trees, was an old hedgehog. She looked very thin and tottery. Leaning against an elm, she waved. “Didn’t mean t’spoil yore tea, marms. I was just wonderin’’ow ye gets into this fine place.”

Friar Wopple answered promptly. “Stay right there, marm. We’ll come down and get ye!”

Opening the small east wall wickergate, they hurried to the gable where the old hogwife had seated herself. She began thanking them as they assisted her inside the grounds.

“May fortune smile on ye goodbeasts, an’ may yore bowls never be empty for yore kindness t’me!”

Helping her up to the walltop, they sat her down, placing their afternoon tea before her. She immediately fell upon the food with gusto. Whilst she fed herself unstintingly, Friar Wopple studied the newcomer’s face, murmuring, “Sister Fisk, who does she put you in mind of?”

Instead of answering, Fisk turned to the old hedgehog. “Do you have a name, marm?”

Their guest looked up from a slice of tart, smiling to reveal only a few snaggled teeth. “Twoggs, me name’s Twoggs.”

The Friar nodded knowingly. “And is your second name Wiltud?”

The old hogwife finished off a beaker of tea at a swig. “Wiltud, that’s right. . . . But ’ow did ye know?”

Friar Wopple shrugged. “Oh, I just guessed.”

Twoggs Wiltud turned her attention to Fisk’s partially eaten salad farl. “Good guess, eh, marm? Any more o’ these nice vikkles lyin’ about?”

Wopple moved to help her upright. “Come along to my kitchen, and I’ll see what I can find!”

Abbot Thibb joined Dorka Gurdy in the kitchens. Both were intent on viewing the new arrival. The scrawny old hogwife had seated herself on a heap of sacks in one corner, paying attention only to the food she had been given.

Friar Wopple indicated her guest to Thibb and Dorka, remarking, “Sister Fisk and I are both agreed as to who she is.”

The Abbot needed only a brief inspection of the snaggletoothed ancient, who was slopping down honeyed oatmeal as if faced with a ten-season famine. He nodded decisively. “That’s a Wiltud, without a doubt, eh, Dorka?”

The otter Gatekeeper agreed readily. “Split me rudder, she couldn’t be ought else but a Wiltud. Ain’t shy about table manners, is she? Lookit the way she’s wolfin’ those vittles!”

Friar Wopple refilled the guest’s bowl with oatmeal. Twoggs Wiltud gulped down a beaker of October Ale, nodding to the Friar as she turned her attention back to the oatmeal.

“Thankee, marm. I likes a drop o’ ’oneyed oatmeal. Don’t’ave enough teeth left t’deal wid more solid vikkles. I tries me best, though.”

Sister Fisk stifled a chuckle. “I’m sure you do, good lady. We have another member of your clan at Redwall—young Uggo Wiltud. Though he’s off travelling at the moment.”

Twoggs licked the sides of her empty bowl, holding it toward the Friar for another helping. “Huggo, ye say? Hmmm, don’t know no Huggo Wiltud, but that ain’t no surprise. Mossflower’s teemin’ wid Wiltuds. We’re wanderers an’ foragers, y’see. Don’t suppose ye’ve got a drop o’ soup t’spare. I likes soup, y’know.”

Friar Wopple commented, “Is there any food you don’t like?”

Twoggs sucked at her virtually toothless gums a moment. “Er, lemme see. May’aps oysters. I’ve ’eard tell of’em, though I ain’t never tasted one. So I can’t tell if’n I’d like ’em or not. Yew ever tasted an oyster, marm?”

The Abbot interrupted this somewhat pointless chatter. “Forget oysters—but tell me, do you have a purpose in visiting our Abbey? You’re welcome, I’m sure. However, a creature of your long seasons, you must have passed our gates many times if you live in Mossflower Country. So why do you suddenly turn up here today?”

Twoggs took a sip from the bowl which the Friar had just passed to her. She wrinkled her withered snout with delight. “Oh, ’appy day—spring veggible soup, my fav’rite bestest thing inna world. Fortune smile on ye, Cook marm, an’ may ye allus ’ave someplace soft to lay yore ’ead at night!”

Taking a crust of bread, she began dipping it in the soup and sucking noisily. Dorka smiled at the Abbot. “Don’t look like she’s up to answerin’ any more questions as long as the vittles keeps comin’.”

Thibb shrugged. “I think you’re right, friend. Friar, I’ll leave her in your care. See she gets what she wants, then let her nap in the storeroom. Mayhaps she’ll talk to me when she feels like it. Oldbeasts like her aren’t usually in the habit of visiting new places without a reason. Though maybe she was just hungry.”

Sister Fisk watched as another bowl of soup disappeared. “Aye, that’s probably it, Father. Let’s hope she soon gets enough, before she eats us out of house and home. Incidentally, how’s that torn pawnail of yours?”

The Abbot held it up for Fisk’s inspection. “Oh, it’s not too bad. I’ll take more care next time I’m trying to shut the main gates on my own.”

Dorka shook her head. “Aye, wait for me. I know them gates—they can be tricky if ye don’t handle ’em right.”

Fisk examined the pawnail, noting that the Abbot flinched when she touched it. “Hmm, you’d best come with me to the Infirmary, Father. I think a little of my special salve and a herbal binding is what’s needed to solve your problem.”

The Abbot made to walk away, excusing himself. “Oh, it’ll be quite alright as it is. Pray don’t trouble yourself, Sister.”

Fisk caught him firmly by his habit girdle. “It’s no trouble at all. I won’t hurt you—now, don’t be such a Dibbun and come with me.”

She marched him off briskly. Friar Wopple passed Twoggs Wiltud a slice of mushroom pasty, remarking to Dorka, “I think there’s a bit of the Dibbun in all of us when it comes to visiting the Infirmary. One time I got a rose thorn in my footpaw when I was a Dibbun. Old Brother Mandicus had to dig it out with a needle. I’ve had a fear of healers ever since.”