Brian Jacques - Redwall #21 - Doomwyte

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 these 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?”