Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

The squirrel jumped upright, surprisingly spry for one of her long seasons. “Right, I’ll enter an’ win first prize!”

The Sister shook her head doubtfully. “You’ll have lots of competition from younger and fitter creatures, I’m afraid.”

The otter smiled knowingly. “Oh, don’t ye worry about that, Sister. If’n there’s a prize of afternoon tea goin’, my mate’ll win it. Right, Saro?”

The squirrel threw off her cowl. “I’ll give it a good try, Brag, an’ maybe I’ll share it with ye.”

The good Sister stared open-mouthed at the aging squirrel. “Saro, is it really you?”

Saro took the old Recorder’s paw and shook it warmly. “Aye, Portula, my ole friend, an’ guess who this creakin’ ruddered lump is?”

Portula was all aflutter. “Wait, don’t tell me now. . . . Oh, seasons o’ mercy, it’s Bragoon!”

She raced off, waving her paws wildly and shouting, “They’re back! It’s Bragoon and Sarabando! They’re back!”

The squirrel watched her go. “Hear that, I got me full title!”

The games were abandoned for the moment. Redwallers crowded to the pond to see the legendary duo. Both beasts were overwhelmed by pawshakes, kisses, backslaps and the embraces of old friends. Banter and welcomes went back and forth as they were reunited with the comrades of long-gone seasons.

“Saro, you bushy-tailed rogue, ’tis me, Phredd the Gatekeeper!”

“Old Phredd? I don’t believe it. Are you still here?”

“Och, ’tis that dreadful Dibbun Bragoon! Where’ve ye been, ye bold wee scamp?”

“Sister Setiva, a pleasure t’see yore face, marm. Been? Oh me’n Saro’ve been as far as there an’ back a few times!”

“Yurr, oi’d know ee thievin’ likkle face anywhurrs, Miz Saro!”

“Granmum Gurvel, my ole beauty, give me a hug, quick!”

“Haharr, who’s that—not young Carrul the nut’n’spoon cheat?”

“Bragoon, friend of my Dibbun days, oh ’tis so good to see you! Ahem, the name’s changed now, I’m Father Abbot Carrul. But what a pleasure to see you, and Saro, too!”

“Look out, who’s this big, rough-lookin’ villain, eh?”

“Oi bee’s Muggum, marm, bee’s you’m really Sabburandum?”

Suddenly Bragoon found himself swept off his paws and hugged in a viselike grip. Tears flowed freely down Toran’s face.

“Brother Brag, you’ve come home to Redwall!”

Planting a kiss between Toran’s ears, Bragoon wheezed. “Brother Toran, I won’t see sunset if’n ye crush me t’death. I missed ye, Toran, y’great lump of an otter!”

Greeting upon greeting followed, everybeast seemed at once to be embracing the pair. The air resounded to cries of “Well I never, my oh my, just look at ye, welcome home!”

Springald, Horty and Fenna stood to one side. Like most teen-season creatures, they were embarrassed by all the hugging and kissing among elders.

Springald muttered in resignation. “I suppose that means the end of the Games Day. Huh, I’d have won the wall race easily if they hadn’t turned up.”

Fenna passed each of them a piece of candied chestnut, musing aloud. “So, that’s the famous Bragoon and Saro. Huh, they’re not as big as I thought they’d be. They look pretty old, too—creaky, I’d say. What do you think, Horty?”

The young hare shrugged. “After all the tall stories we’ve heard about ’em, wot? Actually, old bean, you could be right. Those two ain’t exactly the huge giants we’ve been told about. A bit blinkin’ old, an’ jolly ordinary, too, though everybeast seems tip over tail to see ’em back, wot? Let’s toddle over there now that the huggin’n’kissin’ is all done with. Come on, chaps, I want to get a closer dekko at the bold blinkin’ Bragoon an’ the startlin’ Sarobando.”

Martha was being introduced to the pair by Sister Setiva.

Bragoon shook the haremaid’s paw gently. “Martha, eh? A pretty name for a pretty maid. Well, Martha, you don’t look anything like us two when we were young. I wager you’ve heard a lot o’ stories about the villainy we got up to in the old days.”

Martha thought Bragoon had a kind face; she liked him immediately. She tried changing the conversation from his past misdeeds. “How did you and Sarobando get into the Abbey, sir, with the gate locked and barred?”

Old Phredd scratched his scrubby beard. “Aye, how did you get in, eh, eh?”

Saro shrugged modestly. “Oh, ’twas nothin’ really, just a little trick we used to do with the east wallgate. Don’t worry, Phredd, we locked it behind us.”

Fenna interrupted. “Mister Bragoon, I heard that you were once a Skipper of Otters. Is that true?”

The aging otter nodded. “ ’Tis true enough, miss, but ole Saro didn’t fancy bein’ an otter. So I gave it up to go rovin’ with her.”

Springald enquired, rather pertly, “Are you as good a cook as your brother Toran?”

Bragoon chuckled at the idea. “Wot, me? No, pretty one, I’ll wager that Toran’s the best cook anywhere. Huh, I’d prob’ly end up burnin’ a salad!”

Ignoring the Abbot’s stern gaze, the mousemaid continued. “Miz Saro, are you as quick as they say you are? I bet I’m faster than you. I won the Abbey wallrace last summer.”

Saro grinned from ear to ear and shook Springald’s paw. “My congratulations, missy! So then, I’ll have a bit o’ competition in this wall race. I’m plannin’ on runnin’ in it for a prize of an afternoon cream tea. Mmm! ’Tis many a long season since I tasted one.”

Springald blurted out, “You’re too old, I’ll beat you easy!”

Abbot Carrul was shocked by her behaviour. “Springald, show some respect for your elders!”

However, it was Saro who interceded on her behalf. “Not at all, Father, I like to see a young ’un with a bit o’ spirit. She’s like me at her age. Don’t ye fret now, ’twill be a fine race, I’m sure. Let’s go to the wall an’ get it started. No time like the present, eh, mate?”

Supremely confident, Springald winked at Horty and whispered to Fenna. “That old relic’s in for a surprise.”

Turning to Saro, she bowed mockingly. “After you, marm!”

10

The crowd gathered under the threshold of the gatehouse. None of the wall racers was interested in entering. Everybeast was talking about it, eager to see the race between Springald and Saro.

The Abbot held up his paws. “So be it, the wall race will start from the threshold above this gate. One circuit of the entire rampart’s area, ending back on the same spot. Pushing or shoving means instant disqualification. Runners may use all of the walkway, including the battlements. Any questions?”

Shilly the squirrelbabe piped up. “Farver h’Abbot, worrabout uz likkle ’uns an’ the very very h’old ’uns?”

She was referring to the ground race, which was run over the same distance but from the ground level. This was for Dibbuns and Elders, mainly to avoid the dangers of falling from the walltops, where only fit and experienced runners competed.

The Abbot watched as Foremole Dwurl scored a deep line along the ground with his formidable digging claws. “Of course, we mustn’t forget the ground race. All competitors come up to the line, please. No crowding or jostling!” He checked the walltop, where Springald and Saro were standing level.

Brother Weld, acting as walltop official, waved down to the Abbot. “All ready up here!”

Bragoon and Toran sat on the lawn where they could see both races at the same time. Toran patted his ample stomach.

“Me racin’ days are long gone. What about ye, Brother? Yore the same age as Saro, why ain’t you runnin’?”