Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Bragoon folded his paws and settled back. “I’m far too old. Saro was born on the same day as me, but she’s an hour younger.”

Toran scoffed. “An hour, that’s nothin’ in a lifetime!”

His brother Bragoon maintained a straight face. “Oh it isn’t, eh? Ye try holdin’ yore breath for an hour, matey!”

Every Dibbun in Redwall was hopping and leaping on the line, waiting for the start.

Abbot Carrul held up a big spotted red ’kerchief, taking one last look around as he called, “Is that all now, last chance for any late entrants!”

Horty came bowling up, pushing Martha in her chair as she protested. “No, please Horty, I’ve never raced before!”

The garrulous hare pushed his sister onto the line. “Oh piffle’n’twodge, miss. We’ll show these blighters what us Braebucks are jolly well made of, wot! Two stout runnin’ paws an’ a splendid set o’ wheels. Hahah, we’ll leave ’em all bally well standin’, wot wot!”

Toran and Bragoon applauded from the sideline. “That’s the stuff, give it a go, miss!”

Springald stood in a ready stance. Saro glanced sideways at her as she pawed the line.

“Good luck to ye, young ’un!”

The mousemaid kept her eyes set on the course ahead. “Aye, good luck to you, too, old ’un. You’re going to need it!”

Several of the Dibbuns made overenthusiastic false starts, causing a slight delay as Toran and Bragoon got them back into line.

Abbot Carrul stood out on the lawn and shouted as the ’kerchief fluttered in the breeze.

“On your marks . . . Ready . . . Steady . . . Go!”

Away everybeast went, young and old, on walltop or ground, running at top speed.

Carrul sat on the grass with the two otters. “Dearie me, some of those Dibbuns have raced off in the opposite direction.”

Toran laughed. “Oh, let ’em go. They’ll still run the same distance at the finish. Flyin’ fur’n’feathers! Lookit young Springald go, ye’d think she had wings on ’er footpaws. Looks like Saro is laggin’ behind a bit. D’ye think she’s in trouble already, Brag?”

The otter shook his head. “She’s just pacin’ herself, keepin’ the mousemaid lookin’ back over her shoulder, ye’ll see.”

Both walltop runners were almost at the north wall corner, with Springald a good two paces in front.

Below on the grass, chaos ensued. A molebabe and a tiny shrewlet had decided to stop and share some candied chestnuts between them. Another molebabe tripped over them. He forgot the race and joined the pair.

“Hurr, worrum ee got thurr, candee chesknutters, oi’m gurtly fond o’ they’m, boi ’okey oi arr!”

The shrewlet passed him a few. “Den h’eat dese up, nuts make y’go faster, we still winna race, mate!”

Martha clung tight to the chair as the little cart bounced and bumped furiously forward, with Horty yelling out a warning to them. “I say there, you bounders, make way or we’ll run ye down. Watch out for the corner, me old skin’n’blister. Steer quicker, or we’ll knock a hole in that wall, wot!”

Abbot Carrul shook his head in admiration as he viewed the walltop runners. “My word, the speed of those two, they’re nearly at the east corner already. Look at them go!”

As Toran saw them negotiate the corner and tear off along the parapet southward, he groaned softly, “Aaaah, pore ole Saro’s flaggin’ now. See, Springald’s stretched her lead, I think she’s bound to win.”

A slight smile played about Bragoon’s lips. “The race ain’t over ’til the winner crosses the line. You watch, Saro’ll soon take the spring out o’ Miss Springald.”

But by now the mousemaid had turned the south wall-corner, leading by three paces.

The Abbot commented. “I think that young ’un’s got the field to herself now.”

Bragoon did not answer; instead, he put both paws to his mouth and emitted a single sharp whistle.

Springald was panting heavily, but still she took time to glance back at Saro as she gasped, “Give up, old ’un, you’re beat!”

Saro was breathing like a bellows, still hard on her opponent’s heels. At the sound of Bragoon’s whistle, Saro summoned up all her energy and put on a massive burst of speed. As the finishing line loomed up, Springald set her eyes dead ahead, racing wildly for it. Saro made a mighty leap. She sailed up and over, passing above the startled mousemaid’s head, to land beyond the line, half a pace ahead, right beside Brother Weld, who roared out, “Saro wins!”

Completely shocked, Springald collapsed in a heap on the walkway. Fighting for breath, she gasped, “Wh . . . wh . . . what h . . . happened?”

Weld the Beekeeper was holding Saro’s paw high, shouting, “The winner by a half pace—Miz Sarobando!”

On the ground, three quarters of the way around, more contestants were put out of the race as they met the reverse runners. They collided and fell in a jumble, roaring and arguing.

“Yurr, wot ways bee’s you’m foogles a runnen?”

“Uz norra foogles, you knock uz over ’cos we winnin’!”

Martha steered the cart around them, yelling in panic, “Slow down, Horty, watch out for those Dibbuns!”

Her brother narrowly missed the melee, speeding up as he shouted, “Forward the buffs! Onward t’death or flippin’ glory! Blood’n’vinegar, me jolly lads! Redwaaall!”

Howling and hooting, he rushed over the finishing line, grinding to a halt and losing a back wheel in the process. “Hoorah, me beautiful ole skin’n’blister, we won. Wot Wot Wot!”

“Nay, you’m diddent, zurr. Uz wunned—Shilly an’ oi!”

Horty’s mouth fell open. “But . . . but . . . how . . . wot . . . but?”

Martha almost fell from her chair laughing. “Hahahahaha! Muggum and Shilly were first over. Heeheehee, they won. Stop your but butting, Horty, we were second. A great effort on your part, sir. Thank you kindly!”

She did not tell him that, when they almost collided with the fallen Dibbuns, she had rescued Muggum from the heap as they whizzed by. Muggum had hold of Shilly’s tail, so she, too, was swept aboard the chair. Both of the little ones hopped off the cart, over the line, just ahead of it. Luckily they landed either side of the vehicle.

The Abbot, who had his suspicions as to who the real winners were, eyed the Dibbuns sternly. “Who won? I want the truth!”

Muggum was the picture of infant innocence. “Troofully, we’m wunned, zurr. Us’n’s farster’n woild bunglybees, moi paws nurrly tukk foire!”

The Father Abbot shook his head in disbelief until Martha reassured him. Toran and Bragoon backed her up stoutly.

“Aye, ’twas the Dibbuns who won, fair’n’square!”

“Right, mate, would we lie to a great Father Abbot?”

Folding both paws into his wide sleeves, the Abbot wandered off, muttering, “Why shouldn’t I believe three good and honest creatures? Frogs can fly, fish make nests in trees. Who am I but a poor Abbot who knows nothing?”

It was still some time until nightfall and the commencement of the Summer Feast. Under the Abbot’s instructions, the kitchen crew had already made a substantial afternoon tea.

Saro threw a friendly paw around Springald’s shoulders. “That was the closest race I’ve ever run. Come on, young ’un, you’n yore friends must take tea with me. Let the winnin’ Dibbuns an’ Martha sit with us, too.”

The banks of the Abbey pond made a perfect setting as the Redwallers sat in the lengthening noon shadows, watching sungleams on the cool, dark water. Junty Cellarhog, the big hedgehog who took care of Redwall’s famous cellars, personally served them with ice-cold rosehip and mint tea. Everybeast gossiped animatedly whilst enjoying the excellent food. Most Redwallers wanted to know more about the famous pair and their adventures. Bragoon had to do most of the answering, as Saro was lost in the ecstasy of scones, meadowcream and strawberry jam. Even Horty was amazed at the amount of food that Saro could put away.