Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

He remarked in awed tones, “Good grief, marm, you can certainly deal pretty roughly with scones when you’ve a blinkin’ mind to, wot!”

Bragoon shoved more meadowcream over to his companion. “Don’t disturb Saro while she’s eatin’, she gets fierce.”

Horty nodded politely. “Know wotcha mean, sah. I expect it was jolly tough, wot. All those seasons o’ fightin’ rascally vermin. Must’ve given the lady a confounded keen appetite!”

Bragoon nodded. “Many’s the time I’ve had to count me paws after sittin’ too close to Saro at vittlin’ time!”

Toran beckoned to his friend Junty. “Now then, ole cellar-spikes, wot about a bit o’ music? Brought yore fiddle?”

Junty Cellarhog took a small, beautifully crafted fiddle out of the hood of his cloak. He tuned it deftly. “Rightyo, any pertickler tune ye’d like?”

Horty volunteered. “Play the Dawnsong. I’m sure Martha will sing for us. The jolly old skin’n’blister has a rather charmin’ voice, y’know.”

Everybeast began calling for Martha to sing. Junty struck a chord or two. The haremaid bowed in deference to the two guests.

“Only if Bragoon and Sarobando would like to hear it.”

The otter chortled. “Like to hear it? I’d love to hear ye sing, Martha. All I ever hear is my mate Saro, an’ she’s got a voice like a frog bein’ strangled!”

The squirrel looked up indignantly from a half-eaten scone. “Hah, lissen who’s talkin’. Let me tell ye, missy, to hear ole Bragoon singin’, ’tis like listenin’ to a nail trapped under a door!”

Fenna giggled. “Then you’d best be singing, Martha. Those two’ll curdle the meadowcream if they start warbling.”

Martha paused until Junty’s fiddle had played the opening bars, then she began to sing.

“I have a friend as old as time,

yet new as every day.

She banishes the night’s dark fears,

and sends bad dreams away.

She’s always there to visit me,

so faithfully each morn,

so peaceful and so beautiful,

my friend whose name is Dawn.

She fills the air with small birds’ song,

and opens all the flowers.

She bids the beaming sun to shine,

to warm the daylight hours.

She comes and goes so silently,

to leave the earth reborn,

serene and true, all clad in dew,

my friend whose name is Dawn.”

There was silence as the last poignant notes hovered on the still air, then wild applause.

Bragoon’s tough face softened as he sniffed. “I never heard anythin’ so pretty in all me days!”

Horty puffed out his chest. “I told you she could sing!”

Saro, having forgotten her afternoon tea, sat transfixed. “Sing, did ye say? Listen, even the birds’ve gone quiet at the sound of the maid’s voice. I’m retirin’ from singin’ as of now. Wot d’ye say, mate?”

Bragoon had borrowed Junty’s fiddle. He plucked the strings as he gazed in admiration at the haremaid. “Our lips are sealed, Miss Martha, ye put us t’shame. Mind ye, I can still knock a tune out on the ole fiddle, an Saro ain’t a bad dancer. Shall I play a jig for ye?”

Muggum had a swift word in Martha’s ear, causing her to smile. “Do you know a Dibbun reel called Dungle Drips?”

The Abbeybabes leaped up and down, shouting eagerly. “Play ee Dungle Drips, zurr!”

Bragoon raised the fiddlebow, winking at Saro. “Haha, Dungle Drips. We danced to that ’un a few times when we was Dibbuns, eh mate?”

The aging squirrel leaped up. “Aye, I’ll say we did! Right, c’mon, me liddle darlins, I’ll show ye a step or two. I once was Redwall’s Champion Dibbun Dancer!”

Even before the first notes rang out, the Dibbuns clasped paws and whooped. Saro was whirled off amid a crowd of molebabes, tiny mice, infant squirrels and small hoglets. All the Dibbuns roared the molespeech lyrics with gusto, hurtling themselves into the wild reel. Martha was convulsed with laughter at their antics and amazed at Saro’s skill. The squirrel was a born dancer, twirling and somersaulting recklessly as she sang out in mole dialect along with the Dibbuns.

“Whooooaaah! Let’s do ee jig o’ Dungle Drips,

woe to ee furst likkle paw wot slips,

chop off ee tail, throw um in bed,

wiv a bandage rownd ee hedd!

Feed ee choild on strawbee pudd,

gurt fat h’infants uz darnce gudd,

Dungle Drips naow clap ee paws,

tug moi snout an’ oi’ll tug yores.

Bow to ee h’Abbot, gudd day zurr,

twurl ee rounden everywhurr,

Dungle Drips bee’s gurt gudd fun,

oop t’bed naow likkle ’un. Whoooooaaah!”

The dance grew more frantic, the singing faster as Bragoon speeded up his fiddling. Muggum and his crew performed some very fancy pawwork—shuffling and high kicking, raising raucous cheers and calling for the fiddler to play even faster. The scene of wild abandon suddenly stretched out into a double line with Saro bringing up the rear as the Abbeybabes cavorted furiously across the lawns and vanished into the Abbey.

Bragoon stopped playing and blew upon his heated paws. “Whew! Wot happened there, Carrul?”

Bewildered, the Abbot shook his head. “I’ve no idea. Sister Setiva, do you know what those babes are up to?”

The shrewnurse shrugged. “Och, the wee beasties must have danced off tae their beds. ’Tis no great surprise, ah’m thinkin’, after all that racin’, eatin’ and jiggin’. Ye ken, they must be rare wearied.”

The Redwallers sat sipping tea for quite some time. There was no sound from within the Abbey. Then Saro emerged. Chuckling to herself, she sat down wearily, accepting a beaker of tea gratefully.

“Whew, I ain’t as young as I used t’be! That was some dance, I tell ye. Those Dibbuns jigged through the Abbey, up the stairs they went, straight into their dormitory. Before you could say boo, they were flat out on their beds an’ snorin’! I felt like joinin’ ’em myself. Huh, looks like the liddle ’uns have called it a day.”

Toran looked perplexed. “But wot about the Summer Feast?”

Abbot Carrul saw the look of disappointment on his friend’s face. “Cheer up, Toran, we’ll have it at midday tomorrow. ’Twill keep until then.”

Horty’s ears drooped mournfully. “I say, you chaps, all I’ve had to eat is a few measly scones an’ a drop o’ tea.”

Martha slapped his paw playfully. “Shame on you, I wouldn’t call three plates of scones measly. Don’t pull such faces, you’ll last until tomorrow.”

The gluttonous young hare went into a sulk. “Jolly easy for you t’say, wot. Skin’n’blisters never scoff much anyway, not like us chaps. So be it then! If none of you lot see me round an’ about tomorrow, you’d best take a blinkin’ good search. You won’t be smilin’ then. Not when you find the skeleton of a gallant young hare in some lonely corner. Oh yes, indeed, that’ll be me, perished t’death from flippin’ hunger, wot! Woe is us, you’ll cry, an’ weep absolute buckets o’ tears, thinkin’ we should’ve let the poor brave lad have a small extra scoff last night.”

Bragoon played along with Horty, shaking his head sadly. “An’ wot’ll yore skeleton reply to us, ole mate?”

Horty sniffed. “It’ll say, too blinkin’ late, but I told you so, an’ yah boo sucks to you, cruel rotten lot! I leave you to your guilty consciences, you heartless bounders. My famished lips are sealed. Wot!” He stalked frostily into a corner whilst stealing the last scone from under Sister Portula’s nose.

11

It was still warm as darkness fell. When the Redwallers stopped by the water, enjoying a faint breeze, talk turned to the life of Redwall Abbey and gradually to Martha’s story. Bragoon and Saro, who had become very fond of the pretty young haremaid, listened intently. Abbot Carrul, Sister Setiva, Toran and Sister Portula all contributed to the narrative, with Martha filling in the details.