Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Abbot Carrul reassured her. “Of course I am, no need to halt it because of three surly young ’uns. If they want to join in, all they have to do is apologise for their bad manners. Come on, friends, I wouldn’t miss my Summer Feast for anything!”

Set in the orchard against a background of ripening fruit and summer flowers, complete with sumptuously decked tables, the feast turned out to be a huge success. Freshly washed and dressed, the Redwallers took their places, waiting on the Abbot to start the proceedings. Martha sat between Bragoon and Saro. The three of them stared in awe at the magnificent spread. Salads, pasties and savouries were still being brought on trolleys by the servers. These were placed among the pies, tarts and flans. Jugs of various cordials and fizzes stood between trifles, crumbles, puddings and candied fruits. Loaves of many shapes and types, still fresh from the ovens, were set amid cheeses of different hues—from pale cream to golden yellow.

Everybeast, even the Dibbuns, ceased their chatter as Abbot Carrul stood up and recited a verse, specially written for the event.

“We celebrate this happy day,

with fair and right good reason,

in friendship, let us share the fruits,

of this fine summer season.

We seed and plant the fertile earth,

to use what she may give,

and thank the kindly summer sun,

which gives us joy to live.”

Granmum Gurvel, resplendent in a new floral-embroidered apron, called out. “You’m never spoked truer wurds, zurr!”

With that, the Summer Feast began in earnest. Junty Cellarhog tapped a barrel of strawberry fizz, which he had made the previous summer. Dibbuns squealed with delight as the bubbles tickled their mouths. Carving a wedge from a soft hazelnut cheese, Bragoon added it to his salad. Toran noticed him brushing away a teardrop.

“Wot’s the matter with ye, brother?”

The otter looked mournfully at the festive board. “Nothin’ really, I was just thinkin’ of all the Redwall feasts I’ve missed since me’n Saro left the Abbey.”

Toran scoffed. “Don’t fret, it looks like yore makin’ up for it with a will!”

Saro adopted a wheedling tone toward the ottercook. “Anybeast who can cook vittles like these should be famous. Toran, ole pal, why don’t ye come adventurin’ with me’n yore brother? You could cook for us an’ everybeast we meet.”

Toran lowered his eyes modestly. “No thankee, marm. I’m a mite too round in the waist for travellin’.”

Sister Portula put aside her plate in mock indignation. “Take our ottercook, indeed! Mayhaps you’d like to take Junty Cellarhog, too, in case you feel the need of a drink?”

Bragoon chortled. “Haharr, a capital idea, Sister!”

Abbot Carrul’s eyes twinkled as he joined the conversation. “I’m with you, Bragoon, a marvellous scheme! Take Toran and Junty, they’d make life much easier for you and Saro. However, I must insist that you take Sister Setiva along. If ever you are wounded, or fall ill, you’ll surely need a dedicated creature to care for you both. Agreed?”

Bragoon suddenly became interested in a bowl of plum pudding and meadowcream. He mumbled hastily, “Me’n’ Saro will make the journey alone, thankee Carrul.”

Good-humoured banter and cheerful gossiping carried on into the warm summer noontide, a perfect accompaniment to the delicious feast. Having eaten their fill, the Dibbuns ran off to play within the Abbey grounds.

After awhile, Saro glanced at the sun’s position and announced, “We’ll have t’get goin’ soon. Best be on the road afore we lose the daylight.”

Her otter friend patted his stomach. “Aye, though I reckon we won’t need much feedin’ for a day or two. That was the nicest food an’ the best company I can ever recall. Thankee, friends, for everythin’.”

The Abbot smiled. “It was our pleasure. I knew you’d be going today, so I’ve had two packs of provisions made up by Granmum Gurvel. They should last you quite a time. Inside them you’ll find all you need—the map, the poem telling of the location of Sister Amyl’s secret and extra garments to wear. Now, is there anything else you two would like to take, anything?”

Bragoon replied without hesitation. “I’d like to take with me the memory of a sweet song. Martha, would ye sing us a song to send us on our way?”

Saro added. “Aye, go on, missy, put the birds t’shame!”

The haremaid’s clear voice rang out into the still noon air. She sang for her two friends as she had never sung before. They sat entranced by Martha’s beautiful voice.

“I planted her gently last summer,

all in quiet evening shade,

within an orchard bower,

her little bed I made.

Alone I sat by my window,

as autumn leaves did fall,

they formed a russet cover for

My Rose of Old Redwall.

Through winter’s dreary days she slept

beneath the cold dark ground,

when all the earth was silent,

white snows lay deep around.

Bright stars came out above her,

as to the moon I’d call,

take pity on my dearest one,

My Rose of Old Redwall.

How the grass grew green and misty,

soft fell the rain that spring,

her dainty budded head arose,

and made my poor heart sing.

Then summer brought her just one bloom,

so white, so sweet and tall,

with ne’er a thorn to sully her,

My Rose of Old Redwall.”

Both the hardy old adventurers were sobbing like babes. Saro scrubbed roughly at her eyes. “Come on, mate, time to go. We’ll push ye as far as the gate, missy, so ye can wave us good-bye.”

They were met at the gatehouse by Foremole Dwurl and Granmum Gurvel, each carrying a pack of provisions. Old Phredd emerged from the gatehouse with a long, slender bundle, which he presented to Bragoon.

The otter stared at the strange object. “Thankee kindly, Phredd. What is it?”

Abbot Carrul answered. “It is the sword of Martin the Warrior. I want you to take it on your quest for Loamhedge. Should you need a weapon to defend yourselves, you could not have a finer one. I trust you both with the sword, and I know when the journey is done, you will bring it back safe to Redwall. May the spirit of Martin go with you, my friends, and the good wishes of all in this Abbey!”

Bragoon bound the still-wrapped sword across his shoulders. “Ye do us great honour. How could we fail with Martin’s sword to keep us company? Go back to yore Summer Feast now, an’ don’t fret. Me an’ Saro’ll bring back Sister Amyl’s secret—that is, providin’ it makes ye walk, Martha.”

The young haremaid’s eyes shone with resolution. “Walk? I’ll do better than that! One day I’ll dance for both of you. I’ll dance on top of that wall, right over the threshold, for my heroes Bragoon and Sarobando. I swear it upon my solemn oath in front of you both!”

Bragoon laughed. “Haharr, that’s the stuff, me darlin’!”

Saro swung her pack up on one shoulder. “So ye will, beauty, so ye will. Good-bye!”

They had only taken a dozen paces down the path to the south when Toran came running up and threw himself upon Bragoon. “Take care of yoreself, brother, an’ look out for Saro, too!”

Bragoon gasped for breath as he tried to pull free of Toran’s embrace. “We’ve taken care o’ each other since we was Dibbuns. If’n ye don’t let go of me, I’ll get me ribs crushed afore the journey’s started!”

Toran released his brother and stood weeping on the path. Bragoon looked away as Saro kissed the ottercook fondly.

“Go on now, ye great lump, back to yore feast. We’ll be just fine. But keep this in mind, Toran Widegirth, when we come back to Redwall ye’ve got to make us a feast, as good as the one we had today. Promise?”