Brian Jacques - Redwall #09 - Salamandastron

"Squirrels, otters, hedgehogs, mice, Moles with fur like sable, Gathered in good spirits all, Round the festive table. Sit we down to eat and drink. Friends, before we do, let's think, Fruit of forest, field and banks, To the seasons we give thanks."

Amid a clatter of bowls and spoons, the feast began. Tables had been joined together to form a large cross shape, and there were five centerpieces. A Redwall jubilee trifle of pears, damsons, greensap cream and hazelnut truffle was on the north end. Opposite at the south trestle stood a magnificent blackcurrant pudding, swimming in a peach-covered cream of whisked beech-nut and strawberry topped off with a sugar-preserved sprig of maple. The east side was graced by a high wobbling redcurrant jelly with flaked almond and chestnut suspended inside like a sunset snowstorm, and it was wreathed

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in yellow-piped meadowcream. At the west board was a golden honey-crusted confection of latticed pastry with mint-cream and candied chestnuts oozing from it onto a bed of purple plums. In the center stood a wide diamond of sweet arrowroot shortcake with all the fruits of the summer piled on it, fixed there by stiff comb honey blended with a puree of apple and raspberry. Salads of ten different kinds ranged amid the wedges of white, yellow and beige cheeses, studded with nuts, herbs and celery. Oatfarls, cottage loaves and batons of ryebread, all hot from the ovens with their crusts gleaming brown, lay scattered between vegetable flans, shrimp and hot-root soup and massive deeper *n' ever turnip V later 'n' beetroot pies beloved by moles. Redcurrant tarts, bilberry scones, plumcakes, latticed apple pies, strawberry flans and damson puddings radiated out into patterns, dotted by bowls of nutcream, meadowcream, Abbeycream, rosecream and buttercup fondant. Pitchers, flagons and jugs overflowing with October ale, strawberry cordial, dandelion and burdock, berry wine and cowslip cordial jostled for position amidst bowls of warm scented rosewater and embroidered napkins standing by for sticky paws.

"Hey, Nordo, what do you think of our shrimp an' hotroot soup, matey?

"Whooh! It's hot! Pass the October ale, please."

"Yurr, you'm sample some o' 'ee deeper 'n' ever pie, zurr

heagle."

"Och, as soon as Ah get man beak free o' this trifle, laddie."

"Righto, Dumble me old scout, load in the cheese an' salad. Now you start at this side of the loaf and I'll start at the other side. That's the ticketmeet you in the middle, wot?"

"D'you likes ches'nut an' celery cheese, Mr. Log-a-log? Just try a piece atop of yore vegetable flan."

"Mmm! It was worth paddling all that way for, Mr. Spinneyand I think I'll dream of your October ale for the rest of my life. Alfoh, what's that you're eating?"

"Bilberry scone with meadowcream. The Friar's going to

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give me the recipevery civilized indeed. Now then, young mole, don't fall into that deeper pie thing."

"Hurr hurr, zurr. That be the bestest part, fallen in 'ee pie, then oi c'n eat moi ways out o' et!"

"Oh, look out, Thrugann and Brother Hollyberry have started a shrimp-and-hotroot-soup-eating competition. Just look at that pepper they're putting into it!"

"I say, chaps, any room for another jolly old contestant?"

"Steady on, Pikkle Ffolger. You're in the middle of a pie-eatin' contest with me."

"Haha, so I am, Tubbyguts old lad. Hold the soupI'll be with you as soon as I've dealt with this Guosssom glutton."

"Ach, you skinny lang-legged laddie is a braw scoffer. Ah'd hate him tae visit mah nest for a season. Pass some o' those candied chestnuts, will ye, Tammbeak."

"Awa', yer no doin' sae bad yerseF for an injured falcon, if ye'd tak' yer beak out o' yon trifle an' look at yersel', Rocangus!"

The son of Laird Mactalon did take his beak out of the trifle long enough to rip away the dressing from his wing. He flexed it and gave a wild whoop. "Kaahey! Mah wing's wor-kin' again. Thrugg, yer a bonny riverdog!"

Immediately he was in the air, circling and soaring around the high spire and redstone turrets of the Abbey. Wheeling out, he swooped down and glided majestically over the heads of the revellers in the orchard as they cheered and hurrahed.

Abbess Vale smiled contentedly at her old friend. "My my, Faith, they are enjoying themselves. I do hope we don't run short of anything."

"Humph!" Friar Bellows leaned over between them. "Short, did you say? You should see the supper spread I've laid out in Great Hallit would feed an army through a hard winter."

Mara shook the fat mouse solemnly by the paw. "Thank you. Friar Bellows, you have done our Abbey proud."

Abbess Vale smiled as she grasped the badger maid's paw.

"Did you hear that, Samkim? She said 'Our Abbey.' Do

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you think she will stay here as Guardian?"

"I'm certain, Abbess. Martin the Warrior said it should be

so.

Vale sat back in her chair, folding her paws into the habit sleeves as her eyelids began to droop. "You must forgive me, it has been a long day and I need to take a little nap. Samkim, I always knew you would come back. You have returned Martin's sword, and tomorrow the Wild King MacPhearsome will restore it to its place on the weathervane. There it will stay to watch over our Abbey. My heart is glad, because not only did you bring the sword, you brought us our beautiful badger, Mara. Heroes Samkimwe were never short of them: Thrugg, little Dumble, Arula and yourself, brave creatures all! What more could an old one like me desire than to rest here with Redwallers enjoying themselves in good health, peace and happiness..."

The young squirrel and the badger maid sat watching the Abbess of Redwall as she slept quietly, surrounded by her friends in the orchard on a high sunny afternoon in the Autumn of the Homecomers.

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The great Joseph Bell pealed out mellowly over the warm spring evening as an old mole grandmother made her way slowly over to the small cheery fire that glowed by the beech-log in the orchard. The infant mole was toasting a chestnut on a stick at the fire, and his friend the dormouse elder was dozing.

Taking the little mole by his paw, the grandmother whispered, ''Come on, Burrem, et be yurr bedtoime long since, bring thoi chesknutter with 'ee."

Paw in paw they strolled back toward the Abbey dormitories, the old one questioning her grandson.

"Wurr et a gudd story, Burrem?"

The infant trundled along, nodding. "Hoo urr, it serpintly wurr, tho' oi thinks that ol' dormouser be a gurt fibber, Gran-murr."

She stopped and wagged a heavy digging ciaw at him. "Gurr, maister Dumble b'aint no fibber, you 'pologize roight naow, young un!"

The infant mole smiled winningly at her. "Oi 'pologizes, Granmurr 'rula. You wutr in 'ee story so it must be 'onest true, burr aye!"

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Old Arula patted his velvety head. "You'm forgived, young ripscullywag."

They continued walking to the Abbey.

"Whoi does Maister Dumbie allus sleep outside in 'ee orchard, Granmurr? Him'n doant go t' bed in 'ee durmitory."

"Oh he'm a-stayen out thurr every noight fer long seasons naow, Burrem, waitin' on heaglyburds an' falkies t' come back. S'pose someday they will, hurr."

Together they entered the Abbey, leaving the door open, as it always is to welcome any traveler to Redwall.