Brian Jacques - Redwall #07 - Mariel of Redwall

"Hmm, good question. But no need to fret your mousy little heart, young whatsyourname. I'm going to Redwall, so we can both get lost together."

"You mean you're lost too?"

"Who said I am? Don't talk ridiculous. Never been

72

lost in m' life, young thingy. Do I look lost? Sittin' here by my own campfire, singin' away and twangin' m'little harolina ..."

To stop any further indignation, Storm commented on the instrument. "Ah, so that's what it's called, a harolina. What a nice instrument. I've never seen one before."

"Never seen a blinkin' harolina? Corks, no wonder you're lost. I say, is that a long patrol medal you happen t' be wearing?"

"This? Oh yes, it was given to me by Colonel Clary, Brigadier Thyme and Hon Rosie ..."

Before Storm could say any more, a dreamy look crossed the jester hare's face, making him look extra foolish.

"Egads! Hon Rosie, the Honorable Rosemary exquisite creature, completely adorable gel, doncha know. Did she mention my name by the way?"

"I don't know. What is your name?"

"Tarquin L. Woodsorrel, though she may have called me Tarkers or jolly old Tark. She did mention me, didn't she? You wouldn't kid a chap, would you? Go on, say she did."

Storm saw that the poor fellow was so agitated that she had to lie a bit. "Oh, Tarkers, yes, she did nothing but talk about you."

"Good egg. I knew it. Go on, go on, what'd she say?"

"Er, let me see. She said you were very handsome, a fine singer and a wonderful player, and she wished you were on patrol with her."

Tarquin L. Woodsorrel fell flat on his back, kicking his long legs ecstatically into the air.

"Absolutelyballyspiffinhunkydory! Whoohoo!"

Storm coughed politely. "Does this mean you'll take me to Redwall Abbey, Mr. Woodsorrel?"

"Abbwall Reddymouse, 'course I will. You can call me Tarquin. I'll call you early. D'y'know I couldn't eat

73

a thing right now. Rosie, ah Rosie, I could live on that sweet name the rest of my life without eating."

Storm curled up by the fire, yawning loudly. She did not fancy an entire night listening to a lovelorn hare singing the praises of his beloved.

"Oh well, I'd best get some sleep. By the way, my name's Storm Gullwhacker. This rope is my weapon actually the rope's called Gullwhacker."

Sleep was some time coming to the mousemaid as she had to lie there listening to Tarquin composing dreadful love songs and plunking odd chords on his harolina.

"O Rosie the Hon, you're certainly the one, I'll bet my bally life,

With your cute little nosie, beautiful Rosie You'd make a lovely wife . . .

Hmm, lessee now, what rhymes with wife? Strife, knife . . . life. That's it!"

The fire burned to white ash and red embers in the deep nighttime forest.

74

10

Almost an hour before he was usually up and about, Abbot Bernard was wakened by the first rays of dawn and a loud knocking on his bedroom door. Hastily stowing his nightcap beneath the pillows, he rubbed sleep from his eyes and tried to look as dignified as a Redwall Abbot should.

"Ahem, the door's open, come right in, please." Bagg and Runn entered, bearing a tray between them.

"Good mornin', Father Habbot, an' a happy Jubilee to you, sir."

The Abbot hid a smile as he propped himself into a sitting position.

"And good morning to you, young otters. I'd completely forgotten about my Jubilee. It's a good job you reminded me. Now, what's all this?"

"It's your breakfast, Father. Meadowsweet and sage tea."

"Aye, and arrowroot curd with strawberries." "And barleytoast spreaded with honey." "Some hot blackberry muffins too." "And cold willowcake and greengage jam ..." The Abbot held up his paws. "Oh, my goodness, how will I get through it all? It's far too much for me.

I'll just have the meadowsweet tea for now. How kind and thoughtful of you. I'll bet you haven't had your own breakfast yet. How about you two helping me to finish all this?"

It was no sooner a word than a bite with two hungry young otters. Bagg and Runn sat on the bed as morning sunlight filled the room, doing full justice to the good breakfast they had prepared while showing the Abbot a barkpaper card they had made for him.

"See, there's you, Father, standing on the lawn by the pond."

"Oh yes. What a good likeness, and that's a splendid tree I'm standing by."

"That's not a tree, it's Mother Mellus. Can't you see her stripes?"

"Of course. I thought this one over here was Mother Mellus."

"No, that's Simeon looking for herbs, and this one is Gabe Quill rolling out a barrel of October ale for your feast."

"Why, so it is. Well done indeed!"

oo

The morning blossomed into sunlight fullness, Redwall Abbey stirred itself into life, lazy blue smoke from its kitchen chimneys drifting toward the woods, where it tangled gently to blend in with tendrils of white mist hanging in the trees. Preparations were well under way, flower garlands decked the long tables set out in the orchard. Creatures from the outlying woodlands and fields began arriving, bringing gifts, food and their families with them. Brother Hubert stationed Dandin and Saxtus on the ramparts over the gatehouse.

"Do a slow patrol of the walls. If you see any creatures coming in who might need assistance, then run down and help them."

Both young mice nodded importantly, proud to be helping in such an adult way. They puffed out their chests, frowned intently and with swinging paws set

out on tour of the high ramparts around the outer Abbey walls.

oo

Friar Alder put the finishing touch to his great masterpiece. Knowing the Abbot's taste for the savory rather than the sweet, he had concocted an invention of his own, Bernard Bread. It was a vast loaf of wheat-and-oat bread, almost the size of a grown badger. Alder opened the big oven doors as he called to his assistant, Cockleburr.

"Lend a paw here, Cockles. The Abbot's surprise is almost done."

A small hedgehog came running, stumbling and tripping over a long white apron, his assistant-cook's hat falling over his eyes.

"Simmerin' seasons, lookit the size of it. Comin', Friar!"

Together they inserted the long wooden paddles and set them in the grooves either side of the bread tray. Sweating and panting, they heaved with might and main until the Bernard Loaf began moving slowly and majestically toward the oven doors.

"Steady! Easy now, here it comes. Push that stonemason's trolley over here. We'll need something to land it on."

With a gentle thud the trolley received its precious burden. Cockleburr stood back, wiping his brow on the corner of his apron.

"Perishin' puddens, Friar. It's a monster! Lookit that crust. It's like a shiny golden mountain, all crispy an' steamin'."

Friar Alder seated himself upon a sack of flour. "So it is, Cockles. So it is. There's leeks, sage, rosemary, bay, turnip, beetroot, onions, mushrooms of six varieties, young cabbage, fennel, cucumber and corn, all floating in a mildpepper and cream gravy. What d'you think of that, young 'un?"

"Frizzlin' frypans, there's no doubt 'bout it, you're a

77

fantastic Friar, a colossal cook, a stupendous stewer, a ... a. ..."

"All right, Cockles, that's quite enough. I know I do have a certain skill. All that remains is to heat it slightly before we bring it to table this evening. Now, is everything else in order, preserved fruits, berry flans, oh, and the Four Seasons Forest Trifle?"

"Just finishin' the pipin', Friar. I got up early and did the pink rosettes and green leaf shapes with the mint cream, and now all I've got to do is the twirly bits along the edges with yellow buttercup cream."

"Good, you carry on with that while I go and check the wine, ales and cordial lists with Gabriel Quill. Always remember, Cockleburr, the right drinks complement the right food. Right food, right drink success. Wrong food, wrong drinkdisaster. Always remember