Loamhedge

10

The crowd gathered under the threshold of the gatehouse. None of the wall racers was interested in entering. Everybeast was talking about it, eager to see the race between Springald and Saro.

The Abbot held up his paws. “So be it, the wall race will start from the threshold above this gate. One circuit of the entire rampart’s area, ending back on the same spot. Pushing or shoving means instant disqualification. Runners may use all of the walkway, including the battlements. Any questions?”

Shilly the squirrelbabe piped up. “Farver h’Abbot, worrabout uz likkle ’uns an’ the very very h’old ’uns?”

She was referring to the ground race, which was run over the same distance but from the ground level. This was for Dibbuns and Elders, mainly to avoid the dangers of falling from the walltops, where only fit and experienced runners competed.

The Abbot watched as Foremole Dwurl scored a deep line along the ground with his formidable digging claws. “Of course, we mustn’t forget the ground race. All competitors come up to the line, please. No crowding or jostling!” He checked the walltop, where Springald and Saro were standing level.

Brother Weld, acting as walltop official, waved down to the Abbot. “All ready up here!”

Bragoon and Toran sat on the lawn where they could see both races at the same time. Toran patted his ample stomach.

“Me racin’ days are long gone. What about ye, Brother? Yore the same age as Saro, why ain’t you runnin’?”

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.

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.