Portula shrugged. “A day like any other. Sunny, I hope.”
Abbot Carrul stood up and murmured to her as he banged a ladle upon the tabletop to gain order. “Tomorrow is the first day of summer.”
He raised his voice. “Your attention please, my friends!”
A respectful silence fell upon the boisterous Redwallers. Everybeast was eager to hear what their Abbot had to say.
“It is my wish that, as tomorrow is the first day of Summer Season, a sports day and a feast shall be held within the grounds of our Abbey. My good friend Foremole Dwurl will be in charge of the proceedings. I trust you will cooperate with him. Foremole Dwurl!”
Redwall’s mole leader, a kindly old fellow, bowed low to the Abbot. Amid the raucous cheering and shouting, he climbed upon the table and stamped his footpaws to gain order.
“Thankee, zurr h’Abbot. Naow, you’m all coom to ee h’orchard arter brekkist, an’ oi’ll give ee yurr tarsks. Hurr hurr, an’ all you’m Dibbuns make shore you’m be proper scrubbed!”
Abbot Carrul looked over the top of his tiny glasses at Sister Portula. “Does that solve your problem, marm?”
The good Sister looked slightly nonplussed. “But Father, Summer Season doesn’t start for two days yet.”
Foremole Dwurl wrinkled his snout confidentially. “If’n you’m doant tell ’um, marm, us’n’s woant. Hurrhurr!”
Silence reigned in Cavern Hole. Every Redwaller was tucked up in bed, anticipating the coming day’s delights. Summer Season feast and sports was always a joyous event on the Abbey calendar.
Abbot Carrul pushed Martha’s chair across Great Hall to her bedroom, which was next to his on ground level. His voice echoed whisperingly about the huge columns as they went.
“Did you notice that Old Phredd didn’t come in for supper this evening?”
Martha voiced her concern. “Oh dear, I do hope he’s not ill!”
The Father Abbot reassured her. “Not at all, that old fogy’s fit as a flea. He was rather anxious for us to get out of the gatehouse, though. I’ll wager a button to a barrel of mushrooms that rascal has information about Loamhedge hidden in his dusty archives, sly old hog!”
Martha sat up eagerly. “Do you really think so, Father?”
Carrul nodded. “I’m certain of it, miss. D’you know, I think our search is going to turn up some interesting and exciting stuff tomorrow.”
The young haremaid wriggled with anticipation, since any prediction the Abbot made invariably came to pass. “Oh, I do hope so, Father. Maybe we’ll discover Sister Amyl’s secret. Wouldn’t that be wonderful!”
Martha looked up as they passed the great tapestry. Was it just a trick of the flickering lanterns, or did she really see Martin the Warrior’s eyes twinkle at her?
7
Some leagues north of Redwall Abbey, the ragtag vermin gang blundered their way through the nighttime thickness of Mossflower woodlands. Skrodd swiped at the undergrowth with his former leader’s cutlass as he led the party.
The big rat, Dargle, kept muttering under his breath, continuously criticising Skrodd. “Fancy trackin’ two beasts when yore lost, huh!”
Tired and sleepy, the other vermin managed a weary murmur of agreement. Skrodd did not want to challenge Dargle directly—it was the wrong time and place for such a move. So he asserted his authority by bullying all and sundry. He turned on them, brandishing the cutlass.
“Shut yer gobs an’ keep movin’. Lost? Hah! Youse’d be the lost ones if’n I wasn’t leadin’ ye!”
Flinky enjoyed causing trouble. Disguising his voice, he called out behind the big fox’s back. “That’s no way t’be talkin’ to pore pawsore beasts!”
Little Redd agreed with him. “Aye, we should be sleepin’ now instead o’ wanderin’ round an’ round all night long!”
Although Flinky was the instigator, Redd was the unlucky one whose voice Skrodd identified. With a savage kick, Skrodd sent the small fox sprawling.
Laying the cutlass blade against his neck, he snarled, “Ye liddle runt, say the word an’ ye can sleep ’ere fer good. I’ve took enough of yore moanin’!”
Realising that he had gone too far, Flinky tried to remedy the situation by pulling Redd upright as he appealed to Skrodd. “Ah, come on now, sure he’s only a tired young whelp. No sense in slayin’ one of yore own mates. Let’s step out a bit, an’ I’ll sing a song to help us along, eh?”
Skrodd relented, pointing his blade at the stoat. “Right, you sing. The rest o’ ye march, an’ shuttup!”
Flinky’s ditty put a little fresh life into the gang’s paws.
“Ferrets are fine ould foragers,
though frequently furtive an’ fey,
stoats can sing sweetly fer seasons,
so me sister used to say,
but foxes are fine an’ ferocious,
when faced with a fight or a fray,
an’ rats remain rambunctious but only for a day!
But wot about weasels, those wily ould weasels,
they’re woefully wayward an’ wild,
the ones they’ve whipped an’ walloped,
will wail that weasels are vile,
they’ve bullied an’ beaten an’ battered,
they’ve tormented tortured an’ tripped,
I’m sure any day their pore victims would say,
steer clear o’ the weasel don’t get in his way,
for of all the vermin ye’d care to recall,
the weasel’s the wickedest wretch of all.
An’ virtuous vermin will all agree,
any weasel is worse than me!”
There were four weasels in the gang: Slipback; his mate, Juppa; and two taciturn brothers, Rogg and Floggo. All of them protested volubly at Flinky’s song.
“That ain’t right, foxes are worse’n weasels!”
“Ye sing dat again, an’ I’ll wallop ye alright!”
Skrodd’s bad-tempered shout quickly silenced them. “Shut yore faces back there, or I’ll show ye ’ow ferocious foxes can be. Sing somethin’ else, Flinky, an’ don’t insult nobeast!”
Dargle called out, “Aye, an’ be nice to foxes, they’re easy hurt!”
Skrodd fixed the big rat with an icy glare. “Aye, an’ they can hurt rats easily, too!”
Dargle stared fearlessly back at him. “Ye don’t scare me, fox. Burrad was slayed by mistake. Us rats don’t make mistakes when we fight!”
Skrodd never answered. Turning away, he continued to march, but the challenge was out in the open now. The rest of the gang exchanged nods and winks—a fight to the death was not far off. Skrodd pulled Little Redd up to the front with him and allowed him to walk by his side. The small fox felt honoured; normally he would be left trailing at the back of the gang.
Keeping his voice low, the bigger fox took on a friendly tone with the young one. “You stay by me, mate. Us foxes’ve got to stick together.”
Little Redd had to glance around to make sure Skrodd was not talking to some other beast. He was more used to kicks and insults than to kind words.
The big fox winked at him. “I been keepin’ an eye on ye, mate. Yore a smart little feller, not like this other lot!”
Redd hated being called “little,” but he was quite pleased to know that Skrodd thought of him as smart. He returned the wink, speaking out of the side of his mouth.
“I ain’t no fool, an’ I ain’t so little, either. I’m growin’ fast. One day they’ll call me Big Redd.”
Skrodd got to the point. “Lissen, mate, I want ye t’do me a favour. Do ye think yore smart enough t’be useful to me?”
Little Redd walked on tippaw, swelling his chest out. “Just tell me wot ye want doin’, mate!”
Skrodd leaned close. “Keep an eye on the gang, especially Dargle. That rat’s gettin’ too big fer his boots. I want ye to watch my back, sort o’ be my second in command.”
Redd hid his delight, replying gruffly, “I’ll do that, just watch me. Soon they’ll be callin’ me Big Redd. I won’t let ye down, mate!”