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?”