Larks soared joyfully on the flatlands outside of Redwall, singing their hymns to the newborn day. Chiming a melodious bass line, the Abbey’s twin bells boomed out warmly. Indoors, all the young ones were already up and about, anticipating the arrival of Summer Feast.
Sister Setiva invariably rose to the tolling bells. Up and dressed, tidy and neat, she rapped on the sickbay door with her blackthorn stick, berating the sleepers within.
“Oot o’ those beds, ye great dozy lumpkins. If your no’ out here in a braces o’ shakes, ah’ll be in there an’ haul ye both oot by your tails!”
Bragoon poked a sleepy head from beneath his coverlet. “Hear that, mate? I think we’d best get up. Huh, I’d sooner face a regiment o’ vermin than that ole shrewnurse!”
Reaching out a paw, Saro grasped a bedside stool and rattled it noisily on the floor, calling out. “We’re both up, Sister, just makin’ the beds an’ tidyin’ round. We’ll be out there in a tick!”
Setiva’s shrill warning came back loud and clear. “Och, you’re a braw fibber. Ah’ll be doonstairs, keeping an eye out for ye. Laggardly sluggards!”
The pair sat up at the sound of her retreating stick taps. Saro yawned and thumped her head back on the pillows. “Just leave me here for the rest o’ the season, Brag. I’d forgotten how comfy a real bed feels. Mmmmmmmm!”
Leaping out of bed, the otter swished water from a ewer on his face and towelled it vigourously. “Fair enough, me ole bushtail, you stop there. I haven’t forgotten how good a Redwall brekkist tastes.”
Without bothering to wash, Saro pursued him downstairs. “I’m right with ye, ole ten bellies. You ain’t scoffin’ all the vittles afore I gets a crack at ’em!”
Martha had just finished making up a tray for herself and Old Phredd when she saw the pair rush in and begin loading up two trays from the long buffet tables set up in the kitchen passage. She giggled at the sight of them, helping themselves to some of everything, chuckling with delight at the food.
“Almond wafers with raspberry sauce, my favourite!”
“Oatmeal with apple’n’honey, just the stuff! Granmum Gurvel, me ole beauty, pass me some o’ that pastie. Wot’s in it?”
“Burr, ee mushenrooms an’ carrot, zurr, wi’ h’onion sauce.”
“Onion sauce! Gimme two portions, one for Starvation Saro!”
“Hah, lissen to ole bucket mouth! You get us two mint teas, Brag, an’ I’ll fill two beakers o’ Junty Cellarhog’s best damson cordial. Oh great, hot scones! Gimme, gimme!”
Leaving the buffet, they beamed at the haremaid over the tops of their laden trays. “Mornin’, Miss Martha, we’re just makin’ up for the lost brekkists, ain’t that right, Bragg?”
The otter winked roguishly. “Haharr, sleepin’ in a real bed gives a beast a powerful appetite.”
Martha looked up at their heaped trays. “I’m sure it does. Perhaps you’d like to take breakfast in the gatehouse with Phredd and me, away from all this bustle.”
Balancing the tray skilfully on his head, Bragoon began wheeling Martha’s chair. “An honour an’ a pleasure, miss. Besides, ’twill get us out of Sister Setiva’s way. Come on, afore she finds we ain’t made our beds or tidied the sickbay.”
Halfway across the lawn, Abbot Carrul caught up with them. “Oh dear, Martha, I’ve brought breakfast for Phredd, too.”
The haremaid indicated her two companions. “Don’t worry, Father, it won’t go to waste!”
The old hedgehog Gatekeeper welcomed them in. He reached for his nightshirt, then shook his head absentmindedly. “Hmm, must’ve gone to bed in my daytime habit. Look at me, putting my nightshirt on to start the day. What’s it all coming to, eh, eh?”
Phredd gestured at the volume lying on the table. “The account by Tim Churchmouse about the route to Loamhedge, when Matthias was searching for his son. If you two read it, you’ll learn of how to get there.”
Saro leafed briefly through the ancient pages. “Me’n Brag ain’t champion readers like you, sir. We’d rather see the map—that’ll tell us more.”
No sooner had Martha showed them the copy she had made of the map, than the squirrel and the otter glanced at one another and nodded.
Bragoon tapped his paw upon the map. “We’ve travelled this country afore. I can recall most of it—those high cliffs, the pine forest, river, desert an’ the great gorge. Dangerous country, eh Saro?”
The aging squirrel held the map this way and that as she studied it. “Aye, bad territory, though we came to it a different way. I remember those rocks, the ones shaped like a bell an’ a badger’s head, but I can’t bring that tall tree to mind.”
Bragoon tapped his rudder thoughtfully against the floor. “It prob’ly collapsed with age. This map was made seasons afore we were born. But ’tis the same area alright, riddled with vermin an’ all manner o’ perils. I was glad to get away from it!”
Martha looked disappointed. “Does that mean it’s too dangerous to make the journey?”
The otter laughed. “Haharr, wot ever gave ye that idea, me beauty? Danger’s wot me an’ Saro live on. We’d both end up dead afore our seasons was out livin’ at Redwall.”
The squirrel nodded mournfully. “All the good vittles an’ soft beds, that’d finish us off. Huh, if Sister Setiva didn’t.”
Abbot Carrul poured mint tea for Old Phredd. “Then when will you be going?”
Saro selected a hot scone and bit into it. “Straight after the Summer Feast, if’n we can still walk. Late noon prob’ly. We’ll travel southeast.”
After breakfasting they set off for the orchard to help with the festive preparations. Horty, with his two friends, Springald and Fenna, came out of the Abbey, carrying a trestle board. The young hare hailed Bragoon and Saro.
“Hello there, you chaps. Well, have you sorted out a jolly old way to Loamhedge for us, wot?”
Bragoon answered him rather abruptly. “Aye!”
Springald bounced up and down eagerly. “Oh good, when are we leaving?”
Fenna’s eyes shone happily. “A journey to Loamhedge. Great seasons, I’ve been looking forward to this!”
Horty looked from Bragoon to Saro excitedly. “Come on then, you bounders, who’s got my copy of the bally map? Remember, I’m the flippin’ pathfinder, y’know.”
Bragoon turned to face the trio, his voice stern. “This ain’t no daisy dance! Me’n my mate Saro’ll be makin’ the journey to Loamhedge . . . alone!”
Horty’s ears drooped. “But you said . . .”
Saro interrupted him. “We never said nothin’, young ’un. Yore the one whose been doin’ all the sayin’. Bragoon an’ me knows the country we got to go through. We can make it alone, but it’d be far too dangerous with three young ’uns in tow.”
Fenna was outraged. “You mean you aren’t taking us?”
Bragoon nodded. “That’s right, missy. ’Tis too much responsibility. We couldn’t show our faces back in this Abbey if’n ye were slain by vermin or killed in an accident. We’re goin’ alone, an’ that’s that!”
Springald tried to make an appeal to the Abbot. “What’s he talking about? We’ve as much right to go as they have! Martha’s our friend, too. Father, you’re the Abbot of Redwall. You make all the decisions here, tell them!”
Abbot Carrul beckoned the three young ones to him. Putting his paws about their shoulders, he spoke kindly. “Now, now, what Bragoon and Saro say makes sense. None of you has ever been further than the main gate. You’re far too inexperienced to make such a trip, trust me. Our two friends are thinking of your own good.”
Horty pulled away from the Abbot, his ears standing stiffly with indignation. “Tosh’n’piffle, sah! We’re young and strong. We can put up with anythin’ those two old fogies can! Bragoon and Saro are old chums of yours. That’s why you’re blinkin’ well siding with ’em. And anyhow, what flippin’ right have you to stop us goin’, wot?”