Toran watched an ant negotiating its way over his footpaw. “Much too early, it ain’t summer yet. But you know Skipper an’ the crew, first sign o’ sun an’ a skylark an’ they’re off like march hares to the west seashores for the season.”
Abbot Carrul chuckled. “Fully provisioned I trust?”
Toran nodded wearily. “Aye, I saw them off myself at dawn. Pushin’ a cartload o’ victuals I’d made special for ’em. Singin’ their rudders off, dancin’ like madbeasts!”
Carrul’s smile widened. “I know, they woke me up, I saw them from my window. Good luck and fair weather to them. So why didn’t you go? I gave you permission to take as long as you wanted to go on leave.”
Toran shrugged. “Oh, I’m gettin’ too old for that sort o’ thing. Leave it to the younger ones.”
Carrul snorted. “Too old? Too big in the tummy, you mean! If you’re too old, then what about me, eh? I was your teacher when you were only a tiny Dibbun at Abbey School!”
The ottercook tweaked his friend’s bony paw. “Aye, an’ ye haven’t gained a hair’s weight since then. How d’ye do it, you skinny, ancient mouse?”
The Abbot looked over his small square spectacles good-humouredly. “I don’t spend my whole life down in those kitchens like you do, my friend. Oh, Toran, isn’t it just a glorious day? I hope the summer is a really golden one.”
Toran snuggled more comfortably into the wheelbarrow. “Makes ye feel good t’be alive, don’t it, Carrul?”
They both lapsed into silence again, gazing around and taking in the beauties of their Abbey.
Behind them, Redwall reared—a legend in pink, dusty sandstone with its high walls and turrets, stained-glass windows and buttressed arches, belltower, attics and steeple, all complemented by a background of verdant woodland and cloudless blue sky. Toran took in the stout battlements and picturesque gatehouse of the outer wall, whilst the Abbot contented himself by viewing the lawns and orchards, peacefully shimmering in the sunlight.
Carrul’s gaze took in the Abbey pond, down near the south ramparts. “What creature could not count himself lucky to be dwelling in such a paradise. Ah, look Toran, there’s our young friend Martha, taking a little nap in her chair, just by the rhododendron bushes on the far side of the pond.”
Toran saw the young haremaid, her head nodding down to a heavy volume, which lay open on her lap.
The ottercook eased himself from the barrow. “I’ll just take a stroll over there and check she’s alright.”
The Abbot stretched luxuriously into the position Toran had vacated. “Dearie me, you’re like an old mother hen with that young ’un. Why don’t you tell her that lunch will be served late, out in the orchard? In fact, tell everybeast, ’twill cheer them up after being kept indoors by the rain for so long. We’ll all lend a paw to help.”
Toran smiled happily. “What a good idea!”
The ottercook approached Martha carefully, not wanting to disturb her. She was very special to him. Toran could recall the winter’s day, twelve seasons ago, when Martha Braebuck had arrived at Redwall. She had been nought but a tiny babe, strapped to the back of her ancient grandmother. Her brother Hortwill, two seasons older, had stumbled along, clutching the old hare’s cloak. Toran’s heart had immediately gone out to the pitiful trio. They had walked from the far Northlands, the only survivors of a vermin attack which had wiped out an entire colony of mountain hares. No sooner were they through the Abbey gates than the poor grandmother had collapsed and died from exhaustion. A sad occurrence, made sadder by the fact that Martha had never learned to walk from that day forth. Her brother grew up as sprightly as any young hare, but despite the most tender care, the babe Martha was immobile from her knee joints to her footpaws. There were no signs of any apparent wound or injury, no scarring or broken bones. No reason, in fact, why the little one should not learn to walk. Some of the wiser heads, like old Phredd the Gatekeeper, Great Father Abbot Carrul and Sister Setiva, the healer shrew who took care of the Abbey infirmary, said it was due to shock. That perhaps Martha’s long trek from the Northlands, strapped to her grandmother’s back, coupled with witnessing the murder of her family and kin, had caused the problem. Still, the Redwallers were completely puzzled.
Toran did everything possible to help her. He believed firmly that one day she would stand and walk. Meanwhile, the kind ottercook provided Martha with the means to get about. Taking a light comfortable chair, he fixed it to the base of a kitchen trolley, adding two large wheels to the back. The young haremaid learned to propel herself about quite easily. Toran also fashioned a crutch for her, but Martha used it only to get at things which were beyond her reach.
Martha Braebuck grew up an extremely bright young creature with a thirst for knowledge. She was a formidable reader and scholar, the equal even of the venerated mouse, Sister Portula, Redwall’s Abbey Recorder. Martha could solve riddles and equations, write poems, ballads and even sing. According to popular opinion, she had the sweetest singing voice ever heard within the Abbey walls. She never complained about being chairbound, and was invariably cheerful and willing to help others. The maid was a welcome and useful member of the Redwall Abbey community.
Toran watched silently as her head drooped lower. The volume slid from her lap rug onto the grass. Toran grunted as he bent to retrieve it.
Martha came awake, stifling a yawn and rubbing her eyes. “Dearie me, I must have nodded off!”
Returning the hefty volume to Martha’s lap, the ottercook winked at her. “Who’d blame ye, with all this sun about. I could lie down right here an’ take a nap myself!”
Martha saw a group of Dibbuns approaching from around the orchard hedge. “You wouldn’t sleep for long, my friend. Look, here comes trouble!”
The Abbeybabes descended upon the haremaid’s chair. Muggum, a tiny mole who was their ringleader, climbed up onto Martha’s lap, rumbling away in his quaint molespeech. “Yur, Miz Marth’, do ee singen us’n’s ee song?”
The haremaid eyed him good-naturedly. “Which one would you like me to sing?”
Toran interrupted with his suggestion. “A pretty day deserves a pretty song, miss. Sing a spring song!”
The squirrelbabe Shilly added her request. “Da one where uz clappa paws!”
Buffle the shrewbabe, who was the smallest of all, nodded solemnly. “Gurbbadurrguddun!”
Shilly translated. “Him says that be a good ’un.”
Martha sat up straight, exchanging a smile with Toran. “Well, Buffle’s word is good enough for me. Here goes.”
The Dibbuns raised their paws, ready to clap, as Martha’s melodious voice soared out.
“The rain has gone away . . . Clap Clap!
and larks do sing on high.
Sweet flowers open wide . . . Clap Clap!
their petals to the sky!
’Tis spring . . . Clap clap! ’Tis spring,
let us rejoice and sing,
the moon is queen the sun is king,
so clap your paws and sing . . . Clap Clap!
There’s not a cloud in sight . . . Clap Clap!
the leaves are bright and new.
This day was made for all . . . Clap Clap!
for me my friend and you!
So sing . . . Clap Clap! . . . So sing,
let summer follow spring,
from golden morn to evening,
we clap our paws and sing . . . Clap Clap!
. . . Clap Clap!”
Although the clapping missed its beat once or twice, it was with joyous vigour. The little ones danced around, whooping and squeaking wildly, “Sing us’n’s a more!”
Martha was coaxed into singing the lively air again. She finished quite out of breath, amid yells for a third performance.
Toran took charge, slapping his rudder loudly on the bankside. “Hold up there, ye rogues, pore Miz Martha’s tuckered out. Now lissen t’me. If ye promise t’be good, we’ll have lunch out in the orchard today, seein’ as ’tis sunny!”