The big fellow turned and retraced his path, halting several paces from them and wafting a paw across his nostrils.
“By ’eck, you lads don’t mind if’n I stands well upwind of ye?”
Tammo leered nastily and tried out his vermin accent. “Ho harr, me ole matey, you don’t expect us t’go sailin’
inter a Rapscallion camp smellin’ like dewy roses now, do yer?”
Beneath his disguise, Midge winced at the pitiful attempt. “I think you’d best keep your Up buttoned an’ pretend to
be my dumb assistant, Tamm. That vermin accent o’ yours is awful!”
Rockjaw agreed with Midge’s assessment. “Aye, yore too nice-spoken, Tammo, prob’ly ’cos you was well brung
up!”
Young Friar Butty brought a tray to the gatehouse that afternoon because neither Tansy nor Craklyn had been back
to the Abbey building for anything to eat. Both windows and the door were wide open to counteract the dust. Butty
blinked as ne entered, and looked about for somewhere to set the tray down.
“I was beginnin’ t’get worried about you, marm, an’ you too, miz Craklyn. So I brought you a snack. There’s
turnip an’ carrot bake, cold mint tea, some blackberry tarts, an’ a small rhubarb an’ strawberry crumble I made special
for you. They’re fresh strawberries from the orchard, nice an’ early this season.”
Tansy looked up over the top of her tiny glasses. “Thank you, Friar Butty, how thoughtful. Just put the tray on that
chair, please. Let’s take a break, Craklyn.”
While they ate their food, Butty looked around at the piles of books, ledgers, scrolls, and charts piled everywhere,
lots of them browny-yellow with age.
Craklyn watched him as she sipped gratefully at a beaker of cool mint tea. “Those are our Abbey records going
right back to when Redwall was first built. Unfortunately they’re mixed in with lots of old recipes, poems, songs,
herbalists’ notes and remedies. Help yourself to any recipes that you like—they may come in useful when you get
stuck for cooking ideas.”
Butty, however, was looking at the latest piece of writing, the parchment on which Craklyn had recorded the words
sent via Tammo from Martin the Warrior. He read aloud the second part of the verse.
“One day Redwall a badger will see, But the badger may never see Redwall, Darkness will set the Warrior free,
The young must answer a mountain’s call.”
Abbess Tansy glanced up from her seat in a deep armchair. “Why did you pick that part of the poem to read, Friar?
”
The young squirrel tapped the parchment thoughtfully. “Well, it seemed to me at the time that the first part of the
thing was all that you were interested in, that bit about the battle taking place elsewhere and Tammo goin’ along with
Midge Manycoats. Nobeast took an interest in the second part. What d’you suppose it means?”—.
Craklyn pointed out the first two words of the ninth line. “See here, this line begins with the words ‘One day.’ So
we take that to mean at some distant time in the future. All we were looking for in the poem was Martin’s immediate
message to save Redwall from danger. But you’re right, Butty, it is a very mysterious and interesting part you read
out. Alas, we cannot see the future, so we will just have to wait for time itself to unroll the message it contains.”
Friar Butty put the parchment down and riffled through the mass of papers piled on a nearby shelf. He withdrew a
thick and aged-looking volume, blowing the dust from it. “Aye, I suppose you’re right, marm, time reveals all sooner
or later, probably even the secrets that this old volume contains.”
Tansy liked young Butty; he was a fast learner. “My word, that is an ancient-looking thing. Does it say who wrote
it? The name will be inside the front cover.”
Butty opened the book and read the faded script therein. “The journal of Abbess Germaine, formerly of Loam-
hedge.’”
Mint tea spilled down Craklyn’s gown as she jumped upright. “The architect of the Abbey! That’s the very volume
we’re looking for! Well done, young sir!” Hurrying out into the sunlight, the trio seated themselves on the broad stone
steps leading to the gatehouse threshold. Craklyn turned carefully to the first page. “I’ll wager an acorn to a bushel of
apples that the answer to what lies beneath our south wall is in these pages somewhere!”
The crews of the logboats strode into the kitchens, refreshed by their fast trip downstream and hungry as
hunters. Skipper whacked his rudderlike tail against a big pan. “Ahoy, Friar Butty, any vittles fer pore starvin’
creatures?”
Mother Buscol waddled from the corner cupboard, waving a threatening ladle at the otter. “Look, you great noisy
riverdog, Butty ain’t ’ere, see. So don’t you come with yore rough gang a shoutin’ an’ hollerin”round these kitchens
when we just got the owlbabes takin’ their noontide nap!”
Gurgan Spearback touched his headspikes respectfully. Thee’ll ’scuse us, marm, we’ll be well satisfied t’sit out in
your dinin’ room an’ wait t’be served by one as pretty as yoreself.”
Taken by surprise at the Waterhog’s courtly manner, Mother
Buscol smiled and dipped a deep curtsy. “Indeed to goodness, sir, I’ll just warm up the pasties and heat some soup.
Would you be takin’ gooseberry cordial with it?”
Gurgan bowed, sticking one of his immense boots forward as he made what he considered to be an elegant leg.
“’Twould be more’n sufficient, m’lady, ’specially if it were served by yore own fair paws!”
Chuckling, the old squirrelmother set about her task.
Log-a-Log nudged Gurgan. “You fat ole flatterer, all she was about t’give us was a swipe with ’er ladle. ’Ow
d’you do it, matey?”
Gurgan led them out to the tables, winking slyly. “A smidgeon o’ sugar’s worth ten barrels o’ rocks, friend.
Lackaday, who did that to yore nose, Shad?”
The burly otter Gatekeeper was seated at the table, feeding candied chestnuts to the little badger Russano. He
touched the dock leaf wrapped tenderly ’round his snout. “Never lean too close to owlchicks, matey, they got beaks on
’em like liddle scissors. I just found that out when I was playin’ with ’em. Savage beasts they are, they’ll eat anythin’
at all!”
Skipper laughed and tickled the badgerbabe’s footpaws. “An”ow’s my liddte mate ’ere behavin”imself, eh?”
Shad patted Russano proudly. “I just taught ’im a new word. Watch!”
He held a candied chestnut up, just out of Russano’s reach. The tiny fellow reached out his paws, uttering the word
gruffly. “Nut! Nut!”
The otters and shrews thought Russano’s new word was a source of great hilarity. They gathered ’round him,
chanting, “Nut! Nut! Nut! Nut!”
The two little owls, Orocca and her husband, Taunoc, came flying out of the kitchens. They landed on the tabletop,
contracting and dilating their massive golden eyes and flexing their talons.
“Whichbeast is making all the noise out here?”
“Waking our eggchicks with that silly nut-nut call!”
Straightfaced and serious, all the otters and shrews pointed at the badgerbabe Russano, who lay innocent and
smiling. “‘Twasn’t us, it was him!”
38
Skaup the ferret and a dozen or more Rapscallions were out foraging, roaming farther than they usually did. Skaup
was pleased: they had slain several birds and in addition had two clutches of waterfowl eggs and a fat old perch they
had found floating dead in a stream. They were seated in a patch of shrub that had a blackberry sprig growing through