Marianne and the Song of Redwall

[belle]

SUMMARY: Two young ferrets have fled from their dying tribal settlement. But now, although they are not aware of it, they are fleeing from vengeful paws.



Grey-black had clouded Mossflower's skies, and everywhere, treetops were performing a madly festive dance - swaying to and fro, tossing branches, now and again bracing themselves against the crash of the rain, scattering leaves all around.

There was nothing that Salome dreaded more than a nighttime excursion into the Woods, alone, when it was storming.

Against the surrounding forest, the young ferret was a tiny figure - swathed in her brother's cloak, which now clung, rain-sodden, to her fur; the water-pail tucked beneath one arm. Every whip-crack of lightning goaded her to haste, and she splashed on recklessky, complaining all the while, as if her voice could be heard above the rain's leaf-battering music.

"Oh, Hellgates - I can't wait till autumn! One moment it's sunny, th' next moment it's pourin' rain!"

She leapt in fright at the sound of a snapping branch; the cloak's hood, overlarge as it was, fell before her eyes, and, after stumbling sightlessly for a few moments, she landed into a sizable puddle of mudwater. It was with difficulty that she managed to haul herself upright, spitting bits of mud and sodden leaf between coughs.

Salome glanced down the front of the cloak - the black-dyed fabric had been soaked through, and she doubted that any amount of scrubbing and wringing would remove the filth.

Salome swore aloud. She knew that if not for the cold, Samuel , her brother, would never have entrusted it to her, seeing as she had ruined her own cloak not long before.

Salome stooped to retrieve the now-empty pail. Thunder struck the earth like a massive gavel, and, to Salome, all of Mossflower seemed to quake. The young ferretmaid realized that she was shaking, as well.

"I'll just fill th' thing with rainwater an' then try t' find my way home," she told herself. "Samuel probably won't know th' difference . . . Hellgates, why'd I 'ave t' go an' get lost . . . ."

"Aye, its likely yore right there, missie. I wouldnt notice a thing!"

A lightning bolt, at its best, could never have frightened Salome asbadly as the sound of that voice did.

This weasel's face might have been mistaken for a mask - a mask that was decorated, it could be said, with ink-black bumps and purple-edged bruises. The whiskers were grey with filth; beneath them, rows of jagged, cheese-colored teeth formed a grinning zipper.

"Aye, I dont suppose I'd notice a thing if I was in yore big brother's place, missie." Each word sent a gust of hot, damp, foul-smelling breath into Salome's face. "After all, there was days I was so weak I'd thank my lucky stars if I could make it to the barrel the rainwater dripped into. Nearly perished of thirst, I did. But you and yore brother couldnt've known about that - ye'd never allow an old friend to suffer if ye could 'elp it, now would ye? "

His paw shot out, before Salome could flinch, and caught her by the scruff. Now Salome dared not move, for the cloak's collar was closing in, yoke-like, about her throat.

"Whats the matter, me lovely? Don't favor me mug, do ye?"

Her silence only seemed to give him even greater amusement; he sniggered delightedly. "Now, now, dont ye worry, me darlin', ye ain't th' first one. Most every beast as ever laid eyes on me was struck with dread- 'specially by these 'ere bumps. Black ugly things, aint they?"

Now, his free paw shot out, just as suddenly as the first paw had, to anchor itself -claw-first - into Salome's shoulder. Salome screamed.

"Aye – an' ye would've 'ad the same as meself and me fine cronies if'n ye'd stayed. Oh, I knows who ye are – the pretty little wench who reckoned as she was too good to stay be'ind and die with th' rest o' us. Now that ain't a nice way t' think, is it?"

Having enjoyed the sight of the young ferret maid, shrieking and writhing like a tormented insect, the weasel seemed to decide that he had had enough of this game. When his claws unhooked themselves from her shoulder, it must have resembled a sheet of stapled paper. Blood might have filled those holes, but missiles of rain were battering her shoulder. By rights, Salome ought to have been in agony. But she could pay no more mind to a wounded shoulder, while a dagger was hovering inches from her throat. The weasel chuckled again.

"Now, should I stab ye quick-like, or should I gag ye with this 'ere belt and make yore death slow for ye, eh? Then again, missie, ye couldnt tell me yore big brother's whereabouts with a gag across yore mouth, could you? Course, if ye spill it t' me quick enough, I'll consider endin' you just as quick!"

His lips parted, as if he was about to laugh at his own cleverness. After a few moments, however, his jaw slackened - hung open, allowing a river of clotted blood and saliva to gush forth.

Before Salome realized it, she was being hauled upright. She made a few shaky, staggering efforts, and, at last, managed to stand. The weasel lay in the mud, lifeless, soaking up the rain like a sponge.

Samuel stood near his head, holding his dagger so that the rain could rinse the blood from his blade. When it was clean, he returned it to its sheath. He spoke through gritted teeth.

"Come on, Salome! Never mind the God-blasted water."

OoooOOoooOOoo

Inside of the log den, Salome retired to the back, where the embers of the neglected fire were still giving out some warmth. When her paws regained their steadiness, she peeled the cloak from her fur; it fell in a crumpled heap about her feet. Rainwater, mud, and a bellyful of blood had ensured that neither the cloak, nor its fabric, would ever again be of use to any beast.

As Salome tried to toast some feeling into her cold-stiffened paws, Samuel stalked over to her.

"Salome! What in Hellgates is the matter with you? " Salome could tell, without turning to face Samuel, that his teeth were still clenched."You know where th' stream is, an' how t' get back to th' den - how in Satan's name did you manage t' get lost? Are you just plain stupid or somethin'? "

Salome flinched. She continued her efforts to warm her paws - and those glowing embers might have fulfilled their purpose, had she been able to feel any warmth.

"Sorry, Samuel." Her voice was just barely audible." Don't come bawlin' at me - it started stormin' an' I got so scared I lost my way . . . I didn't go t' do it . . ."

Without warning, Samuel lashed out and cracked her hard across the head; Salome toppled backwards, though it was too late to dodge.

"You didn't go t' do it? Well, in God's name - thanks for tellin' me! I thought for sure you'd bumbled about, got lost an' run into th' paws of a crazy killer weasel on purpose! Don't you 'ave any good sense, Salome? "

For several moments, neither Salome nor Samuel spoke. Salome, massaging her smarting ear with one paw, stooped over the fire's embers and pretended to fan them with the other. Samuel knew that she was fighting back tears. And it was just as well that she did - Samuel didn't want to see those tears any more than he enjoyed staring at the blood spatterings on his cloak.

Then, Samuel, after a moment of hesitation, reached over and placed a paw upon Salome's shoulder.

"Look at me, Baby Sister. I know you didn't go t' do it - nobeast but an idiot would go t' do it. I know you're no idiot. You've got good sense. I just want you t' use it. Please?"

Salome hugged herself - Samuel could see that she was still quivering a little. Wordlessly, he began to stroke his younger sister's ears.

Where in all Mossflower had that scrawny, sniggering misfortune of a creature come from? Certainly, he had been some species of vermin - though it had fallen face forward into the mud after it had been knifed, Samuel had taken a glance at the ears and tail. The creature might have been a ferret or a weasel.

For seasons now, this stretch of the Woods had been almost uninhabited. But now, for the second time in their lives, Samuel and Salome would be forced to evacuate.

About seven seasons ago, Samuel, nothing but a youngster, and Salome had evacuated for the first time -had escaped the settlement at night, when even the most fretful, restless creatures had succumbed to sleep. They had left behind scores of creatures, perishing of the Black Death; the corpses of rats, whose lives the Chief himself had taken when the plague's outbreak had been discovered; the emaciated remains of the creatures who were too badly weakened, too young and bewildered, or too afraid, to make an attempt at flight and risk being caught. The privacy of the settlement had been, to the Chief and his officials, what this spot's privacy, its stream and its fruit trees were to Samuel - only even more so.

Salome had ceased her trembling now; she seemed to have relaxed somewhat. Those big, dark eyes sought to meet Samuel's. Samuel had forgotten her, as well as the weasel and his dagger; he was staring at the wall before him, as if he was reading between the fibers of that splintered, worm-bitten wood. This was something that he did often, sometimes for hours on end . . . but this morning, Salome knew that she was the cause of it.

"Samuel?"

At the sound of her voice, Samuel came back to earth. "What do you want, Salome?"

Salome gazed up at him with eyes full of earnestness. "Th' weasel didn't do nothin' t' me, Samuel. I'm all right."

These words made Samuel feel awkward. He gave her a tiny push. "I never said there was anythin' wrong with you. Here, look behind th' cot an' get that piece o' rolled-up paper for me."

Salome had to climb over the cot and its untidy clothing of quilts, before rummaging through the heap of belongings that lay behind it. It was a meager pile, and, after just a few moments, she drew out a slender stick, about which a scroll of papyrus had been rolled up and fastened.

"What's this? Has it got some sort o' writin' on it? You ain't never told me you could read an' write."

Samuel held out his paw for the bundle. "Aye, I can read an' write a bit, but I didn't write that. Now stop meddlin' with it, you nosy little pest, and give it t' me before you tear it."

As he unfolded the script, he half-smiled, remembering the old dormouse who had sold the map to him - just days after his and Salome's arrival into Mossflower. Samuel had given the old ninny a silver brooch in exchange for food supplies, had received the map as a bonus, and, to compensate for the bonus, had listened while he slavered on about compensate him for the bonus, had listened while he had slavered on about the virtues of Redwall Abbeydwellers - their kindheartedness, the generosity they extended to any needy creature who should come grovelling at their feet; the honey-sweet sermons that dripped from the lips of their wise, benevolent, hoary-headed old Abbots and Abbesses; the heavenly food, and, greatest of all, the aura of peace and contentment that perfumed every idyllic, red sandstone corner.

Thinking of it,Samuel half-expected a mouse to drop from the sky and land before him, garbed in a green habit, and beaming angelically upon him, as he relieved the young ferret of his dagger and proceeded to lecture him on how violent and unpeaceable it had been to snuff the weasel / ferret attacker out with it. Aye - Redwall Abbey was quite the utopia - until some Cluny the Scourge or some Raga Bol stormed his way in through the gates, as villains were forever doing there, according to the old mouse. Then , most likely, all of the Redwallers ran whimpering for help - usually demanding the bravery of some warlike creature, such as Martin.

Martin son of Luke, the Warrior - woodlanders were constantly bawling songs all over the Woods about him.

But, in the center of that map lay Redwall Abbey - on paper, it was nothing but a tiny square, with a peak of a tower jutting out on top. But that tiny square towered above the nearby trees - figures that resembled forked sticks - and its walls formed a protective ring around it, like a motherly embrace.

Samuel happened to glance up, and found that Salome was peering over his shoulder. He snorted. "Salome, yore nosier than a giddy squirrel, an' you can't even read."

Salome pointed to the building. "What's that - a castle?"

Samuel folded the script once more. "Aye, somethin' like that. Look, that drizzle's startin' to let up. You might as well take that pail outside and fill it up with rainwater - on second thought, I'll do it myself."

This last remark stung Salome.

She watched as Samuel took the pail to the opening of the den. "Th' water's for you to scrub yoreself with. And dont go whingin' about how cold it is, I've no time to stand about heatin' it. When yore finished, change out of that hand-me-down tunic - yore pinafore's as raggedy as an old dishcloth, but it's likely it'll look a bit more presentable to the woodlanders."

Salome stared at him, bewildered. "Woodlanders? What woodlanders?"

"We're leavin' this place," Samuel informed her brusquely. "Well, don't just sit there with yore mouth hangin' open, an' don't start askin' me a bookful o' questions. 'Urry up, wash yoreself an' leave me some of that water."


.   TO BE CONTINUED

[belle]

All about Redwall, spring's delicate bloom had ripened to the lush green and sun-gold of summertime. Noon's sun had baked those great red sandstone walls until they had taken on a hue of scarlet; and now the Abbey, perched high upon its hill, seemed sedate as an autumn leaf against all of the greenery.

Abbess Elinor, a mouse in her middle seasons, and Sister Bethelle, the elderly quirrel Infirmary Keeper, stood together in the lawn, sunning themselves. It might be said that the two were close friends - though they were not inseparable, one would seldom find either of them socializing freely with another creature.

"Brother Aaron has fully recovered from his brandy binge, Mother Abbess," Sister Bethelle said. "That hedgehog has been drinking for seasons now, but he has managed to keep the Abbey from knowing of it. Perhaps it was his own good fortune that he made himself ill this time. The Abbey hasn't had a drunkard in its Cellars since the days of Ambrose Spike!"

The Abbess nodded her agreement. "But Friar Jerome must have known of it - he enters the Cellars for beverages. Doubtless he wished to prevent his brother from being disgraced, and, although I am deeply dissppointed in our Cellarkeeper, I will honor the Friar's wishes. But, directly after lunchtime, I will approach him privately and give him the responsibility of the Cellars until further notice!"

"Speaking of which, Mother Abbess - the sun is at its peak now. It's past time for lunch to be announced! Where on earth is Marianne?"

By straining her eyes, Abbess Elinor caught sight of the aproned, brushtailed figure, making its way across the lawn. "There she is, coming now. Look at that young maid - she's so plump that she is puffing for breath at each step. That's the trouble with the creatures of this Abbey these days, shovelling down great mountains of food and getting far too little exercise!"

Marianne, the assistant cook of the Abbey, drew near. She was, indeed, a rather chubby young squirrelmaid, with large, jovial brown eyes. Setting a tray before the Abbess, she curtsied.

"Afternoon, Mother Abbess, Sister Bethelle. Friar Jerome didn't wish t' disturb you by askin' you to come t' the table, Mother Abbess, as you were enjoyin' the sun, so he sent me with food for both of you."

The Abbess cast a glance over the contents of the tray. She sniffed with disapproval. "Apple turnovers, blackberry tartlets, raspberry jam scones and summer fruit salad. All that for afternoon tea! - and after a breakfast of oat porridge, honey scones, oat cake and apple and pear salad. We'll soon have a load of great fatbeasts scurrying about this Abbey! Now, young maid, take this tray back to the kitchens straightaway, and tell the Friar to have lunchtime formally announced, as it should be. Then ask all of the Abbey creatures to wait until I attend and say the grace, instead of rushing to cram themselves!"

"Aye, marm." As Marianne prepared to take up the tray once more, she hesitated.

"Before I go, Mother Abbess . .. well, I was thinkin' the Dibbuns might like to play outside for a bit. Mightn't I bring them out for a little picnic on the lawn?"

The Abbess stared at her for one long, frosty moment, before replying.

"I hope, Miss Marianne, that you have not forgotten Sister Jane's duties as Abbey Recorder and teacher of Abbeyschool. You will have to ask her permission before you take the liberty of dragging these Dibbuns off on frivolous outings, to ensure that they do not interfere with her schedule!"

While Friar Jerome busied himself with formally summoning the Abbeybeasts and seeing that every partly-eaten dish was abandoned immediately, in order to avoid a face-to-face chastisement from the Abbess, Marianne found Sister Jane in her library.

Though the mouse Sister had held that position for as far back as Marianne could remember, she could not have been past thirty-five seasons. Raising her eyes from the tome that she had been poring through, Sister Jane greeted Marianne with a smile.

"Good afternoon to you, Marianne. It is a pleasure to see you - since you left Abbeyschool to assist Friar Jerome, I've seen very little of you."

Marianne offered her a contrite smile. "I'm dreadfully sorry, Sister Jane, marm. Work in th' kitchens 'as turned out t' be far 'arder than I figured it would."

"There's no need to apologize - every creature in the Abbey has his or her own duties." Sister Jane laid the tome aside. "What brings you here, Marianne?"

As Marianne made her picnic request, she could not help but to allow her eyes to roam over the walls - lined with book- and scroll-stacked shelves. Maianne had always been more of an industruous young creatue, not the most studious one, and she had always hated the crowded, oppressive atmosphere of the Abbeyschool room. But the library was spacious, the air was cool as a garden's, and, sitting high upon a bookshelf, framed in cherriwood, was the Portrait of the Season: the Rose of Redwall, pale as snow, coated with bits of dew.

The sound of shuffling papers brought Marianne back to earth. She colored a little, for stifled amusement was fighting to un-stifle itself at the corners of Sister Jane's mouth. "I was saying that you may take the Dibbuns out onto the lawn, so long as they are back inside within the hour - but for a moment I feared you were no longer with us. Gazing at the picture, you looked delighted enough to have sampled a spoonful of Heaven."

Abruptly, Marianne straightened up, remembering the day's duties. "I hardly know about 'eaven, marm, but I'll get a taste of somethin' unfit to say if th' Mother Abbess comes into Cavern Hole and doesn't see me there. Thank you!"

But, as she hurried out of the chamber, she laughed to herself. Sampled a spoonful of Heaven - who knew?

Cavern Hole was packed with creatures - mice, moles, squirrels and hedgehogs. The hedgehog Cellarkeeper, Brother Aaron, the Friar Jerome's brother, sat at the far end of one table, ashen-faced, but sober.

And why would he not be? He had endured one of Abbess's Elinor's tongue-lashings - which had the power to nip the most drunken wretch into sobriety.

The Abbess herself was entering now. As she crossed over to seat herself at the head table, over which she and Johndam, Skipper of otters, presided at every meal, a hush fell over Cavern Hole - although it had been almost noiseless already.

Beneath the eagle eye of the Abbess, every fidgeting youngster became still - quite motionless; every beast who had dared to whisper a jest to his neighbor clamped his mouth shut immediately.

All Abbeybeasts knew that Abbess Elinor hated nothing more than frivolous chatter, whispering, chortling, loud talking, or noisemaking of any kind. It was an unwritten law, and few creatures were unwise enough to break it.

Abbess Elinor recited the grace ."Praise is to God Who has given us this food, providing it to us without any help or power from ourselves." She proceeded with a lecture on how Almighty God had sent food to earth, and how, seeing as the good creatures did not have the power to defend their walls from enemies without resorting to Skipper Johndam and Log-a-Log (she felt that gluttony and fatness accounted for this), they should praise God, Who Alone possessed the power to create so much as a grain of wheat.

After the Abbess had challenged them all, over and over, to produce one - just one - grain of wheat, and feed themselves, few of the Redwallers had the courage to do much more than pick over the good fare. So Friar Jerome and Marianne were only too glad to excuse themselves from the table, at last, and escort the Dibbuns out onto the lawn.

No sooner had those little creatures emerged into the sunlight, than a noisy, frolicsome baby rapture overtook the lawn. Abbeybabes scattered all about - chasing one another, holding food fights, shrieking and laughing.

The Friar Jerome sat beside a shrub, caressing his head. To Marianne, he remarked, "And th' Sister said these villains could stay out for an hour? Good Lord - I'll be lyin' in the Infirmary before then!"

Watching a little molemaid who was trying - in vain - to capture a butterfly, Marianne began to sing a verse that she had loved as a Dibbun

"A butterfly in spring

A golden-winged queen

Who seldom idle perches on a flower

"To caterpillars green

Sweet pollen-food she brings

In morn and evening hours

"Though she drifts gracefully

A butterfly, you see

Is busier than any other -

"Far more than you or me

Or the lazy droning-bee

All fat and yellow as butter!"

OOoooOOOoooO

The ferret siblings had been travelling since yesterday. Samuel had refused to rest for very long, until nightfall, when both young creatures had collapsed, sore and exhausted, and prepared for a long, uncomfortable night on that stony, rain-sodden ground. But Salome needn't have worried about the wetness of the ground - Samuel had told her to make a bed of dry leaves and lie upon it, to protect her clothes from the mud and soil. This had only added to Salome's discomfort. But , aside from their jar of drinking water, he had brought no water with which they might wash themselves. He was determined that they would not arrive at their destination wearing shabby, mud-covered clothes, and subject themselves to the pitying scrutiny of charitable woodlanders.

Salome knew that Samuel had gotten very little sleep - he had lain awake for most of the night, clutching his dagger, tensing up at every rustle or thump.

It was noontime, and the sun was not blisteringly hot, but Salome felt as if she had been lying in an oven for a good half-hour. Her throat was sand-dry - but there was no remedy for that, as the drinking jar was empty now - and her feet ached infernally. But, as she trudged along beside Samuel, she dared not voice any complaints.

So far, Samuel had said nothing to her about their destination, and she did not inquire. Samuel had warned her not to ask him "a bookful of questions."

She might well have been six seasons old again - a drowsy ferret kit, being shaken to wakefulness by her big brother in the middle of the night.

"Get up! Sit up, Salome, for God's sake! We're out o' this wreck . . . "

"But why, Big Brother? "

"Just do as I say, an' lower yore damn voice, or you'll wake

everybeast! "

Salome was jolted back to earth by the sound of Samuel's voice.

"Salome! HARRY-UP! "

It was then that she glanced up and realized that she had fallen

several feet behind Samuel. Immediately she picked up her pace, though

the heat of the sun and her own thirst did nothing to make it easier.

Samuel seized her wrist as soon as she was within reach.

"Watch where yore goin'," he gritted, " an' stay with me!"

Startled, Salome looked into his eyes, expecting to see exasperation, brought on by hours of travelling, heat, and an empty stomach. She noticed, for the first time that day, that Samuel's teeth were clenched as if he were poised to bite, and his eyes - they were twice their normal size, and stark enough to resemble those of a dead creature.

After a moment or two, Samuel rekeased Salome, and the young ferrets resumed walking in silence.

Samuel had no more trouble with Salome and lagging behind.

About an hour passed before Samuel spoke again.

"We 'aven't got much farther t' go. Try an' pick up yore feet, will you, Salome."

Samuel seemed to have calmed somewhat, although, as he addressed Salome, he did not look back at her.

Reluctantly, Salome tried to "pick up her feet" - whatever that meant. "Are we goin' t' see some woodlanders from th' military or somethin'?"

Samuel couldn't help but to smile at his younger sister. "No, they ain't from no military. These woodlanders live in an Abbey. It's a sort of missionary place, where creatures live together in a big buildin' an' act peaceful. I'm sure th' woodlanders couldn't care less about th' way you walk. I'm tellin' you t' pick up yore feet so you won't get dust all over yore pinafore an' make us look like a pair o' ragmuffins."

Salome stopped in her tracks.

"Samuel? You mean. . . we're goin' t' live in an . . ."

Samuel suddenly placed his paw upon her shoulder, stifling any further questioning.

"Look ahead of you, Baby Sister."

Salome followed his gaze.

They could see the crests of the red sandstone Abbey, rising up above the lush, lettuce-green hill-slopes that surrounded it. Slowly, the sun slid behind the Abbey's turrets, ashamed that it had lost much of its brightness, for the moment, and was nothing but a wan, pallid yellow disc. Before long, it would appear once more, and would repeat its descent two or three times that day, before hiding itself, for the last time, behind a cloud and waiting for duskfall. Now that the brightness of the sun had faded, the ruddiness of the sandstone had also faded. All of the Abbey took on a soft, dusty, rose-like shade of pink.

.      TO BE CONTINUED

[belle]

Standing outside of the Abbey's gates, Salome gazed upon the great red sandstone fortress - it surpassed the hugest oaks in height, and was completely unrivalled in size.

"Look, Samuel," she whispered. "It's . . . it's like a palace."

As if reading her mind, Samuel gently flicked her ear. "Stop gawkin', Salome!" he chided. "This ain't no palace, an' it ain't no rompin' grounds. This is an Abbey - a missionary place, full o' woodlanders! Don't come in 'ere an' start actin' a fool, you 'ear me? Look, I think somebeast's comin' past th' gates."

It was the Skipper - for he had heard the slamming of Samuel's stick against the gate, and was now approaching, armed with a loaded sling, so that he could see what was causing the racket. Upon sighting the two ferrets, Skipper slowed his step, until he was moving at a more deliberate pace.

Drawing nearer, he removed his sling from his shoulder. His manner of addressing the newcomers was rather terse, to put it mildly.

"Well, ye didn't come lambastin' our gates like that with no cause. Where've you come from, young 'uns, and wot do you want here? I ain't never seen no vermin about this part of the Woods 'till today."

Samuel might have spoken with courtesy, but being referred to as a "young 'un" had set him to bristling. Even from the other side of the gate, he could see that the Skipper stood several heads taller than him, and his sling, well-loaded with stones, had not been forgotten. But Samuel drew himself upright, like a soldier standing before an officer, and matched Skipper Johndam's stare.

"Well, we were born in Mossflower, sure enough - though we don't particularly make ourselves th' business of all in th' Woods. We live private, see!"

Salome frowned. Born in Mossflower? What on earth was Samuel talking about? But Samuel shot her a look, warning her to keep her mouth shut, and she did so.

Salome saw that the Skipper's jaw tautened. The sling began to swing, to and fro, aided by the weight of the stones.

Salome fumbled about until her paw found Samuel's, and she clutched it tightly, inwardly praying that he wouldn't go for his dagger, which would be useless in this situation anyhow.

"Live private, eh? Then wot exactly is yore business 'ere at Redwall?"

"What in all of Mossflower is going on here? Skipper, who are these two creatures?"

A female mouse strode up from behind the Skipper. Seeing as she was far shorter than Skipper Johndam, and was standing, it could be said, in his shadow, Salome had to rise on tiptoe to get a good look at her.

The mouse was not stately (even by mouse standards), and was quite slender, garbed in a habit made of some soft, pale green fabric. She possessed a rigid, austere-looking face, and when she saw the newcomers, she pursed her lips. Salome felt certain that the mouse was not unused to wearing this unpleasant expression.

"I am Elinor, the Abbess of Redwall. Who are you two and why are you standing here, shouting back and forth with Skipper Johndam? "

Samuel gave Salome's ear another gentle flick, reminding her to stop gawking. (Samuel couldn't stand it when Salome gawked; he found it embarrassing, and the fact that they were in the presence of woodlanders made it even more intolerable.) Then, stepping forward, he made an attempt at a formal bow - and, despite her apprehension, it was difficult for Salome to suppress her laughter and keep a straight face.

"Good afternoon to you, Miz Elinor. I'm Samuel, an' there's my sister, Salome."

The Abbess stared at the young ferrets for one long moment. At length, she returned the bow.

"You must call me Mother Abbess, Master Samuel. Have you come to our Abbey seeking food, healing or shelter?"

Glancing down at himself, Samuel figured that he and Salome did look bedraggled and beggarly - haply it would have been better to allow Salome to wear the hand-me-down tunic after all; at least it was still in one piece.

"Aye, marm - I suppose you could say that."

The Abbess folded her paws in a no-nonsense manner. "You suppose that I could say that? Please, Master Samuel, tell me what you wish for, and speak directly!"

Samuel shrugged. "Only t' stay at th' Abbey, for a while at least."

Skipper Johndam began to toy with his sling again. "But you told me you an' yore sister 'live privately.' What made you leave yore place, then? "

Samuel looked straight at him and lied with a stoic face. "Th' storm wrecked our den yesterday. Never was a good one. Are we welcome 'ere, Mother Abbess marm?"

Abbess Elinor pursed her lips again. "Skipper, open the gates!"

Skipper J. obeyed. As the ferret siblings entered, he spied Samuel's dagger, peering out of his tunic pocket. His paw shot out and seized the blade.

Instinctively, Samuel flinched; Salome saw that his paws were clenched. Then, he seemed to remember that he was in the presence of a woodlander Abbess, and forced himself to remain calm.

"I'll keep this with me. The creatures in Redwall Abbey are peaceful; there's no need t' bring a weapon!"

But Abbess Elinor, after carefully scrutinizing the dagger, reversed the decision. "Return it to him, Skipper Johndam. There's very little that he could do with a dagger, if he wished to."

Samuel opened his mouth to thank her, but the Abbess plunged into a sermon about peace, kindness and not harming others. After fifteen minutes, Salome began to doze off a little, but Samuel kept her awake with sharp nudges and murderous looks.

At last, Abbess Elinor assumed, quite correctly, that the guests were hungry, and she directed them to where Friar Jerome and Marianne were supervising the Dibbuns, who were all clustered around a picnic blanket. Most of the little creatures had ceased their activities, and were now gawking - as Dibbuns will - at the newcomers.

"Seeing as the gluttonous, impatient creatures who are my Abbeybeasts began eating lunch before it could be announced, I fear there will be very little food left in Cavern Hole," the Abbess informed them coolly "But I'm certain that Friar Jerome will prepare something for you."

While the Friar was preparing to escort the ferrets to Cavern Hole,Marianne took charge of the staring Dibbuns up. "Come along, you lot - you've an extra half-hour to play outside, there's no need to waste it by bein' nosy!"

Because the Abbess was present, the Dibbuns had no choice but to obey, with great reluctance.

Salome and Samuel had never entered a room that was huger than this Cavern Hole - or any building, for that matter, including Chief's manse, back in the settlement. Mice in green habits, hedgehogs, a handful of moles and squirrels, a large number of otters (who occupied a special corner of Cavern Hole) - creatures crowded every one of those immense oaken tables, eating scones, cakes and pastries that looked as if they were fit for a ducal house.

Well, actually, it could hardly be described as eating. Most of the woodlanders were picking and prodding at the food on their plates, as if they dared not eat it. Every beast seemed to be hanging his or her head, staring at the floor. The Abbeydwellers were all silent, only speaking when a platter or a jug must be passed.

"Excuse me, miss; please pass the October Ale."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you."

There was no lively chatter. No jokes were exchanged, and nobeast was singing or humming.

One unfortunate hogmaid belched aloud. She cried, "Beg your pardon!" and glanced up, fearing that the Abbess would be standing in the doorway, armed with a sermon about table etiquettes. It was then that she - and all of the creatures in Cavern Hole - saw the two ferrets.

Spoons, forks and mugs were set aside, and, for several moments, the Abbeybeasts only stared, just as the Dibbuns had.

Abbess Elinor cast a look of withering scorn over her creatures.

"This is Samuel, and this is Salome; they will be spending a few days at the Abbey. It is high time that all of you returned to your daily tasks; you have eaten more than enough. Work will help you to shed the weight that your gluttony has, most likely, caused you to gain!"

Salome was beginning to understand why these Abbeybeasts seemed to have no appetite.

Before long, Cavern Hole was empty. Salome and Samuel seated themselves, and Friar Jerome heaped two plates with excellent food, which I will not describe for fear of annoying the Abbess.

Salome accepted her dish, and remembered to say "Thank you." Samuel accepted his, as well, though it was obvious that he had no desire to eat, despite the fact that his stomach had been empty for hours now.

"Wait a moment, missie!" the Abbess snapped, just as Salome picked up her fork. "You must say the grace before you begin eating."

Salome blinked, bemused. "Th' grace?"

Samuel closed his eyes, determined not to lose patience before the eyes of the woodlanders.

"Aye, th' grace, Salome - th' prayer you say before you eat. I taught you one. Do you remember it?"

Salome gave a self-acquitting shrug. "Oh, that. It was a pretty-soundin' piece, but 'ow was I t' know I should remember it? You taught it t' me seven seasons ago!"

Abbess Elinor's eyes widened, and Samuel cringed. Had it been that long ago?

"Seven seasons ago! What sort of upbringing have you received, missie? Do you know who God is?"

"'Course I know who God is!" Salome retorted, indignant. "I ain't so green."

The Abbess pursed her lips, for the third time since the ferrets' arrival. "No, missie, you are not green. The earth, which God spread out for you, is green. The trees in heaven, which awaits the good creatures, are green. That salad, which you are preparing to tear into, is green." Salome glanced down at her plate. "How could you neglect to thank Him before you begin to eat what He has provided for you?"

Salome shrugged again. "Always figured I was showin' 'ow thankful I was for th' food when I ate it all, Miz Elinor - I mean, Mother Abbess, marm."

Samuel slumped forward and rested his head on the edge of the table.

Abbess Elinor rose. "Eat quickly then. I must find Sister Jane, our Recorder. You are an ignorant, unfortunate young creature, and something must be done about this, immediately! Master Samuel, when you have finished, please assist Friar Jerome in the kitchens. A good Redwaller must always be of assistance to his fellow Abbeycreatures!"

With that, she marched out of Cavern Hole.

When the Abbess was gone, the Friar looked up from the dishes that he was gathering. He smiled at the guests.

"Learn yore prayers, mind yore manners an' eat little, an' you an' th' Abbess'll get along just fine. 'Ow old are you, Miz Salome?"

Salome polished off a wedge of nutbread. She hesitated at first, but, in the end, she returned the smile.

"About twelve seasons, Friar - or thirteen seasons at th'most."

Friar Jerome shook his head in disapproval. " 'About twelve seasons, Friar, or thirteen seasons at th'most'? Every young creature should know 'is or 'er age - there ain't no excuse for you! Me, I'm growin' so old an' fat there's no use tryin' t' keep track o' th' seasons! You - Master Samuel, stop slouchin' an' sit up straight. How old is yore sister?"

Samuel obeyed, smiling now, in spite of himself. "Salome's twelve seasons old now, sir; thirteen in autumn."

Friar Jerome came over to refill Salome's plate. "She eats like a creature o' thirteen seasons, t' be certain! My assistant, th' squirrelmaid Marianne, is around yore age, Miz Salome. Mayhap she'd like t' 'elp you with learnin' yore prayers. Can ye read an' write?"

Salome shrugged. "Can't read much, sir. I know all o' my letters, an' I can write my name an' Samuel's."

A flicker of sympathy crossed the hedgehog Friar's face, but he erased it quickly. He reached over and ruffled her ears. It was the first time that Salome had ever been touched by a creatue that resembled a ball of spikes; she had almost expected that he would prickle her. "Read, read an' read some more, missie - you'll be clever before ye know it!"

Salome made such a face that Friar Jerome broke into a smile. "Miz Marianne's just like you. A sharp little creature, but th' elders 'ad t' all but shackle her to an Abbeyschool bench t' get 'er t' learn basic readin', writin' an' figurin'. After that, she came t' th' kitchens to assist me. Ah, I s'pose young beasts are all alike, wherever ye find 'em!" He began to load the dishes into a trolley. "Don't toy with those vittles, Master Samuel. Finish 'eatin' an' come 'elp me in th' kitchen quarters."

Salome looked at Samuel. She could tell that he still wasn't overly eager to eat, and was even less enthusiastic about the chores. But he did as he was told.

Not long afterwards, Abbess Elinor returned, accompanied by Sister Jane, the Recorder and Librarian of Redwall.

Unlike the Abbess, Sister Jane was a tall female mouse, with clear, fawn-brown eyes. Salome gazed up into her face, and bashfulness overcame her. She was the most dignified-looking creature that Salome had ever seen - but then, considering that the only other "dignified personage" that she had ever seen(besides Abbess Elinor) was the Chief of her settlement, perhaps that was not saying much. But I digress.

Sister Jane seated herself. She dusted off an old tome that she had brought.

"The Abbess has told me that you know who God is, Salome. This is very good."

Salome shrugged. "Everybeast knows who God is. I mean, He's th' one wot put you on th' earth - an' yore mamma's th' one wot can take you out."

Amusement twinkled in the Sister's brown eyes, though Salome scarcely knew why. "You are right - God created every living thing. Where is God?"

Salome fidgeted in her seat.

"Well, I s'pose he's all th' way up there, watchin' over all of us, and writin' down who he's goin' t' send t' 'ellgates next.''

The Abbess stared severely across her spectacles. "'Tis only the bad creatures who go to Hellgates, young missy. If you behave yourself and follow the Abbey rules, perhaps you'll enter heaven. Do you understand?"

"Aye, Mother Abbess marm." Aye, heaven. Heaven was the nice place where you danced and sang and had all the cake and plum pudding you wished. You drank wine, as well, but this wine didn't make you drunk, because God didn't want you to be drunk.

In any case, with or without the cake and wine, heaven had to be far better than this Abbey, which was full of delicious food and drinks - and gloomy-faced, silent creatures who couldn't even enjoy it.

You only got into heaven if you were good.

Sister Jane opened the tome, slowly moving through the pages. 'Can you see God?"

Salome pondered for a bit.

"I s'pose I can't see him 'cos he's all th' way up there, but I allus fancied him as an old, wise sort of badger type with a long, grey beard . . ."

The Abbess closed her eyes and took a deep breath, though Salomescarcely understood why.

"Calm down, Mother Abbess." Sister Jane was a gentle creature, and she spoke placatingly. 'She's only a little maid. She doesn't know better.''

God, Salome soon learned, was no badger – or any type of creature. He was a – yoo-neek being. Salome had to ask Samuel about that "unique" word – she liked the sound of it. And it sounded pretty in Sister Jane's low, clear voice.

"And you know who the devil is, don't you?"

"I reckon that'd be Vulpuz, 'cos he's th' king o' Hellgates."

The Abbess repeated the deep-breathing exercise.

Sister Jane proceeded gently. "No, no, I mean the one who whispers to us and tells us to do bad things."

Salome toyed with her claws. "Well, I don't s'pose I'd know who that 'un is, only if I did, I'd give him th' ode of his life for th' trouble he's allus gettin' me into."

"We cannot blame our actions on the devil, Salome. He only tells us to do things – he doesn't force us to do them. If I told you to go and rob an old mousewife walking alone along the road, would you?"

She continued fiddling with her claws. "Well . . . mayhap not, if'n you just told me to like that. 'Twouldn't look right t' me. But if'n you came up close an' whispered, 'Lookit that old widow, piddlin' along th' road like that! An' all alone, too! She mustn't care much for her money. Lookit that pretty purse! a right fat one – full o' coins. That 'un's a richbeast! All you've got t' do is rush her, snatch it and run. There ain't any guards about t' stop you, and she oughter know better'n t' walk by herself on an unguarded street. Think of all th' mess you could buy!' – if it were like that, marm –if it were like that . . . I reckon I'd have a right 'ard time refusin'.''

At last, the Abbess rose from her seat. "I cannot tolerate this impudence any longer!"



.        TO BE CONTINUED

[belle]

Thus, Salome found herself in the kitchens - which might have been a pleasure, if not for the fact that she was clad in an overlarge smock, and standing over a mountainous heap of dishes.

Friar Jerome passed her a dishcloth, foamy with lathered soap. "You'd best 'urry with those dishes, Miz Salome, before evening comes. Haply this will teach you not to be saucy."

Salome made as if to protest - she wasn't to blame for admitting that she' wouldn't refuse a purse full of coins if an old mousewife didn't care for it enough to conceal it - but Samuel, working on the Friar's left, shot her a warning look.

Hellgates! Samuel did not know what she had done to irritate the Mother Abbess, but he would guess - and if she didn't keep her mouth shut, he would tear a strip off her as soon as they were out of the kitchens.

So, with a huge sigh of resignation, Salome took the dishcloth and went over to join the Friar's assistant, the squirrelmaid Marianne, at the dishbasin.

Only once had Salome come within six feet of a woodlander, before this day - and that had been six or seven seasons ago, when she and Samuel had first arrived in Mossflower, and had eaten in the home of a garrulous old dormouse. Salome had heard that squirrels were skilked tree-climbers, but this Marianne was so plump that Salome doubted she could be talented at leaping and swinging from branches. The frock she wore was a bright, sunny yellow color, defying the monotony of kitchenwork, and, although she said very little to the two ferrets, her brown eyes seemed to sparkle with merry words and unshared jests.

After a bit, Marianne began to sing. For Salome, the verse was a bit prosey, but very pretty all the same.

From the Northlands, from the Northlands, through the mists of colder lands

Comes the son of Luke to green sunlit Mossflower

And his austere, warlike heart the welcome smiles of gentle friends

And the sunlight warm at our most needful hour./em

For the shadow, Kotir's shadow, flaunting slavery and death -

Flaunting as its gems two ruthless emerald eyes

Vows to darken, vows to smother Mossflower's own two brightest lights -

Its sunshine, and the flame of bravery, which should never die.

But in Martin's heart it will reside - it must reside forever!

Come, hero! did it not defy the wind?

The cold, frost-laden wind beneath which Laterose withered, perished -

The Rose the warrior turned too Late from vengeance to defend.

The Warrior stands, grief-goaded - he knows the chill of evil

The flame of vengeance, love's sunshine, and bravery clash within

But bravery and sunshine - they overcome the fire

And we have no Warrior, but one God to praise for this good end.

And leaving our green sunlit woods after he helped to free them

Retires into the land of sunny slopes and quiet streams

But still Luke's son looks over us through the softer mists of time -

And oh! His smile is light enough to brighten all our dreams

"That's a lovely tune," Salome remarked softly, rinsing the last of the soapsuds from a tankard. " That part where th' flower withered up an' died - it sounded a bit silly, but sad at the same time."

Marianne glanced up, as if startled at her speaking. Then she laughed aloud - breaking (much to the ferret siblings' relief) the silence in the room.

"You ninny, Laterose o' Noonvale was a livin' creature!"

Salome wrinkled her snout. "Laterose o' Noonvale? Who in 'ellgates would go about with that sort o' name? It's awful!"

"You mind yore language, missy," the hedgehog Friar rebuked her, but not fiercely. His eyes had a faraway look about them. "Laterose was the daughter of Urran Voh, leader o' Noonvale. 'Twas a pretty little place, not unlike our Abbey – quiet, peaceful an' 'appy."

At this, Samuel made a little snorting sound, though Salome hardly knew why.

The Friar went on as if he had not heard.

'Our Martin th' Warrior loved that mousemaid more'n anyone in th' world. She got her father t' let her go off with him while he was in a battle . . . an' she died in it."

"An' I don't suppose her dear Martin was Warrior enough to look after her," Samuel grated, startling his sister. "Called 'imself brave - the lily-livered coward!"

The Friar, snapped out of his reverie, turned upon him, puffing angrily like a fat, flustered old hogwife. ''You just watch yoreself, varmint. Our Martin wasn't no lily-livered coward. He looked after Miz Laterose as well as he could. 'Twas she wot decided to go dashin' out – brave an' reckless – with scarcely any experience in war, and got killed. Now, seein' as yore finished with th' dishes, you can take down that set o' tin pots and polish 'em!"

Samuel trudged unhappily off to his new task, grumbling something about free speech.

There was no more mention of Laterose or Martin till dinnertime.

OOOoooooooOOOoooo

Cavern Hole was filled with tablefuls of the famous Redwall fare, which I will not describe for fear of annoying the Abbess, who was still feeling a bit irritable.

She said the grace, which Salome found pretty although she understood just about half of it – it was all about thanking God and how God had given them the food and how they were powerless to bring food to themselves, so they should just shut up and be grateful instead of always complaining about the vegetables and herbs that didn't agree with them – or had that last been part of the sermon? Salome could scarcely tell.

At last, the meal began. Marianne was fortunate enough to be absent - as the Friar's assistant, she was allowed to eat in the kitchens with him. Once again, Cavern Hole was completely silent; the Abbeybeasts cowered beneath the frosty, contemptuous stares of the Abbess Elinor. Every creature, as he dined, was careful not to heap too much food onto his fork, or eat with too great a display of relish - anything to avoid the Abbess's wrath.

The only creatures, besides Salome, who were showing no restraint in eating were the Dibbuns. Earlier, the Friar had approached the Abbess for permission to hold a summer feast, and had been sent away, hanging his head as if he was a chastened Dibbun himself. The Abbeybabes dared to give out a few whimpers about a summer feast, but the Skipper silenced them with one gruff bark. So, the little creatures comforted themselves by shoveling down vegetable pasties, salad and mushroom soup, all the while trying not to notice the head-shaking and tut-tutting of the Abbess.

When the meal had been finished, the Abbeybeasts rose and dispersed, as silently as they had entered. All youngsters older than five seasons were put to work tidying Cavern Hole, under Marianne's supervision.

"No need t' empty th' platters an' pots out," Marianne told Salome, who was clearing leftovers from the tables. "Th' Friar'll lay out supper in a few hours - but that's mostly for the creatures who might've missed dinner. Any other beast who attends'll likely get a dirty look from Abbess Elinor."

"Well, why doesn't she just tell everybeast that's eaten already t' keep away?" Salome commented.

Marianne shrugged. "Supper is an Abbey tradition."

After this, the uneasy silence held sway once more, until the young maids headed for the kitchens, pushing food-laden trolleys before them.

As they drew near the culinary quarters, however, they halted - for they caught the sound of voices being raised. It seemed that the Friar and his brother, Aaron, were having a fine squabble.

"Aw, just give me one flask an' I'll keep t' strawberry cordial for th' rest of th' season, Jerome." It was Brother Aaron's voice - a high-pitched, piteous drawl, which sounded even more high-pitched as it rose onto a note of imploring. "I told ye a dozen times, that night I spent in the Infirmary's made a new creature out o' me. Listen, if you ever see me totterin' about drunk again, ye can declare me Outcast!"

Marianne whispered to Salome, "Brother Aaron's th' Abbey Cellarkeeper - he's in charge o' makin' drinks. Th' Abbess learned yesterday that he's been guzzlin' brandy an' gettin' himself drunk for seasons now. She's put him on probation!"

Salome's ears perked up. "Probation," she repeated. A nice, clever-sounding word. "What's probation, Marianne?"

"It means he's forbidden t' go back into th' Cellars till th' Abbess sees fit t' let him. Th' Friar's in charge of them for now!"

Salome had never gotten drunk before, but the vermin back in her settlement had done it all the time. It had never occurred to her that a creature could be punished for getting drunk. What was the point of being in charge of a Cellarful of delicious drinks if you couldn't enjoy them as you pleased?

". . . Ye ought've been declared Outcast seasons ago!" Friar Jerome was almost shouting. "Let th' Abbess tell me yore leavin' this Abbey any day now, Aaron - I'll dance a jig! 'C'mon, I'm a new creature,' ye say - you've been singin' that tune since th' day I caught ye sittin' about in th' Cellars, with a keg o' brandy an' a great big drinking ladle! Get out o' my sight, or I'll give ye a good reason t' return to th' Infirmary!"

"Aye, an' I wouldn't be surprised if ye did it. So long as I'm in disgrace with th' Abbess, ye've got the Cellars all to yoreself, ye needle-hided, throne-'opping varmint! Stick t' wot ye know best - stumping about kitchens, sweatin' over pots an' pans, an' growin' fat!"

"Stick t' wot I know best, eh? I'll give ye wot I know best! Ye spend all hours o' th' day gulpin' down th' food I toiled over an' now ye come sourin' up my kitchen air with th' stench o' yore breath - shoutin' about stickin' to wot I know best! If you know wot's best for you, ye shriveled-up, ale-watered weed, you'll tote yoreself out o' here, else I just might keep my word about the Infirmary! "

The two young maids retreated to Cavern Hole - for now, even Salome had no desire to hear anymore. Marianne shook her head.

"Good Lord - now even th' Friar's in a foul mood!"

"God in 'eaven!" Salome kept her voice low, so that it wouldn't carry over into the kitchens. "I thought you woodlanders were peaceful creatures, an' didn't believe in fightin' an' name-callin'. Friar Jerome seemed like a nice sort, when he first talked t' me."

"Friar Jerome is a nice creature!" Marianne retorted, with just a hint of indignation. "He's th' nicest, most kind-'earted creature you'll ever meet. He 'as his bad days, like everybeast . . . All right, he does quarrel with Brother Aaron. They fell out about his drinkin' 'abits every evenin' before th' Abbess caught him, an' they're likely t' keep fallin' out every evenin', as long as Brother Aaron's set on tryin' t' get some brandy from Friar Jerome. An' you might as well get used to it, Salome, 'cos you'll be 'earin' their yellin' every night. They're never very quiet - if th' Abbess 'ad walked to th' end of Cavern Hole any evenin' an' listened, she'd 'ave 'eard their shoutin' and name-callin' an' learned about Brother Aaron seasons ago."

After a pause, Marianne added, in a small voice, "Abbess Elinor's never . . . she's never paid much mind t' things like that, though."

OOOooooooOOooooo

Later that evening, the guilty few who attended supper were not made to feel quite so guilty after all. As it turned out, Abbess Elinor had an announcement, for which she summoned all of the Abbeybeasts (excluding the Dibbuns). Of course, Salome was there, helping Marianne to set the tables. As the creatures seated themselves, anybeast who wished to could snatch a morsel or two from the supper platters, and this misdemeanor went unnoticed.

Rising from her chair, the Abbess proclaimed, "Creatures of Redwall, I give you permission to prepare a summer feast!"

Salome, who was carrying a bread platter, came close to dropping it. She exchanged a look with Marianne - by now, both young maids knew better than to cheer, squeal, or leap about in the presence of the Abbess. But Marianne's eyes twinkled, and Salome realized that she had heard Abbess Elinor correctly.

A summer feast - in Redwall Abbey!

They scarcely heard the Abbess's speech on how she would not have allowed this nonsensical frivolity at all, but for a certain Friar who had nagged her repeatedly about the subject, and who had behaved, in her opinion, like an antsy Dibbun; nor did they tarry behind to hear the rest. As soon as all of the leftovers had been laid out, Marianne excused herself and took flight, and Salome dashed after her.

"Ooh, Marianne," she breathed, "a feast! What's a summer feast like? Will we 'ave a load of games t' play? Will there be contests, like th' ones I 'eard about? Will there be lots o' food? Will th' Abbess let us eat any of it?"

The squirrelmaid laughed aloud. "Of course we'll 'ave food, an' of course th' Abbess will let us eat! You talk like somebeast 'as been starvin' you!"

Salome made a gesture of impatience. "You know what I mean, for God's sake!"

"Hush! Th' Abbess'll 'ear you an' set you t' scrubbin' floors. Wait till we're in th' chamber!"

Samuel had already retired to the bedchamber that he would share with Salome. He was sitting upon the edge of his new mattress, admiring the cool, white linen sheets, when the door swung inward and Salome and Marianne burst into the room. The young creatures scrambled up onto the other bed, joined paws and began to bounce up and down, scattering quilts and headcushions everywhere.

"We're goin' t' 'ave a summer feast! We're goin' t' 'ave a summer feast! We're goin' t' 'ave a summer feast! We're goin' t' 'ave a summer feast!"

Samuel glanced from face to face. "Summer feast? What in all of Mossflower are you two yellin' about? Stop it - yore wreckin' th' room!"

Marianne pulled away and jumped down from the bed, breathless and giggling. Samuel had been inside of this Abbey for hours now, and this was the second time he had heard any creature laughing aloud. "Oh, heavens! Supper must be almost over, I've got t' go an' 'elp Friar Jerome tidy up or th' Abbess'll come after me. See you in th' mornin'!"

Within seconds, she was gone. Salome clutched her older brother excitedly.

"They're goin' t' 'ave a feast, Samuel! A summer feast, like th' ones that dormouse told us about!"

Samuel hugged back a little, smiling at his sister's eagerness, before moving her off. He watched as she nestled her cheek against a plump, downy-filled headcushion.

"Are you goin' t' stand there all night playin' with the pillow or are you goin' t' sleep with it?"

Salome chucked the headcushion at him. "You never want t' 'ave a bit o' fun, Samuel."

Samel fired the pillow back at her. "If sittin' up all night an' not wakin' up till noon tomorrow sounds like fun t' you, go ahead. Then th' Abbess can tear you t' pieces with those dirty looks of hers an' a speech about laziness!"

At the mention of the Abbess, Salome remembered the question that she had intended to ask Samuel.

"Samuel? What does yoo-neek mean?"

Samuel gave her an odd look. "'Unique'? If somethin's unique, it's special - like nothin' else in th' world. Why?"

Salome came to sit beside him. "Oh, so that's what it meant. Now I know why th' Abbess got all mad at me when I -" She cut herself off, realizing that she had blundered. If she had clapped a paw over her mouth, she couldn't have looked guiltier.

Oh, Hellgates, Samuel thought. " 'When you' what, Salome?"

Salome squirmed a bit. "Don't start shoutin' at me, Samuel. Th' Abbess asked me if I could see God, an' I told her what I figured 'e looked like.''

"Salome, what in Hellgates . . .? "

"It ain't my fault I thought o' him as an old badger in th' sky with a beard. I was fair mortificated."

Samuel was thrown into utter confusion.

"You thought o' him as . . . what? An' . . . mortificated?"

"Aye - mortificated. That's 'ow th' Mother Abbess said she'd feel if any of her creatures was as ignorant as me. Nice word, eh?" There was a note of pride in Salome's voice, which Samuel promptly crushed.

"It's mortified, Salome. Not mortificated. An' right now, I'm probably th' most mortified creature in all o' Mossflower!" Salome flinched. "Seriously, Salome! A badger in th' sky? I'm sure I taught you better'n that!"

Salome blinked at him. "But I don't remember you teachin' me anythin' about God - except for that bit of a prayer you taught me when I was a kit."

It was Samuel's turn to cringe, as he realized that Salome was right - he had never taught her much in the way of religious lore.

He had never tried to teach her to read or write, either. He was just barely literate himself. Samuel could never have imagined his sister, a little ferretmaid, growing up to be some taut-faced, habit-wearing, prayer-chanting creature - he snickered at the thought - and he had never expected her to become as clever as any bookwormish woodlander youngster, either. But, even back in the settlement, he had always been vaguely aware of the fact that most of the other little ferrets, weasels and stoats were ahead of Salome in many ways. Samuel had always figured that his baby sister was just a bit "slow."

On one occasion, Samuel had read a story to little Salome, about a powerful badger king and an evil stoat. And every night, for seasons afterwards, Salome would besiege Samuel just as he was preparing for bed, and beg him to read that story again. As far as Samuel could remember, he never did so, but this had not discouraged Salome in the least.

And then, when she was six seasons old, they had fled from the settlement, and had left all books behind.

Now Samuel began to wonder. if he was to blame for Salome's "slowness." He had never, ever wanted his sister to be slow . . .

"Samuel?" Salome nudged him. "Samuel? Are you mad?"

Samuel flicked a quilt at her. "Why would I be mad? Shut yore silly little trap an' let me go t' sleep. I'm right worn out from 'avin' t' scrub tose confounded pots. You can box my ears if'n you ever hear me talkin' about their Martin th' Warrior again!"

Salome fell asleep long before Samuel did. Sitting upon the edge of the bed, Samuel reached over and stroked the young ferretmaid's head.

In about a season, Salome would be the age that Luzi had been when she passed.

And Luzi would have been a young adult ferret, within a few seasons; but the death of her father - the only parent she had known, and one of the plague's earliest victims - had left her with a perpetual, child-like bewilderment in her eyes.

Her intuition had belied those eyes, however, for she had seemed to sense that Samuel was planning to flee, with Salome, and only waited for the first opportunity. And she had sensed that he would urge her to flee with them.

"Don't go now, Samuel," she would say, unexpectedly. "Don'ttry an' run off now. Wait for me."

Ad, like a little fool, he had waited. Samuel uttered a mirthless laugh. Like the oaf he was, he had sat about, watching bump after ink-black bump appear beneath her fur, had watched her grow thin and haggard. How long had Samuel obeyed her and sat waiting, like a dimwitted dog waiting for its walk? Of course, till the day he had entered her den and found fleas forming hills over her corpse, and, beneath her headcushion, a scroll of papyrus that, upon being unfolded, read:

Luzi, wrap the ring in this letter and leave it beside your cot for me. He'll have no need of it, sitting around here until he dies. Then, you must wait. Within days, I'll have found a safe place for us, and I'll send for you and take you out of this sick-pit.

Signed, Jamar

It was then that Samuel had remembered the weasel Jamar, who had vanished some days ago and whom he had assumed was dead. He also remembered that the Chief had announced the disappearanc e of a ruby ring only weeks before; but, other than to wonder how a creature could make a broadcast of a ring while beasts were dying, he had thought little of it.

Then Samuel had retreated to his den, and, hours later, found a flea bite on his wrist. That was the night that he had fled with Salome.

Samuel shifted the sleeping Salome, so that he could pull the edge of the blanket from beneath her. Huh, "don't go now - wait for me." If they had "waited" any longer, the only "safe place" they would have had was a cozy berth in Dark Forest.

[belle]

Although Salome had seldom ever been timely about retiring to bed, and had never been an early riser, the excitement of the past night had changed this. An hour before dawn, the young ferret-maid was up and roaming - glad to be free to explore the colossal Abbey without being obliged to hear a sermon at every corner.

Having listened to Abbess Elinor taking on about Great Hall, Salome had pictured a stuffy, noiseless, library-like chamber, liberally decorated with book-weighted shelves and scholarly, stern-faced mice in flowing green habits.

As Salome entered, a cool draft met her face, as refreshing as a splash of water - all remaining drowsiness vanished, and, of a sudden, she experienced a sort of exhilaration, not unlike the feeling of a creature wandering through an orchard. And when she laid her eyes upon the tapestry, she knew that this visit had not disappointed her.

The mouse could not be very young - for maturity teemed his height and build - and, though the strokes of the dye-brush had captured the pristine, starlike light of his blade, its shine seemed to be casting a weird pallor across his face, as was not unusual in knightly portraits.

But in those dark, grey-tinted eyes, there still lingered a fresh juvenal luster. This tapestry must have been woven centuries upon centuries ago - but Salome swore to herself that the luster of those eyes would never grow stale.

"He's either a knight or a prince," she said aloud, but softly. "No way That creature could be real. I don't have no need of readin' - God's name!" (This was said even more softly, for fear that Abbess Elinor was lurking about, unseen, ready to chastise her for it.) "God's name! Thi is as good as any fairy tale!"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Out in the orchard, it seemed as if Nature itself had strewn out ornaments for the festive day: every treebranch was weighted with lush, dew-diamond encrusted greenery, and clustered with handkerchief-white and blush-colored blooms; tiny, unripe apples, and ruby-red cherries, peered out frombetween the leaves, like the faces of babes beneath bonnets.

In the shade of those trees, white-clothed tables had been laid out. The Abbess had prepared a strict seating arrangement; elders were seated at this table, youngsters at that table, Dibbuns at another table, and so on. The creatures were not to leave their respective tables or mingle with those of other tables, until she had spoken the grace. Though it was nearly noontime, because the festive preparations had kept the Abbeycreatures occupied, they now sat about, eating a late breakfast. They were all silent; if anything, the importance of the day and the rarity of the occasion had made them all more solemn and decorous than ever.

The Abbess (at the head of one of the elders' tables) regarded the breakfasting creatures as if they were squandering valuable time - and valuable food supplies - by taking a meal although they would soon be feasting. At last, when every bowl of gluttony had been emptied, every shameful cup drained, and every fork and spoon laid aside, the Abbess rose to speak the grace. Salome could not help but to feel impressed, even a little moved, by the Abbess's words - she went on about the simple, colorful jewels of fruit; the sweet silver of dawn mist; the humble gold of summer sunshine; and prayed that these would remain the only precious things that Redwall Abbey ever needed.

Then, as Salome had anticipated, she began to exhort all of the creatures to avoid excessive gluttony, to show their appreciation to the Friar who had borne the brunt of the toil in the kitchens, who endured this unending task, day and night, only to see the fruits of his labor vanish before the insatiable appetites of inconsiderate, thoughtless creatures.

By the time that good mouse had concluded her feast day sermon, every beast present had bowed a chastened head. In the silence, Marianne excused herself from the youngsters' table and went to assist the Friar. Soon, trolleyfuls of wonderful fare which I will not describe were making their way between the tables.

Salome retreated to a corner of a quieter table, mostly occupied by some of the oldest Abbeybeasts, and enjoyed a bowl of mixed-fruit trifle. After all, there was very little else to do.

After a bit, Marianne wandered over and seated herself across the table from the ferret-maid, with her trifle.

Both were quiet as they spooned their dessert.

"Why d'you look so queer in th' face?" Marianne inquired of Salome.

'I ain't queer in th' face.''

'Yes, you are. I ain't blind.''

'No, I reckon you can see." Salome gave a little smile, and prodded at the trifle with her spoon.

'That mouse creature – th' one in th' big pretty picture, holdin' th' lovely sword with the rich-lookin' hilt stone. That's one big, pretty red stone! So I figgered as he must be a richbeast to go around wavin' about blades like that. Th' Abbess she got bristled up and she told me that creature was yore Martin th' Warrior an' he wasn't no richbeast, he was a warrior. She started slaverin' some fairy tales about metal from a star an' a big Badger King. It all sounded a bit off, an' so I reckoned I'd go find this Martin th' Warrior an' ask him myself where he really got th' blade from. Then I got dish-washin' duty 'cos th' Abbess reckoned I was callin' her a fibber – an' along with that, she told me th' Martin creature was long dead."

"Of course he's dead. You didn't expect him to just be walkin' about amongst creatures like us, did you? Fancy what he'd think about us!"

The squirrelmaid laughed a little at the idea. Salome managed another small smile. "I guess not . . . but . . . I mean

. . . it just don't . . . keepin' a picture up on th' wall of a deadbeast th' same as if he was livin' . . .It just don't look right."

Marianne bristled. "And why don't it look right? Tryin' t' say our Abbey artists is daft?"

Salome snorted. "Good Lord! you Abbeybeasts is prickly as shrews about yore heroes'n'legends, ain't you?" Marianne relaxed, and both young maids laughed.

'No, I ain't sayin' yore artists is daft. It's a lovely picture – looks most real t' me. An' that's what ails me about it. Lookin' at a picture real as that – of a creature like that –an' knowin' he's dead . . . It sort o' saddens me an' spooks me an' thrills me all the same."

"That's what th' tapestry's for," Marianne pointed out. "It sort o' makes us think . . . about God an' heaven an' dyin' an' such . . . makes us think more'n' any o' th' Mother Abbess's ole sermons. I gather there's creatures as dreams o' Martin – though I ain't never been one of 'em nor known anyone who was. Come on now, let's liven up a bit an' have some more t' eat. Hardly any use in sittin' about lookin' gloomy as it ain't everyday we get a feast.'

The two young maids strolled off, paw in paw, with Marianne singing:

When fair heaven sends its daily boon to earth - the silver dawn

God's silver-mist - the only silver soft enough to breathe

The charity coins that no one hand may cast away with scorn

And the string-free diamonds do encrust the velvet green of leaves

Ethereal maids, sky-ashen-cheeked, in rose and lavender gowns

With trains that vanish just as they appear

Almost unseen, on high they lurk, not deigning to step down

Save unto those who wish to see and hear.

And if you wish to see and hear, my child

You'll catch melodies you've never heard before

Songs betraying the mundane and simple dawn-jewels

As no more than one of heaven's humblest doors.

And if you will listen carefully, my child

You'llhear, ever so faintly, dirges of the new

Not fresh in seasons now - but aged in earthly years

Who have not yet joined them, though they've passed from me and you.

But if you listen openly, my child

A brighter song, more like a chant, you'll hear

A happy chanted eulogy of neighbors

Retired knights, in palace-clouds laid near -

Retired knights! the elders of the Garden

And every morn, their medals are renewed

As the gentle young sky-maidens sing their praises

Tales of deeds, however ancient, and forever fresh and true.

Do you wonder that they chant praise-laden fables

Of the days of creatures still - with them - alive?

Would you wonder still, my child, if only you could see

The undying, awed love-luster in their eyes?

- Just as your eyes grow bright, my child, when falling on your mother

Save that these joys shall neither fade nor die . . .

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

No sooner had the Abbess's sermon come to a close, than Samuel had risen and excused himself from the table.

If there was one thing upon which he and Abbess Elinor must agree, it was that there was no point in spending all hours of the day lined up at a table, cramming down platterfuls of food like trough-fed pigs - he hadn't seen a single creature singing, frolicking, dancing or even laughing. Huh - Redwall feast, indeed! If this was an example of a Redwall feast, then he and Salome would have been just as well off going out into the mid of the Woods, and stuffing themselves with mountainous heaps of tree-fruit, till they fell ill. Only once could Samuel remember doing anythingvremotely similar to that.

It had been back in the settlement, while Chief and the elders had been preparing to hold a conference. Like the little oafs they had been, Samuel and Luzi had felt certain that no creature would be out to sentry the foraging grounds. Together, they had managed to slip, unseen, around the back of the meetinghouse, and, armed with baskets, had gone for the fruit trees. They had intended to gather as much fruit as they could carry and steal back to Samuel's home den with all haste - but, after days of sweltering summer sun, the sweet, dew-perfumed fragrance of strawberries had been irresistible, and both had fallen to gorging themselves.

By the time they had finished, they had been so occupied with wondering how they would tote their plunder back to the den with such hellish stomachaches, that they had not noticed the shadow of the weasel sentry, Raaji, emerging nearby, until they had already been cornered.

"Th' Chief's yore uncle, Miss, but I doubt he gives a stone's worth whether you live or die," Raaji had said, eyeing Luzi. "An' I doubt he'd give even that much to know 'ow yore father'd feel about yore dyin'. Even so, he wouldn't take kindly to my steppin' 'igh an' slayin' you myself.I'd 'ave to turn you in to him for you t' get yore just desserts. Now I ain't that cold-'earted, so I'll let you off this once - but I don't want to see yore 'ide about 'ere again - or yore little friend's." For once, it had relieved Samuel to be spoken of as if he was not present.

They'd been given the ten-count ultimatum and had taken off like racers, knowing that the creature still in sight would be brought down with an arrow and dragged to the Chief. Raaji's reputation in archery was a good one.

Remembering it, Samuel laughed. After he had egged her on to perform that stunt, how could he not forgive Luzi for risking his and Salome's lives?

Skipper Johndam came over, bearing a mug of October Ale.

"Morning, mate. Well, this is certainly one o' the quietest feasts I ever attended -though, seein' as we aint had a feast in more than six seasons, I suppose I can't afford to b choosy."

Samuel shrugged, returning the uncomfortable smile. He had not exchanged a casual word with the otter Chief - or with any woodlander, for that matter, besides the Friar and the squirrelmaid Marianne - since his arrival at the Abbey. "No, mate, I suppose we can't afford t' be choosy."

[belle]

Unable to think of anything more to say, Skipper Johndam sipped October Ale, and Samuel, unable to think of anything else to stare at, watched him sipping it.

After a while, the Skipper gestured, with his mug, toward the Dibbuns' table. "Huh, look at 'em - still as stones. You'd never 'ave thought that only yesterday, when Miss Marianne took 'em out to play, they were scamperin' about, hootin' an' screechin' and ignorin' poor Friar Jerome. When I 'eard aboutit, I told all th' two-faced little brats off! "

Samuel shrugged again. "I should know, mate. Was puttin' up with Salome since I was a youngster. 'Ave any babes of yore own?"

Skipper shook his head. "No, and with th' state th' Abbey's in today, I wouldn't want to 'ave one. My younger brother, Jamire, plans to marry an ottermaid when th' crew comes t' spend this winter at th' Abbey. Th' Abbess says she prays every night that th' offspring they bear will grow to be more courageous, less lazy an' less gluttonous than th' youngsters we 'ave now."

Samuel watched Marianne, who was making an effort to rejuvenate the Dibbuns, by singing the "Butterfly in Spring" verse. Before long, however, the little creatures were laughing so uproariously that Marianne could scarcely hear her own voice - for Salome was standing in the background, performing what she thought was a theater-worthy pantomime of a soaring butterfly.

When the performance came to an end, the Abbeybabes flocked about the two young maids, clamoring for an encore. Ironically, Salome was the one who seemed to be disgruntled.

"I don't see wot could be so funny. I think I did that beautifully!"

Marianne, laughing, shoved her playfully. "Oh, stop your moanin' - at least th' Dibbuns were amused. Let's hurry off before they start t' mob us."

Salome and Marianne made a dash for the Abbey pond, with nearly a score of Dibbuns in pursuit. Samuel could not help but to smile at the sight. "Yore Miss Marianne 'as a nice voice, eh, Skipper?"

Skipper chuckled. "Aye, it was sweet to 'ear, 'til Miz Salome spoiled it. Think ye could do better, mate?"

Samuel stared after the little shadows, slipping, skidding, and then vanishing against the sunlit greenery. This warmth must've cast some sort o' magic spell on us - couldn't see myself sittin' here, tossin' jokes back an' forth with Skipper Johndam!

"No, I ain't no singer, Skipper - yore eardrums'd be damaged for life!"

And so it was. Though merriment was slow i n the earlier parts of the day, by eveningtime, all had grown brighter.

By then, every grown creature had retired to Cavern Hole, having had more than his / her share of food. There was still very little open jollity to be seen - but smiles were everywhere, lively, jest-filled chatter was exchanged, and not a sullen face lay in sight. Like a handful of fairy dust, the beauty of a warm, starlit summer night had transformed them.

The Dibbuns, however, had assembled in Great Hall, where Sister Jane was seating herself. Salome made herself comfortable against the wall, beside Marianne.

It was Story Hour! The little creatures clustered about the Sister's chair, almost (but not quite) wriggling with excitement. Salome was just as enthusiastic as they were, for, although she had never been much of a reader, she had always been fond of stories - so long as they weren't longwinded, overly wordy ones, but, seeing as this was a tale intended for Dibbuns, that was no great worry.

The "blue storybook", as the Abbeybabes called it, was, perhaps, the most beautiful book that Salome had ever seen. It wore a sapphire-colored, velveteen cover, lined with golden-threaded letters.

Unable to contain herself, the young ferret-maid demanded, "What story are you about to read, Sister Jane?"

Sister Jane, leafing through the tome, glanced up from a page. Her brown eyes twinkled. "This has always been your favorite, Marianne - Akil and the Ghosts.

Once, on an autumn day, when the sky was crisp and bright, the fields around the Abbey were golden and the trees were laden with amber brown and scarlet, a little weasel named Akil came to the gates, begging for food and shelter.

"Please, kind sir, ' he said to the Abbot, 'you've been given a plentiful harvest this year. Give me some of that harvest, and share the warmth of your fireside with me, for I am cold and hungry.'"

Inwardly, Salome cringed. Had she and Samuel sounded as piteous as that whinging little urchin, only a day before?

"Of course, " the Sister continued, "the Abbot could never turn away a creature in need. 'How is it that we are gathering to celebrate a season of peace and plenty, ' he wondered, 'while, just outside of our walls, creatures endure poverty and starvation? '

"To the little weasel, he said, 'You are welcome into our Abbey, my child, and you are welcome to what it yields! '

"Now, was that little weasel grateful for the Abbeycreatures' kindness? Not one bit! No sooner did he set footinto the Abbey, than he sniggered - quietly, so that no one would hear.

To himself, he said, 'Ah, look at those beautiful colored windows! The creatures of this Abbey are wealthy indeed. I will find many valuable things to steal from them.'

"The little weasel was given food and a bed in the dormitory. Before he retired, he thanked the goodbeasts and pretended to wipe away a tear of gratitude.

"The next morning, the Friar went to the kitchens and began to count his silverware.

'I say, ' he cried, 'at least half of my forks are gone! "

Salome would have sworn aloud if she could have. Hellgates, I won't 'ave no luck if these Abbeycreatures count that well!

Apparently, Akil wasn't half as clever as the Sister sought to convince the Dibbuns that he was. He got caught red-pawed, and was given a ton of dishes to scrub. The very thought of a Redwall Abbey-style dishwashing sentence was enough to put Salome off of stealing for the next five seasons. But Akil, oaf that he was, stole two times after, and the disgruntled Abbeycreatures decided to end his thieving once and for all. One night, just before Akil retired to bed, the Abbot stole into his bedroom, hung ghost-figured white sheets over the walls, darkened the room, hid the candlesticks and pushed the curtains aside, allowing the moonlight to seep in and produce a "ghostlike" effect. When Akil entered his room for the night, the Abbot secretly jammed the door shut to prevent him from escaping. In the morning, the Abbot came to unjam the door, released Akil and lectured him on all of the evil souls who were roasting in Hellgates. From that day on, Akil was a reformed creature - much to the Dibbuns' delight.

The Sister rose now, yawning.

"Its past your bedtime, little ones. Don't pout; the feast will continue tomorrow - but only if you promise to behave and take your baths like good little creatures."

Within seconds, Sister Jane, Marianne and Salome found themselves standing in the middle of a completely Dibbunless Great Hall. Marianne laughed. "They had more fun this eve than they"ve 'ad in their lives! "

After a hesitation, Salome peered up into the Sister's gentle face - whereupon it became gentler.

"What is it, little one? "

"Sister Jane, marm. . . " Here Salome hesitated again. "I was thinkin' - why in all o' Mossflower did th' weasel go an' steal things, like silver spoons? They're right pretty t' look at, but they ain't worth a bit if you don't sell "em - and he couldn't 'ave 'ad anybeast to sell 'em to."

No sooner had she relieved herself of this comment, than she expected to be berated for asking nonsensical questions about a Dibbuns' nursery tale, for displaying a lack of "good sense", as Samuel would have said.

But the Sister shook her head slowly.

"Little one, Akil was a real, living creature. And every bit of that story was true - except for its ending!"

.

[belle]

Not long after, Sister Jane retired to bed, leaving the young maids alone in Great sat side by side, reclining against the coolness of the wallstones.

Without turning her head, Salome remarked, "Well, it wasn't so bad, was it?"

After a moment of silence, Marianne said, "It was nice - seein' th' Dibbuns 'appy." Her voice bore an odd, wistful note.

"What did th' Sister mean? About Akil?"

Marianne began to toy with the sleeves of her pinafore.

"I wasn't aught but a Dibbun then, so I don't remember much - mostly what th' Sister told me. There was a youngish weasel - about my age - who called 'imself Akil. Told th' Abbess he was starvin', an' she let him in. But no sooner did he set foot into th' Abbey than he started up thievin'. Th' Abbess never caught him red-pawed, but she knew as well as anybeast else that he must've been guilty. Still, she said it'd be unjust to punish him without evidence. But soon th' Abbeybeasts were grumblin' an' th' Abbess knew she 'ad t' take some sort o' action. Then one morning, Akil just strode up t' th' Abbess, confessed, an' returned th' stolen things. He seemed so broken up that th' Abbess 'ad to give him another chance." Marianne paused for a moment. "An' a few days later, they all woke t' find th' varmint had run off. But he didn't take a bit of silver or anythin' valuable with him - leastways, not anythin' the creatures noticed. It was a Dibbun he took - a little squirrelmaid named Fainlie. I remember she was a bit older than I was, an' th' night before Akil took her, he was in charge of puttin' us t' bed. Fainlie wouldn't lie down - kept rompin' and skippin' and bouncin' about the room. An' Akil just stood there, smilin', like it didn't trouble him."

About an hour later, Marianne and Salome visited the kitchens, where Friar Jerome had finished the dishwashing and was now sitting beside the fire, enjoying a well-deserved rest. He had had to prepare mountains of food for the festive tables (all the while fretting over the possibility that it would fall to waste, or that too much would be eaten and the Abbess would lodge a complaint against him - which of the two would be worse, he could not be certain) and manage the Cellars in the indisposed Brother Aaron's stead. Now, catching sight of the two young creatures, the good hedgehog Friar waved the dishcloth that he had been using as a fan.

"Evenin', Marianne an' Miz Salome. Now don't come with yore dancin' an' whoopin' an' shoutin' an' leapin' about. My pore 'ead feels like a stone - an' we 'ave hours o' work ahead of us tomorrow!"

My 'ead would feel just as bad, thought Salome, if it was full of spikes and needles like a pincushion.

Going over to the Friar's side, Marianne embraced him carefully,doing her best to avoid his spines. "You poor old creature, there's no need to cook a new spread everyday. We've enough food t' last three days. It will save us a heap of toil."

Samuel, who was returning wit a cauldon that had just been emptied of dishwater, added under his breath, "Aye, an' it'll save th' Abbess a lot o' preachin' about gluttony an' extravagance! "

The Friar heaved himself upright long enough to glare in his direction. "Don't you dare let me hear you speak a word of disrespect about th' Abbess of Redwall, lad, or I'll 'ave you polish this kitchen from top t' bottom!"

Samuel slumped into a chair, giving another one of his under-the-breath sermons about free speech. Friar Jerome yawned. "Well, what do you young 'uns need?"

Marianne adopted a studiedly nonchalant manner; she managed a smile. "We only came t' ask you if we might 'ave a basket o' sweetmeats t' take t' Muryet."

Friar Jerome stared hard at both young faces, and found nothing but earnestness. After a few moments, his expression softened.

"All right, missie, but mind yore manners an' be careful."

While Marianne busied herself with the basket, Samuel excused himself, and gestured for Salome to follow him out of the kitchens.

When Samuel felt certain that they had a small amount of privacy, he hissed, "Wot in 'ellgates are you doin', pokin' about with that woodlander-maid, Salome? Tryin' to bribe some old mousewife who says she can frighten off demons?"

Salome snorted. "In an Abbey? I'm just goin' with Marianne t' see some creature who's always shut up in a gatehouse. She ain't no madbeast - just a squirrelmaid whose sister got kidnapped when she was a babe."

No sooner had she spoken the words, than she cringed, expecting to receive an earful about sticking her snout into crannies that it didn't belong in.

Samuel was quiet for a bit.

Then he said, "Her sister was kidnapped, eh?"

"Aye." Here, Salome dared to cast a glance up into his face. "Samuel . . .?"

Samuel gritted his teeth, without warning. "Go on, you little ninny, do wot you want. Just don't go actin' a fool an' gettin' yoreself in trouble. If you do, you'll be th' one wot's stuck in th' mud, nobeast else is goin' t' get 'imself stuck along with you an' you'll be lucky if anybeast pulls you out."

[belle]

"Good evenin' to you, Muryet. We saw you didn't come out for th' feast, so we brought you some sweetmeats."

Marianne tried to cram as many words into one breath as she could, for

she could see that Salome was determined not to die of

gatehouse-dust-suffocation, and she would not shame her by seeking to appear a martyr.

Though Sister Jane had abandoned the gatehouse several seasons ago, the

scroll-mountains and tome-hills had not - an inch-thick layer of lint

coated each one, just as snow would cover a mountain peak.

Muryet was sitting cross-legged in the center of a scattering of tomes.

The young squirrelmaid could not have been older than Salome by more

than three or four seasons, but her scrawny, dried-twig figure made her seem like an ancient creature.

At the mention of "feast, " she seemed to overcome her initial

bewilderment, and gave the visitors an uncertain smile. "Good evening to you, Marianne - and, er . . .".

"Salome. Shes goin' t' be stayin' at th' Abbey," Marianne reassured her.

"Good evening to you, Miss Salome." She watched as Marianne set the

basket before her. "My goodness, a feast! The last time that we had a

feast, I was so small, I can scarcely remember it."

"No, we 'ad a feast last winter, " Marianne reminded her, gently.

"Remember th' little cake Friar Jerome baked for you? "

Salome was as surprised as Muryet was confused. "Good Lord! Was it that

long ago? Samuel 'ad me thinkin' you Abbeybeasts 'eld a feast every

season. OW! " Marianne had nudged her sharply.

"We only came t' bring you th' sweets.. We'll be 'eadin' off t' bed

now, if you need rest. We 'ope t' see you tomorrow."

But Muryet had heard none of this - the sight of certain sweetmeats

which I will not describe for fear of annoying the Abbess had

transformed her completely. With a whoop of delight, she snatched the paper wrapping apart.

"Oh, honeyed nut clusters! Dear old Friar Jerome - he remembered that these were my favorite!"

Soon Marianne and Salome, having forgotten their funereal decorum, were

upon the floor, giggling uncontrollably. In her eagerness, Muryet had

crammed more sweets into her mouth than she was able to chew at once,

and her cheeks resembled those of a hamster. Not that either of the two

onlookers had ever laid eyes upon a hamster before, but after this

sight, they felt as if they would have no need to.

With an effort, Muryet swallowed. Far from being offended at the laughter of the others, she smiled herself.

"I suppose my eyes were a bit bigger than my mouth. Or was it 'my eyes

were bigger than my stomach'? Oh, dear, I can't remember for the life

of me - I don't see many phrases like that in the tomes! "

Salome 's eyes swept over the mountain range of books. "Are you sayin'

you sit about all day readin' these? " The very thought sent a tiny

spearhead of pain through her skull. (Or was it the dusty air that was bringing on the headache?)

Now it was Muryet's turn to laugh. "What's better to do, Miss Salome,

when you've been sleeping in the gatehouse for the past eight seasons? "

"The past eight seasons!" Salome exclaimed (oblivious of Marianne, who

was giving her a warning look). "Did you get on th' Abbess's bad side or somethin'?"

Muryet recoiled, aghast. "What on earth do you mean? Abbess Elinor is

the gentlest, most kindhearted creature in all of Mossflower!"

Salome thought of the Abbess's verbal ferrulings, in which "gluttony"

and "extravagance" seemed to be her favorite words. "Aye, " she said,

"th' kindest, gentlest creature in all o' Mossflower."

Muryet beamed, relieved. "See, didn't I tell you that you would find

her to your liking, before you even stepped into this Abbey? Of course,

you didn't believe me. If the Abbess was a bit - er - unhappy for a

while, it was only because of some misfortunes that had befallen us.

Your verminy friends mustve given you the wrong idea about our beloved

Abbess - but its no wonder they have low opinions of others, being the nasty creatures that they are!"

By now, the first parcel of sweetmeats was nearly empty. Glancing over

the basket, Salome saw that there was a variety of candied fruits and

honeyed nuts - not a single cake, tart or pastry was in sight. Friar

Jerome must have known Muryet's sweet preferences very well.

Muryet picked the last few nuts from a corner of the parcel. "Dear me,

all of this sugar has made me deathly thirsty. I'm afraid I drank all

of the October Ale the Friar sent me for breakfast."

Marianne was poised to suggest that, after downing "all of that sugar",

Muryet should be content with a drink of water. (Survival necessitated

that she kept a store of water somewhere in this little hermitage..)

But Muryet wore such a plaintive expression, that Marianne yielded.

"Salome and I will fetch you a bit of cider, Muryet."

Outside of the gatehouse, Salome and Marianne walked slowly, breaking

foot-paths through the dew-sodden grass, their paws intertwined.

"Marianne, we ain't trudging all the way back t' th' kitchens, are we? Samuel was actin' queer and shoutin' at me. God's name, I 'ope she comes

out tomorrow - we can't spend th' next two feast days waitin' on her paw an' foot!"

Marianne nudged her. "Keep yore voice down. No, there's bound t' be some drinks left out in Great Hall. You pray t' God she doesn't come out. Th' longer she stays in there, the better!"

"Why?"

Marianne kept her eyes upon the path before her.

"After . . . after what 'appened t' 'er sister, th' little squirrelmaid

Fainlie, th' Friar took pity on Muryet. Like I said before, I was too

little to remember Fainlie or Akil much, but I do remember I was fair

blazin' over 'ow much pettin' Muryet got from Friar Jerome - no doubt

she deserved it, but she got very little of it from anybeast else.

Sister Jane says th' Mother Abbess was a bright, mellow creature before

Akil took Fainlie - an' she mustve been, 'cos if she'd been th' way she

is now she'd 'ave shown that varmint th' door th' first time 'e stole!

But that mellowness was gone with th' wind by then. Muryet didn't get no coddlin' from th' Abbess!

"Any'ow, she used t' sit about in th' kitchens, an' th' Friar'd load

her with sweets. That mustve gone on for nearly a season or two! Then

Comelie came t' th' Friar, moanin' that she'd found heaps o' Muryet's

thrown-away food, mouldy as toadstools, an' that she was smellin'

sweets on 'er breath. When th' Friar 'eard that, he fixed up a bowl

of oat porridge an' a few scones and set 'em before her, tellin' her

that she'd not taste another sweetmeat until she ate that. I remember I

passed by an' saw her sittin' there for at least three days - starin'

at that same bowl of oat porridge an' those scones! "

Salome wrinkled her snout. Samuel may have been right - this creature was a madbeast, to have starved herself for three days!

"But in th' end, " Marianne continued, "Muryet ate it. Ugh - that cold

oatmeal, all hard an' crusty from havin' been reheated hour after hour,

an' those awful, stale-lookin' scones! But after that, she asked for

th' same thing for supper. Everyone figured she was doin' it t' be

saucy. But then she wanted oatmeal an' scones at every meal! When th'

Friar couldn't make it for her an' told her t' eat what everybeast else

was eatin', she' went for every scones an' bread she could get her paws

on. She fell in love with cake an' pastries, an' she'd pick th' fillin'

out of pies t' eat th' crust. When she could, Muryet spent all of her

time eatin'. When th' Abbess would toss out lectures on 'ow creatures

of Redwall should be 'elpful and resourceful instead o' gorgin'

themselves like pigs at a trough, it didn't seem t' faze her a bit. Th' Abbess would've set her t' work, except that Sister Bethelle looked over her, figured somethin' was wrong with her stomach, an' said she was an invalid. For nearly a season, she 'ad Muryet laid up in th' Infirmary, an' fed her on broth, water an' physics. Th' poor creature grew weakly an' sorry-lookin', 'alf-smothered in those Infirmary bedclothes! Th' Friar said she might as well 'ave been let out an' allowed to go on stuffin' 'erself sick.

"But one afternoon, when th' Friar's back was turned, I decided I 'ad t' rescue th' poor creature. I snuck an' made up a great towerin' platter o' sweetmeats an' - I'm almost ashamed t' tell you, Salome, but I made certain th' Abbess saw it as I carried it t' th' Infirmary. I 'avent a clue what she said t' Sister Bethelle, but a few days later, Muryet was released from th' Infirmary!"

Both young creatures laughed as they entered the Abbey building.

"As soon as Muryet left th' Infirmary, she headed straight for Cavern Hole, where the Friar an' I were clearin' up. Some creature 'ad been fool enough t' leave a 'alf-eaten scone lyin' there, an' she ate it - slowlike. She didn't beg for more as we thought she would. She just went off an' sort of roamed about th' Abbey - lyin' about for so long 'ad given her a slow , totterin' step, like she was just learnin' t' walk. She went t' th' gatehouse an' shut herself up in there, an' seein' as nobeast could get her t' come out, th' Friar started sendin' Comelie with her food every day - I don't think he felt easy with sendin' me. Now he trusts me a bit more. He almost never sends her bread, but I got t' bring her a little cake last winter."

Having found a flask of cordial for Muryet, they returned to the gatehouse.

As they entered, Muryet half-rose from where she had been sitting, reclined against the wall. She laughed - a high-pitched, giddy-sounding titter. "Heeheehee! Good Lord, you startled me? What's this?"

Marianne and Salome exchanged a look. Marianne handed Muryet the flask. "We brought you a bit o' cordial - you said you were thirsty."

"When on earth did I say that? " Muryet peered into the flask, als if she suspected that it had been filled with poison. She drew back, gagging.

"Ugh! What sort of drink is this? Smells awful - like rottn, smashed-up fruit! "

Salome leaned in to sniff the mouth of the flask. The drink smelled fine to her.

Marianne, however, did not bother to confirm this observation, for she was already edging towards the door.

"It was a lovely eve, Muryet, but you must be dreadfully tired. Salome an' I'll be tripping off t' bed. Good night!"

With that, she seized Salome by the shoulder. Within moments, they were slamming the gatehouse door behind themselves. That giddy laughter followed them - as if Marianne's farewell had been the most hilarious jest in Mossflower history.

As they headed for the Abbey building, Salome murmured to her companion, "Well, I've seen old ratwives gettin' tipsy, but this beats all! "

Marianne's reply was a fierce whisper. "Hush yore mouth - we're goin' straight t' bed, an' we're not t' lisp a word about this t' Friar Jerome! "

[belle]

By next morning, most of the good creatures had taken more than enough food, and had very little appetite. However, they knew that it would be unfair to refuse all that good fare, and leave the poor Friar to face the wrath of the Abbess. So, as they retired to their beds for a morning nap, with cups of tea and stomach herbs, they promised themselves that they would compensate by eatng twice as heartily tomorrow.

Marianne and Salome stood out on the lawn, clearing the dishes of food from today's festive tables and loading them into trolleys. Marianne gave a small sigh.

"Hardly any use in leavin' good food t' moulder in the sun, if nobeast is grateful enough t' bother eatin' it."

Salome flicked a bit of crust at her. "Aw, don't start preachin', Marianne - we heard enough o' that out o' th' Mother Abbess this mornin'! "

With a noise of disgust, Marianne picked up and discarded a pudding, through which rugged spoon-paths had been carved. "Ugh! If you want t' eat it, then, for God's sake, eat it! But don't pick an' prod at it like a Dibbun, an' then leave it out on th' table! Salome, I'm startin' t' think th' Abbess is right."

Salome was busily exploring Redwall's cuisine. She found an interesting-looking cheese - paleish-brown, studded with pieces of green and red pepper - and bit into it. "Mm! Aye, may'ap th' Abbess 'as a point after all, Marianne - Samuel'd wallop me senseless for messin' over food as good as this! " The young ferretmaid suddenly cast a glance over her shoulder. "That can't be Muryet comin' over, is it? "

Marianne actually dropped a barley loaf and spun about, as if she had been warned of an approaching army. From a distance, the creature appeared to be nothing more than a scrawny little mousemaid in an overlarge habit. She heaved a sigh of relief, before turning to berate Salome for the practical joke. "Salome, I'llwallop you senseless if you ever frighten me like that again!"

Whoever the approacher was, her hearing was exceptionally good, for she was soon calling, in scandalized tones, "Marianne! Sister Jane has taught us that there is to be no violence in Redwall!"

The two young maids tensed in their places - both recognized that cough-hoarsened voice. Marianne pulled a taut smile, and, taking cue from her, Salome did the same.

Muryet came into view. The squirrelmaid's gaunt figure was swathed into a habit that looked as if had once belonged to Sister Jane. With the skirt of the habit billowing out like a parachute, buoyed by the wind and the bulk of her bushy tail, she was a ridiculous sight.

"Good morning and merry feasting to you, Marianne and Salome - that is, if I haven't missed it already. I do have a habit of oversleeping. Dear me, I'm positively famished!"

Marianne backed away, towards the nearest table. "Er, oh, my, I'm afraid all th' bread an' scones 'ave gone stale from lyin' about in th' heat!"

Salome corroborated her with vigorous head-nodding - for that was not altogether untrue. "Aye - but there's a good heap o' fruit on that platter over there, an' a wedge o' cheese."

There were no candied or honeyed nuts in sight; Marianne, Salome and the Dibbuns had happily disposed of that temptation earlier. Muryet, however, seemed to be unfazed. She filled a plate with fruit and vegetables, and emptied it just as rapidly, before dropping back onto the grass, simpering contentedly.

"Ahhh - this sunlight feels beautiful! It really helps to soften the thinness of this outside air. What a delightful feast day this is going to be! "

With a suddenness that made Salome jump, she was upon her feet again. "Where on earth is the Mother Abbess? I felt certain that she and Sister Jane would be holding a story-play for all of the Dibbuns! I'm no longer a Dibbun, of course - but I love story-plays!"

Her two companions exchanged a look - both feeling certain that the story they had heard the night before was not one that Muryet would have enjoyed.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Samuel appeared, and it was Muryet's turn to jump. He made seat at the table, pointedly failing to notice Muryet, and before Marianne could prevent him, reached for a scone.

"I don't know wot's ailin' those creatures inside, but I'm starved! "

Muryet watched, openmouthed, as he devoured the scone. If Samuel only knew the opinion that she was forming about vermin's eating habits, he would have been highly offended.

After several moments, Muryet managed to smile.

"Oh, er, sir. I suppose you're kin to Salome here?"

It was then that Samuel seemed to take notice of her. He rewarded her with a smile. "Well, actually, I 'appen t' be her brother."

"Sir. . . " Muryet hesitated. "Sir . . . you aren't eating that dreadful stale scone, are you? "

Samuel widened his smile. He was not the only one who would have been offended if he could know the opinion that the other was forming of him.

"I'd 'ardly call it stale, missie - th' Friar baked 'em only yesterday."

Then, to the horror of Salome and Marianne, he selected another scone and held it out to her.

But Muryet actually took a step backward, shaking her head. "Oh, no, sir - thank you. I've eaten already."

Still smiling fit to outshine the sun, Samuel shrugged and bit into it. "Suit yoreself, missie. No sense in leavin' good food t' waste just for th' fact it was cooked yesterday."

Muryet wrinkled her snout. "It's not that, sir. Really, I can't stand the taste of bread."

For the second time that day, the other two young maids exchanged a look.

"If you say so, missie. Are you Muryet?"

All of Muryet's discomfort seemed to vanish, and she beamed.

"Of course I am! How on earth did you know? The Abbess must have been speaking of me - nicely, I hope?"

Seeing as Samuel was too bewildered to form a reply, Marianne cut in smoothly. "Aye, she was just now sayin' t' Sister Jane what a kind, clever young maid you are. But she's awfully worn out from yesterday's feastin' an' all."

Muryet's face fell. Her lower lip began to quiver.

"But . . . how could she be napping? I've not seen her in ages . . . . and a feast isn't a feast without the Mother Abbess . . . "

Just as the squirrelmaid's eyes were beginning to fill, Salome spoke up hastily. "Now, there's no need for bawlin', Muryet," she said, using her most soothing, motherly voice. (Soothing, motherly voices were not Salome's strong suit, but we must give her credit for doing the best that she could.) "The Mother Abbess'll be out later, you'll see. I say, th' Friar Jerome's been talkin' about you. He says he's not certain he'll live another season if he doesn't get t' see yore face."

Instantly, the tears were forgotten; Muryet's face was alight once more. "Oh, dear, sweet old Friar Jerome!"

The image of the Friar, languishing on his deathbed, did not seem to diminish her joy in the least. "I must go into the Abbey at once! Would you care to accompany me?"

Taking a cue from Marianne, Samuel performed what he thought was a gallant bow. (Actually, now that the occasion called for it, he did fairly well.) "I'd be honored, missie. Er, aren't you two comin'?"

"Oh, aye, but first we'd better cart all o' this food inside." Marianne admired Muryet for handling her bread withdrawal so courageously; but she was not willing to take any risks.

A while later, all four young creatures were inside, Muryet was sitting in Cavern Hole, feasting on candied fruits, and the food had been rescued and returned to the kitchens, where Marianne was explaining the bread situation to Samuel.

"Miz Muryet's an invalid, eh?" Samuel commented. "I've never seen an invalid before - I've only seen th' creatures that were livin', an' th' creatures that were dead, or would be dead before long. Drunk off o' bread? Salome was th' same way about onions when she was younger - now she can't stand th' smell of 'em. Just a moment ago I offered yore squirrelmaid a scone, an' she wouldn't touch it. Make th' little ninny start eatin' like any other creature an' she'll be as 'ealthy as you or me!"

The Friar met his eyes. "That may be so, young 'un - I don't know. But while I'm responsible for it, I won't take no risks." He shook his head. "Sister Jane'll 'ave to start 'er again in Abbeyschool t' make up for lost seasons in that gate'ouse - no tellin' 'ow many tomes an' scrolls she's read, but I'd be surprised if she 'as all those facts straight in 'er poor 'ead!"

There was a bit of awkward silence. Then Samuel rose with a stretch and a yawn, feigning nonchalance. "Well, I might as well 'ead out t' fetch that fuel for you, Friar. You'd best come along, Salome - no use in you spendin' th' season sittin' about eatin' th' woodlanders out o' house an' 'ome."

Marianne seized a dishcloth. "Eat our Abbey out o' house an' 'ome, will you? Ha, over my dead body!" She charged Salome, and a playful fight erupted between the young maids.

Samuel caught hold of Salome just before she collided into him. "Say, watch it, or you'll 'ave me in th' Infirmary!"

Salome heard nothing, for she had already plunged back into the fray.

The Friar watched the two young roughhousers, smiling. "Bless their 'earts. May'ap you'd like t' take Marianne along with you, Samuel? She's never gone outside o' th' Abbey before."

Salome had found her own weapon, and a dishcloth duel cmmenced. Samuel smiled, too, in spite of himself. "That squirrelmaid can follow us t' th' ends o' th' earth if she likes. "

"Good." The Friar lowered his voice. "Then may'ap you'd like t' take Muryet off o' my paws, as well. Th' fresh air an' sunlight'll do her th' world o' good - better than 'avin' her spend th' day wanderin' about th' Abbey like a spectre."

Samuel took the hint, but without much enthusiasm. As frail and sickly as the squirrelmaid looked, he would be surprised if she was able to walk for more than fifty paces without collapsing.

The hedgehog Friar patted Samuel's head, carefully, so as not to harm him with his spikes. "You're becomin' a good creature, Master Samuel."

Samuel moved away, brusque with embarassment. "Come on, Salome, Miz Marianne. One of you go an' fetch Miz Muryet, will you!"

[belle]

Not until the young trio had already set out on their wood-gathering mission, did Samuel note that there was no shortage of trees around Redwall. Most likely the Friar had planned all of this - after all, there had been no mention of any dwindling fuel supplies until that mad squirrelmaid had appeared upon the scene - after Marianne had escorted her to Cavern Hole, to feast upon sweetmeats. Now that she had emerged from her Hermitage - the Friar must have decided - somebeast must play the role of nursemaid, so that he wouldn't be forced to carry the burden.

Though Salome could see that Samuel was none-too-cheerful, her spirits were beginning to soar. Not until now had she realized how badly she had missed the crude freedom of the outdoors.

Samuel was not nearly as jovial, now that he'd been assigned this new role as mad-squirrelmaid-watcher. The rush of the afternoon had prevented him from lighting into Salome, but she knew well that she had not escaped his wrath. In fact, Salome, by way of self-preservation, vowed that she would never utter Muryet's name again, while Samuel was present.

Now, Samuel walked at the head of the little wood-gathering party, and, at his insistence, Muryet travelled at his side, while Salome and Marianne -towing the wheelbarrow (meant for carrying wood) by turns - brought up the rear. At the moment, Marianne was on wheelbarrow-towing duty, but she voiced no complaint. She had been completely silent since their departure from the Abbey, and - except for the occasional murderous glare in Salome's direction - she had been careful to maintain a blank, polite and noncommittal expression.

Meanwhile, Muryet skipped along, quite oblivious to the discomfort of her companions. She pranced, smiled, blew kisses to butterflies and serenaded all of the Woods, as if she were the happiest squirrelmaid alive. Samuel couldn't help but to regard this squirrelmaid out of the corner of his vision, though he pretended to be concerned with the road ahead of him, and nothing else.

Only an hour before, Samuel had stood in the presence of this very squirrelmaid, and announced to Friar Jerome that Abbey business was Abbey business, and that, while he was willing to fetch all of the wood that the Friars heart should desire, now that he had gotten a glimpse of the full extent of what Salome called her "queerness," he was unwilling to drag her off into the Woods with him.

Scarcely had the refusal left his mouth, before the scrawny, wild-eyed creature had ceased her sugar-drunken giggling - had literally thrown herself upon her hapless ferret guest, clinging to his tunic.

"Oh, take me! Take me! Friar, force him to take me! Oh, Master Samuel. . . don't leave me! Friar. . . Friar. . . don't let him leave me! Please . . . "

When he had managed to pry her off, at last, she had collapsed into a crumpled, sobbing heap.

"Take Miss Muryet, Master Samuel, " the Friar had urged him, low-voiced, but fierce. "You heard her. Miss Marianne will go along with you - she knows a bit about tending to her - but I can't have her running through the Abbey, shrieking and cackling like an angry ghost! You hear me? "

Samuel was left with no other choice but to address the wailing, quaking squirrelmaid.

"All right - for God's sake!"

In a flash, Muryet was upon her feet, and those great dark eyes, still sodden with tears, were fixed upon his. "You'll take me with you? Have I heard you correctly - have I heard you at all? You've agreed to save my feast-day - to change this hour of horrible, lonely, Abbess-less heartbreak into one of joy and happiness? Truthfully? Oh - thank you, Master Samuel -thank you! "

And she had thrown herself at his feet once more, overtaken by a fit of wild giggling, in spite of the tears that rolled, uninterrupted, down her cheeks.

Marianne had hauled the squirrelmaid off to the dormitory, to change her into clothing that was suitable for strolling, and the Friar, having done his duty as arbitrator, retreated to the dormitory, as well, claiming that culinary duties must wait until Samuel returned with the fuel, and that, meanwhile, he would nap for a bit.

Thus, Salome and Samuel were left alone in the kitchens. Salome, toying with her claws, tried to avoid Samuels gaze, but Samuel stooped down so that he could peer directly into her face.

"Look at me, Salome, and don't try an' duck away from me, like the others have done," he growled. "Was that the squirrelmaid you asked me t' go an see the night before?"

Salome shrugged, hoping that a blithe, nonchalant attitude might cool Samuels anger. "She ain't mad, Samuel, I told you. She's just a bit -queer-ish."

But her tone did not carry as much conviction as she would have liked.

"Besides, " she added hastily, "you can't come blamin' me. You were th' one Friar Jerome you'd take her along in the first place. If you didn't want her with us, why'd you tell him you would?"

She withered beneath his stare. "Because I hadn't got t' see 'ow mad she was yet, an' you an' yore other little squirrelmaid never told me she was like this! An' if I'd seen THIS yesterday eve, before you asked me if you could run off and talk t' her, I would have thought you were as mad as she was for asking! You know that, Salome."

Samuel lowered his voice, remembering that they were in an Abbey full of creatures. "An' for how long have you been foolin' around with her? What was it you said t' me last night - about some sister she'd lost?"

"I only talked t' her once - last evening, " Salome protested, meekly. "I 'avent gone around her much. An' it wasn't my fault - Marianne ought t' have told me what she was like. I didn't know nothin' about it."

Samuel gave a snort of impatience. "Salome, you said somethin' about the sister she 'ad. Hurry an' spill it - there ain't much time."

Already, two pairs of young footsteps - accompanied by the sound of Marianne's "soothing" voice - could be heard, approaching the kitchen. Salome's own voice lowered. "I don't know - I only know what Marianne told me. Some weasel -called Akil or somethin' - sweet-talked his way into the Abbey, then made off with Muryets sister, some seasons ago."

Samuel would have slammed his paw against a tabletop - or, perhaps, against Salomes skull - had it not been for the approaching squirrelmaids. "Salome! God - don't you have any better sense? "

Salome had opened her mouth to protest again, but, at that moment, Marianne and Muryet had entered, and all conversation had been cut short.

And now, this Muryet skipped at Samuels side, singing away, without a tear and without a care in the world.

". . . And if you stroll along that old white path

You'll find that little red brick wall

About which happy Dibbuns used to play

"And when, one day, I happened past I simply had to stop and ask

Though I knew very well what they would say.

"Redwall! Oh, Redwall! A tiny brick Redwall!

"Whats sweeter than an Abbey

"That's only three feet tall?

"Would you rather have a palace you may roam from anyday

"Or a tiny one, to slip into your pocket?

"Would you rather love a heart when you must roam another way

Or a golden one, to hang upon a locket?"

[belle]

"Will you tell me the loveliest dream you've ever dreamt, Master Samuel? " Muryet inquired, as they trudged their way along the forest path.
Samuel's voice was gruff, full of a sort of terse politeness. "I don't remember dreams, Miss. "
At this, the already-overlarge dark eyes seemed to double in size.
"You - don't REMEMBER dreams? Why - how could ANYONE fail to REMEMBER dreams? Dreams are - why, they're the loveliest things a creature could ever have! "
Rising on tiptoe, she peered up into his face, though he made a great show of failing to return her gaze.
"Come now, Master Samuel -" here she adopted a tone of motherlike compassion -"surely you must remember ONE lovely dream - only one! "
A smile tugged at the corners of Samuels mouth; he didn't hurry to stifle it.
"I remember a handful o' dreams, now t' think of it - but I wouldn't call 'em lovely or beautiful, Miss."
Muryet nodded, the image of understanding and sympathy. "Yes, I see. Brawls in taverns, wicked, cruel parents, corpses stabbed through with cutlasses, death, villainy and foul language. Goodness, how do you vermin endure it all? I would have taken my own life before long. What brave creatures you are! And you'll make fine Redwallers, when the vermin days and the vermin ways have been washed away from your poor minds! " And, as a further gesture of sympathy, she gave Samuel a gentle pat on the back.
Samuel shoved Muryets paw away. Any appearances of diplomacy that he had maintained had vanished completely - as had the trace of a smile he had worn.
"No need t' pity me, Miss, " he retorted. "Nothin' worries me about my past, or my family. Now if I was a book-readin' hermit that got drunk off eatin' I suppose I'd have somethin' t' pity myself for."
Muryet, of course, comprehended none of Samuel's words, but it was not difficult for her to understand the curtness of his tone.
Immediately she panicked - for the third time that day, the wetness began to gather at the rims of her eyes.
"Have I offended you, Master Samuel? . . . Well? Have I? Oh, tell me - tell me! I never MEANT to offend you! Say I haven't offended you. Say it! "
"Devil's egg, miss! " This tearful display was sending Samuel into a panic of his own. "No - you never offended me. I'm a grown creature, not a weepy Dibbuns."
The panic ended instantly, and Muryet gave her eyes a brisk dabbing, as blithely as if she were swatting a gnat who had interrupted her conversation.

"Oh, yes, and where was I?"
Salome struggled to stifle her laughter, but Marianne, with a particularly venomous glance, ended the struggle for her. She passed the wheelbarrow's towing rope to Salome, who fell back by a few yards, so as to be out of Muryet's hearing range.

"Is she still drunk off those sweetmeats, Marianne, or is she always like this? "
Marianne nudged her sharply; she nearly yelped, but caught herself, not wishing to attrcact Samuels attention.
"There, " Marianne hissed, "that should teach you t' be a bit quieter, wont it? Or, better yet, hush up alt'gether! I've told you - an' yore puddenheaded brother - Muryet ain't mad! "
Salome, still nursing her elbowed ribs with her free paw, flared. "Don't call my brother names! Would you like it if I called you a nutshell-'eaded treeclimber? "
Marianne's fur began to bristle. "You wouldn't dare! "
"Wouldn't I? Huh, see if I wouldn't. Anyhow, I never said nothin' about her bein' mad. I tried t' talk Samuel into thinkin' there was nothin' wrong with her, an' yore th' one who spent a heap o' time tellin' me how queer she is!"
Marianne kicked a twig that was lying in her path, with far more viciousness than a twig deserved. "Now you ARE callin' her mad! Muryets queer, but that don't make her mad. You're as queer as anybeast, Salome - an' when you first came t' th' Abbey I thought so. In fact I thought you were as daft as the Methuselah bell. But I didn't say so, did I? "
If the "puddenheaded brother" remark had stung Salome, this comment was far too much to take. She knew, after all, that Marianne didn't view Samuel as a "puddenhead"; she had only spoken out of annoyance. But this was very different.
Marianne, having taken Salome's reaction, and the look upon her face, in, averted her eyes. For a few moments, feelings of remorse, and her stubbornness, waged a battle upon her own face.
In the end, though, she chose the side of stubbornness. She reached over and confiscated the towing rope, quickly, so that her paw wouldn't brush against that of Salome - and quickened her step. Salome followed, and within moments, they were practically walking beside their companions, which meant that private conversation - and quarrelling - was impossible.
The moods seemed to have been reversed - as Salome and Marianne trudged along, silent and unhappy, Muryet chattered away, and Samuel listened, and allowed himself an occasional smile.

Not long before, Samuel would have thrashed the life out of Salome for straying within paw range of the "queer", supposedly mad squirrelmaid. Now, though, he said not a word of reprimand to her.
Perhaps he was giving too much of his attention to Muryet.- who was relating a tragic tale of a mouse warrior who had been beheaded and robbed of his tail - to pay any mind to Salome.
Salome, observing the two, thought, Samuel's never wanted t' listen t' me like that - if I'd rambled half th' nonsense she's sayin' t' him he'd have told me t' 'old my tongue, or think o' somethin' t' say that made sense. She gave a little shrug. Haply. Marianne's right - I am daft.
At least once in a day, Samuel admonished Salome for "acting daft", or for talking like a daft creature. During every lecture he would insist that Salome had plenty of good sense and brains, and that she neglected to put them to good use. Now, however, Salome was beginning to wonder whether she possessed any "brains" at all. She was accustomed to the scoldings, and had dismissed the Abbess's criticism, but if even good-natured Marianne thought that she was an oaf - if Samuel was more interested in the jabbering of a "queer" Abbey squirrelmaid, than in her - perhaps she was dafter than she'd thought.

[belle]

". . . But never fear, Master Samuel, " Muryet was saying. "Do you think that the vile, villainous, verminous - vermin, who took the life of that brave warrior, would escape Justice? Never! For Alsana rallied the bodies, minds and hearts of the defeated Redwallers, and set them on a quest for Vengeance.

"Only one creature resisted - the adoptive father of the slain warrior, the old squirrel Belter. 'This snivelling little fool,' he said, 'who, only days before my son lost his life in her defense and in defense of all the creatures in this Abbey, was cowering in a corner, terrified, whimpering for her nursemaid - this little ninny stands here now and demands the right to lead what remains of our troops?'
"But Alsana remained calm, cool and crisp as steel, defiant as a blade thrust out into the sunlight. 'I do not demand the right to lead,' she said, 'only to advise the leaders, to draw up and put forth the plan that I've imagined.'

"So desperate were the Redwallers, so eager for even a glimpse of hope, that, save for Belter, not one of them opposed Alsana. And, after days of valiant clashing, struggling, attacking, killing, and. . .and. . .battling in general, Alsana and the Redwallers brought every one of the enemy to his knees - the few that had not been slain.
"It is the custom of the Abbey to grant amnesty to its war prisoners. Enslaving, vengeance and the taking of lives holds no appeal for them. Not so for Alsana. She proclaimed to the prisoners, 'You will be tied together, before the garbage trench. The tail of the warrior whose life you took will be roasted, chopped into bits - enough that each of you may have a share - and you will eat it, and like it. Then - then you will be beheaded, and your heads will be cast away and burnt with the rubbish. . . Master Samuel? Aren't you all right? "
Samuel steadied himself, and inwardly prayed that Salome had not seen the bout of shaking. He did not glance back to assure himself, though, or give any vocal or bodily indication that Muryet's iinquiry had been anything other than unfounded. Pale though he was, he replied, with a forced blitheness, "All right? Why wouldn't I be? "
"Are you certain? Did I. . .frighten you? Come now, confess - I know that malebeasts hate to admit when they're frightened, but I wouldn't laugh. I frighten myself sometimes - at night, lying in bed, sending myself to sleep with dreadful, spooky thoughts. It's quite pleasurable, really.
"The vermin never ate the roasted tail, in any case. The Redwallers went into an uproar, and old Belted shouted out against it. And so, Alsana had to rescind her order, and excuse herself, saying that she was mad with grief. By the Abbot's orders the prisoners were freed, with a warning. Alsana insisted upon escorting them herself, away from the Abbey, along with a band of Guosim shrews. Because she seemed to be calm and level, the Abbot granted her permission. They travelled quite a distance, and at night, a bit before the shrews gathered to address the vermin and send them away, Alsana asked to return to the Abbey alone, before the others did, saying that she had started to remember the warrior and her fallen friends , and couldn't bear to hear the speech or to be in the presence of the vermin any longer. And so she stole off - and, when morning came, and the vermin were well on their way out of Mossflower, Alsana appeared. She had never gone back to the Abbey at all, but had concealed herself amongst the trees, somewhere near the vermin and shrews, and had followed the departing vermin quietly.
"Armed with a sword, she charged them, yelling battle cries, laughing, speaking of vengeance. There were only around a dozen of the cowardly, terror-stricken vermin. None were armed, for they'd been relieved of their weapons at Redwall; none could duel with her. Tails fell from backsides; ears flew; blood gushed.
"But, as Alsana stood before a weasel who was trapped between a tree and her blade, tickling his throat, giggling in the face of his fear, a rat gathered his wits and crept behind her. By taking her by surprise - jumping onto her, bringing her to the ground - he captured her, pinning her sword beneath her. And every one of those vermin pelted her with stones and branches and kicks and blows - until she was dead."

The stroll, for all of the time that followed, was silent, save for the sounds of Muryet's chattering, storytelling, exclaiming, questioning and speculating, and the occasional comment from Samuel. At last, they came upon a clearing, and Samuel interrupted Muryet to call a halt. The wheelbarrow was left to rest beneath a tree; Samuel, trailed by Muryet, retreated to the shade of another.
Despite her feud with Marianne, Salome's spirits began to rise, our in those Woods. , with the cloud-crested ocean of blue sky above, the green foliage alight with golden sun, and the birds flitting from branch to branch, trilling the late-morning news, all seemed to wear a far more festive air.

Rising on tip-toe and peering up, over the heads of the trees, Salome could just make out the rooftops of the Abbey - a faint, russet-colored fringe,, wreathed all around with grey mist-clouds.
Marianne edged over, to stand beside her. Against the greenery, the pretty squirrelmaid looked for all the world like a flower in her blue, daffodil-speckled frock. Salome glanced down at her own attire - a plain green Abbey pinafore, faded from years of wearing and laundering.
The young maids stood there, feeling awkward, saying nothing.
Muryet wandered over, then, and took Marianne's paw in one of hers, Salome's in the other. Although she was the oldest of all three, she was not much taller than Salome was, and she was so frail of figure that, standing beside Marianne, she looked almost childlike.
Together, they swept their surroundings with their eyes.
After a moment, Marianne remarked, soft-voiced, "God's name! I don't believe I've ever seen anything prettier!"
"I've never seen anything more beautiful, either," Muryet piped up. "Ive. . .never come out into the Woods before - ever. When we were Dibbuns the elders said that we were far too little. . . Why. ..this reminds me of the day when Martin came to Mossflower!"
Salome removed her eyes from the scenery long enough to say, "Martin? You mean th' mouse on that tapestry wot th' Abbess was tellin' yarns about - th' one who was supposed t' 'ave 'ad a sword made from a star?" She kept her eyes fastened upon Muryet, now that she had torn them from the sky; she would not look in Marianne's direction.
Muryet immediately plunged into her own colorful description of the day of Martin's arrival.

"Oh, it was a summer day, I believe - the brightest summer day that Mossflower has ever seen, in sun was as golden as a pan of melted butter - dripping its lovely rays all over the treetops, which were as lush and green as fresh broccoli. The clouds floated through the blue sky, as fluffy and white as little meadowcream cakes -more cream than cake, of course, which makes them sound delicious and repulsive at the same me, I've grown rather hungry!"

The other two young maids burst into laughter.

Samuel appeared, the picnic basket tucked beneath one arm, the chopping axe slung over his shoulder."If yore hungry, come on an' take this basket, I'm past tired o' carryin' it. I'm goin' off to look for a good tree - a fallen one."

Muryet hurried over to Samuel, but Salome and Marianne lingered for a while, watching. Samuel laid his axe across the wagon that had been brought along for carrying fuel, and opened the basket.

"The Friar packed turnovers with vegetables an' gravy inside, Miz Muryet," they heard him saying, "but if you don't care for yours, somebeast'll be glad t'eat it."

"Thank you, Master Samuel.I'll just have this fruit and cheese."

Samuel gave her the sort of smile that he gave to Abbeybabes who pestered him, and went off, eating his pastry. Muryet sat down before the basket.
Salome and Marianne sat with Muryet, being certain to sit on opposite sides of tge basket, and each avoided the gaze of the other.
Muryet, who had polished off her portion of fruit and cheese, was far from being full, but she said nothing to her companions.
"Will you tell me another of those queer stories, Muryet? " Salome asked.
Marianne shot Salome a look that she might have given to a smashed snail. "Muryet's tired, " she stated flatly. "She ain't in the mood."
Muryet did not protest.
"Here, Muryet, " Marianne said gently. "I don't want my apple slices. When we're back at th' Abbey I'll ask Friar Jerome if you might have a plate of strawberries. "
Muryet gnawed at the apple hungrily, and silence returned to the clearing.

Salome hesitated, considering the had warned her to keep her snout out of these woodlanders' business - but these things weren't quite like bread, were they? Of course not - and even Marianne had to agree that Muryet had to be mad, to pass up a woodlander-made turnover. In any case it couldn't do any harm, to tempt Muryet a , she had never seen a woodlander "getting drunk." A squirrelmaid, drunk off of turnovers - what a sight that would be, if it happened!

Stifling her laughter, Salome glanced at Marianne, who was singing a hymn, now, and paying no mind to the other two. Salome bit into her turnover, making noises of exaggerated relish.

"Mmm - this gravy's the best! What are these vegetables called, Muryet? Oh, I forgot you never 'ad 'em , you wouldn't know -you don't eat pastries. Mmmm . . .carrots an' onions!"

Muryet swallowed, but, otherwise, pretended to be deaf. Salome took another bite.

"Hope th' Friar teaches me t' make crust like this - fluffy an' golden. I could eat an Abbeyful o' these!"
Marianne glanced up, just in time to see Muryet, reaching for the heap of turnovers. Her brown eyes widened.
"Why, Muryet! What. . ."
Muryet was already devouring the pastry.
"Salome! " Marianne shouted. "What in heavens name are you doing? Have you lost your God-given mind? "
Salome's face was aflame, and she avoided Marianne's eyes, even as she shot back, "Its daft, anyhow. Why wont she stop being so queer and eat like everybeast else? "
"You know very well why! " Marianne yelled. "Are you tryin' to make her sick?" She scrambled to her feet, and kicked the now-empty basket, sending it flying. "Friar Jerome's going to 'ave my 'ide. . .he'll never let me go anywhere near Muryet again! "
"This is about you, right? " Salome challenged. "Goin' along with th' Friar's silly orders just 'cos you want him t' think nice of you. This aint about Muryet at all - for all your carryin' on."
Marianne flushed as deeply as Salome had. "That's a load of rubbish! " she exclaimed. "And I'm goin' t' tell the Friar you called him silly! "
The thought horrified Salome. Dear, kindly, fat old Friar Jerome - "I never called him silly! Don't you dare, Marianne! "
"You said his orders are silly! Its th' same thing! "
"They're worlds different! You rotten little liar of a squirrel! If you tell tales on me I'm goin' t' tell Samuel what you called 'im earlier! "
"See if I care, you - you - trashy little -"

"Oh, will you both hush up! " Muryet snapped, startling her companions into silence. "I can't listen to either of you for a moment longer. My head is infernal! "
Her voice grew unsteady, of a sudden, and her eyes dampened.
"Im so. . .tired."
The quarreling ended there.
Marianne led Muryet off to lie in the shade, beside the wheelbarrow. She covered her with the picnic quilt.
"Close your eyes, Muryet, " she said, trying to adopt her "motherly" tone. "You'll be sleepin' before you know it, an' when Master Samuel's finished with th' wood, he'll carry you back to Redwall."
Muryet did not stir. After a moment, Marianne retreated to their eating spot and sat. Neither she nor Salome spoke another word, for both were afraid.

[belle]

"I found a big old dead oak!" Samuel came into view, brushing bits of

dirt and bark from his paws."I'm 'ungry as th' devil. Toss me that

other turnover, Salome, if you ain't wolfed it down already."

Wordlessly Marianne gestured toward Muryet, who had "wolfed down" half

of the turnover; the rest was lying, neglected, on a checkered

handkerchief. Samuel bent over the squirrelmaid and took her chin into

his paw, peering into her face."Wot's ailin' you now, Miz Muryet?"

Muryet drew away."I don't feel well." Her voice sounded flat. "I'm going

to lie down. Leave me in peace, will you . .."

Salome bit her lip, and chanced a glance at Marianne, who pretended to see nothing; but she did not say a word. When the silence prolonged itself, Salome knew that Marianne, regardless of her anger, would not disclose anything to Samuel.

The young maids rose and followed Samuel,

leaving Muryet lying in that clearing, the folded picnic quilt

draped over her.

Samuel led them over to a great fallen oak. The recent rainstorms had

battered away at its coat of bark; but the wood seemed to be intact.

Salome stepped forward for a closer look. "Look, there's lots of branches

that've been snapped apart - chopped apart, more like. Th' Abbeybeasts

must've found this tree before, an' gotten fuel from it."

Marianne took a look and dismissed the idea."Th' Abbeybeasts use axes,

like th' one Master Samuel 'as - those look like they've been sliced

off with a knife o' some sort!"

Samuel shouldered his axe. "Mighty clever creature that would 'ave t'be

- must've snapped a dozen knives that out o' th' way, you two."

Forgetting about Muryet for a moment, Salome gave him her most ingratiating

smile."Yore bound t'lose that dagger if you carry it about while you're

choppin'.Come on, Big Brother, let me hold it."

Samuel made a face. He surrendered the dagger to her."Here, you can 'old

it for a bit, but call me Big Brother once more an' I'll run you

through with th' thing!"

Salome ran her paw along the edge of the blade, which had become, in

her fancies, the sword of Martin. True, the poor Mother Abbess was most

likely becoming senile at an early age; but there could be no harm in

imagining that she had been speaking the truth about a Warrior and a

star-sword. The Badger King was approaching now -Bear the Fighter, he

was called, if she remembered correctly. Well, he certainly did look as

huge and fierce as a bear - but there was nothing ungainly about his

swordplay. How big he was, yet how agile and dangerously graceful! She

couldn't name any of his moves - perhaps because of the fact that those

moves were all sorts of fancy thrusts and flourishes, Salome's own idea

of swordplay. And as she lifted her "sword", Salome was surprised to

find that, although she was an amateur, she followed every move without

effort.

At last, Bear the Fighter rose, and awarded her with one of his rare

smiles.(Salome was certain that stern, silent Badger Kings were seldom

seen smiling.) "You have done well, little maid," he rumbled, using the

same polished, ridiculously proper prose that the Abbess and Sister

Jane spoke with. "Take this blade to Mossflower, and place it in the

paws of Martin the Warrior, who will defend the good creatures from the

evils of Kotirsshadow." (Whatever that was, but it had been in

Marianne's song.)

Bear the Fighter's eyes were very sad."I have grown old, little maid.

Soon there will be nobeast left to rule my mountain, for my only heir,

Sunface (that was the name, wasn't?) - er . ..well, something has

happejed to what exactly, but whatever it was, he's gone

now.I leave you to bring Martin here, so that he may guard

Salamandastron. Soon I will be crossing through the gates of Dark Forest."

Of a sudden, the plaintive, on-my-deathbed look vanished from Bear's

eyes, replaced by a scowl."Wot in all Mossflower are you bawlin 'for,

Salome?" Salome blinked in startlement, and realized that her eyelids were

had set the axe aside, and was staring at her.

Salome sniffled, and managed a smile. If only Samuel could have seen poor

Bear the Fighter, preparing to draw his last breath."Just thinkin'

about Pappa. He was a nice old sort - better'n most, at least. It was 'im

wot gave you th' blade - er, wasn't it?"

Samuel, evidently relieved that Salome had managed to pull herself

together, continued with his chopping."Aye, when you were naught but a

kit."

Samuel worked for a time, and then went to check up on Muryet. He

carried the axe with him - Salome knew that he would not set it down

for fear that he would ache twice as badly when he resumed his chopping.

Samuel was away for so long that Salome began to think that he had

decided to rest after all.

Marianne refused to speak to Salome, and Salome to her, and an awkward, uneasy silence prevailed. At last, Marianne drifted off to sleep, reclining against

a tree stump. Salome decided that she might as well practice her

Martin-the-Warrior swordplay with Samuel's dagger, seeing as he wasn't

around to forbid her.

First, she gave it a thorough polishing - spitting on the blade, then

rubbing it with a leaf till it shone as bright as a done

this, she rose and gave the dagger a .few "elegant" twirls, before

throwing it. Instead of hissing through the air like a javelin, as she

hoped it would, it hurtled across the clearing, spinning wildly, and

lost itself amidst the foliage. Hurrying over to the spot, Salome went

down on all fours, and began to paw through the grass and heaps of

fallen blade was nowhere in sight.

"Oh, Hellgates!"

Salome returned to the clearing and sat down, trying to convince

herself that, if Samuel did not strangle her to death first, he would

search for the dagger himself. Aye - perhaps the dagger was in plain

sight;Samuel's eyes were much better than hers. It was not pleasant to

think of what he would have to say to her - about being a silly,

careless little oaf - but, so long as the dagger was found, it would

not be much worse.

With these thoughts, Salome managed to fall asleep.

OOOOoooooooOOOOoo

"Salome . ..Marianne.. .Salome! Wake up! Get up, for God's sake!"

The two young maids opened their eyes, and saw Samuel standing there,

clutching the limp, motionless bundle that was Muryet; those gaunt limbs

dangled uselessly, almost skimming the ground. Blood had drenched her

habit, and, upon the front of Samuel's tunic, reddish-black stains were

spreading themselves. Samuel cast a desperate look in the direction of

the wagon, but was forced to discard that idea.

"Don't stand there like oafs, you two," he gritted."Get walkin'- fast -

back t' th' Abbey th' same way we came, an' try not t' make a sound!"

[belle]

Samuel entered Cavern Hole.

The sight of the squirrelmaid, slumped like a sack against Samuel's chest, seemngly leaking blood onto the front of his tunic, and the two

young creatures trailing, ashen-faced, behind him, seemed to set off a firework explosion. Before long, the gathering Redwallers had formed a path from the doorway of Great Hall to the doorway of the Infirmary.

Facing that barricade of creatures, Samuel raised his voice, hoping to

make himself heard.

"Get out o' th' way, for God's sake! Get out o' th' way! "

A few creatures were sensible enough to move to the side, and, as Samuel jostled his way through the narrow gap that this had provided

him with, he shouted back to Marianne. "Miz Marianne! Don't just stand there! You know where t' find Sister

Bethelle, don't you? Fetch 'er, quick-like!"

Marianne shook herself out of her daze, and hastened off to obey, leaving Salome to grope her way towards the

back of the hall.

The Abbess and Sister Bethelle arrived simultaneously. Although the

Abbeybeasts were docile enough to clear a path for these two, allowing

them to enter the Infirmary, the Abbess was forced to shriek in order to make herself heard; but for that she was fortunate, for she did not

receive a reply to any of her questions, or a response to any of her commands.

Then, Skipper Johndam appeared. His very presence brought complete silence and order to the hall, even before he roared, "Shuttup, all

o' ye!"

The Abbeybeasts retreated from the hall, one by one, in twos and

threes. Samuel was free to carry Muryet into the Infirmary.

Stooping beside the nearest bed, he deposited her onto the blanket, and

Sister Bethelle hurried over to her side.

Within moments, the little form had been shrouded in a quilt, and her

head lay in Sister Bethelle's lap. Several times the old squirrel

Sister had dunked her paw into a bowl of cold water and doused

Muryet's face, all to no avail. She shook her head.

"Look at it . . . this lump. And she shows no signs of reviving . . ."

Only the Abbess seemed to have regained some of her composure. She knelt beside the bed to examine the

lump more carefully.

"She received a blow to the skull, did she not, Samuel?"

Samuel stared down at the blood splotches on his tunic - dark,

reddish-black, still damp. "Aye, Mother Abbess - somethin' like that,

I s'pose."

Skipper Johndam, determined not to shout again, was forced to resort to

a gritted-teeth whisper. "Somethin' like that? Lissen t' me, mate, this

ain't no 'somethin' like that' matter! This may be a matter of life or

death for th' little maid! You saw all o' that blood - it's still

splattered all over yore tunic! An' on that topic, go an' change out o'

that thing! A meetin' may need t' be called, an' if th' Abbeybeasts get a

good glimpse at that thing they'll go insane! Shift yoreself!"

Great Hall was packed, from end to end. Every creature sat upright, ashen-faced, but

silent, listening as Marianne spoke.

"We didn't go t' do it, Mother Abbess."

Her voice was quivering. "I . . . didn't know Salome would . . . I saw her doing it, but I ought t''ave . . . stopped Muryet . . . but Salome never knew it would . . . Oh, 'Ellgates! Muryet's dead . . . dead . . . an' all o'

Mossflower's bein' overrun by vermin!" The squirrelmaid collapsed facedown upon the table surface, gasping and heaving, like a creature

who had nearly drowned.

But before pandemonium could erupt, the Abbess addressed her sharply.

"Now, miss, you will cease this foolishness immediately! Muryet is alive; Sister Bethelle felt her pulse. Sit up now, and draw in three deep breaths. Shouting and crying will only make everybeast worse."

Marianne did as she was told. The Abbess passed her a handkerchief.

"There's a good creature. Now, what happened? What did Salome do?"

Marianne wiped her eyes. "It's my fault, marm - I never ought t' 'ave stood by an' watch Muryet eat . . . eat that pastie. She didn't want t'

eat it . . . but Salome tempted 'er into it, an' she was so 'ungry . . . If it 'adn't been for us, she'd never 'ave gotten ill, an' she'd never 'ave got

'it in th' 'ead . . ."

Samuel glanced from Marianne's face to Salome, who was studying the floor. "Tempted 'er? Wot in all o' Mossflower is goin' on here?"

Abbess Elinor folded her paws in a no-nonsense manner. "Master Samuel, please tell us all what happened!"

Samuel explained that the Friar had sent the four young creatures into the Woods for fuel, that the maids had stopped in a clearing to eat, and that he had gone off to search for a suitable tree. He had returned to find that Muryet was feeling unwell and insisted upon lying there,

so he had taken Marianne and Salome along with him.

"I chopped for a bit an' then went back t' th' spot to check up on Muryet. But she wasn't there. I wandered about, lookin' for her, callin' 'er name. That's when I stepped into another clearin' - an' there she was, standin' there, simperin' away . . . an' four or five

awful-lookin' varmints were closin' in on 'er - great, ugly, patch-furred creatures. One 'ad a spear aimed at 'er, an' another 'ad a strip o' cloth in one paw an' a coil o' rope over 'is shoulder."

He paused, for he realized then that his paws were clenched. He managed to

unclench them, and took several deep breaths, just as Marianne had done.

"Yelled at th' squirrelmaid t' run t' me . . . though a 'eavy axe wouldn't 'ave been much good as a weapon. But she just looked at me, still with that great smile on 'er face, an' said 'Samuel.' Said it over an' over again - like an echo. I kept shoutin', but she wouldn't budge. I 'ad t' make a lunge, an' use th' axe as well as I could. All th' time, one o' th' creatures kept yellin' t' th' others t' knock me down first, but not t' slay me. As I got near Muryet, she just fell t' th' ground, senseless. I scooped 'er up an' made off with 'er. Her 'ead was lollin' over my shoulder, and when one o' th' scum flung a slingstone, it got 'er, not me."

"And this is what caused the lump upon her head," Abbess Elinor said softly. She paused. "But what of the

sickness that you mentioned – and the turnover that Marianne mentioned? What is all of this?"

Skipper Johndam, however, was slowly beginning to understand.

"Muryet gets drunk off o' bread an' such things, just as Brother Aaron

gets drunk off o' beverages, if you'll pardon my words." His eyes came

to rest upon Salome. "An' she didn't want t' eat this turnover. But Miz

Salome tempted her t' take it, Miz Marianne says. Is that true?"

Salome squirmed a little. She attempted a sheepish smile. "Aye, but I 'adn't a clue

it'd 'arm 'er, Skipper. I knew she was 'ungry, an' th' fruit an' cheese wasn't

enough, so I figured I'd. . ."

Her voice trailed off, for the Skipper's gaze had not shifted from her, and Samuel, too, was staring at her, apparently

speechless.

Abbess Elinor took the floor. "Salome, Samuel, have you offered any

other food or drink to Muryet since you arrived at the Abbey?"

Still Samuel was unable to speak, so Salome answered for herself and for him. "Samuel

offered 'er a scone some part o' th' mornin', Mother Abbess . . .an' I, er,

'elped Marianne t' make a sweetmeat basket or 'er."

Skipper Johndam gave a mirthless laugh. "Bread again, aye? An' sweetmeats - well, there's a wealth o'

meanin' in that. Pray tell me, wot sort o' sweetmeats?"

Salome's voice was small. "Just some candied fruit an' nuts."

Skipper half-smiled.

"An amazin' tale, ain't it? Master Samuel an' th' little maids are

takin' a stroll, when Miz Salome 'ands Miz Muryet a bit o' turnover that causes 'er t' drop senseless in th' mid o' th' Woods. But it's quite all right - only a mistake. Except for a few things - she just 'appened t' drop senseless in th' mid of a

pack o' vermin, an' while our Master Samuel was tellin' us about 'er sudden blackout, Miz Salome forgot t' menton th' turnover, till Miz Marianne kindly told us about it."

Even in his present mood, Samuel felt that he must place a protective arm about his sister's shoulders. "It was th' shock made 'er forget

it, Skipper. You'd do th' same, in 'er place!"

Skipper Johndam widened his eyes in mock understanding. "Ah, it was th' shock made her forget. But, if Miz Marianne 'adn't brought it up, would she 'ave ever remembered?

"Now, don't start bristlin' up, mate. Bless yore 'eart, I'd never accuse you of a crime. Just show me one little thing an' I'll let you retire t' th' Infirmary – all those 'eroics with th' choppin' axe must 'ave worn you out.

"Tell me . . . where's that blade o' yores?"

Without turning his head, Samuel spoke softly.

"Salome, you dropped that thing, didn't you?"

Salome avoided the eyes of all of the creatures. "Aye. I . . . I mean, no. I lost it . . . in that mess o'

leaves an' shrubs."

Skipper Johndam smiled again. "I see. First th' dagger was dropped. Now

it's lost in th' foliage. Irrecoverable, eh?"

Salome tried to smile back. "S'pose so, sir."

"Tell me, Miz Salome, how 'eavy was that dagger 'ilt?"

"Er . . . I don't know, sir. . . "

"Reckon it was 'eavy enough t' clunk a senseless squirrelmaid with an' make a lump that looked like a slingstone

lump, or t' knock 'er with 'cos she wasn't faintin' - or dyin' – fast enough?"

At that moment, it seemed as if decorum - and sanity - flew out of the window.

Marianne sprang to her feet, crying, "In God's name, Master Johndam!"

[belle]

Anyone enjoying this story? Any constructive criticism?