Part 4 (2/2)

59.

”Yurr, pa.s.s oi that troifle, oi dearly do luv troifle. Hurr, coom on. Abbot zurr, you'm b'aint ayten 'ardly a boit. Let oi 'elp you f summ o' thiz yurr salad 'n'bread'n'-cheese'n bell tower pudden.”

”Oh er, all together? Thank you, Foremole, most kind. Have you tried my Redcurrantwall Abbot Alf cake?''

”Strike me sails, Mordalfus, thaf s a nice long name for a good-sized cake,” Winifred commented. ”Ho, it tastes 'andsome. Pa.s.s us the cider, matey.”

”My, my, Basil, you're not saying much.”

”Mmmfff scrumff grumphhh. Action, laddie buck, that's the ticket. Grmffff, munchmunch, slurrrp!”

'Try some of my woodland pie, Matthias. By the fur, is that Basil behind the huge plateful over there?”

”Thank you, Brother Rufus. A little more nutbrown beer for you? Haha, so it is. Every time his ears show over the top of that pile of food he shoves more on it. Oh dear. I'm sure he'll explode before the evening's out. Hi, Basil, steady on old lad.”

”Grmmmfff, munch. Beg pardon, old mouse, can't hear you. Must be me old war wound, snchhh, gulp* Oh no, ifs a stick of celery in me ear. How*d that get there, chompchomp, grumphhhl”

The Abbot was upstanding now. He beat upon the table with a wooden ladle.

”Silence, please. Give order and make way for Friar Hugo and the fish.”

The carp was on a low wide trolley. Hugo would allow none to help. Proudly he pulled and tugged until he drew it up to the table. Fanning himself with the tail-held dockleaf, he regained his breath.

”Abbot, the fish prayer, if you please.”

The eating stopped. All sat in reverent silence as Mordalfus spread his paws over the carp and intoned: ”Fur and whisker, tooth and daw, All who enter by our door. Nuts and herbs, leaves and fruits, 60.

Berries, tubers, plants and roots. Silver fish whose life we take Only for a meal to make.”

There was a loud and heartfelt ”Amen” from all.

The Abbot gave the proceedings over to Hugo, and the fat little Friar cleared his throat.

”Ahem, my friends, this year I have created for you a dish known as Carp Capitate. You will observe that I marinated my fish in a mixture of cider and dandelion extract. It has been grilled on a turning spit, skinned and laid in a slow-cooking mixture of cream and mushrooms with hotroot pepper, then garnished with flaked almond, mint leaves and chopped greens.”

”Absolutely spiffin'. I say, Hugo, you old pan-walloper, d'you need a good steady-pawed fellow to help you t' serve the old trout, wot wot?”

Friar Hugo never blinked an eyelid, but there were t.i.tters and smothered giggles from every corner at Basil's offer. Hugo addressed the Abbot: ”Lord Abbot, before I serve you the first portion to taste, can I suggest jugged hare for our n xt banquet?”

Basil's ears stood straight up with indi nation. ”I say, steady in the ranks there. I wouldn't be a >le to have any, doncha know.”

Amid gales of unrestrained laughter. Abbot Mordalfus dug his fork into the delicious dish. A whisker's-breadth away from his lips he stopped the loaded fork and said, ”Friar Hugo, my most old and valued chef, I p.r.o.nounce this dish totally excellent merely by the sight and aroma, knowing that when I actually taste it, I will be lost for words.”

A cheer went up at the Abbof s gallant p.r.o.nouncement. Hugo fanned himself furiously with pleasure at the compliment.

Basil Stag Hare actually ate four portions, claiming that he had an otter ancestor somewhere in his family tree.

Then the toasting started, led by Ambrose Spike. ”I 61.

would like to toast all Redwall Abbots past, and in particular good old Mordalfus, our present Abbot.”

”Yurr yurr, gudd owd M'dalfuzz.”

”I would like to toast Matthias the Warrior, our champion,” called out Brother Rufus.

”Good egg, I'll second that, old bean.”

”I would like to toast our young ones, the hope of future seasons to come.”

”Hear, hear. Cornflower. Well toasted.”

”Ahem, as a retired regimental buffer, I'd like to toast anything on toast: cheese, mushrooms, what have you. ...”

”Oh, all right, Basil. Here's to tomatoes on toast.”

”I toast Mr. Hare and Mr. Spike.”

”Sit down, baby Rollo, and drink your milk.”

”Here's to the otters and the squirrels.”

”Bravo, here's to the sparrows and the moles.”

”To Redwall Abbey.”

”To Mossflower Woods.”

The toasts flew fast and thick. Laughter, song, good food, sufficient drink and friendly company were making it a feast to remember.

Then Slagar the Cruel knocked upon the door of Redwall Abbey.

62.

1O.

Slagar turned to the group at the cart. They had been watching him banging fruitlessly upon the main gate.

”They'll never hear you, Chief,” Wartdaw ventured. ”We'll have to think of some other way to distract them.”

Slagar's paw was numb from hitting the woodwork. ”We? You mean me, don't you? Here, Skinpaw, sing that song. Halftail, get that little drum from the cart and beat it. Scringe, there's a flute in the cart. See if you can get a nine out of it.”

Skinpaw was the only one of the slavers who had actually been in a travelling show. Filling his lungs, he began singing the song of strolling performers, in a cracked voice.

”Lalalalalalala, we travel from afar, Derrydown dill, over vale and hill. We camp beneath the stars. Lalalalalalala, good fortune to you, sir. The strolling players bring to you Magic from everywhere. . . .”

Skinpaw shrugged at Slagar. ”Chief, thaf s all I know. I've forgotten the rest.”

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