Rakkety Tam (5 page)

Springtime had made its welcome presence felt at Redwall Abbey. Brother Demple, the skilful mouse who managed most of the cultivation besides serving as Abbey Beekeeper, was arranging seedlings in the vegetable gardens. Everybeast knew that Demple possessed a knowledge of the earth and an unsurpassed talent for growing things. Hitheryon Jem was helping Demple to bed and water the tiny plants. Both creatures knelt on moss-padded sacking, carefully arranging drills of scallions.

The Abbey Gardener watched Jem, nodding approvingly at the old hedgehog's work. “You like doing this, don't you, friend?”

Wiping soil from his trowel, Jem straightened his back. “Indeed I do, Brother. I often think I'd have done better as a gardener, instead o' bein' just a pawloose rover. Tell me, why've ye kept some o' these scallion sprigs back instead of plantin 'em all at once?”

Demple bedded another seedling in, covering its delicate roots. “Because they'd all grow at once, and we'd have a wonderfully useless bumper harvest. No, Jem, 'tis better
to plant vegetables at different times. Then, when we need some, they can be fresh-picked, leaving us room to grow more. Otherwise, our storerooms would be overfilled.”

He waved a paw across the vegetable gardens. “See, beetroots, leeks, lettuce, carrot, onion and cress. But never too many growing at one time, that's the trick.”

The wise mouse waved his trowel at two Dibbuns who looked as if they were ready to dash right through his produce. “Be careful to walk around the border! Now, how can I help you two rascals, eh?”

Demple remarked under his breath to Jem, “Sometimes I wish we could plant our babes like seedlings. At least it would stop them from charging through my drills like little ploughs.”

Mimsie and Mudge skirted the plants, calling out, “Bruvver Dimples, Fry Glis sended us. We gotta fetch herbers an 'tatoes an” coddyflowers, 'cos he's makin' a veggible bake wivva crust on it!”

The kindly Brother smiled. “Stop there, me and Mister Jem will take you to the storeroom to get them.”

Holding the Dibbuns' paws, Jem and Demple walked the babes back to the Abbey. Jem raised his spiky eyebrows at the molebabe. “Mudge, you should've gone to the stores in the first place. Our stuff isn't ready t'be picked yet.”

Mudge gave him a cheerful grin. “Hurr, us'n's bee's only h'infants, zurr. Ow'm uz apposed to know that?”

Jem looked down at the velvety little head. “Didn't the Friar tell you to get his supplies from the storerooms? I'll wager he did.”

Mudge smote his brow with a tiny paw. “Moi gudderness, so he'm did, zurr! But oi aspeck uz furgot to amember thart. Us'n's only got likkle brains, so uz h'offen furgets all kinds uv fings.”

Jem nodded sympathetically. “I know exactly wot you mean, mate. It happens to us old 'uns, too. I get like that a lot lately.”

They were getting the supplies out of the storeroom when Abbot Humble entered. “Hello! What are you two rascals up to, eh?”

Mimsie scowled. “Us not rakkles, we get veggibles for Glis!”

Humble patted her head. “Oh, right, there's a good little maid. I forgot, we're having a special supper tonight to honour our moles. Should be good fun, eh, Demple?”

Molebabe Mudge wagged a stern paw at Humble. “Nought funny abowt ee supper. Et bee's a gurt honner to bee ee moler, loike oi!”

Humble shook Mudge's tiny paw. “My apologies. I'm sure it is a great honour to be a mole, and you, my friend, are a shining example of a wonderful molebabe!”

Mudge scratched his snout and shuffled his footpaws, a sure sign of embarrassment displayed by Dibbun moles. “Noice uv ee to say so, h'Abbot zurr. Thankee!”

As the babes continued selecting their supplies, Humble remarked to his wandering cousin, “Jem, I was wondering if you could recall the lines that Askor related to you, the rhyme about the Walking Stone. Do you think you could remember his exact words?”

Pursing his lips, Jem stared at the ceiling, as if seeking inspiration there. “Hmm, somethin' about the sun fallin' from the sky an' dancin'. No, I'm sorry, I seem to 'ave forgotten it.”

Mudge left off nibbling a sweet young carrot. “Hurr hurr, you'm furgettin' to amember jus' loike oi. Yurr Jem, you'm a dozy ole pudden 'ead, hurr hurr!”

Jem made a stern face at the molebabe. “Don't be so cheeky to yore elders, ye young rip, an' leave those carrots alone!” He turned to the Abbot. “Why do ye wish to know the rhyme?”

Humble shrugged. “Just because it's a puzzle, I suppose. The idea of a Walking Stone intrigues me.”

Jem selected a cauliflower and plucked off a few of its outer stalks. “Hmm, that puzzle had me wonderin', too,
Cousin. Ahah, wait a moment! Screeve wrote it down at the meeting in Cavern Hole. She did, I remember now!”

Humble's eyes gleamed with pleasure. “What a splendid Recorder we have. Once Screeve makes another copy, Brother Gordale and I will get down to studying it. Mayhaps you and Walt would like to help us?”

Jem agreed instantly. “Aye, we'd love to 'elp out. Me'n Walt dearly likes a good riddle to solve, though we ain't learned as you Abbeybeasts. Shall we be startin' today?”

The Abbot shook his head. “Oh, good gracious no! We've got to attend the mole festivities tonight. All our Redwallers will be rehearsing their party pieces. I hope we shall see you and Walt doing something—a song, a dance, a poem. Even a trick would be acceptable.”

Jem scratched his spikes thoughtfully. “Well, it's been awhile since we was called upon t'do such things, but I'm sure we can oblige. I'll go an' speak to Walt if'n you'll excuse me, Cousin.”

 

Wandering Walt was down in the cellars with Foremole Bruffy and his crew. They were drinking daisybud and dockleaf tonic whilst tracing back through their ancestry. This was a pursuit beloved of moles. Though they were never quite truthful and were given to inventing tales, it was all in good fun.

Ole Jarge, an ancient, grey-backed mole armed with an ear trumpet, pulled a series of bark sketches from his belt wallet. He pointed to each in turn. “Naow, this 'un wurry Burby Longseason, ee'm wurr moi gurt-gurt-granfer's gurt-granfer. They'm sayed Burby cudd fall in ee barrel of 'tober ale at brekkist an' drink ee'm way owt afore supper, hurr aye!”

Laughing uproariously, the molecrew stamped the floor with their hefty footpaws, evidently vastly amused at anybeast who could perform this feat. They refilled their tankards and drank deep, waiting for a mole to cap Ole Jarge's tale.

Jem felt he was intruding on the all-mole gathering. He
backed out, politely tugging his headspikes. “Er, you'll excuse me, friends. Beg pardon. . . .”

A fat, homely molemum bustled him to a seat. “Nay nay, zurr Jem. You'm welcum as ee bumbly bee in ee rose garding. Set ee daown, ee'm 'edgehog bee's only ee mole with a spoiky 'ead!”

Some of the molecrew fell over backward with laughter at this remark. Jem found himself seated next to Walt, a large tankard of the fizzy tonic thrust into his paw. It tasted odd but rather pleasant, and it made Jem become quite giggly.

The moles continued with their stories. One jolly-looking fellow took the floor. “Hurr, moi ole granmum, she'm lived close by ee gurt mountain. So oi sez to 'er, ‘Granmum, 'ow long've ee lived yurr?' An' she'm sayed, ‘Since this yurr mountain bee'd only a likkle hill. Oi jus' woked upp one mornin' an' et'd growed thurr in ee noight!' ”

The moles were now in paroxyms of laughter, rolling about on the floor and gripping their sides. Jem giggled helplessly, even though most of what was being said went right over his head. Clearly, the jolly atmosphere was having a marked effect upon him.

Walt tapped his friend's shoulder. “Bee's you'm wanten to see oi, Jem?”

Wiping away mirthful tears, the hedgehog managed to control himself. “Aye, Walt. My cousin the Abbot wants to know if you'n I would like to 'elp him an' Gordale to solve that puzzle Askor gave us. But not tonight, we'll do it tomorrow.”

Walt nodded vigourously. “Boi 'okey us'n's will, Jem. We'm allus been fond o' rigglers an puzzlers!”

Satisfied that his friend was willing to lend assistance, Jem withdrew from the cellars, leaving the molecrew to their yarn telling. As he went out the door, he heard Walt setting up more gales of merriment with his contribution.

“Yurr, you'm knows moi mate, Ole Jem. Well, ee'm got a cuzzen who'm bee's his Father, hurr hurr hurr!”

Giggling and chuckling, Jem made his way to the room
that he and Walt had been allotted for their stay at the Abbey. The travelling hedgehog, fond of any sort of party, was eagerly looking forward to the evening's event. Jem sorted through his belongings to choose something appropriate for the festivities. After the long time he'd spent wandering with only Walt for company, this celebration with so many of his Redwaller friends was very welcome.

 

That evening, Burlop Cellarhog and Sister Armel stood guarding the door to Cavern Hole. It was to remain closed until Foremole Bruffy gave the word. A line formed along the corridor and down the stairs. Redwallers accompanying Dibbuns, all dressed in their festive best, waited, though not too patiently. There were cheers as Abbot Humble came down the stairs with his cousin Jem. Humble was garbed in a pale-green habit girdled with a thick, cream-hued cord. Jem had on a red tunic and a short cape of blue, silky fabric. Everybeast shuffled sideways to make way for them. Humble solemnly tapped three times upon the door.

Foremole's voice sounded from within. “Who'm bee's a-knocken' on this yurr door—be ee a moler?”

The Abbot answered as custom required. “No mole am I, but a Redwaller true, Father of this Abbey. I am come here with my friends, good creatures all. We are here to honour our trusty moles!”

Opening the door wide, Foremole Bruffy stood on the threshold. He had on a flowing cloak of rich brown velvet and a crown fashioned from buttercups, daisies and pale blue milkwort. In his right paw he bore a wand of willow branch with fuzzy catkins growing from it. Smiling from ear to ear, the mole chieftain intoned a traditional poem.

 

“Yurr bee's moi 'eart, an' yurr bee's moi paw.

Wellcum, an' henter ee thru this door.

Friends of'n ee bee's friends o' moine,

us'll all 'ave ee gurt ole toime!”

 

The Redwallers flooded into Cavern Hole, which was lit by coloured lanterns and decorated with spring flowers and streamers of coloured ferns. Moss-padded wall ledges provided seating all around. Three long tables were placed in an open square to leave room for the performers.

A barrel of last summer's strawberry fizz was on tap, along with October Ale, pale cider and rosehip cordial. The food was mainly good solid mole fare—deeper'n'ever turnip'n'tater'n'beetroot pie, leek and celery soup, spring salads and several enormous cheese-crusted loaves stuffed with chopped hazelnuts and mushrooms. For dessert there were inevitable mounds of hunnymoles, bowls of candied chestnuts and a huge, dark fruitcake decorated with preserved plums and damsons.

No sooner was the supper served than the entertainment commenced. To the music of flutes, tiny drums and a peculiar instrument called a molecordion, the small band struck up a paw-tapping family quadrille. Two rings were formed—the outer one by molemums and grandmums, the inner one by Dibbuns holding sticks. The elders began sticking out first their right, then their left footpaws, whooping and whirling around in a clockwise circle. The Dibbuns circled in the opposite direction, their little faces concentrating seriously as they tapped the floor skilfully between the elders' footpaws.

The sound of
tap tap tap, rap rap rap
resounded as the pace sped up. Gruff whoops and infant giggles rang out, the sticks missing footpaws by a hairsbreadth. Clapping in time to the dance, a group of fine bass and baritone moles began singing.

 

“Oi pray ee zurr doant 'it moi paw,

furr if'n ee do, et will be sore.

Thump ee stick down on ee floor,

an' us'n's will be 'arpy.

Rumpitty tum ho rumpitty tum,

moles bee's 'aven so much fun.

No likkle 'un will strike 'is mum,

'cos they'm luvs 'em so gurtly!”

 

Twice more they danced, each time tapping and rapping more rapidly until the sticks and paws moved in a blur. The entire ensemble took a bow to hearty applause. Then there were calls for a time-honoured request. “Foremole, do the poem with Abbot Humble. Do the poem!”

Humble and Bruffy, both modest creatures, were coaxed out onto the floor, shaking their heads and protesting.

“Oh no, please, surely you don't want to hear that old thing, do you?”

“Burr, oi doant thinks as 'ow oi can amember ee wurds!”

In the end, however, they had to concede to the roars of encouragement. Foremole stood up on a stool, striking a noble pose. Humble circled him slowly and began reciting.