Saro gnawed at her lip. “Aye, I think yore right, Brag. Tell ye what, let’s just slip in unnoticed an’ sort of mingle with the crowd. That way we can judge the lay o’ the land.”
The otter grinned furtively at his companion. “The way we used to come an’ go, through the ole east wall gate. I’ll bet ye can still open it.”
Saro clapped his back with her bushy tail. “Great idea! Come on, let’s give it a try. We’ll disguise ourselves up a bit so as not to cause too much of a stir!”
Brother Weld, an old bankvole who was Abbey Beekeeper, perched on the arm of Abbot Carrul’s chair to watch the fun. Some of the other games were in progress, and competition among the Dibbuns was fierce.
The Abbot watched them fondly as he reminisced. “I was pretty good at the nut and spoon race in my younger seasons.”
Weld kept his eyes on the games as he observed drily, “Aye, Father, you beat me three seasons on the run. Then they caught you sticking your nut to the spoon with honey.”
Abbot Carrul cautioned him. “Not so loud, Weld, keep your voice down. We can’t have the young ’uns discovering that a Dibbun who cheated at nut and spoon is now their Abbot!”
Three of the Dibbuns—Muggum, Shilly and Yooch—were trying madly to win the greasy pole event. A big bag of candied chestnuts hung from the top of the pole. It resisted all their efforts. Each time, they ended up skimming dismally down to earth, caked with a mixture of soap and vegetable oil. After some earnest plotting, they hatched up a joint plan. Muggum stood tippaw, grasping the base of the pole. Yooch scrambled up the molebabe’s back and stood on his head. Both clung tightly to the pole, then Shilly climbed up over them onto Yooch’s head. Holding the pole with one paw, the squirrelbabe strove with her free paw to reach the bag. Unfortunately, the combined height of all three Dibbuns was still short of the prize. Muggum could not look up, his tiny face squinched by the weight of his two pals. But that did not stop him yelling out words of encouragement.
“Gurr, goo on Shilly, grab ee chesknutters naow!”
Shilly roared back at him. “I carn’t not gerrem, me paw bee’s too likkle’n’short!”
Yooch the molebabe grunted his contribution. “Moi pore bee’s flattinged, ’urry up!”
Amid the spectators’ shouts of support and hoots of laughter at the spectacle, Fenna came bounding out. The squirrelmaid hopped up the backs of all three Dibbuns. Launching herself from the top of Shilly’s head, she made a graceful leap. Fenna effortlessly unhooked the bag of candied chestnuts. Performing a spectacular somersault, she landed neatly on the ground, without a speck of grease anywhere on her.
She smiled smugly. “No trouble at all, the prize is mine!”
Martha’s voice cut across her jubilant cries. “Not fair! It’s the greasy pole you’re supposed to climb, not the greasy Dibbuns. You should forefeit the nuts, Fenna!”
Fenna stuck her lip out and pouted. “But I won them!”
The Abbot left his armchair and took possession of the bag. “The object is to get the nuts. There’s no hard-and-fast rule about climbing greasy poles. But be fair, Fenna. The little ones tried so hard, and they gave us all such fun. I suggest we split the nuts four ways betwixt you and them.”
Whilst everybeast was applauding the decision, Toran caught Shilly and Yooch as they fell backwards from the pole. Horty was left with the task of unsticking Muggum, who was practically plastered to the pole with grease. He tugged his snout politely to the young hare.
“Thankee, zurr, oi thort oi wuz stucked thurr fer loife!”
Horty gazed down at his clean tunic, now coated with the mess. “Oh, think nothin’ of it, old lad. My pleasure, wot!” He slipped and fell flat as he stumbled away from the pole.
By the pondside an old female squirrel, her face hooded against the sun by a cowl, was bathing her footpaws in the reeded shallows. An otter of medium size, his face also hooded, sat next to her. Sister Portula sought a seat in the reedshade alongside them, fanning her face with a dockleaf.
“Whew, this is certainly going to be a memorable summer!”
The otter glanced sideways at her. “Has afternoon tea been served yet, Sister?”
Portula swiped at a flying midge which was tormenting her. “We never serve afternoon tea when there’s going to be an evening feast. You knew that, didn’t you, Brother?”
The female squirrel sighed. “Oh no, I was lookin’ forward to some nice scones with strawberry preserve an’ meadowcream.”
Portula had to raise her voice to be heard over the sounds of sporting revellers. “The walltop race will be starting soon. I think first prize for that might be a cream tea with scones.”
The squirrel jumped upright, surprisingly spry for one of her long seasons. “Right, I’ll enter an’ win first prize!”
The Sister shook her head doubtfully. “You’ll have lots of competition from younger and fitter creatures, I’m afraid.”
The otter smiled knowingly. “Oh, don’t ye worry about that, Sister. If’n there’s a prize of afternoon tea goin’, my mate’ll win it. Right, Saro?”
The squirrel threw off her cowl. “I’ll give it a good try, Brag, an’ maybe I’ll share it with ye.”
The good Sister stared open-mouthed at the aging squirrel. “Saro, is it really you?”
Saro took the old Recorder’s paw and shook it warmly. “Aye, Portula, my ole friend, an’ guess who this creakin’ ruddered lump is?”
Portula was all aflutter. “Wait, don’t tell me now. . . . Oh, seasons o’ mercy, it’s Bragoon!”
She raced off, waving her paws wildly and shouting, “They’re back! It’s Bragoon and Sarabando! They’re back!”
The squirrel watched her go. “Hear that, I got me full title!”
The games were abandoned for the moment. Redwallers crowded to the pond to see the legendary duo. Both beasts were overwhelmed by pawshakes, kisses, backslaps and the embraces of old friends. Banter and welcomes went back and forth as they were reunited with the comrades of long-gone seasons.
“Saro, you bushy-tailed rogue, ’tis me, Phredd the Gatekeeper!”
“Old Phredd? I don’t believe it. Are you still here?”
“Och, ’tis that dreadful Dibbun Bragoon! Where’ve ye been, ye bold wee scamp?”
“Sister Setiva, a pleasure t’see yore face, marm. Been? Oh me’n Saro’ve been as far as there an’ back a few times!”
“Yurr, oi’d know ee thievin’ likkle face anywhurrs, Miz Saro!”
“Granmum Gurvel, my ole beauty, give me a hug, quick!”
“Haharr, who’s that—not young Carrul the nut’n’spoon cheat?”
“Bragoon, friend of my Dibbun days, oh ’tis so good to see you! Ahem, the name’s changed now, I’m Father Abbot Carrul. But what a pleasure to see you, and Saro, too!”
“Look out, who’s this big, rough-lookin’ villain, eh?”
“Oi bee’s Muggum, marm, bee’s you’m really Sabburandum?”
Suddenly Bragoon found himself swept off his paws and hugged in a viselike grip. Tears flowed freely down Toran’s face.
“Brother Brag, you’ve come home to Redwall!”
Planting a kiss between Toran’s ears, Bragoon wheezed. “Brother Toran, I won’t see sunset if’n ye crush me t’death. I missed ye, Toran, y’great lump of an otter!”
Greeting upon greeting followed, everybeast seemed at once to be embracing the pair. The air resounded to cries of “Well I never, my oh my, just look at ye, welcome home!”
Springald, Horty and Fenna stood to one side. Like most teen-season creatures, they were embarrassed by all the hugging and kissing among elders.
Springald muttered in resignation. “I suppose that means the end of the Games Day. Huh, I’d have won the wall race easily if they hadn’t turned up.”
Fenna passed each of them a piece of candied chestnut, musing aloud. “So, that’s the famous Bragoon and Saro. Huh, they’re not as big as I thought they’d be. They look pretty old, too—creaky, I’d say. What do you think, Horty?”