Fenna called out to them. “Saro, Brag, is that you? We’ve come down for a little peek.”
The otter’s voice, which sounded rather grumpy, echoed back at them. “I told ye t’stay on top, you should be mindin’ Horty. Who knows wot that buffoon’ll be up to be’ind our backs!”
Saro’s voice interrupted him. “Oh, there’s no harm done, mate. Let ’em come an’ take a look.”
It was quite a sight. The passage opened up into an underground chamber, lined with stone walls. At its centre stood a plinth, littered with old bones and a white cloth habit that had faded to the texture of a cobweb. In front of the plinth lay what had once been a chair with wheels but now was little more than a small heap of dry, insect-bored sticks. There were two more torches in wall sconces on one wall behind the plinth.
After Saro had lit them, she gestured about with her own guttering torch. “Well, this is it, mates. We’ve travelled long’n’far, just to find this sad ole lot. Those bones are wot’s left o’ pore Abbess Sylvaticus. But can ye guess wot those rotted sticks are?”
Springald picked up a piece of the timber in her paw. It crumbled to dust. “Don’t tell me, this was the chair once used by Sister Amyl. Those little round black stones with holes in them must have been its wheels. Huh, they’re the only things recognisable after all this time.”
Crouching down, Bragoon sifted through the debris with his swordpoint. “Must’ve been ’ere thousands of seasons. How did the rhyme go . . .
“Beneath the flower that never grows,
Sylvaticus lies in repose.
My secret is entombed with her,
look and think what you see there.
A prison with four legs which moved,
yet it could walk nowhere,
whose arms lacked paws, but yet they held,
a wretched captive there.”
Bragoon rose up and put away his blade. “Aye, that’s Sister Amyl’s chair, sure enough, but where’s the Sister’s secret?”
Saro gnawed at her lip. “Imagine pore young Martha when we get back an’ tell ’er there was nought but a pile o’ dust an’ four black stones!”
Springald hung her head miserably. “It doesn’t bear thinking about. Now I wish we’d never found it.”
Fenna retrieved the four little black stone wheels. She stowed two in her belt pouch and gave the other two to Springald. “At least these’ll prove we’ve been here. Come on, Spring, let’s go back and see how Horty’s doing.”
Bragoon gave them one of the torches to guide them out. “Aye, you young ’uns go an’ do that. Me’n my ole mate are goin’ to stay down here awhile an’ search.”
Fenna shrugged glumly. “Waste of time, there’s nothing left to search for. Oh well, please yourselves.”
The otter cautioned them. “Don’t mention anythin’ to Horty, wot with Miss Martha bein’ ’is sister an’ all that. Tell ’im we’re still searchin’. Better still, take Horty back to ole Toobledum’s ’ouse an’ wait fer us there. We shouldn’t be too long. Will ye do that for me?”
They nodded and trudged back to Horty.
Toobledum had taken the liberty of making a meal for them from the remnants of the ration packs. His little sand lizard capered about on its back paws, delighted to see the young ones returning.
The old dormouse proudly raised his floppy hat. “Sit down, one an’ all, see wot I cooked up for ye. Me’n likkle Bubbub did ye a stew. ’Tis made of all things good, wid an apple crumble fer afters an’ a drop o’ me own special whortleberry cup brew to drink. Ho dear, wot ’appened to pore master Horty?”
Horty blinked oddly at the dormouse. “What the dickens is the old chap wafflin’ about? Who’s he goin’ to plaster for being naughty, wot?”
Fenna roared down his good ear. “He said, What’s happened to poor master Horty!”
The young hare waggled a paw in his good ear. “No need to bellow, miss!”
Then he turned to Toobledum. “Ah, well may you ask, little fat sir. I suffered a dreadful injury to the old ear, but I’m keepin’ jolly brave about it. Mmmm, nothin’ wrong with a chap’s nose, though! That stew smells like just the ticket. Whack me out a large portion, sir dormouse, looks like a splendid cure for thickearitis!”
Toobledum humoured Horty by giving him a large bowlful. The young hare was halfway through it when he held the bowl out. “Don’t stint on the stew, I always say. Never mind Brag’n’Saro, they’re far too old to appreciate good scoff. I say, those two relics should be back by now. Huh, loiterin’ around graveyards, bloomin’ bad form, they’ll go all morbid.”
It was over an hour before the two searchers made an appearance. The dormouse and Bubbub welcomed them back. Springald gave them two bowls she had washed out. “Toobledum made some delicious stew, but you’d better get some fast before Horty hogs it all down.”
The young hare looked up from a beaker of whortleberry cup. “I heard that, marm. Why should frogs fall down? Complete gibberish if y’ask me, wot!”
Springald waited until the two had finished eating before she enquired. “Well, did you find anything?”
Saro smiled at Bragoon, who winked back at her as he sipped his drink. “Hmm, whortleberry juice! ’Tis a while since I’ve tasted that. Used t’be me favourite drink at one time.”
Fenna twirled her bushy tail impatiently. “You haven’t answered the question. Did you find anything?”
Saro tasted her drink, still smiling secretively. “Aye, ’tis nice, a sweet taste. Mind ye, I was allus partial to a drop o’ nettle beer, like those otterpals o’ yores drinks, up on the north coast.”
Horty looked from one to the other. “Who’s seen a ghost?”
Fenna fumed. “Oh, put a cork in it, Horty! Now, Mister Bragoon, Madam Sarobando, will you answer the question. Please!”
Old Toobledum chuckled. “Heeheehee, I knows ye found somethin’, yore both sittin’ there lookin’ like a pair o’ toads eatin’ trifle. Put the young ’uns out their misery an’ tell ’em, mates.”
The otter produced a small cylinder of parchment. He tossed it from paw to paw. “We found it—this is Sister Amyl’s secret.”
Springald was about to reach for it, when Saro caught the cylinder and stowed it in her belt pouch. “No ye don’t, Spring, this is for none but Martha t’read!”
Fenna pouted indignantly. “How do you know that?”
Bragoon raised his eyebrows. “Because, miss clever clogs, it sez so on the parchment. Read it to ’em, mate.”
Saro took out the little scroll that had been tied with a few threads to keep it closed. On the outside was some tiny, squiggly writing. She peered at it closely, reading slow. “Only the one who needs this shall know my secret!”
Bragoon levelled a paw at them. “None of you young ’uns needs to know, only Martha, ’cos she’s the one who needs it. We haven’t looked at it ourselves, out o’ respect to Martha. So nobeast is goin’ to find out Sister Amyl’s secret except that young hare back at the Abbey o’ Redwall. We’re bound back there at tomorrer’s dawn, with all ’aste!”
Fenna, however, still had a question that needed answering. “But we saw the place, there was absolutely nothing down there but bones, powdery wood and dust. How did you come to find it?”
Bragoon paused briefly before launching into his explanation. “It was at the bottom o’ that stone thing where Abbess Sylvaticus lay . . .”
Springald interrupted. “The plinth, you mean?”
Saro nodded. “Aye, the plinth, that was it. We was about to leave the place, when I took one o’ those torches off’n the wall, ’cos our torch ’ad gone out. Well, I stubbed me footpaw on the bottom o’ the plinth, an’ one o’ the stones came loose. Brag pulled it out an’ there ’twas, lyin’ as safe an’ neat as ye like, be’ind a stone all that time.”