The vermin advanced on them as they retreated. Sorely wounded and drained of strength, the two old friends continued to hack and slash. Vastly outnumbered by their adversaries, and knowing that they would be beaten and captured by Kharanjul, they crawled down from the long bridge, with one last desperate plan in mind.
The Wearet pressed forward, holding his lethal trident ready as he taunted his victims. “The Lord of Life and Death will keep you alive. I will make your dying long and slow. Your companions escaped the Wearet, but you shall pay for them!”
Bragoon and Sarobando were not listening. Between them they had jammed a half-dozen spearbutts under the end of the tree trunk. With a last mighty effort, both beasts put their shoulders to the spears, using them as levers.
Saro gritted her teeth and growled. “One, two, three. Push!”
The long trunk moved askew, with a grating of wood on rock. Panic ensued out on the tree trunk, as vermin tried to run back to the other side. Some threw themselves flat and clung on.
Bragoon yelled above the din of wails and screams. “She’s movin’, mate! Again, one, two, three! Push!”
Kharanjul dropped his trident. Crouching low, he gripped the tree trunk, trying to move forward and reach his enemy. At last the mighty trunk of the tree, once called Lord of Mossflower, groaned like a living thing as it made a half-turn to one side and slid over the brink of the ledge.
With the effort of their final push, the two old warriors had fallen flat. They watched as the log seemed to hang for a split second in space, with Kharanjul’s face looming in front of them. Then the whole trunk fell into the bottomless abyss. Screeches and shrieks rent the night air, swiftly fading to echoes. Down, down, into the dark gorge it all plunged—the Wearet, his vermin army and the only solid bridge that had ever spanned the awesome space.
Bragoon and Saro lay there, staring down into the void, their paws clasped. The aging squirrel closed her eyes. “Nice’n’peaceful ’ere now, mate, ain’t it?”
The otter gave her paw a faint squeeze. “Aye, restful ye might say. Summer’s a good time to lay down an’ rest.”
No longer able to keep them open, Bragoon slowly closed his eyes. “Saro, ye recall wot it said on that gravestone at Loamhedge? Young Fenna read it out to us. I said I liked the sound of it.”
Saro nodded weakly. “I remember, mate. It said ‘Gone to the sunny slopes an’ quiet streams.’ I liked it, too.”
The otter’s voice grew fainter as he repeated the phrase. “The sunny slopes an’ quiet streams . . . I’ll wait for ye there, Sarobando . . . Wouldn’t go anyplace without ye.” His paw went limp in the squirrel’s failing grasp.
She smiled. “Wait for me, Brag ole mate, I’ll be there.”
Two old warriors, who had left Redwall Abbey when they were Dibbuns, paw in paw, lay on the rockledge together. They never saw the sunrise that dawn, but they went on to the land of sunny slopes and quiet streams—still holding paws.
43
Summer’s days were growing short, passing gently into autumn. Redwall Abbey was restored to its former calm and grandeur. Abbot Carrul and Martha met for their early morning stroll, now a regular thing with the two friends before they took breakfast. A light mist—like golden gossamer—lay over the Abbey pond. They saw a grayling leap to catch an unsuspecting fly.
Carrul watched the ripples spread across the water. “I had a dream last night. It was a vision of Martin.”
The haremaid was startled by her Abbot’s revelation. “A dream of Martin the Warrior? Did he say anything, Father?”
The Abbot paused before answering. “He did, indeed, Martha. These were his very words.
“When autumn brings the harvest time,
good food you shall not lack,
when fruit lies heavy on the bough,
and travellers come back.
Look for the one who holds my sword,
these words of mine recall,
someday you will esteem that one,
as ruler of Redwall!”
Martha sat down on a log, puzzled by the rhyme. “Good grief, Father, there’s a lot of information in Martin’s words. Aside from the fact that there will be a fine harvest, our friends—Horty, Bragoon and the others—must be returning. Isn’t that great news! But I never guessed you were thinking of retiring from being Abbot of Redwall.”
Carrul sat down beside her. “The thought never crossed my mind, Martha. But Martin said someday, and someday in the future I would have to give serious thought to appointing my successor. Martin has saved me a lot of pondering, I’m grateful to him for that. However, his words are causing me a little concern. Think. Who did I give the sword to?”
The haremaid replied promptly. “You gave it to Bragoon.”
Carrul nodded his agreement. “Which is why I’m worried, Martha. Bragoon is a good friend, we were Dibbuns together. But he’s a rover, an adventurer. Ask Toran, Bragoon’s his elder brother, he’ll tell you. Bragoon’s too old and too wild to be Abbot.”
Martha held up a paw. “Not so fast, Father. The rhyme said ruler of Redwall, not Abbot. It may be an Abbess!”
Carrul clapped a paw to his cheek. “Fates forbid that it might be Sarobando! It would be woe to my poor Abbey.”
Martha could not help laughing. “Hahaha, oh Father, think for a moment. It could be Springald, or Fenna or . . .” Now it was Martha’s turn to look apprehensive. “Or Horty?”
Carrul placed a comforting paw on the haremaid’s shoulder. “Oh, come on now, miss! Martin the Warrior was renowned for his wisdom. What are we thinking about? He wouldn’t inflict any of those three rascals on our Abbey!”
Martha gave an audible sigh of relief. “You’re right, Father. But it might be nobeast we’ve thought of. What if they bring somebody back with them?”
Carrul pursued this idea enthusiastically. “Of course, there may have been other creatures living at Loamhedge. Say a sturdy young mouse, steeped in wisdom? Or a sagacious squirrel, the very model of common sense?”
Martha giggled. “Or a studious frog with the brain of an ant!”
Abbot Carrul smacked her paw playfully. “Now stop this nonsense, you young rip. Look, here comes breakfast!”
Toran had resumed his role as cook. He and Gurvel headed a procession carrying tables and benches, trolleys, dishes and food. He waved his ladle.
“Set ’em all up at the edge of the pond there, next to those two pore beasts who’ve been waitin’ out here all night!”
Carrul chuckled. “So ends our moment of peace for the day, Martha. Besieged by breakfasters!”
The haremaid went to help the servers. “Let’s join them, I’m starving!”
Setting up the tables, Brother Weld pulled a ferocious face at the Dibbuns, who were buzzing around like playful bees. “I’ll toss the lot of you into the pond if you don’t sit still and wait to be served. So behave yourselves!”
Muggum the molebabe clambered up on a bench, next to Buffle. “Hurr hurr, ee’m a gurt bold crittur t’be assultin’ uz loike that! Wot do ee say, Buff?”
The tiny mousebabe scowled darkly. “Gurrumff um burble fink!”
Old Phredd looked over his glasses at the infant mouse. “What did he just say?”
Sister Setiva tied a bib about Buffle’s neck. “Och, ah be afeared tae repeat it. But if the wee scamp says it again, ah’ll wash his mouth out with soap!”
The Dibbun squirrelbabe Shilly tugged at Martha’s paw. “When izza harviss gonna be, Marth’?”
The haremaid gave the reply she had been repeating to the Abbeybabes for the past few days. “On the first morning after the night of harvest moon. Be patient, it shouldn’t be too long now.”
Granmum Gurvel looked up from a pan of corn and fruit slices she was doling out. “Payshunt? You’m doan’t tell ee Redwallers t’be payshunt when they’m a waitin’ to get ee ’ arvest in, Miz Marth’!”