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Boorab pondered Drogg's answer a moment, then he laughed. "Hawhawhaw! Well, frizzle m'whiskers, sah, y'could be right there. The rogue does have a certain turn of phrase, wot?"

Drogg patted his ample stomach proudly. "I reckon he gets it from me. Us Spearbacks was always good poets, fine singers too. Comes nat'ral to us!"

Brother Hoben, the old Recorder, had a wry sense of humor, despite his serious and learned look. Not averse to a bit of mischievous fun, he tapped Boorab.

"Excuse me, sir, but if I were you, being the official Abbey poet and musician, I'd say that Drogg was issuing a challenge!"

Cregga and several others caught on to Hoben's idea. They pounded on the tables, calling out, "A contest! Let's have a contest!"

Drogg shrugged." 'Tis fair enough wi' me. I don't mind."

Bells tinkled on Boorab the Fool's ears as they stood erect. "I accept the challenge, sah. A contest it is, an' may the best creature win, wot wot!"

Hoarg the dormouse piped up. "A contest then, but what's the subject to be?"

Cregga's keen ears detected the creaking of trolley wheels. "They're bringing the food to serve for our feast. Let's make that the subject. A musical verse praising our cooks' efforts!"

Boorab waggled his ears confidently. "Ask me t'sing about scoff? Pish tush, sah, a piece of cake. You're on a loser, me old pincushion. Like to go first?"

Drogg waved a paw airily. "Nay, sir, if'n yore so good, don't let me stop ye!"

Boorab stood to one side, striking a fine dramatic pose, one leg behind the other, ears laid soulfully back, paws bent at chest height in true hare singing fashion. Casting his eyes over the contents of the carts as the servers trundled them up to the tables, he coughed politely and launched into a speedily delivered verse.

"How can one count the praises of the vittles at Redwall?

Oh pure delight, oh wondrous night, I'll sing to one and all.

Thaaaaaaat blackberry pudden looks such a good 'un,

All covered in meadowcream.

And the hazelnut cake, well for goodness' sake,

I hope it's no jolly old dream.

That huge apple pie, oh me oh my, the crust is pipin' hot,

Good creatures be nice, an' save me a slice,

Or I'm sure I'll die, wot wot!"

Foremole Brull nudged a cart with her footpaw. It rolled gently to rest, right under Boorab's nose. The hare tried bravely to carry on singing with a hot mushroom pastie, dripping onion gravy, simmering under his nose.

"What rhymes with pastie, I'll try to sing fastly,

My nose tells me 'tis wrong,

This soon will grow cold, if I may make so bold,

Pray excuse a chap endin' his song!"

Unable to stand it any longer and disregarding cutlery, the gluttonous hare hurled himself barepawed upon the pastie. "Grmmff, I say, sninch grrmm, rotten ole mole cad, grmmff grrawff, put me off my ditty completely, grrmff snch, bounder!"

Drogg the Cellarhog fell off his chair laughing. "Ohohoho! Nobeast could follow that. Mr. Boorab, take a tankard o' my finest October Ale an' wet yore whistle. You win!"

Sister Alkanet helped herself to a plate of summerfruit salad and a mint wafer spread with soft white cheese. Looking prim and severe, she remarked to Brother Hoben, "That hare! What a bad example he's setting to the young ones!"

On the Dibbuns' table many Abbeybabes were imitating Boorab. Little Gundil was practically washing his face in a portion of deeper'n ever turnip'n'tater'n'beetroot pie, the moles' favorite dish. A tiny squirrel and an infant mousemaid were feeding each other pawfuls of summer vegetable soup. It looked as if they were trying to paint one another. Egburt and Floburt were at either end of an applecream flan, munching away, eager to see who would got to the center first. Table manners, spoons, forks and serviettes were completely ignored as each Dibbun went at it paw and snout, enjoying the fun and the food.

Sister Alkanet was about to rise and deal with them, but brother Hoben pressed her gently back into her seat. "Please, Sister, let them be. Dibbuns don't remain babes forever. To them 'tis all a game. Let them play it and have a good time."

Alkanet picked daintily at her salad and fumed. "It's not good manners. Look at the mess they're making. Look at those smocks, clean on this evening. Who'll get the job of washing them? Certainly not me!"

A fat kindly mole called Wummple poured a beaker of dandelion cordial and passed it to the Sister, chuckling. "Hurrhurrhurr. Doan't ee fret, marm, oi'll be ee washerbeast. You'm let they likkle h'infants be. They'm full of 'arpiness. Oi wishes oi cudd join 'em, burr aye!"

Cregga sat back, sipping at a small cup of elderberry wine, letting the festive feeling wash over her. Everybeast tried to press different delicacies upon the Badgermum, and she acknowledged them all pleasantly.

"Yurr, marm, oi saved ee summ turnip'n'tater'n' beetroot poi. Foremole Brull sez et makes ee grow big'n'strong!"

"Thank you, Gundil. I hope it makes me grow big and strong as you."

"Try some o' my best October Ale, marm. It's a new barrel."

"Put it down there, Drogg, I'll sample it later, thank you.

"Cregga, I saved you a slice of plumcake, it's delicious!"

"I'm sure it is, Friar. I was hoping you'd save some for me."

The big badger accepted everything graciously, knowing that her friends thought she did not know what was on the tables because of her blindness. Cregga, however, had extra-keen hearing and an amazing sense of smell and touch. Hot scones she could detect by their aroma, even before they were brought to the festive board. Cheese, ale, salads, bread, trifles, cakes and puddings: she could place them all in position uncannily, at their exact location in relation to where she sat.

Somebeast touched her paw, and without thinking she identified who it was. "Enjoying yourself, Skipper?"

The otter shook his head in amazement. "Aye, marm, 'tis a grand ould party. I brought you some o' the watershrimp an' 'otroot soup wot Mhera an' Filorn made. Stripe me rudder, I never tasted better in all me life, marm!"

Cregga mentally chided herself. She had not heard the voices of the ottermum and her daughter at table for a considerable time. She patted an empty space on the tabletop, indicating where Skipper should place the bowl of soup.

"Tell me, Skip, have you seen Mhera and Filorn anywhere?"

"In the kitchens last time I clapped eyes on 'em, marm. Why?"

Cregga rose from her seat carefully. "Sit in my chair and keep it warm for me, Skip. I'll not be gone for too long."

Cregga merged back into the orchard trees, not wanting anybeast to offer a paw to guide her. Silently, her paws touching familiar objects, she made her way back to the Abbey building. Like a great moonshadow she drifted noiselessly through Great Hall and down to the kitchens. Filorn and Mhera did not hear her enter. They were hugging each other, seeking comfort as their bodies shook with grief. No sooner did Cregga hear them weeping than she was at their side, holding them in her huge embrace.

"There, there, now, my good friends, what's brought all this about?"

Mhera turned her tearstained face up to the sightless eyes. "Oh, Cregga, I tried my best, I really did . . . but we miss Dad and little Deyna so much ..."

Sobs overcame the ottermaid's voice. Filorn continued haltingly where her daughter had left off.

"I knew that Mhera was trying to cheer me up after our loss, so I tried to be brave and not think about it. We busied ourselves and helped to organize the feast, and it worked for a while. But Skipper was so pleased with our freshwater shrimp and hotroot soup that he reminded us of poor Rillflag. It was my husband's special favorite, you see. So we couldn't help ... oh, dear!" A fresh burst of tears overflowed from Filorn.

Cregga herded them both into a corner. Sitting them down on a bundle of empty sacks, she whispered, "Stay there. I'll be back in a tick." She returned shortly with a flask and three tiny pottery cups, and sat down with the two otters. "This is very old strong damson wine, so sip it carefully."