38

Tansy split the acorn shell that held the scrap of parchment. Unfolding it, she read aloud,

Tansy paused, shaking her head in despair. “Written separate to the rhyme is a pile of numbers which don’t seem to make any sense at all. Listen to this: Lines. One of one. Eight of two. One of three. Three of four. One of five. Six of six. Two of seven. Four of eight.”

She tossed the scrap of parchment to Craklyn. “There you are, friend, sort that little lot out!”

Chewing slowly on a wedge of pastie, the squirrelmaid narrowed her eyes, glaring a challenge at Tansy. “Do you think I can’t?”

Rollo peered over the tops of his glasses at her. “We have great faith in you.”

Craklyn took a great swig of her dandelion and burdock cordial. “Then you’re both a pair of dimwits, ’cos I haven’t the faintest clue what it all means!”

The three friends sat staring at one another for a moment, then broke out into spontaneous laughter.

Rollo dug his spoon into the fresh fruit salad. “If we’re a pair of dimwits then that makes you a blockhead, so among the three of us we’ll solve it. Hahaha!”

The Skipper of Otters was on his way upstairs to the infirmary when he met Sister Cicely coming down. Waving his rudderlike tail politely at her, he said, “Good noon t’ye, marm. I was just on me way up t’see Gerul. How is he today? Prob’ly still sleepin’ his injuries off, I wager.”

The good Sister glared frostily at the husky otter. “Hmph!” she replied.

Ever the gentlebeast, Skipper nodded courteously at the Sister. “Humff, marm? I s’pose there’s a wealth o’ meanin’ in the word, but it don’t tell me naught about ole Gerul. The pore bird was so badly wounded he was at death’s doorstep last night. Pray tell, wot’s his condition today, marm?”

Cicely was in no end of a huff. “That . . . that . . . owl! He rose not an hour ago, refused all treatment and hurled a pot of my best warm nettle soup from the infirmary window! You want to know his condition, go and find out for yourself, sir—he’s down in the kitchens, surrounded by otters, shrews and Dibbuns, cooking and eating everything in sight.” Brushing Skipper aside, Sister Cicely flounced downstairs.

Friar Higgle and Hogwife Teasel had dismissed the kitchen roster for the day, leaving the place open to anybeast wanting to drop by and prepare something. Gerul and his friends had taken Higgle and Teasel at their word, and now chaos reigned in Redwall Abbey kitchens.

Gerul and Arven were demolishing a huge fruitcake between them, whilst issuing orders to Rangapaw, Diggum and some shrews.

“Ah now, don’t be stingy, throw in a few more pawfuls of those luvly candied chestnuts. An’ y’need far more meadowcream than that if yore t’make a decent sweet owl junket. As me ould mother used t’say, plenty more’s better’n plenty less if yore cookin’ fer more’n a few. Ain’t that right, Arven me liddle mate?”

The squirrelbabe was sure it was. Waving a ladle at the cooks, he issued orders like one born to command. “Gerra more chessnuts anna big buckit of cream, a hooj big ’un. An’ frow some strawbees in, Arven like strawbees!” Then he turned to his owl friend with a serious frown. “Yore muvver musta been good an’ clever.”

Gerul dipped his talon in a pot of plum jam and sucked on it. “Ah, sure she was so clever she used to ask herself questions, so she did, it’s no good knowin’ wot y’know if you can’t ask yer own advice, she always said. Log a Log, how’s that shrew concoction comin’ along?”

The shrew Chieftain looked up irately from a steaming pan he was stirring. “The vegetables are doin’ nicely, but every time we get the pastry rolled out those moles keep pinchin’ it. Gerroutofit, rogues!” He threw a wet dishcloth at Gurrbowl and several other young moles who were shuffling off with his latest batch of pastry.

Foremole blinked quizzically at them over the top of a special deeper’n ever pie he was creating. “Hurr, wot do ee wanten all um pastry furr, Gadgee?”

The molebabe Gadgee poked his snout out from under a floppy layer of pastry he was carrying. “Furr maken ’unnymoles, zurr!”

Skipper joined the little moles as they kneaded dough on a countertop, busy as bees and covered in flour. “Ahoy, mates, wot’s an ’unnymole?” he asked.

Gurrbowl crossed his digging claws on his stomach, tut-tutting at the otter’s ignorance. “Chut chut, zurr! You’m doan’t knoaw wot ee ’unnymole is? Lukk an’ oi’ll show ee, you’m pay ’tenshun naow!”

The molebabe rolled out a small patch of pastry, spread it thick with honey and placed on it a strawberry and a raspberry. Wrapping the pastry carefully over the fruit he coated the lot with a mixture of honey and damson juice. It looked nothing like a honeyed mole, but the molebabes thought it did. Gurrbowl licked his digging claws proudly and added his “’unnymole” to several others on a tray, ready to go in the oven. He wrinkled his nose proudly at Skipper.

“Hurr, that’n be ’ow t’make ’unnymoles, zurr!”

Skipper winked broadly at the molebabe. “Thanks, matey, I’ll remember that, should come in useful!” Then, opening a cupboard, he took out a bag of dried watershrimp.

Glenner sidled up with an expectant gleam in her eye. “Shrimp’n’hotroot soup, Skip?”

The otter Chieftain showed his white teeth in a mock-villainous grin. “Aye, matey, you go get the ’otroot, oh, an’ some onions. Ahoy, Rangapaw, where do they ’ide the mushrooms in this galley? An’ leeks too, we’ll need lots o’ leeks, aye, an’ white turnips.”

Gerul meanwhile had finished the last of the fruit cake, and now he and Arven set about making another, even bigger one.

“Cummon now, ye young rip, a tankard of October ale, flour an’ honey, what’s next?” asked the owl.

Arven counted off the ingredients on his paws. “Plums, damsins, ’azelnuts, chessnuts, blackb’rries, er, er . . .”

Gerul limped off to the pantry chunnering to himself. “Sure, we’ll toss in a bit of everythin’, as me ould mother used t’say, if y’ve got everythin’ in a cake then yer sure t’have left nothin’ out providin’ it’s all in!”

Sister Cicely had brought Auma down to the kitchens. She pointed a paw of condemnation at the shambles. “Just look at that. Did ever you see such a mess in your life?”

The badger Mother wandered over to where the molebabes had left their tray of honeymoles to cool, and popped one in her mouth. “Mm, very tasty! Cicely, let them have their fun—have we not had enough sadness and misery in Redwall for one day? This bit of disturbance is easily cleared up, but it helps them to recover their spirits, especially the young ones. I look on this not as mourning the death of Piknim, but celebrating the happy life she led. Come now, Sister, leave them to their enjoyment.”

Tansy, Craklyn and Rollo had deserted the confines of the infirmary. The early evening was soft and balmy, and it was far nicer out in the fresh air than lying about indoors and being fussed over by Sister Cicely. They sat on the gatehouse steps, staring at the rhyme and the puzzle that went with it, but the clue to the fifth pearl remained a mystery to them.

“Perhaps if we concentrate on the rhyme it may help.”

Craklyn shook her head at Tansy’s suggestion. “No, I’m sure the key is in these figures. Once we know what they refer to I have a feeling the rest will be easy.”

Rollo polished his glasses and scrutinized the figures closely. “Hmm, I’ve a feeling you’re right, miss. Let’s concentrate all our attention on these figures for the moment. Lines. One of one. Eight of two. One of three. We’ll take that bit first.”

All three gazed at the parchment scrap, cudgeling their brains for inspiration.

Wullger the otter gatehouse-keeper was in the process of cleaning out his small domain. He opened the gatehouse door wide and began sweeping about with a heather-topped broom. So pleasant was the aroma of the heather that he took his own good time, brushing diligently in every corner and singing a song as he went about his chore.

The three friends on the wallsteps outside heard Wullger’s song clearly; they shook their heads and chuckled. As Wullger emerged sweeping dust in front of him, Craklyn called down, “That’s a good ditty, I’ve never heard it before.”

The old otter smiled up at the squirrelmaid. “I’m glad you liked it, missie, ’tis a song that’s been passed down through my family. If you like I’ll teach ye the lines. . .”

Tansy leapt up, yelling, “The lines, it’s the lines!”

Wullger stared in amazement at the three creatures dancing paw in paw on the wallsteps as they chanted together, “The lines, the lines, it’s the lines!”

He shrugged and went indoors to continue his cleaning. “Maybe when yore not so busy dancin’ an’ chantin’ I’ll learn ye the song.”

Tansy scanned the poem’s first line.

“There is a warrior, that’s line one, so one of one must mean the first word or the first letter of the line. What d’you think, Rollo—the first word or the first letter?”

The Recorder was quite definite which it was. “It has to be the letter, one of one. Because the second clue states eight of two, but there’s only four words in the second line, so we’re looking for enough letters to make a word.”

Tansy read out the lines, Craklyn counted the letters and Rollo scraped each letter upon the sandstone step with his quill knife.

The friends sat but for a brief moment, looking at the word Rollo had scratched upon the step. Then Craklyn and Tansy dashed off towards the Abbey, with Rollo hobbling behind as they yelled, “The tapestry!”