Thus, Salome found herself in the kitchens - which might have been a pleasure, if not for the fact that she was clad in an overlarge smock, and standing over a mountainous heap of dishes.

Friar Jerome passed her a dishcloth, foamy with lathered soap. "You'd best 'urry with those dishes, Miz Salome, before evening comes. Haply this will teach you not to be saucy."

Salome made as if to protest - she wasn't to blame for admitting that she' wouldn't refuse a purse full of coins if an old mousewife didn't care for it enough to conceal it - but Samuel, working on the Friar's left, shot her a warning look.

Hellgates! Samuel did not know what she had done to irritate the Mother Abbess, but he would guess - and if she didn't keep her mouth shut, he would tear a strip off her as soon as they were out of the kitchens.

So, with a huge sigh of resignation, Salome took the dishcloth and went over to join the Friar's assistant, the squirrelmaid Marianne, at the dishbasin.

Only once had Salome come within six feet of a woodlander, before this day - and that had been six or seven seasons ago, when she and Samuel had first arrived in Mossflower, and had eaten in the home of a garrulous old dormouse. Salome had heard that squirrels were skilked tree-climbers, but this Marianne was so plump that Salome doubted she could be talented at leaping and swinging from branches. The frock she wore was a bright, sunny yellow color, defying the monotony of kitchenwork, and, although she said very little to the two ferrets, her brown eyes seemed to sparkle with merry words and unshared jests.

After a bit, Marianne began to sing. For Salome, the verse was a bit prosey, but very pretty all the same.

From the Northlands, from the Northlands, through the mists of colder lands

Comes the son of Luke to green sunlit Mossflower

And his austere, warlike heart the welcome smiles of gentle friends

And the sunlight warm at our most needful hour./em

For the shadow, Kotir's shadow, flaunting slavery and death -

Flaunting as its gems two ruthless emerald eyes

Vows to darken, vows to smother Mossflower's own two brightest lights -

Its sunshine, and the flame of bravery, which should never die.

But in Martin's heart it will reside - it must reside forever!

Come, hero! did it not defy the wind?

The cold, frost-laden wind beneath which Laterose withered, perished -

The Rose the warrior turned too Late from vengeance to defend.

The Warrior stands, grief-goaded - he knows the chill of evil

The flame of vengeance, love's sunshine, and bravery clash within

But bravery and sunshine - they overcome the fire

And we have no Warrior, but one God to praise for this good end.

And leaving our green sunlit woods after he helped to free them

Retires into the land of sunny slopes and quiet streams

But still Luke's son looks over us through the softer mists of time -

And oh! His smile is light enough to brighten all our dreams

"That's a lovely tune," Salome remarked softly, rinsing the last of the soapsuds from a tankard. " That part where th' flower withered up an' died - it sounded a bit silly, but sad at the same time."

Marianne glanced up, as if startled at her speaking. Then she laughed aloud - breaking (much to the ferret siblings' relief) the silence in the room.

"You ninny, Laterose o' Noonvale was a livin' creature!"

Salome wrinkled her snout. "Laterose o' Noonvale? Who in 'ellgates would go about with that sort o' name? It's awful!"

"You mind yore language, missy," the hedgehog Friar rebuked her, but not fiercely. His eyes had a faraway look about them. "Laterose was the daughter of Urran Voh, leader o' Noonvale. 'Twas a pretty little place, not unlike our Abbey – quiet, peaceful an' 'appy."

At this, Samuel made a little snorting sound, though Salome hardly knew why.

The Friar went on as if he had not heard.

'Our Martin th' Warrior loved that mousemaid more'n anyone in th' world. She got her father t' let her go off with him while he was in a battle . . . an' she died in it."

"An' I don't suppose her dear Martin was Warrior enough to look after her," Samuel grated, startling his sister. "Called 'imself brave - the lily-livered coward!"

The Friar, snapped out of his reverie, turned upon him, puffing angrily like a fat, flustered old hogwife. ''You just watch yoreself, varmint. Our Martin wasn't no lily-livered coward. He looked after Miz Laterose as well as he could. 'Twas she wot decided to go dashin' out – brave an' reckless – with scarcely any experience in war, and got killed. Now, seein' as yore finished with th' dishes, you can take down that set o' tin pots and polish 'em!"

Samuel trudged unhappily off to his new task, grumbling something about free speech.

There was no more mention of Laterose or Martin till dinnertime.

OOOoooooooOOOoooo

Cavern Hole was filled with tablefuls of the famous Redwall fare, which I will not describe for fear of annoying the Abbess, who was still feeling a bit irritable.

She said the grace, which Salome found pretty although she understood just about half of it – it was all about thanking God and how God had given them the food and how they were powerless to bring food to themselves, so they should just shut up and be grateful instead of always complaining about the vegetables and herbs that didn't agree with them – or had that last been part of the sermon? Salome could scarcely tell.

At last, the meal began. Marianne was fortunate enough to be absent - as the Friar's assistant, she was allowed to eat in the kitchens with him. Once again, Cavern Hole was completely silent; the Abbeybeasts cowered beneath the frosty, contemptuous stares of the Abbess Elinor. Every creature, as he dined, was careful not to heap too much food onto his fork, or eat with too great a display of relish - anything to avoid the Abbess's wrath.

The only creatures, besides Salome, who were showing no restraint in eating were the Dibbuns. Earlier, the Friar had approached the Abbess for permission to hold a summer feast, and had been sent away, hanging his head as if he was a chastened Dibbun himself. The Abbeybabes dared to give out a few whimpers about a summer feast, but the Skipper silenced them with one gruff bark. So, the little creatures comforted themselves by shoveling down vegetable pasties, salad and mushroom soup, all the while trying not to notice the head-shaking and tut-tutting of the Abbess.

When the meal had been finished, the Abbeybeasts rose and dispersed, as silently as they had entered. All youngsters older than five seasons were put to work tidying Cavern Hole, under Marianne's supervision.

"No need t' empty th' platters an' pots out," Marianne told Salome, who was clearing leftovers from the tables. "Th' Friar'll lay out supper in a few hours - but that's mostly for the creatures who might've missed dinner. Any other beast who attends'll likely get a dirty look from Abbess Elinor."

"Well, why doesn't she just tell everybeast that's eaten already t' keep away?" Salome commented.

Marianne shrugged. "Supper is an Abbey tradition."

After this, the uneasy silence held sway once more, until the young maids headed for the kitchens, pushing food-laden trolleys before them.

As they drew near the culinary quarters, however, they halted - for they caught the sound of voices being raised. It seemed that the Friar and his brother, Aaron, were having a fine squabble.

"Aw, just give me one flask an' I'll keep t' strawberry cordial for th' rest of th' season, Jerome." It was Brother Aaron's voice - a high-pitched, piteous drawl, which sounded even more high-pitched as it rose onto a note of imploring. "I told ye a dozen times, that night I spent in the Infirmary's made a new creature out o' me. Listen, if you ever see me totterin' about drunk again, ye can declare me Outcast!"

Marianne whispered to Salome, "Brother Aaron's th' Abbey Cellarkeeper - he's in charge o' makin' drinks. Th' Abbess learned yesterday that he's been guzzlin' brandy an' gettin' himself drunk for seasons now. She's put him on probation!"

Salome's ears perked up. "Probation," she repeated. A nice, clever-sounding word. "What's probation, Marianne?"

"It means he's forbidden t' go back into th' Cellars till th' Abbess sees fit t' let him. Th' Friar's in charge of them for now!"

Salome had never gotten drunk before, but the vermin back in her settlement had done it all the time. It had never occurred to her that a creature could be punished for getting drunk. What was the point of being in charge of a Cellarful of delicious drinks if you couldn't enjoy them as you pleased?

". . . Ye ought've been declared Outcast seasons ago!" Friar Jerome was almost shouting. "Let th' Abbess tell me yore leavin' this Abbey any day now, Aaron - I'll dance a jig! 'C'mon, I'm a new creature,' ye say - you've been singin' that tune since th' day I caught ye sittin' about in th' Cellars, with a keg o' brandy an' a great big drinking ladle! Get out o' my sight, or I'll give ye a good reason t' return to th' Infirmary!"

"Aye, an' I wouldn't be surprised if ye did it. So long as I'm in disgrace with th' Abbess, ye've got the Cellars all to yoreself, ye needle-hided, throne-'opping varmint! Stick t' wot ye know best - stumping about kitchens, sweatin' over pots an' pans, an' growin' fat!"

"Stick t' wot I know best, eh? I'll give ye wot I know best! Ye spend all hours o' th' day gulpin' down th' food I toiled over an' now ye come sourin' up my kitchen air with th' stench o' yore breath - shoutin' about stickin' to wot I know best! If you know wot's best for you, ye shriveled-up, ale-watered weed, you'll tote yoreself out o' here, else I just might keep my word about the Infirmary! "

The two young maids retreated to Cavern Hole - for now, even Salome had no desire to hear anymore. Marianne shook her head.

"Good Lord - now even th' Friar's in a foul mood!"

"God in 'eaven!" Salome kept her voice low, so that it wouldn't carry over into the kitchens. "I thought you woodlanders were peaceful creatures, an' didn't believe in fightin' an' name-callin'. Friar Jerome seemed like a nice sort, when he first talked t' me."

"Friar Jerome is a nice creature!" Marianne retorted, with just a hint of indignation. "He's th' nicest, most kind-'earted creature you'll ever meet. He 'as his bad days, like everybeast . . . All right, he does quarrel with Brother Aaron. They fell out about his drinkin' 'abits every evenin' before th' Abbess caught him, an' they're likely t' keep fallin' out every evenin', as long as Brother Aaron's set on tryin' t' get some brandy from Friar Jerome. An' you might as well get used to it, Salome, 'cos you'll be 'earin' their yellin' every night. They're never very quiet - if th' Abbess 'ad walked to th' end of Cavern Hole any evenin' an' listened, she'd 'ave 'eard their shoutin' and name-callin' an' learned about Brother Aaron seasons ago."

After a pause, Marianne added, in a small voice, "Abbess Elinor's never . . . she's never paid much mind t' things like that, though."

OOOooooooOOooooo

Later that evening, the guilty few who attended supper were not made to feel quite so guilty after all. As it turned out, Abbess Elinor had an announcement, for which she summoned all of the Abbeybeasts (excluding the Dibbuns). Of course, Salome was there, helping Marianne to set the tables. As the creatures seated themselves, anybeast who wished to could snatch a morsel or two from the supper platters, and this misdemeanor went unnoticed.

Rising from her chair, the Abbess proclaimed, "Creatures of Redwall, I give you permission to prepare a summer feast!"

Salome, who was carrying a bread platter, came close to dropping it. She exchanged a look with Marianne - by now, both young maids knew better than to cheer, squeal, or leap about in the presence of the Abbess. But Marianne's eyes twinkled, and Salome realized that she had heard Abbess Elinor correctly.

A summer feast - in Redwall Abbey!

They scarcely heard the Abbess's speech on how she would not have allowed this nonsensical frivolity at all, but for a certain Friar who had nagged her repeatedly about the subject, and who had behaved, in her opinion, like an antsy Dibbun; nor did they tarry behind to hear the rest. As soon as all of the leftovers had been laid out, Marianne excused herself and took flight, and Salome dashed after her.

"Ooh, Marianne," she breathed, "a feast! What's a summer feast like? Will we 'ave a load of games t' play? Will there be contests, like th' ones I 'eard about? Will there be lots o' food? Will th' Abbess let us eat any of it?"

The squirrelmaid laughed aloud. "Of course we'll 'ave food, an' of course th' Abbess will let us eat! You talk like somebeast 'as been starvin' you!"

Salome made a gesture of impatience. "You know what I mean, for God's sake!"

"Hush! Th' Abbess'll 'ear you an' set you t' scrubbin' floors. Wait till we're in th' chamber!"

Samuel had already retired to the bedchamber that he would share with Salome. He was sitting upon the edge of his new mattress, admiring the cool, white linen sheets, when the door swung inward and Salome and Marianne burst into the room. The young creatures scrambled up onto the other bed, joined paws and began to bounce up and down, scattering quilts and headcushions everywhere.

"We're goin' t' 'ave a summer feast! We're goin' t' 'ave a summer feast! We're goin' t' 'ave a summer feast! We're goin' t' 'ave a summer feast!"

Samuel glanced from face to face. "Summer feast? What in all of Mossflower are you two yellin' about? Stop it - yore wreckin' th' room!"

Marianne pulled away and jumped down from the bed, breathless and giggling. Samuel had been inside of this Abbey for hours now, and this was the second time he had heard any creature laughing aloud. "Oh, heavens! Supper must be almost over, I've got t' go an' 'elp Friar Jerome tidy up or th' Abbess'll come after me. See you in th' mornin'!"

Within seconds, she was gone. Salome clutched her older brother excitedly.

"They're goin' t' 'ave a feast, Samuel! A summer feast, like th' ones that dormouse told us about!"

Samuel hugged back a little, smiling at his sister's eagerness, before moving her off. He watched as she nestled her cheek against a plump, downy-filled headcushion.

"Are you goin' t' stand there all night playin' with the pillow or are you goin' t' sleep with it?"

Salome chucked the headcushion at him. "You never want t' 'ave a bit o' fun, Samuel."

Samel fired the pillow back at her. "If sittin' up all night an' not wakin' up till noon tomorrow sounds like fun t' you, go ahead. Then th' Abbess can tear you t' pieces with those dirty looks of hers an' a speech about laziness!"

At the mention of the Abbess, Salome remembered the question that she had intended to ask Samuel.

"Samuel? What does yoo-neek mean?"

Samuel gave her an odd look. "'Unique'? If somethin's unique, it's special - like nothin' else in th' world. Why?"

Salome came to sit beside him. "Oh, so that's what it meant. Now I know why th' Abbess got all mad at me when I -" She cut herself off, realizing that she had blundered. If she had clapped a paw over her mouth, she couldn't have looked guiltier.

Oh, Hellgates, Samuel thought. " 'When you' what, Salome?"

Salome squirmed a bit. "Don't start shoutin' at me, Samuel. Th' Abbess asked me if I could see God, an' I told her what I figured 'e looked like.''

"Salome, what in Hellgates . . .? "

"It ain't my fault I thought o' him as an old badger in th' sky with a beard. I was fair mortificated."

Samuel was thrown into utter confusion.

"You thought o' him as . . . what? An' . . . mortificated?"

"Aye - mortificated. That's 'ow th' Mother Abbess said she'd feel if any of her creatures was as ignorant as me. Nice word, eh?" There was a note of pride in Salome's voice, which Samuel promptly crushed.

"It's mortified, Salome. Not mortificated. An' right now, I'm probably th' most mortified creature in all o' Mossflower!" Salome flinched. "Seriously, Salome! A badger in th' sky? I'm sure I taught you better'n that!"

Salome blinked at him. "But I don't remember you teachin' me anythin' about God - except for that bit of a prayer you taught me when I was a kit."

It was Samuel's turn to cringe, as he realized that Salome was right - he had never taught her much in the way of religious lore.

He had never tried to teach her to read or write, either. He was just barely literate himself. Samuel could never have imagined his sister, a little ferretmaid, growing up to be some taut-faced, habit-wearing, prayer-chanting creature - he snickered at the thought - and he had never expected her to become as clever as any bookwormish woodlander youngster, either. But, even back in the settlement, he had always been vaguely aware of the fact that most of the other little ferrets, weasels and stoats were ahead of Salome in many ways. Samuel had always figured that his baby sister was just a bit "slow."

On one occasion, Samuel had read a story to little Salome, about a powerful badger king and an evil stoat. And every night, for seasons afterwards, Salome would besiege Samuel just as he was preparing for bed, and beg him to read that story again. As far as Samuel could remember, he never did so, but this had not discouraged Salome in the least.

And then, when she was six seasons old, they had fled from the settlement, and had left all books behind.

Now Samuel began to wonder. if he was to blame for Salome's "slowness." He had never, ever wanted his sister to be slow . . .

"Samuel?" Salome nudged him. "Samuel? Are you mad?"

Samuel flicked a quilt at her. "Why would I be mad? Shut yore silly little trap an' let me go t' sleep. I'm right worn out from 'avin' t' scrub tose confounded pots. You can box my ears if'n you ever hear me talkin' about their Martin th' Warrior again!"

Salome fell asleep long before Samuel did. Sitting upon the edge of the bed, Samuel reached over and stroked the young ferretmaid's head.

In about a season, Salome would be the age that Luzi had been when she passed.

And Luzi would have been a young adult ferret, within a few seasons; but the death of her father - the only parent she had known, and one of the plague's earliest victims - had left her with a perpetual, child-like bewilderment in her eyes.

Her intuition had belied those eyes, however, for she had seemed to sense that Samuel was planning to flee, with Salome, and only waited for the first opportunity. And she had sensed that he would urge her to flee with them.

"Don't go now, Samuel," she would say, unexpectedly. "Don'ttry an' run off now. Wait for me."

Ad, like a little fool, he had waited. Samuel uttered a mirthless laugh. Like the oaf he was, he had sat about, watching bump after ink-black bump appear beneath her fur, had watched her grow thin and haggard. How long had Samuel obeyed her and sat waiting, like a dimwitted dog waiting for its walk? Of course, till the day he had entered her den and found fleas forming hills over her corpse, and, beneath her headcushion, a scroll of papyrus that, upon being unfolded, read:

Luzi, wrap the ring in this letter and leave it beside your cot for me. He'll have no need of it, sitting around here until he dies. Then, you must wait. Within days, I'll have found a safe place for us, and I'll send for you and take you out of this sick-pit.

Signed, Jamar

It was then that Samuel had remembered the weasel Jamar, who had vanished some days ago and whom he had assumed was dead. He also remembered that the Chief had announced the disappearanc e of a ruby ring only weeks before; but, other than to wonder how a creature could make a broadcast of a ring while beasts were dying, he had thought little of it.

Then Samuel had retreated to his den, and, hours later, found a flea bite on his wrist. That was the night that he had fled with Salome.

Samuel shifted the sleeping Salome, so that he could pull the edge of the blanket from beneath her. Huh, "don't go now - wait for me." If they had "waited" any longer, the only "safe place" they would have had was a cozy berth in Dark Forest.