Although Salome had seldom ever been timely about retiring to bed, and had never been an early riser, the excitement of the past night had changed this. An hour before dawn, the young ferret-maid was up and roaming - glad to be free to explore the colossal Abbey without being obliged to hear a sermon at every corner.
Having listened to Abbess Elinor taking on about Great Hall, Salome had pictured a stuffy, noiseless, library-like chamber, liberally decorated with book-weighted shelves and scholarly, stern-faced mice in flowing green habits.
As Salome entered, a cool draft met her face, as refreshing as a splash of water - all remaining drowsiness vanished, and, of a sudden, she experienced a sort of exhilaration, not unlike the feeling of a creature wandering through an orchard. And when she laid her eyes upon the tapestry, she knew that this visit had not disappointed her.
The mouse could not be very young - for maturity teemed his height and build - and, though the strokes of the dye-brush had captured the pristine, starlike light of his blade, its shine seemed to be casting a weird pallor across his face, as was not unusual in knightly portraits.
But in those dark, grey-tinted eyes, there still lingered a fresh juvenal luster. This tapestry must have been woven centuries upon centuries ago - but Salome swore to herself that the luster of those eyes would never grow stale.
"He's either a knight or a prince," she said aloud, but softly. "No way That creature could be real. I don't have no need of readin' - God's name!" (This was said even more softly, for fear that Abbess Elinor was lurking about, unseen, ready to chastise her for it.) "God's name! Thi is as good as any fairy tale!"
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Out in the orchard, it seemed as if Nature itself had strewn out ornaments for the festive day: every treebranch was weighted with lush, dew-diamond encrusted greenery, and clustered with handkerchief-white and blush-colored blooms; tiny, unripe apples, and ruby-red cherries, peered out frombetween the leaves, like the faces of babes beneath bonnets.
In the shade of those trees, white-clothed tables had been laid out. The Abbess had prepared a strict seating arrangement; elders were seated at this table, youngsters at that table, Dibbuns at another table, and so on. The creatures were not to leave their respective tables or mingle with those of other tables, until she had spoken the grace. Though it was nearly noontime, because the festive preparations had kept the Abbeycreatures occupied, they now sat about, eating a late breakfast. They were all silent; if anything, the importance of the day and the rarity of the occasion had made them all more solemn and decorous than ever.
The Abbess (at the head of one of the elders' tables) regarded the breakfasting creatures as if they were squandering valuable time - and valuable food supplies - by taking a meal although they would soon be feasting. At last, when every bowl of gluttony had been emptied, every shameful cup drained, and every fork and spoon laid aside, the Abbess rose to speak the grace. Salome could not help but to feel impressed, even a little moved, by the Abbess's words - she went on about the simple, colorful jewels of fruit; the sweet silver of dawn mist; the humble gold of summer sunshine; and prayed that these would remain the only precious things that Redwall Abbey ever needed.
Then, as Salome had anticipated, she began to exhort all of the creatures to avoid excessive gluttony, to show their appreciation to the Friar who had borne the brunt of the toil in the kitchens, who endured this unending task, day and night, only to see the fruits of his labor vanish before the insatiable appetites of inconsiderate, thoughtless creatures.
By the time that good mouse had concluded her feast day sermon, every beast present had bowed a chastened head. In the silence, Marianne excused herself from the youngsters' table and went to assist the Friar. Soon, trolleyfuls of wonderful fare which I will not describe were making their way between the tables.
Salome retreated to a corner of a quieter table, mostly occupied by some of the oldest Abbeybeasts, and enjoyed a bowl of mixed-fruit trifle. After all, there was very little else to do.
After a bit, Marianne wandered over and seated herself across the table from the ferret-maid, with her trifle.
Both were quiet as they spooned their dessert.
"Why d'you look so queer in th' face?" Marianne inquired of Salome.
'I ain't queer in th' face.''
'Yes, you are. I ain't blind.''
'No, I reckon you can see." Salome gave a little smile, and prodded at the trifle with her spoon.
'That mouse creature – th' one in th' big pretty picture, holdin' th' lovely sword with the rich-lookin' hilt stone. That's one big, pretty red stone! So I figgered as he must be a richbeast to go around wavin' about blades like that. Th' Abbess she got bristled up and she told me that creature was yore Martin th' Warrior an' he wasn't no richbeast, he was a warrior. She started slaverin' some fairy tales about metal from a star an' a big Badger King. It all sounded a bit off, an' so I reckoned I'd go find this Martin th' Warrior an' ask him myself where he really got th' blade from. Then I got dish-washin' duty 'cos th' Abbess reckoned I was callin' her a fibber – an' along with that, she told me th' Martin creature was long dead."
"Of course he's dead. You didn't expect him to just be walkin' about amongst creatures like us, did you? Fancy what he'd think about us!"
The squirrelmaid laughed a little at the idea. Salome managed another small smile. "I guess not . . . but . . . I mean
. . . it just don't . . . keepin' a picture up on th' wall of a deadbeast th' same as if he was livin' . . .It just don't look right."
Marianne bristled. "And why don't it look right? Tryin' t' say our Abbey artists is daft?"
Salome snorted. "Good Lord! you Abbeybeasts is prickly as shrews about yore heroes'n'legends, ain't you?" Marianne relaxed, and both young maids laughed.
'No, I ain't sayin' yore artists is daft. It's a lovely picture – looks most real t' me. An' that's what ails me about it. Lookin' at a picture real as that – of a creature like that –an' knowin' he's dead . . . It sort o' saddens me an' spooks me an' thrills me all the same."
"That's what th' tapestry's for," Marianne pointed out. "It sort o' makes us think . . . about God an' heaven an' dyin' an' such . . . makes us think more'n' any o' th' Mother Abbess's ole sermons. I gather there's creatures as dreams o' Martin – though I ain't never been one of 'em nor known anyone who was. Come on now, let's liven up a bit an' have some more t' eat. Hardly any use in sittin' about lookin' gloomy as it ain't everyday we get a feast.'
The two young maids strolled off, paw in paw, with Marianne singing:
When fair heaven sends its daily boon to earth - the silver dawn
God's silver-mist - the only silver soft enough to breathe
The charity coins that no one hand may cast away with scorn
And the string-free diamonds do encrust the velvet green of leaves
Ethereal maids, sky-ashen-cheeked, in rose and lavender gowns
With trains that vanish just as they appear
Almost unseen, on high they lurk, not deigning to step down
Save unto those who wish to see and hear.
And if you wish to see and hear, my child
You'll catch melodies you've never heard before
Songs betraying the mundane and simple dawn-jewels
As no more than one of heaven's humblest doors.
And if you will listen carefully, my child
You'llhear, ever so faintly, dirges of the new
Not fresh in seasons now - but aged in earthly years
Who have not yet joined them, though they've passed from me and you.
But if you listen openly, my child
A brighter song, more like a chant, you'll hear
A happy chanted eulogy of neighbors
Retired knights, in palace-clouds laid near -
Retired knights! the elders of the Garden
And every morn, their medals are renewed
As the gentle young sky-maidens sing their praises
Tales of deeds, however ancient, and forever fresh and true.
Do you wonder that they chant praise-laden fables
Of the days of creatures still - with them - alive?
Would you wonder still, my child, if only you could see
The undying, awed love-luster in their eyes?
- Just as your eyes grow bright, my child, when falling on your mother
Save that these joys shall neither fade nor die . . .
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
No sooner had the Abbess's sermon come to a close, than Samuel had risen and excused himself from the table.
If there was one thing upon which he and Abbess Elinor must agree, it was that there was no point in spending all hours of the day lined up at a table, cramming down platterfuls of food like trough-fed pigs - he hadn't seen a single creature singing, frolicking, dancing or even laughing. Huh - Redwall feast, indeed! If this was an example of a Redwall feast, then he and Salome would have been just as well off going out into the mid of the Woods, and stuffing themselves with mountainous heaps of tree-fruit, till they fell ill. Only once could Samuel remember doing anythingvremotely similar to that.
It had been back in the settlement, while Chief and the elders had been preparing to hold a conference. Like the little oafs they had been, Samuel and Luzi had felt certain that no creature would be out to sentry the foraging grounds. Together, they had managed to slip, unseen, around the back of the meetinghouse, and, armed with baskets, had gone for the fruit trees. They had intended to gather as much fruit as they could carry and steal back to Samuel's home den with all haste - but, after days of sweltering summer sun, the sweet, dew-perfumed fragrance of strawberries had been irresistible, and both had fallen to gorging themselves.
By the time they had finished, they had been so occupied with wondering how they would tote their plunder back to the den with such hellish stomachaches, that they had not noticed the shadow of the weasel sentry, Raaji, emerging nearby, until they had already been cornered.
"Th' Chief's yore uncle, Miss, but I doubt he gives a stone's worth whether you live or die," Raaji had said, eyeing Luzi. "An' I doubt he'd give even that much to know 'ow yore father'd feel about yore dyin'. Even so, he wouldn't take kindly to my steppin' 'igh an' slayin' you myself.I'd 'ave to turn you in to him for you t' get yore just desserts. Now I ain't that cold-'earted, so I'll let you off this once - but I don't want to see yore 'ide about 'ere again - or yore little friend's." For once, it had relieved Samuel to be spoken of as if he was not present.
They'd been given the ten-count ultimatum and had taken off like racers, knowing that the creature still in sight would be brought down with an arrow and dragged to the Chief. Raaji's reputation in archery was a good one.
Remembering it, Samuel laughed. After he had egged her on to perform that stunt, how could he not forgive Luzi for risking his and Salome's lives?
Skipper Johndam came over, bearing a mug of October Ale.
"Morning, mate. Well, this is certainly one o' the quietest feasts I ever attended -though, seein' as we aint had a feast in more than six seasons, I suppose I can't afford to b choosy."
Samuel shrugged, returning the uncomfortable smile. He had not exchanged a casual word with the otter Chief - or with any woodlander, for that matter, besides the Friar and the squirrelmaid Marianne - since his arrival at the Abbey. "No, mate, I suppose we can't afford t' be choosy."