21"Good evenin' to you, Muryet. We saw you didn't come out for th' feast, so we brought you some sweetmeats."
Marianne tried to cram as many words into one breath as she could, for
she could see that Salome was determined not to die of
gatehouse-dust-suffocation, and she would not shame her by seeking to appear a martyr.
Though Sister Jane had abandoned the gatehouse several seasons ago, the
scroll-mountains and tome-hills had not - an inch-thick layer of lint
coated each one, just as snow would cover a mountain peak.
Muryet was sitting cross-legged in the center of a scattering of tomes.
The young squirrelmaid could not have been older than Salome by more
than three or four seasons, but her scrawny, dried-twig figure made her seem like an ancient creature.
At the mention of "feast, " she seemed to overcome her initial
bewilderment, and gave the visitors an uncertain smile. "Good evening to you, Marianne - and, er . . .".
"Salome. Shes goin' t' be stayin' at th' Abbey," Marianne reassured her.
"Good evening to you, Miss Salome." She watched as Marianne set the
basket before her. "My goodness, a feast! The last time that we had a
feast, I was so small, I can scarcely remember it."
"No, we 'ad a feast last winter, " Marianne reminded her, gently.
"Remember th' little cake Friar Jerome baked for you? "
Salome was as surprised as Muryet was confused. "Good Lord! Was it that
long ago? Samuel 'ad me thinkin' you Abbeybeasts 'eld a feast every
season. OW! " Marianne had nudged her sharply.
"We only came t' bring you th' sweets.. We'll be 'eadin' off t' bed
now, if you need rest. We 'ope t' see you tomorrow."
But Muryet had heard none of this - the sight of certain sweetmeats
which I will not describe for fear of annoying the Abbess had
transformed her completely. With a whoop of delight, she snatched the paper wrapping apart.
"Oh, honeyed nut clusters! Dear old Friar Jerome - he remembered that these were my favorite!"
Soon Marianne and Salome, having forgotten their funereal decorum, were
upon the floor, giggling uncontrollably. In her eagerness, Muryet had
crammed more sweets into her mouth than she was able to chew at once,
and her cheeks resembled those of a hamster. Not that either of the two
onlookers had ever laid eyes upon a hamster before, but after this
sight, they felt as if they would have no need to.
With an effort, Muryet swallowed. Far from being offended at the laughter of the others, she smiled herself.
"I suppose my eyes were a bit bigger than my mouth. Or was it 'my eyes
were bigger than my stomach'? Oh, dear, I can't remember for the life
of me - I don't see many phrases like that in the tomes! "
Salome 's eyes swept over the mountain range of books. "Are you sayin'
you sit about all day readin' these? " The very thought sent a tiny
spearhead of pain through her skull. (Or was it the dusty air that was bringing on the headache?)
Now it was Muryet's turn to laugh. "What's better to do, Miss Salome,
when you've been sleeping in the gatehouse for the past eight seasons? "
"The past eight seasons!" Salome exclaimed (oblivious of Marianne, who
was giving her a warning look). "Did you get on th' Abbess's bad side or somethin'?"
Muryet recoiled, aghast. "What on earth do you mean? Abbess Elinor is
the gentlest, most kindhearted creature in all of Mossflower!"
Salome thought of the Abbess's verbal ferrulings, in which "gluttony"
and "extravagance" seemed to be her favorite words. "Aye, " she said,
"th' kindest, gentlest creature in all o' Mossflower."
Muryet beamed, relieved. "See, didn't I tell you that you would find
her to your liking, before you even stepped into this Abbey? Of course,
you didn't believe me. If the Abbess was a bit - er - unhappy for a
while, it was only because of some misfortunes that had befallen us.
Your verminy friends mustve given you the wrong idea about our beloved
Abbess - but its no wonder they have low opinions of others, being the nasty creatures that they are!"
By now, the first parcel of sweetmeats was nearly empty. Glancing over
the basket, Salome saw that there was a variety of candied fruits and
honeyed nuts - not a single cake, tart or pastry was in sight. Friar
Jerome must have known Muryet's sweet preferences very well.
Muryet picked the last few nuts from a corner of the parcel. "Dear me,
all of this sugar has made me deathly thirsty. I'm afraid I drank all
of the October Ale the Friar sent me for breakfast."
Marianne was poised to suggest that, after downing "all of that sugar",
Muryet should be content with a drink of water. (Survival necessitated
that she kept a store of water somewhere in this little hermitage..)
But Muryet wore such a plaintive expression, that Marianne yielded.
"Salome and I will fetch you a bit of cider, Muryet."
Outside of the gatehouse, Salome and Marianne walked slowly, breaking
foot-paths through the dew-sodden grass, their paws intertwined.
"Marianne, we ain't trudging all the way back t' th' kitchens, are we? Samuel was actin' queer and shoutin' at me. God's name, I 'ope she comes
out tomorrow - we can't spend th' next two feast days waitin' on her paw an' foot!"
Marianne nudged her. "Keep yore voice down. No, there's bound t' be some drinks left out in Great Hall. You pray t' God she doesn't come out. Th' longer she stays in there, the better!"
"Why?"
Marianne kept her eyes upon the path before her.
"After . . . after what 'appened t' 'er sister, th' little squirrelmaid
Fainlie, th' Friar took pity on Muryet. Like I said before, I was too
little to remember Fainlie or Akil much, but I do remember I was fair
blazin' over 'ow much pettin' Muryet got from Friar Jerome - no doubt
she deserved it, but she got very little of it from anybeast else.
Sister Jane says th' Mother Abbess was a bright, mellow creature before
Akil took Fainlie - an' she mustve been, 'cos if she'd been th' way she
is now she'd 'ave shown that varmint th' door th' first time 'e stole!
But that mellowness was gone with th' wind by then. Muryet didn't get no coddlin' from th' Abbess!
"Any'ow, she used t' sit about in th' kitchens, an' th' Friar'd load
her with sweets. That mustve gone on for nearly a season or two! Then
Comelie came t' th' Friar, moanin' that she'd found heaps o' Muryet's
thrown-away food, mouldy as toadstools, an' that she was smellin'
sweets on 'er breath. When th' Friar 'eard that, he fixed up a bowl
of oat porridge an' a few scones and set 'em before her, tellin' her
that she'd not taste another sweetmeat until she ate that. I remember I
passed by an' saw her sittin' there for at least three days - starin'
at that same bowl of oat porridge an' those scones! "
Salome wrinkled her snout. Samuel may have been right - this creature was a madbeast, to have starved herself for three days!
"But in th' end, " Marianne continued, "Muryet ate it. Ugh - that cold
oatmeal, all hard an' crusty from havin' been reheated hour after hour,
an' those awful, stale-lookin' scones! But after that, she asked for
th' same thing for supper. Everyone figured she was doin' it t' be
saucy. But then she wanted oatmeal an' scones at every meal! When th'
Friar couldn't make it for her an' told her t' eat what everybeast else
was eatin', she' went for every scones an' bread she could get her paws
on. She fell in love with cake an' pastries, an' she'd pick th' fillin'
out of pies t' eat th' crust. When she could, Muryet spent all of her
time eatin'. When th' Abbess would toss out lectures on 'ow creatures
of Redwall should be 'elpful and resourceful instead o' gorgin'
themselves like pigs at a trough, it didn't seem t' faze her a bit. Th' Abbess would've set her t' work, except that Sister Bethelle looked over her, figured somethin' was wrong with her stomach, an' said she was an invalid. For nearly a season, she 'ad Muryet laid up in th' Infirmary, an' fed her on broth, water an' physics. Th' poor creature grew weakly an' sorry-lookin', 'alf-smothered in those Infirmary bedclothes! Th' Friar said she might as well 'ave been let out an' allowed to go on stuffin' 'erself sick.
"But one afternoon, when th' Friar's back was turned, I decided I 'ad t' rescue th' poor creature. I snuck an' made up a great towerin' platter o' sweetmeats an' - I'm almost ashamed t' tell you, Salome, but I made certain th' Abbess saw it as I carried it t' th' Infirmary. I 'avent a clue what she said t' Sister Bethelle, but a few days later, Muryet was released from th' Infirmary!"
Both young creatures laughed as they entered the Abbey building.
"As soon as Muryet left th' Infirmary, she headed straight for Cavern Hole, where the Friar an' I were clearin' up. Some creature 'ad been fool enough t' leave a 'alf-eaten scone lyin' there, an' she ate it - slowlike. She didn't beg for more as we thought she would. She just went off an' sort of roamed about th' Abbey - lyin' about for so long 'ad given her a slow , totterin' step, like she was just learnin' t' walk. She went t' th' gatehouse an' shut herself up in there, an' seein' as nobeast could get her t' come out, th' Friar started sendin' Comelie with her food every day - I don't think he felt easy with sendin' me. Now he trusts me a bit more. He almost never sends her bread, but I got t' bring her a little cake last winter."
Having found a flask of cordial for Muryet, they returned to the gatehouse.
As they entered, Muryet half-rose from where she had been sitting, reclined against the wall. She laughed - a high-pitched, giddy-sounding titter. "Heeheehee! Good Lord, you startled me? What's this?"
Marianne and Salome exchanged a look. Marianne handed Muryet the flask. "We brought you a bit o' cordial - you said you were thirsty."
"When on earth did I say that? " Muryet peered into the flask, als if she suspected that it had been filled with poison. She drew back, gagging.
"Ugh! What sort of drink is this? Smells awful - like rottn, smashed-up fruit! "
Salome leaned in to sniff the mouth of the flask. The drink smelled fine to her.
Marianne, however, did not bother to confirm this observation, for she was already edging towards the door.
"It was a lovely eve, Muryet, but you must be dreadfully tired. Salome an' I'll be tripping off t' bed. Good night!"
With that, she seized Salome by the shoulder. Within moments, they were slamming the gatehouse door behind themselves. That giddy laughter followed them - as if Marianne's farewell had been the most hilarious jest in Mossflower history.
As they headed for the Abbey building, Salome murmured to her companion, "Well, I've seen old ratwives gettin' tipsy, but this beats all! "
Marianne's reply was a fierce whisper. "Hush yore mouth - we're goin' straight t' bed, an' we're not t' lisp a word about this t' Friar Jerome! "
More exciting parts will come in the next chapter. Feel free to check out my blog todreamofanoutcast dot blog dot com, and message me if you want to help building it