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  Fenna stuck her lip out and pouted. “But I won them!”

  The Abbot left his armchair and took possession of the bag. “The object is to get the nuts. There’s no hard-and-fast rule about climbing greasy poles. But be fair, Fenna. The little ones tried so hard, and they gave us all such fun. I suggest we split the nuts four ways betwixt you and them.”

  Whilst everybeast was applauding the decision, Toran caught Shilly and Yooch as they fell backwards from the pole. Horty was left with the task of unsticking Muggum, who was practically plastered to the pole with grease. He tugged his snout politely to the young hare.

  “Thankee, zurr, oi thort oi wuz stucked thurr fer loife!”

  Horty gazed down at his clean tunic, now coated with the mess. “Oh, think nothin’ of it, old lad. My pleasure, wot!” He slipped and fell flat as he stumbled away from the pole.

  By the pondside an old female squirrel, her face hooded against the sun by a cowl, was bathing her footpaws in the reeded shallows. An otter of medium size, his face also hooded, sat next to her. Sister Portula sought a seat in the reedshade alongside them, fanning her face with a dockleaf.

  “Whew, this is certainly going to be a memorable summer!”

  The otter glanced sideways at her. “Has afternoon tea been served yet, Sister?”

  Portula swiped at a flying midge which was tormenting her. “We never serve afternoon tea when there’s going to be an evening feast. You knew that, didn’t you, Brother?”

  The female squirrel sighed. “Oh no, I was lookin’ forward to some nice scones with strawberry preserve an’ meadowcream.”

  Portula had to raise her voice to be heard over the sounds of sporting revellers. “The walltop race will be starting soon. I think first prize for that might be a cream tea with scones.”

  The squirrel jumped upright, surprisingly spry for one of her long seasons. “Right, I’ll enter an’ win first prize!”

  The Sister shook her head doubtfully. “You’ll have lots of competition from younger and fitter creatures, I’m afraid.”

  The otter smiled knowingly. “Oh, don’t ye worry about that, Sister. If’n there’s a prize of afternoon tea goin’, my mate’ll win it. Right, Saro?”

  The squirrel threw off her cowl. “I’ll give it a good try, Brag, an’ maybe I’ll share it with ye.”

  The good Sister stared open-mouthed at the aging squirrel. “Saro, is it really you?”

  Saro took the old Recorder’s paw and shook it warmly. “Aye, Portula, my ole friend, an’ guess who this creakin’ ruddered lump is?”

  Portula was all aflutter. “Wait, don’t tell me now. . . . Oh, seasons o’ mercy, it’s Bragoon!”

  She raced off, waving her paws wildly and shouting, “They’re back! It’s Bragoon and Sarabando! They’re back!”

  The squirrel watched her go. “Hear that, I got me full title!”

  The games were abandoned for the moment. Redwallers crowded to the pond to see the legendary duo. Both beasts were overwhelmed by pawshakes, kisses, backslaps and the embraces of old friends. Banter and welcomes went back and forth as they were reunited with the comrades of long-gone seasons.

  “Saro, you bushy-tailed rogue, ’tis me, Phredd the Gatekeeper!”

  “Old Phredd? I don’t believe it. Are you still here?”

  “Och, ’tis that dreadful Dibbun Bragoon! Where’ve ye been, ye bold wee scamp?”

  “Sister Setiva, a pleasure t’see yore face, marm. Been? Oh me’n Saro’ve been as far as there an’ back a few times!”

  “Yurr, oi’d know ee thievin’ likkle face anywhurrs, Miz Saro!”

  “Granmum Gurvel, my ole beauty, give me a hug, quick!”

  “Haharr, who’s that—not young Carrul the nut’n’spoon cheat?”

  “Bragoon, friend of my Dibbun days, oh ’tis so good to see you! Ahem, the name’s changed now, I’m Father Abbot Carrul. But what a pleasure to see you, and Saro, too!”

  “Look out, who’s this big, rough-lookin’ villain, eh?”

  “Oi bee’s Muggum, marm, bee’s you’m really Sabburandum?”

  Suddenly Bragoon found himself swept off his paws and hugged in a viselike grip. Tears flowed freely down Toran’s face.

  “Brother Brag, you’ve come home to Redwall!”

  Planting a kiss between Toran’s ears, Bragoon wheezed. “Brother Toran, I won’t see sunset if’n ye crush me t’death. I missed ye, Toran, y’great lump of an otter!”

  Greeting upon greeting followed, everybeast seemed at once to be embracing the pair. The air resounded to cries of “Well I never, my oh my, just look at ye, welcome home!”

  Springald, Horty and Fenna stood to one side. Like most teen-season creatures, they were embarrassed by all the hugging and kissing among elders.

  Springald muttered in resignation. “I suppose that means the end of the Games Day. Huh, I’d have won the wall race easily if they hadn’t turned up.”

  Fenna passed each of them a piece of candied chestnut, musing aloud. “So, that’s the famous Bragoon and Saro. Huh, they’re not as big as I thought they’d be. They look pretty old, too—creaky, I’d say. What do you think, Horty?”

  The young hare shrugged. “After all the tall stories we’ve heard about ’em, wot? Actually, old bean, you could be right. Those two ain’t exactly the huge giants we’ve been told about. A bit blinkin’ old, an’ jolly ordinary, too, though everybeast seems tip over tail to see ’em back, wot? Let’s toddle over there now that the huggin’n’kissin’ is all done with. Come on, chaps, I want to get a closer dekko at the bold blinkin’ Bragoon an’ the startlin’ Sarobando.”

  Martha was being introduced to the pair by Sister Setiva.

  Bragoon shook the haremaid’s paw gently. “Martha, eh? A pretty name for a pretty maid. Well, Martha, you don’t look anything like us two when we were young. I wager you’ve heard a lot o’ stories about the villainy we got up to in the old days.”

  Martha thought Bragoon had a kind face; she liked him immediately. She tried changing the conversation from his past misdeeds. “How did you and Sarobando get into the Abbey, sir, with the gate locked and barred?”

  Old Phredd scratched his scrubby beard. “Aye, how did you get in, eh, eh?”

  Saro shrugged modestly. “Oh, ’twas nothin’ really, just a little trick we used to do with the east wallgate. Don’t worry, Phredd, we locked it behind us.”

  Fenna interrupted. “Mister Bragoon, I heard that you were once a Skipper of Otters. Is that true?”

  The aging otter nodded. “ ’Tis true enough, miss, but ole Saro didn’t fancy bein’ an otter. So I gave it up to go rovin’ with her.”

  Springald enquired, rather pertly, “Are you as good a cook as your brother Toran?”

  Bragoon chuckled at the idea. “Wot, me? No, pretty one, I’ll wager that Toran’s the best cook anywhere. Huh, I’d prob’ly end up burnin’ a salad!”

  Ignoring the Abbot’s stern gaze, the mousemaid continued. “Miz Saro, are you as quick as they say you are? I bet I’m faster than you. I won the Abbey wallrace last summer.”

  Saro grinned from ear to ear and shook Springald’s paw. “My congratulations, missy! So then, I’ll have a bit o’ competition in this wall race. I’m plannin’ on runnin’ in it for a prize of an afternoon cream tea. Mmm! ’Tis many a long season since I tasted one.”

  Springald blurted out, “You’re too old, I’ll beat you easy!”

  Abbot Carrul was shocked by her behaviour. “Springald, show some respect for your elders!”

  However, it was Saro who interceded on her behalf. “Not at all, Father, I like to see a young ’un with a bit o’ spirit. She’s like me at her age. Don’t ye fret now, ’twill be a fine race, I’m sure. Let’s go to the wall an’ get it started. No time like the present, eh, mate?”

  Supremely confident, Springald winked at Horty and whispered to Fenna. “That old relic’s in for a surprise.”

  Turning to Saro, she bowed mockingly. “After you, marm!”

  1
0

  The crowd gathered under the threshold of the gatehouse. None of the wall racers was interested in entering. Everybeast was talking about it, eager to see the race between Springald and Saro.

  The Abbot held up his paws. “So be it, the wall race will start from the threshold above this gate. One circuit of the entire rampart’s area, ending back on the same spot. Pushing or shoving means instant disqualification. Runners may use all of the walkway, including the battlements. Any questions?”

  Shilly the squirrelbabe piped up. “Farver h’Abbot, worrabout uz likkle ’uns an’ the very very h’old ’uns?”

  She was referring to the ground race, which was run over the same distance but from the ground level. This was for Dibbuns and Elders, mainly to avoid the dangers of falling from the walltops, where only fit and experienced runners competed.

  The Abbot watched as Foremole Dwurl scored a deep line along the ground with his formidable digging claws. “Of course, we mustn’t forget the ground race. All competitors come up to the line, please. No crowding or jostling!” He checked the walltop, where Springald and Saro were standing level.

  Brother Weld, acting as walltop official, waved down to the Abbot. “All ready up here!”

  Bragoon and Toran sat on the lawn where they could see both races at the same time. Toran patted his ample stomach.

  “Me racin’ days are long gone. What about ye, Brother? Yore the same age as Saro, why ain’t you runnin’?”

  Bragoon folded his paws and settled back. “I’m far too old. Saro was born on the same day as me, but she’s an hour younger.”

  Toran scoffed. “An hour, that’s nothin’ in a lifetime!”

  His brother Bragoon maintained a straight face. “Oh it isn’t, eh? Ye try holdin’ yore breath for an hour, matey!”

  Every Dibbun in Redwall was hopping and leaping on the line, waiting for the start.

  Abbot Carrul held up a big spotted red ’kerchief, taking one last look around as he called, “Is that all now, last chance for any late entrants!”

  Horty came bowling up, pushing Martha in her chair as she protested. “No, please Horty, I’ve never raced before!”

  The garrulous hare pushed his sister onto the line. “Oh piffle’n’twodge, miss. We’ll show these blighters what us Braebucks are jolly well made of, wot! Two stout runnin’ paws an’ a splendid set o’ wheels. Hahah, we’ll leave ’em all bally well standin’, wot wot!”

  Toran and Bragoon applauded from the sideline. “That’s the stuff, give it a go, miss!”

  Springald stood in a ready stance. Saro glanced sideways at her as she pawed the line.

  “Good luck to ye, young ’un!”

  The mousemaid kept her eyes set on the course ahead. “Aye, good luck to you, too, old ’un. You’re going to need it!”

  Several of the Dibbuns made overenthusiastic false starts, causing a slight delay as Toran and Bragoon got them back into line.

  Abbot Carrul stood out on the lawn and shouted as the ’kerchief fluttered in the breeze.

  “On your marks . . . Ready . . . Steady . . . Go!”

  Away everybeast went, young and old, on walltop or ground, running at top speed.

  Carrul sat on the grass with the two otters. “Dearie me, some of those Dibbuns have raced off in the opposite direction.”

  Toran laughed. “Oh, let ’em go. They’ll still run the same distance at the finish. Flyin’ fur’n’feathers! Lookit young Springald go, ye’d think she had wings on ’er footpaws. Looks like Saro is laggin’ behind a bit. D’ye think she’s in trouble already, Brag?”

  The otter shook his head. “She’s just pacin’ herself, keepin’ the mousemaid lookin’ back over her shoulder, ye’ll see.”

  Both walltop runners were almost at the north wall corner, with Springald a good two paces in front.

  Below on the grass, chaos ensued. A molebabe and a tiny shrewlet had decided to stop and share some candied chestnuts between them. Another molebabe tripped over them. He forgot the race and joined the pair.

  “Hurr, worrum ee got thurr, candee chesknutters, oi’m gurtly fond o’ they’m, boi ’okey oi arr!”

  The shrewlet passed him a few. “Den h’eat dese up, nuts make y’go faster, we still winna race, mate!”

  Martha clung tight to the chair as the little cart bounced and bumped furiously forward, with Horty yelling out a warning to them. “I say there, you bounders, make way or we’ll run ye down. Watch out for the corner, me old skin’n’blister. Steer quicker, or we’ll knock a hole in that wall, wot!”

  Abbot Carrul shook his head in admiration as he viewed the walltop runners. “My word, the speed of those two, they’re nearly at the east corner already. Look at them go!”

  As Toran saw them negotiate the corner and tear off along the parapet southward, he groaned softly, “Aaaah, pore ole Saro’s flaggin’ now. See, Springald’s stretched her lead, I think she’s bound to win.”

  A slight smile played about Bragoon’s lips. “The race ain’t over ’til the winner crosses the line. You watch, Saro’ll soon take the spring out o’ Miss Springald.”

  But by now the mousemaid had turned the south wall-corner, leading by three paces.

  The Abbot commented. “I think that young ’un’s got the field to herself now.”

  Bragoon did not answer; instead, he put both paws to his mouth and emitted a single sharp whistle.

  Springald was panting heavily, but still she took time to glance back at Saro as she gasped, “Give up, old ’un, you’re beat!”

  Saro was breathing like a bellows, still hard on her opponent’s heels. At the sound of Bragoon’s whistle, Saro summoned up all her energy and put on a massive burst of speed. As the finishing line loomed up, Springald set her eyes dead ahead, racing wildly for it. Saro made a mighty leap. She sailed up and over, passing above the startled mousemaid’s head, to land beyond the line, half a pace ahead, right beside Brother Weld, who roared out, “Saro wins!”

  Completely shocked, Springald collapsed in a heap on the walkway. Fighting for breath, she gasped, “Wh . . . wh . . . what h . . . happened?”

  Weld the Beekeeper was holding Saro’s paw high, shouting, “The winner by a half pace—Miz Sarobando!”

  On the ground, three quarters of the way around, more contestants were put out of the race as they met the reverse runners. They collided and fell in a jumble, roaring and arguing.

  “Yurr, wot ways bee’s you’m foogles a runnen?”

  “Uz norra foogles, you knock uz over ’cos we winnin’!”

  Martha steered the cart around them, yelling in panic, “Slow down, Horty, watch out for those Dibbuns!”

  Her brother narrowly missed the melee, speeding up as he shouted, “Forward the buffs! Onward t’death or flippin’ glory! Blood’n’vinegar, me jolly lads! Redwaaall!”

  Howling and hooting, he rushed over the finishing line, grinding to a halt and losing a back wheel in the process. “Hoorah, me beautiful ole skin’n’blister, we won. Wot Wot Wot!”

  “Nay, you’m diddent, zurr. Uz wunned—Shilly an’ oi!”

  Horty’s mouth fell open. “But . . . but . . . how . . . wot . . . but?”

  Martha almost fell from her chair laughing. “Hahahahaha! Muggum and Shilly were first over. Heeheehee, they won. Stop your but butting, Horty, we were second. A great effort on your part, sir. Thank you kindly!”

  She did not tell him that, when they almost collided with the fallen Dibbuns, she had rescued Muggum from the heap as they whizzed by. Muggum had hold of Shilly’s tail, so she, too, was swept aboard the chair. Both of the little ones hopped off the cart, over the line, just ahead of it. Luckily they landed either side of the vehicle.

  The Abbot, who had his suspicions as to who the real winners were, eyed the Dibbuns sternly. “Who won? I want the truth!”

  Muggum was the picture of infant innocence. “Troofully, we’m wunned, zurr. Us’n’s farster’n woild bunglybees, moi paws nurrly tukk foire!”

  The Father
Abbot shook his head in disbelief until Martha reassured him. Toran and Bragoon backed her up stoutly.

  “Aye, ’twas the Dibbuns who won, fair’n’square!”

  “Right, mate, would we lie to a great Father Abbot?”

  Folding both paws into his wide sleeves, the Abbot wandered off, muttering, “Why shouldn’t I believe three good and honest creatures? Frogs can fly, fish make nests in trees. Who am I but a poor Abbot who knows nothing?”

  It was still some time until nightfall and the commencement of the Summer Feast. Under the Abbot’s instructions, the kitchen crew had already made a substantial afternoon tea.

  Saro threw a friendly paw around Springald’s shoulders. “That was the closest race I’ve ever run. Come on, young ’un, you’n yore friends must take tea with me. Let the winnin’ Dibbuns an’ Martha sit with us, too.”

  The banks of the Abbey pond made a perfect setting as the Redwallers sat in the lengthening noon shadows, watching sungleams on the cool, dark water. Junty Cellarhog, the big hedgehog who took care of Redwall’s famous cellars, personally served them with ice-cold rosehip and mint tea. Everybeast gossiped animatedly whilst enjoying the excellent food. Most Redwallers wanted to know more about the famous pair and their adventures. Bragoon had to do most of the answering, as Saro was lost in the ecstasy of scones, meadowcream and strawberry jam. Even Horty was amazed at the amount of food that Saro could put away.

  He remarked in awed tones, “Good grief, marm, you can certainly deal pretty roughly with scones when you’ve a blinkin’ mind to, wot!”

  Bragoon shoved more meadowcream over to his companion. “Don’t disturb Saro while she’s eatin’, she gets fierce.”

  Horty nodded politely. “Know wotcha mean, sah. I expect it was jolly tough, wot. All those seasons o’ fightin’ rascally vermin. Must’ve given the lady a confounded keen appetite!”

  Bragoon nodded. “Many’s the time I’ve had to count me paws after sittin’ too close to Saro at vittlin’ time!”