High Rhulain

The Skipper smiled gratefully as Friar Bibble lifted the lid from a steaming tureen. “Aharr, good ole freshwater shrimp’n’hotroot soup. How did ye guess I’d arrive in time for it, mate?”

Bibble chuckled. “Indeed to goodness, I only had to open one o’ my kitchen windows wide an’ let the aroma waft out. There, I said to myself, anybeast within a league of that ain’t worthy of the name otter if’n he don’t come runnin’, an’ here ye are, Banjon Wildlough!”

Skipper winked cheerfully at Lycian. “Our Bibble’s a wonder, ain’t he, Mother Abbess?”

Lycian commented wryly, as she sliced into a sweet chestnut flan. “Oh, he has his uses, even though he doesn’t know what seasons by seasons times seasons is. Eh, Bibble?”

The good Friar pulled a long face. “Look you, marm, neither does any other creature, yourself included. Seasons times silly seasons, huh!”

Brink looked up from a deeper’n’ever turnip’n’ tater’n’beetroot pie that he was sharing with Foremole Grudd. “Dearie me, an’ I thought you was all cleverbeasts. Hah, ye don’t know wot seasons by seasons times seasons is?”

Lycian paused with her slice of flan halfway to her mouth. “Oh, and I suppose that you do, Mr. Brink Greyspoke?”

The stout Cellarhog could not resist grinning smugly. “Oh, indeed I do, Miz Mother Abbess Lycian. I’ve knowed that ’un since I was only a liddle pincushion of a Dibbun!”

Silence fell over the diners at this revelation.

Old Quelt treated Brink to a jaundiced glare. “So you know? Well, are you going to sit there, grinning like a duck with two tails, or are you going to tell us?”

Brink dug into his plate of deeper’n’ever pie decisively. “No, sir, I ain’t goin’ to tell ye, not when you asks in that manner I ain’t!”

Sister Snowdrop tried a more friendly approach. “Pray tell us, O Wise Keeper of our fine Abbey Cellars, how would you like us to ask you?”

Brink munched away as he considered the question. “Hmm, in a polite an’ helpful manner, Sister. I can be coaxed, y’know.”

Skipper poured a foaming tankard of ale for his friend. “May’ ap a nice drop o’ prime October brew’d move ye, sir?”

He winked at the others, who soon caught on. They began bribing Brink with all manner of tidbits.

“Give that good hog a bowlful o’ woodland trifle.”

“Aye, an’ pour lots o’ meadowcream on it!”

“Here, Mr. Greyspoke, take my mushroom an’ gravy pastie.”

“Maybe ye’d like a warm scone with some comb honey?”

The Cellarhog was graciously accepting all blandishments, when squirrelbabe Taggle rapped his paw with a spoon. “Gurr! You tellum, or I choppa tail off wiv a big knife!”

Brink threw up his paws in mock terror. “Sixty-four, the answer’s sixty-four!”

Tribsy scratched his tail. “How did you work that out, sir?”

Brink shrugged. “Well, there’s four seasons, ain’t there? So, four seasons by four seasons is sixteen. Times that by another four, an’ it adds up to sixty-four. I was always good at figurin’ when I was a liddle ’un, still am.”

As soon as dinner was finished, the Geminya Tome was sent for. Amid great excitement, Old Quelt opened it to chapter sixty-four and started reading.

“Twixt supper and breakfast find me,

In a place I was weary to be,

Up in that top tactic (one see)

Lies what was the limb of a tree.

It holds up what blocks out the night,

And can open to let in the light.

For a third of a lifetime one says,

Looking up I could see it sideways.

Tell me what we call coward (in at)

Then when you have worked out that,

You’ll find your heart’s desire,

By adding a backward liar.

Ever together the two have been set,

Since Corriam’s lance ate the coronet.”

An awed silence followed the reading of the riddle. Then Skipper asked airily, “Is that all there is to it?”

The glasses dropped off Quelt’s nose as he spluttered, “Is that all! Don’t you think that’s quite enough, sir?”

Banjon held up a placatory paw. “Now don’t go gettin’ yoreself in a tizzy, old ’un, I was only jestin’. Though I’ll tell ye this, on me affydavit. I never, in all me seasons, heard a puzzle or a riddle that even comes close to bein’ as hard as that ’un!”

Little Sister Snowdrop’s voice rose into a tirade. “That Sister Geminya! Oooohh, the bottle-nosed, twidgetty-tailed, prinky-pawed, mumbledy-toothed old busybody! What right did she have, thinking up brain-bending puzzles like that? It’s a confounded . . . oooh, it’s a . . .”

“Why, it’s an enigma, just like her name, and it will do no good getting upset like that, Sister.” Abbess Lycian patted Snowdrop’s paw soothingly. “I for one am not going to be defeated by Geminya’s riddle. You were right, Snowdrop, she’s all you said she was, and more. The barrel-bottomed, flinkyeyed, twoggly-eared old nuisance! There, that feels a lot better. What d’you say, friends, are we going to solve the riddle of Corriam’s lance and Rhulain’s coronet? Who’s with me?”

Skipper grasped Lycian’s paw. “I am, marm, if the solvin’ will help that lovely gel o’ mine. Wot d’ye say, mates?”