SeaStar
New member
My Fair Hare
A Redwall Pygmalion Parody
In which a Mole is given Speech Therapy to impersonate a Hare
(Warning: If you haven't read the Redwall series and watched My Fair Lady, this will make no sense whatsoever.)
The great Salamandastron Feast was just around the corner. It was a grand occasion, held once every ten seasons. Traditionally, only the Badger Lord and his hares were allowed to attend.
It all began when Lord Asheye was holding an idle conversation with some senior Long Patrollers.
“I don’t know, sah,” said Colonel Pickering Ffolger, a somewhat elderly hare who had just begun his retirement from the Long Patrol. “There was that blinkin’ squirrel who tried to intrude on the festivities last time, remember? We had to throw the bounder out.”
Lord Asheye chuckled, running his paws down his headstripes as he was apt to do when thinking. “Don’t worry. There won’t be any feast-crashers this time. I may be blind as a bat, but I can tell what manner of beast they are as soon as I hear ‘em speak. Eh, Higgins?”
Higgins was an honorary member of the Long Patrol, as well as Salamandastron’s only phonetics expert. “If I was a typical hare,” he replied, “I’d say ‘Right, m’lud!’ Typical hare, of course, I don’t speak that way. ‘Wot wot’ is also indicative of hare.”
Lord Asheye interrupted to prevent Higgins from going off on another speech about, well, speech. “I’m sure I can detect any imposters without your tirades, Higgins, you old windbag.” Turning to Colonel Pickering, he went on with the original conversation. “So, did you see old Wimpole about those tablecloths? She’s decorated them last week, I hear.”
Pickering, however, hardly heard the Badger Lord. He could see a look in Higgins’s eyes—the one that meant he was sulking. When Higgins sulked, things happened. And not particularly good things, either.
Consequently, Pickering was not unduly surprised when Higgins called him to a small cave off the shoreline. It had been their secret hideout since they were leverets, and they were the only two hares who knew of its existence.
Higgins, instead of looking sulky, looked very pleased with himself. In a moment, Pickering saw why.
“Behold,” said Higgins with a grand sweep of the paw, “my revenge!” He paused for effect, then shoved a creature out of the shadows.
It was a small molemaid dressed in a shabby apron and mob cap.
“Er, Higgins, old chap...” Pickering began. “A little explanation might be in order—”
“Here’s the master plan,” said Higgins, rubbing his paws together in an appropriately evil fashion, as befitted a conspirator. “Lord Asheye has insulted me. You witnessed the act, didn’t you?”
“Ah, yes. Called you a windbag, wot?”
“Yes. A windbag! Honestly! Me!” Higgins sniffed. “I hope you see that it wouldn’t be overreacting to...well, to pay him back.” A gleam came into his eyes.
Pickering knew better than to argue. He hastily agreed that Lord Asheye had been a bit rude, and of course Higgins was not a windbag, and Badger Lords were getting a bit presumptuous these seasons (wot).
“But, look here, old bean,” he finished up, “I don’t see where this bally molemaid fits into all this.”
“I was getting to that. You see, I’m going to cure this mole of her horrid speech impediment—oh, you know, ‘burr oi’ and all that—and teach her the dialect of a hare! Then I’ll sneak her into the feast. Lord Asheye will hear her speak and announce to all that she is a hare. His reputation as an amateur linguist will be ruined! Clever, isn’t it?”
The little molemaid interrupted. “Oi’m a gudd beast, oi em! Oi bain’t deceivin’ no stroipedog lord, oi bain’t, eff that be wot ee wants oi furr.”
“That’s molespeech for you. Painful, isn’t it,” Higgins confided to Pickering. He addressed the molemaid sternly. “Now, now, that was just horrid, do you hear? Horrid! Try it again!”
She glared in a sulky manner. “Oi bain’t, just furr that.”
“Bedraggled tunnel-tripe!” snorted Higgins. “Oh, by the way, Colonel, her name’s Loiza Toolittle. A molish name if I ever heard one—and I have heard several.”
Pickering offered the molemaid his paw. “Delighted t’meet you, Miss Toolittle.”
Loiza was obviously taken with his manners. She touched her snout to him, the polite mole greeting. “Gudd day to ee, zurr. You’m kin call oi Loiza.”
“Enough chunnering!” announced Higgins. “Now, here is the outline of our lessons. First we’ll remove the molespeech, then, when she speaks plainly, I’ll start teaching her hare. Not that I’m too fond of all that blinkin’ and flippin’ and bloomin’ and all those other outlandish phrases others of my species insist on using in place of healthy, normal adjectives, but...well, she must sound like a hare, you know!”
“But, Higgins...all this in two weeks? I bet you a trifle it can’t be done!”
“A strawberry trifle with flaked hazelnuts?” Higgins said cautiously.
“Yes, yes, any sort–”
“Done! I always can use a little extra motivation. Thank you, Colonel. Now, let us begin on this dirty little mole!”
A Redwall Pygmalion Parody
In which a Mole is given Speech Therapy to impersonate a Hare
(Warning: If you haven't read the Redwall series and watched My Fair Lady, this will make no sense whatsoever.)
___________________________________________
The great Salamandastron Feast was just around the corner. It was a grand occasion, held once every ten seasons. Traditionally, only the Badger Lord and his hares were allowed to attend.
It all began when Lord Asheye was holding an idle conversation with some senior Long Patrollers.
“I don’t know, sah,” said Colonel Pickering Ffolger, a somewhat elderly hare who had just begun his retirement from the Long Patrol. “There was that blinkin’ squirrel who tried to intrude on the festivities last time, remember? We had to throw the bounder out.”
Lord Asheye chuckled, running his paws down his headstripes as he was apt to do when thinking. “Don’t worry. There won’t be any feast-crashers this time. I may be blind as a bat, but I can tell what manner of beast they are as soon as I hear ‘em speak. Eh, Higgins?”
Higgins was an honorary member of the Long Patrol, as well as Salamandastron’s only phonetics expert. “If I was a typical hare,” he replied, “I’d say ‘Right, m’lud!’ Typical hare, of course, I don’t speak that way. ‘Wot wot’ is also indicative of hare.”
Lord Asheye interrupted to prevent Higgins from going off on another speech about, well, speech. “I’m sure I can detect any imposters without your tirades, Higgins, you old windbag.” Turning to Colonel Pickering, he went on with the original conversation. “So, did you see old Wimpole about those tablecloths? She’s decorated them last week, I hear.”
Pickering, however, hardly heard the Badger Lord. He could see a look in Higgins’s eyes—the one that meant he was sulking. When Higgins sulked, things happened. And not particularly good things, either.
Consequently, Pickering was not unduly surprised when Higgins called him to a small cave off the shoreline. It had been their secret hideout since they were leverets, and they were the only two hares who knew of its existence.
Higgins, instead of looking sulky, looked very pleased with himself. In a moment, Pickering saw why.
“Behold,” said Higgins with a grand sweep of the paw, “my revenge!” He paused for effect, then shoved a creature out of the shadows.
It was a small molemaid dressed in a shabby apron and mob cap.
“Er, Higgins, old chap...” Pickering began. “A little explanation might be in order—”
“Here’s the master plan,” said Higgins, rubbing his paws together in an appropriately evil fashion, as befitted a conspirator. “Lord Asheye has insulted me. You witnessed the act, didn’t you?”
“Ah, yes. Called you a windbag, wot?”
“Yes. A windbag! Honestly! Me!” Higgins sniffed. “I hope you see that it wouldn’t be overreacting to...well, to pay him back.” A gleam came into his eyes.
Pickering knew better than to argue. He hastily agreed that Lord Asheye had been a bit rude, and of course Higgins was not a windbag, and Badger Lords were getting a bit presumptuous these seasons (wot).
“But, look here, old bean,” he finished up, “I don’t see where this bally molemaid fits into all this.”
“I was getting to that. You see, I’m going to cure this mole of her horrid speech impediment—oh, you know, ‘burr oi’ and all that—and teach her the dialect of a hare! Then I’ll sneak her into the feast. Lord Asheye will hear her speak and announce to all that she is a hare. His reputation as an amateur linguist will be ruined! Clever, isn’t it?”
The little molemaid interrupted. “Oi’m a gudd beast, oi em! Oi bain’t deceivin’ no stroipedog lord, oi bain’t, eff that be wot ee wants oi furr.”
“That’s molespeech for you. Painful, isn’t it,” Higgins confided to Pickering. He addressed the molemaid sternly. “Now, now, that was just horrid, do you hear? Horrid! Try it again!”
She glared in a sulky manner. “Oi bain’t, just furr that.”
“Bedraggled tunnel-tripe!” snorted Higgins. “Oh, by the way, Colonel, her name’s Loiza Toolittle. A molish name if I ever heard one—and I have heard several.”
Pickering offered the molemaid his paw. “Delighted t’meet you, Miss Toolittle.”
Loiza was obviously taken with his manners. She touched her snout to him, the polite mole greeting. “Gudd day to ee, zurr. You’m kin call oi Loiza.”
“Enough chunnering!” announced Higgins. “Now, here is the outline of our lessons. First we’ll remove the molespeech, then, when she speaks plainly, I’ll start teaching her hare. Not that I’m too fond of all that blinkin’ and flippin’ and bloomin’ and all those other outlandish phrases others of my species insist on using in place of healthy, normal adjectives, but...well, she must sound like a hare, you know!”
“But, Higgins...all this in two weeks? I bet you a trifle it can’t be done!”
“A strawberry trifle with flaked hazelnuts?” Higgins said cautiously.
“Yes, yes, any sort–”
“Done! I always can use a little extra motivation. Thank you, Colonel. Now, let us begin on this dirty little mole!”
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Copperfox
Well-known member
I have read one Redwall novel, "Taggerung;" so I am qualified to say that you seem to have captured the style of Brian Jacques' language. Since you're a Redwall fan, perhaps you can answer a question for me: exactly what IS the stuff called "meadowcream" which Redwall cooks are always putting in recipes?
Copperfox
Well-known member
Thanks.
Since I saw no sign in "Taggerung" of the Redwallers having dairy cows, I guessed that meadowcream was something extracted from a plant, like the milky fluid from a milkweed. Since it appears that _every_ mammal on the entire _planet_ of the Redwall series is a reasoning, speaking creature, I figured that the Redwallers not eating any mammal's flesh would extend also to not _milking_ them.
Is Brian Jacques on record as being a fanatical vegan?
Since I saw no sign in "Taggerung" of the Redwallers having dairy cows, I guessed that meadowcream was something extracted from a plant, like the milky fluid from a milkweed. Since it appears that _every_ mammal on the entire _planet_ of the Redwall series is a reasoning, speaking creature, I figured that the Redwallers not eating any mammal's flesh would extend also to not _milking_ them.
Is Brian Jacques on record as being a fanatical vegan?
SeaStar
New member
I'm not sure if he's vegetarian. He probably talks about that in some interview or the other.
They do get the milk from plants, but cows have been mentioned once or twice. Of course, there are a million inconsistencies in the Redwall books, so that's probably just another one of them. Or maybe the cows do exist there, but live far away enough to be kept reasonably offscreen, because anthropomorphic, two-legged cows would be just...weird.
They do get the milk from plants, but cows have been mentioned once or twice. Of course, there are a million inconsistencies in the Redwall books, so that's probably just another one of them. Or maybe the cows do exist there, but live far away enough to be kept reasonably offscreen, because anthropomorphic, two-legged cows would be just...weird.
Randomness?! That's what I call the word document full of my random writings! 
SeaStar
New member
Randomness?! That's what I call the word document full of my random writings!
Mine are "Thingummajig", "Carrots" (yeah...it's a long story), and "A Document of Condensed Silliness."
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My sister has 'Melody of the Miscellaneous.' I think it's really pretty.
SeaStar
New member
That's a nice document title.
_______________________________________
Loiza looked miffed at being called dirty. “Oi washed moi face ‘n’ paws before oi come, oi did.”
“Phrase that differently,” Higgins ordered her.
“Oi doan’t want to,” Loiza muttered.
“Look at her!” Higgins flapped his ears in annoyance. “She’s so deliciously low, so horribly dirty. She’s...why, she’s like a squashed dockleaf,” he added, with a burst of poetic inspiration.
“Oiiiiiawwwww!” Loiza growled.
“Slayer of noble speech!”
“You’m a crewl beast, you’m be! Boi ‘okey, if’n moi uncle Billyum wurr ‘ere, ee’d toike ee ladler to ee—” Her tirade was cut short when Higgins popped a candied chestnut into her mouth.
“Like it, Loiza? Go on, eat it. I have a lot more—a whole roomful. Now, if you’re a goodbeast and do as the Colonel and I say, you can have as many as you like. And after that, you’ll sit at the great table of Salamandastron, and eat mountains of scrumptious vittles, and sit beside the Badger Lord himself. If you’re found out, the Badger Lord will take down his battleaxe and chop off your head, and stick it on a pike as a warning to other presumptuous molemaids. But if you are not found out, you will have scored a great accomplishment, and your name will go down in the records of molekind.” He frowned in a stern fashion. “However, if you are a badbeast and refuse to cooperate, you will live under the mountain among the spiny crabs, and a badgermum will wallop you with a broom. And you will be a miserable beast, and the Ghost of Martin will weep for you.”
Loiza eyed him suspiciously. “Ee be a madbeast, that un. Oi bain’t lettin’ no madbeast teach oi, thankee zurr!”
“Enough!” roared Higgins. He produced six candied chestnuts from the sack that hung at his belt. “We will start your training now. Open wide.” He then proceeded to stuff them into Loiza’s mouth. “Don’t chew these,” he snapped. “Let them lie in your mouth. Now, repeat after me: It happened in the springing time, when all the leaves were green, and once again Abbess Germaine a-baking cakes had been...beginning of a famous ballad, you know.”
Loiza mumbled something indistinct.
“Louder, mole, I can’t hear a word you’re saying. Not a word!”
“Mmmffyyy-wmff!” Loiza spat out the chestnuts. “Oi can’t talk with ee chesknutters in moi mouth!”
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That's really good, Sea Star! I've never really been into Redwall, I prefer Jaques' Flying dutchman trilogy, but I read the first book in the Redwall series. You did a good job with this piece; its very similar to Brian Jaques style.
SeaStar
New member
“My dear mole, that’s the point of the exercise. It teaches you to enunciate clearly. To vocalize! To articulate!”
“But ee ballader be too long!”
Higgins sighed. “All right, you win—this once. We will start with something more basic. Repeat after me: I am a hare.”
Loiza looked bemused. “But oi bain’t.”
“Never mind, just say it!”
“Oi be...oi em a hurr.”
“That was terrible! Do it again! Try to sound like me.”
Loiza held her breath, then carefully pronounced, “Ay emma hare.”
“AWFUL!”
“Ay em—”
Higgins wobbled his ears fiercely. “You will say it right, and until you do there will be no breakfast, no tea, no dinner, and no candied chestnuts! And no sly munching either.”
Pickering thought this was going a bit too far. “Now, old thing, think about it, wot? Cutting off a young gel’s scoff—not reasonable, doncha know.”
Higgins puffed out his chest. “I have thought about it! And I am always reasonable!”
Pickering knew better than to argue with his bad-tempered friend. “Of course, of course, old fellow. Just trying to calm things down a bit, wot? Wot?”
Loiza, who had been silently mouthing words, suddenly spoke up. “I...amma...hare. I...am a hare!”
Higgins leaped into the air. “By the Forge, I think she’s got it!” He whirled onto Loiza. “Quickly, now. Say, ‘The shower in Mossflower falls hourly on the tower.’ Go on, say it!”
Loiza cleared her throat. “Ee shor—oi’m sorry! Oi mean, tee show-er in Mossflor falls orly on ee tow-er.”
“Hmm, quite good for a first try, doncha know,” said Pickering.
Higgins was implacable. “Colonel Pickering! Will you kindly hold your tongue? You’ll make the subject all soft and weepy and sorry for herself. As a hare of the Long Patrol you should know that. Discipline!”
Loiza stamped her footpaw. “Oi’m a-goen to bed. Gudd noight, madbeast. Gudd noight, zurr Pickering.” The mole stomped out of the cave.
Pickering headed her off. “No need t’walk all the way home, Miss Toolittle. You can spend the night here, wot? When Higgins and I arrive in the morning we’ll be all set for the blinkin’ lessons.”
So as the two hares traipsed back to Salamandastron, with Higgins loudly ordering Pickering to swear secrecy about the plot, Loiza re-entered the cave and curled up with the rather sandy old quilt which had been stored inside. She was not immediately tired, so she began to compose a ballad of her own, which went something like:
“Just ee woit, laoud-mouth ‘Iggins, just ee woit!
Ee’ll be sorry, but thoi tears’ll be too loit
Ee’ll be starvin’, oi’ll ‘ave scoff
When ee asks f’r it, oi’ll send ee off!
‘a, ‘a, ‘a, longears ‘Iggins, just ee woit!”
That didn’t seem like enough retribution, so Loiza added another verse.
“Just ee woit until we’m walkin’ by ee sea
An’ ee slips an’ falls a little woiys frumm me
When ee yells, ‘Oi’m goen down!’
Oi’ll soiy, ‘Too bad’ an’ let ee drown
Serves ee roight, laoud-mouth ‘Iggins! Just...ee...woit!”
Loiza continued in a more dreamy, slower fashion,
“Wunn doiy oi’ll be foimous
Oi’ll be proper ‘n’ prim
Visit ee Badger Lord so often
Oi’ll ‘ave tea an’ poie with ‘im
“Wunn evenin’ ee Badger will soiy,
‘Ho Loiza, owd thing
Oi wants all of Moss’flor thoi proises to sing!
All ee goodbeasts will celebroite ee glory of you
An’ whatever ee wish or want, oi glady’ll do!”
“Thanks a lot, Ash,” sez oi in a manner well-bred
“But all oi wants is Colonel ‘Iggins’ ‘ead!”
“Dunn!” sez ee Badger with a stroke
“‘Ares, go an’ bring in ee bloke!”
As they’m raise ee crossbows hoigher
Oi’ll shout, ‘Ready, aim...foire!’”
Loiza broke off suddenly, with the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching her. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Higgins standing in the cave mouth.
“None of that ridiculous mole singing!” Higgins snapped. “Practice your speech exercises instead. Or if that’s too hard, count sheep!”
Loiza blinked. “Hurr, what be a sheep?”
“Well...it’s a...a...how am I supposed to know! Just shut up and get some rest while you still can, because we start lessons tomorrow at three!”
“But ee ballader be too long!”
Higgins sighed. “All right, you win—this once. We will start with something more basic. Repeat after me: I am a hare.”
Loiza looked bemused. “But oi bain’t.”
“Never mind, just say it!”
“Oi be...oi em a hurr.”
“That was terrible! Do it again! Try to sound like me.”
Loiza held her breath, then carefully pronounced, “Ay emma hare.”
“AWFUL!”
“Ay em—”
Higgins wobbled his ears fiercely. “You will say it right, and until you do there will be no breakfast, no tea, no dinner, and no candied chestnuts! And no sly munching either.”
Pickering thought this was going a bit too far. “Now, old thing, think about it, wot? Cutting off a young gel’s scoff—not reasonable, doncha know.”
Higgins puffed out his chest. “I have thought about it! And I am always reasonable!”
Pickering knew better than to argue with his bad-tempered friend. “Of course, of course, old fellow. Just trying to calm things down a bit, wot? Wot?”
Loiza, who had been silently mouthing words, suddenly spoke up. “I...amma...hare. I...am a hare!”
Higgins leaped into the air. “By the Forge, I think she’s got it!” He whirled onto Loiza. “Quickly, now. Say, ‘The shower in Mossflower falls hourly on the tower.’ Go on, say it!”
Loiza cleared her throat. “Ee shor—oi’m sorry! Oi mean, tee show-er in Mossflor falls orly on ee tow-er.”
“Hmm, quite good for a first try, doncha know,” said Pickering.
Higgins was implacable. “Colonel Pickering! Will you kindly hold your tongue? You’ll make the subject all soft and weepy and sorry for herself. As a hare of the Long Patrol you should know that. Discipline!”
Loiza stamped her footpaw. “Oi’m a-goen to bed. Gudd noight, madbeast. Gudd noight, zurr Pickering.” The mole stomped out of the cave.
Pickering headed her off. “No need t’walk all the way home, Miss Toolittle. You can spend the night here, wot? When Higgins and I arrive in the morning we’ll be all set for the blinkin’ lessons.”
So as the two hares traipsed back to Salamandastron, with Higgins loudly ordering Pickering to swear secrecy about the plot, Loiza re-entered the cave and curled up with the rather sandy old quilt which had been stored inside. She was not immediately tired, so she began to compose a ballad of her own, which went something like:
“Just ee woit, laoud-mouth ‘Iggins, just ee woit!
Ee’ll be sorry, but thoi tears’ll be too loit
Ee’ll be starvin’, oi’ll ‘ave scoff
When ee asks f’r it, oi’ll send ee off!
‘a, ‘a, ‘a, longears ‘Iggins, just ee woit!”
That didn’t seem like enough retribution, so Loiza added another verse.
“Just ee woit until we’m walkin’ by ee sea
An’ ee slips an’ falls a little woiys frumm me
When ee yells, ‘Oi’m goen down!’
Oi’ll soiy, ‘Too bad’ an’ let ee drown
Serves ee roight, laoud-mouth ‘Iggins! Just...ee...woit!”
Loiza continued in a more dreamy, slower fashion,
“Wunn doiy oi’ll be foimous
Oi’ll be proper ‘n’ prim
Visit ee Badger Lord so often
Oi’ll ‘ave tea an’ poie with ‘im
“Wunn evenin’ ee Badger will soiy,
‘Ho Loiza, owd thing
Oi wants all of Moss’flor thoi proises to sing!
All ee goodbeasts will celebroite ee glory of you
An’ whatever ee wish or want, oi glady’ll do!”
“Thanks a lot, Ash,” sez oi in a manner well-bred
“But all oi wants is Colonel ‘Iggins’ ‘ead!”
“Dunn!” sez ee Badger with a stroke
“‘Ares, go an’ bring in ee bloke!”
As they’m raise ee crossbows hoigher
Oi’ll shout, ‘Ready, aim...foire!’”
Loiza broke off suddenly, with the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching her. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Higgins standing in the cave mouth.
“None of that ridiculous mole singing!” Higgins snapped. “Practice your speech exercises instead. Or if that’s too hard, count sheep!”
Loiza blinked. “Hurr, what be a sheep?”
“Well...it’s a...a...how am I supposed to know! Just shut up and get some rest while you still can, because we start lessons tomorrow at three!”
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SeaStar
New member
The next morning...
“Too many rrrrrrr’s!” shouted Higgins. “Rrrrrrrr! Rrrrrrr! Rrrrrr! What do you think you are, Gulo the Savage?”
“Ee toald me to work on moi rrrrrrrr’s!”
“Well, I didn’t tell ee to—blast it, now I’m catching the molespeech.” Higgins scowled. “No food until you get it right.”
Loiza scowled back. “Oi woan’t until oi gets moi brekkist. And iffen ee doan’t give it to oi, oi’ll scrump et, oi will.”
Pickering, who had dozed off, snapped awake. “Crumpets? Where?”
The mention of food gave Higgins an idea. He pulled out a small glazed cherry cake (packed for this general purpose) and waved it until Loiza’s snout. “Delicious-looking, don’t you think? Now, say it and say it right!”
Loiza glared fiercely and drew herself up to her full height. “You’m got no ‘eart, you’m bain’t! Oi’ll say et once more an’ if’n ee doan’t loike it too bad furr ee!” She hesitated, then muttered, “The shower in Mossflower falls hourly on ee—the tower.”
Everyone froze (except for Loiza, who snatched the cake.)
“By the Forge!” Higgins yelled again. “She has got it! Quickly, before it wears off. ‘In Terramort, Malkariss, and Sampetra, snowstorms seldom strike.’”
“In Terramort, Mal’kriss, and Sampetrer, snowstorms seldom stroike.”
“LOOOOOOIZAAAAA!”
And the next day...
“What do you say to Lord Asheye?”
“How kind of you to let mee come!”
Higgins scowled. “You said that 'me' with two 'e's. I heard it. AGAIN!”
“Too many rrrrrrr’s!” shouted Higgins. “Rrrrrrrr! Rrrrrrr! Rrrrrr! What do you think you are, Gulo the Savage?”
“Ee toald me to work on moi rrrrrrrr’s!”
“Well, I didn’t tell ee to—blast it, now I’m catching the molespeech.” Higgins scowled. “No food until you get it right.”
Loiza scowled back. “Oi woan’t until oi gets moi brekkist. And iffen ee doan’t give it to oi, oi’ll scrump et, oi will.”
Pickering, who had dozed off, snapped awake. “Crumpets? Where?”
The mention of food gave Higgins an idea. He pulled out a small glazed cherry cake (packed for this general purpose) and waved it until Loiza’s snout. “Delicious-looking, don’t you think? Now, say it and say it right!”
Loiza glared fiercely and drew herself up to her full height. “You’m got no ‘eart, you’m bain’t! Oi’ll say et once more an’ if’n ee doan’t loike it too bad furr ee!” She hesitated, then muttered, “The shower in Mossflower falls hourly on ee—the tower.”
Everyone froze (except for Loiza, who snatched the cake.)
“By the Forge!” Higgins yelled again. “She has got it! Quickly, before it wears off. ‘In Terramort, Malkariss, and Sampetra, snowstorms seldom strike.’”
“In Terramort, Mal’kriss, and Sampetrer, snowstorms seldom stroike.”
“LOOOOOOIZAAAAA!”
And the next day...
“What do you say to Lord Asheye?”
“How kind of you to let mee come!”
Higgins scowled. “You said that 'me' with two 'e's. I heard it. AGAIN!”
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SeaStar
New member
Thanks, Zella!
Finally, by the next week...
“What a delightful feast! These are simply the best scones I’ve ever tasted. My compliments to the cook! Good afternoon, Lord Asheye. How kind of you to let me come.” Loiza stopped and lowered the sheet of parchment she was reading from. “Well?”
“Decent. Decent,” said Higgins, who, like Pickering, was pacing back and forth. “Again, Loiza. Take it from the top!”
Loiza sighed and began to recite mechanically. “Good morning. How are you? Wonderful weather we’re having...”
Pickering halted in his pacing, and Higgins, who had been pacing in the opposite direction, nearly crashed into him. “Dash it all, Higgins, she doesn’t sound like a hare!”
Higgins caught his balance and gave Pickering an irritable look. “That will come later, Colonel.”
“At least you’ve cured her of that bally molespeech,” said Pickering.
“Ah, yes. The last mole to speak in this fashion was Egbert the Scholar, back in the days of Southsward. An oddly learned molebeast. Remember his account of the Siege of the Castle Floret? Definitely a must-read for the historians of Mossflower. Speaking of which, I copied some scrolls on the subject only last season.” As Higgins and Pickering went off into a conversation on history and accents, Loiza stopped reading and looked longingly at the breakfast the hares had packed.
“Don’t stop. Go on,” said Higgins, noticing her pause. Loiza resumed her exercises, and he resumed his conversation with Pickering.
Fifteen minutes later, the hares were immersed in a debate about Lord Asheye’s proposed trade route with Redwall Abbey. Loiza let her mind wander. In her opinion, this new accent of hers was absolutely ridiculous. “Et bain’t a-fitten with ee molesense,” she grumbled.
Loiza’s thoughts were interrupted by Higgins’ voice. “That’ll do, Loiza. You may have the rest of the day off...merely to clear your mind for tomorrow’s ordeal.”
“What is ‘appening tomorrow?”
“Happening, Loiza. Happening. Hear the aitch? Hhhhhhhappening.” Higgins cleared his throat. “At any rate, tomorrow I must ruin your plain speech with the vocal mannerisms of the hare!”
Finally, by the next week...
“What a delightful feast! These are simply the best scones I’ve ever tasted. My compliments to the cook! Good afternoon, Lord Asheye. How kind of you to let me come.” Loiza stopped and lowered the sheet of parchment she was reading from. “Well?”
“Decent. Decent,” said Higgins, who, like Pickering, was pacing back and forth. “Again, Loiza. Take it from the top!”
Loiza sighed and began to recite mechanically. “Good morning. How are you? Wonderful weather we’re having...”
Pickering halted in his pacing, and Higgins, who had been pacing in the opposite direction, nearly crashed into him. “Dash it all, Higgins, she doesn’t sound like a hare!”
Higgins caught his balance and gave Pickering an irritable look. “That will come later, Colonel.”
“At least you’ve cured her of that bally molespeech,” said Pickering.
“Ah, yes. The last mole to speak in this fashion was Egbert the Scholar, back in the days of Southsward. An oddly learned molebeast. Remember his account of the Siege of the Castle Floret? Definitely a must-read for the historians of Mossflower. Speaking of which, I copied some scrolls on the subject only last season.” As Higgins and Pickering went off into a conversation on history and accents, Loiza stopped reading and looked longingly at the breakfast the hares had packed.
“Don’t stop. Go on,” said Higgins, noticing her pause. Loiza resumed her exercises, and he resumed his conversation with Pickering.
Fifteen minutes later, the hares were immersed in a debate about Lord Asheye’s proposed trade route with Redwall Abbey. Loiza let her mind wander. In her opinion, this new accent of hers was absolutely ridiculous. “Et bain’t a-fitten with ee molesense,” she grumbled.
Loiza’s thoughts were interrupted by Higgins’ voice. “That’ll do, Loiza. You may have the rest of the day off...merely to clear your mind for tomorrow’s ordeal.”
“What is ‘appening tomorrow?”
“Happening, Loiza. Happening. Hear the aitch? Hhhhhhhappening.” Higgins cleared his throat. “At any rate, tomorrow I must ruin your plain speech with the vocal mannerisms of the hare!”
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SeaStar
New member
The process of coloring Loiza’s speech with a flurry of “bally”, “flippin’”, “wot wot” and the like (along with a few dashes of dropped aitches—for authenticity of effect, Higgins insisted) was a long, tedious one that took several days.
Finally, one morning as Higgins, Pickering and Loiza had breakfast, Higgins made an announcement.
“Today,” he said, slamming down his flagon of mint tea, “we’re going to have a test.”
“What sort of test?” asked Loiza with more caution than enthusiasm.
“We’re going to a little gathering of hares,” Higgins replied calmly, “where we shall proceed to pass you off as one of their species.”
Pickering objected to this. “But...but that’s too dangerous! Wouldn’t it be much simpler to invite somebeast over and clap a blinkin’ blindfold on him? He could make a guess at what Loiza was based on her voice, wot?”
Higgins shook his head. “Except that that would be ridiculously suspicious! Word might reach his lordship, and then that’d be the end of our conspiracy. Besides,” he added, “Loiza’s accent is sufficiently deceptive, if I do say so myself.”
“It’s not just her voice, old thing. She’s a bally mole! You can’t just trot in a mole masqueradin’ as a hare, even if she does sound like one! Those diggin’ claws of hers, for instance, and the fact that she hasn’t got the proper sort of ears!”
Higgins paused and cast a dubious eye over Loiza. “True,” he admitted. Fortunately, Loiza was a good specimen of mole as far as impersonating hares was concerned. Her eyes were unusually large (if a bit squinty), and her fur was lighter than average. From a certain angle one could see a resemblance, but...still...
“We’ll need to employ the services of Midge,” he announced. “Don’t worry, we’ll swear him to secrecy. Besides, he always loves a good joke.”
Midge Manycoats VII was Salamandastron’s current Master of Disguise. He was an undersized, hyperactive hare who, when given a brief explanation of the prank, agreed to help out.
“Certainly! Yes! Bwahahaha!” he laughed, hopping up and down. “Can’t wait to see the look on his lordship’s face, wot? Now, where’s that blinkin’ molebeast? By the time I’m through with her, her own Uncle Billythingummy wouldn’t recognize her!”
“Good,” said Higgins. “I’m taking her to the recruits’ get-together this afternoon. A sort of dress rehearsal, you see.”
Midge circled Loiza, muttering notes to himself. “A little more on that side of the face—definitely a bob tail—ears might be difficult, might manage it with some of that special bark—and that unsightly hat’s got to go. It looks like a giant mushroom!”
Loiza pawed at her mob cap. “Are you sure this is going to work?”
“Of course it’s going to work, old molethingy.” Midge emptied his basket on the table and began sorting through the mostly unidentifiable contents.
Higgins and Pickering decided to leave Midge to work in peace, and took a short walk along the shore. “We’d better make up a history for Loiza,” Higgins said, “and give her a more hare-like name while we’re at it.”
“She can be one of my visiting grandnieces,” said Pickering. “I’ve got a whole pack of them. Can’t remember all of them myself sometimes.”
“Good. Now for that name. Let’s call her Liza. It’s much more civilized than Loiza.”
One hour later, Midge came bouncing out of the cave. “I’ve finished! One of my best jobs, I think! Just look at the genuineness of those ears!”
Higgins and Pickering looked. Loiza was hardly recognizable. In fact, she no longer appeared to be a mole—instead, she was a small, dark-furred hare, complete with a pair of graceful-looking ears.
“Quite a realistic disguise!” said Higgins. “In fact, for a haremaid, you’re not bad-looking!”
Loiza twitched her nose. “It’s jolly uncomfortable.”
“You’ll get used to it!” said Midge. “Now, I suppose you’re off to the ball, wot?”
“Yes. Come on, Liza.” Higgins glanced along the shore, up to where Salamandastron stood. “They’ll be starting in a few minutes.”
Midge dashed into the cave and reappeared with his supply basket. “Are you sure you don’t want me along, in case the ears start t’slip?”
Higgins gave him a stern look. “I was under the impression that your disguises were very durable.”
“Durable! Of course they’re durable! You could infiltrate a bally vermin camp with them! But all the same,” Midge added quickly, “hare ears—topheavy things. They tend t’wobble a bit.”
“Hm,” said Higgins. “Unfortunately, you’d better not come. The moment anyone clapped eyes on you, they’d be thinking about disguises. Disguises tend to work better when you’re not expecting them.”
“Rather. That’s the whole idea, doncha know. Well, I’ll be on my way, then. If you lose an ear,” Midge added to Loiza, “get into a side room and re-stick it with this.” He fished around in his basket and pulled out a small glass case containing what appeared to be a lump of resin. “It always works—well, almost always—and if worst comes t’worst you’ll have Higgins here to make up some kind of excuse about a previous ear bein’ lost in battle, or something of that sort. Wot?” Midge tossed the case to Higgins, who caught it and stuffed it in the pocket of his coat. “Afternoon, chaps! Haha, I do wish I could see their reactions, though!”
Finally, one morning as Higgins, Pickering and Loiza had breakfast, Higgins made an announcement.
“Today,” he said, slamming down his flagon of mint tea, “we’re going to have a test.”
“What sort of test?” asked Loiza with more caution than enthusiasm.
“We’re going to a little gathering of hares,” Higgins replied calmly, “where we shall proceed to pass you off as one of their species.”
Pickering objected to this. “But...but that’s too dangerous! Wouldn’t it be much simpler to invite somebeast over and clap a blinkin’ blindfold on him? He could make a guess at what Loiza was based on her voice, wot?”
Higgins shook his head. “Except that that would be ridiculously suspicious! Word might reach his lordship, and then that’d be the end of our conspiracy. Besides,” he added, “Loiza’s accent is sufficiently deceptive, if I do say so myself.”
“It’s not just her voice, old thing. She’s a bally mole! You can’t just trot in a mole masqueradin’ as a hare, even if she does sound like one! Those diggin’ claws of hers, for instance, and the fact that she hasn’t got the proper sort of ears!”
Higgins paused and cast a dubious eye over Loiza. “True,” he admitted. Fortunately, Loiza was a good specimen of mole as far as impersonating hares was concerned. Her eyes were unusually large (if a bit squinty), and her fur was lighter than average. From a certain angle one could see a resemblance, but...still...
“We’ll need to employ the services of Midge,” he announced. “Don’t worry, we’ll swear him to secrecy. Besides, he always loves a good joke.”
Midge Manycoats VII was Salamandastron’s current Master of Disguise. He was an undersized, hyperactive hare who, when given a brief explanation of the prank, agreed to help out.
“Certainly! Yes! Bwahahaha!” he laughed, hopping up and down. “Can’t wait to see the look on his lordship’s face, wot? Now, where’s that blinkin’ molebeast? By the time I’m through with her, her own Uncle Billythingummy wouldn’t recognize her!”
“Good,” said Higgins. “I’m taking her to the recruits’ get-together this afternoon. A sort of dress rehearsal, you see.”
Midge circled Loiza, muttering notes to himself. “A little more on that side of the face—definitely a bob tail—ears might be difficult, might manage it with some of that special bark—and that unsightly hat’s got to go. It looks like a giant mushroom!”
Loiza pawed at her mob cap. “Are you sure this is going to work?”
“Of course it’s going to work, old molethingy.” Midge emptied his basket on the table and began sorting through the mostly unidentifiable contents.
Higgins and Pickering decided to leave Midge to work in peace, and took a short walk along the shore. “We’d better make up a history for Loiza,” Higgins said, “and give her a more hare-like name while we’re at it.”
“She can be one of my visiting grandnieces,” said Pickering. “I’ve got a whole pack of them. Can’t remember all of them myself sometimes.”
“Good. Now for that name. Let’s call her Liza. It’s much more civilized than Loiza.”
One hour later, Midge came bouncing out of the cave. “I’ve finished! One of my best jobs, I think! Just look at the genuineness of those ears!”
Higgins and Pickering looked. Loiza was hardly recognizable. In fact, she no longer appeared to be a mole—instead, she was a small, dark-furred hare, complete with a pair of graceful-looking ears.
“Quite a realistic disguise!” said Higgins. “In fact, for a haremaid, you’re not bad-looking!”
Loiza twitched her nose. “It’s jolly uncomfortable.”
“You’ll get used to it!” said Midge. “Now, I suppose you’re off to the ball, wot?”
“Yes. Come on, Liza.” Higgins glanced along the shore, up to where Salamandastron stood. “They’ll be starting in a few minutes.”
Midge dashed into the cave and reappeared with his supply basket. “Are you sure you don’t want me along, in case the ears start t’slip?”
Higgins gave him a stern look. “I was under the impression that your disguises were very durable.”
“Durable! Of course they’re durable! You could infiltrate a bally vermin camp with them! But all the same,” Midge added quickly, “hare ears—topheavy things. They tend t’wobble a bit.”
“Hm,” said Higgins. “Unfortunately, you’d better not come. The moment anyone clapped eyes on you, they’d be thinking about disguises. Disguises tend to work better when you’re not expecting them.”
“Rather. That’s the whole idea, doncha know. Well, I’ll be on my way, then. If you lose an ear,” Midge added to Loiza, “get into a side room and re-stick it with this.” He fished around in his basket and pulled out a small glass case containing what appeared to be a lump of resin. “It always works—well, almost always—and if worst comes t’worst you’ll have Higgins here to make up some kind of excuse about a previous ear bein’ lost in battle, or something of that sort. Wot?” Midge tossed the case to Higgins, who caught it and stuffed it in the pocket of his coat. “Afternoon, chaps! Haha, I do wish I could see their reactions, though!”
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SeaStar
New member
The Recruits Club met twice a season in a side-cavern of Salamandastron. It was a popular occasion, mostly because it gave the young hares a chance to talk about nonsense and stuff themselves, without the disapproving presence of frowning Drill Sergeants or Corporals or Officers. Higgins had decided this was the safest hare gathering to bring Loiza to, because the recruits were extremely unobservant, and, if they did suspect that she was a mole, would probably think it some kind of joke and not do anything about it.
Loiza approached the door, with Higgins and Pickering on either side. “Is this absolutely necessary?” she asked apprehensively, trying to get a look through the keyhole.
“Now, Liza,” said Higgins, “don’t turn coward on me now. At the worst you’ll get the punchbowl on your head, or some other initiation prank. Don’t worry about it. Stick to simple subjects—the weather, for instance.”
Pickering was slightly more reassuring. “Surely you’ve been to a gatherin’ of moles before. Just act as if you were at one of those—with harespeech, of course.”
“But where’ll you two be?”
“We’ll be right here, keeping an eye on you through the keyhole,” said Higgins.
Loiza, with an air of resignation, entered the room. The door swung shut behind her.
Pickering squinted to get a better view. “There she is. Nobody’s noticed her yet—ah ha, somebeast’s shaking her paw. Can’t see the blighter, this keyhole’s too small. Ought to have better locksmiths around here.”
Higgins paced up and down the hall, partly out of nervousness and partly to keep watch in case anybeast was coming. “Any signs of suspicion among the recruits?”
“Can’t see a thing through this blasted keyhole. Wait—stap my whiskers, would you look at that, wot?”
“What?”
“She’s just laughin’ and chattin’, just like she was a bally hare herself!”
“Stop hogging the keyhole,” said Higgins. “Here, let me see that.” Higgins shoved Pickering aside and took a look for himself. “Hush! I’ve got to hear her talk. That’s the main point of the test.”
Inside the room, Loiza was seated on a long wicker bench along with a few hares. What had Higgins told her, she tried to remember. Of course—stick to the weather. Loiza found her chance to enter the conversation when one of the recruits asked languidly, “D’you suppose it’ll rain tonight?”
“The shower in Mossflower falls hourly on the tower,” Loiza remarked.
“Er...really? Soggy weather they must have up there, wot?” said the hare. “I prefer the jolly old southwest coast myself.”
“Only problem is there’s no snow,” said another. “Always nice to have a little snow during the winter season. Balances off the cold.”
“In Malkariss, Terramort, and Sampetra,” Loiza cut in, “snowstorms seldom strike.”
At this, the first recruit (whose name was Frederick) started to snicker. Loiza gave him a cold glare. “Stand on my blinkin’ tunnel, what are you laughing at?” she asked indignantly.
“Er—nothing. It’s just the jolly slang you’re using. You do it so flippin’ well.”
“If I did it so flippin’ well,” she demanded, “then what were you laughing at?”
The second recruit, seeing that this conversation was headed for an argument, interrupted. “So, I hope that rainstorm doesn’t hit tonight. Makes the parade ground all slippery, wot?”
“It won’t rain,” said Loiza. “I’d feel it in my bally diggin’ claw if it were.”
“Blast it!” muttered Higgins at the keyhole. “She’s using mole expressions.”
Fortunately, the recruits didn’t seem to notice, at least right away. “Remember the fall old Barty had last time? Slipped an’ fell two levels down, an’ only broke his paw! That wasn’t the rain, though—that was the time the old cook chucked some vegetable oil out the wrong window.”
“My uncle Billyum fell out of a tree once,” Loiza said. “Never used to climb trees—he preferred diggin’ tunnels—but the wind took my aunt Soilflyer’s hat and stuck it up there, and he and some other chaps had to get it down. Urth and Gurrth got down all right, but Billyum slipped. Lucky for him, he landed in the deeper’n’deeper’n’ever’turnip’n’tater’n’beetroot pie aunty had baked for him with a few neighbors.”
Loiza approached the door, with Higgins and Pickering on either side. “Is this absolutely necessary?” she asked apprehensively, trying to get a look through the keyhole.
“Now, Liza,” said Higgins, “don’t turn coward on me now. At the worst you’ll get the punchbowl on your head, or some other initiation prank. Don’t worry about it. Stick to simple subjects—the weather, for instance.”
Pickering was slightly more reassuring. “Surely you’ve been to a gatherin’ of moles before. Just act as if you were at one of those—with harespeech, of course.”
“But where’ll you two be?”
“We’ll be right here, keeping an eye on you through the keyhole,” said Higgins.
Loiza, with an air of resignation, entered the room. The door swung shut behind her.
Pickering squinted to get a better view. “There she is. Nobody’s noticed her yet—ah ha, somebeast’s shaking her paw. Can’t see the blighter, this keyhole’s too small. Ought to have better locksmiths around here.”
Higgins paced up and down the hall, partly out of nervousness and partly to keep watch in case anybeast was coming. “Any signs of suspicion among the recruits?”
“Can’t see a thing through this blasted keyhole. Wait—stap my whiskers, would you look at that, wot?”
“What?”
“She’s just laughin’ and chattin’, just like she was a bally hare herself!”
“Stop hogging the keyhole,” said Higgins. “Here, let me see that.” Higgins shoved Pickering aside and took a look for himself. “Hush! I’ve got to hear her talk. That’s the main point of the test.”
Inside the room, Loiza was seated on a long wicker bench along with a few hares. What had Higgins told her, she tried to remember. Of course—stick to the weather. Loiza found her chance to enter the conversation when one of the recruits asked languidly, “D’you suppose it’ll rain tonight?”
“The shower in Mossflower falls hourly on the tower,” Loiza remarked.
“Er...really? Soggy weather they must have up there, wot?” said the hare. “I prefer the jolly old southwest coast myself.”
“Only problem is there’s no snow,” said another. “Always nice to have a little snow during the winter season. Balances off the cold.”
“In Malkariss, Terramort, and Sampetra,” Loiza cut in, “snowstorms seldom strike.”
At this, the first recruit (whose name was Frederick) started to snicker. Loiza gave him a cold glare. “Stand on my blinkin’ tunnel, what are you laughing at?” she asked indignantly.
“Er—nothing. It’s just the jolly slang you’re using. You do it so flippin’ well.”
“If I did it so flippin’ well,” she demanded, “then what were you laughing at?”
The second recruit, seeing that this conversation was headed for an argument, interrupted. “So, I hope that rainstorm doesn’t hit tonight. Makes the parade ground all slippery, wot?”
“It won’t rain,” said Loiza. “I’d feel it in my bally diggin’ claw if it were.”
“Blast it!” muttered Higgins at the keyhole. “She’s using mole expressions.”
Fortunately, the recruits didn’t seem to notice, at least right away. “Remember the fall old Barty had last time? Slipped an’ fell two levels down, an’ only broke his paw! That wasn’t the rain, though—that was the time the old cook chucked some vegetable oil out the wrong window.”
“My uncle Billyum fell out of a tree once,” Loiza said. “Never used to climb trees—he preferred diggin’ tunnels—but the wind took my aunt Soilflyer’s hat and stuck it up there, and he and some other chaps had to get it down. Urth and Gurrth got down all right, but Billyum slipped. Lucky for him, he landed in the deeper’n’deeper’n’ever’turnip’n’tater’n’beetroot pie aunty had baked for him with a few neighbors.”
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