Foremole’s voice sounded from within. “Who’m bee’s a-knocken’ on this yurr door—be ee a moler?”
The Abbot answered as custom required. “No mole am I, but a Redwaller true, Father of this Abbey. I am come here with my friends, good creatures all. We are here to honour our trusty moles!”
Opening the door wide, Foremole Bruffy stood on the threshold. He had on a flowing cloak of rich brown velvet and a crown fashioned from buttercups, daisies and pale blue milkwort. In his right paw he bore a wand of willow branch with fuzzy catkins growing from it. Smiling from ear to ear, the mole chieftain intoned a traditional poem.
“Yurr bee’s moi ’eart, an’ yurr bee’s moi paw.
Wellcum, an’ henter ee thru this door.
Friends of’n ee bee’s friends o’ moine,
us’ll all ’ave ee gurt ole toime!”
The Redwallers flooded into Cavern Hole, which was lit by coloured lanterns and decorated with spring flowers and streamers of coloured ferns. Moss-padded wall ledges provided seating all around. Three long tables were placed in an open square to leave room for the performers.
A barrel of last summer’s strawberry fizz was on tap, along with October Ale, pale cider and rosehip cordial. The food was mainly good solid mole fare—deeper’n’ever turnip’n’tater’n’beetroot pie, leek and celery soup, spring salads and several enormous cheese-crusted loaves stuffed with chopped hazelnuts and mushrooms. For dessert there were inevitable mounds of hunnymoles, bowls of candied chestnuts and a huge, dark fruitcake decorated with preserved plums and damsons.
No sooner was the supper served than the entertainment commenced. To the music of flutes, tiny drums and a peculiar instrument called a molecordion, the small band struck up a paw-tapping family quadrille. Two rings were formed—the outer one by molemums and grandmums, the inner one by Dibbuns holding sticks. The elders began sticking out first their right, then their left footpaws, whooping and whirling around in a clockwise circle. The Dibbuns circled in the opposite direction, their little faces concentrating seriously as they tapped the floor skilfully between the elders’ footpaws.
The sound of tap tap tap, rap rap rap resounded as the pace sped up. Gruff whoops and infant giggles rang out, the sticks missing footpaws by a hairsbreadth. Clapping in time to the dance, a group of fine bass and baritone moles began singing.
“Oi pray ee zurr doant ’it moi paw,
furr if’n ee do, et will be sore.
Thump ee stick down on ee floor,
an’ us’n’s will be ’arpy.
Rumpitty tum ho rumpitty tum,
moles bee’s ’aven so much fun.
No likkle ’un will strike ’is mum,
’cos they’m luvs ’em so gurtly!”
Twice more they danced, each time tapping and rapping more rapidly until the sticks and paws moved in a blur. The entire ensemble took a bow to hearty applause. Then there were calls for a time-honoured request. “Foremole, do the poem with Abbot Humble. Do the poem!”
Humble and Bruffy, both modest creatures, were coaxed out onto the floor, shaking their heads and protesting.
“Oh no, please, surely you don’t want to hear that old thing, do you?”
“Burr, oi doant thinks as ’ow oi can amember ee wurds!”
In the end, however, they had to concede to the roars of encouragement. Foremole stood up on a stool, striking a noble pose. Humble circled him slowly and began reciting.
“Here am I, the Abbot of all Redwall,
I rule my Abbey with voice and paw.
And who are you, sir, standing there?
Pray tell me now, for I’m not sure!”
Foremole spread his paws wide and shouted, “Oi’m a mole!”
Everybeast chorused, “He’s a mole!”
The Abbot looked surprised, then continued.
“I have a Friar who’s an excellent cook,
’tis said he wrote a recipe book,
and two stout mice, our bells to toll,
and you, forsooth, what is your role?”
Foremole looked at the audience as he repeated, “Oi’m a mole!”
The onlookers shouted even louder, “He’s a mole!”
Humble shook his head, as if he had not heard.
“I have a Keeper who guards our gate,
and another who tends our bees,
and a healer to care for any who ail,
but you’re not one of these!”
Foremole merely pointed to himself as the crowd howled, “He’s a mole!”
The Abbot scratched his headspikes and looked bemused.
“We’ve a Cellarhog who brews our drink,
and a Recorder with both quill and ink,
and guards who pace our Abbey wall,
so what do you do, tell me all?”
Foremole smiled at his audience, who rose to their paws with a deafening roar. “He’s a mole!”
Before the Abbot could reply, Foremole Bruffy held up his paw commandingly. Silence, apart from stifled giggles, fell. He came down off the stool and faced Humble boldly.
“You’m got summ faithful creatures, zurr,
but none as true h’as oi.
’Twas moles built cellars under yurr,
an’ if’n ee arsks these uthers whoi,
they’m’ll tell ee gurtly wot’s moi role. . . .”
The Redwallers, who had been waiting for this final line with unconcealed glee, stood and bellowed en masse, “ ’Cos there’s nobeast can dig a hole like a mole!”
Humble and Foremole bowed and sat down to wild applause. Smiling and shaking paws, they refused pleas for an encore.
Outside, the spring night was tranquil, with scarcely a breeze to ruffle the leaves. Twinkling pinpoints of stars dusted dark velvet skies. In solitary splendour, an apricot-hued crescent moon hung over Redwall Abbey, casting gentle shadows on the ancient stone. From the woven tapestry, the figure of Martin the Warrior stood gazing out between flickering sconces, watching over his citadel of safety and friendship. Whilst far off to the southwest, murder and evil were being committed by a band of vermin, led by a strange beast that had come from the lands of ice beyond the great sea.
8
Two ermine who had been left behind to repair the big ship upon the rocks watched Rakkety Tam and Doogy Plumm advancing through the dusk. In the ship’s bow, the vermin hid, peering through the hole which had been smashed through the hull on its waterline. It was not difficult to see the two squirrels, since they were both carrying lighted torches. Neither of the ermine knew anything about ship repairing, but they were forced to comply, knowing that disobedience to their savage leader meant instant death. From the gloom of their hiding place, they watched the squirrels move closer.
Drawing his sickle-curved sword, the more hefty of the two ermine licked the blade, grinning wickedly. His companion, a tall, thin beast, whispered a warning. “Don’t slay ’em straight off. They lives on the coast ’ere prob’ly. Two like those’d be bound t’know about pluggin’ the ’ole in this craft an’ makin”er seaworthy.”
The hefty one sniggered. “Aye, mate, good idea. Why should we do all the toil? Let these oafs fix the ship first, then we’ll skin ’em, nice’n’slow. I claim the liddle fat ’un. ’Tis long seasons since I tasted a fine plump squirrel.”
His companion nodded his head. “Right, I’ll take the other. Huh, wonder wot those two idiots are doin’, wanderin’ round the shore at this hour?”
Eyes shining with anticipation, the hefty ermine murmured, “Who cares? Nice of ’em t’bring fire along. We won’t need t’put flint to steel’n’tinder to make a roastin’ fire.”
Moving closer to the edge of the hole in the ship’s hull, he whispered to his partner, “Let’s go an’ welcome ’em!”
As Tam and Doogy reached the ship, the two ermine sidled out onto the rocks with drawn swords. Doogy’s paw dropped to the basket hilt of his claymore. “Weel now, will ye lookit, we’ve got company!”