Russa ruffled Tammo’s ears rather fondly. “Sleep’s to be done. Shouldn’t think they’ll be back tonight, but we’ll
take turns standin’ guard. More likely they’ll try an’ ambush us out in the open tomorrow, so get y’sleep—you’ll need
it.”
Night closed in on the little camp. The fire dimmed from burning flame to glowing embers, trees murmured and
rustled, their foliage stirred by a westering wind. Tammo dreamed of his home, Camp Tussock. He saw the faces of his
family, and Osmunda and Roolee, together with the young creatures with whom he had played. Elusive aromas of
Mem Divinia’s cooking, mingled with songs and music around the fire of a winter’s night, assailed his senses. A great
sadness weighed upon him, as though he might never see or feel it all again.
Russa climbed into a tree and slept the way she had for many seasons, with one eye open.
9
Extract from the writings of Craklyn squirrel, Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower Country.
Great Seasons! Now I know I am old. A beautiful spring afternoon, the sun smiling warmly over Mossflower
Wood and our Abbey, and almost everybeast, from the smallest Dibbun baby to the Mother Abbess herself, is out in
the grounds at play. While here am I, sitting by the kitchen ovens, a cloak about me, scratching away with this
confounded quill pen. Ah well, somebeast has to do it, I suppose. Though I never thought that one day I would be old,
but that is the way of the world, the young never do.
Let me see now, out of the Redwallers of my early seasons there are only a few left: Abbess Tansy, my dear friend,
the first hedgehog ever to be Mother of Redwall; Viola Bankvole, our fussy Infirmary Sister; and who else? Oh, yes,
Foremole Diggum and Gurrbowl the Cellar Keeper, two of the most loyal moles ever to inhabit Red-wall Abbey.
Counting the squirrel Arven and myself, that is everybeast accounted for. Arven is our Abbey Warrior. Who would
have thought that such a mischievous little rip would grow up to be so big and reliable, respected throughout
Mossflower?
Alas, the seasons caught up with all the old crew who were our elders, and they have gone happily to the sunny
meadows. Though they are always alive in our memories, those good creatures and the knowledge and joy they
imparted to all. Sad, is it not, though, that our Abbey has lacked a badger and a hare for many a long season now? But
I beg your indulgence, I am getting old and maudlin, I’ve become the same ancient fogey my friends and I would
laugh at in our youth. Enough of all this! If I sit here much longer I’ll be baked to a turn like the oatfarls in the oven. If
my creaking joints will allow me, I’m going out to play with the others. After all, it is springtime, isn’t it?
Abbess Tansy ducked as a ball made from soft moss and twine flew over her head. She wrinkled her nose at the
tiny mouse who had thrown it. “Yah, missed me, Sloey bunglepaws!”
The mousebabe stamped her footpaw and grimaced fiercely. “A not ’uppose t’duck you ’ead, Muvver Tansy, you
stannup straight!”
Behind Tansy a Dibbun mole picked up the ball and was about to throw it clumsily when Craklyn sneaked up. She
took the ball from him and threw it hard, hitting Tansy on the back of her head.
With the soft ball sticking to her headspikes, the Abbess whirled around, a look of comic fury upon her face. “Who
threw that ball? Come on, own up!”
Craklyn’s expression was one of simple innocence. “It wasn’t me, Mother Abbess!”
Tansy glared at the little ones playing the game. “Well, who was it, one of you rascals?”
The Dibbuns fell about laughing as a small mole named Gubbio pointed to Craklyn. “Yurr, et wurr ee flung yon
ball, marm!”
Craklyn looked horrified. She pointed to Gubbio, saying, “No, it wasn’t! You were the one who threw the ball! We
saw him, didn’t we?”
This caused more hilarity among the babes. The sight of the Recorder fibbing like a naughty Dibbun was too much
for them. They skipped about giggling, pointing to Craklyn.
“‘Twas marm Craklyn, ’twas ’er!”
Abbess Tansy pulled the ball from her headspikes and pretended to lecture the Recorder severely: “You naughty
creature, fancy throwing things at your Abbess! Right, no supper for you tonight. Straight up to bed, m’lady!”
It all proved too much for the Dibbuns, who threw themselves down on the grass, chuckling fit to burst.
Foremole Diggum in company with Arven the squirrel Warrior and several other moles passed by, headed for the
south wall. They had been talking earnestly together as they went, but on seeing Abbess Tansy they stopped
conversing and nodded to her as they hurried on their way.
“Afternoon, marm, an’ you too, marm!”
Craklyn exchanged glances with Tansy. “They’re up to something. Hi, Arven! What’s the rush, where are you all
off to?”
“Nothin’ for you t’be concerned with, marm,” Arven called back to her. “Just out for a stroll.”
Immediately, Tansy took Craklyn’s paw and began to follow them. “You’re right, they are up to something. Out
for a stroll, eh? Well, come on, friend, let’s join ’em! Carry on with the game, you little ’uns, and no cheating!”
Behind the shrubbery that bordered the outer wall of the ramparts on their south side, Diggum Foremole and the
rest were questioning a mole called Drubb.
“Whurr do ee say ’twas, Drubb?”
He pointed with a heavy digging claw in several places as he brushed hazel and rhododendron shrubs aside. “Yurr
see, an’ yurr, yonder too, roight along ee wall if’n you’m look close. Hurr, see!”
Craklyn and Tansy arrived on the scene. Straight away the Abbess started to interrogate Arven: “What’s going on?
There’s something you aren’t telling me about. What is it, Arven—I demand to know!”
The squirrel had crouched low at the wallbase, probing the joints of massive red sandstone blocks with a small
quill knife. He looked up at Tansy, keeping his voice deceptively calm. “Oh, it’s something and nothing, really. Drubb
here says he thinks the wall is sinking, but he may not be right. We didn’t say anything to you, Tansy, because you’ve
enough to do as Abbess ...”
He was cut short by Tansy’s indignant outburst. “The south outer wall of my Abbey is sinking and you didn’t
consider it serious enough to let your Abbess know? Who in the name of stricken oaks do you think I am, sir—Mother
Abbess of Red-wall, or a little fuzzbrained Dibbun playing ball?”
Diggum Foremole touched his brow respectfully. “You’m forgive oi fer sayin’, marm, but ee lukked just loik a
fuzzy-brain Dibbun a playin’ ball when us’n’s passed ee but a moment back, hurr aye.”
Tansy drew herself up grandly, spikes abristle and eyes alight. “Nonsense! Show me the wall this instant!”
The group wandered up and down the length of the high battlemented south wall for the remainder of the
afternoon, talking and debating and pointing earnestly. The final conclusion was inescapable. The wall was sinking,
bellying inward too. They probed the mortar between the stone joints, stood on top of the wall, and swung a weighted
plumb line from top to bottom. Then, placing their faces flat to the wall surface and each one squinting with one eye,
they gauged the extent of the stone warp. Whichever way they looked at it there was only one thing all were agreed
upon. The south wall was crumbling!
10?
Darkness was stealing over Redwall Abbey, and the lights of Great Hall shone through long, stained-glass
windows, laying columns of rainbow colors across the lawn. Buttressed and arched, the ancient building towered