you saved me a journey, matey, y’better come an’ look at our south wall.”
By then Shad and Arven were at the main door of the Abbey building. Pale stormlit dawn was breaking. A gale-
force wind tore the breath from their mouths, buffeting both creatures sideways, and hissing rain glistened off the grass
in the cold half-light Sheltering the lantern beneath his flapping cloak, Shad shouted at Arven, “Come an’ see for
yoreself!”
Leaning into the tempest, heads down and cloaks drawn tight, both beasts made their way to the south wall.
Skipper of Otters stood at the southeast end of the wall, he and his crew sheltering beneath a monstrous jumble of
branches, limbs, twigs, leaves, and stone blocks. Arven nodded briefly to the otters, then, launching himself into the
mass of foliage, he shed his cloak and climbed nimbly upward into the tangle. No squirrel could climb like the
Champion of Redwall; in a short time Arven was vaulting out of the foliage onto the battlemented walkway that
formed the walltop. Bracing himself against the stormy onslaught, he surveyed the damage and its cause.
Mossflower woodlands grew practically right up to the east wall, curving slightly at the south corner and petering
out to give way to gently sloping grassland. Directly at the curve a great beech tree had fallen upon the end of the
south wall. The ancient forest giant had stood there for untold seasons in high and wide-girthed splendor, only to be
felled during the night by the irresistible force sent by weather’s wildness.
Near the beech base, Arven could see where the top-heavy tree had broken. Long, thick wood splinters shone
white in the rain like the bone fragments and shards of some dreadful wound. In its crashing fall the trunk had hit the
wall, scattering battlements, walkway, and sandstone blocks, the tremendous weight hewing a large V shape into
Redwall’s outer defenses.
As Arven came springing back down to ground, Skipper draped the squirrel’s cloak about his shoulders.
“Much damage, mate?” he asked.
Arven nodded. “Much!”
Skipper indicated his sturdy crew with a wave. “Well, much or little, it don’t bother us, matey, we’re ’ere to lend a
paw in any way y’need otters. Where d’you want us t’ start?”
Arven patted the faithful creature’s back. “You’re a good ’un, Skip, you and your crew. This Abbey only stands by
the goodness and loyalty of its friends. But there’s nothin’ we can do whilst the weather keeps up like this. Come on,
let’s get you lot inside and find you some breakfast by the fire.”
Skipper’s craggy face broke into a smile. “Lead us to it, me ole mate!”
Mother Buscol was official Redwall Friar, and the small fat squirrel liked nothing better in life than to cook. She
watched the hungry otter crew poking their heads around her kitchen doorway and hid her pleasure by scowling at
them.
“Indeed to goodness, an’ what do all you great rough beasts want, hangin’ around my kitchens like a flock of
gannets?”
Skipper winked roguishly at her. “Feedin’, marm!”
Narrowing her eyes, she shook a ladle at him. “Hot oatmeal an’ mint tea’s all you’re gettin’ out o’ me this morn.”
Skipper came bounding in and swept Mother Buscol off her paws, planting several hearty kisses on her chubby
cheeks. “Oatmeal an’ mint tea is fer Dibbuns, me beauty. Where’s the good October Ale an’ a pan of shrimp’n’hotroot
soup, aye, an’ some o’ those shorty-cakes fer afters? Cummon, tell me afore I kisses you ’til sundown. Haharr!”
Her slippered paws kicked the air as she beat the otter playfully with her ladle. “Lackaday, put me down, you great
wiry whiskered oaf, or I’ll clap you in a boiler an’ make riverdog pudden of you!”
Behind her back, Shad had purloined a batch of hot scones, and now he slid past Mother Buscol, chuckling.
“Where’s yore manners, mate? Put the pore creature down an’ we’ll wait in Cavern ’Ole ’til brekkfist’s ready.”
Laughing, Mother Buscol went about her business. “Indeed to goodness look you, shrimp’n’hotroot soup with the
best October Ale an’ my good shortybreads. Whatever next?”
Dibbuns hastily finished their meal and trundled into Cavern Hole to sport with the playful otters.
“Skipper, Skipper, it me, Sloey, I jump offa table an’ you catch me!”
“Burr, ’old ee still, zurr h’otter, oi wants to ride on ee back!”
“Teehee! We tella Muvver Buscol you steal ’er scones!”
Otters rolled and wrestled happily about the floor with the babes, tickling, swinging, and playfighting. Abbess
Tansy and Craklyn came to see what all the noise was about, and Tansy shook her head at Skipper and his crew,
sprawled on the floor.
“Really, sir, I don’t know who’s the worse, you or these babes. Come on, Dibbuns, be off with you. The elders
need to talk with Skipper while he has his breakfast.”
Foremole Diggum scratched his head as he inspected the plans Craklyn had drawn up on a parchment. “Umm, can
ee go through et all agin, marm, then may’ap oi’ll unnerstan’ wot ee wants a doin’!”
The Redwall Recorder outlined her scheme for the second time. “As I said, the tree falling has started demolition
on the wall, so it’s not all bad. But how to move the tree so we can continue with the job? Here’s my idea. First we
need axes and saws to lop off all the top foliage of the beech, then, if it is not already broken clean of its stump, we
must sever it. Once that job is done the tree must be supported by struts, to make sure it doesn’t fall any further. Then
the remaining wall can be removed, the tree trunk dropped and rolled out of the way. Clear?”
Diggum continued scratching his head. “Hurr, ’tis a pity oi be such a simplebeast, oi’m still all aswoggled with ee
plan, marm.”
Arven stood up decisively. “Oh, you’ll get the hang of it as we go along, Diggum. What’s the state of the weather
outdoors now?”
Gurrbowl the Cellar Keeper and Viola Bankvole went outside. They were back shortly to report. “The rain has
stopped, though it’s still quite windy; sky over to the south is clearing. If the wind dies down ’twill be a fine
afternoon.”
Skipper quaffed his beaker of October Ale. “Right y’are, marm, then let’s get those axes an’ saws out o’ the
toolstore an’ sharpen ’em up. We’ll start work after lunch!”
Still mystified by the plan, Foremole Diggum decided to inspect the job from a different angle. He gathered
together a few of his trusty moles for the task. “Yurr, Drubb, Bunto, Wuller, an’ ee Truggle, oi figger et’s toime us’n’s
taked a lukk at ee wall proper loik!”
Skipper was greasing a double-pawed saw when he noticed the moles leaving, carrying nothing but a few coiled
ropes. “Ahoy, where d’you suppose they’re bound?”
Arven glanced up from the axblade he was whetting. “Leave them be, Skip. I could see Diggum wasn’t too happy
with Craklyn’s plan, so I suppose he’s going to take a look for himself. You know moles, they always look at things in
a different way from otherbeasts, and quite often theirs is the most sensible way. Maybe they’ll find out something we
don’t know.”
Foremole Diggum moved slowly along the wallbase on all fours, sniffing the ground, scratching the stone, and
probing the soil with his strong digging claws. About midway along the south wall he stopped and, pointing to a spot
on the sandstone blocks three courses up, addressed Truggle: “Roight thurr, marm!”
The other moles nodded wisely; their Foremole had made a good choice. Truggle produced a small wooden mallet