Ah me! Seasons roll upon seasons and yet our Abbey remains the same, a loving old place, filled with happiness and peace, even though our old friends are but memories to us now. We who were once young are now grayed with age. Orlando the Axe, our great badger Lord, roamed off long ago, as male badgers will, to end his seasons at Salamandastron, mountain stronghold of great badger warriors. I do not know if he still lives. Auma, his daughter, is now the Abbey Mother; badgers are indeed noble creatures, with a lifespan which nobeast can equal.
So, that only leaves two, Auma and myself, Rollo bank-vole, who have lived and prospered in bygone seasons. The others have gone to their well-deserved rest, including Mattimeo and Tess Churchmouse whose son, Martin, is now our Abbey Warrior. Peacefully they went in the certainty that the wisdom and knowledge they gave to this great Abbey is still held strong in the stone of Redwall and in the minds of its creatures who carry on the wonderful tradition ... Great seasons! How I do wander off, I should have been called Rollo of the roving quill pen. Where was I? Oh yes, I was telling you of the outdoor feast our Abbot had planned. Well, needless to say, as soon as a few tables were carried out to the orchard and some benches to sit upon, swoosh, down came the rain! However, I must own up to the fact that I was not totally unhappy. The Great Hall inside our Abbey is a comfortable place for feasting, far better for my creaky bones than a drafty orchard in early spring.
Foremole, the leader of our Abbeymoles, has convinced the Abbot to commence festivities late this afternoon. This will give Foremole and his crew time to create a huge tur-nip'n'tater'n'beetroot pie, a most homely delicacy. Actually, I think my paw rheumatism is playing me up a bit, so here I'll end my daily recording and pop off over to the kitchens, where I can savor the sights and smells of the good food. Not that I'm a greedy creature, you understand, merely appreciative, and slightly peckish too. My warm old cloak will give me sound protection in this awful rainstorm, the walk from gatehouse to Abbey seems to get longer as I get older...
Rollo the Recorder donned his cloak and stirred the fat otter curled in slumber on the hearthmat by the gatehouse fire.
"Wullger, come on, matey, wakey wakey. Let's pay the kitchens a visit and see how the feast preparations are progressing."
Wullger yawned, stretched and blinked in one movement, then, scratching his rudderlike tail, he stood up. "Wakey wakey y'self, Rollo. I wasn't asleep, jus' closin' me eyes 'cos yore scratchy pen was annoyin' me. Hah! Look at y'self, you got more skins on than an onion!"
The bankvole sniffed airily. "Young snip! You'll learn as y'get older that comfort outweighs fashion. I need to wrap up warm until 'tis early summer!"
The two friends bent their heads against the wind and rain as they left the gatehouse, still keeping up a friendly banter.
"Lissen, you need all that wrappin', matey. Stops yer blowin' off like an ole autumn leaf!''
"Know your trouble, fatty tail? No respect for your elders. It makes me shiver just looking at you, trolling round wearing little else but belt and tunic."
"Gah! Fresh air an' a spot o' rain never 'urted anybeast. Come on, wrinklechops, step out smartlike!"
The kitchens were a bustle of steam, noise and merriment. Teasel, the hogwife of Higgle Stump, was crimping the edges of an apple and damson pie, prior to putting it in the oven. She was about to open the oven door when a little molemaid called Diggum bumped into the back of her with a flour trolley. Teasel fell backward with a whoop, holding the pie, and landed on top of the trolley. Diggum shot off regardless, head down, pushing the trolley at full speed. Foremole saw them coming, swiftly threw down a barrel wedge and flung wide the oven door where his deeper'n ever pie was cooking. The trolley stopped with a jerk, Foremole grabbed the back of Teasel's apron as she let go of the pie, and it shot from her paws to land neatly in the oven alongside Foremole's creation.
He grinned and nodded at her, rumbling in the curious molespeech, "Thurr yew go, marm. Bain't no sense a wasten oven space, hurr hurr!"
Diggum dusted flour from her smock and blinked. “Thankee, zurr. Can oi use ee uther oven furr moi chessberry flan?''
Foremole raised a cloud of flour as he patted her dusty head. "Whoi, surrpintly ee can, liddle missie, but wot be chessberries?"
Diggum twitched her button nose in despair at Foremole's ignorance. "Whoi, chessnutters an' blackb'rries, zurr, wot else?"
Teasel the hogwife hid a smile as she took Diggum's paw, saying, "Chestnuts an' blackberries, indeed. Come on, we'll make it t'gether, I'll roll the pastry."
Diggum curtsied prettily. "Thankee, marm, an oi'll eat any blackb'rries wot be a wrong size."
Friar Higgle Stump was topping off a multicolored woodland trifle with yellow meadowcream, roaring orders all about as he did.
"Hoi, Piknim, see that mushroom soup don't boil, keep stirrin' it."
"Stirrin' hard as I can, Friarshall I throw chopped carrot in?"
"Aye, do that, missie. Gurrbowl, be a good mole, nip down the cellars an' see if my brother Furlo 'as broached a new barrel of October ale. Tell 'im I could do wi' a beaker to liven up my dark fruit cake mixture."
"Roight ho, zurr, tho' you'm sure et ain't to loiven up yurrself?"
"Get goin', y'cheeky wretch! Craklyn, see if you can get some o' that dried mint down off the rafter 'ooks, I need t'make tea."
The squirrel Craklyn shot off like a rocket; she bounced from a stovetop to a high cupboard and leapt up to the rafter hooks, skillfully plucking a bundle of dried mint. Cutting a somersault, she landed next to Friar Higgle, dropped the mint in his paws, scooped a blob of meadowcream from the mixing bowl and vaulted off licking her paw.
Abbot Durral watched her admiringly as he carried a deep dish to place in front of Higgle. “What an acrobat our Craklyn is, eh, Friar? Taste that and tell me what you think, my old friend."
With a knifetip, Higgle sampled a morsel from the dish edge. "Mmmm! Now that is what I call a real honey rhubarb crumble!"
Durral shuffled his footpaws in embarrassment at the praise given to his simple offering. "Oh, it's just something I made up from an old recipe. Shall we have the tables laid for around twilight? I've lit a good log fire in Great Hall, that'll warm it through nicely."
Higgle, topping his trifle, nodded agreement. "Good idea, Father Abbot. Have you seen Martin about?"
Abbot Durral scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Can't say I have. Perhaps he's up in the infirmary with Sister Cicely. I'll go and take a look."
Wind and rain shook the treetops of Mossflower until they swayed and undulated madly; howling gales sang a wild dirge between the weighty treetrunks. Paw in paw, fighting for breath, Tansy and Arven staggered doggedly on towards the forest fringe. Both of them were weary and pawsore and, driven by fright, they had partially lost their way. Then Tansy spotted the tall spire of Redwall through a gap in the woodlands. Staggering, the pair ran, slopping through a narrow ditch, fighting against whippy spring brush and squelching through rain-drenched ferns. Heedless of young nettles lashing at their foot-paws they rounded a massive three-topped oak. Straight into the paws of a dark-cloaked form.
"Yeeeek!"
The baby squirrel and the young hedgehog maid squealed aloud in fright as they felt themselves held by strong paws.
"Whoa now, my little oneshere you are!"
The strong kindly face of Martin the Warrior of Redwall smiled reassuringly down at them. With a shriek of relief, Tansy and Arven buried their faces in Martin's cloak. Perching Arven on his shoulder and taking Tansy by the paw, Martin strode back toward the Abbey.
"Sister Cicely was getting quite worried about you two," Martin said gently. "You should have been back at the Abbey hours ago when the storm broke. Where in the name of seasons have you been, all muddy and scratched, with your clothes torn like that?"