High Rhulain

the lark doth ascend.

If I could but speak to her

I’d make her my friend.

She would tell of her journey

to the lands of the sky,

where the soft fields of cloud

like white pillows do lie.

She would sing of the earth

far below that she’d seen,

all patched in a quiltwork

of brown, gold and green.

As she wings on the zephyrs

of smooth morning breeze

to rise from the meadows,

the hills or the trees.

With the evening come down,

little bird, cease thy flight

’til the blue peaceful morning

awakes from the night.”

The larksong and Lycian’s ditty reached their finale together. Molemum Burbee, a sentimental beast, wiped a tear from her eye. “Thurr now, ee likkle bird bees hoi and far away.”

Turning to face the Abbey, Lycian allowed her gaze to wander over the magnificent structure. Lovingly built but firmly fashioned as a mountain, the ancient sandstone walls ranged in hue from dusty pink to soft terra cotta in the alternating sunlight and shadow. From belltower to high slated rooftop, down to the mighty buttresses, twixt tiny attic and mullioned dormitory windows, amongst ornate columns and ledges and the long, stained-glass panels of Great Hall on the ground floor, Redwall Abbey stood, solid and steadfast against countless seasons and the severity of all weathers.

Lycian sipped her tea approvingly, nodding towards the front steps and main oaken door. “No storm could bother our home, eh, Burbee?”

Frowning, the molemum squinted over the rim of her mug at the Abbey grounds. “Hurr, that’s as may be, young marm, but lookit ee h’orchard. Trees blowed thisaway an’ that, fruits’n’berries be’n knocked offen ee boughs. Gurt pesky stormgale!”

Lycian patted her friend’s paw, smiling. “Oh come on, old grumblechops, that’s what usually happens in bad weather. Nothing our Redwallers can’t put to rights. Drink up now, here comes our refill.”

Besides being a Foremole (which is a lofty position among his fellow creatures), Grudd Longtunnel was also the Head Abbey Gardener. A nephew of molemum Burbee, he was good-natured, cheerful and honest as the day is long. Balancing a tray on one powerful paw, he clambered up the steps to the walltop, tugging his snout respectfully to the Abbess and his aunt.

“Gudd mornen to ee, marms, an’ a roight purty one et bee’s, too. Oi bringed ee ’ot scones an’ h’extra tea. Boi okey, you’m surrtingly can sup summ tea in ee course of a day. Moi ole tongue’d float away if’n I drinked that much tea!”

Burbee chuckled. “Gurt h’imperdent young lump, lessen thoi cheek an’ pour us’n’s summ o’ that brew.”

Grudd placed the plate of fresh scones, spread with meadowcream and clover honey, between them. Whipping the cosy from a sizeable teapot, he topped up both their mugs. “Shudd see wot ee storm do’d to moi veggibles. Flartenned ee lettuces, snapped off’n celery an’ strewed termatoes every whichway. Even rooted up moi young radishers. Burr!”

Lycian blew on her tea to cool it. “Your aunt Burbee was just remarking on the storm damage in the orchard. Is it very bad, Grudd?”

The Foremole’s face creased deeply in a reassuring smile. “Doan’t ee frett, h’Abbess marm. Oi gotten moi molecrew a-workin’ daown thurr, an’ all ee Redwallers lendin’ a paw. Just bee’s two more willin’ beasts a-needed.”

Lycian shot him a look of mock severity. “We’ll be down just as soon as we’ve finished tea, my good mole, and not a moment sooner. Carry on with your duties!”

Grudd caught the twinkle in her eyes. He bowed low, tugging his snout in a servile manner. “Vurry gudd, marm, as ee says, marm, you’m take yurr own gudd toime, marm. Oi’ll look for’ard to ee visit with pleshure. ’Twill be a gurt honner furr uz ’umble molebeasts!”

Burbee shook with mirth at the antics of her nephew. “Ho bee off’n with ee, you’m gurt foozikil!”

Down in the orchard, Banjon Wildlough, the otter Skipper, was organizing the workers. Banjon was not a big creature, as otters go, but he had an undoubted air of command about him. Everybeast obeyed his orders, all working together for the common good—except the Dibbuns, of course. (These were the little ones; Abbeybabes were always referred to as “Dibbuns.”) The otter Skipper tried to keep his patience with their rowdy manner, which, after all, was the innocence of playful infants.

“No no, Gropp! Ye can’t eat those apples, they ain’t ripe yet. You’ll get tummyache, I’m warnin’ ye. Taggle! Stop chuckin’ them hazelnuts around. Grumby! Come down out o’ that tree. Irgle, Ralg, where are ye off to with that barrow?”

Banjon turned despairingly to his friend, Brink Greyspoke, the big, fat hedgehog who was Redwall’s Cellarhog. “I gives up! Can’t you do anythin’ with the liddle rogues?”

Brink was a jolly creature and well-liked by the Dibbuns. He tipped Skipper a wink. “I’ll soon get ’em organised, leave it t’me, Skip.”