"Now stop yanking on my elbow, Mother Abbot. At my age, I don't climb these stairs as fast as I did when I was as many years as you."

"You get around quite nicely for a squirrel of a hundred and six, Honored Eldest. At sixty, I find these tower stairs far too steep for my aging knees. Why you insist on sitting up here when there are many places just as sunny at ground level boggles my mind. You lose so much valuable time each day because of your stubborn streak."

"Listen, vixen, I don't turn another year for some five days. Think I don't remember when I was birthed? 'Twas the third day after the summer's first quarter moon. As to why I insist on coming up here, it's to keep far away from the dibbuns that run amok within this glorified orphanage."

The Mother Abbot chuckled. "We did the research, Honored Eldest. The date of your birth was the tenth of this month, some three days back. Like it or not, Mister Stiles, our modern world is now ruled by a calendar and not by some scribe tracking the phases of the moon."

He gave a low growl, which ended in a prolonged coughing spell. Once he regained his breath, Stiles continued up the stairs. The two climbed in silence until they reached the tower's roof.

"I don't care what that new fangled thing said, I'll celebrate my birthday as it's suppose to be and on the proper day too. I swear, if either our very first ruler, Abbess Germaine, or our founder, Martin the Warrior, ever knew what has happened to their beloved Redwall, their spirits would rise in anger and lay waste to the very place they created. Vermin have changed the world, and not for the better I might add, Abbess."

"You protest too much, sir. As to vermin changing the world, you have forgotten a shrew invented the calendar you detest so much. Need I remind you a mole combined the power of a pony with a plow and now the same land produces more than four times as much food? Was it not an otter who designed a merchant ship needing no oars? Each of those changes has enriched our lives."

"Some ferret came up with carts pulled by ponies. Now anyone meandering down any roadway risk being crushed by hooves or wheels. And what about that demented stoat apothecary? Blasted fool discovered something he named gunpowder, which made our sanctuary behind these walls a mere illusion. That city, just a half-day's walk away, is ruled by a weasel mayor and its woodlander inhabitants think nothing of it. And worse yet, our Abbey now has a fox as its leader, and one not even of this land."

"Times have changed, sir, and for the better. Thank goodness slavery is a dying institution since the introduction of modern farming machinery and the rapid growth of industry. Our Abbey and the lands we once ruled cannot remain an isolated and independent entity forever. Best we embrace the modern world and take our place as one of the many regions honoring our badger king."

Mister Stiles removed his wide brimmed straw hat and wiped his brow. His fingers mussed the wispy strands of colorless fur that still covered parts of his face before he replaced the hat. He shuffled over to the high wall and gazed to the east while listening to a third fellow struggle onto the roof. When all became quiet once more, he moved into the chair set there specifically for him. As he made himself comfortable, he smiled up at the Abbess.

"As a retired Chief Scribe and a bit of an historian, perhaps I remember our past too fondly, Abbess. We were a place of refuge then, a place of peace that inspired the righteous and frightened the villainous. Today, all we are is a crumbling relic used to warehouse the many orphans seeking sanctuary. In this modern world, our single claim to fame is October Ale. My home for all these years is nothing more than a forgotten footnote in the annals of history, a place filled with myths and legends. It deserves a better fate."

The vixen smiled and patted his shoulder one more time before she made for the stairs. A moment of blissful silence. Even the voices of the dibbuns down at ground level seemed muted.

"She has left, Honored Eldest. Shall I take out your writing material," asked the young squirrel who followed them to the roof.

He looked at his young attendant and gave a low groan. "I know my fur 'twas a deeper brown and a lot thicker than yours when I counted as many years as you. Tell me, child, are we related or has our Badgermom assigned you the duty of attending to a senile old fool?"

He laughed at the youth's incredulous look and took a moment as he regained his composure. "Don't be so concerned about my feelings; I know how others see me. My advanced years allow me to get away with as many things as a precocious toddler with doting elders without worrying about the crack of a willow switch upon my backside. An advantage to old age, perhaps one of the few left to me."

"Neither, sir. Remember me telling you how Father lived far from here until he joined the military? While serving with the Unity Division, he met Mother, and after their discharge, they moved to the Town of Mossflower. The Town Crier announced the need for a potter at the Abbey and my parents moved within these walls."

"Tell me Tigraff, is your father still disappointed you want to mar your paws with ink instead of clay?"

"Yes, he is a bit disappointed in my choice of studies. Scribes are a dying breed, Honored Eldest, or so my father keeps insisting. Three years ago those two hedgehog brothers invented a typesetter. They can produce a hundred copies of a book it takes a diligent scribe a year to write. It's only good fortune they are related to our last true warrior, otherwise I would never be granted an apprenticeship so many others covet."

Stiles nodded. "Yes, Firelog was our last true warrior, not like that strutting prince cock of a mouse we have now or the otter who came before him. Be honest, haven't you heard that mouse call himself the reincarnation of Martin the Warrior? Fool is more likely to stab his own foot if he ever held the Sword in battle. And I bet his water would flow faster than his legs would carry him if some beast ever challenged him in anything other than the mock duels held to amuse our visitors during the season festivals."

For a moment, Stile's eyes glazed over as he stared north. Such talk about current events at the Abbey always left him miffed. He didn't understand the need for a standardized currency or setting firm prices, which replaced the haggling he favored at market. Nor did he accept the need to engage in commerce and the entertaining shows for the funds needed to keep the many youths here housed or educated. He wanted the Abbey to remain self-sufficient.

Then Stiles snagged the youth's arm with a firm grip. "Listen, Tigraff, those hedgehogs know talent when they see it and scribes will always be in demand, even with this newfangled typesetter making everyone a legible writer. As to why they chose you as an apprentice, didn't you spend all last summer helping them do whatever it is they do when they produced Shortspike's old medical texts? You applied yourself and they liked your work. I know you'll do quite well when you start converting our scripted stories into typed works. I just wish somebody would consider my account of the past worthy of such recognition."

Tigraff opened the footlocker he lugged up to this tower's roof every sunny day. He rummaged through its contents, removing things in the order Stiles dictated. A huge binder wrapped in a black ribbon came out first, which he placed closest to the chair. Other scrolls and binders were lifted out and arranged within close proximity.

Last to emerge, the box containing the writing implements. Blank pages, slate and chalk came next. Using the footlocker as a backrest, Tigraff leaned back and waited. For the next few moments Stiles drummed the tip of his nose with an index finger as he contemplated which item he would work next. He placed his paws in his lap.

"Tell me, boy, have you read my story? I don't mean as a recorder would do or as some disinterested historian. What I want to know is if you have really read what we have worked so hard at editing." Seeing the sheepish grin made Stiles cackle. "I thought as much. I have far too little time left in this world. I think it best you read this from start to finish while I can still answer whatever questions arise."

Tigraff blurted out a question. "Sir, if this story is as important as you believe, why didn't anyone ever place it in the Historian's achieves? It's a mystery to me."

Stiles gave that cackling laugh the eldest creatures seemed to share in common as he looked upon the youth. "We like to think of Redwall as a place of perfect goodness where every resident does only what is proper. Having somebody come along and prove us wrong is offensive. My story focuses on the nadir point in our history, the time we proved ourselves no better than those we condemn for some perceived imperfection. It is just unfortunate for this Abbey that I still live since I am the last one who was there when this all happened. Without me, I am certain this account would turn into ashes. Forgotten for all time."

Once more Stiles gazed upon Tigraff. "So read my tale and tell me if this is best remembered or forgotten. For good or ill, I believe this chapter in our history must be told."

With that, the young squirrel unbound the binder and flipped it open to the first page.