A sparrow gazed down from its perch high up in the Abbey clock tower. Above it, the weather vane spun regally. Crafted from the strongest steel, the depiction of a flying horse gazed upon its wooded kingdom. Sounds of laughter and general merriment floated up from the Abbey grounds. Today was Midsummer's Day, a day when the mice of Redwall threw a festival. Several Dibbuns were happily splashing in the shallows of the Abbey pond, shrieking with delight as the fish brushed by their footpaws, the elders dozed in the summer's heat, and a garrulous hare snuck vittles from the feast table.

"Away with you, Millie!" A plump old mousewife smacked the hare's paw soundly with her ladle as she reached for an apple tart. "Those tarts are for the feast, and I won't have any hares leaving us with crumbs to eat!" The hare, Millie, drew away, nursing her hurt paw.

"Nae, yer wrong there, Sister Heather! Yon hare willnae leave nothing, the lassie will et the crumbs, too!" A shout distinctly laced with a northern burr came from up a pear tree. A rustle of leaves accompanied a young squirrel hanging by his footpaws on a thick limb, trying desperately to keep a plaid beret from falling off his head. A patch covered one of the squirrel's eyes.

Father Abbot Orlando came hurrying over. He cut a slightly comical figure, almost tripping over his homespun green habit, he rushed toward the pear tree. "Come down from there before you injure yourself, you scallywag!"

The squirrel, whose name was MacEvans, leaped neatly down from the branch. "Nae need tae git yer habit in a twist, Orlando! I knows yon orchard like the back o' me paw. I cuid leap around here nae touching the ground blindfolded, wi' one paw behind me back!"

Harmile, an old Regiment hare, came to the Abbot's defense. "Yes, I knows this chap's the youngest h'Abbot ever h'appointed, but that's got to be for some bally reason, eh wot? Why not give the lad a blinkin' chance! Now, do come down from there, you young rip. Scoff's being served!" The hare hurried away to his seat at the table, right next to an enormous plum and damson pudding.

Trying desperately to regain his injured dignity, Orlando vainly attempted to call for order. Foremole Bruffy beat a ladle across the bottom of a copper pot. The sound reverberated around the Great Hall until everyone was silent. Bruffy winked at the Abbot. "Hearken t' ee Abbot. Us'ns has t' say ee grace if'n we wants t' eat."

BOOOM! The doors to the Great Hall slammed open. A crew of otters stood in the doorway. The otter leading the group said, "Just about to say the grace, Father? Well, good!" She cried out in a singsong voice:

"We sits down to table
This fish we do carve
Now let's git t'feasting
Afore we all starve!

Wild applause from the Dibbun's section of the table greeted the otter's short poem.

"Forget about us, will ye now?" The otter who had spoken took her bows and directed her comrades towards the table.

"Wavelash, wha- ooohh, that's right!" Orlando smote his forehead with one paw. "You were invited!"

"S'alright, Orly." Orlando winced at the sound of his nickname. "We all forget things. And it's not Wavelash anymore, 'tis Skipper!" The otter proudly flaunted her new leadership role.

While Orlando was congratulating the newly appointed Skipper of Otters, Dally Cellarhog was holding his own in a heated debate with MacEvans. The squirrel defiantly refused to tell anybeast about how he lost an eye.

"Nae, ah willnae be a-tellin'. Mah bizness is mah bizness, ye ken?" But Dally would not let the matter rest.

"Oh, ye went a-gallavantin' off three seasons ago, hale and hearty, and widout so much as a by-your-leave, he comes back all beat up, and one eye missin'. That's too big t'go unnoticed. Ye won't speak a word of it, so naturally, everybeast wants to know. Come on, Mac! Tell us!" MacEvans glared at the impertinent Cellarhog. Dally had attracted a crowd.

"Yah, give the ould chap some breathin' room. Can't say much if'n he's hemmed in by you young rips, wot?" Millie snatched a bowl of candied chestnuts and winked at MacEvans. "Go on, we're all watching. No pressure!"

The squirrel finally gave in. "Och, all righty then. Seems as if ah'm ootnumbered. 'Twas three seasons ago, the time when ah ran away from the h'Abbey..."

~O~

The young squirrel glanced back at the Abbey, making certain none were following him. Sighing with relief, he opened his pack and drew out the two dirks he had stolen from the Abbey armoury. Strapping them crossways across his back, MacEvans trudged on. In the growing dawn he could see the edge of Mossflower Wood. He didn't, however, make out the masked fox standing betwixt the trees. Humming lightly, MacEvans was scarcely aware when he was clubbed over the head. Sparks swam, and he lost consciousness.