AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a stand alone story in the vermin badger series. You do not need to have read any of the prior stories to read this one.
My story is not strict to canon. Ages are in human terms, meaning characters will age at the same rate. There are no accented speech as such things are difficult reading and writing. I also wish this site allowed blank lines, but I have found a way around that defect.
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Summary Journal
Robertasin had just changed into her nightgown when an insistent pounding started at the door to her private residence. She voiced her indignation at the interruption, but kept it low enough that her unwanted guest could not hear her. As Mother Abbot, Robertasin prized her privacy since her duties allowed her so little. She placed her diary on the low table, and walked to her door just as the other beast knocked a second time.
When she opened the door, an irate looking woodchuck glared down at her. Without so much as an invitation, the old fellow barged into her quarters. He shuffled over to the nearest chair and plopped down, sinking deep within the cushions. The woodchuck turned his white-furred muzzle towards the Mother Abbot who still stood by the door.
"Mister Acrib, is this the respect I get from our Chief Historian and Recorder? Your fur might be turning white with age, but you have the audacity of a wayward dibbun."
"You should know. A more wayward dibbun would be hard to find."
The Mother Abbot allowed the door to remain open when she approached her uninvited guest. She stood before the old beast reclining within her easy chair, scowling at him. If not for the thick carpet, her bare foot tapping on the floor would have drowned out her words.
"I know this month's Summary Report is due tomorrow. It will be done on time and without your constant harassment."
The light sound of laughter came to her ears. "That would be a first, Mother Abbot. This is your eighth entry to that journal. In each of the previous seven months, I have had to hound you day and night before you did what duty required."
She walked to her chair, as if he had somehow disappeared in the time it took her to sit. Robertasin's paw snagged her feathered pen, which rested on a low table between her and her guest. The Mother Abbot dipped the quill into the inkbottle, and wrote. When she lowered her pen, the Mother Abbot deemed the Chief Historian and Recorder worthy of her attention. She motioned the woodchuck to her side.
"I was just about to finish with my Daily Diary before tackling the Monthly Summary. Would you like to read what I just wrote as part of today's official happenings?"
The old woodchuck grunted as he pushed himself out of his chair. He ambled over while he adjusted his glasses. Leaning down, he read aloud the passage just written.
"Today I threw a cantankerous old coot out of my quarters."
He no sooner finished reading that line than the Mother Abbot bounded out of her chair and grabbed the fellow by his lapels. A moment later, the old woodchuck found himself on the wrong side of a locked door. Robertasin giggled as she slid the bolt home, which would prevent anyone else from entering her quarters unannounced.
With the diary entry done, the Mother Abbot doused the lights and retired to her bedroom. She paused at the fireplace long enough to pour herself a cup of tea. Robertasin savored the cinnamon smell that came from this special blend while sipping the hot brew. Moving across the room, she sat at her desk. The Summary Journal remained open to a blank page.
Robertasin leaned back and gazed at the ceiling. She continued sipping her tea, alternating her vacant stare between the whitewashed ceiling and the blank page. The Mother Abbot put her cup on the floor and picked up another quill. Robertasin's paws flew across the page for several moments before she placed the writing instrument back where it belonged. She reached down, drained her tepid cup, and smacked her lips together in satisfaction. Robertasin read her words.
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Have I explained how much I hate writing? Bad enough the paperwork required for keeping this place functioning. Such documentation I can tolerate. However, these blasted journals are overwhelming me. My first responsibility is the diary I must keep, which is a record of my thoughts and observations for every day I rule Redwall Abbey. Sometimes it takes but a dozen words and on other days, a dozen pages will not satisfy.
Then there is the Monthly Summary Report. This recaps the important events that occurred between the last new moon and this one. Our Chief Historian and Recorder will expect my entry by tomorrow morning and that woodchuck has a tongue sharper than any hedgehog's spike. So I had better write fast since I have yet to start.
In the past seven months, my report never exceeded one page in length. I'm reluctant to write more when there is nothing worth reporting. I dread composing the numerous entries I must make if I rule over this place for as many years as my two predecessors. Yet, if I want the privileges accorded the Mother Abbot, then I must accept the responsibilities duty imposes.
Did I tell you how much I hate writing? In the past, I racked my brain deciding what to highlight. Life at Redwall Abbey has been dull for far too many years. The most exciting thing to happen since I became the Mother Abbot has been a root cellar flooding, and a lightning strike that destroyed several apple trees. Such things will not interest future historians. Even I didn't care a few days after they happen.
This month, I am certain what event I intend to highlight. Thanks to several participants who have loaned me their journals, my report shall provide a detailed account of a special eight-day period. At the time it happened, it seemed monumental. Today, I doubt anyone will remember it that way.
My desk has quills in abundance. A sharpened knife will maintain a fine point. I will produce a legible script instead of the mess you see in my other writings. There is ink and paper sufficient for a novel. The lamp has a full tank of oil and no beast will disturb me this night. My thoughts are organized and I am ready to proceed.