CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On the morning after Redwall's first-ever Salamandastron Dance, Sergeant Traughber reported for breakfast with his footpaw in a light cast, courtesy of Arlyn and the retired Abbot's accomplished pupil Metellus, who'd stayed up late after the festivities to tend to the sprained ankle. But while Traughber may have been the only member of the Long Patrol sporting such an obvious symbol of his overexertions, he was far from the only hare at the Abbey to exhibit the toll exacted upon them by the previous night's musical athleticism.

Colonel Clewiston limped up from Cavern Hole like a wounded war hero, directing himself across Great Hall toward the first free seat to catch his eye. "Ah, closest port in a storm, eh wot? No point punishing the old stompers with one step more'n necessary, is there?"

Melanie, walking at his side while nursing her own less evident sore muscles, gently chided her husband. "Showing our seasons a bit this morning, are we, Clewy?"

"Well, we sure weren't showin' 'em last night, so a body's got a right to be a bit wrung out half th' bally time, wouldn't you agree?" Clewiston squeezed himself onto a bench between Baxley and Traveller, who squeezed aside further to make room for Melanie as well. "Mornin', chaps! An' you too, Givvie. How's everyhare doin' this fine day?"

"'Bout as well as you look, Colonel sir," Baxley replied with a notable lack of usual Long Patrol cheer. "That dancin' last night sure took a lot outta us. An' wot's so fine about t'day? Just poked my head outdoors, an' it's all gloomy 'n' overcast ... not that you could really tell that from in here, through all that stained glass."

"Oh, dear," Melanie worried. "And on our big pageant day, too! Hope th' soggin' rain holds off - that'd ruin ev'rything!"

"Don't reckon we've got a thing t' worry about, Mel m'gel," Traveller assured her from around the Colonel's shoulder. "Just got back from my mornin' run 'round th' walltop not two shakes ago, an' I'd say it looks like nuthin' that won't blow over an' give us clear skies by noontide."

"Well, Traveller ol' bean," Clewiston put in as he poured himself a small tumbler of strawberry cordial, "one thing you learned in all that time tracking His Bloodiness for Lord Urthfist was how t' read the weather, since you spent so many nights with the stars as your blanket. If you say it's like t' clear up, you'd know better than anybeast!"

Baxley, meanwhile, stared at the senior scout as if mortified. "You ... ran, Field Marshal? After last night?" The younger hare shook his head in disbelief. "Never do you fail to amaze me, you old galloper."

"Ha! Call me 'old' when I start limpin' like you just were, you young rip! But I guess my seasons of wide-rangin' reconnaissance have made me immune t' sore legs an' achin' backs. After some of wot I endured in th' field, last night's Dance was a stroll through a petunia patch!"

Sister Blanche came along just then, wheeling before her one of Friar Hugh's heavily-laden breakfast trolleys. Baxley beckoned her his way with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Over here, my good mousie thingy, over here! Lemme have one o' those delicious-looking scones, along with one of those honeyglazed apple muffins ... on' an' don't forget two or three of those hazelnut pancakes, heavy on th' maplecream syrup, if y' please!"

Clewiston sternly interceded even as Baxley held forth his plate for filling. "Sister, kindly place upon his plate a single scone, or one muffin, or just two pancakes, light on th' syrup. And don't you dare let him have one smidgen more than that."

Baxley turned to the Colonel as if he'd been wounded. "But, sah! I'm positively seven-seasons famished from all that cavortin' last night! I'm wastin' away t' nothing here!"

Clewiston eyed Baxley's middle with an arched brow. "I'd say you've got seven seasons of wastin' away to do before you'll amount to nothing, Bax. Let's not forget th' whole flippin' reason for resurrectin' this tradition, wot? Be a shameful waste of a perfectly good Dance, workin' so hard to burn off some flab only to go gorgin' yourself the very next morn. 'Sides which, there'll be refreshments aplenty during this afternoon's pageant. No call wotsoever for bustin' your gut now when you'll be scoffin' up later, is there?"

Baxley leaned back on his shared bench, crestfallen as he regarded the solitary scone adorning his breakfast setting. "Ooo, life's not fair! Do I at least get t' wash it down with cider, or am I restricted to unhoneyed comfrey tea?"

"Cider I'll allow ... long as you don't go quaffin' it down fit t' drain the ocean!"

Givadon leaned around her forlorn husband to address her mother. "How're you holdin' up, mum? You were shakin' your scut an' shiftin' your paws with th' best of us last night! Hope you didn't overdo it ... "

"I think we all overdid it," Melanie said with a laugh. "But oh, did it feel good to just get out there an' let loose! I almost did feel like I was back at Salamandastron."

Baxley glanced to his right at Melanie, then to his left at Givadon, and heaved a shoulders-slumped sigh. "Wot is it about females, Colonel sah? You c'n put 'em through their paces just as bloomin' rigorously as any malebeast, an' while we wake up th' next day all sore an' smartin', they're carryin' on just as always!"

"Oh, that's easy as summer salad, my dear Bax," Melanie answered. "You males might be aces when it boils down to brute brawn, but we of the fairer gender an' fluttery eyelashes 've got it all over you in matters of endurance, an' copin' with life's little aches 'n' pains!"

"Too right, mum," Givadon readily agreed. "An' if you fellas beg t' differ, try givin' birth sometime! Or just carryin' a babe to term in your bally belly! Then you won't be complainin' about any marches, runs or dances, believe you me!"

Clewiston raised his tumbler of cordial. "A toast, then - to th' haremums of th' Long Patrol! We males might be th' ones siring our next generation, but it's our spiffin' spouses who're doin' all the work!"

"Dont'cha mean 'labor,' sah?" Givadon corrected him with a grin.

"Wot? Oh yes, well put, that! Point taken, Givvie m'gel! Here's to our fairer half, an' the sterner half as well! May the Long Patrol never want for harebabes, or the harewives to deliver 'em. Bottoms up!"

Alexander, seated farther down the same table, shook his head as his tufted ears picked up the Colonel's words. "If that's not the strangest breakfast toast to be heard at Redwall in many a season, then I'm a flying fox!"

"Yes," said Lady Mina, seated alongside him, "especially since I always thought breakfast toast sounded like this." She tipped up one of the browned slices of bread on her plate and scraped her knife across it, producing a brittle crackling noise.

Alex grinned. "Good one, Mina."

"Besides," she went on, "you and I have been trying for a babe of our own for so long now, I'm inclined to say that if a breakfast blessing might improve our odds any, then it's worth a shot!"

Alex patted his wife's paw. "Now now, Mina - if it's meant to happen, it will. Sometimes these things just take time. Although I will say, if you and I were to seek out fertility tips from anybeast, it'd be those hares! They're certainly not having any trouble in that department!"

Gallatin wandered by just then, walking with a tortured, stiff-limbed gait that made his legs look like planks. Florissant tarried at his side; like Melanie and Givadon, she displayed no such adverse effects, although of course her family way had kept her from dancing nearly as much most of the Long Patrol.

Clewiston waved their way. "Mornin' there, 'tenant! Florrie!"

"Mornin', Colonel sah!" Florissant returned with a chipper smile. Gallatin merely grumbled something low and unintelligible, his face stormy.

"Wow," remarked Baxley, watched the junior officer stump past. "An' I though I had it bad. Guess that Dance wasn't th' jolly brightest of your ideas after all, eh, Colonel? Um, if y' don't mind my sayin' ... "

"Huh? Don't be daft, Bax chappie. Last night's Dance was just th' first of many, don'tcha know. Gonna re-instate it as a regular exercise ... especially now that I've seen how out of shape so many of us really are!"

Baxley's eyes fairly popped out of their sockets. "But, sah ... you can't be flippin' serious! Last night's Dance near 'nuff wiped us out!"

"Which is why, for now, we'll keep it to every other night. Give us a bit of a breather between outings, wot, an' a chance t' fully recuperate. Exceptin' real cases like Sergeant Traughber's, o' course; no more gallivantin' for him 'til he's been cleared by our medicos. But as for the rest of us, it's dance until our old dress jackets fit less snugly again, an' that's an order!"

"Bax does have a point, Clewy," Melanie pointed out. "As fine as these Dances may be for whippin' us all back into shape, until we get fully into th' swing of 'em, they're gonna leave us pretty much useless for a day afterwards. Hate t' have that be the blinkin' day a vermin horde shows up at Redwall's gates - or Urthblood himself, finally decidin' to make his move against us openly."

"Hmm. A point to consider, Mel m'dear. Truer words never spoke, an' all that. But I'm still goin' with the Dances, at least through midseason; by then, maybe we'll be back to makin' long field runs to keep our tummies off. Redwall's got plenty of good stout squirrels 'n' otters to keep up our defenses, an' lots of other willin' Abbeybeasts to lend a paw in any crisis. If trouble catches us on an off day, everybeast else here'll just jolly well hafta hold the fort until we're ready to stand beside 'em! 'Cos if an' when that day ever comes, I want to see our ramparts packed with trim, fit Long Patrol fighters, not soft 'n' squishy sweetmeadow bunnies!"

Sergeant Peppertail struggled by at that moment, the hitch in his tortured gait so pronounced that he nearly swung himself completely sideways with each pained step.

"You certain about this, hon?" Melanie asked, half teasingly and half with genuine concern.

"Hummm ... " Clewiston mulled it over. "Okay, for this one time only, we'll take a two-day rest between Dances. Give th' band a little extra time t' learn a few more songs, don'tcha know. But day after tomorrow, we'll be dancin' again - an' you can hold me to that!"

00000000000

At last the moment had finally arrived for which the Abbey's youthful performers had worked so hard. The timber stage upon the south lawns, fully bedecked and festooned with colorful banners and bunting and draped with cheerful fabric to hide its simple construction, stood ready to accept its first pair of thespian footpaws. After breakfast, all the long benches had been carried out of Great Hall and up from Cavern Hole, along with a great many single chairs from other parts of the Abbey, and all were arrayed in orderly rows before the stage, providing plenty of seating for the sizable audience everybeast expected. For indeed, what Redwaller would want to be anywhere else when showtime arrived?

The two Abbots, Arlyn and Geoff, took seats in the center of the front row; unlike many noteworthy Abbey events, this pageant would not be presided over by any Abbot or Abbess. Today, Geoff and Arlyn would just be spectators like everybeast else, and leave the officiating to others. Winokur and Browder, the two adults principally responsible for putting this whole affair together, were backstage with their fledgling players, going over last-moment line readings and making sure all the props and costumes were in order.

Tables had also been set up on either side of the seating area. While the Long Patrol had rested up from their outpouring of energy displayed at their Dance, Friar Hugh's staff toiled throughout the night and into the morning to produce, if not an actual feast, then at least a respectable feast-let, with staggered courses designed to be brought out between each act, so that cast and audience alike could nibble and sip at various delicacies during breaks in the presentation. Browder, initially flustered over how this might disrupt the flow of the pageant, was reminded from several quarters that this was the youngbeasts' day, and Pirkko's most of all, and that such an informal program would help everybeast keep in mind that this was all for fun, and not to be taken too seriously.

At length, with all tails and hindquarters settled in their respective viewing spots, Winokur stepped up onto the stage to officially open the proceedings. Squinting in the bright midday sun, the golden rays making his preferred green habit robes glow with an emerald sheen, the otter Recorder gazed out over the gathered creatures, clearly delighted by the turnout, even if he hadn't really expected any less. Hardly any insects buzzed or chirruped this early in the season, and the only dim and distant birdsong came from far outside the Abbey walls, since nearly all the Sparra of Warbeak Loft had flown down to witness these plays as well, wanting to see how their privileged chicks Harpreet, Skytop and Brybag would acquit themselves in their roles.

Winokur beamed at all his fellow Abbeydwellers, and the Guosim as well, for whom this event held special significance due to Pirrko's central double role. "Welcome to our most special event!" the otter historian began. "I'm so glad to see that nature finally decided to cooperate, and that this glorious springtime sun chased away all this morning's gloomy cloud cover! Even if that does make things a bit glare-y up here ... " Wink placed his paw to his brow to underscore his point, spreading his webbed digits wide to help shade his eyes. "Of course, the dazzle of this day I fully expect to be matched by the dazzle of our young stars, who have worked so very hard to memorize all their lines. I can tell you, they've all quite immersed themselves in the spirit of the occasion! So I suppose I ought to just step aside now and let the true champions of this day take the stage. Without further ado, here are three fine feathered friends to open our pageant. Sparra chrous, take it away!"

Eager applause erupted as Winokur retreated down the stage left steps and disappeared once more behind the curtained backdrop. That applause - along with an unbridled riot of encouraging cheeps and tweets from the winged portion of the audience - only grew more robust as Harpreet, Skytop and Brybag fluttered up into view from behind the backdrop and perched side-by-side upon the fabric-shrouded frame. The three youngbirds puffed out their fuzzy chests with theatrical pride, basking in the adulations and clearly relishing their moment at the center of everybeasts' attention.

Drawing their simultaneous breath, the Sparra trio launched into the opening lines of the day's pageant, using the clipped, over-enunciated formality of their classroom speech to deliver their lines in perfect three-voice unison.

"Greetings. Abbeybeasts. All! The. Redwall. Youthtime. Players. Proudly. Present ... A. Pan-o-ply. Of. His-tor-eeee!"

Everybeast applauded anew at this auspicious introduction, the sparrows in the audience flapping and beating their wings in place to add to the happy tumult. Arlyn leaned over to Geoff and commented, "Very well spoken Sparra indeed. You and Winokur have certainly done a commendable job in that regard. But I shouldn't wonder, if every one of our youthful actors recites his lines with such methodical clarity, whether we might not all be here until midnight waiting to get through the entire presentation!"

"No worries there," Geoff assured the retired Abbot. "Once Droge and Budsock and Pirkko get into the act, they'll more than make up for the Sparra's elocution!"

The cheers subsiding, Brybag, Skytop and Harpreet resumed their narrative duties. "Our. First. Play. Today. Tells. The. Story. Of. Redwall's. Brave. Founder. Martin. The. Warrior!"

More applause and cries and cheers, although at least half the brothers and sisters of the order silently questioned the propriety of having their Abbey's revered founder subjected to such raucous frivolity.

"Once. Upon. A. Time," the Sparra chorus continued, "Mossflower. Lay. Under. The. Cruel. Tyranny. Of. The. Wicked. Wildcat. Queen. Tsarmina!"

The backdrop curtain rustled and parted slightly, allowing the molechild Gubkin to step out onto the stage. Now in truth, there is very little that can be done to a mole to make it look like a wildcat; not even the triangular parchment ears stuck onto the top of Gubkin's velvety head, or the tiger-striped fabric tail latched onto the back of his belt, could do much to heighten the effect. But somebeast had had to play the villain in this playlet, and a mole filled the role as well as anybeast, the oversized digging claws symbolically standing in for a feline's sharp and fearsome natural weaponry.

The three sparrows melodramatically shrank back at Gubkin's supposed fearsome appearance. "Tyrannytyrannytyranny!" they chittered in not-quite-unison, for that line was not in the script; they simply liked saying it. Many in the audience were uncertain how to react; one of the greatest villains in the annals of Redwall was surely not to be cheered or applauded, but how could anybeast boo precious little Gubkin, so absurdly adorned in his false wildcat costume? No, boos and catcalls (however appropriate the latter might have fit the occasion) might discourage Gubkin, bruising his esteem or curdling his confidence. So, the onlookers mostly just sat on their paws.

Gubkin waved his digging claws before him in what he supposed was a menacing fashion. "Gurr hurr! Oi be Tsarmeenie ee Wickerd, a crool an' turrible villyun! H'all ee creeturs in Mossflower be's gurtly affroighted of oi! Meow meow meow!"

Harpreet, Skytop and Brybag momentarily abandoned their clipped enunciation to lend an air of frenzied drama to the scene. "Who will save Mossflower? Who? Who? Whowhowho?"

The curtain parted again, and out onto the boards stepped Pirkko, dressed in a dashing traveller's cloak and bearing a wood prop sword at his side. He certainly looked more the part of his character than Gubkin did, although a shrew playing a mouse was not nearly as big a stretch as a mole playing a wildcat. And furthermore, Pirkko's enthusiasm was not to be matched.

"Behold, I am Martin th' Warrior, come down from th' Northlands to aid all good creatures in need! I just put the tyrant stoat Badrang in his grave, an' now I'll do th' same to you, cat!"

"Hurr hurr hurr harr harr, an' bwahaha an' mwahaha! Oi bain't afroighted of ee, Marthenmouse! Cuz oi'm a gurt big catter wi' sharp 'n' turrible claws! Mrow!" Striding forward, Gubkin grabbed Pirkko's drawn sword and, after a brief, clumsy struggle, freed the wooden prop from the shrew's grasp. "An' this's what oi thinks o' mouseybeasts too big furr they'm britchers, gurrurr!" Finding the hidden trick joint in the fake blade, Gubkin twisted and separated the sword into two parts, flinging them both back at Pirkko. "Noaw off to ee dungerns with ee!"

Gubkin spun and scurried off, descending the stage right stairs and disappearing behind the curtains until his next lines. As the mole vanished, Francy the mouse emerged from another gap in the backdrop, holding before him a simple frame of slender wood dowels to represent the bars of a prison cell. He sat down near the edge of the stage, and Pirkko went to sit alongside him, the bars separating the two "prisoners" from the audience.

"Hello," she shrew greeted the mouse. "I'm Martin the Warrior, an' that awful cat just broke my father's sword. But I'm gonna bust outta here an' put her in her place, an' free all Mossflower while I'm at it!"

"Then this is your lucky day matey," Francy said in a somewhat halting and stilted delivery, for not all beasts were naturals at acting like Pirkko, and Francy seemed to be paying as much attention to holding the bars upright as to his lines. "For I am Gonff the Mousethief and no pie or lock is safe from me as sure as the beret on my head."

Pirkko caught himself as he was about to utter his next line, pointing at Francy's unadorned head. Just then, a disembodied paw looking suspiciously like Browder's appeared from between the rear curtains and flung Francy/Gonff's wayward beret his way. The headpiece landed in the mouse's lap, which made him yelp and let go of the dowel frame, which in turn fell upon the stage boards with a loud clatter. Scowling at his costar's amateurish ineptitude, Pirkko grabbed the mock prison bars and righted them while Francy put his beret in place.

"So," Pirkko/Martin asked, "can you get us out of here?"

"Why of course I can," Francy recited as woodenly as Pirkko's broken sword, and pretended to fish lockpicking tools from his pocket. Waving his paws in the air before him for a few moments, he dully declared, "There now we are free."

"'Bout time." Pirkko stood, lifting the pretend prison bars with him and bodily hurling them from the stage, where they narrowly missed a couple of other young players who'd chosen that ill-timed moment to peek out from behind the backdrop. They withdrew and were not immediately seen again.

Pirkko stooped and scooped up the two halves of his now-sundered blade. "Oh no! How am I ever gonna fight Queen Tsarmina if my sword's like this?!"

"I have an idea," droned Francy. "Let's go see Bella of Brockhall for she is the wisest creature in Mossflower and she will surely tell us what to do I am sure."

As the two players made a big show of trudging their way from stage right to stage left, as if covering some great distance, Metellus emerged from behind the platform and climbed the side steps to greet them. The adolescent badger wore one of Mother Maura's modified smocks, which really did lend him the air of an older female.

Geoff leaned over to Arlyn in the front row. "I thought Metellus was too busy with his studies to have a part in this?"

"Browder and Wink really didn't have anybeast else to play the badger roles, and since they only totaled a few lines altogether, I gave Metellus leave from his healer's lessons to attend a couple of rehearsals."

Pirkko and Francy stopped before Metellus, who still towered over them in spite of his young seasons. Francy opened his mouth to speak but Pirkko, having had his fill of his fellow actor's stilted dialogue, jumped in himself, having remembered from their rehearsals the general gist of the next lines.

"O great Bella Brockhall, what shall a brave mouse warrior such as me, Martin the Warrior, do to defeat our wicked wildcat enemies?"

Francy looked on with a mix of mortification and utter confusion at having his lines stolen out from under him, but Metellus picked up the cue without skipping a beat.

"You must go seek out my father, Boar the Fighter, at the mountain fortress of Salamandastron on the shores of the Western Sea. He will help us in our dark hour!" He motioned toward the backdrop. "The way will be long and perilous, so I will send with you a stalwart and sensible mole to serve as your companion. Dinny!"

Padgett the mole timidly stuck his snout through the curtains, then withdrew it until some muffled exhortations from backstage drove him fully into view. For long moments he just stood there blinking his tiny eyes in the brilliant sunshine. Then, remembering why he was there, he fairly bellowed, "Yurr be's oi, Dinny ee moler!"

The others were about to proceed, but Padgett saw fit then to bustle his way up to the front of the stage and conspiratorially declare to the audience, "Oi bain't trulee Dinny ee moler, gennelbeasts ... but today oi be's!"

"So glad he clarified that," Geoff muttered sourly.

Padgett discreetly, or so he thought, retreated to rejoin the others. "Go now," Metellus solemnly intoned. "May your journey be safe and successful!" His part thus concluded for the moment, he exited, stage left.

As Pirkko, Francy and Padgett made their long way across the stage, from Mossflower to the coastlands, the Sparra chorus above picked up their narration. "The. Way. Was. Indeed. Long. And. Perilous," they recited, pausing to chitter "perilous" a few extra unnecessary times in a chirping, scattershot echo that tickled their beaky palates. "Amongst. Their. Many. Trials. And. Tribulations. (tribulationstribulationstribulations!) Was. The. Giant. Crab. Monster!"

Through the parted curtains then emerged Droge, not that any in the audience recognized him crouching underneath the oversized wicker gardening basket that almost completely hid him down to his footpaws. Reaching out from beneath the leading edge of the overturned bushel, Droge held forth a large forked branch in each paw to represent the crustacean's lethal pinchers.

"Horror! Terror! Terrorhorrorterror!" the Sparra trilled in dire agitation.

Padgett, deeming this might prove too much for those in the audience with more delicate constitutions, once again broke from both his fellow players and from character, stepping up to the stage front a second time. "Be not affroightened, gennelbeasts. Et jus' be's Droger ee 'edgepig, not a turrible, froightful crabby munster!"

By the time he was finished, Geoff was practically hissing under his breath at the molechild, gesturing frantically from the front row for Padgett to retreat to his companions and return to character. Padgett, not entirely understanding what might have sent his Abbot into such a tizzy, dutifully tugged at his snout and rejoined Pirkko and Francy.

Geoff settled back on his bench, almost out of breath from his match with the blissfully oblivious mole. "Oh, I do wish he'd stop doing that ... "

"But on the bright side," Arlyn chuckled, "at least now we can all rest easy that it's not a real crab monster up there!"

"Oh no!" Pirkko burst out with too much enthusiasm. "This crab is blocking our way, and all I've got's this broken sword! Whatever shall we do?"

Francy stared at Pirkko, waiting to see whether the impetuous shrew was going to steal more of his lines, but Pirkko waved for the mouse to go on. "Never fear," Francy/Gonff deadpanned, "for I shall engage this brute with my trusty walking staff and dance with it until it is too tired to threaten us anymore." He stepped forward to carry out what his lines had foretold, then stopped, confused, upon realizing he was utterly lacking a staff of any kind. He took a step toward the backdrop to see if it might have gotten left behind there just as his beret had been, but Pirkko gave in then to his shrewish temperament (not to mention some most unMartin-like behavior) by dealing Francy an impatient kick to the tail.

"Just dance with him already!" he growled.

"Burr hurr, oi dearly 'opes you'm bain't be a-kicken oi in ee tailbone, Maister Pirkko," Padgett fretted.

In the front row, Geoff buried his face in his paws. Redwall history was not supposed to be like this.

Francy, inspired to new terpsichorean heights by Pirkko's boot to his behind, immediately proceeded forward to do as bidden. Standing uncertainly before the equally uncertain Droge for several moments, the young mouse finally just grabbed onto the two protruding branch/pinchers and commenced waltzing with the basket-covered hedgehog with all the awkwardness inherent to beasts their age.

Padgett withdrew to the rear of the stage, looking for a moment as if he was about to duck behind the curtains. "They'm be a-swingen moighty woide. Best givvem room, burr hurr."

Pirkko quickly joined the sensible molechild back by the curtains. "Yeah, good idea."

Droge, struggling to see through the chinks in his wicker costume while keeping up with Francy's halting dance steps, called out, "Hey, not so fast, France! I'm kinda encumbered unner here!"

If Francy heard at all, he was perhaps too intent upon his impromptu ballet to pay much heed. Suddenly, his cumbersome movements became even clumsier as Francy went up on one footpaw, staggering wildly. "Ow! Ow! Owowow!"

"Hey, what - " Droge began, but got no further before he found himself being driven right over the front lip of the stage and off into empty air. Geoff, Arlyn, Log-a-Log and several others scrambled and scattered to avoid the plummeting hogchild.

Droge landed squarely on his back, his spines entwined in the woven basket which now held him like a baby in its crib. "Yeow! I think I broke my spikes!"

Up on stage, Francy plopped down onto his tail, cradling his right footpaw tenderly. "Splinter! Splinter! I got a splinter!"

Geoff, regaining his footing, shot Log-a-Log a stern glance. "Didn't you sand those boards at all?"

The shrew chieftain gave a dismissive shrug. "Well, yeah, a little. But we had a whole stage t' cobble t'gether! Ain't like we had time t' polish it to a high gloss!"

Winokur and Browder ran out from behind the stage, making a beeline for the upturned Droge. Hare and otter grabbed him, basket and all, and hastily bore him away. "An' thus did the horrible blinkin' crab monster thingummy meet its ignoble end!" Browder improvised as they retreated around the stage from whence they'd come. "Next lines, next lines! Keep it goin', chappies!"

Pirkko paced forward to where Francy sat nursing his sliver-impaled paw, then reached a spur-of-the-moment unilateral determination. Addressing the audience with exaggerated pomp, the shrewchild declared, "Lo, brave Gonff the Mousethief has vanquished our shelled foe, but in that epic struggle he suffered a mortal wound, an' never made it to Salamonsterwotsis with us."

"What?!" Geoff exploded from the front row. "Gonff didn't die! That never happened!"

In spite of the Abbot's vociferous protests, Wink and Browder appeared onstage, carefully lifting Francy to bear him away. "Sorry, old bean," the hare said to Geoff, "script revision on th' fly here, don'tcha know. Sometimes these things happen. Perils of live performances, wot?"

"These things do not 'just happen!'" Geoff insisted. "You can't rewrite Redwall history all because of a splinter!"

"I don't wanna die!" Francy/Gonff wailed as he was carried down the stage right stairs by sure adult paws. "I wanna marry Columbine an' live happily ever after!" And then he was gone, borne out of sight from the audience so that the play could continue.

"Well, I know what Metellus and I will be doing between acts," Arlyn sighed. "Must be starting to resemble a regular little emergency Infirmary backstage, what with splinters, bruised spikes and summer knows what else."

"We can at least see to it that we suffer no more historical casualties ... " Geoff went up to the stage, leaning over the chest-high platform as much as he could. "We'll lay some rugs up here after this act's over," he told Pirkko and Padgett. "In the meantime, just step carefully, and mind your footpaws."

Metellus appeared then from the opposite side of the stage as before, this time wearing one of the moles' heavy work smocks to evoke a Badger Lord's forge apron, even though the borrowed garment was comically short on him. Metellus carefully ascended the steps up to the platform, treading with caution now that he knew footpaw splinters were a distinct possibility, and ventured no farther onto the boards than he absolutely had to. Pirkko and Padgett, seeing that their badger costar intended to remain just at the top of the steps, made their way over to him, lifting their legs and placing each pawstep with such overwrought wariness that they may as well have been wading through molasses.

Stopping before the badger, Pirkko said, "O great an' mighty Boar th' Fighter, you must help us. Mossflower lies under a wildcat tyranny, an' must be liberated!"

"I see that you three ... erm, two brave adventurers must have endured much to seek me out," Metellus replied, affecting a deeper, boomier voice than he'd used to portray Bella. He took the broken sword from Pirkko and held the two halves high. "Alas, I cannot return with you to Mossflower to fight at your side, for my duty lies here at Salamandastron, where I must remain to protect the coastlands from wicked searats and corsairs. But I will reforge your father's sword using metal from a rock which fell from the skies so that the blade can never again be broken, and with that sword you can bring down the wildcat Queen!" And with that, he neatly snapped the wooden blade back together at its trick joint, rendering it whole again, and presented it to Pirkko with a grand flourish. "Go now, warrior, and may victory be yours!"

"Um, thanks," the shrew said as Metellus turned and picked his way down the steps, no doubt in a hurry to tend to Droge and Francy.

Pirkko and Padgett slowly slogged their imaginary way back to Mossflower again, stopping halfway across the stage upon jointly determining that they'd slogged quite enough. "So here we are, back at Castle Kotir," Droge announced, to dispel any doubt that they had in fact arrived at their destination. "Lair of the verminous an' tyranneous Tsarmina Eyegreen. Show yerself, cat, an' meet your doom!"

"Wh-hat?" Geoff sputtered from the front row. "They can't be back at Kotir already! What about the searat pirate Ripfang, and his fight to the death with Boar? What about the Bloodwake, and all the liberated slaves who sailed with Martin up the River Moss to help fight Tsarmina? What about Timballisto, and the weapons he built that helped bring down Kotir? What about the Guosim?"

"Hey!" Pirkko barked at him from up onstage. "Quiet down there!"

Arlyn leaned over to the younger Abbot, a placating paw on Geoff's shoulder. "Now, you knew some parts would have to be cut, because we simply didn't have enough youngbeasts to play them all. If we'd tried to re-enact every episode of Martin's adventures, we'd be here for days! Now just calm down - here comes Tsarmina herself to give us our grand climax!"

Gubkin shouldered his way through the backdrop curtains for his second and final appearance, resplendent in parchment ears and cloth tail. Waving his claws before him (which seemed to encompass the totality of his conception of feline movement), he cackled, "So, ee mouseybeast's cumm back agin furr moar? Et be's gurtly unwoise of ee, Marthenmouser, furr noaw oi'll rip ee open frumm ee 'eadbone to ee futtpaws wi' moi sharp 'n' turrible claws. Meow meow meow!"

"Nay, 'ti I who'll slit yer gizzard!" Pirkko retorted with perhaps just a tad too much bloodthirsty enthusiasm. He lunged forward, and for several moments shrew and mole engaged in a fierce flurry of pretend battle, Pirkko's restored wood blade clacking loudly against Gubkin's flailing digging claws. Then Gubkin stepped back, giving his claws a sinister flex.

"Go burr, oi'll lay ee open to ee spoine!" Gubkin bellied right up to Pirkko, pinning the prop sword between their stomachs, and reached around to pantomime raking at the shrew's back. However, it quickly became apparent that this maneuver did not go entirely as planned.

"What're you doin'?" Pirkko growled as the moments stretched out, unable to draw a deep breath with Gubkin's arms wrapped so tightly around his torso. "Leggo!"

"Oi carn't! Moi diggen claw be a-snaggled behoind ee back!"

"What?!" Pirkko began wriggling and struggling against the clinching embrace, to no avail. All he succeeded in doing was to gyrate the two of them haltingly across the stage in fits and starts, hopelessly locked together.

A particularly energetic burst on Pirkko's part drove Gubkin sharply backward, throwing him off balance. "Whoa, oi be's a-fallen ... !" And then he was flat on his back against the boards with his unwitting shrew captive lying atop him.

Pirkko decided this would be a fine time to return to the script. "You may've caused me grievous wounds, cat, but while we were fightin', my friends flooded your castle, an' now ye're gonna drown along with Kotir!"

Gubkin could think of nothing else to do except follow Pirkko's lead. "O noes, oi doan't loike ee water, oi'm gurtly afeared off ee wet! 'elp, 'elp, oi be's a-drownden! Glub glub glub! Oi'm drownderd!"

And then the two of them just lay there, still entangled.

"Hadn't somebeast ought to go pry them apart?" Arlyn murmured, as Geoff's face once again found its way into his paws.

Padgett seemed to read Arlyn's thoughts, gingerly tip-pawing over to the two intertwined players and stooping to unlace Gubkin's claws from behind Pirkko's back. Succeeding in this endeavor, he straightened and addressed the audience to salvage the situation as best he could.

"Queen Tsarmeenie be's a-dead an' drowndered ... but not really, bain't nobeast h'actshully doied oop 'ere. An' brave Marthen ee Wurrier be's gurtly an' turribly woundered ... but, ur, not really, cuz ee all be play actin', serpintly."

Metellus took it upon himself to reappear through the curtains, back in costume as Bella. Striding over to where Pirkko and Gubkin lay, the mole trying to lie as still as he could to portray a dead cat, Metellus scooped up the shrew and stood stoically cradling him in his arms.

"Kotir has fallen, Tsarmina is dead, and her forces are vanquished and scattered. Mossflower is free! Now Abbess Germaine and I will tend our brave champion Martin back to health, and then together we will all build the Abbey of Redwall to stand as a home and sanctuary for goodbeasts evermore!"

Metellus bore Pirkko through the backdrop, and Padgett followed, leaving Gubkin lying alone upon the stage. Harpreet, Skytop and Brybag puffed themselves up to deliver the epilogue, even if they hadn't quite gotten to the end of the act as it had been written.

"Thus. Did. Brave. Martin. The. Warrior. Save. Mossflower. From. Tyranny. (tyrannytyrannytyranny!) And. Clear. The. Way. For. Redwall. To. Be. Built. Our. Next. Act. Tells. The. Tale. Of. Matthias. And. Cluny! But. First. Wormfood!"

Upon hearing this official declaration of the end of the act, Gubkin finally sat up and climbed to his footpaws to leave the stage. Many in the audience followed his example, standing and stretching and making their way to the side tables to sample Friar Hugh's first course. Arlyn too rose, but instead of joining the exodus for food and drink, made for the backstage area. "I'd best go see how I can assist Metellus with his young patients," he said to Geoff. "I'll join you at the buffet shortly."

"I might as well go with you," Geoff said forlornly, falling into step alongside his mentor. "After everything I just saw, I don't think I'm going to have much of an appetite anytime soon."