6
In the light of mid-morning, as no beast gets up early the day after a Redwall Feast, Redwallers woke in their beds and leapt out in their bedclothes, slippers, and hurriedly put-on habits. They ignored their uncombed fur, and peered out their windows, ran out the doors, and climbed onto the walltop to see off those visitors of the woodland. The lawn, sprinkled with morning dew, flattened under their paws as they made their way across to the gate.
Saying goodbye, however, proved harder than one would think. Politeness is an odd, unassuming thing that spirals in the worst moments. John Churchmouse, by far the proudest mouse in Mossflower as his father had been and without a doubt his son would be too, stood in the arch of the great wooden gate of Redwall Abbey.
"I can't leave you all yet! You all have fed my family twice now and gave shelter, and I haven't given you a crumb back!" He stated his feet planted firm like he was wielding a shield.
Sister Hamish, an older mouse, nettled with him. Otters, too, stood by her, to close the gate that one mouse could barely hope to close alone. She tapped the younger mouse on the muzzle. "And no crumb is needed! Your company during a dark storm is more than enough, John."
"I would be more than happy to help clean up the lawns, or scrub pots in return, mam." He advanced, an attempt to get past the older woman, but was quickly caught by the scruff.
"John, you've got your own home to clean up, just as we have ours."
"A task I'm more than happy to assist with, Sister!"
Her patience wanned thin, "I'm afraid I'd be happier with you going home, now goodbye John!" The younger mouse was pushed out into the path with a squeak.
THUD!
The gate was shut, and the latch pulled by the sister. There is a limit to anybeast's hospitality, much less their ability to withstand a proud creature. From behind a layer of wood, John Churchmouse replied. "If you really do feel that way, Sister Hamish, I suppose I must go!"
Castor and his molecrews were fast at work gathering the general mess that had found its way on the abbey lawn. They had gathered everything into a pile of sticks, leaves, branches, and whatever else to be burnt, composted, and reused. Castor was the currently acting foremole, perhaps forebeaver, the leader of all the working moles of Redwall Abbey. The last one, Old Rockhammer, had passed on the past season, old age thankfully, and had yet to be replaced by a suitable mole. They wore shorter habits, a dark green to work in and not stain easy.
A tree had fallen against the east wall, a large oak that had planted itself next to the pond. Abbess Burrprick stood at the mouth of the hole left behind by the roots. Her face was solemn, maybe stark. She gazed at the remains of a long-gone creature, a former inhabitant of the Abbey. She moved her paw in the air over the remains, the moles large digging claws clicking against one another. The abbess held the floor even in the wet lawn.
"May ye' foind another shode in the dark forrest, choild" She declared shakily, and it hung in the air for a moment.
"Oo arr, marm'" said one.
"Bless 'im" moaned the other with a hung head. With the prayer spoken, two moles pushed dirt into the hole and the ground was whole again.
The Abbess put a hand on one of their heads, allowing it to lift. "Thankee two, Friar Magnoler has ee' loight brekkist prepared for you'm workerbees. Goo yonder to ee' orchard."
"Thankee Abbess Moler!" Both moles nodded graciously before waddling off. Burrprick padded down the dirt of the makeshift grave. She hadn't had to bury a redwaller yet.
Castor was already halfway through the oak's middle. His teeth tore through bark and wood flesh at a speed only known to a beaver. Such a creature is useful to have when you need woodwork or wood worked. Moles stood near, ready to carry away their halves when the beast broke through.
The wood would be used for the chilly autumn nights ahead, when the wind howls through the branches like the cold breath of winter's younger brother.
Over the course of the morning, the molecrews would deal with two more fallen trees on the abbey lawn before they ventured outside the walls onto the path, after a light breakfast. It was muddy from the rain, the dusty dirt turning into a shallow sludge. Griff blinked in the daylight, her tiny eyes barely present in her dark fur. The moles nose searched through the air.
"Ee seasion fiinally choinged, smellin' loike autumn now." Moles are wise creatures, to be sure.
"Oi can't smellin' a thing, pollen still 'ere uppen oi noser, burr. Someone needs tah' tell ee villyun first!" replied Marmalade.
At that moment, a pack of those youngest redwallers were being led by Brother Apple and Friar Magnolia in gathering the young fruit that had fallen off the branches in the orchard. The friar was also keeping an eye on the provisions they had laid out for those working creatures, lest any babe get sticky hands. Once the young creatures had tasted the sour, bitterness of the fruit, no snacking was done to either end.
Apple had seated himself on an upturned bucket, the hedgehogs chin cradled in his hands. He sighed, watching little dibbuns picking up fruit with both paws. "This season has been so quiet and peaceful, hasn't it Magnolia? That storm's been the only thing of note to be honest."
The shrew looked at him, "Do you want something more to happen, Apple? This is the Redwall life."
"Of course, I don't!" Apple assured, "It just makes me anxious that something will. I do hope I'm not catching my brothers fear." He held a paw to his forehead, checking for a fever. He did the same to a little molebabe who wandered up and wanted the same.
"Nonsense!" Magnolia said, "You're melancholic at the season ending. It's the same feeling as the sun setting, or when your dibbuns grow up and don't need you helping them put their habit on anymore."
The hedgehog held the molebabe in his lap now, his paw cradling her chin now. "Oh come now, I'm not that emotional. Your mind wanders in these peaceful times, to old stories and superstitions." He said this, as if he did not cry when a babe graduated to a full member of Redwall.
"I suppose it does, when you're not rounding up babes" The shrew took a bit of a sour, green apple. It was like poison for dibbuns, but for the chef it was palette cleansing.
Apple took the unripe pear the molebabe had, her grip loosening as she fell asleep under the warm sun. It was a harsh green, hard to the touch like a rock and twice as unappetizing. The other dibbuns began to idle, choosing to play with the unripe fruit. "Whatever do you plan to do with all this unripe fruit Magnolia? We're nearing three baskets of the stuff!"
"Jam, or fillin', of course. Nothin' a touch of honey and some warmin' can't make sweeter if you want." Magnolia said, his mood light. "It may seem untru', but tart, young fruit makes for the best filling'for a turnover. I don't like my deserts too sweet, much less my main courses."
The fruit would be stewed, put in jars, and kept for winter when the crop grew thin. The shrew flung their apple core, seeing how far it went before it soared over the abbey wall.
"Thistle!" They called across the orchard, cool with the shadows of the canopy. "Take this basket in the kitchen, Happa will know what to do with it."
Thistle gazed up into the roofs of the Abbey, blinking in the sunlight. His whickers twitched with the morning breeze and the curiosity of a young mouse with sharp eyes. There was something on the roof, and it was tumbling to the ground!