2

Across Mossflower country, in the lower northern region of the wood, the sounds of thunder were dull hums from within a small holt neatly dug into the side of the riverbank. The reeds that framed the shore bent against the wind, victims of the storm showing its rage at the season ending.

A low fire crackled in the center of the room, innocent to the storm outside. It was usually reserved for cooking and light, but now it was being used to dry pieces of wet clothing.

In truth it was a simple, but mighty comforting, dwelling. Being carved out of the riverbank, it was one wide room. Wide wood planks were placed onto portions of dirt to serve as a suitable floor, woven otter rugs sitting on top of them. The ceiling was a collection of intertwined tree roots, tactfully placed stones, cautiously installed supports, and packed dirt.

Shelves were dug into the dirt and lined with baked mud tile, bottles of either medicine or drink and the keepsakes of past summers laying upon them. This holt was once home to whole collections of otter families and tribes, but now it was home to only one.


Roottail Dawntide, a large otter by anybeast's opinion, stared into the fire, a paled jerkin wrapped around his ample frame. His brow was furrowed and cast downward, a pipe nestled between his lips and resting on his pawtips. With a satisfying crackle, the fire began to glow brighter as wood was tossed into it. Two shadows were cast on the wall, one for Roottail and one for his brother. The large river otter grumbled politely, not shifting his gaze from the fire.

Skipper Barklen Dawntide settled on the other side with his paws on his crossed knees, the way the Skippers would during an important gathering. The otter had a naturally stern face, with neatly trimmed whiskers enveloping the entire lower half of his face. A square eyepatch fit snuggly over his right eye, leftover from the wild days of youth. He allowed the fire to warm him and dry his damp fur.

"Just me' luck to be caught up in a storm when we're returnin' from the shore, isn't it matey?" He chuckled heartily, despite worry pricking his thoughts like briar.

"Oh aye." Roottail replied flatly, not bothering to return the warm grin of his brother. He took a puff from the pipe he held. "You've always had the clouds chasin' ya' matey." Earthy smoke rolled from the otter's nostrils. The older otter had always found himself in many a rocky water. It was part of why the older otter had become Skipper, always so resilient, unlike his brother.

"I hooked a lively one then, judging from how wet this old coat is!" The otter breathed deeply, his strong shoulders dipping. "I pity any beast stuck in that roight now!"

Roottail looked at him through half-lidded eyes, "You were one of those beasts just a breeze ago, rudderhead." Barklen was still wet, despite how quickly otter fur dried. The beast dripped the stuff like a cracked bucket.

"So I was! Yah' missed a legend-worthy Hullabaloo, the north clans came down and shared their ales. That lot makes some drinks that really kick yah'!" He shook his fur emphasizing this, water droplets spraying everywhere. "Wooogh! Makes me warmer just thinkin' of em!"

Roottail sighed, letting out a stream of smoke, remembering the past summer. The Hullaballo, an otter tradition where numerous otter tribes gather and celebrate, share tales, and reunite with friends. It only happened every few summers. His face slumped with grimace; the otter's summer was spent idling. It was a fair summer, but nothing compared to the Hullaballo.

"You should have come with us, Roottail. Everybeast asked about yah'. The Riverdog clan was hoping to see if ye' had grown any bigger!" Barklen plead more than he spoke. The Dawntide clan was not the same without its mountain of an otter. "I ask ye',brudder, won't you join the ottercrew again, this season? Ye' can't keep idling, wasting away with worry and tears!"

He motioned to the snoring form enveloped in his shadow, their mother, a wisened and greying otter wrapped tightly in blankets. She had fallen asleep as soon as the rain started, as she always did.

"The whole crew and us can all watch over mum together! I know they'd readily ignore her snorin' if they even got a whiff of her soup!"

Roottail huffed, ignoring his older brother's attempt to humor him, the otter's voice was deep like the River Moss.

"I can't. I trust the crew to watch mum. But what if she returns, and I'm not here? I want to welcome her back, in her home."

Skipper stomped his paw. "Yah' ain't abandoning it Roottail! S-She will go to ol' Redwall if ye' not 'ere, you're only hurtin' yourself! You can't expect me to let you stay in here? I know you feel bad, but it's doin' nothing but bubblin' sitting 'ere!"

Roottail knew that his brother was worried over him, he had made that evident enough. He would likely continue pursuing the matter until something changed. He was brooding on this thought, watching the flames dancing. It had felt like seasons, weighed with grief.

Grief does that to a beast.

Roottail was always so trusting, especially in his brother who had always carried the weight of responsibility on his back. Yet he could wait, and wait, without yearning for another thing to do, as long as he hoped she would return.

"I will think on it brother." He said simply, still stubborn. Roottail's face softened, "I'll think on what yah said."

Barklen stared down at his brother, looking into the otter's dark, tired eyes. The firelight shone off them, the vigor of life still warm behind despite the cloak of sadness that shrouded them. The Skipper would drink ale that night to warm his own.

"That's all I want, yah' overgrown babe!" He pointed with his rough hand to the holt's entrance, "If there wasn't this storm goin' outside, I was plannin' to drag you outta of here by ya' rudder! I would of taken ye' big self-down to that abbey and have them stuff ya' full of trifle till ye' grinned, matey!"

Roottail breathed in the pipe, letting out a slow column. He lazily grinned at his brother after a short cough. "Like ye' can even lift my rudder. You lot heading down to Holt Riverford then? If you're wantin' to be around Redwall."

"Aye. The one a ways behind that old church, I think it's called like… Saint Noneyahs?" Barklen let his brothers jest roll off his slick back.

"Saint Ninians."

"Aye, that's the one! I worry about them folk, always opening their gates for any old beast. They've been soft'd by the summer heat! What if they let some vermin in and that nice, old abbey is ransacked? I couldn't forgive me'self! After they always treat me and the ottercrew so nicely."

"I wouldn't worry. No beast has had the thought to harm for those lot for ages, no creature would dare harm a mouse that wears their green 'abit. Myself has not been there in a good season or two. It makes me' heart heavy, the last time I was behind the front gate was with…"

Roottail found himself leading off. Sadness has a way to sneak in when it is least wanted, like a thief in a stronghold. He dabbed at his eyes with a little dandelion-yellow handkerchief procured from his jerkin.

"Ah, let me put some vittles on the fire, matey. It's rude if I let ye' go all night without eatin'. This storm makes it impossible for ye' to go off."

"Aye, mate. Take ye' time, I'm in no rush." His brother barked, an order rather than a simple suggestion. He blinked as a drop of water fell from the ceiling onto his head, having managed through the layers of dirt and root.


The dusty pink of Redwall Abbey's outer walls became a muddy orange underneath the pouring storm that crowded the sky. Not a creature dared to be up on the wall or amongst the lawns, a combination of storm and night made them uninviting to all. It's just not comfortable to be both in the dark and soaking wet, your fur soaking wet without an idea where to go! The sound of the old bell rang through the yard between the quakes of thunder that lit up the bottoms of the clouds, beckoning any nearby creature shelter from the wet fit.

The soft murmur of rain on the abbey's walls made for a nice lullaby for some creatures. The dibbuns, the old, and those naturally inclined to be calm and wistful. However, for others it made them restless and eager to occupy themselves with other things. The Great Hall echoed with the sounds of late-night activity from the Cavern Hole. The jolly guffaws of older creatures drinking, paws on the cool sandstone floors of the Abbey, and the crackle of the fireplace; despite the warm, while wet, summer night outside, the interior of Redwall was a tad chill.

The Great Hall was dark, the only natural light the placid, muddled blue of the evening outside as it beamed in from the narrow stained-glass windows high in the wall. The large door made of oak that led to the front lawn was latched tight, offering no wind or stray debris entrance. It rattled as the gale pushed against it, like an eager audience for the legendary hospitality of Redwall Abbey.

Despite the uproarious noise that was occurring outside, the shrill rapping of a small paw on the abbey door still echoed through the hall. Joel Spurrspike's ear perked up as he was walking through. The wide hedgehog had just come up from the cellars, he was the Cellarhog after all, his apron snugly fit around his dark green habit of the elders of Redwall. He had just checked up on his various barrels, bubbling with new wines, cordials, and ales made from last season's produce.

He turned on his heel, waddling towards the door with a grin. As soon at the hedgehogs paw undid the latch, the door flew open as a gust of hit it, blowing in the soaking figure of a young dripping wet mouse in the light green of a novice. The satisfying sound of the Great Hall door slamming shut followed, Joel leaned against it huffing out a ragged breath. The latch was quickly, well, latched again.

The hedgehog eyed it suspiciously, "'Oh by my spines, I'll have to make sure to check this door tomorrow, this storm very well might blow it down before the nights over with!" He looked over at the soaked mouse, their hood still up, "It's quite old wood you know, been here since the Abbey was founded. I'd hate to see it splinter or break."

Thistle pulled his hood down, his velvety ears popping up as water dripped from his whiskers. A curious look hung on the young fieldmouse's face, "Is that true, Brother Joel?" He was always interested in Abbey history, the only class he paid full attention to in abbey school.

The hedgehog scoffed, "Of course it's true! I've been around the barrels enough that I know my wood." His paw rapped the door quickly, sending another echo across the empty Great Hall. His chubby face grinned as he realized what he done. "You done ringing that bell, Thistle?"

The mouse had become distracted by the echo and the colors being shone onto the sandstone floor, his paws cleaning off his whiskers. Certainly, Thistle believed Joel, the Cellarhog was a wise creature if not a bit too jovial.

"Yes, Brother Joel. Though I doubt any beast is going to brave the storm to come here, if they hadn't already." Many a creature had already found a snug bed waiting for them when they arrived earlier this evening, families of mice, shrews, some rabbits, and countless others that Thistle had not seen personally.

Joel winked at the lad, walking past him deeper into the hall. "Better to be sure than to be wonder though. Come on, let's get you out of that wet habit before you drip all over the abbey!"

Thistle followed him without a thought, the wet slap of his sandals upon the stone making a steady rhythm behind the hedgehog. Slap,Slip,Slap,Slip The mouse looked at the stained glass windows as the pair walked, looking at the mice, squirrels, hares, and other creatures that have been important to Redwall Abbey. Thistle knew a fair amount of them, though some still alluded his mind.

"Has Abbess Burrprick gone to bed already?"

The hedgehog guffawed. his laughter bouncing off the walls of the Great Hall, "Of course lad, you know her. She's the type to go to bed early, but the first one to rise!" He shook his spikes, "Couldn't be me in any season, I prefer a nice long nap!"

"I think everybeast does, Brother Joel" Thistle replied simply. The mouse could not deny his agreement. "My tails twisted in worry thinking about ol' Pumpkin in that gatehouse during this."

Joel put his paw on the young creature's back reassuringly, "Bless ye heart, don't worry your little head about Brother Pumpkin, that gatehouse won't be coming down until the wall does. I assure you, he's in that gatehouse just snoozin' away."

Thistle was not worried about the gatehouse collapsing, more so the fact that the old recorder was alone in that little dwelling of his, a whole lawn away from the main abbey. The older hedgehog put a paw between the creature's ears, disturbing the slick, icy fur.

"Upstairs with ye'. Best worry for yourself catching a cold before you worry about a shrew with several seasons behind 'im."

The young fieldmouse followed up the stairs, his sandals squishing with every step upward. The cool moonlight of the Great Hall remained silent, only the echoes of the Cavern Hole to occupy it. Just beyond the staircase, deeper into the ends of the Great hall, was the tapestry of Martin of Warrior. The pale blue light shone on the aged cloth, highlighting the sword of Martin and the victorious pose the warrior mouse struck. The age of warriors was the past for Redwall Abbey.


Friar Magnolia poked their head under another table, their large, floppy hat sagging onto the table's edge. It was the hat of the Abbey's main cook, a worn old thing that was apt for replacement. The shrew was in their night shirt, creating an amusing image between the faded hat and the fresh cleaned smock. Their nose wiggled angerly, annoyed at the situation they found themselves in. The shrew had looked in every cabinet, pantry, and container in the kitchen, on top of every surface, and underneath them too! They stamped their paw against the cool sandstone floor.

"I can't find my knives anywhere! I'm tellin' you Castor, someone's taken my best knives! Not to mention my favorite ones." The shrew huffed.

The shrew usually was not prone to frustration (at least that's what they told themselves), however messing with a shrew's kitchen is just downright disrespectful!

Castor chittered, bemused. "Now now, don't jump to saying someone stole them. One of younger creatures might have just borrowed them."

The shrew's eyes grew large as saucers. "Now that's even worse! Takin' my best kitchen knives and dulling the blade just to fool around! You wouldn't believe how long it takes to get the blades sharp as I like 'em!"

"Of course I do! I'm the one who has to do it for yah!" Thump! The beaver smacked his flat tail against the ground, a cloud of forgotten flour rising from the old stone. It was barley flour from the mill mice who lived off the River Moss, Magnolia had grown fond to it in place of the sunflower seed flour the abbeydwellers ground. It was much more suited for thicker breads made for broth sponging.

Magnolia wagged a paw at Castor, "Don't go actin' like you get nothing from me for doing it! I used my best blueberries from the summer harvest on your tarts!" The beaver was brushing flour off his large, flat tail returning it to the stone from whence it came and will stay. That is, until some beast finally took a broom to the old floor.

"Well, well, If I find your knives, I better get a full pie to myself!" The beaver smirked at the mere thought before Magnolia's hat hit him square in the snout.

The shrew was frustrated enough to throw their hat at the creature twice their height! "That's only if you manage to find them and stop thinking about your stomach!" Magnolia let out a long yawn, "Oh bother, forgive me my friend, I'm a bit worked up. Perhaps it'd be better if I just go to bed and look in the mornin'."

Castor nodded as he picked the drooping hat off his muzzle and hung it on a hook. "Nothin' like a good nap to get your spirit up." The beaver put his paw on the shrew's back, leading him out of the kitchen. "Perhaps you'll be more agreeable towards my pie suggestion in the mornin' light!" He said.

"When your tail's as round as an otter's rudder I will."

"Oh come now! You make all kinds of things for Burrprick without her even asking ye'!" The beaver whined.

"She's the abbess! I'm supposed to let her wilt away without 4 meals a day?" Magnolia pointed their paw at their large, brown furred friend. "And ye' best start saying Abbess Burrprick!"

Castor chittered again, pulling the small shrew close to him. The beaver knew this was just the weariness talking, or at least that is what he told himself. The shrew had been working in the kitchen's all day, the typical business of Redwall's kitchens with the addition of all the residents of Mossflower Country visiting would wear out anybeast! Dinner has concluded barely a few hours ago. He rubbed the back of Magnolia's back with his paw. Magnolia slumped back into it, oh my, they were more tired than they realized!

"Now, now, little shrew, don't be so tight-tailed! You said it yourself, it is time for bed for you. Let's find a spot in the Cavern Hole, where you can watch the kitchen still."

Magnolia nodded along to his large companion's words. They were wise ones as the night deepened. The kitchens of Redwall Abbey was connected to the Cavern Hole through two well-aged doors. The Cavern Hole then connected to the Great Hall with a set of several stairs, each marked by a single, large carved in letter that spelt REDWALL from the bottom up. The Cavern Hole, by far the largest single area inside the Abbey, was packed tightly this evening. The fires burned low and warm, throwing dim light on the already paled walls.

Dozens of young and middle-seasoned creatures huddled together in various groups, all around the large room. They were drinking, idling, and snoozing. Summer nights were still comfortably warm, enough paired with the low fire that many did not feel the need for blankets even on the cool stone of the Cavern Hole. Snoring bounced off the whiskers of the slumbering creatures and onto the walls.

The only ones still up being the few who preferred the stillness of night, could not sleep from worry, or simply were enjoying the company of other creatures. It was not every day the whole of Mossflower were gathered in Redwall. They would sleep late the next morning, not that would bother any of the Redwallers. Not when they do it too!

Stray eyes watched as the pair meandered from the kitchens, with curiosity rather than malice or fear. Such things were not done in Redwall Abbey. Castor laid himself down not minding resting against the stone. The beaver was about the size of a full-grown badger, though the flat tail on his backside helped a fair bit. This made Magnolia seem even smaller than the shrew usually looked, only coming up to Castor's lower waist.

Even though the night was still young, the sound of the muffled rain outside, the background of gentle beasts snoring, the low murmur of chatter, and the sharp crackle of low fire making the Cavern Hole dim and pleasant all made the beavers eyelids flutter. It was a mystery how anybeast could stay awake in such a place, to Castor. Perhaps mingling with the countryfolk could wait for the morning.

Yes, absolutely for the morning.


Joel had thrown Thistle's sopping wet habit in with the ones to be washed, typically the ones the dibbuns wore that were stained with berries, dirt, and had holes to be repaired. Tomorrow they would all be hung out on the laundry poles, left to drip onto the grass until they were dried by the breeze.

The spare habits of Redwall were kept in the same room that was used to wash in, frequented by the dirty dibbuns. There were two round wooden tubs, a cabinet that housed everything a beast would need or want for a nice soak, and two windows that let the sunlight in quite nicely around morning and midday. In the eastern window, there was a little pulley contraption with rope rung around it, attached to a bucket that dipped into the Abbey pond when lowered.

Castor and Joel had made it, after Brother Apple and Sister Hamish had complained about dragging buckets of water up the stairs from the well in the cellars every time they needed to wash the dibbuns. Castor quickly did it after he got tired of bringing buckets up. Right now, the window was closed tight, the rope bundled up resting inside the wooden bucket.

Thistle pulled the light green habit over his ears, draping the garment over himself. This was rather easy, as the habit hung off the mouse's small frame. It only barely stopped short of his heels. He looked at the hedgehog confused.

"If you can walk in it, it'll be fine for tonight. It would be no good having you trip over yourself when ye' wake up!" Joel chuckled, the candle he held wavering as he moved. The mouse took an experimental step away from the candle, his footpaw pressing against cool stone. He had always felt nervous around open flame, an instinctual reaction.

"We'll just have to leave your sandals up here until the morning, they'll be dry then."

Thistle nodded at this, never one to question. "Thank ye', Brother. I am grateful to be out of that wet habit, felt it was suffocating me it was so heavy with water!" He pulled a towel over his head, his ears flattened as he tried to dry his fur.

Joel grinned at the young abbeydweller, "It's no trouble. Ye' can repay me by helping me find my hammer tomorrow, I've gone and misplaced it somewhere!" The hedgehog scratched his chin with a paw, "One minute, it was sittin' next to me on the lawns while I fixed the gatehouse door and then it must have walked off. I do have more, but they're not my favorite, hard as they try."

The mouse's face peeked from the confines of the fluffy material, "Maybe somebeast thought it was misplaced? Or one of the dibbuns found it and lost it outside while playing with it, could that be it Joel?"

The Cellarhog did not look convinced, grimacing "Agh, maybe but I've got a bad feeling in my spines. Though it might just be me, worried my hammers going to be covered in two layers of rust before we find it!"

Thistle draped his damp towel over the edge of the empty tub, a bar of rosemary soap still hiding in the bottom. He was curious to ask the hedgehog if these tubs were as old as the Abbey's front door but kept it for another time. "We'll look for it tomorrow while everybeast is checking on the orchard and things."

"Ooh, Magnolia will be roight ticked if the trees have been messed with." Joel shook his head, imagining the little shrew red furred. Shrews were so easily angered. He walked to the open doorway, still shaking his spiky head. "Come on, I was going to the Cavern Hole before you distracted me! I wanted to make sure all the older creatures found their ways upstairs. Us young folk might have no problem sleeping on the ground, but some of the older forestdwellers have a bit more…issue. That's the right word."

Thistle stared at the broken moonlight that managed to find its way between the window cracks and onto the washroom floor. The rain, the clouds, the wind all managed to show themselves in that thin beam. He followed quickly after the hedgehog's wavering flame, holding up the folds of his habit to avoid tripping over himself. The snores and squeaks of sleeping beasts occupied the second floor of Redwall Abbey, the long shadows of a hedgehog and a mouse creeping along the walls.