The pitpat of small paws and the skritskrat of tiny digging claws progressed clearly along the walltop, interspersed with scuffling, pauses, and then soft pats, after which the pitpatting resumed. Rhythmic it all was, measured and determined, the light thunk at the end of each cycle growing slightly louder each time. Grumby the infant molemaid did not seem to care in the slightest how precariously she swayed as she scooted along the ramparts and battlements of Redwall Abbey. The grainy weathered sandstone of the North, East, and South Walls and the clean, hard, new edges of the Western face did not wear at her footpaws enough to deter her from her mission.
Grumby's tiny silhouette flitted across the Abbey's open ground as well, not noticeable as more than the mere play of sunbeams off the lush leaves of Mossflower's early autumn to most. Such a slight disturbance of shadows, however, was the figurative warning light to one old veteran guard. Roused from repose in the Orchard, Badgermum Ustela lunged to her paws, lumbering full force up to the battlements and intercepting Grumby midleap.
What are you doing? she confronted in her most reprimanding tone. Dibbuns should know they're not to be on the walltop!
Tapping her digging claws, little Grumby tugged her snout politely, small dark eyes pleading for forgiveness. Excusee marm, burr oi. Oi carn't be a floyin' anywhurr else, ee see. Nowhurr but ee walltop be hoigh enough.
Even Ustela had to admit surprise at this explanation, all while still cupping a restraining paw around the infant. Moles don't fly. Especially not baby moles.
But Oi bain't a moler, no marm. Oi be a gurt burdbag, and Oi wants to swim in ee claouds an bring sum back daown. Grumby attempted another leap unsuccessfully, then gazed into the setting sun.
Ustela waggled her paw in Grumby's face. No, you're a mole for certain. There's only great trouble to be had when a land creature takes it into his mind to fly. Wings only go well on those who are born with them.
Grumby folded her little arms indignantly. Oi bain't be causin' no trouble. What koind of trouble be ee in floyin'?
The badger stood, beginning to tote the tiny mole back downwards. For a start, you could easily fall. She paused briefly, inhaling deeply before going on. And do you know why the West Wall has sharper edges, why it's a different color red than the rest of the Abbey?
Oi allus thought that ee settin' sun' rays painted ee wall broighter red than ee rest.
Ustela smiled sadly at this imaginative reason, shaking her great head. No, it's a different color because it's far newer than any other stones here, and it's newer because some undeserving beast branded himself with wings and carried them here?
Grumby, again on firm ground, scratched her velvety forehead with a digging claw. What do you'm mean, marm Ustela?
Eyes momentarily clouding with past fear and fanaticism, the Badger Mother of Redwall gently nudged Grumby forward. Go and gather the other Dibbuns, the younger Abbeybeasts, Brothers and Sisters here. Any creature less than twenty seasons, if you know. You could all stand to hear this tale.