A harsh voice hissed, “Hakkah, the Doomwytes have got you now, rat!” His head was banged against the tree trunk again. Gridj fell into the dark pit of senselessness, all hopes of visiting the seashore gone forever.
2
Brother Torilis rapped briefly on the Abbot’s chamber door before entering. He bore a steaming beaker to the bedside. “Good morning, Father Abbot, did you sleep well?”
The Abbot of Redwall, a fat, old, hairy-tailed dormouse named Glisam, sat up slowly, removing his tasselled nightcap. Sighing, he gazed out into the grey dawn. “Not much change in the weather, Brother.”
Torilis placed the beaker on the table, close to paw. “That wind has died down. ’Tis not a cold day, but still raining, I’m afraid, Father.”
Abbot Glisam got creakily out of bed, lowering himself gingerly into his favourite armchair. “Rain and the rheumatiz go together, y’know. My poor old joints are creaking like a rusty gate.”
The Herbalist moved the beaker closer to Glisam. “That’s why I brought you musselshell and agrimony broth. You’ll feel better once you’ve taken it.”
Glisam used his nightgown sleeves to protect his paws against the hot beaker. He pulled a wry face as he took a perfunctory sip.
“Sometimes I think I’d be better off just putting up with the rheumatiz. This stuff tastes foul, absolutely horrid!”
Brother Torilis ignored his Abbot’s protest. “You must drink it up, every drop. Sea otters brought those musselshells all the way from the north beach rocks, and I scoured the ditchsides to get that agrimony. The broth is a sovereign remedy for rheumatism in older creatures. Drink!”
The fat, old dormouse kept sipping under the pitiless eye of the stern squirrel. When the last drop was drained, Glisam tossed the beaker down on the table. “Yakkkblech! Rotten broth, it’ll kill me before it cures me, mark my words, Brother!”
The Abbey’s head cook, Friar Skurpul, came bustling in, a jolly mole in his prime season. “Burrhoo, zurr h’Abbot, Oi bringed ee a candy chesknutter, hurr, ’twill taken ee narsty taste away!”
Glisam gratefully accepted the candied chestnut. Cramming it in his mouth, he munched away at the sweet tidbit. “Mmm mmm, thankee, friend!”
The good Friar helped his Abbot get dressed. “Yurr naow, this un’s a noice clean habit. Oi warmed it on ee kitching oven furr ee, zurr.”
Glisam nestled into the clean, warm garment. “Ooh, that’s comfy, better than all those stinky concoctions for rheumatiz. I feel better already!”
Brother Torilis merely sniffed. “That will be my broth working. Shall we go down to breakfast, Father? You have to hear young Bisky, I put him on report last night.”
Leaning on Torilis and the Friar, Abbot Glisam went haltingly downstairs, speaking his thoughts aloud, mainly to Skurpul. “Dearie me, what’s poor young Bisky been up to now? I do so hate to sit in judgement, dishing out penalties and punishments, especially to young uns.”
Torilis kept his eyes straight ahead, declaring firmly, “Well, that is one of the duties of a Father Abbot. Things can’t always be candied chestnuts and warm robes, can they?”
Glisam patted the Brother’s paw. “You’re right, Torilis, thank you for reminding me of my responsibilities. You know, sometimes I wonder about being Father Abbot of Redwall Abbey. Mayhaps I might have been better suited as a cook, a gardener or even a Gatekeeper.”
Friar Skurpul chuckled. “Nay, zurr, you’m bees a h’Abbot, an’ gurtly beluvved boi all, hurr aye!”
No matter what the occasion, Glisam seldom lacked an appetite. He shuffled eagerly to his seat at top table. Redwall’s Great Hall was packed with mice, squirrels, hedgehogs, moles, otters and sundry other woodlanders. Everybeast rose as the Abbot came to table and recited morning grace.
“Throughout each passing season,
in fair or stormy weather,
we live, work, eat and rest,
in Redwall here together.
Attend ye to this day’s first meal,
in friendship, truth and peace,
enjoy the fruits of honest toil,
and may good fortune never cease.”
There was a clatter of benches as the Redwallers seated themselves. Helpers were busy lighting extra lanterns to brighten the hall; outside it was still raining and overcast. Between the tall fluted sandstone columns, long stained-glass windows echoed to the continued patter of raindrops. Water running down the panes of many-coloured rock crystal glass created a liquid pattern of various hues, casting a soft rainbow effect upon the worn stone floor. The Abbot gazed at it, letting his thoughts wander. It was many seasons since he had been appointed to his exalted position, but he was still a humble beast, the first dormouse ever to reign as Father of the legendary Abbey. A squirrelmaid server broke into his reverie.
“Mornin’, Father, will ye be takin’ some oatmeal?”
Glisam nodded. “Half a bowl please, Perrit.”
She measured it from a steaming cauldron on her trolley. “Honey, too, Father?”
Glisam smiled at her, she was extremely pretty and neat. “Oh, yes please, and some nutflakes if you’d be so good, Perrit. Hmm, and mayhaps a few slivers of fruit.”
Deftly, she dribbled clear golden honey on the oatmeal, adding flakes of almond, chestnut and hazelnut, topping the bowl off with some crystallised slices of apple, pear and autumn berries.
The Abbot dug his spoon in, stirring it all up. “Thank you, that’s just the way I like it!”
Duty servers went back and forth between the diners, distributing the delicious fare for which the ancient Abbey was so renowned. Bread in different shaped rolls, farls and loaves, hot and crusty from the ovens, honey or preserves to spread upon it. Oatmeal, scones and savoury pasties were passed to and fro amidst the beakers of fruit juice and hot herbal teas.
Sitting on the Abbot’s right, Rorgus, the Skipper of Otters, used his keen-edged dagger to peel a russet apple in one winding, unbroken ribbon. He murmured to Glisam, directing his gaze to a solitary figure seated apart at the edge of the bottom table, “Torilis tells me that young Bisky’s got hisself in the soup agin, Father. On report, ain’t he?”
The Abbot accepted a slice of the russet apple from the otter’s bladetip, and nibbled on it. “Aye, I’m afraid he is, Skip. Why can’t that young scamp behave himself?”
Friar Skurpul’s older brother, Foremole Gullub Gurrpaw, seated on the Abbot’s left, emitted a deep bass guffaw. “Ahurrhurrhurr! A ’coz ee’m young, zurr, they’m young uns allus a-gittin’ in trubble, ’tis gudd fun. Wot bees the point o’ bein’ a young un if’n ee carn’t git into trubble, I arsk ee!”
Abbot Glisam poured himself some hot mint tea. “Well, let’s hope the trouble Bisky got into isn’t too bad. Then I won’t have to come down on him with a heavy paw.”
After breakfast, Abbot Glisam went down to Cavern Hole. It was not as huge as Great Hall, but still quite a comfortable, roomy chamber, frequently used by Redwallers. At present, Samolus Fixa was the only beast there, busy renovating a well-worn table. Samolus could repair anything, hence the tag, Fixa, which he had earned in bygone seasons. He was a mouse of indeterminate age, old, but very spry, and always active, with a sharp, intelligent mind.
Abbot Glisam sat in a corner niche, which had a cushioned ledge. When the weather outdoors was not good, he could often be found there, usually enjoying a post-breakfast nap. He spoke to Samolus. “Giving that table the tidy-up treatment, eh, Fixa?”
The old mouse put aside his mallet and pegs. “Aye, Father, this is still a fine bit o’ furniture, almost as old as you or I.”
Glisam smiled. “I didn’t think anything was that old, friend, even a table. Still, you’re making a fine job of it—is it almost finished?”