Doomwyte

39

A noontide nap can be a tranquil pleasure. Nothing to do, nowhere special to go, happily captured in the enchantment of a high summer day. The old mouse allowed his paw to drift in the idle flow of the water meadow. Lounging comfortably on a pallet of moss and dried ferns, he had released his hold on the tiller, allowing the raft to wend its own way through the proliferation of water lilies, bulrush reeds, sundew, gipsywort and comfrey which carpeted the cool, dim water meadow.

Closing his eyes, the ancient one took in the sounds. Snatches of songs and conversation from his companions, mingling with the squeals and chuckles of Dibbuns playing in the shallows. The buzz and hum of bees in the background, an occasional plop from a leaping trout. Distant birdsong, reed warblers, dippers, chiffchaffs and migrant firecrest, competing with their own careless raptures. Old Samolus moved his eyelids lightly, trying not to twitch his nose as a beautifully patterned marsh fritillary butterfly landed on it.

Perrit whispered to her mate, Dwink, “I think that butterfly might wake old Samolus.”

The insect flew off as the ancient mouse spoke. “Old Samolus is awake, thank ye, marm, wonderin’ when afternoon tea will be ready.”

Skipper Rorgus yawned cavernously. His mate, Zaran, called to their little son, who was frisking in the water nearby, “Rorzan, go ashore and see if tea’s ready yet.”

The young one waved his chubby rudder. “Hurr, Oi’ll do thart doireckly, Mum!”

Bisky laughed at the otterbabe. “That’s a very good mole voice he’s learned!”

His daughter, Andio, replied, “Ho yuss, wee’m all atalken loike that, b’aint us, Mumm?”

Bisky’s mate, Spingo, answered their daughter in mole dialect. “You’m surrpinkly are, moi dearie!”

Perrit and Dwink’s little one, a tiny squirrelmaid they had named Mittee, was of a different mind. “Och, weel, Ah’m no’ goin’ tae speak like a mole, Ah want tae be a hare like Laird Bosie!”

Aluco, the tawny owl, twirled his head almost full circle, blinking in mock alarm. “As long as you don’t learn to eat like him!”

Friar Dubble called out from the bank, “Ahoy, raftbeasts, tea’s ready!”

Bosie joined him, shouting hopefully, “There’s no hurry, bonnybeasts, stay oot there if’n ye be enjoyin’ yersel’s.”

Skipper Rorgus grabbed a paddle, yelling a reply. “Ye great, famine-faced glutton, don’t touch a single crumb ’til we’re ashore, somebeast stop him!”

Umfry Spikkle, who in the last couple of seasons had attained his full growth, and was bigger even than his grandhog, Corksnout, assured Skipper from the bank, “Don’t worry, Skip. I’ll keep a h’eye on Mister Bosie. Shall h’I sit h’on ’im for ye?”

From beneath a sunshade of bushes, Brother Torilis wheeled Abbot Glisam out to join the diners. Fully renovated, and running smoothly, the old wheelchair was now the aged dormouse’s main means of getting about. Glisam often shed a tear for little Sister Ficaria, who had gone to sleep peacefully two winters back, never to wake again. The Father Abbot of Redwall would pat his chair fondly, saying, “My friend Ficaria wanted me to have this chair, as a reward for all those morning strolls. I think it was the damp grass which got to my old footpaws.”

It was a memorable afternoon tea. All the food, which had been transported from Redwall kitchens, was prepared to perfection by Friar Dubble. Soilclaw sat sipping a beaker of cider, made from last season’s good russet apples. He gestured up at the curving, wooded hill, which skirted the bank as he explained to the Dibbuns, “Oi a-members sayin’, jus’ arter ee caves bee’d curlapsed, that this’n yurr’d make a gudd watery medder. Hurr, Oi wurr roight.”

Zaran nodded. “Indeed you were, sir. Look at it now, what beast would think that we, and our young uns, could get so much pleasure from a place that was once an evil lair?”

The Abbot had become rather partial to seedcake; he selected a slice, but paused before tasting it. “You’re right, marm. I was just thinking, it’s nice when things change for the better, and certain things do have to change eventually.”

Corksnout had known Glisam for more seasons than he cared to remember. Adjusting his false snout, the old Cellarhog stared hard at his friend. “Yore about to say somethin’, ain’t ye, Father?”

Glisam placed the seedcake on his plate, returning Corksnout’s gaze. “Aye, and I hope you’ll all take it sensibly. Listen, friends, I’ve had a long and happy time, ruling our Abbey, but I think ’tis high time another took on the office. I’m heavy with seasons now, and my old bones are tired.”

He looked around at the anxious faces, then chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m going to be around for at least as long as Sister Ficaria was, so there’s still many more seasons left to me yet.”

Quite out of character with his stern demeanour, Brother Torilis clasped his Abbot’s paw—he was visibly moved. “Father, I will take care of you as I always have.”

Glisam patted the saturnine Herbalist’s cheek. “I know you will, my good friend. Perrit, would you come over here, please.”

The young squirrelwife hurried across. She crouched in front of the wheelchair. “Father?”

Glisam smiled fondly. “So pretty, so practical. I’ve watched you grow up, Perrit, always there, dutiful and kind. Now look at you, with a fine mate like Dwink, and a lovely little daughter. Now you must tell me, do you think that there is enough on your plate, or would you like to help me? Think, now, you do not have to answer right away.”

Perrit looked puzzled, but answered promptly, “I don’t have to think, Father, if it concerns you, or the Abbey, I would do anything cheerfully.”

Glisam cupped her face fondly in his old paws. “Would you like to become Mother Abbess of Redwall?”

Dwink rushed forward, hugging Perrit. “Of course she would, my Perrit’d be a great Abbess!”

Sister Violet was holding little Mittee. She scrambled from Violet’s lap, flinging herself upon her mother. “My mammee d’Abbiss. Yeeheeeee!”

Dwink swung his little daughter in the air, laughing. “Can’t argue with that, can ye? Hahahaha!”

Bosie was heard to murmur to Foremole Gurrpaw, “Och, it grieves me sad tae say, but that’s two guid positions Ah’ve lost now, Friar an’ Abbot!”

The mole muttered back consolingly, “Burr, but you’m b’aint losted yore h’appetite, zurr!”

The Laird of Bowlaynee sniffed into his lace kerchief. “Thank ye, sir, Ah’ve always had a braw appetite, that’s why mah grandfather banished me from Bowlaynee Castle.”

Perrit stayed crouching by Glisam’s chair, feeling bound to ask the question, “Are you sure this is what you want, Father?”

He replied without hesitation, “I’m certain! Oh, and from now on you can forget my titles, I’m just plain old Glisam, to you and all your Abbeybeasts.”

The pretty squirrelwife pondered his words. “All my Abbeybeasts? That’s a great responsibility. But what will you do now, Father…er, Glisam?”

Again, there was no hesitation with the answer. “I’m going to be the Abbey teacher, it’s always been a dream of mine, to educate our young ones. Aye, and some of the not so young. Umfry Spikkle!”

The big hedgehog saluted. “Ye called me, sir?”

The old dormouse took Umfry’s paw firmly. “Your education commences when we return to the Abbey. I’ll instruct you in reading and writing. Is that clear?”

Umfry nodded dutifully. “H’aye, sir, when’ll that be?”

Glisam shrugged. “’Tis not my decision anymore, ask your new Abbess, she’ll tell you.”

Umfry turned to Perrit. “Mother h’Abbess!”

She felt like giggling as he made his request. Umfry was three seasons older than Perrit, yet he was calling her Mother. Perrit composed herself, speaking calmly. “Hmm, we’ve been here three days now, what d’you think?”

Feeling much like a counsellor, Dwink scratched his bushy tail thoughtfully. “Oh, another two days would be good.”

Little Mittee tugged at her mother’s pinafore. “Free days, us stays annuver free days, Muvver!”

Unable to resist, Perrit hugged her baby. “Three days it is then, miss. Any more questions, is everybeast happy with our decision?”

Dubble left off brewing fresh mint tea. “Mother Abbess. Log a Log Garul and his Guosim left three seasons ago. But Garul promised to visit Redwall five seasons hence. That means he will be coming to our Abbey this coming winter. Abbot Glisam said they could, will you still honour the arrangement?”

Perrit was very fond of the young Friar; she took his paws affectionately. “But of course, it goes without saying, Friar Dubble. Anybeast, no matter who, providing they are good at heart, is welcome to visit the Abbey. They may stay as long as they please. Our gates are open to all who come in peace, anytime. It has always been the custom at Redwall, and I fully intend to honour it!”

Glisam settled back in the wheelchair and closed his eyes. Dozing off in the warm noontide sun, a feeling of peaceful contentment fell over the old dormouse. He had chosen well. His beloved Abbey was in good and wise paws.