Doomwyte

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?”

Samolus pressed the tabletop hard, trying to shake it. “Almost, Father. I’ve put new pegs between the joints and spruced it up with my little block plane. Nice wood, a good piece of elm.” He smoothed the top with his paw. “See the grain, it’ll look twice as pretty after a fair rubbing with beeswax, ’twill be good as new!”

The Abbot was about to take a closer look at the elm topgrain when Brother Torilis entered, beckoning curtly at the pair who were following. “Step lively, you two, come on. Stand up straight in front of Father Abbot, shoulders back, chins up!”

Glisam raised an eyebrow at the Brother. “You told me there was only onebeast on report.”

Torilis glared at the young squirrel, Dwink. “This one chose to pick an argument with me. He became insolent, so I put him on report, too.”

Bisky blurted out, shaking his head vigorously, “It had nothin’ t’do with Dwink, I started it, Father!”

Dwink pointed a paw at himself, raising his voice. “Don’t listen to him, Father, I whacked him with a pillow, that’s wot started it all. I just got fed up of hearing Bisky tellin’ fibby stories!”

Torilis stamped a sandalled footpaw on the floor. “Silence, you’ll speak only when you’re spoken to!”