Old stories told by travelers, Great songs that bards have sung, Of Mossflower summers, faded, gone, When Redwall’s stones were young. Great Hall fires on winter nights, The legends, who remembers, Battles, banquets, comrades, quests, Recalled midst glowing embers. Draw close now, little woodlander, Take this to sleep with you, My tale of dusty far-off times, When warrior hearts were true. Then store it in your memory, And be the sage who says To young ones in the years to come: “Ah yes, those were the days.”
The Maid from the Sea
Abbot Bernard folded his paws deep into the wide sleeves of his garb.
From a viewpoint on the threshold of Redwall Abbey’s west ramparts he watched the hot midsummer day drawing to a glorious close. Late evening light mellowed the red sandstone Abbey walls, turning them to dusty scarlet; across the flatlands, cloud layers striped the horizon in long billows of purple, amber, rose and cerise. Bernard turned to his friend Simeon, the blind herbalist.
“The sun is sinking, like the tip of a sugar plum dipping into honey. A perfect summer evening, eh, Simeon?”
The two mice stood silent awhile before Simeon turned his sightless face toward the Abbot.
“Father Abbot, how is it that you see so much yet feel so little? Do you not know there is a mighty storm coming tonight?”
