Rakkety Tam by Brian Jacques

wanten to see oi, Jem?”
    Wiping away mirthful tears, the hedgehog managed to control himself. “Aye, Walt. My cousin the Abbot wants to know if you’n I would like to ’elp him an’ Gordale to solve that puzzle Askor gave us. But not tonight, we’ll do it tomorrow.”
    Walt nodded vigourously. “Boi ’okey us’n’s will, Jem. We’m allus been fond o’ rigglers an puzzlers!”
    Satisfied that his friend was willing to lend assistance, Jem withdrew from the cellars, leaving the molecrew to their yarn telling. As he went out the door, he heard Walt setting up more gales of merriment with his contribution.
    â€œYurr, you’m knows moi mate, Ole Jem. Well, ee’m got a cuzzen who’m bee’s his Father, hurr hurr hurr!”
    Giggling and chuckling, Jem made his way to the roomthat he and Walt had been allotted for their stay at the Abbey. The travelling hedgehog, fond of any sort of party, was eagerly looking forward to the evening’s event. Jem sorted through his belongings to choose something appropriate for the festivities. After the long time he’d spent wandering with only Walt for company, this celebration with so many of his Redwaller friends was very welcome.
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    That evening, Burlop Cellarhog and Sister Armel stood guarding the door to Cavern Hole. It was to remain closed until Foremole Bruffy gave the word. A line formed along the corridor and down the stairs. Redwallers accompanying Dibbuns, all dressed in their festive best, waited, though not too patiently. There were cheers as Abbot Humble came down the stairs with his cousin Jem. Humble was garbed in a pale-green habit girdled with a thick, cream-hued cord. Jem had on a red tunic and a short cape of blue, silky fabric. Everybeast shuffled sideways to make way for them. Humble solemnly tapped three times upon the door.
    Foremole’s voice sounded from within. “Who’m bee’s a-knocken’ on this yurr door—be ee a moler?”
    The Abbot answered as custom required. “No mole am I, but a Redwaller true, Father of this Abbey. I am come here with my friends, good creatures all. We are here to honour our trusty moles!”
    Opening the door wide, Foremole Bruffy stood on the threshold. He had on a flowing cloak of rich brown velvet and a crown fashioned from buttercups, daisies and pale blue milkwort. In his right paw he bore a wand of willow branch with fuzzy catkins growing from it. Smiling from ear to ear, the mole chieftain intoned a traditional poem.
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    â€œYurr bee’s moi ’eart, an’ yurr bee’s moi paw.
    Wellcum, an’ henter ee thru this door.
    Friends of’n ee bee’s friends o’ moine,
    us’ll all ’ave ee gurt ole toime!”
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    The Redwallers flooded into Cavern Hole, which was lit by coloured lanterns and decorated with spring flowers and streamers of coloured ferns. Moss-padded wall ledges provided seating all around. Three long tables were placed in an open square to leave room for the performers.
    A barrel of last summer’s strawberry fizz was on tap, along with October Ale, pale cider and rosehip cordial. The food was mainly good solid mole fare—deeper’n’ever turnip’n’tater’n’beetroot pie, leek and celery soup, spring salads and several enormous cheese-crusted loaves stuffed with chopped hazelnuts and mushrooms. For dessert there were inevitable mounds of hunnymoles, bowls of candied chestnuts and a huge, dark fruitcake decorated with preserved plums and damsons.
    No sooner was the supper served than the entertainment commenced. To the music of flutes, tiny drums and a peculiar instrument called a molecordion, the small band struck up a paw-tapping family quadrille. Two rings were formed—the outer one by molemums and grandmums, the inner one by Dibbuns holding sticks. The elders began sticking out first their right, then their left footpaws, whooping and