Rakkety Tam by Brian Jacques Page A

whirling around in a clockwise circle. The Dibbuns circled in the opposite direction, their little faces concentrating seriously as they tapped the floor skilfully between the elders’ footpaws.
    The sound of tap tap tap, rap rap rap resounded as the pace sped up. Gruff whoops and infant giggles rang out, the sticks missing footpaws by a hairsbreadth. Clapping in time to the dance, a group of fine bass and baritone moles began singing.
    Â 
    â€œOi pray ee zurr doant ’it moi paw,
    furr if’n ee do, et will be sore.
    Thump ee stick down on ee floor,
    an’ us’n’s will be ’arpy.
    Rumpitty tum ho rumpitty tum,
    moles bee’s ’aven so much fun.
    No likkle ’un will strike ’is mum,
    â€™cos they’m luvs ’em so gurtly!”
    Â 
    Twice more they danced, each time tapping and rapping more rapidly until the sticks and paws moved in a blur. The entire ensemble took a bow to hearty applause. Then there were calls for a time-honoured request. “Foremole, do the poem with Abbot Humble. Do the poem!”
    Humble and Bruffy, both modest creatures, were coaxed out onto the floor, shaking their heads and protesting.
    â€œOh no, please, surely you don’t want to hear that old thing, do you?”
    â€œBurr, oi doant thinks as ’ow oi can amember ee wurds!”
    In the end, however, they had to concede to the roars of encouragement. Foremole stood up on a stool, striking a noble pose. Humble circled him slowly and began reciting.
    Â 
    â€œHere am I, the Abbot of all Redwall,
    I rule my Abbey with voice and paw.
    And who are you, sir, standing there?
    Pray tell me now, for I’m not sure!”
    Â 
    Foremole spread his paws wide and shouted, “Oi’m a mole!”
    Everybeast chorused, “He’s a mole!”
    The Abbot looked surprised, then continued.
    Â 
    â€œI have a Friar who’s an excellent cook,
    â€™tis said he wrote a recipe book,
    and two stout mice, our bells to toll,
    and you, forsooth, what is your role?”
    Â 
    Foremole looked at the audience as he repeated, “Oi’m a mole!”
    The onlookers shouted even louder, “He’s a mole!”
    Humble shook his head, as if he had not heard.
    Â 
    â€œI have a Keeper who guards our gate,
    and another who tends our bees,
    and a healer to care for any who ail,
    but you’re not one of these!”
    Â 
    Foremole merely pointed to himself as the crowd howled, “He’s a mole!”
    The Abbot scratched his headspikes and looked bemused.
    Â 
    â€œWe’ve a Cellarhog who brews our drink,
    and a Recorder with both quill and ink,
    and guards who pace our Abbey wall,
    so what do you do, tell me all?”
    Â 
    Foremole smiled at his audience, who rose to their paws with a deafening roar. “He’s a mole!”
    Before the Abbot could reply, Foremole Bruffy held up his paw commandingly. Silence, apart from stifled giggles, fell. He came down off the stool and faced Humble boldly.
    Â 
    â€œYou’m got summ faithful creatures, zurr,
    but none as true h’as oi.
    â€™Twas moles built cellars under yurr,
    an’ if’n ee arsks these uthers whoi,
    they’m’ll tell ee gurtly wot’s moi role. . . .”
    Â 
    The Redwallers, who had been waiting for this final line with unconcealed glee, stood and bellowed en masse, “ ’Cos there’s nobeast can dig a hole like a mole!”
    Humble and Foremole bowed and sat down to wild applause. Smiling and shaking paws, they refused pleas for an encore.
    Â 
    Outside, the spring night was tranquil, with scarcely a breeze to ruffle the leaves. Twinkling pinpoints of stars dusted dark velvet skies. In solitary splendour, an apricot-hued crescent moon hung over Redwall Abbey, castinggentle shadows on the ancient stone. From the woven tapestry, the figure of Martin the Warrior stood gazing out between flickering sconces, watching over his citadel of