I had a twinge in my left footpaw a moment back—I hope that’s a sign of rain. We could certainly do with a good shower. Everything seems to be drooping or wilting. Badgermum Cregga says ’tis the dryest summer she’s ever known, and she’s seen more summers than the rest of us put together! Redwallers have had to form a chain from the Abbey pond to the orchard, bringing pails of water for the thirsty trees and vines that produce our fruits and berries. A pity we haven’t more able-bodied creatures—Redwall Abbey seems to be populated by the elders or the very young these last few seasons. I can remember in the times when Abbess Tansy ruled, there seemed to be no end of willing otters, moles, mice, squirrels and hedgehogs to perform the daily chores of Redwall. But that was a long time back, when I served as an assistant cook in the kitchens under Old Mother Buscol. Who would have thought the days would arrive when I would be called old? Yes, Old Friar Butty, that’s me, too old to cook and far too rheumaticky to serve as Abbot, even though there was a time when everybeast seemed to keep asking me to take up the position. ’Tis a sad reflection, Redwall Abbey without Abbot or Abbess, but that’s the way things are this season. Poor old Arven, who was once Abbey Warrior, served as Abbot for three seasons, after Abbess Tansy had gone to her rest. Unfortunately he passed on to the sunlit pastures during the spring, having survived a rough winter. So now there is only myself and Badgermum Cregga, with the good mouse Sister Sloey running the Infirmary, Tragglo Spearback our hedgehog Cellarkeeper, Diggum and Gurrbowl, his mole helpers, and Gubbio, who is now Foremole. All that is left of our old friends. The sword of Martin, our Founder and first Abbey Warrior, hangs on the wall in Cregga’s room. His brave guiding spirit is blended into the ancient red sandstone of our beautiful Abbey. Seasons have been kind and peace has reigned here many, many summers. I think it is thanks to the spirit of Martin. Oh, I forgot one other still here from the old days. In fact I can see him now, from the gatehouse window where I am sitting, Nutwing the owl. He was one of three born here at Redwall. His brother and sister have long flown off, but Nutwing has stayed and remained faithful to the Abbey. He is, how shall I put it, an unwise old owl, having great lapses of memory in his latter seasons. You will pardon me, I’m sure, but I feel I’m about to be lured away from my recording duties. I just hope ’tis nothing too strenuous.