The dusty path outside Redwall Abbey had been churned into mud by constant rain. Gloomy puddles and stretches of water lay in the depressions of the road. Matthias pulled his hood up over his ears and signalled to the party waiting at the threshold of the main gate in the watery dawn light.

“We march north!”

Overhead, the Sparra patrols took off into the driving rain. Matthias, Jess Squirrel and Mrs. Churchmouse headed the march. Mr. Churchmouse was still too unsteady on his paws to be in the vanguard with the others who had lost young ones to the fox.

Basil Stag Hare joined them, still nibbling breakfast from a haversack tied about his narrow chest.

“Reminds me of the great rains ten seasons ago, or was it eleven? Filthy stuff, rain. Isn’t much fun to drink, either. Sooner have October ale any day.”

Matthias could not resist a smile, despite the seriousness of the mission. “Stop chunnering, you great old feedbag, and get tracking for signs.”

“What, er, righto sir. No sooner a word than a sniff, quick’s the word, sharp’s the action, eyes front and all that.”

Progress was painfully slow. The ditch to the west and the flatland one side of the path had to be searched, the path itself and the woodland fringe on the opposite side were carefully scrutinized. Whether it was the continuous rain or the oppressive sky Matthias could not tell, but an air of hopelessness seemed to pervade the search.

*   *   *

At midmorning they left the path to shelter beneath some trees on the woodland side, squatting to share bread and cheese, passing a canteen of blackberry cordial from one to another. The atmosphere was decidedly suppressed as they crouched gazing out at the western plain, the horizon lost in a veil of rainwater, listening to the ceaseless pitter patter of raindrops on woodland leaves. Each creature had his or her own feelings of sorrow, grief, loss, regret, or just puzzlement as to why this sudden misfortune had been visited upon their peaceful Redwall home.

As always, Basil was first to shake things up. The gangling hare bobbed back upon the rainy road once more.

“Wallopin’ weasels,” he called. “What’s all this? Layin’ about under the trees like a load of saturated stoats, fillin’ your faces like a pile of moonstruck moles, squattin’ there with your great jaws flappin’ like frogs at a flychasin’. Come on, let’s be havin’ you! Form up here, chins in, chests out, shoulders straight, paws at the correct angle to the fur of the hindlegs. Last one in line’s on a fizzer. Jump to attention like this!”

Basil leapt high into the air, landing squarely on splayed hindpaws. No sooner had he hit the path with a squelch than he shot into the air again with his face squinched tight in pain.

“Yowchaballyhoop!”

Quickly Matthias was at his side. “Basil, what is it, are you hurt?”