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fuzzhugs · 4 years

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Perennial - A Redwall Short Story

One week after the Battle of Kotir

Few mice in Mossflower could be said to be busier than Columbine. After the fight which had finally rid the woodlanders of the oppressive claw of Tsarmina Greeneyes, there were plenty of wounded that needed tending to. Most of those who had been superficial injured were healing well, but there were plenty of creatures with deeper injuries that needed dressings changed every so often, and with everybeast spread throughout the forest cleaning up after the long and difficult struggle, it was a challenge to see to every creature’s needs. Add to that the task of keeping Gonff from making off everything that wasn’t nailed down, and Columbine was more or less constantly occupied.

There was one patient who needed the most attention, but he never strayed from where he rested. Martin, the hero of Mossflower, the stranger who had wandered in from the north one cold night in the winter, had been grievously injured. He had fought Tsarmina alone, and though she now lay vanquished at the bottom of the newly created lake, the battle had taken its toll on Martin. He had been found close to death on the lake’s bloodstained shore, and it had taken all of the combined skills of both Abbess Germaine and Columbine to keep him among the living. He had yet to awaken, and there was no more that could be done for him. The battle was now his alone.

Columbine stepped through the well-concealed doorway into Brockhall, returning after a long morning tracking down those who needed to have their dressings changed. It was now Martin’s turn. The wounds on his back were deep, and they needed daily cleaning and re-bandaging in order to prevent infection.

As she descended underground beneath the arching roots of the homey tree, Columbine heard a soft humming coming from the room where Martin slept.

“Strange,” she thought to herself. Everybeast cared about Martin, of course, but everyone was busy out in Mossflower. The only other creatures inside were Bella, Goody Stickle, and Abbess Germaine, all of whom Columbine had seen on the upper levels.

Quietly, Columbine kept along and peeked inside the door. There was a female mouse sitting beside Martin on his bed, gently rubbing his shoulder as she hummed. Columbine did not recognize her, but there were a number of woodlanders who had returned to western Mossflower after the word of the fall of the Greeneyes dynasty, so Columbine was meeting many new creatures in recent days.

“Hello?” Columbine said, stepping into the room with her medical bag hanging from her shoulder.

The mouse turned to face her properly. Columbine immediately saw that she was very pretty. “Hello,” she said in return. “You’re Columbine, yes? You’ve been taking care of Martin?”

Columbine nodded. “Abbess Germaine as well. It’s difficult for us to see him like this. We feed him broth treat his wounds, but there isn’t much else we can do. At this point, it’s up to fate whether he lives.”

The mouse looked down at Martin’s injured back. “He’s never been one to give much deference to fate.”

Columbine’s ears perked up. “Have you known him for a while? Did you know him before he came here?”

“I ran into him in the north. He changed my life, as I suppose he’s changed all of yours. When I heard he was injured, I had to come and see him, to see if there was anything I could do to help him.”

“I’m afraid this isn’t much anybeast can do at this point but wait, but if you’d like to help me clean his wounds, you may.”

Columbine dug through her bag and pulled out fresh dressing. She dug around a bit more before sighing. “I’ve left my healing salve behind. I’ll have to go grab some more. We should have some in the supply cupboard upstairs.”

The healer mouse stood and left the room, nearly running into Abbess Germaine.

“Excuse me, Abbess,” Columbine apologized. “I just need to get more salve.”

“Of course. I made a fresh jar the other day, so there should be plenty. Keeping Martin company, are you? It’s nice of you to talk to him.”

“Oh! I wasn’t talking to Martin. He had a visitor come to see him.” Columbine stepped back to let the Abbess into the room. “Abbess, this is-” Columbine’s voice cut off as she realized that she had never asked the other mouse her name and that the room was now empty, save for Martin.

“But…she was just,” Columbine sputtered. There was only one way into the room, there wasn’t anything in the room that could hide a full-grown creature, and the hallway was too narrow for anybeast to pass through unnoticed. So where was she?

“Dear, are you feeling okay?” Abbess Germaine asked, gently taking Colubmine’s arm. “You’ve been working very hard these past few days. Perhaps you should rest for a while.”

“I’m fine, Abbess,” Columbine insisted. “There was just…I need to finish tending to Martin.”

After she retrieved the salve, Columbine returned to Martin’s side. She started by pealing back the old bandages, putting them in a basin to be cleaned later. She dabbed a rag with medicinal spirit to begin cleaning, but paused when she caught a good look of the wounds on Martin’s back.

“This is…” she said aloud to the empty room, “this is impossible.”

The wounds, which were only a few days old and had been open the previous day now appeared to have undergone weeks of healing. Most of the wounds were nearly closed and a few were lightly scarred over.

Still puzzling over the nearly miraculous healing, Columbine cleaned out the few wounds that were still open and covered them with fresh bandages. Taking a moment, she adjusted Martin on the bed and pulled the blankets up so he would stay warm.

As she turned to go, Columbine noticed a flower sitting in a vase on the nightstand. “The other mouse must have brought it with her,” she thought, though she felt that the choice of flower was strange. It was awfully early in the year for roses.

#redwall #redwall fanfiction #columbine #martin the warrior #mossflower

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mathmusicred · 4 years

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Recovery Part 1 of 2

I wrote my first proper Redwall fanfic this week. Let me know what you think! (also this is not beta read, so if you have any feedback, please let me know!)

~2k words

Inspired by this fic by scrivenerofmossflower

AO3 link

Martin did his best to pay attention as Gonff chattered enthusiastically at his bedside. He still had a host of wounds that were fresh and painful, sucking his energy faster than a hare running late for dinner, and it wasn’t unusual for the pain to flare unexpectedly either. When Gonff made him laugh, Martin was soon weeping from the pain—who knew it took so many muscles to laugh? He was propped up on his side since his back was a horrific mess, and that was where the pain was now.

“Ah, ‘m sorry about that, matey,” Gonff apologized, his chubby little face drawn in concern. “Tsarmina really did a number on you, didn’t she?”

Martin grunted in acknowledgement and closed his eyes. “Keep talking, Gonff,” he whispered, moving his face as little as possible to avoid aggravating the scabbed gashes there. “Helps keep my mind off it.”

Gonff’s ears twitched in agitation. “Are y’sure, mate? Germaine and Columbine said to give you a draught of this ‘ere concoction if you’re in pain,” he said, reaching for a bottle of dark green sludge.

With great effort, his back screaming from even the brief movement, Martin reached out and grasped Gonff’s paw. “Please, matey. Tell me about Goody’s pies.”

There was a beat of clear hesitation, in which there was some silent communication—Martin did not like the mind-numbing medicine, even if it did relieve his pain, and Gonff would humor him, for now.

So Gonff spoke of the wide variety of pies he had tasted (and stolen), both from Goody and from other creatures. While he debated upon his list of favorites, he watched Martin bite back groans as the pain came and went like the ebbing of the tide. During a particularly bad spike, Gonff paused his rambling and reached for the bottle.

Again, Martin snatched his paw and shook his head. “The cleanup—!” he gasped in a tight voice, then took a deep breath as the pain seemed to die back down. “Tell me about the cleanup after Kotir was flooded.”

Keeping hold of Martin’s paw, Gonff set it back on his friend’s chest, and Martin flinched and grit his teeth at the motion. Gonff shook his head. “You are in pain, Martin. It’s time for your meds.”

For a moment, Martin glared at Gonff with a fierce light in his eyes, his grip on the mousethief’s paw turning into a vice, but when Gonff gasped at the unexpected crushing of his paw, Martin released him and visibly wilted.

“’m sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean t’ hurt you, Gonff.”

Gonff just shook his paw out and chuckled. “I think I’m used to it by now, you warrior. Even when you’re laid flat, you still don’ know your own strength.” He measured out a portion of the medicine into a beaker the way Columbine had showed him and helped Martin take the draught, laughing at the way Martin’s face screwed up. “Here mate, take a candied chestnut—a little sweetness will clear up the taste.”

Martin munched on the gifted nut gratefully. He noticed Gonff pop a few nuts himself and smiled wryly at him. Gonff caught his eye and winked. “Better you than me, matey. Just the smell o’ that stuff is enough to give me nightmares!”

The medicine was fast-acting, and Martin could feel his pain ebbing further and further away by the second. He sighed unconsciously in relief. If Gonff noticed, he didn’t mention it, just hummed a little tune to himself and tapped his paw rhythmically on the table by Martin’s bed.

“I’d still like to hear how the cleanup went,” Martin said. “How were the vermin dealt with?”

Gonff was sure he had told Martin the full story of the fall of Kotir already, but Martin’s memory had been . . . spotty, of late. “Oh, them? We fished ‘em out of the lake and gave ‘em a dressing down, y’might say. Everybeast was given a pack of food and sent on their merry way,” Gonff said. “Those hares of ours ‘ave set up a patrol to watch out for ‘em, but we’ve not seen a single whisker of ‘em since.”

Martin nodded slowly. “Good. No . . . no pointless bloodshed . . . that’s good . . . .” he murmured, eyelids drooping.

Gonff began singing a gentle little ditty, which transitioned smoothly into a lullaby. Had Martin been stronger, he would have rolled his eyes and stayed awake out of pure stubbornness, but as it was, he slid easily into a deep sleep.

Gonff stayed at his side, deep in thought. Sleep did not come to the little mousethief as easily as it once had. He struggled with nightmares about swans, waterfalls, and fighting searats on a dark, sandy beach. He and Dinny talked about it sometimes, but Dinny’s own nightmares had faded within a few weeks. Gonff’s hadn’t.

Despite the violence of the battles, the grim horror of rescuing a slave ship, and the various other perils he had faced, Gonff’s most recurring nightmares centered on his friend Martin. Of Gonff watching him get cut down in battle on that moonless seashore. Of Gonff finding him too late by the lake. Or sometimes, of Martin bearing down on him with his mighty sword and that terrible red sheen in his eyes. Just thinking about it sent a shudder through the mousethief.

Gonff shook his head and balled his paws into fists. Martin would never hurt him. Even when he was in agony himself just now, he had apologized immediately for simple squeezing Gonff’s paw too hard.

That fear was easy to chase away.

The fear of loss, less so.

Columbine came looking for her husband and found him half slouched onto Martin’s bed, one paw grasping his friend’s paw and the other cushioning his chubby little face, finally sleeping peacefully. Columbine smiled, kissed Gonff’s forehead, and quietly went about her work. She changed Martin’s bandages and put fresh herbs and poultices on his wounds with experienced care. It must have been several hours since Martin had taken his medicine, however, because he came awake with a moan halfway through her ministrations.

“Who . . . nngh,” he grunted, quickly giving up trying to twist around to see who was working on his back.

“It’s just me, Martin,” Columbine murmured soothingly. “Go back to sleep, if you can.”

Martin just shook his head, shoulders quivering under Columbine’s paws.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she sighed. She worked as quickly as she could, and Martin remained silent until she had finished and walked around the bed so he could see her.

His scabbed face was creased in pain and confusion. “Where am I?” he whispered.

Columbine blinked, but it wasn’t the first time Martin had forgotten. “You’re in Brockhall, Martin. Do you remember who I am?”

His bemused expression deepened. “. . . Gonff’s wife, you’re . . . C-Const—er, no, Corn, no, no Coll . . .” Martin paused and stretched out each syllable, as if he were twisting a stem out of an apple of his memory. “Cooolluuummbine, yes, Columbine!”

A bit of a rocky start, perhaps, but this was better than some of his previous episodes so far—once he’d even forgot Gonff, though it had proved to be a singular occurrence. This time, he even kept his voice lowered so he wouldn’t wake the poor mousethief, who was still holding onto his paw even as he slept.

“That’s right, Martin. Do you remember how you were injured?” Columbine asked.

After a brief pause, Martin wordlessly shook his head.

Columbine nodded, unsurprised. “You fought with Tsarmina the Wildcat. You won, but you have many terrible wounds from her claws, particularly on your back.”

Martin nodded. “Aye. That’s where it hurts the most.” He looked around, taking in the room as if for the first time, and visibly relaxed when he saw his sword propped up against the table beside his bed. Previous experience had taught the healers that he was much more cooperative during these bouts of amnesia if his weapon was within sight.

“Are you hungry, Martin?” Columbine asked, recalling his attention to herself.

He smiled sheepishly. “Famished.”

“I’ll bring you a tray from the kitchen,” Columbine said, heading out the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Martin watched her go and then laid there in contemplative silence. Vague memories swirled around in his mind, mostly of battles he had fought, and of Gonff and Columbine. There were other creatures, too, but he could only recall the names and faces that were connected to those two. Dinny was a mole who was also Gonff’s friend, and the three of them been on a long journey together. The Stickle hedgehogs, two parents and four children, were Gonff’s adopted family. Columbine had a mentor named Abbess Germaine, who was the primary healer that had saved Martin’s life. The identity of the other creatures in his mind eluded him.

Columbine returned shortly with a platter bearing a small loaf of hardy nutbread, vegetable soup, soft white cheese, elderberry cordial, and a thick slice of strawberry cream cake. Gonff’s nose twitched and his eyes flew open in an instant. “Phaw, somethin’ in ‘ere smells heavenly!”

Columbine and Martin laughed (Martin only briefly) and Columbine set the tray on the table. “Don’t worry, O husband of mine, there’s plenty enough here for the both of you.”

Gonff jumped to his feet and swept Columbine up in his arms, crying, “O, what a beautiful creature you are, me darling wife, to have remembered your poor husband and spared him a crust o’ bread from your kitchen!”

Giggling, Columbine pushed Gonff back towards Martin. “Oh hush, you great flatterer. I’m putting you in charge of making sure our great warrior eats his share. Think you can do it?”

“I doubt I’ll need help,” Martin said, already tearing into the bread loaf, but no one paid him any mind.

Gonff bowed elegantly. “For you, my dearest flower, I shall be most diligent. This warrior of ours shall eat til he bursts!”

With another laugh and shake of her head, Columbine stepped out of the room.

The moment she was gone, Gonff snatched the bread loaf from Martin’s paws and tore it in half. “Steady on there, Martin, you wouldn’t leave your old matey to starve to death would ye? Of course not! I knew you were a goodbeast, back from the first moment I clapped eyes on ye! Here, now, take your half. Have you ever tried dipping your bread in the soup? Makes ‘em both taste better, I promise. Here now, give it a go.”

They ate and joked and laughed, Gonff making ridiculous excuses to hold Martin’s plates and bowls for him. "Hold up, mate, this is a wooden bowl. Wouldn't want you t'get splinters in those great frogslapper paws of yores.” Martin reached for a spoon, but Gonff held it out of reach. "Nope, sorry mate, this is one of Goody's favorite spoons. Wouldn't want you to crush it. That would cause a terrible fuss—nothing but tears, tears, tears everywhere."

When every last speck and crumb was gone, they each sat back and nursed their beakers of cordial.

Martin rubbed his bulging stomach. “I haven’t felt this full in a while. I’ll have to thank Corn—er, C-Columbine when she gets back.”

Gonff gave Martin a knowing look. “Struggling with names today, matey?”

“Aye,” Martin sighed, looking down at his cup. Ripples from his shaking paw broke up the dark liquid’s surface. “I suppose I’m simply growing old before my time.”

“Nonsense,” Gonff said firmly. “Once you’re all healed up, you’ll be runnin’ around like a young ‘un again, no question.”

Martin sighed and drained the last of his cordial. “I hope so, Gonff. I really, really hope so.”

Gonff took Martin’s empty beaker and tapped him on the nose with it. “You will. So stop worrying about it and tell me how much you remember about our adventure to Salamandastron. Gotta make sure we keep the facts straight, after all. Who knows how many fibs Dinny would spin up if we aren’t keeping him in line with the facts!”

“If anyone’s telling fibs, it’ll be you,” Martin snorted. “Dinny is the noblest creature I have ever met. Keep that in mind when you’re tempted to lead me astray with your tall tales—I know I don’t remember much, but I do remember Dinny’s face when he found out you’d convinced me that we’d taught a flock of pink toadstools how to fly. He was so angry, he nearly turned pink himself.”

Gonff grinned blissfully. “Aye, that was a good day. You were as gullible as a newborn babe for a while there.”

They continued to joke and laugh, and eventually they walked through step by step of their entire history together. It was a familiar exercise by now, but a welcome one all the same.

#mathmusicred writes #fic #martin #gonff #columbine #heavily inspired by #scrivenerofmossflower #fear the reaper #which is a fantastic piece

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scrivenerofmossflower · 6 years

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Outline of eventual one-shot I suppose

I was talking to @wuddshipp on Discord and, well Savvy: How long do you think it took Martin to realize he wasn’t going to help the woodlanders and just leave again? Was he always looking for a home, do you think? Or was he really just going to pass through? And then help, but leave when he was no longer needed? When did that internal shift happened, tho, when he caught himself thinking about the next season, then the next summer, then realizing that he might actually grow old and gray here, with a family he stitched together on his own?

Savvy: I'm listening to Mossflower while knitting because I can't just knit and I'm just... it's really interesting how the assumption is just automatically "Oh, yeah, Martin lives here now"

Wudd: Uhh that's a really good question, damn

Savvy: And yet... he never seems to... say as such? And I just... the delicious pain of Martin still planning to move on while everyone around him is just assuming he won't--or even assuming he will and Martin is assuming he will, too, until suddenly he's helping to lay the foundations of the Abbey and everyone realizes 'oh, wait, you're... here, now, to stay." Like

Savvy: I don't know

Savvy: There's an assumption being made by everyone involved and I think it's interesting that it's being made at all, is the best way I can phrase it

Wudd: Its funny... I don't feel like he ever thought like that? I think he's just a born wanderer And in canon... (vague pet death incoming, sorry) okay so I had a dog when I was super young and my neighbor's german shepard dog a few years ago died of old age And when that came around they both ran away from home to go die somewhere... alone off in the countryside. My dog we never found. My neighbor's dog went down to the creek and he found her body there later.

Wudd: And I always kinda felt like that was Martin Where he was loyal to them and he loved them and he built a home for them and he would still walk away at the very end, back into the wild one more time because I think... Mossflower was his home more than Redwall Abbey itself was?? And that was kinda my rationale for why there's no mention of how he died or where he was buried or it wasn't written down

Savvy: That makes a lot of sense to me And the fact that Martin also continued to wander away from Redwall so frequently--forever loving the fact that it's established canon that Martin would just up and disappear and go questing with, apparently, little to no warning to anyone else... like depending on how old he was when he died, they may have thought that was what was going on and then slowly realized as he didn't come back that, no... no, not this time

Savvy: And the "disappearance" of the hero definitely pushes the story further and further into legend.

Savvy: I am absolutely 100% set on it being a peaceful death, though. Like. No, he didn't die in battle, I don't think he died of a sickness, it was peaceful, he knew it was coming, and he was more than ready for it. "He greeted Death like an old friend," to lift the words from JKR

Wudd: Ye. That's how I see it. And there's a quote that old dogs know when they're about to die and I think it was true for him too

Wudd: He walked off into the woods and found somewhere peaceful to rest in the sunshine- returned to nature. ;w;9

Exactly!

Savvy: Yes. Agreed. But just he is a wanderer at heart And I think everyone knows that, however long he's staying--that he's too restless, he'll be wandering off again. Eventually. But he's valued and welcome for as long as he does stay Savvy: And I just... I love the image of yeah, one summer, Martin grows restless enough--maybe the summer after Tsarmina is defeated--and just... leaves. Quietly packs a haversack, slings his sword across his back, and wanders away. And Bella knew he would, had seen him growing more restless, that light back in his eyes, and had kept quiet about it. And so did Germaine, who made sure to reassure him about how the building on the Abbey would go without him, that they'd be fine. And Gonff saw but refused to see, didn't want to think that Martin would actually leave them, not after how much work he'd put into the Abbey, not after he'd almost died, and most importantly wouldn't leave without telling him Savvy: But he does leave. He just walks away, and Gonff is furious at how easy it was for him Savvy: except then, of course, he comes back. A month or two later, with one or two healing cuts that probably won't scar, and a carefully preserved bundle of herbs and cuttings and seeds for Germaine, and greetings for Bella from old friends far afield, and one or two new recipes for Goody, and some new ideas about the Abbey, and carved toys for the Stickle babes and a pretty pawring for Columbine... And Gonff pulls him to one side later and gives him a tongue lashing and gets a promise out of him that, okay, next time you wander off like that--don't act innocent with me, we both know there's going to be a next time--next time, you tell me, first. Okay? Tell me. And if I can, I want to go with you. I need to know you'll come back. And Martin laughs, and says he won't promise to tell him--he might not have known he was planning to leave this time until that morning or the night before, after all-- but he does promise that if he ever leaves, truly, truly leaves--if he's not planning to come back, he WILL tell Gonff.

Savvy: And then, of course, when Martin leaves the Abbey seasons and seasons later, sword placed on the weather vane and dressed only in a habit and sandals, nothing taken with him because he knows, he Sees that this is his last journey... he goes to Gonff, and he tells him he won't be coming back.

Savvy: Whether that's to Gonff's gravestone, because the cheeky little thief went to pave the way for him this time, rather than following along beside him, or whether that's to Gonff's sickbed, because Gonff will be along shortly... Well. One of the two. They're both so old now it hardly matters, but He tells him. Because he promised.

At which point Wudd yelled at me and declared that the rest of the fandom must suffer, too. So. Here y’go. I’ll probably write it up into a proper one shot, eventually, but if anyone wants to do it first you’re more than welcome to.

#redwall #fic #sort of

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wuddshipp · 6 years

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Page 4 & 5 Comic based off Chapters 3 and 4 of Mossflower (from the Redwall series by Brian Jacques) Page 1 - Page 2 - Page 3

Ft. Gonff, Ben & Goodie Stickle, Tsarmina, and Martin.

Thus concludes the comic.

#redwall #martin the warrior #brian jacques #anthro #comic #mouse #mossflower

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sanctuaryforascrivener · 6 years

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Martin of Mossflower Chapter 1

Word Count: ~1.6k Read on ao3 Second in the series, Martin of Mossflower Fic Summary: The crumbling fortress of Kotir has been occupied for as long as Martin has been alive. With the decline of the wildcat warlord Verdauga, his hated daughter Tsarmina begins to seize power, driving the defeated woodlanders to once again pick up arms. At last given the chance to fight back, young Martin seizes it with both paws, throwing himself into the resistance and determined to make Mossflower free once more. But it will be a long and hard spring for the Corim, and a long and hard journey before Martin can grow into the legend and Warrior he is destined to become.

An AU exploration of the questions, "What if Luke's tribe had chosen to stay and fight back against Verdauga? What if Martin grew up in Mossflower?"

Prologue : : : Next Chapter

Thick grey clouds hung low in the sky, while snow drifts covered the ground. Between the two, the skeletal branches of Mossflower woods stretched high, trembling as the wind whistled through them. Bundled tightly against the biting cold, a small mouse made his way along the edge of the woodland. A huge, forbidding fortress loomed beside him, but the sturdy young mouse ignored it, sticking to the shadows as he circled the ruin and made his way slowly to the ravaged remains of the compound.

Very few lights shone in the few huts still standing. He paused at each of these, knocking softly and slipping inside, only to exit a few minutes later. At the last house, closest to Kotir, he put his back to the door, quick eyes scanning his surroundings as he tapped on the door.

A gruff voice hailed him from within—“Be off with you, and leave us alone! There’s not enough food in here to go around a decent hedgehog family—”

Impatiently, the mouse interrupted him. “Ben, it’s Martin!” Soldiers wouldn’t have bothered to knock quietly.

The door opened, and Ben Stickle herded Martin into the one-room hut. His wife Goody stood beside a low-burning fire, with their four little hedgehogs peeping out from between the folds of a blanket behind her. Ben barred the door carefully before returning to the fire. “Martin, it’s good to see you,” he said. Martin grinned, about to reply, but Goody pulled him closer and started patting furiously at the top of his head.

She lectured as she did so. “Martin, you young, reckless—what in the name of spikes are you doin’ back here? If those soldiers catchered you, I dread to think—you know they’re lookin’ for runaways!”

“I know, Goody,” Martin reassured her, though he allowed her to continue patting at him. “I was careful, don’t worry, please! But that’s why I’m here.” He rummaged under his dark cloak, and pulled out a thin scrap of bark. “You can’t stay here anymore, any of you,” he said, lowering his voice. “The last of the families are leaving tonight. All of them. I know traveling will be dangerous, but with the rest of us already in Mossflower, it’ll be more dangerous if you stay.”

Ben shook his head. “Martin, where can we go? Four little ones in the snow and ice? We’d all freeze by spring.”

Martin didn’t say a word, only handed the parchment to Ben. He studied it in the dim firelight, feeling hope build inside him. It was a roughly drawn map, with a route marked clearly into the woods. At the top was written the word CORIM.

“There are half a dozen safe houses scattered throughout the woodlands,” Martin said, barely whispering now. “They’re sturdier than this wreck, and stocked with enough food for a week. Bella’s opening Brockhall for us to use as a base—you wouldn’t be running blindly into the forest.”

Ben bit his lip as he stared at the map, before there was another scratch at the door. Martin and Ben were both on their feet immediately. “Who is it?” Ben called as Martin shifted around to the side of the door, out of immediate sight but tense in anticipation. “If it’s soldiers, I tell you now, it’s no use raiding our larders. You’ve done enough of that for a lifetime!”

“Ben, Ben, ‘tis oi, Urthclaw! Open up, burr. ‘Tis freezen out yurr!”

For the second time that night, Ben opened the door to an unexpected friendly face. Urthclaw shuffled quickly past him and went for the fire, rubbing his nose and warming his paws. “Vurmin patrols be out, burr, weasels an’ stoats an’ the loik. They’m a lukken fer more vittles.”

Goody and Ben both looked at Martin, who was gnawing on his lower lip as he thought. “They’ll be finding little but empty homes tonight,” he said quietly. “Yours was the last family I came to see. The patrol’s sure to be on the way here by now.”

Ben tossed the parchment scrap on the fire, and nodded towards the hole in the wall that served as a window. “Martin, go. Your mother’d never forgive us if you stayed and got caught.”

The young mouse hesitated, but at last gave in. “Thank you for the warning, Urthclaw,” he said, already hoisting himself through it. “I’ll keep out of sight until they’re gone, then help you get away.”

There was no time to say more. Bang, bang! The rickety door shuddered in its frame with the impact as Martin dropped out of sight. A nasally voice shouted, “Open up in there! This is an official Kotir patrol!”

Ben checked that all of their little ones were covered as Goody unlatched the door. The patrol packed themselves into the room, shouldering her out of the way. The two in charge—a ferret named Blacktooth and a stoat named Splitnose—stood with their backs to the fire. They clearly had no intention of leaving until they got what they’d come for. “Well then, dozy-spikes, where’re you hiding all the bread and cheese and October ale?” Blacktooth sneered.

The hedgehog bared his teeth at the ferret. It was only his wife’s restraining paw on his spikes that prevented him from doing more. As Ben watched Splitnose snatch the last of their food from the shelves, and Blacktooth decide to sentence his young ones to hard labor, he could feel his blood rising as it always had in reaction to the soldiers of Kotir. This time, though—this time, they had an out.

“That’s it,” he snapped as soon as the patrol was out the door. Ben grabbed one of the blankets and started tucking it around Spike. “We’re leaving. You’re right, we should have left ages ago with the others.”

“Good to hear it!” Martin said, sticking his head over the window before jumping at it to swing himself back in.

Ben leveled a disapproving look at him. “You were supposed to be gone, or did you forget you’re a fugitive?”

The young mouse shrugged, still perched on the windowsill. “I wasn’t about to leave,” he said. “Besides, Gonff would never forgive me if I did.”

“Burr, Marthen’s a gurt brave mouse, no’m mistake,” Urthclaw rumbled. “Oi’ll be withen ee too, Ben. We’ll get all o’ youns safe.”

“We’ll have to hurry,” Martin said, hopping down and helping Goody bundle up the little ones, then fetching her shawl for her. “If the patrol comes back, we’ll be in trouble.”

Ben shook his head. No doubt Martin had grown into a dependable, steadfast young creature. Even in his more headstrong moments, he was invariably thinking of others. “Right-o. Lead the way, Martin.”

The mouse shook his head as he peered through a crack in the door. “You lead, Ben, if you can remember the map. Urthclaw knows where the safehouse is, too, he can help if you forget. I’ll follow up, covering our trail and serving as rear guard.”

The little party headed out in single file. Goody herded all four little ones along, though this was made difficult by the fact that they all seemed to think this a great adventure, and would either dash ahead to chatter at their father (“Were you scared when you yelled at the ferret, papa?”) or back to ask questions of Martin (“Are the soldiers really looking for you?” “Are you a criminal?”). Martin shooed them off with the branch he was using to erase their pawprints. Normally, he wouldn’t mind answering any questions Ferdy, Coggs, Spike, and Posey could think to ask him, and as soon as they were truly away from the settlement and he could relax, he’d be more than willing to. For now, he had a growing suspicion that this had all been far too easy.

It didn’t take long for Martin’s apprehensions to be realized. Walking backwards to make sure they wouldn’t be followed, he heard a shout.

“Oi! Hey, you there! Stop!” Lagging behind the rest of the patrol, a weasel had caught sight of them as they entered the undergrowth at the forest’s edge. The soldier started toward them, hollering for backup as he did so.

The Stickle family froze. Martin swept Ferdy up and shoved him into Ben’s claws, ignoring the way the spikes bit into his own paws. “Run! Run for it, all of you!” he ordered. “Don’t stop, and don’t look back! Urthclaw, cover their tracks when you get far enough away!” He spun, saw a thick, dead branch on the forest floor, and snatched it up. The balance was off, nothing like the ash staff he practiced with back home, but it’d do. Martin wished he’d thought to bring more than his sling with him, but it was too late for regrets now.

Without a backward glance, Martin ran to meet the weasel halfway, determined to stall the patrol long enough for the Stickles to escape into the woodlands where they could go to ground. He tripped the weasel with one end of the branch, then jabbed it into his gut, winding him. He saw the other five racing to their comrade’s aide and grinned. “Blacktooth, isn’t it?” he taunted. “Well, come on, let’s see if I can’t give you a black eye to match, ferret face!”

“Get him, lads! It’s one of those escapee woodlanders! Verdauga’ll want to make an example of him!”

Martin stood his ground until he could be sure they wouldn’t split up to chase after the Stickle family, then darted to the right, back towards the settlement. All six vermin soldiers followed him, and Martin smiled to himself with grim satisfaction. Well, that’d worked, and a quick glance towards the trees had assured him that the Stickles and Urthclaw had vanished. A pity he hadn’t thought of how to escape himself.

Prologue : : : Next Chapter

#redwall #Martin the Warrior #Mossflower #fic #redwall fic #Martin of Mossflower

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eulaliaaa · 7 years

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week three fics

here are the beautiful fics written for week three of redwall fic month 2017. the prompt was ‘flowers’, but wasn’t mandatory. here they are, well done writers!! if you complete your week three fic after this is posted, i’ll add it on as soon as it’s up.

The Briarrose Wreath by SneakyMisterMustelid- My entry for week 3 of the Redwall Fic Month. Prompt: Flowers. A young maid wants to cheer her mother up. Oneshot. ‘Twixt Thorn and Crimson Roses by walk-in-sunshine- Week Three: Flowers. In far gone days, the warriormouse bowed his head to one weight and one alone. The other young males may have laughed- once or twice. But he was Luke. The warrior's son. He had won the lady's favor, and those that laughed did not laugh long. Flowers for My Posy by HebrewPrincess91- Goody Stickle searches for flowers for her garden and finds a friend along the way. Set pre-Mossflower. One-shot. Canon compliant. A Posy too Many by KazenoShun- “I promise you, Brooky, the next time I find one of those... those THINGS outside the infirmary, I’m going to scream.” For week 3 of the Redwall Challenge: Flowers i swear by all flowers by LittleMissMandalore- Mara learns just how fragile life really is. Better than Flowers by belkittykelly- After the invasion has ended and Matthias is hailed as a warrior of Redwall, he still has trouble getting up the courage to talk to Cornflower, and, thinking actions speak louder than words, gives her a bouquet instead.

#redwall #redwall fanfiction #redwall fandom #redwall fic month 2017 #these are so good and well done please read them all!!!!#my text #text post #my stuff

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redwallthoughts · 7 years

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Redwall Midwinter Miracle: Day 3 part 1

Thanks again to @raphcrow for her help with this chapter

FF.net, AO3, DA

[Ch. 1] [Ch. 2] [Ch. 3]

Announcement: I will be livestreaming while making cover art for this fic tonight (4/14). Details here.

Rough recording of Sheodin's Farewell

Yarrow Freebeast rose early, rubbing sleep from his eyes and leaving his wife, Kastern, to slumber on peacefully. The abbey was quiet and still in that magical hour between morning and night. Soft sounds of snoring and the gentle babble of babes speaking aloud in their sleep echoed throughout the red sandstone halls as Yarrow padded down toward the cellars. The cellarhogs, Ferdy and Coggs Stickle, were also up. They welcomed him with a beaker of warm cider and a seat near the small brasier they had used to heat it.

Yarrow had met the pair the day before, and taken instantly to the twins. They quite enjoyed hearing wanderers’ tales, they had told him, having wanted to be warrior-carpenter-cooks when they were dibbuns. Yarrow, for his part, had been more than happy to answer their questions. They had taken a particular interest when he mentioned the quality of the drinks at the feasts. The art of brewing had been the topic of conversation for the rest of the evening, with Yarrow explaining that he helped in the brewery whenever in Noonvale, and how he had developed his own special brew. By the end of the night, Ferdy and Coggs had invited Yarrow to help them select the drinks for the third day of feasting, claiming it was important to gather outside opinions from time to time.

And so it had come that Yarrow sat with Ferdy and Coggs around the small brasier, sharing a quiet breakfast before beginning the task of selecting the barrels that would need to be tapped for that evening.

Ferdy let out a sigh of contentment as he lowered his empty beaker. “Ah. Naught like a drop o’ warm cider to start a cold winter day.”

Coggs nodded his agreement, heaving himself up and off of the seat. “Right then. We’d best get started.”

The trio wandered the cellars, marking a barrel here and tasting a sip there, all the while pondering over the scroll Ferdy held for the list of drinks to bring up that evening. They had nearly finished their rounds when Yarrow heard paws on the stairs, and saw a pretty mousewife making her way down into the cellars followed by two young mice and a squirrel. He recognized one of the young mice right away. It was Tintin, Brome and Lavender’s eldest. The youngster’s bright blue eyes marked him as Lavender’s son. The other two he recognized from the evening of the first feast. Yarrow was not surprised to see that Tintin had teamed up with the pair. From what he’d seen, the two were thick as thieves and loved to make mischief.

“Good mornin’ to you, Columbine,” Coggs said, “And to you three, Gonfflet, Chugger, and your friend. I do hope you ‘aven’t come down to try swiping anythin’.” The pair in question quickly tucked their paws behind their backs, shaking their heads vigorously.

Columbine laughed goodnaturedly. “Let me know if they take anything, and I’ll straighten them out. Have you seen Martin yet this morning?”

Ferdy’s spike rattled as he shook his head. “‘Fraid I haven’t, marm. He’s prob’bly still asleep, what with no sun to wake him up. Why don’t you send the youngins to check, eh?” He watched Gonfflet, Chugger, and Tintin disappear down the passage, then turned to the small brasier to set a new beaker of cider over the flame. “Were you lookin’ for anythin’ else, marm?”

Columbine nodded. “Goody wants to know what you two are planning to bring up for this evening.”

“You’re in luck then, we just finished the list.”

While the two cellarhogs discussed the menu with Columbine, Yarrow watched the passage the youngsters had vanished down. He knew from Ferdy that the passage led to extra store rooms, as well as one bedchamber which Martin used during the winter when the snow got too deep for him to stay in the gatehouse. His vision clouded slightly as he recalled the dark days of Marshank. The question of what had happened to Martin after the siege was not exactly forbidden in Noonvale, but it may as well have been. There had been hope in the first few seasons after, that perhaps Martin might return someday. Yarrow had spent many a free afternoon seated on the rim of the valley, hoping to be first to spot some sign that the warrior mouse had returned. Such a day had never come. Eventually he stopped going. Little by little, the former slaves of Marshank had given up on seeing Martin again, though the loss struck them nearly as hard as if he had died.

Yarrow was not entirely certain how to feel about finding Martin. In a way, he was glad that Rose and Brome had been the first ones to speak with the warrior. Yarrow had not been terribly close to Martin, being a season younger, but he had looked up to the older mouse. And then Martin had left. A part of Yarrow wanted to confront Martin and ask why he never returned to Noonvale. Another part of him already knew the answer, and could not blame him for it.

The sound of splashing water and a shout from down the passage pulled Yarrow from the dark corners of his mind. There was the patter of paws on stone, and then the three youngsters burst back into the main cellar. Gonfflet and Chugger were laughing uproariously, as though they’d just played the perfect prank. They ducked behind Ferdy and Coggs, pulling Tintin with them, just as Martin emerged from the passageway dripping wet and blinking sleep from his eyes. The faded blue tunic he wore clung to him, soaked as though some enormous fish had decided to spit on him.

Ferdy couldn’t stop chuckling as he tossed Martin a barkcloth towel. “That water was for rinsin’ your paws and face, Martin, not for takin’ a bath.”

“Aye,” Coggs chimed in. “‘Tis cold enough on these winter morns without soakin’ yourself.” Martin said nothing as he toweled himself off and accepted the beaker of cider that Ferdy had warmed for him.

“Great seasons, what happened?” Yarrow did not want to laugh at his childhood friend’s predicament, but he had to admit that Martin did look rather comical standing half-awake with his fur sticking out in every direction.

Columbine sighed and pulled Gonfflet and Chugger out from their hiding place. “I’ll wager these two dumped the washbasin on Martin to wake him up.” Turning to the two miscreants in question, she waved a stern paw under their noses. “What’ve I told you two about dumping water on a beast to wake him up? T’ not to, that’s what. Someday you’re going to get somebeast sick doing that.”

“Silly Mama,” Gonfflet giggled. “You’re the one who’s always telling me that a drop of water doesn’t hurt anybeast. How could we get somebeast sick by splashing them?” He grinned unapologetically.

Yarrow shook his head. “I’ve seen it happen,” he said. The laughter died almost immediately. Gonfflet and Chugger stared at him, their eyes round with surprise.

“You’ve seen it happen, sir?” Chugger asked.

Yarrow nodded. “I was kidnapped into slavery when I was a dibbun. The guards used to throw cold water on us to wake us in the winter. I saw two of the older slaves die because the water made them too cold. They ended up freezing to death.” He watched Martin’s face while he was speaking, hoping to glimpse some sort of reaction. Though Martin’s eyes were still clouded with sleep Yarrow glimpsed a hint of confusion. It flickered for a moment, then disappeared as Martin looked to his left. Yarrow glanced up and saw Gonfflet and Chugger with horrified looks on their faces. Realizing that he may have said too much, he smiled and tried to reassure the youngsters. “Don’t worry, I’m sure nobeast would freeze to death in this abbey. I might have gotten a bit carried away in my description.”

Columbine smiled and shook her head. “No harm done,” she said. “These two needed the lesson anyways. Oh dear, Martin, your fur’s going every which way again.”

Martin, who was looking slightly more awake now, ran a paw through his fur to smooth it down.

“Right,” Columbine said. “I think I’ve got everything I came down for, I’ll see you all later at breakfast. Gonfflet, Chugger, don’t forget you promised to help Trimp make treats this morning.”

Chugger clasped his paws to his brow. “I’d nearly forgot ‘bout that!”

Gonfflet just chuckled. “If we hurry, maybe we can snatch a few candied chestnuts on the way. D’you want to come with, Tintin?”

Tintin shook his head. “I think I’ll stay here and see what Mr. Yarrow’s doing.”

“Alright,” Chugger said, already starting up the stairs with Gonfflet on his tail. Within moments they were gone.

Yarrow rubbed a paw over his face. “I hope they don’t take my words to heart. Me and my big mouth.”

“Nothing wrong with saying what you’re thinking,” Martin reassured him. “I’m sure those two will either have forgotten it by evening, or else at least learned something from it.”

“Still, I didn’t need to go into detail.” Yarrow grinned to himself and shook his head. “You’d think I’d’ve learned by now, what with my wife being an actress and all.”

Martin chuckled. “If we’re going by that logic, then there’s several things I should have picked up long ago. I’m Martin, by the way.”

Yarrow shook Martin’s paw firmly. “Yarrow. That youngin’s Tintin, Brome and Lavender’s son.”

Ferdy watched them with an amused smile on his face. “Careful there now, Yarrow, see that Martin doesn’t break your paw. He’s got a powerful strong grip.”

Yarrow’s smile grew wider. “So do most of the freebeasts from Marshank. Nobeast wanted a wimpy pawshake like the compound snitch, so we started shaking paws as firmly as possible.”

“Seems like a good reason to me,” Martin said. He finished the cider in his beaker and turned to Ferdy and Coggs. “So, what’re you two up to this morning?”

“We’ve got to tap the barrels we’ve chosen for the feast tonight,” Coggs told him. “Most everythin’ else is done.”

Martin nodded, setting his empty beaker with the others. “Which barrels need tapping?”

Coggs showed Martin how they’d marked the barrels needed, while Ferdy took Tintin and made a round of the cellars lighting extra torches. Yarrow shook his head at the resemblance between Martin and Tintin when the younger mouse stopped a moment next to the older. Tintin was taller and more slender than Martin had been at eight seasons, but the pale eyes set into dark fur proved an eerie similarity. Yarrow was glad, at least, that Tintin still had the spark of childhood innocence in his eye, which Martin had lost long before he and Yarrow had ever met.

It did not take them long to assemble the chosen drinks. Five pairs of paws made the work quick and smooth, with Tintin running empty flagons back and forth to the adults and Martin collecting filled ones. Tintin seemed particularly excited to be allowed to help with such grown-up work. Yarrow made a mental note of this. If Tintin continued to show such interest in brewing, then Yarrow would have to try recruiting him for the Noonvale brewery when they returned.

Soon enough, they gathered around the still burning brasier, Tintin perching on top of a barrel while the adults sat on wooden benches. Ferdy nodded to the three mice. “Thanks for your help, made things go far faster than we thought it would.”

Yarrow grinned and pulled a canteen from his satchel, which he had brought down with him earlier. “Since we’re all here, would you like to try a drop of this? It’s my own special brew.”

“Get another beaker for the lad, Ferdy,” Coggs said, “I’ll rinse out the ones we used earlier.”

Yarrow waited until all five beakers were cleaned and lined up, then poured a small amount into each one. The dark liquid danced and sparkled in the torchlight. “I’m afraid it won’t be quite the same as it usually is,” Yarrow said. “I’ve kept it as best I can over our journey, but it’s still not the same as having it straight from the barrel.”

Ferdy and Cogg nodded, preoccupied with examining this new drink. They swirled their beakers, examining the color and consistency, as well as sniffing it appreciatively before tasting. Tintin, who had tasted the drink before, was already slowly sipping his. Coggs took a slow sip, savoring the flavor as a grin spread across his face. “Now that’s a quality gin. What’s in it?”

Yarrow allowed himself a small smile. They liked it. “Juniper berries,” he answered.

“It does taste quite nice,” Martin said. “A bit piney. Reminds me of walking through a pine grove.” He took another sip of the gin. “Do you have a name for it?”

“Juniper’s Smile,” Yarrow said quietly.

Ferdy gave him a crooked grin. “I suppose it’s named after somebeast?”

Yarrow nodded. “A dear childhood friend of mine. He was like a brother to me.” He paused a moment, swirling the contents of his beaker as he pictured the last time he’d seen Juniper alive. “He perished at Marshank. Once I found out juniper berries could be used in gins, I knew I had to try my paw at making one.”

Martin nodded slowly in the silence that followed. “It’s always nice to find a special way to remember those dear to us,” he said finally. “Far too many lives are lost to war.”

Silence fell again, and Yarrow was almost sorry he’d brought out the gin. He had not expected Martin’s comment. Have we lost you too? He wanted to ask the warrior. But such a question would only confuse Martin now. How could Yarrow explain to him the grief he’d seen on Barkjon’s face when Martin didn’t return to Noonvale? How could he remind Martin of the times Martin had taken the blame for something he or Juniper had done, just so that they would not be whipped? Even in the past day and a half, Yarrow had seen that same selfless side of Martin again and again. It hurt to see his childhood friend acting so similar and yet so different, almost as if the Martin he had known truly had died and been replaced with another.

The silence had become almost unbearable, when Tintin began to hum. He started softly, the quiet tune rising and falling in a comforting melody Yarrow recognized. Eventually, Tintin began to sing. The young mouse’s voice was soft, but clear, carrying easily throughout the cellars.

“I hear a voice across the sea,

Calling you and calling me,

‘Tis a sweet sound that speaks of long rest,

Yet in my heart I know,

Not I, but you must go,

While here I must stay behind.

Go now my friend,

Unto that quiet place,

Where there is no such thing as pain,

For in my heart you’ll stay,

Until such a day,

As we may be united again.

May you find the quiet streams,

And still forests,

Where the children lost to time do still play,

For I know that in those trees,

‘Neath the branches and the leaves

I’ll find you again someday.

Go now my friend,

Unto that quiet place,

Where there is no such thing as pain,

For in my heart you’ll stay,

Until such a day,

As we may be united again.”

Yarrow brushed tears from his eyes as the last notes hung on the air. Tintin had inherited his family’s talent with music, and it was apparent even at his young age.

“Sheodin’s Farewell,” Martin said quietly. “It’s been many seasons since I’ve heard that song.”

“You know about Sheodin, sir?” Tintin asked.

Ferdy chuckled. “Martin’s the one who told us the legends.”

“It’s an old tale,” Martin said. “Old tales tend to travel far. How did you learn it, youngster?”

Tintin grinned. “Auntie Rose taught me. She says it’s one of her favorite legends.” He finished his gin and slid down off the barrel, setting the empty beaker on an open space on the bench.

Yarrow scratched his ear, trying to remember how the legend went. He was sure Barkjon had told him at one point or another. Martin must have seen the confusion on his face, because the warrior gave him a small smile and said, “Sheodin was a warrior, though the legends never specify where he was from. He went off to war with his friend, Kelshin, who was like a brother to him. They had many adventures together, but always came out alright.”

“Until one day they didn’t,” Yarrow murmured. “I remember now. One day, an enemy archer got lucky, and killed Kelshin. Sheodin wandered for many seasons, mourning his friend, before returning to their childhood home.”

Coggs chuckled loudly. “Sounds a bit like Martin when you think about it. Don’t you think so Ferdy?”

Ferdy nodded. “Aye. So it does.”

“How does that sound like me?” Martin asked. He set his empty beaker next to Tintin’s.

Coggs shook his head as though the answer was obvious. “Can’t you see? Sheodin left his family home when he was very young, just like you. You both spent many seasons wanderin’ and becomin’ great warriors. Not to mention that you went back to the northlands six seasons ago to visit your old home. Only difference is that you didn’t stay there, you came back t’ Redwall.”

Ferdy stroked his chin. “Right, but what about the friend who died? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Coggs, but we don’t exactly know much about Martin from before he came to Mossflower.”

“I think that part is similar,” Martin said quietly. The twins fell silent.

Tintin climbed back up onto his barrel and faced Martin. “How would you know if you can’t remember? Papa says that you forgot a lot of stuff, so we’re not supposed to ask about your past or where you came from.”

“I remember a few things.” Martin’s eyes had gone distant, and he spoke as though half-asleep. “Mostly feelings and abstract thoughts. But I do know that I was grieving something or somebeast when I entered Mossflower.”

Coggs slapped his paw down on the bench. “That settles it.”

“No it doesn’t,” Ferdy interrupted. “You’re forgettin’ about the sister.”

Tintin tilted his head to one side. “What sister?”

Ferdy laughed. “ It’s the last part of the legend, you see. Sheodin wandered for many seasons, mourning his friend, before returning to their childhood home. There he found healing with Kelshin’s sister, whom he married.”

“Auntie Rose never mentioned that part,” Tintin said.

Coggs sighed. “If we’re goin’ to compare Martin to Sheodin, we might as well forget about the sister. My ol’ father says roses’ll bloom in midwinter afore Martin courts a maid, even if the rest of the abbey wants to see him happily married with a family.”

Martin shook his head and grinned, though Yarrow could not help but notice that the smile didn’t reach Martin’s eyes. “What would I do with a wife? I’ve got my own family right here at Redwall and I’m more than happy here.”

“Try sayin’ that when you wake up cold and alone out in the gatehouse,” Ferdy murmured to his twin.

Coggs sighed and made a show of standing. “Alright you lot, best be up to breakfast afore somebeast has to come down lookin’ for us. ‘Specially if we want to get enough food for a decent meal.”

Tintin grinned and slid off the barrel, calling over his shoulder as he dashed for the stairs, “Last one to the table is a fat frog!”

Martin laughed as he followed the youngster. “Fat frog, eh? We’d better follow him. I’ve met enough of those to say I wouldn’t want to be one.”

Brome set his empty plate aside, pleasantly full of good food, and turned to see how Primrose was handling her scone. The little maid appeared happy enough, though Brome wasn’t quite sure how she’d managed to get strawberry preserves between her ears. He was having a rather difficult time removing the preserves until Columbine handed him a damp cloth from her seat across the table. “Thank you,” he said as he wiped the sticky mess from Primrose’s head.

Columbine smiled and waved a paw at her son and husband, who were seated either side of her. “I’ve learned to keep one around in case one of these two gets into trouble.”

Brome chuckled and handed the cloth back. “It happens that often, then?”

“Only once in awhile,” Gonff said with a grin. The chubby mousethief winked broadly before surprising Columbine with a kiss. “Not that you mind, d’you my pretty flower?” Columbine didn’t answer, so Gonff turned to the rest of the table and asked, “So, what’re the plans for the day? Anything fun?”

“Don’t forget, you’re supposed to help Martin move into the cellars,” Bella reminded him. The big badger stood and began clearing the table.

Gonff was the picture of innocence. “Me, forget to ‘elp my matey move his things? You know that would never happen, Bella.”

“What about last summer, when we were supposed to help Columbine rearrange the infirmary?” Martin said without looking up from his plate. “I don’t recall seeing you about for the first half of the day.”

Gonff glared at Martin and aimed a leftover bit of scone at him. “That was different. It wasn’t my fault the sun made me drowsy in the orchard.”

Skipper nodded. “Must’ve been the birds what stole Goody’s pie that mornin’.”

Before Gonff could start up another argument about pie, Rose said, “I am curious about what’s going on today. I’ve got nothing planned for the afternoon.”

“Do you s'pose you could help us with moving Martin’s things then?” Gonff asked, completely forgetting his previous argument.

“Gonff,” Martin broke in.

Gonff waved a paw at Martin as if dismissing him. “Martin’s got most of the notes on how the abbey’s built.”

“Let me guess,” Rose said, “They’re written in northern runes?”

Gonff nodded. “I tried havin’ Gonffleft an’ Chugger sort them last time. Martin stayed up half the night re-sortin’ ‘em.”

“I don’t mind, Gonff,” Martin said.

Gonff fixed the warrior with a mock glare. “Are you tryin’ to deprive the maid of havin’ somethin’ t’do today?”

Rose giggled as Martin looked down at his plate and murmured, “No.”

“I’d love to help,” Rose said. She turned to her brother, “What are you planning, Brome?”

“Abbess Germaine has kindly offered to compare medical notes in exchange for helping to resort the herb supply,” Brome said. The Abbess smiled and nodded, her eyes twinkling as others around the table began explaining their plans for the day.

Lavender had agreed to help Columbine and Lady Sandingomm with a scavenger hunt for the dibbuns. Skipper apparently knew of a holt up north and was planning to ask Keyla and Tullgrew if they’d ever heard of the place. Lady Amber mentioned a roof-beam she need to look at, although she firmly insisted that Martin not worry about it unless she needed his help. Martin grumbled his agreement, causing Rose to start giggling again. And with that, Brome found himself heading to the infirmary with Bella and Abbess Germaine.

Bella carried Abbess Germaine up the stairs and carefully deposited her on one of the infirmary beds.

“I’ll be down in Great Hall or Cavern Hole when you finish,” Bella said. “Come find me when you’re done and I’ll bring Abbess Germaine back down.”

“Thank you, Bella,” Brome said, before turning to the table of herbs. It was easy enough at first to compare uses of familiar plants. Comfrey, feverfew, motherwort, and of course the ever present dock leaf. Brome found they had similar uses for most of the herbs he knew, which did not surprise him. Then he noticed the small satchel of herb hanging ready by the door.

“What is that for?” he asked, nodding to the satchel.

Abbess Germaine smiled sadly. “I haven’t used that in many seasons, though Columbine still keeps it ready in case we need it again.” She sighed, and indicated that Brome should take a seat before she continued. “There were many creatures to tend to in the seasons following the Mossflower war. Some, like Martin, stayed in Brockhall with us until Redwall was completed enough for us to move in. But others moved farther afield, building their own homes in the woods. That was my emergency satchel. I didn’t want to waste precious time gathering supplies whenever somebeast came to Brockhall in the middle of the night. Even so, there were some that could not be saved.”

Brome nodded. “There are times when no medicine can help,” he murmured. “We lost many in the seasons following the siege of Marshank.” It was rather amazing when he thought about it, that they had managed to save so many lives. He did not realize that Abbess Germaine had spoken again until the silence returned. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking up from his paws, “I was a bit distracted. What did you say?”

The smile on Abbess Germaine’s face was both sad and understanding. “You wonder now if you’ve lost Martin as well, don’t you?”

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