A cool breeze passed over the sun-drenched walls of Redwall Abbey, ruffling the headfur of a mouse standing on the southeast walltop, looking out over the path and Mossflower Wood beyond. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as he took in the sweet summer air with pleasure. There was just the hint of a chill on that cooling breeze, the first breath of the autumn to come. Martin the Warrior exhaled with a sigh, and opened his eyes. Yet another season was beginning to turn, and he with it. Age had not wasted Martin, but he was silver-furred now, and a life of constant activity and physical use had left him a bit stiff. But his mind was sharp and his eyes were clear, and though his beloved Redwall had never had need of a warrior, he stood ready to defend her.
The Warrior was one of the few left now who remembered the abbey's infancy, and even fewer who had known Mossflower before the great red sandstone building had begun to jut its way out of the landscape. Bella of Brockhall remained, of course; but Abbess Germaine, who had been ancient when Redwall reached completion, was long gone- poor Timballisto had been claimed by that hard winter long ago, Skipper had gone to his rest, and Gingevere, Goody and Ben Stickle, Lady Amber, Spring the otter, and so many others. And, last spring, Gonff, the Prince of Mousethieves, had joined his love Columbine in the unknown sunny slopes that waited beyond. So it was that Martin stood alone, now, surveying his country with a wistful eye.
Shaking his head at his own fancies, Martin turned and began to make his way down the wallsteps. All creatures must pass on, even those most loved, and it was not the way to remember a long and fulfilled life by thinking on it sadly. It took him a bit longer to negotiate the steps these days, but Martin made it to the grass below with no great difficulty, and as he struck out across the lawn towards the main abbey building, he saw a horde of Dibbuns approaching. They had reached him in seconds, and at once were jumping and climbing, begging the Warrior to come and play with them, they were going to fight off a horde of corsairs and needed his help! Laughing, Martin allowed himself to be dragged off for the game- he had always been a great favorite among the abbeybabes, and was always willing to take a little time out of his day for them.
It was much later, and the sun had begun its nightly descent, when Martin made his way down to Cavern Hole. Slowly, for the rambunctiousness with the Dibbuns has exacerbates his aches, and the many steps of the abbey could take their toll on a rheumatic creature. But when he arrived, a smile crept onto his face again, as it always did when he came to table at Redwall. All the creatures of the abbey, young and old, plainly garbed or green-habited, gathered around the long tables in laughter and cheer, to share the bounty of the season together. Martin paced across to his seat at Bella's right hand, at the head of the central table. The great badger rang her comically small bell for silence, and once a hush had fallen, recited Gonff's grace. Otters, squirrels, hedgehogs, mice, moles with fur like sable…
After supper, Martin said his goodnights, and climbed the steps back up to Great Hall. He made a slow circuit of the room in the flickering torchlight, the moon now streaking through the stained-glass windows to form eerie patterns on the floor. Finally he arrived at the tapestry. It was an old, worn, magnificent cloth, portraying the warlike image of his grandsire, Martin the Elder. The Warrior was not to know, as he stretched out his paw to caress the tapestry, that one would soon take its place in which he himself took on the position of watchful guardian. As was his wont, Martin brushed his paw lightly over the image of the sword. The sword, before it had been broken, before it had been remade by Boar the Fighter into the mighty weapon he had wielded. A plain, serviceable weapon it was in the paws of the Elder, and unbidden his father's voice stole into his mind. Always use the sword to stand for good and right, never do a thing you would be ashamed of, but never let your heart rule your mind, Luke had said to him that windswept day on the northern coast, before pressing the hilt into his son's paws.
Wise words, father, Martin thought, If only I had heeded them more often. Letting his paw drop, he slipped it beneath the tapestry, and felt the reassuring lines in the stone, where his message lay graven. A smile played across his lips and this thoughts strayed from past to future, wondering who would one day be the creature with the strength, courage, and wisdom to find it. Turning away from the tapestry, he made his way back across the hall, and began the climb up to the dormitories. Like most of the abbey elders, Martin had his own room, and he pushed its solid oaken door open easily, for the hinges were kept well oiled. Moonlight penetrated the flimsy curtains and the breeze ruffled them, sending the silver light dancing across the wall and floor. Martin glanced only briefly out the window at the silent, peaceful night, before pulling back the coverlet, and sliding into bed.
Sleep was swift to descend on the Warrior, and dreams followed on its heels. Martin dreamed many things that night- things of which he had not dreamed or even thought in many long seasons. A flickering fire outside of a cave and a rain swept shore, a comforting female face, the lash of a whip around his paw and the evil face of a stoat. A voice in the storm and the bravery of Felldoh, the most fearless beast Martin had ever known. Cherry cordial, deep winter snows, the faces of wildcats; one wise, one gentle, and one full of venom. The last face, filled with terror, wavering and fading before his eyes. Gonff, singing and cavorting, Germaine watching with tearful eyes as the weathervane was raised. Raucous squirrels, quiet glades, and at last, Noonvale. The banqueting hall was full and joyous, for the great sycamore had been felled, and there was naught but happiness. From within the dream, Martin looked about, but before he could find the face he sought, the hall of Urran Voh faded, and was replaced by a copse of tall black trees, and a wrought iron gate.
Outside the gate stood a pair of great male badgers, and Martin knew that he had arrived at last at the gates of Dark Forest. He approached the badger on the right, smiling slightly. Boar the Fighter bent slightly and put out his paw to be shaken. He and the other badger, whom Martin knew to be Boar's sire, old Lord Brocktree, then bent their backs together to part the gates, the iron hinges creaking and groaning, until they stood at their full span. The two badgers straightened and flanked the entrance again, and Boar extended his paw within. He had once denied Martin entry, now welcomed him, but the Warrior hesitated. He had lived a long and, he hoped, good life, and though he knew that all good creatures made their way to Dark Forest, the trees beyond looked forbidding. He looked up at Boar, and the Badger Lord nodded slowly.
Plucking up his courage, Martin stepped through the gates, and began to make his way down the path through the woods. He heard the creaking of the gates behind him, but forged onwards; there could be no turning back now. The wood was misty and seemed to be infused with an extremely faint, predawn light. The further he walked, Martin noticed that his aches began to fall away, receding as though they had never plagued him. He looked at the backs of his paws, and the silver had gone, they were smoothly dark brown as they had been in his youth. Martin's pace quickened, the trees began to thin, and he imagined that he could faintly hear the echoes of voices- all the familiar voices of his departed friends, but over it all, a light and dreamy silver voice, like a summer breeze through bluebells.
The light began to grow stronger and, impelled by some unknown force, Martin ran, until he burst from the edge of the trees and into a rolling field, where he was blinded by the dazzling sun as it rose over the horizon. He put up a paw to guard his eyes, and realized that he had been transformed: youth and strength were his again, and the blood coursed through his veins as it had not done in more than a score of seasons. Slowly his eyes adjusted and he lowered his paw, able to make out a figure approaching down the side of the hill before him. It was a figure so distant but so close and familiar, its voice ringing out with a strong sweet joy, until finally its face was revealed in the passing of the first ray of dawn. As in a trance, Martin approached the mousemaid, his paws lifting of their own accord. She raised her own to take hold of them, a beatific smile on her face, and the Warrior's eyes filled with tears.
"Rose."