This little vignette was written for a contest at Terrouge, a Redwall forum and ezine I frequently browse. The challenge was to write a short story around 1,000 words in length involving Martin the Warrior. As most of the other entries involved an encounter with vermin of some sort, I was determined to write something slightly more original, and I began to wonder about Martin's travels. Surely there must have been some moments of peace in a warrior's life, I thought, and this fic was born.I was quite happy with it, so I decided to post it here. In my mind, it takes place the autumn before the book Mossflower, since Martin's sword has not yet been reforged. The unnamed hogwife is mine, I suppose.
Disclaimer: The world of Redwall belongs to Brian Jacques. I'm just playing with it and I promise to put it back on the shelf when I'm done.
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Autumn
By Bubonic Woodchuck
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She knows that he arrived on an autumn day. She was sweeping away the faded, cracking leaves that littered her doorstep when the sound of solid pawsteps heralded his arrival. She remembers that he was skinny, and hardly anything to look at. A worn and battle-scarred sword hung at his side, the hilt tarnished. She remembers that much, for the sword was a part of him, and to forget it would be to do him a grave injustice. She doesn't remember what else he was wearing. A tunic, perhaps, battered and dirty like the rest of him. It matters little, now.
She remembers hailing him cheerfully, asking whether a strong warrior like him would be willing to chop firewood for an old hogwife. He quickly agreed, a tired half-smile lighting his features, and before she knew it they were sitting at the small oak table in her kitchen, sharing a pitcher of strawberry cordial and a tray of hot scones. They made small talk at first, commenting on the weather, and how the leaves were falling earlier than usual this year. Sooner or later, though, the serious young mouse turned the conversation to her life.
"Can't tell you much," she'd said. "Too much of it to make an interestin' tale. I've lived in these woods most of my life. My old husband, he left for the sunlit pastures two seasons ago. Vermin in these woods, they mostly leave me alone. I'm just a senile old beast who bakes scones."
A light flared up in his eyes when she spoke of vermin, she recalls. "Mostly, marm?" he said.
"Aye, mostly. They'll drop by once in a great while, but I've managed to keep them off till now. Can't many find my home when I want to hide it, young'un." She vaguely remembers smiling and refilling his beaker. "Part of a larger army, part of a kingdom of some sort, or so I've heard."
He sipped at his cordial. Polite young mouse. "Do you remember which way they came from, marm?"
She tugged at her mostly-grey quills thoughtfully. "South, lad. Southwest, if I'm not mistaken. Wherever they come from, it must be a good distance away, for I've never seen more than the occasional raiding party."
He nodded and fell silent again, staring at nothing in particular. She remembers the silence was unbearable – full of a distant clanging sound, of the discordant crash of metal on metal, of fire and the unmistakable coppery scent of blood – and it horrified her. It still does.
"Well!" she remembers saying with false cheer. "All these tales of vermin will do us no good. You're more than welcome to stay the night, lad. You look like you need it."
He refused at first, but she wore him down. Persuasion was one of her hidden talents. Keep an old lady company in case a raiding party comes. I've baked all these scones, what am I to do with them? 'Twould be impolite to resist. At last he acquiesced and settled down on a mattress stuffed with moss.
She remembers staying up half the night, staring into the dying embers of her fireplace. What an odd beast he was. He seemed far too young to be a wanderer at all, let alone a full-fledged warrior. She saw the easy grace with which he carried that worn sword. There was no doubt in her mind that he had learned how to use it. She shivered and stirred the embers restlessly. He was a warrior, and warriors either brought death or sought it.
She remembers getting up and putting wrapped scones and a flask of cordial into his pack. Wherever he was going, there was bound to be a shortage of good food. Even a warrior would be hard put to fight on an empty stomach. Then she remembers going to bed.
When she woke up, he was gone. The mattress had been neatly stored against a wall and the pack that had been lying by the door had vanished. There was a note lying on the table, written on a piece of bark. She remembers getting up and staring at it, wishing she knew how to read letters and words. And then she remembers putting it aside and smiling fondly, and going about her daily tasks.
It's been many seasons since then. No raiding parties have come by since he came. She hasn't forgotten about him.
She wonders about him, this strange mouse. Wonders if he had a family he was defending. What did they look like? She can imagine a father – strong, dark-eyed, stern, like him. A mother? That is harder to conjure up. Perhaps a quiet mouse, gentle, kind, one who would teach him impeccable manners? Perhaps. She wonders if he has a young mousemaid waiting for him, wonders if he is fighting for her.
Or perhaps…perhaps they are all waiting for him, waiting for him to join them by the quiet streams that flow by sunlit pastures. Perhaps that is why he seeks death, this young cold-eyed warrior that she can recall clearly and yet not clearly at all.
For she's still not sure why he came, or how long he stayed precisely, and if there's one thing she doesn't remember, it's his name. It's all foggy now that she's no longer the age she used to be, and so many travelers have trudged by on the dusty path running by her home, none of which she has ever seen again. The fact that he still remains in her mind when all the rest have marched out of it – well, that's a miracle if she's ever heard of one.
She still has the note he left her, the bark brittle and crumbling, the charcoal scribbles faded to almost nothing. Sometimes she will look at it, squinting at the once-bold strokes. Sometimes she will think that if she learned to read, she could learn his name and remember more about him. And then she will shake her head, smile a little sadly, and go back to her chores.
It is, she thinks, better this way.
fin