Disclaimer: I have no legal rights on Redwall. Unfortunately, that belongs to Brian Jaques alone (or maybe fortunately for you-he is a much better writer!).
The soft sound of whistling broke through the heavy silence of the woods, causing small birds to abandon their nests and take flight.
A young hare is seen, standing by a rock formation that stood a little ways of a small beaten path. A frustrated expression gracing his plain features broke into a fiercer scowl as he kicked a pebble away from his paw.
"I will show them, I'll show Pa that I'm not just a silly excuse for a son. Huh, he says no one will remember me if I don't join the Long Patrol. I would go if the Badger Lord needed me, but they don't. I'm no good at fighting and besides when I went with Pa it was overflowing with fighters."
The slight figure let out a long sigh. Then looked up at the rock he had been studying moments before. It was really more of boulder than rock, with two large lumps in it. The larger of the two greatly resembled an otter, standing upright while the second of the two had the likeliness of a female one on sitting besides him.
A grin slowly spread across his face, and his long ears perked up. Pa had always said his fooling with his whittling and carving rock bits were pointless, unless it was to fashion a long sword or bow or bolt. That it would eventually break or rot. Well, he would show him. Since the two lumps already resembled otters, why not just improve on nature's work?
He sat down his traveling sack, and pulled out a small chisel and a small traveling lantern along with a miniature canteen filled, not with water but oil, and began to chip, break, and crack the stone in front of him into form.
When he looked back later, he couldn't really tell you how long he had been sitting there, chipping away at that rock. All he knew is that it was long enough for the oil to disappear completely from the canteen and for the trees to blossom, turn green and then gold. As the leaves began to drift from the trees, he threw down his chisel and took a step back; in front of him stood the otter and his wife, calm smiles gracing never changing features, looking back down at him.
He bent down, gathered up his possessions that were strewn around, and took one last look at the figures and turned to leave. Suddenly, on a last whim he took out a carving knife and scrawled his name on to the bottom of the statue, by the otter's left foot, wincing as small fragments stung his paw. Then, at last he made his way down the small trail, to go on to bigger adventures.
Winter after winter passed, always followed by spring and countless summers after those. The small, beaten path became a road with many travelers following it. The statue, although weathered by age still bore the likeliness to an otter standing by his wife. To woodlanders it became a landmark, a sign of a large inhabitance nearby. The creator of the two figures is a mystery, the small signature made illegible by the many storms of bygone seasons. However, even though the creator has been forgotten, the creation has not been. They still stand as eternal guardians along the road.
(AN: This is my view of how the statue of the 'otter and his wife' got to be. Turned out to be longer than I though. Very on the moment, but I like it.)