'cause I remember how we drank time together
and how you used to say that the stars are forever
and day dreamed about how to make your life better
by leaving town, leaving town....
--Dexter Freebish, Leaving Town
Mossflower is beautiful in the autumn.
Start at the shores, where the inexorable waves lick hungrily at the sands of Salamandastron, and travel inward. Here are the woods, crisp and flame-orange now. In them the tiny lives of the inhabitants stretch across the provincial life-tapestry. A warm and rich land, where the gods they worship are benign and nurturing - they have no need for the strong and cunning and ruthless, in their land of dreams, nor have they need of exploration, of stretching their horizons towards the moon.
Here is the jewel-crimson stone of Redwall Abbey, where there is a starched brown vellum map spread across the Recorder's table, long forgotten. They have no need of it, not in their ostrich in the sand way of life - the map is crude, exaggerated, with Redwall shown larger than it should, the focal point of the world to these creatures of humility. It goes east a bit, showing touches of the wild scrubland, and it goes south, a bit, detailing Southsward, but it stops abruptly at the edge of the paper.
Do they not know what exists beyond the line?
Or do they not care?
Who are we to say, gentle reader? All there is to say is this: Mossflower is beautiful in the autumn. A breathtaking beauty that stifles the mind in the narrow lives of the woodland.
What more need they, who have heaven in their grasp?
---
His parents were not killed by vermin. He harbored no grudges, no secret animosities. His childhood was fairly happy, considering that he was an orphan, but it held nothing of spectacular interest. He spent his time in Redwall Abbey, and was a kitchen apprentice, and an incurable dreamer.
His name was Will, and he did not belong in the Abbey.
---
"William!"
There was no answer from the boy in query, and the voice, loud and resonant, tried again. "William Fieldmouse!"
No response.
"WILLIAM!"
"Yes, Mother Verbena."
"William, you're supposed to be helping in the kitchens - where are you?"
A rumpled head poked itself over the edge of the roof, watching the ponderous form of the badger-mother lumber beneath the gutter. She still hadn't seen him, and he grinned suddenly, sitting up and scooping a handful of dirt from the shingles of the roof. As Mother Verbena moved right beneath him, he showered her with dust, spotting her immaculately clean fur with brown. She grunted in her gruff voice and looked up, deep eyes distinctly annoyed. "So!" she exclaimed, "I should have known you'd be up there.... Down, right now, and you're going to regret it, you little rascal!"
"My foot slipped," he said contritely, "I didn't mean to get you dirty."
"We'll see about that," Verbena said grimly. She was used to dealing with Will; a constant battle of wits. "You come down here right now."
Will slide sideways until his paws grasped the drainpipe in the corner. Hoisting himself off of the roof, he slid down the metal and landed easily on the ground, wincing and blowing lightly on his hands, which burned from the speed of the descent.
He was marched forcibly off to the kitchens, Verbena lecturing with every step. "When will you stop day-dreaming and do your part? Disgraceful...."
With a despondent sigh, he trudged towards the kitchens, where the wrath of Friar Price awaited him.
---
Will examined his hands afterwards, slick and still wet from the dishwater. Because he had been late for duty, the Friar had ordered him to stay in the kitchens during supper, allowing him to catch a bite to eat during the brief respites between courses. If there was one thing he hated, though, it was washing the dishes afterward. There always seemed to be piles and piles of them, and it was almost as if they multiplied while he wasn't looking.
Pots, dishes, pots.
Exhausted, Will attempted to catch the attention of one of the higher-ranked kitchen beasts, to show that he was finished with his work. "Miz Sora! Over here," he yelled over the clatter of plates and the chatter of the other creatures.
"Finished, then?" she asked. Sora was only three years older than Will, a very matronly eighteen, but from the way she acted, the mouse gave the impression of a middle-aged woman.
"Yes, Miz Sora," Will said respectfully. Out of the kitchen staff, Sora was one of the friendlier ones, but if you were too disrespectful you'd find a wooden spoon connecting painfully with your rump. He'd experienced it first-hand and it wasn't pleasant at all.
She pushed the crystal glasses to the bridge of her nose, though they hadn't slipped, and peered closely at the mountain of clean dishes. "Hmmm," she said thoughtfully, while Will fidgeted uncomfortably, wanting to go back to the dormitories.
"Yes?" he asked, silently prodding her to hurry up.
Her head went up as she stared levelly, a very steady gaze that made him squirm even more. "Very good," Sora said, with all the pompous authority of a junior army officer, "You may go now." As he beat a hasty retreat, she called after him, "And don't be late tomorrow, or I'll give you twice as much work!"
"Tyrant!" he said over his shoulder, and was gone before she could set a spoon to his bottom.
He was really too old for that, Will thought; someone should tell Sora to save the admonishing for Dibbuns and the younger children - the problem was, in Sora's eyes, everyone was a child, especially a half-grown, irresponsible mouse-boy.
---
He had no friends, really. Will was the only boy his age that lived in the Abbey; the others were either too old or too young. There was a squirrel named Dan in Mossflower whom he talked to while he traveled in the forest, sometimes; and some of the older Abbeybeasts condescended to speak with the too skinny William on occasions.... Not a true friend in the lot.
The only thing he really looked forward to was practice with the Abbey Champion.
When Will was still a Dibbun - barely four years old - he would watch Caolán as he rehearsed the careful movements of the Shadow Dance, the intricate steps of fighting an invisible opponent. I want to look like that, the boy had thought to himself; I want the snake-oil-grace, like his. The warrior was tall, well muscled and fit looking. Although he was gradually getting older, his body had lost nothing of its skills in the intermittent years since his arrival at Redwall.
Caolán, kind hearted and always willing to teach an eager student, began teaching the child the rudiments of the fighting arts, starting with simple calisthenics and fists, working up to bows and quarter staves, and finally beginning with the sword. Eleven years Will had been going to the Warrior in the early mornings, when most of the Abbey was abed and unaware. Verbena had never been happy about the arrangement, and often sought to deter Will from the course of violence.
No use, there, nothing could keep him away from the grassy clearing in the orchards where Caolán and the weapons were.
Today, Caolán was ready and waiting for him, as usual, in a loose-necked shirt, baggy trousers, and bare paws. He held two practice swords in his hands, bundles fashioned ingeniously from reeds and tied tightly with bowstrings. They had wooden crosspieces and hilts, and stung sharply when they connected with bare skin. Caolán threw one to Will as he padded into the clearing. "I'll not make you use the forms today, lad," the warrior said lightly, a devil's grin slipping onto his face.
Will gulped nervously. Forms were a set pattern of moves, choreographed fighting, for the sole purpose of learning how to handle the sword and to move with it. He'd never fought without them, and he thought it was more than a bit unfair of Caolán to spring such a surprise on him without warning. "Um," he said, "All right, then." He caught the "sword," settled into the guard position, and waited for Caolán's attack.
Caolán raised an eyebrow. "Well?" he asked, "Your move, Will."
Tentatively, Will extended the sword, only to have the Champion bat it lightly aside and shake his head. "Not like that, lad, you're trying to hurt me, remember?" he asked, humor touching the words.
"Right," Will said, and feinted at the warrior's head before disengaging the sword to the side and chopping at Caolán's belly. Unfortunately, the older mouse was too fast, and blocked both attacks, causing a loud "clack-clack" sound.
"Better," Caolán said approvingly, and attacked suddenly in a flurry of blows. Will retreated backwards steadily, parrying blows as he went. The sudden storm of cuts towards his body left him unable to do anything but go on defense; it was difficult enough avoiding being smacked on some exposed part.
This went on for a while; with Will barley defending and Caolán giving no mercy. The sweat was beginning to drip down Will's forehead and into his eyes, stinging. Glancing slightly to the side, Will noticed with a groan of dismay that he was backing up into a tree. An idea came and suddenly he smiled: raising the sword up in a high parry to keep Caolán from whacking his head, Will's foot went out in a kick that caught the Champion in the stomach and knocked him off balance.
It was cheating, Will knew, and stood there grinning sheepishly while Caolán wheezed on the ground. Abruptly, to Will's shock, the warrior began to laugh as soon as he regained his breath, guffawing loudly. "Good job, lad! Wasn't expecting that one, was I, and look where I'm sitting now," he managed to gasp out between laughs.
"Sorry," Will said, and extended a hand to help the fallen warrior up. Caolán, standing, used the hand for leverage and, just as suddenly as Will had kicked him, he flipped the younger mouse over. Will, landing heavily on his back, had the breath knocked out of his lungs. He stared up at the sky for a moment, blinking. "Ouch," he managed, and sat up. "Are we done now?"
"Yes," Caolán said, and gestured for Will to follow after him. They walked through the orchard in silence.
"Sir?" Will asked as they passed under the apple trees near the pond.
"Yes?"
"Did you always live here in the Abbey?"
"Not always, Will.... I was a mercenary for most of my life."
"Why did you decide to come here?" Will asked, unable to keep a touch of bitterness from his voice.
"They needed me," Caolán replied simply.
More silence, until Will, who had another question, spoke again. "Sir?"
"Yes, Will?"
"Do you ever miss it?"
"The fighting?"
"No.... The freedom."
Will was not surprised to find that Caolán was unable to answer.
---
Abbot Edward was growing older, and it was easy to tell as much from his movements. He was slow, arthritic, with a certain dignity to his stiffness that gave him an ageless air. He wore no ornaments other than his spectacles, which reflected the firelight as he painstakingly lit each of the torches in the study, snugly fit in their wall sconces. This room was his inner sanctum, where the books, scrolls, and religious works that he turned to for guidance filled wall-to-wall bookshelves; where the rest of the furniture could be termed Spartan at best.
A knock sounded at the door, a sharp rapping. That could only be one creature, Caolán. The Abbey Champion had his own distinctive sound. "Come in, please," Edward called, sitting down with a crack of bones and tendons.
"Evening, Edward," said Caolán, sprawling comfortably in one of the spare chairs that sat before the Abbot's desk.
"Good evening, my son," said Edward, brown eyes twinkling behind the spectacles.
"'Son?'" Caolán asked, amused.
"I always thought it important to observe formality," the Abbot replied gravely.
"Of course you did," Caolán replied. The relationship between Warrior and Abbot was an easy, friendly one: they understood each other very well. Each man was past his prime, but refused to let that fact slow down any of their actions; each man was passionately devoted to their jobs.
Edward could tell that all was not well, despite Caolán's usual open smile. "Something is troubling you?" he asked.
"It's Will," the warrior said, "He's unhappy here."
"Why?" the Abbot asked, genuinely puzzled, "We've everything here."
"You've never felt the wanderlust," Caolán said, with just a hint of patronization, more of pity, "You never needed to move beyond the walls.
Edward was bewildered. "I don't see why anyone would need to - the Abbey is paradise on earth."
"Sometimes," Caolán said, eyes fixed on the flames of one of the wall torches. Edward found that it was quite impossible to figure out what he was thinking about, what he was remembering. "Sometimes, that just isn't enough."
---
"You missed a spot," Sora said severely as she supervised Will's latest penitence.
"Sorry, Miz Sora," he muttered, and put some backbone into the scrubbing.
"Was it really necessary to put honey on the privy seat, Will?" Sora asked him, raising both eyebrows at once. Her eyes, however, magnified behind the thick crystal glasses, were amused.
"I didn't mean for the Abbot to sit there," Will insisted, "I just wanted to get back at Friar Price for making me stay in longer than I had to, when I could have gone in for the fishing contest-"
"Oh, -really- now?" a thin voice said, behind them.
Will jumped, letting the dishes clatter into each other. "Father Price!" he squeaked.
"So," Friar Price said, sounding very pleased, "Admitted from his own mouth! And the Abbot wouldn't listen to me when I said you had a grudge."
"Did I say Friar Price?" Will asked, "I meant, I meant, 'other mice.'"
"Nice try, young man," Friar Price said, "But you're going up before Mother Verbena for this one."
Sora only gave him a look that conveyed quite clearly the words, "I told you so."
---
"Will," Mother Verbena asked, "You cannot keep doing this. You're growing up, you're going to be a part of our Abbey. You have to become more responsible."
"I can't help it." He looked at the floor. Mother Verbena made him feel very young and very small, sometimes. Right now, all joking aside, he wanted to sink into the floor. The badger's eyes focused on him, large and dark, seriousness and disappointment evident in them. The majority of the young Abbey residents were orphans, Will no exception, and she looked on them all as her children. When one was recalcitrant or unhappy, there was an echoing feeling in the badger.
"You can. You just don't want to," she corrected. "Will, you won't be able to stay in the Abbey unless you begin taking things more seriously."
"Yes, Mother Verbena."
"We can't keep warning you..."
"I -know-. Can I go now?"
She sighed, and rubbed her temples as if in pain. "Yes, Will. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Mum," he said, and ran from the room.
"Sometimes I get the feeling that he's not listening to me, no matter what I say," she told the empty chair, and sighed.
---
It was another beautiful Mossflower night.
Will, having spent exactly fifteen years absorbing beautiful Mossflower nights, was beginning to grow slightly sick of them. He rolled over onto his back and thought about what Caolán had said. At least the warrior had lived some of his life outside of the confining walls. It looked as though Will would never have that. Unless....
He'd been thinking about it for a long time now, but it finally struck home that if he didn't follow through now, he'd never work up the courage to do it. "It." Leaving Redwall, his home. As Will slipped from his bed, he remembered a sampler that Sora had stitched so assiduously, one that said, in pink floss, "Home Is Where The Heart Is." His heart was not here - it never had been.
The other boys in the dormitory were completely unconscious; he knew they were all sound sleepers. No fear of waking them. He changed - no use running away in a nightshirt. Light long sleeved shirt, leather jerkin, breeches, boots. A belt, complete with pouch. Hurrah, he thought, I am being resourceful.
Will half expected the door to squeak as he left, but it swung open as it always did, leaving the way clear for him to leave. Paw prints on stone, paw prints alone. There were some simple things to take, and then he would be off.
First in the seamstress' room, where he found a newly repaired back satchel. This he filled with a heavier shirt, cloak and breeches, and moved on. Canteen with water, two loaves of bread - some cheese. Simple fair, which would stay edible in the heat. Quill, ink, and vellum, for later. Kitchen knife, long and sharp - Friar Price would miss that one, but it went into the belt without a blink of an eye.
Out to the shed where Caolán took care of the extra weapons - nothing fancy, there. Will selected a quarterstaff, settled the bag over thin shoulders, and headed for the gates. No one had challenged him. He doubted anyone had even woken up. Pausing by the gate, he scribbled a hasty note and pinned it to the door with the quill-trimming knife. The small wicker South Gate slipped open easily enough, and he shut it tightly - no one was going to sneak in, not until one of the Abbey beasts noticed. He walked off into the night, and did not look back.
For once in his life, the future looked exciting.
---
Caolán yawned widely and rolled over in his bed, greeted by an obnoxiously cheerful bird trilling an early-morning melody. "Tralala," it whistled, but desisted once Caolán had thrown a shoe at it. The bird flew away in a self-righteous flutter of feathers, winging away to find a window more hospitable towards its cause.
"Damn birds," Caolán said, lacking venom. He dressed in a leisurely manner; by the position of the sun, young Will wouldn't be in the orchards yet. The warrior smoothed down his fur, which had a distressing tendency to stick at odd angles. A chilly breeze blew through the window, settling cool fingers on his neck and undoing any work he'd just finished on his appearance.
He ambled down the stairs and out to the orchards, expecting to find the boy waiting there for him - Will was an eager student. There was no one. Caolán, unperturbed, went next to the weapons shed to pick up the reed swords, and was disconcerted to find that the door was unlocked, flapping open and shut in the breeze. A sense of unease penetrated his still-sleepy brain, and the mouse called out, "Will? Lad, you've had your joke now. Come out from your hiding."
Walking slowly, he padded through the orchards - ears out for any sort of movement, but there was only the play of wind on tree. A soft swinging caught his attention, and he moved forward to the Southeast Gate. It was open, with a note pinned neatly to the door. Caolán scanned it silently for a moment, and spoke two words that expressed his feelings admirably: "Oh, fuck."
---
"'Sorry. -Will," Edward read aloud. Caolán stood before him, expressionless. "Talkative," Edward mused.
"No."
"We've not lost a young one for years," Edward said, looking troubled, "He won't be coming back, will he?"
"No," Caolán said again.
"I'll organize a search party-"
"No," Caolán repeated.
"No?" Edward asked, sounding defeated.
"He'll do all right for himself," the Champion said, tracing a pattern on the wood grain of the Abbot's desk, "And it's important for Will - extremely important - that he find his own way. I don't think it would be.... Healthy to bring him back."
"He doesn't know what the outside world is like!" Edward exclaimed, "He's just a child, he could be hurt-"
"Edward," Caolán said.
"What?" the Abbot broke off his agitated tirade.
"Didn't you ever want to leave? To see the stars when they weren't bordered by the walls?"
"....Once."
"But you never acted on it, did you?"
"I couldn't. This is my home."
"Will wants to see the stars, Edward. Can you let him?"
Edward was silent for a long moment, before smoothing out the note so that it lay flat on the desk. "Pray for him, Caolán - promise me that."
"Done."
It was days like these, reflected Edward that weighed deeply on his shoulders.
---
Will, groggily, shook his head and sat up. He was soaking wet: dew beaded his face and clothing. Standing quickly, the mouse brushed at his limbs until the water droplets mixed into his fur, slicking everything flat and making himself look smaller. Grumbling under his breath, Will shook his entire body until the fur fluffed out again. Amused by his sudden worry for cosmetics, Will shrugged, picked up the bag and staff, and stepped onto the road.
It was overcast and cloudy, not all the sort of morning he'd been hoping for on his first day away from the Abbey. The trees hanging over into the road flickered strange patterns of light and shade onto the dirt in front of him as he walked. At first Will enjoyed his journey, but then the walking began to be monotonous and the silence oppressive.
To counteract the mindless quiet he hummed to himself, but that seemed too loud. Nervous, he glanced over his shoulder, looking back.
The wall of the Abbey was still visible in the distance, though he'd been walking for over a day. He could still go back if he wanted to, they would accept him with open arms and smiling faces. Maybe everything would work out right, like it never had before he'd gone. Maybe he'd appreciate what he had left behind and then he'd settle into the process like before and become a mindless drone, he'd either become a monk or leave the Abbey and marry and have dull children...
And Will smiled to himself, and turned, and continued down the road.
and how you used to say that the stars are forever
and day dreamed about how to make your life better
by leaving town, leaving town....
--Dexter Freebish, Leaving Town
Mossflower is beautiful in the autumn.
Start at the shores, where the inexorable waves lick hungrily at the sands of Salamandastron, and travel inward. Here are the woods, crisp and flame-orange now. In them the tiny lives of the inhabitants stretch across the provincial life-tapestry. A warm and rich land, where the gods they worship are benign and nurturing - they have no need for the strong and cunning and ruthless, in their land of dreams, nor have they need of exploration, of stretching their horizons towards the moon.
Here is the jewel-crimson stone of Redwall Abbey, where there is a starched brown vellum map spread across the Recorder's table, long forgotten. They have no need of it, not in their ostrich in the sand way of life - the map is crude, exaggerated, with Redwall shown larger than it should, the focal point of the world to these creatures of humility. It goes east a bit, showing touches of the wild scrubland, and it goes south, a bit, detailing Southsward, but it stops abruptly at the edge of the paper.
Do they not know what exists beyond the line?
Or do they not care?
Who are we to say, gentle reader? All there is to say is this: Mossflower is beautiful in the autumn. A breathtaking beauty that stifles the mind in the narrow lives of the woodland.
What more need they, who have heaven in their grasp?
---
His parents were not killed by vermin. He harbored no grudges, no secret animosities. His childhood was fairly happy, considering that he was an orphan, but it held nothing of spectacular interest. He spent his time in Redwall Abbey, and was a kitchen apprentice, and an incurable dreamer.
His name was Will, and he did not belong in the Abbey.
---
"William!"
There was no answer from the boy in query, and the voice, loud and resonant, tried again. "William Fieldmouse!"
No response.
"WILLIAM!"
"Yes, Mother Verbena."
"William, you're supposed to be helping in the kitchens - where are you?"
A rumpled head poked itself over the edge of the roof, watching the ponderous form of the badger-mother lumber beneath the gutter. She still hadn't seen him, and he grinned suddenly, sitting up and scooping a handful of dirt from the shingles of the roof. As Mother Verbena moved right beneath him, he showered her with dust, spotting her immaculately clean fur with brown. She grunted in her gruff voice and looked up, deep eyes distinctly annoyed. "So!" she exclaimed, "I should have known you'd be up there.... Down, right now, and you're going to regret it, you little rascal!"
"My foot slipped," he said contritely, "I didn't mean to get you dirty."
"We'll see about that," Verbena said grimly. She was used to dealing with Will; a constant battle of wits. "You come down here right now."
Will slide sideways until his paws grasped the drainpipe in the corner. Hoisting himself off of the roof, he slid down the metal and landed easily on the ground, wincing and blowing lightly on his hands, which burned from the speed of the descent.
He was marched forcibly off to the kitchens, Verbena lecturing with every step. "When will you stop day-dreaming and do your part? Disgraceful...."
With a despondent sigh, he trudged towards the kitchens, where the wrath of Friar Price awaited him.
---
Will examined his hands afterwards, slick and still wet from the dishwater. Because he had been late for duty, the Friar had ordered him to stay in the kitchens during supper, allowing him to catch a bite to eat during the brief respites between courses. If there was one thing he hated, though, it was washing the dishes afterward. There always seemed to be piles and piles of them, and it was almost as if they multiplied while he wasn't looking.
Pots, dishes, pots.
Exhausted, Will attempted to catch the attention of one of the higher-ranked kitchen beasts, to show that he was finished with his work. "Miz Sora! Over here," he yelled over the clatter of plates and the chatter of the other creatures.
"Finished, then?" she asked. Sora was only three years older than Will, a very matronly eighteen, but from the way she acted, the mouse gave the impression of a middle-aged woman.
"Yes, Miz Sora," Will said respectfully. Out of the kitchen staff, Sora was one of the friendlier ones, but if you were too disrespectful you'd find a wooden spoon connecting painfully with your rump. He'd experienced it first-hand and it wasn't pleasant at all.
She pushed the crystal glasses to the bridge of her nose, though they hadn't slipped, and peered closely at the mountain of clean dishes. "Hmmm," she said thoughtfully, while Will fidgeted uncomfortably, wanting to go back to the dormitories.
"Yes?" he asked, silently prodding her to hurry up.
Her head went up as she stared levelly, a very steady gaze that made him squirm even more. "Very good," Sora said, with all the pompous authority of a junior army officer, "You may go now." As he beat a hasty retreat, she called after him, "And don't be late tomorrow, or I'll give you twice as much work!"
"Tyrant!" he said over his shoulder, and was gone before she could set a spoon to his bottom.
He was really too old for that, Will thought; someone should tell Sora to save the admonishing for Dibbuns and the younger children - the problem was, in Sora's eyes, everyone was a child, especially a half-grown, irresponsible mouse-boy.
---
He had no friends, really. Will was the only boy his age that lived in the Abbey; the others were either too old or too young. There was a squirrel named Dan in Mossflower whom he talked to while he traveled in the forest, sometimes; and some of the older Abbeybeasts condescended to speak with the too skinny William on occasions.... Not a true friend in the lot.
The only thing he really looked forward to was practice with the Abbey Champion.
When Will was still a Dibbun - barely four years old - he would watch Caolán as he rehearsed the careful movements of the Shadow Dance, the intricate steps of fighting an invisible opponent. I want to look like that, the boy had thought to himself; I want the snake-oil-grace, like his. The warrior was tall, well muscled and fit looking. Although he was gradually getting older, his body had lost nothing of its skills in the intermittent years since his arrival at Redwall.
Caolán, kind hearted and always willing to teach an eager student, began teaching the child the rudiments of the fighting arts, starting with simple calisthenics and fists, working up to bows and quarter staves, and finally beginning with the sword. Eleven years Will had been going to the Warrior in the early mornings, when most of the Abbey was abed and unaware. Verbena had never been happy about the arrangement, and often sought to deter Will from the course of violence.
No use, there, nothing could keep him away from the grassy clearing in the orchards where Caolán and the weapons were.
Today, Caolán was ready and waiting for him, as usual, in a loose-necked shirt, baggy trousers, and bare paws. He held two practice swords in his hands, bundles fashioned ingeniously from reeds and tied tightly with bowstrings. They had wooden crosspieces and hilts, and stung sharply when they connected with bare skin. Caolán threw one to Will as he padded into the clearing. "I'll not make you use the forms today, lad," the warrior said lightly, a devil's grin slipping onto his face.
Will gulped nervously. Forms were a set pattern of moves, choreographed fighting, for the sole purpose of learning how to handle the sword and to move with it. He'd never fought without them, and he thought it was more than a bit unfair of Caolán to spring such a surprise on him without warning. "Um," he said, "All right, then." He caught the "sword," settled into the guard position, and waited for Caolán's attack.
Caolán raised an eyebrow. "Well?" he asked, "Your move, Will."
Tentatively, Will extended the sword, only to have the Champion bat it lightly aside and shake his head. "Not like that, lad, you're trying to hurt me, remember?" he asked, humor touching the words.
"Right," Will said, and feinted at the warrior's head before disengaging the sword to the side and chopping at Caolán's belly. Unfortunately, the older mouse was too fast, and blocked both attacks, causing a loud "clack-clack" sound.
"Better," Caolán said approvingly, and attacked suddenly in a flurry of blows. Will retreated backwards steadily, parrying blows as he went. The sudden storm of cuts towards his body left him unable to do anything but go on defense; it was difficult enough avoiding being smacked on some exposed part.
This went on for a while; with Will barley defending and Caolán giving no mercy. The sweat was beginning to drip down Will's forehead and into his eyes, stinging. Glancing slightly to the side, Will noticed with a groan of dismay that he was backing up into a tree. An idea came and suddenly he smiled: raising the sword up in a high parry to keep Caolán from whacking his head, Will's foot went out in a kick that caught the Champion in the stomach and knocked him off balance.
It was cheating, Will knew, and stood there grinning sheepishly while Caolán wheezed on the ground. Abruptly, to Will's shock, the warrior began to laugh as soon as he regained his breath, guffawing loudly. "Good job, lad! Wasn't expecting that one, was I, and look where I'm sitting now," he managed to gasp out between laughs.
"Sorry," Will said, and extended a hand to help the fallen warrior up. Caolán, standing, used the hand for leverage and, just as suddenly as Will had kicked him, he flipped the younger mouse over. Will, landing heavily on his back, had the breath knocked out of his lungs. He stared up at the sky for a moment, blinking. "Ouch," he managed, and sat up. "Are we done now?"
"Yes," Caolán said, and gestured for Will to follow after him. They walked through the orchard in silence.
"Sir?" Will asked as they passed under the apple trees near the pond.
"Yes?"
"Did you always live here in the Abbey?"
"Not always, Will.... I was a mercenary for most of my life."
"Why did you decide to come here?" Will asked, unable to keep a touch of bitterness from his voice.
"They needed me," Caolán replied simply.
More silence, until Will, who had another question, spoke again. "Sir?"
"Yes, Will?"
"Do you ever miss it?"
"The fighting?"
"No.... The freedom."
Will was not surprised to find that Caolán was unable to answer.
---
Abbot Edward was growing older, and it was easy to tell as much from his movements. He was slow, arthritic, with a certain dignity to his stiffness that gave him an ageless air. He wore no ornaments other than his spectacles, which reflected the firelight as he painstakingly lit each of the torches in the study, snugly fit in their wall sconces. This room was his inner sanctum, where the books, scrolls, and religious works that he turned to for guidance filled wall-to-wall bookshelves; where the rest of the furniture could be termed Spartan at best.
A knock sounded at the door, a sharp rapping. That could only be one creature, Caolán. The Abbey Champion had his own distinctive sound. "Come in, please," Edward called, sitting down with a crack of bones and tendons.
"Evening, Edward," said Caolán, sprawling comfortably in one of the spare chairs that sat before the Abbot's desk.
"Good evening, my son," said Edward, brown eyes twinkling behind the spectacles.
"'Son?'" Caolán asked, amused.
"I always thought it important to observe formality," the Abbot replied gravely.
"Of course you did," Caolán replied. The relationship between Warrior and Abbot was an easy, friendly one: they understood each other very well. Each man was past his prime, but refused to let that fact slow down any of their actions; each man was passionately devoted to their jobs.
Edward could tell that all was not well, despite Caolán's usual open smile. "Something is troubling you?" he asked.
"It's Will," the warrior said, "He's unhappy here."
"Why?" the Abbot asked, genuinely puzzled, "We've everything here."
"You've never felt the wanderlust," Caolán said, with just a hint of patronization, more of pity, "You never needed to move beyond the walls.
Edward was bewildered. "I don't see why anyone would need to - the Abbey is paradise on earth."
"Sometimes," Caolán said, eyes fixed on the flames of one of the wall torches. Edward found that it was quite impossible to figure out what he was thinking about, what he was remembering. "Sometimes, that just isn't enough."
---
"You missed a spot," Sora said severely as she supervised Will's latest penitence.
"Sorry, Miz Sora," he muttered, and put some backbone into the scrubbing.
"Was it really necessary to put honey on the privy seat, Will?" Sora asked him, raising both eyebrows at once. Her eyes, however, magnified behind the thick crystal glasses, were amused.
"I didn't mean for the Abbot to sit there," Will insisted, "I just wanted to get back at Friar Price for making me stay in longer than I had to, when I could have gone in for the fishing contest-"
"Oh, -really- now?" a thin voice said, behind them.
Will jumped, letting the dishes clatter into each other. "Father Price!" he squeaked.
"So," Friar Price said, sounding very pleased, "Admitted from his own mouth! And the Abbot wouldn't listen to me when I said you had a grudge."
"Did I say Friar Price?" Will asked, "I meant, I meant, 'other mice.'"
"Nice try, young man," Friar Price said, "But you're going up before Mother Verbena for this one."
Sora only gave him a look that conveyed quite clearly the words, "I told you so."
---
"Will," Mother Verbena asked, "You cannot keep doing this. You're growing up, you're going to be a part of our Abbey. You have to become more responsible."
"I can't help it." He looked at the floor. Mother Verbena made him feel very young and very small, sometimes. Right now, all joking aside, he wanted to sink into the floor. The badger's eyes focused on him, large and dark, seriousness and disappointment evident in them. The majority of the young Abbey residents were orphans, Will no exception, and she looked on them all as her children. When one was recalcitrant or unhappy, there was an echoing feeling in the badger.
"You can. You just don't want to," she corrected. "Will, you won't be able to stay in the Abbey unless you begin taking things more seriously."
"Yes, Mother Verbena."
"We can't keep warning you..."
"I -know-. Can I go now?"
She sighed, and rubbed her temples as if in pain. "Yes, Will. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Mum," he said, and ran from the room.
"Sometimes I get the feeling that he's not listening to me, no matter what I say," she told the empty chair, and sighed.
---
It was another beautiful Mossflower night.
Will, having spent exactly fifteen years absorbing beautiful Mossflower nights, was beginning to grow slightly sick of them. He rolled over onto his back and thought about what Caolán had said. At least the warrior had lived some of his life outside of the confining walls. It looked as though Will would never have that. Unless....
He'd been thinking about it for a long time now, but it finally struck home that if he didn't follow through now, he'd never work up the courage to do it. "It." Leaving Redwall, his home. As Will slipped from his bed, he remembered a sampler that Sora had stitched so assiduously, one that said, in pink floss, "Home Is Where The Heart Is." His heart was not here - it never had been.
The other boys in the dormitory were completely unconscious; he knew they were all sound sleepers. No fear of waking them. He changed - no use running away in a nightshirt. Light long sleeved shirt, leather jerkin, breeches, boots. A belt, complete with pouch. Hurrah, he thought, I am being resourceful.
Will half expected the door to squeak as he left, but it swung open as it always did, leaving the way clear for him to leave. Paw prints on stone, paw prints alone. There were some simple things to take, and then he would be off.
First in the seamstress' room, where he found a newly repaired back satchel. This he filled with a heavier shirt, cloak and breeches, and moved on. Canteen with water, two loaves of bread - some cheese. Simple fair, which would stay edible in the heat. Quill, ink, and vellum, for later. Kitchen knife, long and sharp - Friar Price would miss that one, but it went into the belt without a blink of an eye.
Out to the shed where Caolán took care of the extra weapons - nothing fancy, there. Will selected a quarterstaff, settled the bag over thin shoulders, and headed for the gates. No one had challenged him. He doubted anyone had even woken up. Pausing by the gate, he scribbled a hasty note and pinned it to the door with the quill-trimming knife. The small wicker South Gate slipped open easily enough, and he shut it tightly - no one was going to sneak in, not until one of the Abbey beasts noticed. He walked off into the night, and did not look back.
For once in his life, the future looked exciting.
---
Caolán yawned widely and rolled over in his bed, greeted by an obnoxiously cheerful bird trilling an early-morning melody. "Tralala," it whistled, but desisted once Caolán had thrown a shoe at it. The bird flew away in a self-righteous flutter of feathers, winging away to find a window more hospitable towards its cause.
"Damn birds," Caolán said, lacking venom. He dressed in a leisurely manner; by the position of the sun, young Will wouldn't be in the orchards yet. The warrior smoothed down his fur, which had a distressing tendency to stick at odd angles. A chilly breeze blew through the window, settling cool fingers on his neck and undoing any work he'd just finished on his appearance.
He ambled down the stairs and out to the orchards, expecting to find the boy waiting there for him - Will was an eager student. There was no one. Caolán, unperturbed, went next to the weapons shed to pick up the reed swords, and was disconcerted to find that the door was unlocked, flapping open and shut in the breeze. A sense of unease penetrated his still-sleepy brain, and the mouse called out, "Will? Lad, you've had your joke now. Come out from your hiding."
Walking slowly, he padded through the orchards - ears out for any sort of movement, but there was only the play of wind on tree. A soft swinging caught his attention, and he moved forward to the Southeast Gate. It was open, with a note pinned neatly to the door. Caolán scanned it silently for a moment, and spoke two words that expressed his feelings admirably: "Oh, fuck."
---
"'Sorry. -Will," Edward read aloud. Caolán stood before him, expressionless. "Talkative," Edward mused.
"No."
"We've not lost a young one for years," Edward said, looking troubled, "He won't be coming back, will he?"
"No," Caolán said again.
"I'll organize a search party-"
"No," Caolán repeated.
"No?" Edward asked, sounding defeated.
"He'll do all right for himself," the Champion said, tracing a pattern on the wood grain of the Abbot's desk, "And it's important for Will - extremely important - that he find his own way. I don't think it would be.... Healthy to bring him back."
"He doesn't know what the outside world is like!" Edward exclaimed, "He's just a child, he could be hurt-"
"Edward," Caolán said.
"What?" the Abbot broke off his agitated tirade.
"Didn't you ever want to leave? To see the stars when they weren't bordered by the walls?"
"....Once."
"But you never acted on it, did you?"
"I couldn't. This is my home."
"Will wants to see the stars, Edward. Can you let him?"
Edward was silent for a long moment, before smoothing out the note so that it lay flat on the desk. "Pray for him, Caolán - promise me that."
"Done."
It was days like these, reflected Edward that weighed deeply on his shoulders.
---
Will, groggily, shook his head and sat up. He was soaking wet: dew beaded his face and clothing. Standing quickly, the mouse brushed at his limbs until the water droplets mixed into his fur, slicking everything flat and making himself look smaller. Grumbling under his breath, Will shook his entire body until the fur fluffed out again. Amused by his sudden worry for cosmetics, Will shrugged, picked up the bag and staff, and stepped onto the road.
It was overcast and cloudy, not all the sort of morning he'd been hoping for on his first day away from the Abbey. The trees hanging over into the road flickered strange patterns of light and shade onto the dirt in front of him as he walked. At first Will enjoyed his journey, but then the walking began to be monotonous and the silence oppressive.
To counteract the mindless quiet he hummed to himself, but that seemed too loud. Nervous, he glanced over his shoulder, looking back.
The wall of the Abbey was still visible in the distance, though he'd been walking for over a day. He could still go back if he wanted to, they would accept him with open arms and smiling faces. Maybe everything would work out right, like it never had before he'd gone. Maybe he'd appreciate what he had left behind and then he'd settle into the process like before and become a mindless drone, he'd either become a monk or leave the Abbey and marry and have dull children...
And Will smiled to himself, and turned, and continued down the road.