The Seer's Journal
A Redwall Fanfiction
By John Mitch
Disclaimer: First of all, I seem to have a nasty habit of using names for things that seem a sidestep away from meaning something, or referring to other places, people, things, etc. So let me get this out in the open right now: If there's a name for anyone or anything that rings a bell – say a word with one or two letters changed from something else, or a word meaning something in another language – it's a coincidence. I don't mean to rip off other people's titles and words – it just seems that all the cool words I try to make up are plays on another word that maybe I heard once upon a time.
That said, all characters, places, and events in this story are fictional. That means it didn't – or hasn't – happen(ed). If anything seems familiar to you, congratulations! We're using the same old clichés and stereotypes…or else it's coincidental and unintentional. This is a fanfiction, meaning it's a story based on or inspired by a novel or story someone else wrote – in this case, Brian Jacques' Redwall series. All names, places, events, etc. that appear in his books are, of course, property of the aforementioned author, Brian Jacques. That said, all the other names, places, events, etc. that are not Mr. Jacques' are mine.
That is not to say you cannot set stories in those locales, write a fanfiction of this story featuring one of my characters, put different characters in the same situation – you just have to ask me first. Also, once you have my permission to use the stuff, I ask that you don't rehash the roles written in this story, and that you don't ram your finished work down my throat. If and when I choose to read it, I will. A simple, single e-mail with the address of the story will be quite sufficient – notice the words 'simple' and 'single'. That means, no 59 e-mails with "READ MY SOTRY! READ MY SOTRY! READ MY SOTRY! READ MY SOTRY! READ MY SOTRY! READ MY SOTRY! READ MY SOTRY!" and a virus attachment.
Reviews would be appreciated, but keep criticisms constructive; there's nothing like "UR WURDZ SUX!" to kill your credibility with me. I am reasonably sure that you are not Brian Jacques, especially if your e-mail is sent from an AOL address with typos up the yin-yang. I am certain you are not a book publisher – even if you are, I'm not looking for a way to tap into Redwall royalties, and this story is only authorized for use on the internet.
Which brings me to my next, and last point. If you want to post this story on your site, ask me first. I am not that hard to get in touch with! I don't want to see this fic on the same page as "The Hip-Hop Dictionary And Reference Guide: When and When Not To Add '-izz'". Therefore, send me the address for your page when you ask for permission to use the story. I will gladly allow you to use it!…as long as your page is on the level. Most favorable responses, by the way, go out to Redwall fan sites and clubs, So far only the following pages have permission to post it:
www.fanfiction.net
If you see it on any other page at all, e-mail me and confirm that it's legit!
The snow drifted gently down in the dim evening, covering the freshly upturned dirt that now covered the body of this brutal winter's latest victim. There were no Dibbuns out and about, throwing snowballs and making snowmice. In fact, the grounds of Redwall Abbey were bitterly cold and devoid of activity, except for a burly, dusky red squirrel, dressed for the season and peering out across the blindingly white sheet of flat land and trees bent double with a burden of cold powder. The sky was orange with fire as the sun set, at least where snow clouds didn't hover overhead.
At last, this squirrel saw what he was looking for, and let loose with a shrill whistle. A lump in the distance, only slightly less white than the snow, stood and waved to the Redwall sentry. In a trice the squirrel was up and over the wall, landing in a strategically placed snow pile, and racing across the soft crystals of ice, with a lightness of touch and swiftness of paw not often seen, even in other squirrels. Almost in no time, the distance between the two creatures was closed, and the squirrel pounced on the other beast.
They wrestled around in the snow, laughing and exchanging jibes.
"Bless my soul, Zephyr you fat treewalloper, you must be twice as big around as when I saw you last! Found your old stash of hazelnuts, eh?"
"And I hear you found yourself a charming wife, Icefur you sly fox! Why didn't you stop by Redwall to share the good news!" joshed the squirrel.
"Oh, the usual," the silvery fox put it, half-mockingly. "Got a home to build, a family to raise, and a book to find."
"Aw, you're not still on about your father's journal, are you? He probably left it where no one would think to look…like in the river, weighted with rocks."
"I saw him scribble in the dratted thing many times…I just can't remember where he put it." The fox's tone grew sober. "And while we're on the topic of fathers, I heard yours passed on just recently. I thought I might drop in, pay homage to the great creature."
"Aye, hopefully he's in a warmer climate by now. Well, you'll freeze if you pay homage to him tonight, so let's see if we can't get you something hot to drink and someplace warm to sleep tonight."
They slogged off together towards the main gate of Redwall, the path running alongside it and parallel to the snowflakes that drifted down gently. The squirrel pulled on the gate to open it. It wouldn't budge.
"Um," began Zephyr. He pulled harder. Still no luck. "Oh of all the blinkin' luck!" he cried as he realized his folly. "I left the cursed gate locked!" He pounded on the gate, hoping that there would be someone to hear the racket. "Well, I guess there's only one thing for it," he muttered. He gripped the sandstone bricks that formed the wall and began to climb.
The weather chose this moment to turn foul. Where the snow had previously sprinkled down in a lazy, haphazard fashion, it now fairly surged downwards in a blankets, the wind howling mightily and launching a gale powerful enough to flatten the unexpecting squirrel against the wall, destroying his hindpaws' grip on the stones and leaving him to scratch wildly at the wall, until he finally fell straight down into the snow pile.
"Are you all right?" Icefur queried, concerned about his friend's health. Zephyr staggered upright, bleeding from his left footpaw. "Come on," he insisted, putting his arm around the squirrel's shoulders and helping him to walk. "Let's get you to my home."
"Whatever you say, Icey." The squirrel groaned as he limped along. "Of all the luck, I had to leave the gate locked."
Icefur's home consisted of a massive hollowed-out tree trunk that had fallen the previous year and left to rot, until he and his father had traveled from afar to the heart of Mossflower Forest the previous year and settled in to live there, free from the life of danger his homeland had become host to. Now, the windows were dim, but smoke still rose from the rudimentary chimney.
The fox pushed open the door, called out, "Jhera? Are you still up?"
His wife, a pleasantly plain red fox, peered out from their bedroom. "Shhhh. I just got the little ones to sleep." She spoke softly, with an accent unfamiliar to the squirrel. She then noticed the dark red squirrel and came out from around the wall. "Oh, you must be the Zephyr that Icey talks about sometimes. Pleased to meet you. My name is Jhera."
"Pleased to meet you, Miz Jhera. Don't mind me, I had the great idea to climb a wall in a blizzard. Gullible ol' Icefur brought me here because I locked myself out of the Abbey."
"Um, Jhera, could you please get me those dry dock leaves and some binding? Mister Zephyr hurt himself, I want to make sure he can walk by tomorrow."
"Right." She disappeared into the kitchen, reappeared quickly with the dock, the twine, and a badly abused, green-covered book with a timeworn gilded insigne on the front.
"Thank you, dear," murmured Icefur as he took the leaves and twine. Quickly and skillfully he bound the poultice onto the squirrel's foot. "There you go! Stay off the paw and it'll be right as rain by tomorrow – at least, enough so to walk on."
"Thanks, Icey." The squirrel gingerly tested the paw. "Not bad at all."
The silver fox looked up at his wife, who softly hit him on the snout with the green book. "Is this what you were looking for?" she asked with a hint of humor in her soft lilt as she handed the book over.
"Th- th- the journal! Where did you find it?"
"Sitting under the twine and dock and sanicle. Apparently your father used it as a tray for those sort of things, or else it was left there for just this moment."
"Come on, Jhera, how would he kn- knuh- knuh…" Icefur stuttered and trailed off as he opened the book. If it were possible for eyes to go flying out of one's head, Icefur would presently be suffering from that affliction. As it was, he was bug-eyed and tongue-tied from shock.
"What is it, Icey?" Jhera tiptoed to look over her husband's shoulder at what he was staring at. She gasped, looked at Zephyr, looked at the book, looked at the squirrel again. "It's you," she stammered.
"What? It's me, what?" He struggled to reach for the book that shocked the foxes so. What he saw made his jaw drop.
There were eleven small portraits on the first page, five on the left, four on the right, two in-between. And towards the bottom of the page, on the right side, was a small, near-perfect portrait of himself, marred only by the shaky paw of an elderly beast. It was labeled ZEPHYR TREELEAF. Connected to his portrait by a vertical line was another portrait of higher quality, having as its subject his father, listing him by his proper name REDREN TREELEAF. Again, connected by a line, was a vaguely familiar face labeled JESAK TREELEAF, and above that, a small, perfectly lifelike portrait of a savagely painted or tattooed squirrel, whose name was given as ORRIN TREELEAF.
On the left side of the paper were five small portraits, but the subjects were not squirrels. Far from it; they appeared to be ferrets.
The top portrait was a testament to Icefur's father's artistic skills, it appeared that the beast named BLADEMANE was about ready to leap from the portrait and slaughter the first beast who moved.
There were two portraits connected to this one, side-by-side; the one on the left was fiercely painted and grinning savagely, the other dour and plain-featured. Their names were KIRLEN and KARAN.
Only one line descended from there; apparently Kirlen had not left heirs. Karan did, and his progeny was a handsome young creature listed as KYLAR.
The portrait in the bottom left corner was blotted out, the features uncertain and vague, the name illegible. It had gotten wet when it was drawn, or something similar, but one way or another it was indecipherable.
The two in the middle were foxes; TERBIN at the top and ICEFUR at the bottom. All eleven appeared to have been painted at about six seasons of age, except for Orrin and Blademane, who were decidedly older.
Zephyr turned the page, began silently reading the text there, and set the book gently into his lap. "Icey," he began, "you'd better read this." He slowly passed it over to the silver fox, who began reading out loud.
My dear Icefur-
Hopefully you will have the other two with you when you read this. If not, some uncanny force will draw them there. I know this, because I was once the greatest Seer that ever lived. I will be dead when you read this, and so will Redren Treeleaf, and so will Kylar Longtail. You already know Red's son Zephyr, I know; if you haven't already, you will meet Kylar's child soon as well.
As I said before, I was a Seer. You are descended from a long line of Seer foxes, my boy – but don't strain yourself, your mother was not of the Sok'oi, the Seer clan. As far back as could be seen, your forefathers and mine were servants of the Kings of Highkeep – the mountain castle that was once seat of the Eastern Alliance. You will be confused by now, so I'd better back up a little.
The Eastern Alliance was, for the longest time, a tight-knit group of clans who set aside their differences, banded together and created a great kingdom where "goodbeast" and "vermin" had no meaning aside from describing those to the West – which, in my opinion, are still a barbaric and overall violent group, no matter how they butter it over.
Always keep this in mind when reading this, son: No matter how much a beast claims he loves every living creature, they still have ingrown prejudices. Sometimes they never outgrow them.
The Sok'oi clan was probably the least popular group to join the Alliance. "Never trust a Sok'oi" was the catchphrase of the day. Some of our kin died at the hands of those so-called civilized creatures. It all came to a head when the King of the day, Paedrus, needed to choose an advisor to help guide his kingdom. All the clans and all the groups and everybeast with an agenda to follow tried to take the position, and somebeasts tried to keep them from getting the post while others supported them. As legend has it, King Paedrus chose a Sok'oi for an advisor because they were the only clan everyone hated.
As it turned out, there was a goodly portion of the tribe who could somewhat predict events before they happened – rainstorms, locusts, the like. As time went on, this prediction-sense turned into some kind of inner eye, or second sight.
Eventually, there were rumors of an uprising sweeping the countryside. Panic ruled the day. In this time of great peril the Sok'oi came to the King's aid and pinpointed exactly where the attack would take place. This King was not so sensible and ignored the advice. Only through sheer dumb luck did the Alliance win through that day, but it buried many sons and daughters as the price.
The memory of the loss haunted the King, who appointed a Sok'oi Seer and decreed that each King that was to follow was to appoint one as well. We served well, and the Alliance prospered. Until, however, it was my turn.
I turn the explanation for my actions over to my journal from those days. Pass this on down your line as far as you can; but never forget to tell your children that looking to the past can only take you so far.
