Hope
The late autumnal sun slanted down into the abbey grounds, illuminating everything in brilliant golden red. The dusty sandstone walls flared with majestic light, and the golden leaves in the overgrown orchard glowed like warm embers. The infusing light fell, too, in the southwest corner of the abbey, and shed light on the massive, tangled form of the Late Rose. Gathered before the Rose, seven small figures stood, silent and somber, as the light illuminated the petals of the last blossom.
The Late Rose was dying.
As the figures looked on, the flower shifted almost imperceptibly, and fell from its withered stem. The foremost figure, a strong-bodied young mouse with a sword at his hip, reached forward tenderly and caught it as it approached the ground. He turned to face his companions, sorrow in his eyes and his voice.
"The Late Rose has passed."
Before him, his companions made for a melancholy group: an aged mouse, a tall, thin, greying hare, a stoutly mole with a heavily wrinkled face, and a young family of bank voles, their tiny daughter the only dibbun in the abbey. They all stood silent, even the volebabe quieted. The mole looked round first, and broke the silence with irrepressible could sense.
"Yurr, Oi'll goo an' fetch ee cart, zurr." He trundled slowly off, heading through the orchard, and was soon lost to sight. Mrs. Bankvole sniffed, wiped the corner of her eye with her apron, and said, "I'll go and prepare our provisions, then." She took her daughter from her husbands' arms. "Come along, Tiff." Mr. Bankvole also excused himself, heading off to the cellars to prepare the few casks for travel.
The two mice and the hare were left gazing at the withered mass of lifeless brambles. The old hare removed his monocle and began polishing it on his sleeve. "Err, believe h'I'll pop off to help Mrs. Bankvole with those vittles. Got to be sure that young Tiff doesn't scoff the lot, don'cha know?" And away he went, slightly favoring his left leg.
The young mouse turned to his elderly companion, searching his eyes for a sign of recognition. "Father?" he queried. The old mouse looked at him distantly for a moment, before his eyes focused on the younger mouse, who proffered the rose. With tender care, he accepted the fragile flower in his cupped paws. "Thank you, my son," he whispered in a hoarse voice. The pair slowly made their way towards the door to the abbey.
As the pair entered Great Hall, the young warrior excused himself, and disappeared down Cavern Hole. The Abbot moved slowly forward, down towards the great Tapestry of Martin the Warrior. Gazing up at the image of the Abbey's hero, he laid the rose gently on the stone table beneath the tapestry, at the warrior's feet. He stood back then, hands folded in the wide sleeves of his habit, looking into the eyes of his Abbey's founder.
He was still standing there by the time the others had finished loading the small but sturdy wooden cart for travel. The apparatus had been moved across the grounds and out onto the path in front of the abbey. The few friends gathered one last time before the ancient tapestry, awaiting some sign from the Abbot. At length, he turned and addressed the young warrior. "Is everything ready, my son?" The younger mouse nodded, and the Abbot sighed. "Then it seems the time of departure is upon us, friends. But before we go, I think we should pay our last respects to Martin the Warrior."
The young mouse stepped forward; with Martin's sword at his side, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the warrior in the fading light. "I would like to say a few words, Father." At a nod from the Abbot, he continued.
"Martin founded our Abbey countless seasons ago. He was a brave and fearless warrior, but he was also a mouse of peace. He strove always to protect the weak and uplift the downtrodden, a true champion. Even in death, his spirit guided and protected the abbey for many countless generations. Through all the many years, he has been with us, through good times and bad, in times of peace, and times of war, and through feasts and sickness." Here, the young mouse paused. "Though his spirit has now left us, we must trust that he has finally found his rest. His work is done, and we, the last followers of his order, must carry on. But we must carry on elsewhere."
The old hare spoke up. "Well said, lad. Couldn't have done it better m'self, and h'I've been called a champeen orator, don'cha know!"
Tears were rolling from the corners of Foremole's eyes; moles were easily moved by such words. "Burr aye, zurr, you'm beez ee gurtly talented poet, burrhurrhurr."
The Abbot addressed the small assemblage. "You are right, my son. We must prepare to leave."
As they turned to leave, the mouse turned to the Abbot and asked, "But Father, shouldn't we take the Tapestry with us?"
The old mouse slowly turned to face the younger. "No, my son, I do not think we should. I have given this much thought, but the Tapestry, like that sword you carry, holds no potent magical powers. The Sword may yet be used to defend the weak, just as Martin himself used it. But the Tapestry is his memorial, a monument to our great abbey defender; it should remain here, at rest with the warrior, for as long as these ancient walls may stand." The others nodded in agreement.
"Well then, we'd best be on the old trail quick as you like, sirrah; got to be on our way before the bally sun sets, wot wot!" said the old hare, polishing his monocle furiously.
But as they left the building, the abbot surprised them all by standing his ground. "I have also decided that I will not be going with you." This was met with immediate opposition, but the frail old mouse silenced them all with a raised paw. "I have given much thought to this also. Like the Tapestry, I am an old relic. I cannot abandon my Abbey, even when all other creatures have passed from its walls. Besides, I am in no shape to travel; I would only slow you down."
The young warrior stood above his Abbot, furious. "Father, I am the Warrior of Redwall! I have just as much duty as you to protect these walls, and I cannot simply leave you behind! You will starve!"
The Abbot embraced the young warrior mouse. "Oh my son, your duty is to the good creatures of Redwall, as their defender and champion; you must follow and protect them. There is enough food in our larders to sustain one aged mouse for many seasons yet, and I have always fancied life in our gatehouse."
The old hare nudged his young friend, and whispered conspiratorially: "No sense in trying to talk him out of it, lad, point of honor an' all that, don'cha know, wot!"
The old abbot shook the hare's paw warmly. "Thank you, Captain. You are certain you will be well received?"
The seasoned campaigner drew himself up to his full height. "But of course, sah! M'lud may be getting on in years now, but he's building a boat, don'cha know, and what's six more mouths to feed compared to a regiment of hares, wot!"
Mr. Bankvole spoke up. "A boat? Where does he plan on sailing?"
The Captain gave him a broad, monocled wink. "Why, west, m'dear boy! To Noonvale!"
Now it was the warrior's turn to act perplexed. "But I thought Noonvale was to the north, where Martin came from?"
The irrepressible hare gave another huge wink, his mustaches wobbling. "Noonvale, laddie, is wherever you find it!"
As the group said their goodbyes to the Abbot, Tiff the volebabe suddenly burst out, "NO! Tiff not wanna go!"
And with that, she bolted off, back in the direction of the abbey. Mrs. Bankvole was all in a fluster, but the young warrior went off in pursuit, promising to bring her back.
He slowed as he approached the door to great hall. A tiny volebabe could get into any number of places to hide; he wasn't even entirely sure where to start looking. But his fears proved groundless, for as he entered the huge space, he could hear the echoes of her tiny voice, chatting to herself. He looked down between the columns, and there she stood before the Tapestry again, in a pool of golden light, dust floating around her.
He looked closer; she seemed to be talking to somebeast. In the shimmering dust motes, he would have sworn that he could almost make out the form of a mouse, bent down before the tiny figure of the dibbun. He walked forward and she turned around to greet him. He picked her up and, with a tone of mock severity, asked her, "And where did you think you were off to, you little scamp?"
Tiff surprised him by asking another question. "Mista wurria, why we gotta go?
He paused for a moment, taken aback. He carried her out of the abbey and across the lawn, thinking. "Because, Tiff, all things must eventually end. That is the way of the world."
This seemed to satisfy her for a moment. As they passed through the gates, she asked him another question. "Mista, will we eva come back?"
He fondly ruffled her soft fur as he settled her on the cart. "Perhaps someday, somebeast will return to Redwall. We can only hope, dear little one. We can always hope."
For He who says that I am dead, knows not at all;
I, am that is- and My sword shall wield for me.
So, 'neath the sandstone and ivy, a vigil I'll keep
As the Earth gently turns, and the seasons change slowly,
And the flowers and trees start to wane,
Hear my song o'er the lea, like the wind soft and lowly,
And comeback to Redwall again.