Book II: From There To Here And Here To There

A few weeks of travelling later...

The news hit Constance like a sledgehammer. Roseheart spoke staring at her feet, and the hall was silent and solemn. At first it had been ringing with joy, for the Foremole had been ever so happy to see his daughter safely returned, and the crowd had cheered at the wonderful sight. Then, after she had been restored to her full health the time had come for news, and Rosebrush told it all how she thought it to be. She did not look at anybeast, and when she finally got to the part where they had gotten onto the boat she stopped and broke down and was taken away.

Fret had ran away... And then Matiya had convinced the other children to go looking for him. Then they had been captured and held prisoner. Fret had wanted to kill Momchillo... then somebeast had been attacking the ship and they had managed to escape, and they had almost escaped as well, but Matiya had not wanted to leave Fret behind. The tale had ended there. Constance felt her insides clench, and felt eyes staring at her. Abbot Martin looked worried and his mouth hung open, for though he wanted to speak and give reassurance no words could leave his mouth.

"I'm sure they're alright." He said at last. Very quietly.

"How can they be?!" Blind Agatha roared, making everybeast near her jump in fright. "Alright? Alright? Nobeast knows where they are! They're not here and they're not safe!"

"Well..."

"Poor young mole, I can hardly imagine what she went through... and so young too-"

"She will be fine-" The old mouse's reassurance was cut short.

"She will be! But what about the rest, eh? Are we just meant to forget they exist?!"

"The Long Patrol are doing their best-"

"And what if they're dead?"

Silence filled the hall, and Momchillo's mother began sobbing.

"They're not dead." Constance declared boldly, challenging any to say that they were.

She did not expect to hear what came next, and was entirely unprepared for the insult. "Says the beast who raised a ferret. Because eventually the vermin will just decide to be good, eh? You were so sure Fret was a goodbeast, that he cared about you, how sure are you now?"

"I'm certain!" She bellowed angrily and tried to find the owner of the voice. Pounding them would rid her mind of worries...

"Truly? He was rotten to the core since the very beginning and you know it! He lied like a magpie and it was only a matter of time till he went and did something villainous. But he has, hasn't he? He tried to kill somebeast. Is that your angel? Is that your baby? Eh Constance?"

Constance had no reply for that either.

"Fret was never a goodbeast, you just convinced yourself that he was. He doesn't care about you. Never did. Never will. You're not his mother and he knows it. He was never your son anyways... just a replacement."

"Shut up! Shut up!" She bellowed, clutching her head tightly.

Abbot Martin raised his eyebrows. She had been the only one speaking... "Constance are you alright?"

She laughed madly, and once again it filled the Abbot's mind with fear. Though this time he was not scared of being tossed and turned around in a mad happy-dance. He was scared that she was broken. This time irreparably. "Alright? Alright? Fret's gone and become vermin! You were all right! Happy now! You were ALL RIGHT! He was never good! Never could be g-o-oo-d!" She cried into her paws.

Many present felt a kind of guilt rising inside them. They had been right... apparently... but there was no joy in it. Perhaps they blamed him for what had befallen their young... but those views could not be brought to Constance.

Abbot Martin remembered the ferret that had stuck to the corner of his class and snored through his lessons... Briefly he remembered Jon Connington's argument. "He's not... Veil Sixclaw."

Silence descended once again, the only sound was the sob of broken hearts.

"I'm bored." Said Whimper.

Presently he and Clogg were in the cabin with all the books. The ghost had not haunted him any further, and he was glad of that. Though what did haunt him was the cursed mice he'd pushed overboard. Why had he looked so surprised? He was tempted to ask the Captain, but for some reason he was doubting the rat's honesty. There were too many things that didn't match and his memory had still not returned to him.

"Only the boring are bored." Clogg said lightly. He was staring intently at a paper stuck to the tabletop.

"Watcha looking at?" The young ferret asked, leaning over the rat's shoulder. It was a map, which he recognized as being one of the Cursed Abbey.

"Nothing much. Just plans, for when we get to the Northlands."

"Why are we going to the Northlands?"

"Because an old matey of mine's invited me over. Longclaw. King of the Frozen North! Ha! The day I call him 'your highness' is the day I die!"

"That's not meant to be there." The ferret pointed suddenly at a house of sorts lying next to the walls of red stone.

"Huh? Oh that old hut, whaddya mean that's not meant to be there?"

Whimper pointed at the gate. "That's the gatehouse, which is just next to the gate, it's not a random hut. Here, gimme the quill." Without waiting, the ferret took the quill, dipped it in the ink and drew the shape of the gatehouse.

"How do you know that?" Clogg asked, his eyes doing that odd thing that the young vermin disliked.

"Well... I-er..." How had he known? "I suppose I read it."

"Excellent!"

Then Whimper once again got disinterested and changed the subject. "So when are we going to get to the Northlands?"

"Soon." The rat promised. "Hopefully today. But if not then on the morrow."

"Good. I'm sick of this boat."

"Why don't ye read something, eh? Ye always liked readin'."

"Not anymore I guess." He decided he could trust Clogg and found the words to describe what he felt like.

Whimper opened his mouth to talk further, and found an apple shoved into it.

"I have got things to do Whimper, I will see you later on." And saying so, Clogg walked out the cabin, leaving Whimper to grumble. Yes, yes. The captain had things to do. He always had things to do. Slumping in his chair he gazed absentmindedly at the books. He wasn't bothered with reading, and wasn't hungry enough to ask for vittles, so he occupied himself with flicking the odd thing the mouse had dropped. It was a toy of some kind. The rope made it go down, but if his paw was dexterous enough it would spin back round again. Up and down and up and down and up and down. It was almost hypnotic.

That was what he liked about it. He placed all his mind on the toy, and found that ghosts and dead mice haunted him no further. Well... until the spinning stopped.

Once Constance and Rosebrush had been taken away by the cook and Bella respectively, the hare and shrews found that they had the courage to discuss another matter.

"Rightey... um there's another thing we did find. Well... things... well... babes." The shrew provided the four young weasels, tied up by thin rope. Cheesienibbles, the only male and the youngest, looked positively frightened, but the three girls were glaring and snarling at everybeast in a show of anger and rage. They wanted freedom.

They were young and did not truly know what was going on. Their had been a fight, yes, but where were there parents? And where was Sharpfur? And where was Grey Claw? And all their other brothers and sisters?

"We found them and uh... it would be cruel to leave them for the fates... but er.. seeing as they couldn't be brought along and..."

"You expect us to raise vermin pups after one of them has gone and stolen our children? A vermin-pup we raised mind you!"

"I didn't bally say so!" But the hare's ears flattened and he did not know what to say.

"We can keep them in an empty cellar for now." Said the old abbot rubbing his poor, poor forehead. "Bring them food and drink and all that...and..." Dear Martin what are we going to do?

Sharpfur sat up groggily, being careful to not move his back too much for it pained him greatly. He was surprised to see that he was lying on a bed. An actual, real bed. He pinched his nose to test whether he was dreaming. He wasn't. So they had escaped the cannibals then? Was this the famous Redwall? Or rather, infamous... He heard laughter, and gingerly got to his feetpaws. They seemed to be working fine. His claws itched for the dirk that was not on his belt and grumbling he made his way to the door. He stopped when he heard an unfamiliar voice speaking loudly.

"And so ends the tale of Veil Sixclaw, who died the way he lived."

Sixclaw... there had been a story about an idiot ferret warlord with six claws, who had, out of sheer ludicracy, picked a quarrel with a badger only to die for it. What a silly beast. Sharpfur pushed the door open and walked in to the laughter.

Hawthorn looked radiant, and for once calling her a princess would lead to nought but a blush. Grollo looked happier and better-fed than Sharpfur had ever known him to be. And the last figure, who had been telling her the story, turned around and beamed at him. She was a hedgepig-inwardly he cursed his luck- appron-wearing and plump. In fact Grollo could have easily been passed off as her son. The laughter stopped from Hawthorn and Grollo, who stiffened at his arrival. Their relationship was made even more awkward now that nobeast could forget the snowball fight.

"Ah you're awake dear! So good to see you on your feet! And so swiftly too! Your friends have told me a lot about you!"

"They have?" Friends?

"Hush now, don't get all worked up. Please sit down and I'll see what grub I can find for you." She disappeared into another room, and the prospect of food made Sharpfur take her vacated seat. It was uncomfortably warm, but that was not his concern.

"So... we escaped those cannibals, eh?" Sharpfur asked.

Hawthorn shuddered. "Please don't talk about that."

The prospect of tormenting somebeast filled Sharpfur with familiar pleasure. "Why ever not, princess?" He said with a sneer. "Twas a good battle! Did ye see when I went and took the saber and started wha-" His own discomfort stopped him from continuing, and he was disappointed at the missed opportunity. "So how did we get here? And who's fatty over ther- Owch!"

"She is the nicest beast you'll ever know!" Snapped Hawthorn, who had kicked him. "She rescued us. We almost drowned escaping those vermin, and now she's going to feed you! And when you're better we can go to Redwall Abbey! At least show some simple respect!"

"I'll respect that dress she gave you, mouse. First thing you need to know about me is that I only care about and respect me! Meself! Sharp! Fur! Ye got that?"

Hawthorn frowned. "What about your family?"

Sharpfur shrugged. "Most of 'em are dead now. No doubts about that."

The casual way he spoke about the death of his family stunned both woodlanders.

"Are you vermin all so heartless?" Hawthorn gasped in shock.

"It ain't being heartless. It's being realistic. In fact I wouldn't be surprised if none of your abbey-pals made it out alive."

"Well you better hope they did." Growled Grollo. "Otherwise you'll be taking the full force of a lot of angry parents!"

"That's saying if I get to Redwall. Make no mistake I'm not stepping foot in that abbey."

"Ha! I knew it! You were leading us the wrong way!"

"Ye knew and followed anyways ye great fat slob."

Grollo tried to kick him under the table, missed, and hit the wooden leg with his foot. While the hedgehog rubbed at the fresh bruise Sharpfur cackled.

"Ye've got so much pudge round yer eyes ye can't even kick straight! Hahahahaha-awch!" Hawthorn had kicked him, and he stood up, the charred furs on his back bristling in anger.

"I'm going to kill ye both one day. Bit by bi- YOUUUUWIE!" Grollo had leaned over and smacked him hard on the burnt back, just as the hogmaid came back in with a wonderful array of food.

"Whatever is the matter?" She asked, her eyes wide and round. Sharpfur was in too much pain to reply, so Grollo provided the answer for him.

"It's his back marm. It pains him greatly."

"Oh my! I forgot! I'm so sorry dear, here let me help you." Gingerly she helped Sharpfur to his feetpaws, the weasel's teeth were clamped shut against each other to prevent him from yelling in pain. "Oh my... mymymymymy... I know just what to do to sort this out!"

"What?" Sharpfur seethed through gritted teeth. One day hedgepig... one day...

"A bath!" She cried aloud.

"Bath?" The pain made the word unfamiliar. Then he remembered with terror that bathing was to submerge oneself into water. "Bath!? Nonononono! My back is fine!"

"I think not! A good, nice, long, hot bath is just what you need!" She sniffed tentatively. "And perhaps some soap would not be amiss. Come along now!" And with that she tugged him gently by the ear and pulled him away, out another door.

As soon as she was out of earshot Grollo and Hawthorn shared a high-paw and began laughing.

"Serves him right! Leading us the wrong way and all! We would have been back home if it weren't for him." Grollo said, plucking a scone from the nearby tray the hogmaid had brought for Sharpfur.

Hawthorn was silent. "Grollo?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you think the others... Did they get back yet or?"

The hedgehog swallowed his mouthful. "Positive."

Hawthorn nodded.

"I think Matiya managed to jump off the ship. I think he's home. And Jack and Tibbers and Momchillo just ended up on the riverbank, like us, only they didn't have him to lead them the wrong way." Grollo then proceeded to devour the scone.

"So we'll be the last ones back, eh? Imagine Abbot Martin, he'd be so angry we missed his classes!"

At this the two burst out laughing again.

"Up! Down! Up! Up! Up! Up! Down! Yes! Good! Down! Down! Up! Left!" Two sticks whacked against each other repeatedly, until at last at 'left' Threeclaw caught Matiya a blow to the squirrel's right paw, causing him to yelp in pain and drop the stick as he shook life back into it.

"You said left!" Matiya said grumpily.

"I meant my left." Threeclaw leered as he went back to lounging against a tree. "And anyways, why are you listening to what your foebeast's saying, eh? You should always do the opposite of what your enemy wants you to do."

"So when you say 'Up' I should block 'Down'?"

"I ain't yer enemy, amigo!" At the look on the squirrel's face Threeclaw burst out laughing.

The journey back to Redwall was slow going, mainly because they were lost. Trees all looked the same in the thick snow, so Threeclaw had decided that they should make a camp and wait there up until Spring thawed it away. Of course they changed camp every night, but they did not do much travelling. They ate little, and munched on snow more often than not. But what Matiya did enjoy about his companion was what he could teach him. Threeclaw had proven several times over that he was a force to be reckoned with, and slowly he was imparting this knowledge onto the young squirrel.

Their was a sudden, unfamiliar shout coming from somewhere not too far away and both froze.

"You don't think it could be?" Rescue... Please, oh please be rescue!

Threeclaw shook his head. "Do you know the voice?"

Matiya said that he didn't and the stoat rose quietly. "Stay here. I'm going to see what's happening."

"I'll come too!" Said Matiya, going once again for his stick.

"No!" The stoat hissed, then he took a deep breath. "If it's woodlanders they'll take us to Redwall. Remember our bargain. But if it's vermin they'll skin ye alive."

"I can fight the- What was that for!" Matiya yelled as he rubbed a hurt ear.

"Rule one of staying alive. Do not look for a fight. I'll be right back. Stay here and be quiet. If you hear me cry 'Fire!' Run and hide someplace, and do not go looking for me!"

Matiya nodded vigorously and hoped that he would not hear the dreaded word.

The stoat vanished into the snow, and soon his white coat made him invisible.

"And then he looked me right in the eye and said that he loved me." The whole underdeck was silent as Sick-Eyes was finishing what was a truly sad, albeit exaggerated tale. "Then I looked him back and said 'I know ye do. Wait fer me in Hellgates.' Then I shoved me knife into his throat so he died quick-like and painlessly."

Deathglare leaned over and whispered into Momchillo's ear. "She's making it up. Changes every time, I swear." His voice was always quiet, and the mouse barely heard the whisper, but somehow it carried loud enough for Sick-Eyes to hear and glare at her cousin.

"No it don't! I just use different words ye great dafty!"

Deathglare shrugged and fell back into silence.

Momchillo had long ago asked how such an old beast could have a cousin so young, only to learn that they were not truly related in any way, shape or form. Deathglare was from the Green Isle to the West, and Sick-Eyes had been a Northlander. But both had settled with the Honest Bunch in Mossflower. The term 'cousin' was only used between them since they were of the same species. Deathglare had then added that 'he wasn't that young'.

"So mouse what do yer think? Nice and lurvely little tale innit? And all true!" She said, glaring pointedly at her fellow vermin.

"Well..." It's more realistic than you being young. "It was sad."

"Of course it was. Life is sad me lad. Sad, sad, sad. Ye spend more of yer years cryin' and mournin' than ye think. First yer a whelp an' then all ye do is cry! Then ye grow a bit older and cry everytime ye get a little cut or a bump, then yer young and ye cry when all yer mates start dying around ye and ye don't have food and the horde's marchin' too fast an' ye don't like the captin. Then if yer lucky ye get old and then ye start cryin' coz you don't wanna die, innit."

Momchillo frowned at her wisdom. "Yes... but life can be happy too. When you're a kid almost anything makes you laugh. Even when it's somebeast tripping over something. Then you grow up and there's always someone doing something slightly funny. Then you grow old and your grandkids make you laugh and if you're brave... you laugh in the face of death."

Silvertongue cackled with glee, holding his sides as laughter hooted out of him. "No wonder ye woodlanders are always dyin'. Too stupid to do anythin' but laugh!"

Momchillo felt himself go pink as all the others around him laughed uproariously. "I tell ye, ye weren't laughing when you first woke up here!" Sick-Eyes hooted.

Momchillo waited for the laughter to subside. "The point is life isn't only good and bad. You get your goodtimes and your badtimes. Same as everything else."

"Except in beasts?" The old pine marten was smarter than she looked. She must have read the doubt that crossed through his mind.

"Well you have goodbeasts and you have ve-badbeasts."

"But if everything has a 'balance'," Silvertongue pointed out. "Why is it that there are beasts that are only good and beasts that are only bad?"

"Well... their aren't. I mean... look at you guys. Sure I was your captive-"

"Guest!" Repeated the four vermin instantly.

"Alright. I was your guest. But you didn't treat me too bad. And well... you could have done worse."

"Alright so we're not totally bad. Ye here that guys? Good behaviour! Line up for extra vittles!" The vermin roared with laughter once more.

"Please tell me you don't trust us." Deathglare said solemnly.

"I don't." The mouse said flatly. "Not as far as I can throw you."

"Good. Trust gets you killed more than a knife to the back." Said Deathglare in his quiet voice.

"So wait mousie. We ain't totally naughty apparently, so what's bad about yerself?" Silvertongue said, a massive grin plastered firmly to his face.

"Oh... me... well... I..." He was honest. He washed his fur and brushed his teeth. He wasn't a glutton. He didn't have a short temper. He wasn't cruel. He tried to be kind as best he could.

"It's not that hard of a question." The weasel said, looking significantly less amused.

"Go on. What's the worstest, most verminy-thing ye've ever done?"

"Um... well there was this one time I broke Friar Bartholomew's mug-" He stopped at the look of deadpanned annoyance shared amongst their faces. "It was a... pretty mug." He said, going slightly pink.

"Well ain't he an angel." Said Sickletail finally, and all of them roared with laughter. "When they was your age the worst thing my young'uns did was set fire to an otter tent. Ye should have seen the thrashings I gave 'em!"

Momchillo was confused whether she was referring to the thrashings she had given her children or the otters...

"The wors' thing I've done... now lemme think. There's a long list of 'orrible deeds under my name-"

"How about feeding us yer medicine, eh?" And once again the underdeck was laughing.

"The worst thing I've ever done... probably keeping you lot around." Said Deathglare solemnly, and Momchillo was touched by the sincerity. Only for the pine marten's pouchy face to burst out in a cacophany of laughter.

"Aw what a sweet lil' bumlicker you are Death. Hehehehehe! Go on why dontcha hug yer little mousie pal?"

"Silvertongue does the worst thing every day. He sings. And every day it takes him closer and closer to Hellgates."

Momchillo grinned while the vermin laughed. "Well, there was this one time we hung Fret off the walls."

"Oh what's this? The angel's become Vulpuz, Lord of Hellgates?"

"Do tell."

"Well I don't know why we did it... I suppose it was funny at the time..." Momchillo's smile faltered and fell. He had done it with Matiya and Grollo, and all three had thought it to be a wonderful idea... it had been funny at first, but maybe it was only funny for them. Fret had been scared and pleading, and mayhaps had even been crying. It was odd... to see things in another light many seasons later. But it had only been a joke... a bad one sure, but it had been a joke. And they had apologized and taken their punishment with bowed heads. And Fret had been the same afterwards. Or had he?

"Awwww, the widdle angel feels guilty!" Silvertongue leered.

"Well... Fret was our friend... it was a mean thing to do to anybeast. Let alone our friend."

"Don't go gettin' yer tail in a twist now little mouse. Ye should have seen what my friends used to do to each other. There was this one rat. We dumped some poison in his soup."

The vermin all grinned knowingly. Poison in the soup! What a classic!

"Why would you do that? He could have died." Momchillo sounded aghast.

"But he didn't. And it's his fault anyways. He should have known better than to just accept food like that. Plus it taught him to always check whether the food was poisoned or not! Now that's something all young'uns should know about. Course checking his food didn't help him when he drowned." There were more gales of laughter but Momchillo did not find it so funny.

"What's the matter? Ye laugh in the face of death! We laugh at death! He ain't around to get all offended."

"Yes but... isn't it sad that you know... he's dead?"

"Course it is. Death's painful. But that's life. And if ye can't laugh at somebeast's death then what's the point of em dying, eh? I swear if anybeast cries at me funeral I'd get up and give em something to cry about!"

At this even Momchillo had to laugh. His laughter was cut abruptly when the ship turned sharply.

"Aye. We're here." Said Sick-Eyes. She sighed deeply. "Never fear. Chains and fetters have never held me long."

"What about the rest of us then?" Silvertongue muttered, and the good mood vanished almost instantly.

Threeclaw returned looking positively delighted despite a black eye. He held in his paw an old haversack, filled with food that made Matiya's mouth water.

"What happened?" The squirrel asked, wiping his drooling mouth along his arm.

"Well twas a bunch of pirates. They said they was looking for somebeast and beat me up a bit. Then I got their Capetan's sword in paw and made 'em give up some vittles. Then I marched 'em all the way back to their boat. Hehehehehehe. But I kept the sword."

The stoat showed off a long rapier. It was beautifully made and gleaming brightly, and Matiya felt a twinge of nervousness. Now the stoat had a weapon. If he ever chose to slay him the squirrel would be hard-pressed to do anything beyond pleading for mercy and getting over a dozen holes poked into him.

"Scared?" He jeered, and placed the blade down into the snow. "We'll practice with sticks, but if trouble arrives the blade's mine."

"Okay." He wondered how long it would take before he had to walk with his paws tied behind his back.

"Now, who's a hungry squirrel? Hehehehehehe! Help yerself!" And Threeclaw tossed him the haversack of food, which Matiya caught in excited paws.

This really wasn't as bad as he was expecting it to be!

It was official! Sharpfur hated hedgehogs. "Bath" did not seem to have the same meaning here as it did amongst vermin. Back at the Honest Bunch a bath had been a swim through the river-woodlanders though? Oh no. They had this slippery thing called soap, and naturally it had gotten into his eyes, turning them red and making them sore. Bubbles were everywhere, and there was this odd brush thing one was meant to use to scrub hard-to-reach places. Worst was that when the bath was over he had to have the beating of a lifetime with a long woollen blanket they called 'towels'. He was itching all over, his nose twitching uncomfortably at the unnatural scent that came from his body... not even his teeth had been spared and their once-yellow gleam was replaced with white-that was not what bothered him- what did was that anything he ate tasted of mint , even the air he breathed.

Hawthorn smiled theatrically at him, and passed a muffin. "You look lovely Sharpfur! I'm sure your back feels much better!"

The weasel made to snatch the muffin out of her paw, but she pulled away just in time.

"Say please." Said Grollo scoldingly.

"I hate ye both." He growled.

"Oh why would you say something as awful as that?"

The weasel's teeth gritted. He would not be humiliated by these creatures. He was Sharpfur of the Honest Bunch. Son of Silvertonge and Sickle-tail. He would go to Hellgates and back before he said please! "Just give the muffin here."

"Not until you say please." Hawthorn taunted.

"Just give it."

"Please."

"I beg of you." He said angrily.

"That's not the magiiiiiiiiiic woooooooooooord!"

"Rot in Hellgates!" He snapped, diving for the muffin and succeeding in catching thin air.

"Too late!" Hawthorn laughed, and stuffed the whole muffin into her mouth.

Sharpfur wanted to kill her then and there. If he had his dirk, he would have. But he didn't and the old hogmaid came back now, looking extremely joyful.

"I'm so glad you're all getting along! Now would anybeast like to read a story? I'm a bit tired."

"I can read." Hawthorn said politely.

Grollo shrugged.

Sharpfur went for another muffin.

"How about you, weasel? Why don't you read one of them stories over there?"

Sharpfur seethed, stood up, picked up the book, held it upside down and began reading. "Once upon a time an evil verminy warlord called Villainous Vermin MacFangface attacked the Great Haunted Abbey of Red Bricks. The Deadly ghost inside pushed him off a cliff, and being so fat and ugly MacFangface crushed his army underneath him as he fell. The end."

All was silent. Then Hawthorn and Grollo began laughing while the old hedgehog looked at him in bewilderment. "That's the legend of Martin the Warrior. There ain't no Macfangface."

Sharpfur shrugged. "Does it make a difference." He shut the book and went for a muffin.

"You can't read!" Grollo realized suddenly, and began laughing loudly. "You can't read! Hahahahahaha!"

"Yes I can!" He snapped, his fur bristling. Then it flattened again. "Okay... I never learnt no squiggles but still-"

"I will not hear of this! From this day forth young weasel, you will receive an education!"

"Edjucation?" He doubted he would like whatever 'edjucation' was either.

"Yes! I will teach you to read and write if it kills me! Mark my words!"

Hawthorn and Grollo were kind enough to not look at him while they laughed their heads off.