She was too numb to think of it. Clinging miserably to the sole chunk of ice and wood that bore her down a raging stream, she almost felt like giving up. She was the runt of her litter of four, or had been. Now she was all that was left. How ironic. Had she not devoted all of her time to her music and concentrated more on what was sorely needed, warriors, they might not have--Shang had been right there....
The river tossed her barely conscious onto a bank, in a heap of wet fur. She gave a strangled, instinctive cry as she was thrown soggily against the snow and thudded into the ground. A gentle flurry was materializing out of the torrents of freezing rain, and delicately fell on the pitiful bundle. She weakly crawled further up the bank and collapsed again. The creature was then mercifully drawn into the realms of a slightly delirious rest. The only thing that kept a fire burning in her fierce heart was the memory of that sheer fall off that icen cliff, and the last, laughing sneer she'd heard, coming from her now-sworn enemy. It echoed in her head endlessly.
"Ha! Now the last of them is gone! Go join your family at Dark Forest Gates, weak one! You'll find none of their company here!!!"
Her kind and her horde had always been an annoyance to her family and the Holt of otters that they'd lived with, but then they had become stronger than they thought.....
"Mama, Poppa....." she whimpered at the apparitions and memories. But of all names, the one she would be screaming when she killed the white fox, rippled through her mind. The Widowmaker, as she was known up north: Shang Widowmaker! Cursed name! The wind enveloped any further thoughts and she was lost in the kind or cruel domain of sleep.
* * *
SNUGGLED DEEP INTO THE GREAT cushioned chairs of Cavern Hole, the Father Abbot of Redwall, a relatively young mouse called Daniel; another mouse who cut a dashing and charming figure named Michael, who was also the present Abbey Warrior, although it was something now which in recent seasons had become more of an eccentric title and one only for tradition; and the Badger Mother Dolores, shared tea. Michael looked out one of the great windows.
"Wouldn't want t'be caught in that, that's for sure! Talk about be glad we have Redwall! I wonder how those woodlanders can take it." Dolores chuckled.
"That's because we Abbeydwellers are just naturally soft. We haven't had any wars or quests or voyages since...since anything!"
"Speaking of warriors," Daniel grinned wryly, "Fiona and Merrill the otter twins are somewhere in the building. I can hear Jakob kicking and screaming already!"
"Oh no!" Dolores groaned. "Don't tell me the Friaress caught him 'helping' poor Calvin Chestnut again! I can't deal with Elena when she's in a mood." Luckily for her nerves, the thumping and echoing arguments moved in the direction of Cavern Hole and faded away.
* * * *
"Now listen, y'young rip!" Fiona chastened the struggling young mouse. "I know you hate babysitting for the Dibbuns, but that's no excuse to leave them with that-that-" She spluttered, trying not to giggle at the thought. "That walking feedbag of a stomach!" Jakob glared at her.
"What is it that you have against Tryffen anyway?" he protested. Merrill held up her paws innocently.
"It's not me, it's Sister Willow: she don't trust him wi' th'little uns! Can't say as I disagree. That hare's as likely t'lose 'em all o'er the Abbey or else eat their snacks an' blame th'Father Abbot!" Jakob rolled his eyes. Fiona caught it and punched him lightly.
"C'mon, mouse, that's no way for a Warrior of Redwall-t'be t'act!" He groaned.
"D'you have any idea how sick I am of having to try to act like a Warrior's son? All the time, it's learn your code, help others, be good an' honest an' true. I know everything already! It isn't even anything important anymore: nothing exciting happens here anymore, and no one would ever dare attack Redwall. Why do they keep complaining about how I'm a disgrace to my father and all?!"
Merrill snorted. "Don't worry, you're not, you're makin' fabulous progress an' all that. They just say that t'motivate yeh. There's talk of givin' yeh the sword at the start o' summer, actually. It's nothin' t'worry yore 'ead 'bout." Jakob fell silent and moodily cooperated with the twins as they escorted him toward the kitchens.
In front of him, he could hear snippets and bits of conversations and the constant activity that was always on "full" in Redwall Abbey.
"Sister Anne, can you please find that great fat loaf of a hedgehog Calvin Chestnut? I need some medicinal ales: I'm all out." Further down the hall and behind him, he heard a shout from near the kitchens.
"Goodness gracious, that reminds me! We'll also need some more candied chestnuts! Some naughty Dibbun's been sneaking more than a few!"
"Hurr, no daowt yon maister Tregfen's been at et, nawt 'ee Gibbuns," a mole colloquially commented to himself in the peculiar accent of his kind, and continued waddling down an offshooting corridor to relay a message to the Foremole.
Jakob smiled, and turned his attention to the other side of the hall.
"Ahhhh!!! C'mere, you liddle monster!! It's bedtime an' a bath fer you, yeh liddle beast!!" The Skipper's son, a tall, heavily-muscled otter named Wynnstream, ran in front of them, chasing a baby squirrel, who was squealing happily. Tryffen had, indeed, lost the Dibbuns all over the Abbey.
"Nononononono!!! I gonna go outside an' eat alla--" This idle eavesdropping was suddenly interrupted by an uproar down toward Great Hall. Fiona and Merrill, who'd been lazily chattering, straightened abruptly as yells came echoing clamorously through the Abbey.
"Make room for him!"
"Give him air!"
"What did you see, Beechwood?" Dolores noticed the heavy fuss and wisely herded all the Dibbuns into another room and began to play with them.
"Hold on a second," the panting squirrel said, and flopped down onto the table. Jakob broke free from the distracted otters' grasp and raced down the hall, arriving well before they did. As soon as he caught his breath, Beechwood, a good friend of Michael's, began to talk.
"Over by Wuddshipp Creek, there's a creature lyin' there, practically dead. Poor thing, it looked like it'd been through a lot." He halted to breathe, and stared at the floor disbelievingly. The Abbot tried to coax him further.
"Beechwood, what was it?" The squirrel shook his head.
"You're not going to believe this, but I can't tell you any more than it's way too big to be a fox or a towndog! This is something....something we don't ever see in Mossflower, never even in a blue moon."
"Beech, d'you have any idea what sort of a creature this might be, or where it was from?" The curious piping voice belonged to Brother Neil, the portly abbey recorder. He shuffled forward and strained to hear the answer. Beechwood bit his lip.
"It was pretty close to the banks, an' that particular creek..." He thought, but couldn't place it. "Someone help me out, which way does it flow? I know next to nothing about rivers."
"She flows south," Merrill called out. "Beechy, you old treejumper, that's somethin' every woodlander should know anyway!"
"Hey, okay, so I can't think at the moment! You wouldn't be able to either if you'da seen this creature!"
"So the river could've brought it from the Northlands, then..." someone mused. It turned out to be Brother Neil again. "So, Beech, would you, on a guess, say that this creature could possibly be a wolf?" The room froze. A wolf? They were only rumors from the farthest Northlands, never down in Mossflower country! It was doubtful to most they even existed, except in stories to scare Dibbuns off to bed. A buzz sprang up, full of debates.
"A wolf? Never! What would one be doing down here anyway?"
"If there's one, there'll always be more. They're never alone!"
"Now, now, you don't know that..."
"If there're more, they could be dangerous." Abbot Daniel tried to silence the room.
"Wait, wait, quiet down, everyone, quiet down," he said levelly. Eventually it simmered to mostly silence, except for the steadily decreasing wheeze of Beechwood's lost breath. "I suggest that we go out and try to help this...creature. It may be a wolf, it may not be. If it's against us, then that's the way things go."
Michael jumped up. "Fabulous idea, Father Abbot! I say we leave right now! Beechy old boy, what kind of condition did you say it was in?"
"I didn't, an' stop calling me Beechy. It was under a lot of debris and some snow, but it looked pretty bad from what I could see, bleedin' and such. Took a battering from wherever it came from." He glanced out the window, at the soggy mush that used to have the honor of being called snow, in the direction of the creek bank.
* * *
Far away from the beginnings of spring in Mossflower, two green lights blinked against the snow. A harsh breeze began, and something stood up, completely invisible. The head craned upward, watching the last of the magpies soar high above it. It then turned its attention to other things.
"Anastasia, Tatyanna, come look!" a soft voice commanded from the white vixen, as it was revealed to be. Two other foxes, both long, sleek beautiful females, joined her. One had her mother's green eyes, but to a much lesser degree. The other daughter was strange: she had one fiery amber iris and the other a blue colder than the snow their camouflaged fur stood out against. Behind them, a vast horde of vermin stood, more silent than the rubble of the vanquished city they'd inhabited for the past fortnight.
"Mother?" the one with the duel-toned eyes, Anastasia, asked innocently. The elder fox sat down and smiled, baring her flawless teeth, pale and almost glowing white. Her breath rose in the air as she spoke.
"Do you see that? There," she pointed toward the nearby seashore. "The Seal People are congregating with their young ones. We move south now ." Tatyanna peered at the gray-brown blobs far below their perch on the edge of the cliff. Calmly, the white vixen gazed back at the now smoldering ruins of those stupid oafs of Holt Farnell and that noble Trybe of ninnies. She felt compelled to giggle, but didn't, to preserve her ruthless dignity around her two daughters, who were too prone to gossip. But those wolves! Without another word, she threw back her head and let out a terrifying "Winterchildren! Answer my call!"
With a roar, the anxious masses three unified fox tribes and a horde of vermin, mostly stoats and weasels, with a scattering of hardy ferrets and even fewer rats, responded. "Shang Widowmakeeeeerrrrrrrr!!!!!" The wild vixen felt herself grow tall with the thought of conquest running hot through her veins.
"Where do we go, my children?" she shrieked.
"South! South! South!" Shang Widowmaker's dangerous green eyes glowed and radiated ferocity.
"Let us bring Winter to the Southlands! We will prosper and rule!" Without warning a howl ripped from her throat. The horde grew even louder and the march began. The Widowmaker was on the move!
* * *
From atop a hill, two figures forebodingly watched them go, until they were no more than wriggling blots upon the sparkling taiga. One began to lunge toward them, but the other restrained him, and urgently shook his head no. The one who'd tried to follow sighed, bowed his head, and rose up again, ready for whatever the pair had decided lay ahead for them. They turned and silently began to follow the horde.
* * *
The hare stood back to admire his work, and collided right into the escaped Jakob.
"Ah! What-ho! I say, stand an' fight, sir! Detract ten points, ten points, I say, sah, wot?" Jakob was bowled over, but the hare helped him up. "Y'liddle bounder, what're y'tryin' t'do, injure me bloomin' backside or hide be'ind me jolly old pic from the tyrannical twin otters?"
Jakob dusted himself, and looked at the picture the irrepressible hare, his best friend, had drawn. "That's a masterpiece,Tryffen! ....Um, help me out an' tell me what it is." The hare Tryffen huffed indignantly.
"It's bally old Martin th'bloomin' Warrior! What's it look like, a duck boilin' its head in a kettle?" Jakob cleared his throat to hide his sniggers, and said seriously,
"Actually, I wanted to find you because there's been a creature found out in th'woods. I know you'll be, y'know, as interested as any woodlander."
"As in'trested as any woodlander?" he snorted. "Listen, young Jacko me lad, I am a bloomin' woodlander!! I'm just on sabbatical t'write up a review book of the absoballyutely splendid Abbey tucker, then I'm reportin' back to the ould mater back in Salamandastron." Jakob eyed him, and chuckled. The hare, still half in his winter coat, was striking a noble pose. "Enough o'that, you've heard it all b'fore, wot wot? Let's get out an' see what this beast thingummy is bally up to! Disturbin' th'peace, I should say, wot!" He dashed down Great Hall, abandoning his drawing.
Tryffen wasn't completely bluffing. He had been sent from the mountain stronghold of Salamandastron on the coast by the current Badger Lord, Antisle Rawnblade the Fiery, "named for his jolly old great-great-great wotevah grandaddy," to stay with the Abbeybeasts, for reasons only Antisle knew and would not reveal to Tryffen or anyone else in the ciphered scroll he sent accompanying him.
* * *
A whisper of amazement ran through the small curious army as they saw the creature. It was covered in a light dusting of snow: its long, bright red hairs blew as though it was dead.
"Goodness," the Abbot exclaimed to Dolores. "If that is a wolf, it is larger than I ever imagined." The badger nodded.
"She looks larger than I am. Though from old experience, I believe she will be a friend and not a foe."
"If she's alive," Michael added. "She doesn't appear to be breathing." Strapped to his side was the great sword, in case of hostility. Jakob and Tryffen pushed their way to the front and stopped, amazed. The hare had just overheard the last part of the abbey warrior's sentence, and added softly,
"If I may, sah, if you'll notice, there's bally hot air comin' out've 'er jolly old hooter. The young gel is most definitely alive, though she don't look too chipper."
"She's movin'!" a young hedgehog squeaked. "Lookit!!" Indeed, the creature's lips were moving, and she appeared to saying something. Michael held up a paw and ventured toward her, ever mindful of the rows of merciless teeth that showed through. He vaguely began to hear her words.
"Oh Poppa please don't go! Snowangel could do so much better! Officer, I saw them: they got Paula and-and--" The wolf let out an anguished cry that startled everyone and mothers hurried to cover the eyes and ears and mouths of the terrified Dibbuns, or Abbey children. Her legs began moving as if trying to fend something off; her eyes opened and closed in spasms: they were wide and green and fearful. Michael, unable to control his insatiable curiosity, had been moving closer with every phrase, when he finally made up his mind. He straightened.
"Okay, somebody try and help me: we'll get her back to the Abbey where Sister Joan can examine her. In the meantime, Fiona," he looked at the shivering otter, "I want you to see what you think we could do for this poor creature." She nodded and crept up toward the thrashing beast, and tried soothing her. She stroked the long, matted fur in an attempt to calm her and, even in her unconscious state, comfort her. It worked: almost immediately the wolf was asleep, exhausted. Merrill had to whistle.
"She has the calmin' paws of our ould mother, bless 'er heart. I never
knowed anybody else that could heal a soul so quickly an' so well." Dolores,
the Skipper of Otters, his son Wynnstream, Tryffen, and Michael stayed
behind as they lifted the red-haired wolf off the ground and trailed the
procession of Abbeydwellers back to their red-stoned sanctuary.