The process of accounting for and putting the dead
in their final resting places was long and hard. Ringo's was especially
emotional: Noel, acting accordingly to their friend's last words, picked
the very spot for his grave. It was a quiet place on the shoreline: large
willows shaded the area and provided soothing music when the wind traveled
through their hair.
Paul, perched on a stool near the memorial, could
not bring himself to meet the eyes of the rest of the downcast crowd. Clutching
the neck of a guitar he'd discovered, he watched the ground at his feet
as he paid tribute with a sweet, simple ballad.
"Born a poor young country boy,
Mother Nature's son.
All day long, I'm sitting singing songs
for everyone.
"Sit beside a mountain stream.
See her waters rise.
Listen to the pretty sound of music as
she flies.
"Find me in my field of grass,
Mother Nature's son.
Swaying daisies sing a lazy song
beneath the sun.
"Ooooommmmmmm, Mother Nature's son...." He sighed
heavily at the end of the song, and wiped away the many tears creating
crevices in his facefur.
* * *
Later that day, most of the remnants of the army
stood silently at the cliffside near their camp. The location was formerly
that of a large marble courthouse: portions of the wall remained erect.
Into these, masons would soon set about to carving the names of every single
casualty in the great battle. But for now, the monstrous chunks of rock
before Tori and John were empty, as an epitaph had not been written yet.
The freshly covered graves were laden with hundreds
of flowers, notes, and other mementos friends wished them to take in death.
Their sweet smells even conquered the odor of pervading death that would,
for some, forever hang over the rolling hills by the sea.
Rivenna, who only three days ago had performed
the royal funeral hymn for those slain in the massacre, stood nearby, the
breeze blowing her fur awry and cooling a face hot with unceasing mourning.
Her voice rang out just as pure and honeyed as ever, but there was no joy
in it as she sang her composition honoring the two.
"Spend all your time waiting, for that second
chance.
For a break that would make it okay.
There's always some reason, to feel not good
enough,
And it's hard at the end of the day.
I need some distraction, or beautiful release
as memories seep through my veins.
Let me be emptied, or weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight.
In the arms of the angel, far away from here.
From this stark cold hotel room, and the endlessness
that you fear.
You are pulled from the wreckage, of your silent
reverie.
You're in the arms of the angel,
may you find, some comfort here.
So tired of the strained light, and everywhere
you turn,
there's vultures and thieves at your back.
The story keeps on twisting, keeps on building
the lies
that you make up for all that you lack.
It don't make no difference, escaping one last
time.
It's easier to believe in this sweet madness,
or this glorious sadness that brings me to my
knees.
In the arms of the angel, far away from here.
From this stark cold hotel room, and the endlessness
that you fear.
You are pulled from the wreckage, of your silent
reverie.
You're in the arms of the angel,
may you find, some comfort here."
As the wind claimed the last remaining notes
of the song, it whipped through the assembled crowd, adding an eerie cadence
to what happened next. Kirkroan solemnly began beating the Irish war drum
that had summoned the Gaels to both battle and dance. Like the knell of
a hammer, Rivenna began calling out the names of the slain loved ones of
Tori's Vreeteerdan army.
"Gowran Skycap. Ellis Underwood. Ringo Starr.
Owen Our Poet. John O'Lennain. Sarthe the Danehearted. Aberyn Whitehall.
Gandreth Celeveltryn. Perennial and Marared Fiortin. Boxer." She stood,
head stolidly erect, eyes faced out towards the sea, naming the casualties
that freedom had claimed. Not one creature left until the last name was
cited: Tori Fairskye Rubyhaer.
* * *
Liam, his strong heart completely shattered by
the loss, lay atop the graves for nearly a fortnight. He refused consolidation,
remained mute and silent as his deceased comrades, and wouldn't move from
the spot. He only reluctantly accepted food from concerned comrades. No
amount of coaxing from anyone could remove him.
But then, on a morning of a thick gray and blue
skyscape, torn at the edge with the glow of morning, Liam was at breakfast.
He silently stood in line for Rivenna's carrot soup, accepted his ladle,
and stiffly sat down to eat, leaning against a boulder. He did so quietly,
his eyes watching the small remnant of Tori's great army converse and wonder
about their future. He smiled wanly as he listened to Rivenna reluctantly
dole out seconds, berating them good-naturedly in her melodious Aiyar accent.
When finished, he arose and walked over to a circle of logs and rocks.
A few wolves were clustered on them, among them Paul and Noel.
Branwen and Paul were chatting amicably: Noel
silently sat and listened.
"Y'know," Paul mused, "I wonder just how many
friends and loved ones our army sacrificed for this. I'm not sayin' t'wasn't
worth it, but still..."
"Well, it does depend on your definition of dead.
There's those like Tori an' John and Ringo. Plenty of those--"
"And then there's Liam," Noel finished. "I'm
fair worried 'bout th'lad. He's nothin' like 'imself lately. He's taken
depression to new heights!"
Branwen smiled grimly. " 'Tis just the mourning
of the lovelorn. There are many of us, too. Yes, poor Liam. Tori was ever
John's, wasn't she?" She looked up from stirring her tea and her expression
changed. "I'll be seeing you: I'd best leave you two alone for this one."
She abruptly stood up and left for another corner of camp.
When Noel saw his brother looming over them,
he immediately stood up, his scarred face and single eye deeply concerned.
"Liam, are yeh alright? We thought we'd lost yeh back there for a while."
Bowing his head, his younger sibling indicated for him to sit back down.
Noel awkwardly obeyed his brother, and both he and Paul leaned forward
to hear him speak once again. Stolid-faced, he held a whispered conversation
with the two.
"I've been thinkin'. That stone they were buried
at th'foot of needs an inscription. An epitaph, y'know. I know what it
should be."
"Well, what?" Paul inquired gently.
His eyes still averted to the ground, Liam spoke
very softly. "To our cherished Siren and our Laughing Rogue: every time
it rains it is your wings dripping. Run free and sing forever together.
It is what you fought for and won."
In front of them, in and around Rivenna's precious
soup cauldron, portions of conversation were drifting back to the logs.
"Still, I wish we hadn't had to fight this,"
an otter named Artenga was saying, shaking her head sadly. "We lost most
of our friends and family to those foxes."
"Yes, but they'll never spread evil thr'out th'land
agin, tho'," Taiga added impeccably, standing next to the soup and arguing
for thirds. "Y'don't 'ave t'fight no more if your en'mies're all dead.
Me da' tole me that, and look, 'tis proved itself true."
"Well, now that Shang is gone, why don't we rebuild
Leedsdown?" another wolf suggested. "It was such a beautiful city, and
surely it can become what it once was eventually---"
"No!"
The stern voice coming from Rivenna was not hers,
nor were the ereathral green eyes she stared at them with. Taiga, startled,
backed away: Liam straightened like a bowstring. He turned cautiously and
added his stares to the rest of the camp's.
She spoke again. Her fur glinted slightly red
in the early daylight. "Leedsdown can never be rebuilt. There are too many
ghosts here for the living to stay. Let this place serve as a memorial,
but not as a home." The wolf sensed the question of Well, where do we go?
before it crossed anyone's lips. Tori lifted her head and gazed at the
morning sky.
"Go now from this shattered berth,
Love not the ground which shelters me.
Find a home, inland from surf,
Encased in red, far from this sea.
"And to you, blue-eyed brothers, dear friends
of ours;
Wolf with last name brown plus mine;
I bind you forthwith with this bar.
Go 'cross the land, across the sea.
To Yellowback himself, give this line:
"Never forget me."
"And me," John added suddenly. Those watching
whirled around to his familiar voice. Noel stood strangely still, brown
eyes gazing lovingly at Rivenna.
"Nor me," Aelfwald implored in Ringo's voice.
Liam's voice crackled. "Friends," he whispered,
standing up, "we miss you!"
Wordlessly, Rivenna stepped down from the mound.
He saw not her face and her purple black fur: instead, it was fiery, lovely
red. Walking around the mound, she approached Liam and draped her paws
around his neck. She kissed him, twice.
"Tori..." he murmured, holding one of her paws
to his hot cheek. "D'you know how long I've been waiting for that?" He
grinned, blue eyes brimming over. She smiled, and, with the affection of
a dear friend, caressed his tear-stained face tenderly.
"Take care....." Liam closed his eyes, not wishing
for his lost love to depart.
Rivenna suddenly blinked. When she opened her
eyes, they were no longer Tori's green. Stunned and aghast, she slowly
drew her purple-black paws away from the quietly crying Liam, and gazed
around in a stupor. Noel was squinting at the flabbergasted spectators,
and Aelfwald muttered in his thick Gaelic accent that he felt faint.
* * *
Dolores sat perched on the wall top, surveying
Redwall's outside and the goings-on in them. She watched as Skipper conversed
urgently with Leith, though of exactly what she did not know. She closed
her eyes, and remembered Tryffen's last scroll. She really ought to translate
it for poor Brother Neil: he was frantic with curiosity as to what it was.
The poem, her brother told her, had come to him
in a strange trance as he had wandered through the Halls of the Future.
As Antisle stood in front of the story of Boar the Fighter, his gaze had
fallen upon the image of Martin the Warrior, emerging from the mountain
with his newly-reforged sword. He had come into a reverie of faces and
voices he did not recognize. Above all stood out Martin, who eyed him calmly
and recited in a slow, even tone,
"Worry not, they will come;
Blue-eyed, brown haired, singing ones.
Next spring will arrive, midsummer's go,
But three will soon return, I know.
Redwall reversed, a new heart born,
Will receive my coveted ancient sword.
Alas! but wait! when these leaves do fall,
List': the north's warriors have a tale for
all."
