ÒBut at the same time, he showed courage and nobility. Despite his fear, I know how many people he helped, and how often he interceded for people.Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑFlora Litvinova
Ê Ê Ê Ê A creature doesnÕt panic initially when heÕs traumatized; any sort of reaction is delayed. His mind kicks into shock instead, freezing his thoughts and his body. And often also, I think, freezing the scene that traumatized him, freezing it in more detail than any artist could produce. ThatÕs why I donÕt need much of an introduction here. I can recall the scene without even closing my eyesÑand with a shudder. The piano was the focal point of a circle, a ring of curious but cautious and certainly horrified Redwallers forming the perimeter. Inside that ring, the bench and page-turnerÕs chair were overturned. Spattered randomly about was a great deal of bloodÑIÕd imagine there was some actually inside the piano as well. IÕve never seen the Redwallers put the top up since. Next to the chair, practically underneath the piano, lay Zlaya TrudnayaÕs bloody carcass, her face still twisted in a final gesture of hatred. And I stood at the corner of the instrument, poised as if I were about to take a bow after a performanceÑrigid and head tilted downward. But I didnÕt think what I did warranted a bow.
Ê Ê Ê Ê At first there was only silence in the entire hall, echoing more in itself than the muffled whispers that flickered through the Redwall masses after several minutes. The whispers also eventually gave way to bustling; the creatures almost pulsated in their jitters. (That impression of motion may have been only in my mindÑwithout my spectacles, I donÕt see distinct forms very well). I was able to notice the progression further, with the pulsating turning into general milling. The walls of the ring seemed to diffuse, but the area in which Zlaya and I remained was not crossed. It was as if there were physical walls around the area. And I couldnÕt get out.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I was still rather dazed, and observing the above blurrily and passively. IÕm not certain how long into that state I was when the young volemaid returned to the circleÑthe first creature back in (perhaps her being there before let her back)Ñand tapped me timidly on the shoulder. ÒMister Shostak, sir?Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê I snapped out of my hypnotism, so to speak, with a jerk of my head. I was easily terrified myself at that point. ÒYes, yes?Ó I stuttered softly.
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒYour spectacles, Mister Shostak.Ó The vole returned that necessity to me with a sense of awe about her. Awe and respect that I certainly didnÕt think I deserved. That air only added to my muddled confusion, making the situation more incomprehensible. But I was certainly glad to have my spectacles back, despite the delivery. I would have smiled at the vole if my face had wanted to respond to my mindÕs vague commands.
Ê Ê Ê Ê With my eyes in focus again, and with my head able to move, I was able to actually look at the situation. To look is not necessarily to comprehend, you know, but itÕs a start. You canÕt comprehend without seeing something. As it were, my comprehension was numbed, but it took no sharpwit or seer to see that Zlaya was very dead. And that sight was certainly enough to trigger in my mind that I was responsible in some manner. I may not have run her through with a sword or beat her empty-pawed; the blow from the chair may not have been what finished her. But sheÕd reacted to my music, and that reaction killed her, so to speak. And so I was responsible for Zlaya TrudnayaÕs death.
Ê Ê Ê Ê In the eyes of the Redwallers, I became a hero. That became more evident a bit later, you know, but the way I was treated even immediately was a hint. The cautious awe that the volemaid approached me with became a characteristic, so to speak, of all of the Redwallers around me. With the volemaidÕs approach, others wandered through the former circle (though, of course, avoiding ZlayaÕs body). Some nodded to me, others hinted at bows of respect. A couple of individuals passed by with a few mimed pawclaps. It was very odd, and I didnÕt particularly like it. YouÕll recall I despise thunderous applauseÑwell this was worse. Yes, itÕs respect, but I like respect better when I donÕt have to sit through it directly. I would have preferred even for the Redwallers to go right on to the victory feast (one of which they did have). Creatures get lost in the food at feasts, and therefore have less of their attention turned on the hero.
Ê Ê Ê Ê There must be a true hero to have a heroÕs feast, you know. And I didnÕt consider myself a true hero then; I donÕt really now. Now I know I did something good beyond the average, but at the time I couldnÕt feel heroic. IÕd just essentially killed a creature, you know. She may have been a corrupt, murderous, totalitarian dictator, but IÕd still killed her and I donÕt see how that could ride easy on any creatureÕs conscience. The only reason the hero has no aria of regrets in Broken-Sword Warrior is because heÕs unconscious and wounded, you know, too hurt to sing. But IÕm real and uninjured and holding that red stain. A hero should not be stained.
Ê Ê Ê Ê A hero should also not be considered such unless heÕs eliminated an entire problem. And as Redwallers paid silent respect to my sorry figure, I recalled the real problem. Zlaya hadnÕt held that title, so to speakÑany soulless assassin could have ended her. It was the armies of Mtsensk that were the serious issue, and it was for that issue that Zlaya had died. A side effect, so to speak.
Ê Ê Ê Ê According to the Redwallers, a hero can definitely compose a song. But does song compose heroes? That was what I was waiting to see; rather, I wanted to know if my piece had been at all comprehensible. To be a hero by my music appealed to me far much more than to be a war hero or a duel victor. IÕm a musician, after all, and my values correspond. The action of the Redwallers, though, seemed a bit slow to have perhaps understood it; I had reached some clearer understanding by then to consider such a point. Finally moving off the spot IÕd been standing at the whole time, I approached a rather sturdy-looking shrew from behind and lightly tapped his shoulder. He turned around, his face also expressing awe and some disbelief. It wasnÕt an expression my voice warranted as I asked, ÒDid you, so to speak, understand? You know, did you understand?Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê I think the shrew acted the way he did in some reasoning that I simply happened to be the Great Mitya Shostak. His confusion was a touch exaggerated, I think. ÒIÕm afraid I donÕt know what you mean,Ó he told me.
Ê Ê Ê Ê My heart faltered at his response; my initial reaction was to assume ÒnoÓ as the automatic answer. But I didnÕt want to make that assumption at the same time. ItÕs that odd self-contradiction that can be productive, and it made me keep asking. ÒYou know, my piece, the second one, that is, the second one. Did you understand it?Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê The shrew didnÕt even need to hesitate to answer me that time. ÒOh, of course,Ó he said. ÒClear as a crystal. IÕm going to get my rapier now and join my squad...Ó he trailed off before finally adding, Ò...if you donÕt mind, Mister Shostak.Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê Of course I didnÕt mind, but once again orders were disregarded, so to speak, in terms of actually saying that. I just waved the shrew on with a shrug. As he did with the piece, he interpreted my gesture correctly and continued on his way. I, on the other paw, did not want to participate nor be in close range to what would certainly be a climactic battle. I was a jumble of nerves already and I needed some time to myself. My initial thought was to go to the gatehouse, but its location on the grounds seemed like it could get swept over by contesting battle lines. And so I needed a new place to rest myself. Gazing around the hall, I took the first stairway I could find upward, then followed it all the way to the highest level of the abbey. I ended up in a small room, cluttered and dustyÑit looked very seldom used, if ever. It was perfect for my purposes at the time.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Though IÕve warned you IÕm horrible at such things, IÕm going to try and summarize the battle at Redwall for you based on other accounts. Zloyevich had run outside and alerted the Mtsensk troops to ZlayaÕs death. They started to mobilize, but the shock of having lost their leader slowed them down rather significantly. The Redwallers formed for battle inside the abbey walls, then poured out of gates into the advancing ranks of Mtsensk. Both sides were going for the element of surprise, but I think the RedwallersÕ element was stronger. The clash got down to paw-to-paw fighting, which intensified enough to make Zloyevich call retreat. A decent amount of MtsenskÕs army escaped destruction, but Redwall was the clear victor nevertheless.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I only saw the minute forms of creatures struggling from a window in my high-up room. The noise attracted my attention, and the noise was what indicated the ferocity of the fighting below. I could come up with a mental picture from it, you know, and it was a very unpleasant picture. And yet it was necessary to fightÑnecessary to end the immediate conflict, to expel later threat, to uphold RedwallÕs free reputation, and to make my own troubles worth something. Creatures died, but things would have been worse otherwise. It may not have ended; I and many others needed to see it end. And it was ending, finally. It was leaving some old residue, but mostly brand new history and present-tense ordeal overwith, too. I could send the past away, let out all I had against it, then wash that away too. I donÕt know what the Redwallers would have thought if they had seen their new hero crying like that.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑFlora Litvinova
Ê Ê Ê Ê A creature doesnÕt panic initially when heÕs traumatized; any sort of reaction is delayed. His mind kicks into shock instead, freezing his thoughts and his body. And often also, I think, freezing the scene that traumatized him, freezing it in more detail than any artist could produce. ThatÕs why I donÕt need much of an introduction here. I can recall the scene without even closing my eyesÑand with a shudder. The piano was the focal point of a circle, a ring of curious but cautious and certainly horrified Redwallers forming the perimeter. Inside that ring, the bench and page-turnerÕs chair were overturned. Spattered randomly about was a great deal of bloodÑIÕd imagine there was some actually inside the piano as well. IÕve never seen the Redwallers put the top up since. Next to the chair, practically underneath the piano, lay Zlaya TrudnayaÕs bloody carcass, her face still twisted in a final gesture of hatred. And I stood at the corner of the instrument, poised as if I were about to take a bow after a performanceÑrigid and head tilted downward. But I didnÕt think what I did warranted a bow.
Ê Ê Ê Ê At first there was only silence in the entire hall, echoing more in itself than the muffled whispers that flickered through the Redwall masses after several minutes. The whispers also eventually gave way to bustling; the creatures almost pulsated in their jitters. (That impression of motion may have been only in my mindÑwithout my spectacles, I donÕt see distinct forms very well). I was able to notice the progression further, with the pulsating turning into general milling. The walls of the ring seemed to diffuse, but the area in which Zlaya and I remained was not crossed. It was as if there were physical walls around the area. And I couldnÕt get out.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I was still rather dazed, and observing the above blurrily and passively. IÕm not certain how long into that state I was when the young volemaid returned to the circleÑthe first creature back in (perhaps her being there before let her back)Ñand tapped me timidly on the shoulder. ÒMister Shostak, sir?Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê I snapped out of my hypnotism, so to speak, with a jerk of my head. I was easily terrified myself at that point. ÒYes, yes?Ó I stuttered softly.
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒYour spectacles, Mister Shostak.Ó The vole returned that necessity to me with a sense of awe about her. Awe and respect that I certainly didnÕt think I deserved. That air only added to my muddled confusion, making the situation more incomprehensible. But I was certainly glad to have my spectacles back, despite the delivery. I would have smiled at the vole if my face had wanted to respond to my mindÕs vague commands.
Ê Ê Ê Ê With my eyes in focus again, and with my head able to move, I was able to actually look at the situation. To look is not necessarily to comprehend, you know, but itÕs a start. You canÕt comprehend without seeing something. As it were, my comprehension was numbed, but it took no sharpwit or seer to see that Zlaya was very dead. And that sight was certainly enough to trigger in my mind that I was responsible in some manner. I may not have run her through with a sword or beat her empty-pawed; the blow from the chair may not have been what finished her. But sheÕd reacted to my music, and that reaction killed her, so to speak. And so I was responsible for Zlaya TrudnayaÕs death.
Ê Ê Ê Ê In the eyes of the Redwallers, I became a hero. That became more evident a bit later, you know, but the way I was treated even immediately was a hint. The cautious awe that the volemaid approached me with became a characteristic, so to speak, of all of the Redwallers around me. With the volemaidÕs approach, others wandered through the former circle (though, of course, avoiding ZlayaÕs body). Some nodded to me, others hinted at bows of respect. A couple of individuals passed by with a few mimed pawclaps. It was very odd, and I didnÕt particularly like it. YouÕll recall I despise thunderous applauseÑwell this was worse. Yes, itÕs respect, but I like respect better when I donÕt have to sit through it directly. I would have preferred even for the Redwallers to go right on to the victory feast (one of which they did have). Creatures get lost in the food at feasts, and therefore have less of their attention turned on the hero.
Ê Ê Ê Ê There must be a true hero to have a heroÕs feast, you know. And I didnÕt consider myself a true hero then; I donÕt really now. Now I know I did something good beyond the average, but at the time I couldnÕt feel heroic. IÕd just essentially killed a creature, you know. She may have been a corrupt, murderous, totalitarian dictator, but IÕd still killed her and I donÕt see how that could ride easy on any creatureÕs conscience. The only reason the hero has no aria of regrets in Broken-Sword Warrior is because heÕs unconscious and wounded, you know, too hurt to sing. But IÕm real and uninjured and holding that red stain. A hero should not be stained.
Ê Ê Ê Ê A hero should also not be considered such unless heÕs eliminated an entire problem. And as Redwallers paid silent respect to my sorry figure, I recalled the real problem. Zlaya hadnÕt held that title, so to speakÑany soulless assassin could have ended her. It was the armies of Mtsensk that were the serious issue, and it was for that issue that Zlaya had died. A side effect, so to speak.
Ê Ê Ê Ê According to the Redwallers, a hero can definitely compose a song. But does song compose heroes? That was what I was waiting to see; rather, I wanted to know if my piece had been at all comprehensible. To be a hero by my music appealed to me far much more than to be a war hero or a duel victor. IÕm a musician, after all, and my values correspond. The action of the Redwallers, though, seemed a bit slow to have perhaps understood it; I had reached some clearer understanding by then to consider such a point. Finally moving off the spot IÕd been standing at the whole time, I approached a rather sturdy-looking shrew from behind and lightly tapped his shoulder. He turned around, his face also expressing awe and some disbelief. It wasnÕt an expression my voice warranted as I asked, ÒDid you, so to speak, understand? You know, did you understand?Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê I think the shrew acted the way he did in some reasoning that I simply happened to be the Great Mitya Shostak. His confusion was a touch exaggerated, I think. ÒIÕm afraid I donÕt know what you mean,Ó he told me.
Ê Ê Ê Ê My heart faltered at his response; my initial reaction was to assume ÒnoÓ as the automatic answer. But I didnÕt want to make that assumption at the same time. ItÕs that odd self-contradiction that can be productive, and it made me keep asking. ÒYou know, my piece, the second one, that is, the second one. Did you understand it?Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê The shrew didnÕt even need to hesitate to answer me that time. ÒOh, of course,Ó he said. ÒClear as a crystal. IÕm going to get my rapier now and join my squad...Ó he trailed off before finally adding, Ò...if you donÕt mind, Mister Shostak.Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê Of course I didnÕt mind, but once again orders were disregarded, so to speak, in terms of actually saying that. I just waved the shrew on with a shrug. As he did with the piece, he interpreted my gesture correctly and continued on his way. I, on the other paw, did not want to participate nor be in close range to what would certainly be a climactic battle. I was a jumble of nerves already and I needed some time to myself. My initial thought was to go to the gatehouse, but its location on the grounds seemed like it could get swept over by contesting battle lines. And so I needed a new place to rest myself. Gazing around the hall, I took the first stairway I could find upward, then followed it all the way to the highest level of the abbey. I ended up in a small room, cluttered and dustyÑit looked very seldom used, if ever. It was perfect for my purposes at the time.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Though IÕve warned you IÕm horrible at such things, IÕm going to try and summarize the battle at Redwall for you based on other accounts. Zloyevich had run outside and alerted the Mtsensk troops to ZlayaÕs death. They started to mobilize, but the shock of having lost their leader slowed them down rather significantly. The Redwallers formed for battle inside the abbey walls, then poured out of gates into the advancing ranks of Mtsensk. Both sides were going for the element of surprise, but I think the RedwallersÕ element was stronger. The clash got down to paw-to-paw fighting, which intensified enough to make Zloyevich call retreat. A decent amount of MtsenskÕs army escaped destruction, but Redwall was the clear victor nevertheless.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I only saw the minute forms of creatures struggling from a window in my high-up room. The noise attracted my attention, and the noise was what indicated the ferocity of the fighting below. I could come up with a mental picture from it, you know, and it was a very unpleasant picture. And yet it was necessary to fightÑnecessary to end the immediate conflict, to expel later threat, to uphold RedwallÕs free reputation, and to make my own troubles worth something. Creatures died, but things would have been worse otherwise. It may not have ended; I and many others needed to see it end. And it was ending, finally. It was leaving some old residue, but mostly brand new history and present-tense ordeal overwith, too. I could send the past away, let out all I had against it, then wash that away too. I donÕt know what the Redwallers would have thought if they had seen their new hero crying like that.
