Chapter Two:
Redwall, to Martin's seasoned eye, was the most beautiful place in the world. It was the only place he had ever been, other than Noonvale, where creatures of all sorts could live in peace together. Existing for the happiness of day-to-day life. Redwallers farmed the land, taught the young, aided the elderly, gave sanctuary to weary travelers, and built for the future. They never took what they had for granted, nor did they question what was given them. Kotir and the fortress of the wildcats was gone, and in its place stood a place of such simplicity and generosity that Martin could not question why his warrior's blood had finally thinned and chosen to settle here.
He could recall it now, the day he had come to Mossflower Woods. More had driven him then his questing nature. It was almost as though he had seen the place in a dream. At least, that was how he felt the day he first set eyes on the edge of the woods. And he knew that something extraordinary would happen there. And so something had. Martin had taken up his father's sword once more and helped to liberate the creatures who lived under the tooth and claw of Tsarmina of the Thousand Eyes. Oh the sheer joy he had felt when Abbess Germaine and the inhabitants of Mossflower had been able to realize their dream of building a home for all creatures, great and small.
Martin shook off the memory and tried to bring himself back to present day. More and more often he had been losing himself in the past, despite his own attempts to forget it all. But that was the problem. When he was some seasons younger, after his battle with the wildcat, he had suffered an injury that caused his memory to be affected. But, it seemed that with age he had begun to remember it all again.
Glancing out towards the Abbey pond from the front steps of the Great Hall, two young creatures caught his eye. One of them, a young otter, was playing with a Dibbun mole. Martin's lips curved into a smile as he recalled his youth on the north shores with his long-passed friend Timballisto. The mouse had been some seasons older then him, but it did not matter. Still they had played together as youth, and defended their home against invaders when the need arose. However, not even the two combined could stop Badrang from finding his way to their tribe.
Martin blinked back the tears as he saw in his mind the image of Windred chained next to him in the middle of slaves. The old mousewife had fought her hardest to survive among the wretched and cursed ranks bound for what was to be Marshank. Sometimes, Martin thanked the heavens that the old mouse had perished during the long march. Had she lived, she would have been forced into building the stoat's fortress. And that would have caused a far more painful death then the one she suffered at the hand of a fever.
Once again, Martin tried to draw his attention back to the present. But it was to no avail. His failing eyesight landed on the son of his best friend Gonff's son. The mouse was young. Not the warrior type, no. He was far more like his grandfather. A musical thief. The child was cheekily flirting with a mouse maiden named Purdy. And like a good girl, she laughed appropriately at all his antics and batted her long eyelashes at him. An image flashed in Martin's mind of another young mouse and maiden. With a sigh, Martin started back inside. Yes, it still hurt to think of her. She had saved his life more times then he cared to count, and he could not save hers when it counted.
Angry with himself, the old warrior deliberately turned his thoughts back to Gonff and their happy days together. How often they had laughed and played, even in the darker days. He could still so clearly recall the time when he and Gonff were in Kotir's dungeons and the only thing the Prince of Mousethieves did was play his songs and talk of Goody Stickle. Martin laughed, as he thought of the fretful hogwife. Goody had been more of a mother to Martin then any he could ever remember. She had loved him without boundary and when Martin did something he should not have, like stealing pasties from the kitchen, it was Goody Stickle who whacked his paw with a ladle and sent him to dish duty.
Pausing in the middle of the Great Hall, Martin leaned up against the cold stone of the bare wall. He began to think of something new. Something different than the past. He recalled the time his father had handed him the great sword and told him that perhaps he would one day pass it along to his own son. But Martin felt heavy hearted as he thought, 'No, I have no son or daughter nor any other in this world to pass my sword to.' Without warning, his vision clouded and he began to see things that should not have been there. He saw warriors, male and female, squirrel, mouse, hedgehog, mole, badger, hare, and countless others standing before him, smiling as if they knew him. Names flashed through his mind. Samkin, Mariel, Arven, Mattimeo, Dandin, Dannflor, Triss, and countless others. Martin, wise as he had grown, knew that this was not a vision of the past; rather it was a vision of the future. Standing out in front of all the others was a mouse. He was small, much as Martin had been in younger days, and wore a habit much too large for him and shoes that did not fit. But there was an air of familiarity to the mouse. Something that connected Martin's soul to his. He was a warrior. The mouse smiled and drew from the sheath on his side the sword of Martin's ancestors. One by one, the sword was passed from warrior to warrior, each who held it as though it were meant for them, and each who smiled at Martin as they passed it on to the next. Finally, it ended back at the mouse with the overlarge habit. Martin understood as he watched this mirror image of himself sheath the sword back in its black scabbard.
"Matthias." he whispered.
The mouse nodded replying, "I am that is."
As quickly as they had been there, they were gone. Everybeast. Leaving Martin alone again in the empty hall with only a cold, stone wall for company. Looking up at the wall, Martin again felt a vision clouding his mind. He saw a great tapestry, built little by little by generations of creatures. Each adding their own version of Redwall's history to it. And there, standing out like a beacon of light, was the woven piece of Martin himself.
So, the warrior mouse thought, this is what Columbine's tapestry would look like. He laughed inwardly, thinking of the many times he had seen and heard Abbess Germaine and Gonff's wife planning and plotting the creation of what they would call the "pride of Redwall". With a sigh, he felt his heart drop. She too was gone. Columbine. Nearly all of those he had known for many seasons had passed through the gates of the Dark Forest, leaving him alone.
No. Not alone. He still had Bella. After all, a badger's lifespan was indeed great. He would have Bella until his dying day.
With the difficulty that comes with age, Martin made his way up the dormitory steps to the small room he called his own. Tired and worn from the hot day, the once-powerful warrior sat down at his desk and began to scribble a poem on a piece of parchment. It began with "I-am that is."
Perhaps he would talk to Skipper about having it carved into the stones of Redwall one day for some curious mouse to find.
Redwall, to Martin's seasoned eye, was the most beautiful place in the world. It was the only place he had ever been, other than Noonvale, where creatures of all sorts could live in peace together. Existing for the happiness of day-to-day life. Redwallers farmed the land, taught the young, aided the elderly, gave sanctuary to weary travelers, and built for the future. They never took what they had for granted, nor did they question what was given them. Kotir and the fortress of the wildcats was gone, and in its place stood a place of such simplicity and generosity that Martin could not question why his warrior's blood had finally thinned and chosen to settle here.
He could recall it now, the day he had come to Mossflower Woods. More had driven him then his questing nature. It was almost as though he had seen the place in a dream. At least, that was how he felt the day he first set eyes on the edge of the woods. And he knew that something extraordinary would happen there. And so something had. Martin had taken up his father's sword once more and helped to liberate the creatures who lived under the tooth and claw of Tsarmina of the Thousand Eyes. Oh the sheer joy he had felt when Abbess Germaine and the inhabitants of Mossflower had been able to realize their dream of building a home for all creatures, great and small.
Martin shook off the memory and tried to bring himself back to present day. More and more often he had been losing himself in the past, despite his own attempts to forget it all. But that was the problem. When he was some seasons younger, after his battle with the wildcat, he had suffered an injury that caused his memory to be affected. But, it seemed that with age he had begun to remember it all again.
Glancing out towards the Abbey pond from the front steps of the Great Hall, two young creatures caught his eye. One of them, a young otter, was playing with a Dibbun mole. Martin's lips curved into a smile as he recalled his youth on the north shores with his long-passed friend Timballisto. The mouse had been some seasons older then him, but it did not matter. Still they had played together as youth, and defended their home against invaders when the need arose. However, not even the two combined could stop Badrang from finding his way to their tribe.
Martin blinked back the tears as he saw in his mind the image of Windred chained next to him in the middle of slaves. The old mousewife had fought her hardest to survive among the wretched and cursed ranks bound for what was to be Marshank. Sometimes, Martin thanked the heavens that the old mouse had perished during the long march. Had she lived, she would have been forced into building the stoat's fortress. And that would have caused a far more painful death then the one she suffered at the hand of a fever.
Once again, Martin tried to draw his attention back to the present. But it was to no avail. His failing eyesight landed on the son of his best friend Gonff's son. The mouse was young. Not the warrior type, no. He was far more like his grandfather. A musical thief. The child was cheekily flirting with a mouse maiden named Purdy. And like a good girl, she laughed appropriately at all his antics and batted her long eyelashes at him. An image flashed in Martin's mind of another young mouse and maiden. With a sigh, Martin started back inside. Yes, it still hurt to think of her. She had saved his life more times then he cared to count, and he could not save hers when it counted.
Angry with himself, the old warrior deliberately turned his thoughts back to Gonff and their happy days together. How often they had laughed and played, even in the darker days. He could still so clearly recall the time when he and Gonff were in Kotir's dungeons and the only thing the Prince of Mousethieves did was play his songs and talk of Goody Stickle. Martin laughed, as he thought of the fretful hogwife. Goody had been more of a mother to Martin then any he could ever remember. She had loved him without boundary and when Martin did something he should not have, like stealing pasties from the kitchen, it was Goody Stickle who whacked his paw with a ladle and sent him to dish duty.
Pausing in the middle of the Great Hall, Martin leaned up against the cold stone of the bare wall. He began to think of something new. Something different than the past. He recalled the time his father had handed him the great sword and told him that perhaps he would one day pass it along to his own son. But Martin felt heavy hearted as he thought, 'No, I have no son or daughter nor any other in this world to pass my sword to.' Without warning, his vision clouded and he began to see things that should not have been there. He saw warriors, male and female, squirrel, mouse, hedgehog, mole, badger, hare, and countless others standing before him, smiling as if they knew him. Names flashed through his mind. Samkin, Mariel, Arven, Mattimeo, Dandin, Dannflor, Triss, and countless others. Martin, wise as he had grown, knew that this was not a vision of the past; rather it was a vision of the future. Standing out in front of all the others was a mouse. He was small, much as Martin had been in younger days, and wore a habit much too large for him and shoes that did not fit. But there was an air of familiarity to the mouse. Something that connected Martin's soul to his. He was a warrior. The mouse smiled and drew from the sheath on his side the sword of Martin's ancestors. One by one, the sword was passed from warrior to warrior, each who held it as though it were meant for them, and each who smiled at Martin as they passed it on to the next. Finally, it ended back at the mouse with the overlarge habit. Martin understood as he watched this mirror image of himself sheath the sword back in its black scabbard.
"Matthias." he whispered.
The mouse nodded replying, "I am that is."
As quickly as they had been there, they were gone. Everybeast. Leaving Martin alone again in the empty hall with only a cold, stone wall for company. Looking up at the wall, Martin again felt a vision clouding his mind. He saw a great tapestry, built little by little by generations of creatures. Each adding their own version of Redwall's history to it. And there, standing out like a beacon of light, was the woven piece of Martin himself.
So, the warrior mouse thought, this is what Columbine's tapestry would look like. He laughed inwardly, thinking of the many times he had seen and heard Abbess Germaine and Gonff's wife planning and plotting the creation of what they would call the "pride of Redwall". With a sigh, he felt his heart drop. She too was gone. Columbine. Nearly all of those he had known for many seasons had passed through the gates of the Dark Forest, leaving him alone.
No. Not alone. He still had Bella. After all, a badger's lifespan was indeed great. He would have Bella until his dying day.
With the difficulty that comes with age, Martin made his way up the dormitory steps to the small room he called his own. Tired and worn from the hot day, the once-powerful warrior sat down at his desk and began to scribble a poem on a piece of parchment. It began with "I-am that is."
Perhaps he would talk to Skipper about having it carved into the stones of Redwall one day for some curious mouse to find.
