The whole Quinn family was seated around the fire, toasting strips of fish on long wooden sticks. Dirk was humming an old overlord ditty to himself, Alura was staring into the fire, warm and content. And Gideon was wondering.
Wondering had become a great pastime of the young beast. He wondered why you were always pulled down when you jumped up. He wondered how beasts had been fishing since before-time-began, and the silly fish never learned not to bite. He wondered how a clock worked. Every time he wondered about something, he asked his parents. Most of the time, neither one had an answer.
But he always asked
them anyway. After all, they were never unwilling to answer any of
his questions, even when they didn't know. So he asked again anyway.
"Mummy, why can't we live in Abbeytown?"
For the first time ever, Gideon saw the look of remorse, sorrow and regret on the faces of his parents. Dirk spoke first.
"We have to live here because my parents didn't like your mother very much."
"Why don't they like her? I love Mummy," said the curious Dibbun defiantly.
"I do too. Anybody who knows your Mummy really well would love her," replied Dirk, tickling Alura under the chin, making her giggle.
"So why don't they?"
Dirk sighed. "Because they didn't bother to see your mother for who she was at all. They didn't see her the way I did, so they told me to go away."
"But they're your parents. Shouldn't they love you?"
"Yes, but they
couldn't accept my choices."
"Well, when I have children, I'm going to let them make all the choices they want," decided the young Gideon.
Dirk laughed at his son's resolve, but inwardly he was thinking remorsefully. When Gideon got older, he'd have to explain this more, rather than the thirty-second version he had given. How could he tell his son about leaving the Hunter's life behind? How could he tell him of the heritage he had left behind? How could he explain the cruelty of his former life?
Dirk brushed these harsh thoughts aside, and kissed his wife on the forehead before helping his son with the burning bit of fish on his stick.
Meanwhile, Gideon turned his head wisfully towards the sparkling little town, and though to himself: Someday I'll be in there.
---------------------
At the center of town, like a ruby iris in a golden jewel, stood Redwall Abbey. Once, centuries ago, it had been the retreat for the cloistered order of woodlanders; a stronghold of stability, gentility and kindness in a cruel world. Now it was the lair of two separate entities that were all that was left of Redwall's law and order: The Overlords, and the Hunters.
Each task was simple and distinct from the others, all revolving around the labor in Abbeytown. The Overlords created labor quotas and oversaw the labor itself.
As for the Hunters, their task was different altogether. When dissent arose, or the status quo was impinged, the Hunters were there. Trained from the age of two seasons by their parents, a Hunter became a killing machine by the tender age of fifteen. Respected and feared across Abbeytown, they were the law. None dared cross a Hunter, for fear of death in the blink of an eye.
Above the Abbey was the Belltower. Once it had held the great Matthias and Methuselah bells. Now it was home to the most fearsome beast in all of Abbeytown.
Mortenoir.
Within the dark confines of the tower, he sat in an armchair that had once belonged to a blind old badger.
His very appearance was even more intimidating than his profession, which was saying something. Mortenoir was both the Supreme Overlord and the High Magistrate of the Hunter's Guild. He effectively commanded Abbeytown.
He wore a heavy black velvet coat that came down to his knees over a two identical gun belts. He wore plain pinstriped trousers and a black work-shirt. He wore plain black boots and equally black satin gloves. On his head was a tall silk top hat, from which hung a long black veil which obscured his face completely.
The only visible part of his body was his tail. Most foxes' tails are reddish brown with a white tip. Mortenoir's was black through-and-through, black as the ace of spades.
With his appearance, it was easy to see why he had earned his nickname: The Abbey Undertaker.
He sat on his throne, ebony tail swishing out behind him. From here, he could see all of Abbeytown, but in the darkness of the tower, it was all but impossible for any to see in.
The space below the tower had once been a home to the bellringers of the Abbey. Lately, it had been Mortenoir's chamber. Only one staircase led up here: Only one location of an assault.
Such was the thinking of Mortenoir, who had been the best Hunter of his time (second only to one whom he eventually bested): paranoid, suspicious.
From his perch in the tower he looked out at the stretch of territory that was indisputably his.
It ran far, wide, and varied – the banks, casinos and eateries of the rich south, and the more destitute north, the location of most of the labor in town.
"All mine," he muttered in a low, rumbling voice, like distant thunder.
The silence was inevitably broken by the entrance of Dougal.
Percival Dougal had once given up the life of a regular mouse laborer in return for seasons of service as Mortenoir's chief aide. For hours on end, he sat, adding up all the figures of the harvest totals, reporting them and other news to the masked fox periodically.
The orderly mouse rose up the steps to the tower, dressed in his usual orderly state: A three-piece suit, bowler hat, and a golden-rimmed monocle.
"What's new, Dougal?" said the fox, somewhat aggressively. He did not like to be disturbed while up here.
"I'm afraid something rather problematic has come up in Northtown."
Mortenoir said nothing, tacitly urging the mouse to continue.
"This morning, a drifter wandered into the Abbeytown border. He was armed, in contradiction to the law, and threatened a minor overlord. He then entered town, where he beat the same overlord unconscious and attacked Regional Overlord Munoz. By all reports it seems he…took her. It appears he is currently staying at the saloon where the last incident took place."
The fox said nothing at first. "It sounds like one of Rosa's lovers bit back. Was he provoked?"
"When he intimidated the overlord at the border, it seems the overlord fired his weapon first. At the bar, he was apparently threatened at gunpoint."
"What sort of woodlander is he?"
"Reports differ. Some said he was a steam otter, some said he was a squirrel. Lots even thought he was a weasel or a ferret."
"Interesting," mused the ruler out loud.
"What course of action do we take?"
"As far as the law is concerned, he did little wrong. The law upholds self-defense and provocation, as you know. However, have Rosa follow him wherever he goes; it'll make up for her causing the scene. If he makes trouble again, dispatch two Hunters to subdue him, and put him in the cellars."
The mouse bowed, and Mortenoir was alone again with the vast spread of his kingdom.