Chapter 7
Invisible Horizon
The last time Sister Harriet had seen the blue and orange, she was at a market in the Northlands several seasons ago. What town was it, now? Ah—
Bristlowth.
A gloomy seaside market town, but rather a busy one, for the Northlands. Most of that place was a backwater. Pretty sometimes, but dull as rocks. The town was a refreshing change of pace. One could get a decent meal and a drink. Boats of all sizes and descriptions crowded the harbor, hailing even from places Harriet had never gone to herself, like the lands across the Eastern Sea. You could not tell which was pirate and which was trader. Foxwake Castle loomed over them like a hunkering badger. Any substantial town in the Northlands was ruled over by a vermin, for woodlander chieftains preferred lives of bucolic isolation. Yet vermin lords never lasted long. There was too much fighting among them, fighting which inevitably destroyed the towns and any shred of prosperity they managed to build. There was nothing comparable to Southsward in the North. The vermin were victims of their own disorderly nature, and the gentlebeasts refused to rule. Oh, for a good squirrelking!
Harriet was there pursuing a manuscript by the Monk of Shardmoth for Redwall's expanding library. The town was known to have a good trade in antiquities. She met up with a book collector, a shrew named Lorkin? Lorcas? Something like that. That was when she noticed the rats roaming the articles market in groups of two and three. Many of them wore something like a cravat or neckerchief—in bright blue-and-orange tartan. They stopped here and there, examining the offerings of different stalls. The sellers stepped aside when approached by one of these beasts, and kept their eyes downcast.
She asked Lorcas who they were. Surely the fox's lot would not take such an interest in the market?
The shrew was uncomfortable. "We call them inspectors, but they're not from 'round here. Don't know where they came from. Lord Redshanks says we're to let them search our wares if they want."
"What are they looking for?"
"Word is they're looking for things stolen from the tomb of Mortspear. But you needn't worry, Sister. I haven't anything like that."
"The King, Mortspear? Father of Verdauga Greeneyes?"
"I see his fame has stretched beyond the North. Aye, it's the same one. His tomb was robbed, oh, a few seasons ago. I hear there are a number of relics still missing."
Presently at Redwall, Sister Harriet sat at the Abbess' window ruminating on this memory. Feeling victorious that she surfaced an answer to something that had puzzled her awhile, she smiled to herself.
"What state is he in?" asked the Abbess. They gathered in her private room, an incomplete assemblage of abbey leadership: Byron, Jacko, Harriet, and Abbess Moraine. The abbess, a tall mouse of middle seasons and proper bearing, often met beasts in her own room. She preferred to keep small company. Tidy bookshelves surrounded them, and a fresh pot of tea sat on her table.
"Not bad," said Byron. "Tough little monster. The worst thing was the way he was cuffed, he happened to dislocate his arm. He'll recover well."
"Good," she said. "Or perhaps that is not good, depending on how you interpret Martin's words. Stop writing, Jacko." She turned to the otter. "Pass me what you have of the dream."
Jacko turned back a page and slid it over to her. The abbess read it aloud in her clipped and authoritative voice, the perfect pause after every sentence.
"This from account of Byron Meriff, Champion:
On the eve of my wedding-day did Martin the Warrior visit me in my dream. He cautioned me of a verminous spirit. Like him, a warrior long dead. It would come before the abbey in the form of a rat and take me away to the North where a great foe, a wildcat I think, awaits me. There was poetry, but I do not recall much of it. I heard the next day that such a rat had been captured, but I did not remember my dream until I laid eyes on the beast at my wedding feast."
Harriet snorted. "You make him sound so foolish, Skip." Byron glared at Jacko.
"I can revise it if you wish," said the otter, shrugging.
"I should not care if he was pummeled to death or thrown off the belfry or drowned in hotroot soup," said Byron to the abbess. "I don't trust that rat, not one bit."
"But that is certainly a prophetic dream," Abbess Moraine replied. "Maybe the harbinger is not so pleasant a creature, but it did seem to you that Martin was dispensing prophecy? And the rat is to guide you to a warlord, not hinder you? There is no need to think of him as your enemy."
Byron nodded sullenly.
Jacko cut in, "Martin sends prophetic dreams when Redwall is in trouble. It does not make sense to travel to a warlord who has nothing to do with us."
"On the contrary, Jacko. Think of when Joseph the Bellmaker traveled to Southsward," said the Abbess. "That had very little to do with Redwall. We cannot choose where we are needed."
"Perhaps the warlord will come for Redwall in the future, and this is an opportunity to stop him early," said Harriet.
"Preventative measures are the most effective," agreed Byron. "We've seen that over and over again. Mossflower has never been safer."
Harriet replied, "Oh, quit the stern leader act! This could be it, Ronnie. Your destiny."
"And haven't you waited long, child?" The abbess chuckled. "Thirty-and-two and married before your first real journey!"
Jacko squirmed uneasily. "Don't tease him, Abbess. You and I are well beyond thirty-and-two and have yet to set one foot outside Mossflower."
"I think we ought to keep this business between ourselves for now," the Abbess went on. "Byron, you are permitted to tell your wife. Give her time to adjust to the idea of your leaving, but let no one else know. And do post a proper guard on him first thing in the morning. Jacko has volunteered to watch him for now, though I don't think he'll give us much trouble in the state he's in. We shall learn more from him when he wakes."
Once the group parted, Sister Harriet went immediately to her own room to take stock of every object that was there. Nothing struck her as being very special. Nothing that could come from the tomb of a king. Just some pottery and the little statue and the few books, of no distinguished age, that she had brought from the South. She'd not done a run in the North for several seasons. Even if she unknowingly picked up some treasured relic, it seemed unlikely that anyone should have traced it all the way south or east beyond Mossflower, and then back to Redwall. No, it was quite impossible.
But to be safe, she paid a visit to her assistant, a capable young hedgehog named Umbert, who came to his door half-asleep, rubbing his eyes. She ordered him to watch the infirmary for the night. He was to stay out of sight, but report to her if the rat made any movements.
As usual, he chose to be under the trees that overlooked the graveyard. That picture came to him easily. He woke in the grassy copse, and all was tinted yellow from the strong memory of a sunset. The air filled with music, a confident tremolo which would have been mesmerizing—to any creature who had not heard it a thousand times. It was a furious tempo this time.
"Tawnhide," said the rat as he opened his eyes. "Quiet, I beg yew."
The ferret ended his bit with a discordant note. He was a big, magnificent beast, and he held an equally magnificent lute of enormous size. He bared his fangs to the rat. Lightning raged in his black eyes. "My servant, are you not angered? They be treatin' ye like dirt under their feet. Let us out! Let us avenge yew!"
"Yew do flatter us," the rat replied gamely. "I'm alreet, as ye kin see."
"The mission draws close, rat. Nothing will keep us from 'im now. Let us out!" The ferret materialized a spear, dismissing his lute. A crick of blood ran down the leaf, round his paw, and down his wrist.
"No need t' get murderous. I reckon that's a good way t' get us killed in this place. Give us a day. I'll be gan."
A sound, like the creaking of wind upon a house, came uncomfortably close. The rat looked around. "That's strange. Weren't me doin'."
"Nor mine," said Tawnhide. "'Tis the mouse. Yew slipped into sleep, lad. He tries to invade yer dreams, the presumptive creature."
"Kin you hold 'im long, Master?"
The ferret gave a contemptuous, full-fanged grin. "I can do him one better. Wake up, lad."
Nadine was a light sleeper.
In her dream, she stood in front of the famed tapestry of Martin the Warrior. The hall could use a good dusting. White specks floated around her in the sunrays, fat as snowfall. One of these landed on the noble nose of the mouse on the wall. Martin the Warrior sneezed.
"Oh, sorry," said Nadine. "I'm afraid I skipped this room this morning."
"Not a problem," the warrior replied.
"Whatever are you doing in that tapestry? Won't you come in?"
Raising a leg, he took a step out of the brilliant weave. Treads stretched and tore as he pushed through, leaving a mouse-shaped hole behind. Finally he floated from the wall and came to kneel on the ground, holding his sword point-down to the floor. "I thank you."
"What a shame," Nadine said at the shredded tapestry, tucking her paws into her pockets. "It was fine weaving. Must've taken a lot of work to make that."
"Nadine of Redwall!" boomed the shining warrior. "Look where needs looking!"
She obliged him, though annoyed. "I am Nadine of Chippenley, Sir, for that is where my mother comes from."
"You have not once set foot in the village of Chippenley. You are Nadine of Redwall, and you are an interference. Listen to my word—
Deep in the rifted valley sleep
ghosts of the marchland mountain keep,
There prowls Infantus, a yellow cat,
To find the menace, take the rat,
who comes to the gate of Redwall;
host to a warrior erased,
spirit with a verminous face,
He will hark to that vile place,
the cursed mountain hall.
Trust in your champion, child! The rat is not your friend. He belongs to Byron's fate."
The warrior held out a paw to her. Nadine took it, feeling light fill her like cold water on a summer day.
A boom sounded across the hall. Nadine whirled to face the doors. They shook as another boom sounded. Then another, Then another. "I shouldn't answer that," said Nadine.
"Remember this fear, for this how it will be when vermin bear down on you," said Martin. "You won't be able to hold against him long. Let him in, and stand behind me."
So Nadine hid behind him, and at her willing the doors opened. There entered a creature she had never seen. It was like an otter, big and dark, though unlike an otter the head was fine with a pointed snout. White markings skimmed his cheeks, and his black-tipped fur belied roots of muddy white. A tartan cloak of wide panes was draped on one shoulder and belted fast, revealing a short arm and half of a narrow chest; not a broad, rolly body like an otter's, but full of strength held close. Here walked a terror of trees and caves, a snake in the long grass.
As he strode into the hall, the surroundings dissolved like paper in water. The peaceful warmth of an afternoon at Redwall tore away into a wild landscape of bare hills. It was dark, whether from nighttime or a cloudy sky Nadine could not tell. A strong wind whorled around them, filling their clothes with air. Her last shred of courage drained from her, because the dream was wrested from her control completely.
"This mouse's mind is not your home!" said Martin to the beast. "How dare you intrude on her!"
"Canna a guest make himself welcome?" purred the beast. Nadine flinched when he looked at her. She dropped into a low crouch in the grass.
Martin drew his sword, and not a moment later, a spear ran him through. Nadine let out a cry. But the warrior mouse was standing there no longer. She was left in the empty wasteland, alone with the vermin.
"Calm y'self, lass. He'll find his way 'ere again. A mouse always does." He came to her and bent until they were nearly face to face; an unreal contortion since Nadine was doing her best to be grass. "Now what must I give ye, so that yew will set Oggmire free?"
"Wh—who is Oggmire?" asked Nadine, shaking.
"The rat whose life ye saved, Nadine of Redwall."
"There is not a thing you can give me! I follow Martin the Warrior. Redwall mice will always do what is right." Nadine looked around, waiting for her warrior to return, but he did not.
"Right? Is it right that my own quest be forestalled, on the whim of some mouse? Is it right if he is took to his homeland as captive?"
"It is fate," said Nadine. "You can't help it, even if you don't like it. If Byron is destined to take down a warlord—oh, he would be—then that's what should happen. I am sorry that…Oggmire will be inconvenienced."
"Who says it is fate?" he demanded. "Fate is not one beast, and neither is it one spirit. Stand up!" Thunder rumbled in his voice, and Nadine leapt up in alarm. "If you care naught for his honor, maybe you care for his life. If yew do not remove him from this abbey, lass, I'll be forced t' take matters into me own paws."
"Y-you mean kill him?" said Nadine.
"Aye. I can find another body to inhabit. But where would your Byron find another beast to guide him to his destiny?"
"You would kill him just to spite a rival?"
"Hardly a rival," he said with a laugh.
As he did so, he was knocked aside by a flash of silver—Martin the warrior. Though they were in open land as far as the eye could see, the mouse came out of nowhere, as if his door was the darkness and the wind itself. As the sword slit the vermin's belly, Nadine shut her eyes and begged to wake up.
Nadine woke then, quite calmly. Competing senses confused her. Her hear beat fast, but on the whole she felt a bit slow, her head fuzzy with the troubling yet unclear memory of her dream.
She had fallen asleep in a lumpy old armchair in the infirmary. Her book was dropped on the floor. It was still night. Her candle still burned in its glass, and evidenced how little time had passed. The rat, whatever his name was, lay on a bed nearby, sedated from pain by one of Sister Gertrude's concoctions. Thankfully. Nadine shuddered remembering how he screamed when the Sister reset his arm.
Jacko was there, too, but he'd wisely chosen to nap in one of the other beds. The otter was a stubborn chaperone, though also an incompetent one. He drifted off the minute he lay down and was now snoring. They were alone, the three of them. Sister Gertrude had retired to her own room. No one else was there to watch the rat. All possible candidates would be in a drunk, overfed stupor from the evening's revelry.
Nadine then heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps at the bottom of the stairs. Whoever it was came up slowly, quietly. In a panic, she hurried to the door and locked it. She backed away, paw clutching her collar. Light welled in the gap between door and floorboards. The doorknob was tried, gently. When that didn't work, it was tried again, and then finally shaken with vigor.
Nadine took a deep breath to calm herself and yanked the door open angrily, a firm scowl planted on her face for whoever it was on the other side. A mouse she didn't know stepped back, looking at her in surprise. She could not recall if it was the same one who had beaten up the rat.
"What is your name?" Nadine demanded. The mouse did not respond. She went on in the most menacing voice she could muster, "If you do not leave right now, I will wake that otter guard sleeping there!"
"Who is it?" Jacko said, woken by her raised voice. Upon hearing him, the strange mouse bolted down the hall, to Nadine's relief. She followed him with her eyes until he disappeared down the stairwell.
She closed the door. "Whoever it was, he didn't have good intentions. Just a day ago I wouldn't have been scared of anything in this abbey, but now..."
The otter sat up. "Darkness lurks in all, m' dear. Seems our guest is not popular. I can keep watch over him, if you want to rest."
"No, I don't think I'll be able to sleep after that," said Nadine, walking back to her chair. "Since when are you so concerned with his safety?"
"He is a fated beast, according to Byron. Martin came to him in a dream and told him so."
Nadine gripped the armrest to steady herself, and sat down heavily as the full remembrance of her dream hit her like a wall. She was startled from the vantage of her chair to find the rat was awake and looking straight at her. Before she could remark on it, the rat shook his head very slightly. No. Say nothing. So she held her tongue.
"I don't know how much I ought to tell you," Jacko was saying. "But I think the Abbess will make an announcement tomorrow, once we have a chance to talk to him and sort things out. Oh, I don't see that it'll do much harm. You won't tell anyone else?" Famous words that began every chain of gossip at Redwall.
Nadine said, "I promise." Although she knew what would come out of the otter's mouth, and suspected the rat did, too.
"From what Byron said, there's a warlord in the North. A wildcat. We are to travel there and find him, and the rat will be our guide. My guess is he's one of the warlord's former cronies turned against him, like Graylunk the weasel who came to Redwall after fleeing from the ruler of Sampetra."
"Who is we? Who will travel?"
"Byron, of course. I suppose Harriet will want to accompany him, and some fit to fight. Maybe Skipper Dillon or Wylan will lend a paw. And…I hope, me. Perhaps Harriet will want to take you as well. I can put in a good word. Although, would you want to be around Byron that much?"
He expected her to light up with excitement, or else become a tearful mess again. But she said numbly, "Yes, I should appreciate it if you did."
She went back to her book, signaling that she was done talking. Jacko, though puzzled at her reaction, took the hint and settled back into bed. An hour or so passed. Nadine read a little, a silly but engrossing melodrama written by some repressed recorder in seasons past. Some warrior pining after somebeast's wife and so on. Mostly, she watched the rat over her page.
In her world, a fated beast was someone to be honored. Someone who journeyed with brave friends, returned triumphant, and was then titled Champion or perhaps Recorder or Abbot. This rat came alone, a hungry vagrant by all appearances. Fate must treat the vermin who perform its workings very poorly. What was his quest then? What else was there that brought him to Mossflower, if not simply to galvanize Byron?
When Jacko snored under his covers again, Nadine went to sit on the floor at the rat's bedside, arms wrapped about her knees. "Oggmire?" she inquired in a whisper.
The rat nodded. He made no move to sit up. "I'm sorry they chose yer head as a battleground. I wish yew hadn't let 'im in, but that can't be helped now."
"What is he?"
"A questing-spirit," said Oggmire. "Once, he were a living ferret long ago."
"That's what a ferret looks like? It's not at all like the pictures." In the illustrated histories, ferrets were always colored white with black arms and faces. They were depicted about the size of squirrels, if not smaller. Unless they're warlords, of course. Nadine realized for the first time that sizes in the pictures had more to do with symbolism than reality. Warlords were not always big creatures in life; they were drawn bigger to seem powerful and threatening. Their hordesbeasts were drawn small to seem weak. She felt very foolish.
"His kind's different from the ones down 'ere," Oggmire replied. "The lowland ferrets in those days mixed freely with polecats, so they were bigger and browner. Still do. If yer mother is called a ferret, you call yourself ferret, too." He snorted. "At first I thought 'e were just making himself look like that out of vanity, bein' a dream-ghost and all. But I've seen his memories, too. That's him, or at least how he saw 'imself. In death as in life."
Confused that he was speaking so warmly of the beast, Nadine said, "You know, he threatened to kill you if I didn't get you out of here."
"Did he now?"
"You think he's bluffing?"
The rat shook his head. "No. He's completely serious. I don't know whether he can, but I am sure he would. If that is what happens, so be it. The quest is more important. So you needn't cave to him. I myself am just a vessel of fate. I can be replaced with another." In the dim whispering candlelight he seemed to smile, eyes disregarding what was in front of him, his feet or the chair or the piece of black sky in the window, in favor of an invisible horizon. He had a natural squint, like a boatbeast, a farmer, or any such beast who spent his life looking into distances under the hot midday sun.
Nadine hissed, "No no no, how ludicrous! No hero of Redwall would call himself a vessel just because destiny came knocking, and neither should you! What is this quest that's worth more than your life?"
"I canna tell you that," the rat said calmly. "How do I know it won't get back to your elders? 'Fraid I'm not so chatty as the otter. Rest assured, it's got nothing to do with yew. Yer abbey is safe."
Nadine clutched her head with her paws. What else could there be in Mossflower that was important, other than the abbey? She had no desire to help him without knowing what their purpose in this land was, but without her intervention, the rat could die. If she did help the rat get out, she would be working entirely against Redwall, against the creatures who had the bringing up of her. But if she let the rat die, that too would be working against Redwall because he was crucial to Byron's quest. Putting all that aside, the basic morals taught by the Order of Redwall dictated that a death should be prevented if at all possible.
"Right, fine!" she snapped, before remembering to lower her voice. She listened to check that Jacko snored still. "I will help you. I'll get you out of Redwall. But I ask one thing in return."
"Name it."
"I'm coming with you. I will see you to the end of your quest. That way my conscience can rest knowing you're not out there murdering innocents or something." She had a half-baked notion of concocting some way to keep Byron informed of their whereabouts. But she did her best not to dwell on this idea—for all she knew, the ghost could read her mind.
The rat stared at the ceiling as if reaching for a thought, then looked back at her with displeasure. "He agrees. Very well."
"Shake on it?"
He gave her a blank look, but when she held out her paw, he reciprocated with his good one.
"It's dangerous out there, lass, north or south. Will ye be able to arm us? I'm fair with a bow."
"Not now, you're not." Nadine couldn't help smirking.
"Once I'm recovered, I'll be fair with a bow. I'm obliged if yew can find us one anyway, and a small blade in the meantime."
I'll carry any blades myself, thank you, thought Nadine. "Why is it that you don't have weapons of your own, other than that knife?"
Oggmire let out a long, weighty sigh. "Got robbed crossing the Moss. They took about everything. Me blanket, me belt, bottle, bow. Britches, even. I nicked the knife off someone else later on."
Nadine thought no warrior of Redwall would have let himself be robbed like that. Then again, she couldn't imagine Byron having to travel anywhere alone. Could one be left without a weapon or flint or even clothes in the wilds of Mossflower, so easily? In one fell swoop, even the bare necessities of life could be taken. The thought unsettled her. And then the rat was driven to thieve, too, just to survive. She recalled the afternoon when she'd met him. Why wasn't he kinder? She wondered angrily. A Redwaller is bound to help those in dire straits, even vermin. She could not have known that he was in such trouble; she thought he was some ordinary, no-good rat. I would have helped him, she thought firmly. Of course I would have.
"Lass?" he said, breaking her thoughts. "There is one other thing. The ring. He wants his ring back, what the squirrel took."
AN: It took a pandemic to revive this. Yikes. Thank you all once again for the reviews! They are much appreciated. As a sidenote, Tare was never mentioned in the series. I meant that I conjured a name for the deity Gabool the Wild mentions once ("great old one"? Something to that effect).