Chapter 8

Let Sprout

The night passed peacefully for the most part, except when Sister Gertrude came in to check on her patient and scared Nadine half to death. Very late or very early in the morning, probably close to the hour the kitchen staff rose, Nadine began to fall asleep in her chair again. Gertrude roused her with a cup of mint tea at the first bell. By the second bell, a wheel of interested parties came in and out of the infirmary to check on the rat. First the Abbess. She waited a good while for Oggmire to wake up but left in vain. Then there was Harriet, then old Skipper Dillon who volunteered one of his hungover otters as the unlucky first guard. After third bell, random beasts were descending to gawk, and when the number of them grew irritating, the otter guard finally shut them out.

The wedding guests left in a mass exodus. Nadine watched them from the window and breathed a sigh of relief. By late morning, few strangers remained in the abbey, and no longer did she have to fear unknown mice with a vendetta coming to smother Oggmire, or stab him in his sleep. Now, at least, the mundane danger was gone.

She went before the table, where Sister Gertude was buried in her notes. "I have to leave now for some chores. Would you keep a close eye on him?"

"But there's always someone watching him," said the graying vole, looking at the otter by the door.

"I should like for someone on his side to be here," Nadine replied. "I know I was only your assistant for a short time, but didn't you always say, 'a patient is a patient'? So if a patient is to be thoroughly questioned and prodded, shouldn't you be here to say when enough is enough? Will you promise to stay?"

"My dear, I don't know why you care so much. Look at you, all worn out from a sleepless night." Gertrude sighed. "But that's right: a patient is a patient. I've no plans to go anywhere." Nadine thanked her and headed for the door, only to turn around and return after a few steps. "What is it, child?" the Sister asked. "Please go. You've done enough."

Nadine sat down across from her. "How is it that you are able to forgive him? To treat him like a patient, I mean? Do you just try not to think of the things he's done or could have done?"

"There is no 'could'. A vermin at his age? Must have done wrong at some point," said Gertrude, easing back in her chair. "It's not surprising if you have reservations about him."

Nadine said, "A goodbeast is supposed to be bigger than that. Without mercy—"

"We become murderers. Yes, I know. I had the same schooling you did. For my part, I think turning a blind eye to a creature's faults isn't the answer. Forgiveness isn't like love or affection. It can't live on ignorance, especially not willful ignorance."

"Then how?" Nadine asked.

"You've got to seek to know a beast, to understand him. And even then, nothing may come of it. Between you and me, there are some beasts I've never forgiven. Your mother for one: having a child out of wedlock, asking us for shelter, only to leave you behind. I never forgave her for that, but I understood her. There were circumstances. And that's all one can do. Plant the seed of understanding, and let forgiveness sprout if it wants."

At the end of the room, Oggmire slept like the dead. Nadine wondered what he'd done, and how much of it she would be able to forgive. Soon, she would need to be forgiven, too. For treachery, for stealing supplies from the abbey, and whatever else might come down the road.

A bow was not difficult to find. There were a number of them unspoken for, in storage here or there. Beasts trained with them for sport. Thank goodness he didn't ask for a sword, Nadine thought. Now that would have been tough to get. Fortunately, most archers were squirrels, so most bows were sized appropriately for a rat as well. Unstrung, the no-frills training bows looked like flat, nearly straight pieces of wood, except that there was a handle in the middle. The arrows were wood points only, but nothing could be done about that.

She took a second bow for herself. Most every dibbun had one or two shooting lessons. Though Nadine's limited experience was in the dim past of her childhood, she thought she could figure it out. The rat might show her. He had to—for the weeks it took him to recover, it was to his benefit that they were not defenseless.

Blades were common as dirt at Redwall. Sickles, kitchen knives, big heavy knives for chopping kindling. The problem was, these were tools. She doubted she could get into the armor room unnoticed to procure any proper weapons. She settled on taking an axe and brushknife from the woodcutting supplies.

The rat needed clothes, too. It wouldn't do for him to run about the forest in a nightgown. With the eyes of a good seamstress, she knew Byron was about the same in the shoulder, and of similar height. Though Byron had removed to better accommodations as a married beast, Nadine thought his things could still be in his old room. She was proven correct; his clothes were still there in his chest. There, too, was the large pile of things set aside for washday. He would not notice some of those missing.

But instead of taking the dirty clothes, she took a couple of his clean shirts and breeches, and substituted the dirty ones into the bottom of the chest. It was a small revenge, in her way. She took a coat, the older one that Byron wasn't wearing because he'd ripped a seam somewhere. He would assume it had gone for mending.

She jumped when the door opened. Byron gaped at her a moment, then slammed the door shut as if Cluny the Scourge was in the hallway. "Just what do you think you're doing in here? I got married yesterday! Are you trying to get me in trouble?"

Nadine patted the loot folded on her arm, saying quietly, "I'm just here to take some things for the wash. I thought I'd try to come when I wasn't likely to run into you. Guess that didn't work."

Byron was frowning. "I've got a wife to do all that, now."

"They're not going to make a brand-new bride do the laundry!" Nadine scoffed. "It's nasty work, and it takes about the whole day. If you ever bothered to come to the stream, you'd know. Me and the others agreed to share out your wash. Spare her paws this time."

"How kind of you. I'm sure it's all out of the generosity of your heart."

Nadine swept by him to the door. "Didn't have a choice."

It would have been easy to leave. But she felt compelled to stop. Curses. Let it not end here. She had to try to tell him. She had to try, no matter how much she hated him. He was the only one who could get her out of her predicament bloodlessly. Yet, she could not allow him to stop Oggmire from leaving Redwall. She could not even intimate that there was such a plan afoot—Byron's overreaction could mean deep trouble, not only for the rat but for herself. It was just her luck that her lifeline was the one beast in the abbey who distrusted her most.

She took her paw off the doorknob and turned around uncertainly. "Byron. I'm curious about something. Have you ever dealt with a kidnapping?"

He looked puzzled. "Like slavers? Why, do you know of someone kidnapped?"

"How would you go about searching for someone?"

Byron gave a disbelieving laugh. "Why are you asking? Look, if this is some ploy to get my attention—"

"You would try to track where they went. Right?"

"I…suppose. If we're lucky and there's a good trail. Now, I need to get changed—"

"What sort of trail?"

He shook his golden-brown head in resignation and assumed an officious pose, his fist sitting on his waist. "Pawprints, obviously. Or any ground or brush that's been trod on. Remnants of a fire. Fishbones or other garbage. Blood. Urine. Could be lots of things, but it's not as easy as it sounds. Slavers are usually good at hiding signs of themselves. Sloppy ones tend not to last."

Nadine listened to his list with rapt attention. She then said imperiously, "Good. Just checking you know how to do your job."

She swanned out of the room without another word. It used to be Byron would crack the door and look around first, to make sure beasts never caught her leaving his room. Carrying on at Redwall required planning, effort, and light feet: meet me at sunset, leave by first dark, wait ten minutes, don't stand by the window, peek out the door first, avoid that hallway, and so on. It also required the mettle to lie through one's teeth, and commit to secrecy.

Now she didn't care, and she was intensely eager to get out. Byron must think me mad, she mused. She hoped, when the time came, he would understand. He could not forget that conversation once she actually went missing.

Hurrying up to the next floor, she reflected that no mouse would want a maid who ran off alone with a rat, no matter what the reason. Whether they assumed she was in league with him, or that she was kidnapped, it was all the same. She had always envisioned a fine Mossflower mouse for herself. One with golden-brown fur, and brown eyes. His teeth could be a little crooked, just enough to be fascinating. And she rather liked a bit of a temper, so long as he was no fool. But no such mouse would want her now, if he existed. Not even Boris the blacksmith would want her.

Her children would never play among the abbey dibbuns, would never learn their letters from Jacko, and would never sit in a circle in Cavern Hole to be fed communally from the same paws that once fed her. But she tried already to become a goodwife. It didn't pan out, just as other things hadn't panned out. The roads to respect had dwindled in number. Indeed it seemed none existed anymore.

She returned to her room and added to the hoard under her bed. Of her own possessions, she set aside a coat, a practical skirt that only went to her ankles, and the smock she wore for her dirtiest chores. The rest was best left behind. The other maids could divvy her things up if she didn't come back. She scrawled notes of will and left them stitched to her clothes: "for Norra", "for Holly", and so on. She knew better than they did what suited them, anyway.

She snuck into the kitchen's dry-store during the crucial window of afternoon silence to procure vittles. Having packed for warriors many times before, Nadine knew precisely what would go the distance: the food that kept the best, divided easily, tasted decent, and did not weigh much. She made a list of her take, calculated the proper ration to make it last two weeks, and packed it away methodically.

If she was nothing else, she was at least sensible and a good little worker. Her preparations were many, detailed, and thorough. She found tinderboxes and canteens and put together a mending kit. She stole old blankets. She fixed the coat, sitting by her window and deliberating. Time carried her along like a dandelion seed. Soon, it would be washday.

The morning after the wedding, Fiora the otter was down for kitchen duty. Her cooking was not up to Redwall standards, so she was never invited to join the regular kitchen rotation, but being a bigger beast made her useful for certain tasks. Using the great old stone mill, for example.

She hauled the treasured granite beast out into the kitchenyard, and turned around to see the Friar following her out.

"By the way, Nadine's not showed up this morning," he said, crossing his arms.

Fiora said, "So?"

"Didn't give me a word of warning. I had to run my tail off, looking for a replacement last-minute!" The vengeful friar wrung his hat. He was the most stressed beast in the Abbey. Commanding the kitchen, which fed—at the least—three score beasts breakfast, dinner, tea, supper, and the occasional feast no matter the season, was not an easy calling. Indeed he performed more miraculous feats and great workings than the champion, abbess, infirmary keeper and recorder combined. All most beasts knew of this sustained suffering was the food on their plates, which they took for granted. It was not surprising his temper ran as hot as stoves.

Fiora straightened to her full height, dwarfing the barrel-bellied mouse. "Why're you complainin' to me?"

"Well, you're always with her. Tell her when you see her next that I'd like a word, please," he said testily.

I will not, thought Fiora, but nodded.

She got the mill set up and began the first batch of flour, when Norra the squirrelmaid plopped down next to her. "Haven't had anything yet, have you?" She shoved a mushroom roll in front of Fiora's face. The otter accepted a bite, then decided it was worth putting her work aside a minute.

"Why, that's gorgeous, Norra. Did you make it?"

"I did," said the squirrel proudly. "Filled in this morning. I searched deep within my heart and called forth baking skills."

"A true heroine," Fiora remarked. "The Friar's in yore debt, Honoria of Redwall. You should ask him for something."

"I'll keep it in my hat." The squirrel elbowed Fiora. "But never mind that. I saw you caught the wheat last night."

"As I remember it, I was minding my own business when I got smacked in the face. That gel has an arm, she does."

"It means you'll get married next, silly! It's a mouse tradition, or something."

Fiora went back to turning the mill. "I'm not a mouse. And I don't need any reminding I ought to get hitched, thanks. Beasts don't ever shut up about it. I only get a thousand letters a season from Ma, beggin' me to come back 'n tie the knot. She's the one who sent mere here in the first place!"

"You should join the Order," said Honoria. "I'm sure Sister Marianne would want you around. Could you imagine yourself a nun?" she giggled.

"Hey!" called a young hedgehog as he passed by. "Sister Fiora the Nun!"

"I saw you were drinkin' the ale last night, Robin Shortspike!" Fiora yelled. "You'll shut up lest you want me telling your Ma!"

Honoria snorted.

"I wonder if she'll come down for breakfast," said Fiora.

"Nadine?"

"No, that gel, Lily. Could you imagine a thing more humiliating? To have to eat with beasts the morning after you got married, and for everyone to know you'd done the deed? They'd all look at you knowingly. Some impertinent gobs might even joke or wink at you." The otter shuddered. "Makes you want to consider being a nun."

"You should do it. Can't be that bad. You'd just have to get used to wearing those awful robes." Norra stood, dusting her paws off on her apron. "Got to get back to cleanup crew. If you see Nadine, tell her she owes me."

"Doubt she'll want to see me," Fiora said. "I was rather short with her the other day."

Paws on her hips, Norra waited intently for her to continue. She had not witnessed what happened in the meadow, and like everyone else, she had an ear for others' business. Especially embarrassing business.

"Oh, it was for her own good," Fiora muttered. "She was talking to a rat while we were out, for pity's sake. She's getting out of control. It was bad enough with Byron."

"A rat, did you say? Like the one yesterday?"

"Yesterday?" Fiora asked, her brow furrowing.

"They caught a rat, I heard. Snuck in during the wedding and started stealing things. They've got him locked up in the abbey somewhere."

A rat! Thought Fiora, grinding away at the flour. Not the same one?

Fiora dashed up to Nadine's room afterwards, but there was no one there. Her bed was neatly made alongside the others. The otter looked for some time in what she thought were likely places. Nadine wasn't with the cleanup crew picking up around the grounds. At midday, she didn't turn up for dinner. She wasn't at the gatehouse. When Fiora returned to Great Hall, she caught sight of Jacko with the Abbess.

"Marm," she said, bobbing a curtsy at the Abbess. Then she took her uncle by the arm and dragged him away.

"Do you know where Nadine is?" she hissed, quiet as could be. "She's been missin' all day!"

Jacko looked at his niece with perfect calm and said lowly, "Check the infirmary."

"You think she's hurt?"

Jacko scoffed. "My gel, she's fine. She's just obsessed with that rat."

There was an otter standing outside the infirmary, a scrubbed-up Skipper Wylan of the East Fork. He doffed his beret very gallantly as she passed. Fiora gave him a reluctant smile, suppressing the urge to tell him his hat was stupid. It was best not to be rude to him. He was really one of the better options, and refreshingly artless. He asked her to dance two reels yesterday, bless him. When he began to follow her into the infirmary, she whirled around. "Where d' you think yore going?"

He blinked. "There's a prisoner in there, Miss Coldstream. It's not safe."

Fiora narrowed her eyes at him. My word, they do not even let me breathe. "Shouldn't you go in first, then? If it's so unsafe? I'm sure there must be other beasts in there already?" To prove her point, she knocked on the door. Sister Gertrude called cheerily from the other side to come in.

The Sister smiled as they entered. It was a smile that could make the moon blush. It was the 'don't you make a handsome couple' smile. Gertrude was one of the more enthusiastic matchmakers around. Truly, Fiora regretted coming. And Nadine wasn't even in here!

The infamous rat lay on the bed, all puffy and bruised, his arm in a sling. Fiora drew to the bedside with an eagerness that discomfited the Skipper, who came to stand bristling at the headboard. Fiora was on edge, too. She didn't like being watched.

Sister Gertrude stood up. "Just in time, Fiora. I've got an order for you. I need burdock root and hazelwort. Oh, and—"

"We're out," said Fiora absentmindedly. She was preoccupied getting a good look at the rat's face. The same one? She thought yes. He was a dark and scrappy sort. Nothing distinguished him from any other rat, but it was unlikely that the two events—Nadine encountering a rat, and now a similar one showing up in the abbey infirmary—were unconnected.

"Out of what?" asked Gertrude.

Chafing under the gaze of both beasts, Fiora said dryly, "Everything. Plants. Garden's out of plants."

Gertrude chuckled. "Oh, I see. This one is such a laugh, Skipper. Kept us on our toes these past few seasons!" A scowl from Fiora, who was an excellent scowler, stopped the Sister in her tracks. "I…uh….I'll just write down that list, shall I?"

"If yore done advertising on my behalf, Sister. I actually came looking fer Nadine. She's been giving me the runaround all day. Heard she was in here."

"Oh, I'm afraid she left this morning. Said she had work to do, though. I should think in the kitchen."

Fiora sagged. "Right, shore. What's the story on the rat?"

Skipper Wylan said, "He was apprehended yesterday fer robbery. Tried t' escape while everyone was distracted last night. Some beasts stopped him, and they got into a fight. He broke his arm."

"Dislocated," said Gertrude. "Though he has a bit of a fracture in the forearm, too. I expect someone must have dragged him by that arm."

"How is he not awake yet?" asked the Skipper.

"I gave him a bit more of my sleeping draught. Seemed like he could use the rest, before beasts start pestering him."

Fiora shook her head, unable to make head or tail of it. Anger fledged in her chest, thinking of Nadine at the bedside of a creature who had not long ago brandished a knife at her. But Nadine was always like that. Fate had given her generous sympathies and not quite the sense to temper them. Fiora left the infirmary, the garden order strangled in her paw. Wylan followed her out.

"I'm sorry to see ya so anxious, Miss Coldmarsh. I'd help you find yer friend, but I'm needed here."

Fiora turned to face him. She reached for it's none of your business or, no one asked you in the first place, you self-important toad. But he was being perfectly nice, and was surely not the kind of beast that tolerated childish barbs. She knew she needed growing up, or else she would see doors close to her. "That's too bad," she said simply, and kept walking.

She found Nadine in possibly the last place one would look. The little garden-house was where all tools and necessities were kept for gardening, for woodcutting, for forage expeditions. Fiora went in there to write down the infirmary order in the record book. How odd that she should find the mousemaid crouched by the bookshelf. Nadine was never in the garden voluntarily, except for the six-and-sixty days where she'd tried it out and decided she hated it. One counted the days when Nadine tried something, because she was bound to stay longer than made her happy, and bound to drop it in the end. It was a thing to bet on; Fiora got a flask of blueberry wine off Uncle Jacko from that one.

Fiora rolled up the paper and gave her a good whack on the head.

"Hey! What's that for?"

"For being a pain. Edible Plants of the Monastic Forest?"

Nadine swiftly tucked the book under her arm, out of sight.

"Are you planning to run away?" Fiora asked in amazement, as Nadine inched toward the door. "What's going on, Nadine? There's a rat in the infirmary, yore dropping chores 'n stealing a field book. It's like two plus two turning out to be twenty. What am I missing? Stars above, please don't tell me yore in love with him. Why aren't you talking to me? Are you mad at me?"

"Oh," Nadine sighed. "I'm not mad at you."

"Then tell me what's happening!" said Fiora. "Look at you; yore about to run off with this rat, aren't you? That's a real step down from Byron. That's a whole flight of stairs."

Nadine flattened her ears, a gesture that really shows up on a mouse. "It's not what you think. Look, Martin came to me in a dream."

"Martin the Warrior came to you in a dream and told you to run off with a rat?!"

"Er, no. He actually told me the opposite."

And, in an exhausting conversation, Nadine spilled out to her everything that had occurred. She told of Harriet capturing the rat; of Martin and the ferret spirit; of the conflicting quests; of the deal she made with Oggmire; the preparations she'd been making since morning. Fiora grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Do you realize how insane you sound? Let Byron deal with this! Who cares if some rat dies?"

"He's not going to believe me!" Nadine spat back. "If I don't do anything, it'll be bad for all parties involved. Oggmire, Byron, everyone. The only thing I can think to do is get him to the end of his quest first, and to get Byron to back off until he does. That's the only way he'll cooperate."

Fiora pinched the bridge of her nose, as if a headache came on. "It's like you're some kind of hostage."

"No, no, the rat is the hostage." Nadine sank to the floor, against the wall. "And it's my fault he's here in the first place! I don't think he's that terrible, Fi. He doesn't deserve this."

"What if he's lying to you, just to escape? What if it wouldn't really kill him?"

"I don't know! There's nothing I can do about that, is there?"

Fiora began to pace. "Shut up, we can figure this out. My word, Nadine, just tell Byron!"

"I can't. He doesn't trust me anymore. He certainly will not trust me if he learns I've got one foot out the door, paw-in-paw with a rat! What if he decides I'm a traitor? No one would doubt his word. Don't they execute beasts for that?"

"Not at Redwall," Fiora replied. "Though I can name a few otter holts who would, and happily." She shook her head. "It's all yer fault, you know? You shouldn't have got so entangled with Byron. He thinks yore deceptive, now. Everyone does. Even if they don't understand why, they have that impression of you."

"Do you?" Nadine asked.

"Tch. No. I mean, no. Of course not! No. Maybe." She sighed at the crestfallen look on Nadine's face. "Look, I think you've got the best of intentions. We just need to convince others of that. What if I go with you? I could vouch for you if there's trouble."

Nadine gazed at her wonderingly. "You would do that?"

"Yes! I've got loads more clout than you," said Fiora. "If I go too, I could see what this is all about, and with my word backing you up, they wouldn't think you were a traitor, or ruined. I would be witness; I could tell them beyond doubt that you were acting for good—and that you didn't sleep with him!"

Fiora startled as Nadine embraced her, the tips of her ears not quite reaching the height of an otter's chest. She felt like she was holding a fluffy sparrow chick. "Fiora Coldstream, I doubt there will be a single creature who sees me as anything other than questionable after this, but thank you."

"Washday, is it?" Fiora asked, quickly packing away her embarrassment. "Not a bad plan. The gates will be open. Now, how d' you plan to communicate with 'em?"

"Leave the most obvious trail I can, I thought. I spoke to Byron this morning, hinted that I would."

Fiora shook her head. "That's not enough. Beasts are never that clever. We need to be more obvious. We need to make it transparent that we want them to follow us. C'mon, I've got an idea."

She led Nadine to the back room of the garden-house, where seeds and sundry items were kept. She dipped her paw into a burlap sack and retrieved a clump of gravel. The stones were like a sunset – golden, orange, and red.

"These are sandstone. The color stands out. If we leave a trail of these, they can't miss it."

AN: Thanks as usual for the review, Way, and for taking a gander at this one.