Chapter 9

Leaving Redwall

In the village, when he was a lad, his name had not been Oggmire. The village itself was called Oggmire. If a rat grew up and left home, he took a different name sometimes. Maybe for anonymity or respect. Maybe to sever him from his young self. Usually it was something like Grayclaw or Redfang, despite that rats did not have fangs. Oggmire was good enough for him. And it was not a lie; Oggmire was what he was. It was no more a lie than calling wheat a grass.

The valley was a hard place for certain creatures. A rat or shrew or hedgehog could hunt only in the twilight. That was good as law. If the foxes caught you out with your sling or bow at night, you were taken to the Archfox's camp for a good thrashing, and kept in a cangue until your mother noticed you missing and went groveling for your release. If the stoats caught you hunting in the day, their idea of punishment was to hang you upside-down from trees. Not long enough to kill you, usually. But only for the fright.

Which is to say, he was used to the tempers of the mighty, and not much scared him. Anyway, they would all come to his domain in the end. Though the proud vermin of the woods and moors liked to make village-dwellers feel small, they buried their dead in the graveyard at Oggmire like anyone else. And a rat would dig their grave and guard it. You could not trust any vermin but a rat to look after the dead.

Since he was old enough to hold a spade he had a paw in digging. Everyone in the burrow did. But it was the Undertaker who was responsible for keeping the ten-day watch, and only grown males sat vigil with him. Oggmire was not of age yet. He delivered them water sometimes, trekking across the graveyard in the night, kneeling by the master's chair to replenish the pot. They pretended he was not there.

The only other time he saw the Undertaker was on his days to hunt, when he went for a blessing beforehand. He would troop up to the mud house, with two or three of the babies trailing behind him like ducklings, begging to come along. The Undertaker met them on his porch. He was a gruff rat whose fur had gotten silvery, and he rarely looked anybeast in the eye. And never did he extend that courtesy to Oggmire. He would glide from the shadows of his house, holding in one paw a cup of fire, which sent a powerful trail of smoke into the thatch. The other paw he would place on each of their heads in turn when they bowed before him.

When Oggmire got there one morning with his sister and cousin in tow, however, the Undertaker wasn't out to greet them. A rabbit doe sat in his chair, tipping it back on two legs, her big feet propped on the porch fence.

She tipped a hat plumed with a red feather, and smiled thinly at them. "Wot darlin' bairns."

From inside the house came a voice. "That you, lad?"

"Aye!" he replied.

The Undertaker came out with the smoking cup, and gave them his blessing. The rabbit watched the proceedings silently, a polite but distant smile on her face. After he clapped his rough paw on Oggmire's head, the young rat could tell there was something wrong. He was nervous.

The hunt was unsuccessful. Distracted and puzzled at the strange behavior of his master, Oggmire couldn't think straight. He gave up on birds halfway through and went after eggs, so his trip would not be completely worthless. The babies were more entertained by that than watching him fail to shoot birds anyway. They returned home bearing eggs, dandelion, and wild onions in their tunics. He knew the instant they went by the gate that something was wrong at the house.

"I smell blood," he said. he sent the babies off to get help, and went through the gate.

"Sir?" he called.

When there was no answer from the house, he went inside. The Undertaker lay there, lifeless on the floor, his shirtfront covered in crusting blood. The rabbit was in the corner going at the ground with a spade. She seemed unfazed by the sudden appearance of a reedy, half-grown rat in the house, and glanced at him indifferently.

"Wh—why did you?"

"What's the expression 'mong you lot? There's a special place in Hellgates for one who defiles a grave?"

"He'd never," Oggmire said. He knelt and took the Undertaker's cold paw in his.

"But he did. Helped rob the highest grave in all the land, your Pa."

"My what?"

The rabbit grinned at his horrified expression. "Oh lad, you dinnae know that? Of course he were a bit frosty, weren't he? More and more as you grew? A beast in his autumn doesn't always like spring starin' him in the face. Look, I can prove to you what he did. Here is his hoard."

She opened the box she had dug up. There was a massive armbrace within, and a bronze collar in two pieces. Whole, it could have sat as a hat on a large rat's brow. The surfaces were pitted and dark as mountainsides, but he could make out the engraved figures of grimacing cats therein. The smell of ancient metal brought him to tears.

"There's supposed to be pieces of bone inside 'em," said the rabbit. "They're reliquaries. King Mortspear's reliquaries. If you still do not believe me, you can go with me to his tomb in the high mountains. They are rats that watch over him there. They'll be glad t' see these back, and to receive your repayment for your father's trespass."

Her long ears twitched then. She looked sidelong at him, displeased. "There's beasts outside. You called reinforcements, did you, me liddle tattletale?"

"I'm not sorry," he said valiantly. "You murdered an undertaker. They'll want you dead."

"Is there a way out?" the rabbit asked.

"Not one where they couldn't see you."

Then Oggmire began to hear it, too. All the rats of the burrow. Spikeburn, the village head. They were coming up the path. As the voices outside swelled into a veritable tide, the rabbit's ears drooped. "Suppose that's that, then." She turned to him. "'Ere, in case they hang me." She tossed him something small and round. He caught it between his palms. It was an iron ring. It had something written inside.

"What's this?"

"Responsibility," she replied. "You brought him on yourself. Return those relics for me, lad."

With that, she marched out to her death.

The mouse smelled like ghost. Oggmire watched as Byron sat down beside him, crossing one leg over the other. His trimmed claws tapped on the armrest. He smelled of new clothes. Supper. A mate. And ghost.

It was unusual that Oggmire could not smell more.

Aye, the mouse spirit has him locked up tight, said Tawnhide in his ear. Focus on the others.

The ferret never showed himself, for Oggmire's sake. It was difficult to manage talking to others while trying not to stare at a shadow only you can see creeping across the floor. Tawnhide was currently, perhaps, living in the inch of space behind Oggmire's headboard, or under the bed, or hovering behind the shoulder, just out of sight. Oggmire never looked for him.

The room was packed; many had been waiting on bated breath for him to wake. The squirrel who caught him paced around in the back. The otter, Jacko, sat at the table, his pen at the ready. The nurse, Gertrude, had conceded her desk to him and was standing by. Two other otters stood by the door. And there was of course, the two mice who radiated authority. The testy warrior, and an elder female who took another chair at the bedside.

She is not the war-leader, said Tawnhide. That's him, despite his youth. She is more like a magistrate.

This one smelled very clean. Soap. Morally clean, too. There was righteousness, like a cold breeze on the nostrils.

The nurse brought Oggmire a porcelain washbowl, and poured in steaming water to clean his paws. Then he was served dinner: warm vegetable soup, fragrant bread. It was difficult after that, to think and to smell beyond the comforting meal in front of him.

Oggmire could not deny that he was hungry, but he ate with all the dignity he could muster. Didn't want these beasts thinking he was grateful to them. He knew that's what they wanted to see; they wanted him to stuff his face, and to be brought to tears by their generosity. They wanted badly to see a vermin be thankful to them, to have him in their pocket. That's what Her Honor in the habit wanted especially.

He took a sip of water to clear his throat. "Enjoyin' the view?" he asked them.

No one was amused.

It was the mouse wearing the habit who spoke first. "Tawnhide, is it?"

"I am called Oggmire, Your Honor," he replied sweetly.

She blinked in surprise at his disarming words, then gave a chuckle. "No need to be so formal. My name is Moraine. I am Abbess of Redwall. And this is Byron, Abbey Champion. I believe you've met Jacko and Harriet, and the two Skippers back there?"

"Marm."

"Where do you come from, Oggmire?"

He didn't respond.

"I assure you, you are among friends." The abbess spread her hands. "You can speak freely."

"Out with it, rat," said Byron.

Harriet said, "Is it Bristlowth, by chance?"

Oggmire looked at her in surprise.

How did she come up with that? Tawnhide mused.

"Aye, that's right," said Oggmire. "Bristlowth."

The squirrel held her chin. "But Redshanks rules there, so who is the wildcat? Unless—has Redshanks been toppled already?"

"No, that fox is very much alive. As for a wildcat…I don't know what you're on about. Never seen a cat in me life. They're rare, so I hears."

Byron leaned forward. "I don't believe you."

Oggmire stared at him evenly. "And what can I do about that?"

"What do you know about a spirit?" asked the abbess, trying a different tack. "A dead warrior?"

And I were ever a better warrior than him what they call a champion.

Oggmire held his smile in his teeth. "Don't know any warriors. I'm just a gravedigger from Bristlowth. You expect me to 'ave the friendship of wildcats and warriors, Marm?"

The squirrel glared at him.

She recognizes you. Maybe she saw you in Bristlowth.

Oggmire had no idea who this squirrel was. He would have remembered meeting a squirrel in Bristlowth. Squirrels were generally not found at the seaside. Harriet tossed something onto his lap: the tartan cloth. Oggmire raised his brows as understanding dawned on him. What she had seen was the Recovery Union—not him in particular. Even if she had truly laid eyes on him some time, it didn't matter. He would eat his tail if a squirrel could pick out one rat from a group of rats. Oggmire ran a claw along the blue-and-orange weave. "This owld thing? You dinnae have to return it."

"Where did you get it?" Harriet asked.

"Stole it, didn't I?" Oggmire replied swiftly.

What did these beasts think they could get from him? It was a simple matter of saying he didn't know anything, like a child does if one's mother is taking him to task. Or a young Marchland rat, if he is brought before the Archfox. Except now Oggmire had more seasons of willpower behind him, and these beasts were about as terrifying as Valpin's pinky claw, and he needn't concede anything, since he was warm and fed and would be gone in two days. Deny, Deny. So it went into the evening.

Finally, when every beast was well frustrated, Byron said, "Maybe I should speak with him alone, Abbess."

"Very well. I leave you to it." She rose regally, folding her paws into her habit sleeves, and bid Oggmire goodnight. She beckoned for Harriet and Jacko to follow her out. Oggmire was left with Byron, and the two "skippers".

"Sister Gertrude, why don't you get going, too?" said the younger otter politely.

"I'm fine as I am, thank you," said Gertrude. She examined the book shelf and pulled a volume out by the spine.

Byron said, "Truly, Sister, we can handle ourselves. Go on."

Gertrude frowned. "Child, I am a good twenty seasons your senior. It was I who delivered you into this world. You are mistaken if you think you can order me out of my own sickbay."

Byron let out a sigh. Behind him, the younger otter's disappointment surged like a tide.

Woodlanders, lad. They canna be cruel if a female is watching. It's their code of honor. The lass has armored you in a suit of politeness. At least I will not have to sit by and see ye humiliated again, as you always force me to.

"Wipe that smile off your face," muttered Byron. "By fates, rat, if you were any other, your neck would have been acquainted with my sword by now. But seeing as how my life is one long joke, I am forced to work with you."

"I'm much flattered t' be the one rat whose head you've not cut off."

"It is a greater kindness than you would show any mouse. That's the chains of being a Redwaller. I can't do to you what you would do to me." Byron rubbed at his temples. "Look, you loathsome excuse for a rodent; whatever you're running from, I can help you. I can defeat him. I'm on your side, alright? I can free the Northlands from any menace."

"Where I come from, defeatin' a lord means you earn his place," replied Oggmire.

Byron was taken aback. "No, you misunderstand. I don't presume to be a king, or anything. That's not how we do things."

"What then? You'll go and cut off his head, and what? Will you leave those beasts without a leader, vulnerable inside and out? Leave 'em weak, for the next warlord t' come along? Let him take their food and bring about famine? Let 'em turn on each other? Let weasels decide to start eating rabbits again?"

"In our forest, there are no such problems," said Byron, crossing his arms. "Things are under control here. We are at peace. And we have no king."

"Says the one who lives in a castle. But you're right; yew are not a king. No Northerner would 'ave you for one, if yew are not big enough to fix what ye break."

"From what you're telling me, it sounds like it's already broken and not worth the spackle," said Byron. "I don't need your respect, rat, or the twisted admiration of any vermin. I need you to point me to the place and get out of my way."

Oggmire could put up with significant insult to himself. Pride was a silly thing for a middling creature like him to have. Pride was for chieftains or captains. But the mouse had wounded something in him that was beyond his own dignity. He could not help but to bite back. "Would you hark at that, the pore lad don't know his way 'round a compass!" he hissed. "The sun sets in the West and rises in the East, mousie. A bairn could work out how to get where he's going. I see now, not only are you not a king, you are little more than a whelp!"

Before he could say much else, Byron slapped him with the back of his paw. Oggmire touched his stinging face in surprise, feeling the mouse's knuckles pulse on his cheek several times over.

"That's quite enough." Sister Gertrude stood up, closing her book with a snap. She sighed. "Honestly, is it so hard to have a civil conversation? Byron, I think you'd better go for now."

"I hope you get good 'n lost," Oggmire said quietly at the mouse as he stood.

"There's more where that came from," retorted Byron. "Next time."

If there was any reason to dislike winter ending, and the weather becoming warm, it was that one had to wash clothes again. The abbey pond was drinking water, so it was never to be dirtied with laundry. That was why, once a month, all the wash was collected in masses and carted to a creek nearby, or to the Moss itself if the creek was dried up. A half-mile stretch of pebbly beach would be subjected to a cacophony of female voices, and the merciless wringing and beating and scrubbing required to clean clothes. This carried on for a day or two, until all the the clearing filled up with clotheslines.

Abbeybeasts had long forgotten to be ashamed of their dirty laundry. Smocks and shifts and linens rained from the windows of Redwall on washday mornings. They tumbled down stairwells and flowed out of doorways. They built up on the grounds like great snowdrifts. Every wagon, cart, and wheelbarrow that the abbey could spare sat ready for this onslaught. Beasts dashed about like ants, collecting, sorting, loading.

Fiora watched the work from the gatehouse window, arms crossed. "Where does it all hide?" she said to herself, shaking her head. With those great piles of clothing being excreted, she wondered that any room in the abbey had air to breathe. Well, no matter: it wasn't her problem. Not this time.

She went to her uncle's writing table and opened his daily journal. That is, the Recorder's personal thoughts and opinions of events, composed very carefully to seem informal and spontaneous. There was much, much written over the past couple of days. She wedged her letter against the current page. He would see it when he sat down to write again. From what she knew of her uncle's habits, matters would be transparent for everyone by tonight or tomorrow morning—and no sooner. She collected the basket of Jacko's wash that was left out for her, and went to dump it into her cart outside.

Her next stop was Harriet, whose room was up among the dormitories. Fiora knocked politely at the Sister's door, knowing full well that Harriet was downstairs, eating. She let herself in, gathered Harriet's wash to drop out the window, and meanwhile cast an eye around the room. Unusually for Redwall, it was cluttered with oddities and curios. The ring Nadine had described to her was sitting on Harriet's narrow writing table, in a tray along with a dagger. Fiora swiped the ring.

Nadine meanwhile had actually turned up for kitchen work that morning. As agreed upon, she met Fiora afterwards, at the bottom of the stairs that went up to the infirmary hallway. She carried a heavy dinner tray. The ottermaid signaled that all was well, and Nadine handed her the tray. "His is the blue plate," she whispered in Fiora's ear. Fiora nodded. She ascended to the infirmary hallway, where the grizzled Skipper Dillon was pacing around, bored on his watch.

"Food's here!" said Fiora, smiling at him. "I thought we could eat together, Skipper; give you some company. I'd love to hear some war stories 'bout you and grandad, eh?" She put the tray down on a pleasantly sunny window ledge not far from the infirmary door, indicating that she wanted to sit there in particular, out in the hallway.

The skipper happily agreed and brought out two chairs. As the two otters sat down and exchanged pleasantries, Nadine went by into the infirmary, waving briefly to them in greeting. Inside, she smiled cheerily at Sister Gertrude. "Why don't you go down to eat, Sister? I can watch him for a bit."

Gertrude stood up. "Thank you, m'dear. Ah, it'll be nice to stretch my legs!"

"Take a turn about the grounds, too," said Nadine after her. "No need to hurry back on my account."

The sister went out. From beyond the doorway, Nadine could hear her taking her leave to the Skipper.

Oggmire didn't need to be told it was time to go. He sat up stiff like rusting clockwork, and watched in attentive puzzlement as Nadine moved a chair to the bookshelf—she had done the same last night. Nadine stood on the chair, ran a paw along the top of the bookshelf, produced a key, and then used that key to open the medicine cabinet. This time, instead of taking something, she replaced a bottle that she had stolen earlier, and then put the key back in its place as well.

She retrieved a bundle that she had hidden under Oggmire's bed. The rat cast a displeased eye at the clothes she tossed beside him: a linen shirt, brown breeches, the hardwearing green coat, and a belt of woven cord.

"What, not enough skulls and leather for you?" Nadine whispered.

He half-smiled at her jest, then shook his head. "They reek of him, lass."

"Do they?" She sniffed and saw he was right. Despite being laundered, the clothes carried a slight musk of the wearer in their threads. Once beckoned, Byron crawled into her nose and nestled warmly there, nudging alive a memory of what it was like to kiss him on the cheek. "Heavens above, so they do," she said, recovering herself. But they would have to suffice.

Oggmire obediently allowed her to help him dress. The fit was not as well as she thought it would be. The shirt engulfed his bony frame and the britches were a bit short; but if someone held Nadine at swordpoint she might say he looked wholesome, with the whiteworked collar tied neatly shut at his throat and the dignified coat hung on his shoulders, underneath which his arm was cradled against his ribs like a precious infant. He might have looked downright Mossflorian, if it wasn't for that heavy-browed, mean face of his. Some rats could be mistaken for mice; Oggmire was not one of them.

"The ring?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"We've got it," Nadine replied.

"Now what?"

Nadine shushed him. "Just wait."

Outside, Fiora looked on as Skipper Dillon lifted the bowl of hotroot soup to his lips. She had provided a patient ear for the old otter who was rambling about his stories. To him she seemed very interested. Really, she watched him for a hooded eye, or a drooping head, or a yawn. The thing about shrimp-and-hotroot was, its strong flavor hid the taste of anything. For instance: a heavy dose of Sister Gertrude's sleeping concoction.

The old otter finally nodded off in his chair, chin in chest. Fiora waved a paw in front of his face, to be certain he was solidly asleep. Satisfied, she went to look in on the infirmary, and frowned seeing the rat dressed in good clothes. For a strange moment, otter and rat took the measure of each other silently. Then Fiora gestured for them to come out. The three of them crept cautiously by the skipper and then hurried down the stairway. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Oggmire said "Wait. I 'eard a door close." He looked down the hallway, and pointed out the door in the end.

"But that's a storeroom," whispered Nadine. She knew there should be nothing in there except disused, skeletal furniture, and spare infirmary cots.

They stood in uncertainty for a moment, until finally Nadine marched to the door and opened it. Inside, there cowered a hedgehog, whom Nadine recognized vaguely from his youth. "Umbert!"

Fiora and Oggmire came to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder. Umbert was shaking. He began to scream, but Fiora—who at this point thought it her responsibility to keep the Skipper asleep—pushed past Nadine, grabbed Umbert by the collar, and muffled him with a paw as big as his face.

"This isn't what it looks like," Nadine began to say to him, only to falter.

"Get 'im on the floor, on 'is back," said Oggmire. "So the quills don't get you."

The maids looked at him aghast.

"What?" he said. "Do you want him gettin' us caught? We got to tie 'im up. Hold him down, otter."

"My name ain't otter," growled Fiora. But being roughly twice the size of Umbert, she was easily able to hold him supine as the rat described, though she could not restrain all the little limbs at once while also maintaining the iron clamp she had on his muzzle. He thrashed about quite a lot, to her annoyance.

Nadine, who was a bit dazed, was brought back to ground by the rat shaking her shoulder.

"Lass, it's not the time to lose courage. Can this room be locked?"

"Yes," Nadine replied. "The key should be back in the infirmary. I can find it."

"Go quickly then."

"Bring back something to tie him with!" said Fiora. "Pillowcases or washcloths should work. My word, would you listen to me—saying such things?" She reared her head back a bit as the hedgehog loosed his arm and swatted at her. "Hurry up, would you?"

Nadine bolted up the stairs once more, and tiptoed past the sleeping Skipper. She opened cabinets in the infirmary frantically, looking for the keyring. She came upon it in a box by the medicine cabinet. Stuffing the keys into her pocket, she went to grab a stack of cloths from the linen chest. She rushed back downstairs, dancing softly past Skipper Dillon again.

Instructed by Oggimre, Nadine wound a washcloth into a ball, which Fiora then shoved into the hedgehog's mouth to gag him. The two maids tied the hedgehog to a cot frame, arms behind his back.

Satisfied, Oggmire told them to come out. Nadine closed the door on Umbert, taking in his furious face with sadness. "Sorry," she whispered. She locked the door, but left the key in.

"Ye should toss the keys," Oggmire said.

"I am not going to have that poor hedgehog be trapped in there for ages," snapped Nadine. "We'll be long gone by the time someone finds him."

The trio proceeded down the next flights of stairs more cautiously, for they were more likely to encounter others on the lower levels. Fiora went first, peeking around corners and doorways, stopping them whenever she spotted a beast. Gradually, they made it to ground, and went down a narrow, musty, passage. They came out of the abbey at a little-noticed side door, where Fiora had her cart waiting, with their packs and supplies hidden, bundled in a bed sheet under a layer of laundry.

The grounds were busy still, but no one, if they saw them for a brief moment, paid them any attention. Fiora supported the rat as he climbed into the cart with his one good arm. And then the two maids were off to join the caravan of vehicles leaving the abbey gates.

"By fates, this is heavy," Fiora huffed, for she was the one pulling the cart.

"How are you faring in there?" Nadine whispered.

"Disgusted," replied Oggmire, in a muffled voice. "I used t' dig graves and this is worse."

By then, they were outside the wall. Nadine and Fiora had agreed the night before that they could not make it all the way to the creek: the cart would be too heavy, and the ride horrifically bumpy and unpleasant for the rat. So they contrived to fall behind all the others, and veer off the well-worn track as soon as they could manage to not be seen.

Oggmire breathed deeply once he was pulled out. He sat down heavily in the grass. Nadine tossed him his ring, and then hopped onto the cart to fish out their supplies. The packs were to be shouldered by her and Fiora, for the time being. She gave Oggmire the larger bow on a strap; though he could not use it yet, it was light enough to be carried without trouble. She gave Fiora the woodcutting hatchet and the large brushknife, hung a smaller knife on her own belt, and shouldered her own bow that she had yet to learn to use.

Oggmire raised his eyebrows at the result. "Fairly kitted us out, 'ave ye?"

"One must always err on the side of being better prepared," Nadine replied.

"Alright, say your goodbyes," Fiora said, wiping the sweat off her face with her sleeve. The otter looked over her shoulder at the red form of the abbey, visible through the trees. Nadine gazed, too, at the venerable structure, which glowed under the noon sun. Soon it would be in a whirlwind of confusion, of whispered news, of chains of talk. Or, perhaps little would change for most beasts, and as soon as the novelty subsided, they would go back to lives as peaceful and still as this landscape.

"Lead on, rat," said Fiora.

Oggmire turned southwards, which would have them cutting even farther away from the main path. Fiora this time walked behind the other two, her skirt pockets heavy with the red stones. She tossed one into the cart as they left.

Boy, did this one give me trouble. Oggmire's voice is tough to write in. Originally was supposed to be two chapters, but since it's divided into three sections, there just was not a natural way to split it. So, this is my longest chapter yet at 4,900 words.

Thanks as always for the reviews, Grey and Way. They do keep me going. Don't hold your breath about those randos in chapter 5/7 getting a comeuppance; they won't :(.