Samuel was sinking.
He had been walking along the path that led to Redwall Abbey, and had inadvertently stepped into what had appeared to be a puddle of mud, flat and shallow. Before he could realize it, the soft, cool wet earth had begun to give way beneath his feet.
The mud had begun to rise up about him, dragging him under, knee-deep, then waist-deep.
He thrashed about now, grasping for a handhold that did not exist, trying to cling to the surface of an earth that seemed to have become less solid than mist. It seemed to rise the harder he struggled, till it surrounded his neck, threatening to engulf him entirely. The murky water penetrated his coat with its chill, touching every inch of the delicate underskin, reducing it to goosebumps of cold and of terror.
All the while, the words of his father came echoing up from the back alleys of his memory.
"Go on, do wot you want - but don't act like a fool. If you do, you'll be th' one stuck in th' mud, an' nobeast's goin' to come runnin' t' pull you out."
Now the water was touching his whiskers, and it had become almost impossible to inhale. Samuel realized that resistance was futile and would only make his end slower, colder, more painful.
A streak of gold flashed across his vision, then; the landing of some object, and the accompanying splash, broke the surface of the water. Samuel caught hold of the object, sparing not a moment to think or wonder.
It was a rope - a thick, heavy twine of bright golden color. And, while he had hold of one end, the other was somewhere far, far above him, unseen, surrounded by the clouds of the sky.
The rope began to pull him up - out of the mud-hole, like a pail of water from a well; carried away from the earth and into the air, into the sky.
Sunlight bathed him; his fur seemed to dry almost instantly, and he could only think of the pleasantness of complete warmth.
He blinked, and the rope had vanished. He was lying upon a patch of soft, dew-laden grass, gazing up into the face of a creature he knew that he had once known, but whose name he could not yet remember.
But he HAD seen her before - seasons ago. Was she not much taller, though, than he remembered, and was she not standing straighter, with more flesh on her bones than before? There was not a single patch or a hint of black in that smooth, honey-colored coat; those great dark eyes were clear, steady, unclouded and unswerving, gazing into his.
She was, as she always had been, one of the prettiest creatures he had ever laid eyes upon - for, after all, her mother had been the sister of the Chief, the daughter of the wife of Arran the Omniscient, belle of the settlement, Lady Absintha.
"Luzianne."
She moved back, allowing Samuel to sit upright.
They did not break eye contact, even for a moment. Luzianne had always worn her heart upon her sleeve, in her eyes, and nothing had changed. Samuel knew, by looking into those eyes - soft, moist, searching his face - at the faint, sad smile upon her lips, that there was no need for him to say a word. She knew him, still - knew of his anger, his bitterness, his longing, the feelings that, for seasons, he had sorted and separated and wrapped up into little packages, shoving some away into the back of his mind, where he hoped that they could be forgotten, leaving others at the forefront.
Luzi's paw strayed near his, as if to brush it, but Samuel pulled it out of her reach.
"Sammy . . ."
"Don't call me that daft name. Wot are you, twelve?"
Luzi shrank back.
Devil's egg, if only she didn't wear her heart in her eyes quite so much. But, because she did, Samuel averted his own eyes, refusing to look into her face any longer.
The hurt in those eyes was as painful to him as a knife in his heart - and yet the anger he felt, the anger that had festered within him for seasons, was far more painful . . .a pain that he could not forget.
"No." Luzi's voice was as soft as before. "It was only . . .just that I missed you."
Samuel laughed humorlessly.
"Aye, you missed me. Gets lonely bein' dead by yoreself, eh? 'Course, it would've been nicer t' be alone 'ad you escaped th' settlement an' found yoreself some sunny glade, with lots o' food an' nobeast t' give you trouble - but ah, I forgot, you weren't plannin' t' be alone then, either, you thought old uglywhiskers'd come back t' whisk you away. Pity he turned out t' be as much of a turncoat as you are, wasn't it?"
He stalked off, with Luzi trailing him.
"Sammy . . . Sammy. You don't believe any o' that."
He felt the brush of her paw against his, and wrenched away for the second time.
"What else am I t' believe? I read that little note he left you - all about comin' back t' get you out o' 'this sick pit.' Funny, he didn't write a word about me, nor about Salome."
"But I meant t' 'ave him come for you two as much as for me!" There was a tremor in Luzi's voice. "Sammy, look at me."
Still Samuel did not glance in her direction. "Oh, did you? Well, why, while I was stayin' behind, lookin' after you when you needed it like an oaf, 'waitin' for you,' as you moaned at me t' do for weeks like some sort o' ghost, did you 'ave t' make such a great secret of yore little escape plan?"
"'Cos I . . ."
Samuel could see, out of the corner of his vision, that Luzi's gaze had fallen to the ground.
"'Cos you didn't like Jamar an' I knew you'd think it was stupid . . .that I was daft . . .t' 'elp him steal my uncle's ring t' sell, t' wait for him for weeks . . .knew you'd say he wasn't comin' back an' you wouldn't wait, an' . . ."
"Aye, but as we can see, I was wrong." Samuel's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"But . . .but he was so clever. . .he was a good thief . . .an' I was young, an' I thought . . .thought . . ."
She trailed off, and Samuel picked up with a vengeance.
"Aye, you thought. That's all you did then - all you were good for. While I got you fed, kept you from freezin' in that excuse of a den you 'ad, you wandered about with your 'ead in th' clouds, starin' off at nothin' - thinkin.' An' see where all yore thinkin's got us so far. Are you 'appy?"
"Sammy . . . I'm sorry."
"Sorry. A heap o' good that is t' me."
"Sammy . . ."
Luzi paused now, and Samuel knew that she was fighting a flood of tears.
Vulpuz - how it hurt to love this creature. Aye, he did love her - and it seemed that it had always hurt to love her.
"Sammy . . .if you really felt that way, you ought t' 'ave gone without me long before you did."
All thoughts of love vanished, wiped out by a surge of anger. So he was to blame for it all, then - for not having abandoned her. That, or she wanted him to feel guilty, to regret his words.
"Yore right - I ought t' 'ave left long before."
Once again, she reached out for him. "Sammy!"
He moved away from her. "I was soft in th' head an' soft in th' heart. But we left in th' end - better late than never. An' now I'm goin' t' leave you again, go back t' Redwall. Thanks for th' lift. Where's th' exit from this place?"
Luzi was silent for so long that Samuel believed she would not reply. When she spoke again, at last, he knew that the tears had begun to fall. Her voice, however, was steady, quiet though it was.
"To th' south - over 'ere."