"What are you goin' t' do, Sammy?"
The horizon was a magnificent tapestry of pale blue, spun together with bits of fleecy white. This tapestry served as a wall, a sort of partition; on one side of it, far below, lay Mossflower Woods - a patchwork of green and sunlight gold, tiny with the distance, and, in its center, the rose-colored smudge that was Redwall Abbey - while on the opposite side stood Samuel, with Luzi a few feet behind him.
When Samuel had expressed a desire to return to Mossflower, a gap had formed upon the face of the horizon, similar in shape to a doorway, though it had no door. He stood before it now, gazing out of it, but made no move to step through it.
"I don't know."
The Abbey grew larger and larger, as if it were being lifted, brought nearer to him by some colossal, invisible paw.
After a moment's hesitation, Luzi came to stand at his side.
"What is that place? Is it where you came from? It's - it's right pretty."
They could see Cavern Hole now - the bickering Abbeybeasts, the Abbess who presided over the table, regarding her creatures with weary and worried eyes, the rows of green handkerchiefs.
"Aye, it's Redwall Abbey."
Luzi pressed forward for a better view - and shrank back.
"Sammy, it's full o' rats!"
Samuel, realizing his paw was beginning to stray, caught himself - suppressing that old, instinctive urge to squeeze her paw or stroke the nape of her neck when she was frightened or alarmed.
"They ain't rats, Luzi - 'ave you ever seen rats that small? They're woodlanders - all of 'em. I stayed with 'em for a while, but now Rashe 'as come with an 'orde an' is tearin' Mossflower Woods apart t' get revenge on me for leavin.'"
He turned away from the doorway, facing Luzi deliberately for the first time since his ascension by way of the rope. Her eyes were downcast.
"They nearly got Salome out in th' Woods, an' now they'll get hold of us or kill all o' th' Abbey tryin' - if they can. Well, there's no use in your tryin' t' look gloomy; go on' an' grin. This is wot you always wanted, ain't it? You'd never 'ave wanted us t' live - or be 'appy in any sort o' way - if you couldn't; that's why you 'ad t' see that I 'waited for you,' didn't go anyplace without you. Huh, not that I'd ever 'ave done anythin' like that, but I can't say th' same for you."
"You still don't believe me." Luzi did not lift her eyes. "I guess I can't make you believe. But I want - more than anythin' - for you an' yore sister t' be 'appy."
Samuel said nothing.
For the truth was that he did believe her. He knew her still, and could not believe anything less of her than what she had told him - was still asking him, pleading with him to believe, bewildered and shattered by the accusations he had hurled.
Why, then, did it seem to him that it would be as painful to meet those great, moist eyes and admit that he believed every word she had spoken, to renounce the anger he had harboured for seasons, as it was to watch her dying a second death, little by little, before his eyes?
"Sammy." Luzi sank into the soft, dew-adorned grass. "You needn't see me ever again - if you don't want to. . .but you want somethin' from me, else you wouldn't be 'ere. What d'you want from me? Just tell me wot it is you want an' you can forget me alt'gether."
"Forget me altogether" - but he would never forget her, could never forget her. Not altogether - not even a fraction.
What did he want from her?
Samuel was prepared to say to her, with the same withering sarcasm as before, that he would be beholden to her if she would send a thunderbolt down from the sky, just as she had sent the golden rope, to solve the problem of the Walking Dead who were thirsty for his blood. He thought of telling her that she could do nothing for him, for Salome or for Redwall, that he would return to earth now to sort everything out himself, as he had always had to do, and that, after what had nearly befallen Salome and himself because of her, he was more than certain he could do without her aid or advice.
But Luzi sat there, at his feet, toying with a blade of grass, no longer courageous enough to look into his face.
She seemed to have become smaller, shrinking in on herself. The pallor of illness, which had gone, was returning to her now. Samuel knew that he could not fire another verbal arrow, for she had asked him what he wanted of her, was offering him a chance to tell her.
And, should he toss this chance to the ground, grind it into the dirt, he knew that he would never be offered another chance like it. Luzi would never trail after him, with her feet or with her heart, and if he decided, one day, to pursue her . . .perhaps she would not be there.
Perhaps, after that final verbal arrow, tipped with poisonous sarcasm, there would never again be a doorway for him between earth and this valley. Perhaps Luzi would, in a way, die again.
Samuel knelt in the grass.
"What do I want from you? There's a heap o' things I wish I could 'ave from you - an' from myself. But there's naught you can do or give."
Those beautiful eyes left the ground, fastened themselves to his face.
"I could wish you 'adn't listened t' that weasel Jamar." Luzi flinched. "I could wish you 'adn't been only fourteen, sick an' grievin', dazed an' chidlike in th' 'ead."
He kicked the ground viciously, dislodging a clump of grass and dirt, then, picking up a nearby rock, hurled it at a tree and watched it land, crumbling, shattered by the force with which he had thrown it. Oh, to have had the power to replace that rock with some creature's skull.
"I could wish I 'adn't been only fourteen myself, an' too much of an oaf t' see I shouldn't've listened t' you when you'd moaned at me not t' go. I could wish I'd 'ad th' good sense t' try t' escape - get you out o' that place before you'd got as sick as you 'ad."
"Oh, Sammy," Luzi whispered. She attempted to embrace him, but he moved her back, taking her paws into his. His grip was so tight as to be almost crushing, but he could not let go, and Luzi could not allow him to let go.
"An' I could wish I didn't 'ave t' leave this place before dawn, an' I could wish I wasn't livid - at you, at myself. I could pretend not t' be livid at my little sister - 'cos it ain't fair t' be mad at her - an' I could wish I could forget Jamar ever lived. But a blasted lot o' good that would do."
Luzi pressed closer, burying her face into his chest. And Samuel allowed himself to allow her, at last - allowed himself to hold her, to stroke the tip of her ear.
"Wot are you goin' t' do?" Her voice was tiny, muffled by his tunic. "Are you just goin' t' - give up - for th' woodlanders' sakes?"
Samuel understood what she meant to ask him. He rested his chin upon her head, nuzzling the velvety ears.
"Don't talk nonsense," he told her gruffly. "I never 'give up' - never 'ave, an' never will. I can't, any'ow - 'cos then Rashe wouldn't be 'appy, nor would he leave anybeast alone, till he was dead or till he 'ad Salome, too.
"Most likely th' woodlanders are goin' t' fight them. I never wanted one single creature t' fight for me, or get ill or slain for me - but there's naught else for it. I didn't come all this way t' let my sister get shredded up like a boiled trout."
Luzi brought her face away from his tunic.
"You mean t' say you didn't know they voted on whether they'd protect you?"
Samuel fell silent.
They had held a vote. So these Abbeybeasts were not as different from the other creatures he had known as he had first believed.
Samuel laughed bitterly.
"So they're goin' t' decide whether I end up fightin' with them against a 'orde o' black-spotted madbeasts, or tossed out t' them like a loaf of bread t' a pack o' starving rats."
Luzi placed a paw upon his shoulder.
"Sammy, there is no 'orde o' Walkin' Deadbeasts."
Samuel moved her away.
"Luzi, wot are you on about?"
Luzi rose, somewhat shakily. Without another word, she gestured for him to look out through the doorway.
Once again, Mossflower Woods seemed to have been brought closer to afford him a better view. It was a forest clearing, and in it, less than a dozen vermin, bedraggled, grimy, coated with black marks, stood about, forming an uneven ring about an object that Samuel could not make out.
"That's all that's left of 'em," Luzi explained quietly. "If they'd 'ad enough creatures t' make an 'orde, they'd still 'ave a settlement, an' they wouldn't be after you."
Samuel could not tear his gaze away from the vermin.
"Only a dozen left . . .by th' devil. An' they've all got th' Black Death."
"Aye. I remember 'ow, after th' outbreak, when somebeast died of it, all o' th' others'd be afraid t' touch th' body or wash it. They'd wrap themselves up from 'ead t' toe in cloth an' use sticks t' drive the deadbeast out t' th' outskirts of th' settlement, take 'im t' the garbage ditch, an' use a catapult t' throw 'im over th' wall they'd built around it."
"Aye, but it wasn't only deadbeasts. Father used t' tell me there were creatures who were taken off an' thrown in there alive, Chief's orders. Told me 'ow th' Chief would 'ave scraps o' food thrown in an' they'd 'ave to choose between starvin' t' death after a few days or slowly dyin' of th' rat's fleas."
Both young ferrets tore their eyes away from the doorway, unwilling to look any longer.
"Those stories were only 'alf true," Luzi whispered. "My uncle never threw anybeast in there who wasn't dyin' already - he'd start th' job o' slayin' them, but then leave th' pain an' weakness an' 'unger t' do th' rest - he never gave them food. He executed a few creatures who tried t' cross him that way, but it was mostly rats he did it to. As th' outbreak got worse an' worse, more rats were slain an' tossed out, even if they 'adn't got fleas - but th' plague never went away alt'gether. A season after you an' I . . .'ad gone, there was a bad blizzard. Th' orchards an' th' gardens were wrecked, an' the huts an' dens - though th' houses my uncle an' 'is officials 'ad were left standin'. An' th' trash an' corpses from th' edge of th' settlement were blown into it - everywhere. So there's no more settlement - an' you an' Salome, an' those beasts, are th' only ones left."
"All o' those creatures are goin' t' die." Samuel shook his head. "You saw 'em - they're covered all over with bumps. They 'aven't got much longer t' live."
"That's th' reason they ain't afraid of anythin,'" Luzi said softly.
Samuel was silent for a time.
Then: "Neither am I. Not where dyin' is concerned, leastways. Somethin's been tellin' me I'm bound t' die, some'ow, before this season's over. There's not much that'd worry me so long as I could do it knowin' Salome didn't meet th' same fate an' I didn't take any o' th' woodlanders with me without a need."
Salome took Luzi's face into his paws, cupped it for a moment, caressed her cheek.
"An' you know I've got t' go back. I saw what Rashe an' 'is creatures were gathered around before we turned away. They were dead woodlanders - squirrels." Luzi stiffened. "Luzi, I need t' tell th' Abbeybeasts there is no 'orde before they go votin' on whether t' fight one. An' afterwards, we need t' get rid of 'em - but keep them an' their sacks o' rat's fleas, or whatever it is they've got, away from th' Abbey first."
Those large, bright eyes were swimming. Luzi blinked. "I know you've got t' go back - but you're frightenin' me. You've got t' be careful, Sammy. Everybeast's got t' die someday, an' I miss you. . .but I couldn't bear t' see you 'urt."
And Samuel could not bear to see the pain in her eyes, or the coursing of the tears down her cheeks.
"Then you'd better not watch."
Samuel pecked the tear-sodden face. Then, breaking away from Luzi, he turned to go, headed for the horizon.
He knew that it was best not to allow himself a backwards glance.